psych_30 23: Vicarious
((See companion piece here.))
It had started with a simple mistake. Perhaps it had not even been a mistake; he had been told many times that it was not, that it had, as many things in life were, been an accident.
But nevertheless, it had happened, and he found himself quite stuck.
The final battle to save life, the universe, and everything had been won. And as a result, nobody had to leave. Good news for everyone who wished to stay with their new friends. New loves.
The TARDIS, his other self’s TARDIS, had been a solemn place despite all of this. All of the companions and friends who wanted to keep him company had all been told that it could very well be temporary, but as the days passed, the story was harder to believe, then harder to say, and soon they had stopped saying it entirely.
The looks were pitiful, and that was the first thing he could not stand, after a time. It was like he had died and not come back this time. It was the sort of look those stories on the telly always said, with cancer or AIDS patients.
He was paralyzed. And though his spinal chord hadn’t been completely severed, it had been partially damaged enough that much of his movement was hindered. He could flex his fingers. Wiggle his toes on command. Talk and move his head. Even adjust the position of his arms, on a good day. Could hold a book and read, could hold Rose’s hand when she stopped by-Martha’s too, when she did.
But the fact of the matter remained that that was all he could move. His legs would not budge, nor would his back bend. And while there were some movements his arms and hands could perform, it was very clear that he would not be able to achieve much with them.
Reinette was usually the one to feed him. Or his other self. Sometimes he attempted to himself, but his hold on utensils was usually nothing better than flimsy, and he would frustratingly refuse any meal where he attempted and failed miserably.
His first spongebath had been embarrassing to say the very least. That, he had decided, was solely the job of his other self. He tried to regain some amount of pride, and the thought of anyone else stripping him down, scrubbing him clean, patting him dry, and tidying him up again was near-horrifying.
There were visits, of course, from a few others who had stuck around in the aftermath. Trying to regroup, trying to figure out where to go from there. A few of his previous selves he had gotten to re-know. Donna. Susan. Some version of Jack, he suspected the one from his other self’s universe. A couple versions of Sarah Jane. He had heard a commotion a few times from down the many halls, and it was learned that the only version of the Master that was allowed to step foot in the silver TARDIS was the Mistress, and that in and of itself had taken quite some time for his other self to allow.
A few days after that, decisions had to be made. The garden of TARDISes had dwindled, and it was decided that his own TARDIS be placed elsewhere, for safe keeping. He was going to stay with his other self. They were off again, and the feel of taking off and landing again and lazing about in the Vortex was nice…except for the fact that he was stuck in bed.
He was wheeled around the TARDIS by anyone who had stayed-except for Suzie, who he would not go near what for his paranoia of anything related to Torchwood, but she had been allowed to stay on the insistence of his other self. Something about intellectual and philosophical discussions and there really wasn’t anything quite wrong with her was there, no more than Reinette, honestly, Self, I don’t know why you two don’t warm to each other. Even Louis would slide him off the bed and into the wheelchair and take him wherever he wished.
Talking helped. Chit-chats. Cheeky grins and quick quips. It never made him forget, of course, but he could live like this for a while, he told himself. But sometimes, just talking to his other self about whatever came to mind like they used to do allowed this fact to at least, for a time, be shoved in the back of his mind. Until his other self seemed to forget as well and attempted a hug or something, and such conversations sometimes ended very awkwardly. He didn’t blame his other self for running at times like that. He would, too, if their positions were reversed. But most of the others were friendly, and they smiled, even if their eyes told of a different emotion.
It soon became apparent that this was not going to work. Most times, he was not even allowed outside, and someone had to stay whenever they landed. He suspected straws were drawn. It was the adventure, and he knew as well as his other self did that most of their adventures ended in running, fleeing, hiding. In a wheelchair powered by another, he could hardly be of any use, could hardly keep up, or worse, could not at all. There had been one or two special trips to places deserted or where chances of incident were so low as to be negligible, just to allow him to see a sky and feel fresh air around him again. Most times, however, he would just hear the others recount their harrowing tales (and most times, each person’s version of ‘what really happened’ differed greatly from everyone else’s). It was adequate entertainment, for a time. But cumbersome, tiresome, and in the long run-he hated to think in such terms, of course, but there it was anyway-was still not going to work.
His other self sat on the edge of the bed one day, keeping them hand in hand. What was said was not easy, but it didn’t matter. It was suggested that perhaps it would be best if he were placed in someone else’s care. The idea proved unfavorable before the rest of the plan had even been explained, and by that point, his outbursts had become loud and particularly ugly in nature.
There was a hospice, very reputable, very high-end, offering some of the best care in the universe. The Eye of Orion was just a skip, hop, and jump away from where they were (that sort of colourful description had garnered a very unfavourable eye cast on his other self), and said hospice didn’t need to be thought of so much as a hospice as much as just one’s everyday hospital.
Needless to say, he was very unhappy with this idea, said as much, and thought the issue was dead and done. But it didn’t appear so. His other self seemed so certain that this was for the best. A place where he can be comfortable, given as much care as needed, until he eventually died and regenerated, therefore granting him a new body without such damage. Without needing to resort to any drastic measures. And they would even visit. As often as possible. Tell him of adventure, stay as long as he wanted. And there was optimism that perhaps it would not take so long (though this was the wrong thing to say-he didn’t enjoy the thought of dying as quick as he could in this form in order to hop up again, waste what life he still had).
The decision, it seemed, had already been come to without him. Why these talks had apparently taken place without his knowledge was annoying, to put it only mildly. He was adamant about the entire issue, telling them all in no uncertain terms that he would much rather stay in the TARDIS-his home--even if he could not move as he once did.
They wheeled him yelling and screaming out of the TARDIS and into the care of the hospice nurses, who had eventually gotten him into a bed and properly sedated so as to calm him and please not disturb the other patients. The others stood around silently, until one gave the same promise that they would come back whenever they could, and who knows, maybe it would be once a day, twice a day, you never know with time travel, Doctor, you never know.
The Doctor had become the patient. And his other self had attempted to explain, and even to apologize, before their brand of comfort was gone, the sound of the TARDIS fading away, and left him alone in a too-white room with chemical smells and unfamiliar people whose hands his life was in.
They honestly and thoroughly attempted to make him comfortable and give him whatever he told them he wanted. And though two days had passed (slowly), he began to open up and demand to leave the bed. See the others. Something to probably pass his time and keep them from sedating him again. He hated that hazy state of somewhere in-between.
The others, of course, were only those who were dying of terminal illnesses, others who were incurable and in pain but still had a long life before them. Others who at first he watched, and then talked to. The worst of the lot seemed easiest to open up to. He would talk to them the most, even though some could not talk back. Give something and someone interesting before they invariably perished.
And the first visit from his other self had been very helpful to his entirely too poor and still sore mood. It had taken less than a week, which still felt like a while, but most of the gang was still around, and he and his other self spent most of the day talking jovially of the times they had both had. One of planets seen and narrow escapes, one of that lonely little child in room 6B whose bones were so fragile, there was a specialist who came almost every day to care for his rare condition. The stories had no comparison, however, and he stopped trying to think of anything to say. There really wasn’t anything. Most of the time was sedation anyway.
But they were still colourful, the stories, and they brightened his mood. His other self even insisted he take usual care of him, the washing and the feeding, just to have the most time to talk. And leave a few personal gifts. Some books. Souvenirs. Knick-knacks.
They left again, and in the days after, in his lifted spirits, he told anyone who would listen tales from his own life and his own adventures. Many didn’t believe, but just as many were awed. He became rather popular, and those that could smile did when he came around, allowing others to share in his own adventures.
The sound of the TARDIS approaching was odd, as always. Sometimes in two days, sometimes in two weeks. He and his other self had come to an agreement that while words were nice, images were nicer, and they had begun connecting on a regular basis (regular being a relative word, but they did it every visit). As such, the visits became shorter, and not the whole gang came around. Sometimes nobody at all came, but his other self brushed it off with other reasons. Visits home. Vacations. Seeing the hospice for themselves. Some left, with time, and others, he feared, died.
But the images were best. Far off moons and bases, and they shared scents and sights and things heard or overheard. The feel. The taste. Emotions. Most times, his other self came with more than one harrowing tale. And sometimes they shared everyday interactions. Not very often, but from time to time there would be a funny tale over breakfast where Reinette had her first experience with milk out her nose or anything like that.
Some of the time-in fact, increasingly-he couldn’t help but wonder during the connections. Something would happen in the memory, and he would think. Perhaps if he had been there, it would not have happened. If he had been there, if he had been there, if he had been there. He hid his increased jealousy well, too. If he had been there, he would have gotten a taste of those odd fruits himself. If he had been there, he could’ve felt those warm suns. If he had been there, by the side of his other self, they wouldn’t have a need to share like this.
Companions would come and go, as they always did, and he wondered how long things were taking his other self. Time. Relative. Always was. Always a strange thing.
Sometimes the in-between time of visits would take too long. Weeks. Sometimes months. He had stopped telling so many stories. He had stopped demanding to be wheeled about. He stopped reading so much-he’d eventually read everything in their library, twice, and discovered he was rubbish at dictating a proper novel himself, despite his much-enjoyed stories.
Indeed, he seemed content to lie there at times, staring at the ceiling. And sometimes he would sleep for hours upon hours, just because he wondered what it felt like to sleep like a Human.
Sometimes he would wonder about his other self, and his hearts would squeeze tight in the fear that perhaps he’d been forgotten. Left there. Forgotten. Alone-not alone in the physical sense, and it was not to say he hadn’t made friends, but it wasn’t the same. And nobody seemed to realize that important fact. People came, became friends, died, and more would come, he the eternal patient. Left there to die. His other self wouldn’t do that, right?
Right?
And then he would grin at the sound of the TARDIS, and sometimes he came within days after that visit, and he wouldn’t think such thoughts for a while.
It almost tore him apart, not knowing.
Sometimes new companions would be introduced to him. Other times not. Meeting them was usually an uncomfortable experience, because at first was the shock of two men who looked so much alike, and then there was the awkward wave, which he could not even reciprocate, and eventually, they, too, would have that look as if he were dead or wasting away.
The days went by. So. Slowly. He recalled how his other self had been stuck in France with Reinette for three years before they’d met. But even then, a pang of jealousy did not miss him. He could move around. He fell in love. He could dance, if he so pleased. There was envy, and plenty of it. But it was a slow life that he was entirely too unused to, and it drove him mad at times. It would cause him to snap at the nurses, yell at the therapists, silently ignore any other visitors, and sob pathetically into his pillow until one of the nurses would come to wipe the dripping snot and drying tears from his face. By then, he normally had not the energy (emotional or otherwise) to say anything.
And his other self. Oh, his bloody other self, why did he still give a damn about the one who left him in this condition? Every time he came back, his other self looked older and wiser. And a little more tired. But still bouncy, still giddy, whether forced or not, and still full of stories to share. Bloody other self. With his increased knowledge and years-how many had it been? He never could force himself to ask. How many people had come and gone? He’d forgotten the number and never could force himself to care. How many times had there been a near-death, and tea and laughter afterwards? Too many. Walking and talking and flailing his arms about and connecting and laughing and only sometimes helping with the nurse’s job, then off again. Sometimes with a kiss, sometimes without.
Bloody other self, who he felt the need to console when things were at their worst on the TARDIS end of things, when it couldn’t be hidden that something dreadful had happened. Why did he still care?
He could only feed off that energy for so long. In some respects, he could be a very patient man. But he longed for his own travel, his own danger. Not the same sights every single day. The same thoughts. Every. Single. Day.
One day, his other self came, but he would not allow them to connect. There were so many tears in his eyes, and his voice broke too times, unable to stand himself and the way he sounded and must have looked. Anyone else had been asked to leave the room, and his slight emotional breakdown became complete. It might be hard for his other self to understand, too hard, the feeling of complete immobility. He could do nothing for himself, completely dependent on others, giving up control. No, control being forced away from him. And though it had been such a long time (and that, too, was a relative statement, but he assume it was true in different aspects for the both of them), it was a fact that he could not grasp nor live with effectively. There were possibly still decades, centuries left in this one life to age and wither and hunker down and grow old naturally, as had happened with their first regeneration. There was still so much possible time left. There was still so much to see and to do in life. In his other lives.
He asked his other self to kill him.
It would have been merciful, and they both knew it. A mercy killing. Just allow him to die. Fade away. Let him shut himself down, no more food, no more water, or perhaps a quick and painless one. Too much medication, or the wrong type. Anything, he didn’t care. Smother him with a pillow. Slit him across the throat. Anything just so that he would die, so he could have a new body, a useful body, and he could rejoin his other self, who he loved and hated too much to make sense. Anything to see the stars again. Anything to have his feet on foreign soil again.
Anything to feel once more.
And anything for that adventure he always saw. Anything for those images and feelings and everything along with that; it made him feel like a leech, sucking off and living off of the things that were not his. And he could share in all of that, if only his body would allow him the proper movement, and please, couldn’t he just die, if there was any love and care left in those much older hearts, would he just be allowed death.
There was the arguing. A big decision, an awful request. He didn’t have many lives left. Not many at all. Time was growing shorter for them all the time. He wouldn’t even be quite the same person anymore. But he didn’t care. And he saw the pity in his other self’s eyes, and it made him hate him all the more, and himself, and that bloody look.
And maybe mercy was all that mattered, in the end.
His other self stepped to the door and turned the lock.
It had started with a simple mistake. Perhaps it had not even been a mistake; he had been told many times that it was not, that it had, as many things in life were, been an accident.
But nevertheless, it had happened, and he found himself quite stuck.
The final battle to save life, the universe, and everything had been won. And as a result, nobody had to leave. Good news for everyone who wished to stay with their new friends. New loves.
The TARDIS, his other self’s TARDIS, had been a solemn place despite all of this. All of the companions and friends who wanted to keep him company had all been told that it could very well be temporary, but as the days passed, the story was harder to believe, then harder to say, and soon they had stopped saying it entirely.
The looks were pitiful, and that was the first thing he could not stand, after a time. It was like he had died and not come back this time. It was the sort of look those stories on the telly always said, with cancer or AIDS patients.
He was paralyzed. And though his spinal chord hadn’t been completely severed, it had been partially damaged enough that much of his movement was hindered. He could flex his fingers. Wiggle his toes on command. Talk and move his head. Even adjust the position of his arms, on a good day. Could hold a book and read, could hold Rose’s hand when she stopped by-Martha’s too, when she did.
But the fact of the matter remained that that was all he could move. His legs would not budge, nor would his back bend. And while there were some movements his arms and hands could perform, it was very clear that he would not be able to achieve much with them.
Reinette was usually the one to feed him. Or his other self. Sometimes he attempted to himself, but his hold on utensils was usually nothing better than flimsy, and he would frustratingly refuse any meal where he attempted and failed miserably.
His first spongebath had been embarrassing to say the very least. That, he had decided, was solely the job of his other self. He tried to regain some amount of pride, and the thought of anyone else stripping him down, scrubbing him clean, patting him dry, and tidying him up again was near-horrifying.
There were visits, of course, from a few others who had stuck around in the aftermath. Trying to regroup, trying to figure out where to go from there. A few of his previous selves he had gotten to re-know. Donna. Susan. Some version of Jack, he suspected the one from his other self’s universe. A couple versions of Sarah Jane. He had heard a commotion a few times from down the many halls, and it was learned that the only version of the Master that was allowed to step foot in the silver TARDIS was the Mistress, and that in and of itself had taken quite some time for his other self to allow.
A few days after that, decisions had to be made. The garden of TARDISes had dwindled, and it was decided that his own TARDIS be placed elsewhere, for safe keeping. He was going to stay with his other self. They were off again, and the feel of taking off and landing again and lazing about in the Vortex was nice…except for the fact that he was stuck in bed.
He was wheeled around the TARDIS by anyone who had stayed-except for Suzie, who he would not go near what for his paranoia of anything related to Torchwood, but she had been allowed to stay on the insistence of his other self. Something about intellectual and philosophical discussions and there really wasn’t anything quite wrong with her was there, no more than Reinette, honestly, Self, I don’t know why you two don’t warm to each other. Even Louis would slide him off the bed and into the wheelchair and take him wherever he wished.
Talking helped. Chit-chats. Cheeky grins and quick quips. It never made him forget, of course, but he could live like this for a while, he told himself. But sometimes, just talking to his other self about whatever came to mind like they used to do allowed this fact to at least, for a time, be shoved in the back of his mind. Until his other self seemed to forget as well and attempted a hug or something, and such conversations sometimes ended very awkwardly. He didn’t blame his other self for running at times like that. He would, too, if their positions were reversed. But most of the others were friendly, and they smiled, even if their eyes told of a different emotion.
It soon became apparent that this was not going to work. Most times, he was not even allowed outside, and someone had to stay whenever they landed. He suspected straws were drawn. It was the adventure, and he knew as well as his other self did that most of their adventures ended in running, fleeing, hiding. In a wheelchair powered by another, he could hardly be of any use, could hardly keep up, or worse, could not at all. There had been one or two special trips to places deserted or where chances of incident were so low as to be negligible, just to allow him to see a sky and feel fresh air around him again. Most times, however, he would just hear the others recount their harrowing tales (and most times, each person’s version of ‘what really happened’ differed greatly from everyone else’s). It was adequate entertainment, for a time. But cumbersome, tiresome, and in the long run-he hated to think in such terms, of course, but there it was anyway-was still not going to work.
His other self sat on the edge of the bed one day, keeping them hand in hand. What was said was not easy, but it didn’t matter. It was suggested that perhaps it would be best if he were placed in someone else’s care. The idea proved unfavorable before the rest of the plan had even been explained, and by that point, his outbursts had become loud and particularly ugly in nature.
There was a hospice, very reputable, very high-end, offering some of the best care in the universe. The Eye of Orion was just a skip, hop, and jump away from where they were (that sort of colourful description had garnered a very unfavourable eye cast on his other self), and said hospice didn’t need to be thought of so much as a hospice as much as just one’s everyday hospital.
Needless to say, he was very unhappy with this idea, said as much, and thought the issue was dead and done. But it didn’t appear so. His other self seemed so certain that this was for the best. A place where he can be comfortable, given as much care as needed, until he eventually died and regenerated, therefore granting him a new body without such damage. Without needing to resort to any drastic measures. And they would even visit. As often as possible. Tell him of adventure, stay as long as he wanted. And there was optimism that perhaps it would not take so long (though this was the wrong thing to say-he didn’t enjoy the thought of dying as quick as he could in this form in order to hop up again, waste what life he still had).
The decision, it seemed, had already been come to without him. Why these talks had apparently taken place without his knowledge was annoying, to put it only mildly. He was adamant about the entire issue, telling them all in no uncertain terms that he would much rather stay in the TARDIS-his home--even if he could not move as he once did.
They wheeled him yelling and screaming out of the TARDIS and into the care of the hospice nurses, who had eventually gotten him into a bed and properly sedated so as to calm him and please not disturb the other patients. The others stood around silently, until one gave the same promise that they would come back whenever they could, and who knows, maybe it would be once a day, twice a day, you never know with time travel, Doctor, you never know.
The Doctor had become the patient. And his other self had attempted to explain, and even to apologize, before their brand of comfort was gone, the sound of the TARDIS fading away, and left him alone in a too-white room with chemical smells and unfamiliar people whose hands his life was in.
They honestly and thoroughly attempted to make him comfortable and give him whatever he told them he wanted. And though two days had passed (slowly), he began to open up and demand to leave the bed. See the others. Something to probably pass his time and keep them from sedating him again. He hated that hazy state of somewhere in-between.
The others, of course, were only those who were dying of terminal illnesses, others who were incurable and in pain but still had a long life before them. Others who at first he watched, and then talked to. The worst of the lot seemed easiest to open up to. He would talk to them the most, even though some could not talk back. Give something and someone interesting before they invariably perished.
And the first visit from his other self had been very helpful to his entirely too poor and still sore mood. It had taken less than a week, which still felt like a while, but most of the gang was still around, and he and his other self spent most of the day talking jovially of the times they had both had. One of planets seen and narrow escapes, one of that lonely little child in room 6B whose bones were so fragile, there was a specialist who came almost every day to care for his rare condition. The stories had no comparison, however, and he stopped trying to think of anything to say. There really wasn’t anything. Most of the time was sedation anyway.
But they were still colourful, the stories, and they brightened his mood. His other self even insisted he take usual care of him, the washing and the feeding, just to have the most time to talk. And leave a few personal gifts. Some books. Souvenirs. Knick-knacks.
They left again, and in the days after, in his lifted spirits, he told anyone who would listen tales from his own life and his own adventures. Many didn’t believe, but just as many were awed. He became rather popular, and those that could smile did when he came around, allowing others to share in his own adventures.
The sound of the TARDIS approaching was odd, as always. Sometimes in two days, sometimes in two weeks. He and his other self had come to an agreement that while words were nice, images were nicer, and they had begun connecting on a regular basis (regular being a relative word, but they did it every visit). As such, the visits became shorter, and not the whole gang came around. Sometimes nobody at all came, but his other self brushed it off with other reasons. Visits home. Vacations. Seeing the hospice for themselves. Some left, with time, and others, he feared, died.
But the images were best. Far off moons and bases, and they shared scents and sights and things heard or overheard. The feel. The taste. Emotions. Most times, his other self came with more than one harrowing tale. And sometimes they shared everyday interactions. Not very often, but from time to time there would be a funny tale over breakfast where Reinette had her first experience with milk out her nose or anything like that.
Some of the time-in fact, increasingly-he couldn’t help but wonder during the connections. Something would happen in the memory, and he would think. Perhaps if he had been there, it would not have happened. If he had been there, if he had been there, if he had been there. He hid his increased jealousy well, too. If he had been there, he would have gotten a taste of those odd fruits himself. If he had been there, he could’ve felt those warm suns. If he had been there, by the side of his other self, they wouldn’t have a need to share like this.
Companions would come and go, as they always did, and he wondered how long things were taking his other self. Time. Relative. Always was. Always a strange thing.
Sometimes the in-between time of visits would take too long. Weeks. Sometimes months. He had stopped telling so many stories. He had stopped demanding to be wheeled about. He stopped reading so much-he’d eventually read everything in their library, twice, and discovered he was rubbish at dictating a proper novel himself, despite his much-enjoyed stories.
Indeed, he seemed content to lie there at times, staring at the ceiling. And sometimes he would sleep for hours upon hours, just because he wondered what it felt like to sleep like a Human.
Sometimes he would wonder about his other self, and his hearts would squeeze tight in the fear that perhaps he’d been forgotten. Left there. Forgotten. Alone-not alone in the physical sense, and it was not to say he hadn’t made friends, but it wasn’t the same. And nobody seemed to realize that important fact. People came, became friends, died, and more would come, he the eternal patient. Left there to die. His other self wouldn’t do that, right?
Right?
And then he would grin at the sound of the TARDIS, and sometimes he came within days after that visit, and he wouldn’t think such thoughts for a while.
It almost tore him apart, not knowing.
Sometimes new companions would be introduced to him. Other times not. Meeting them was usually an uncomfortable experience, because at first was the shock of two men who looked so much alike, and then there was the awkward wave, which he could not even reciprocate, and eventually, they, too, would have that look as if he were dead or wasting away.
The days went by. So. Slowly. He recalled how his other self had been stuck in France with Reinette for three years before they’d met. But even then, a pang of jealousy did not miss him. He could move around. He fell in love. He could dance, if he so pleased. There was envy, and plenty of it. But it was a slow life that he was entirely too unused to, and it drove him mad at times. It would cause him to snap at the nurses, yell at the therapists, silently ignore any other visitors, and sob pathetically into his pillow until one of the nurses would come to wipe the dripping snot and drying tears from his face. By then, he normally had not the energy (emotional or otherwise) to say anything.
And his other self. Oh, his bloody other self, why did he still give a damn about the one who left him in this condition? Every time he came back, his other self looked older and wiser. And a little more tired. But still bouncy, still giddy, whether forced or not, and still full of stories to share. Bloody other self. With his increased knowledge and years-how many had it been? He never could force himself to ask. How many people had come and gone? He’d forgotten the number and never could force himself to care. How many times had there been a near-death, and tea and laughter afterwards? Too many. Walking and talking and flailing his arms about and connecting and laughing and only sometimes helping with the nurse’s job, then off again. Sometimes with a kiss, sometimes without.
Bloody other self, who he felt the need to console when things were at their worst on the TARDIS end of things, when it couldn’t be hidden that something dreadful had happened. Why did he still care?
He could only feed off that energy for so long. In some respects, he could be a very patient man. But he longed for his own travel, his own danger. Not the same sights every single day. The same thoughts. Every. Single. Day.
One day, his other self came, but he would not allow them to connect. There were so many tears in his eyes, and his voice broke too times, unable to stand himself and the way he sounded and must have looked. Anyone else had been asked to leave the room, and his slight emotional breakdown became complete. It might be hard for his other self to understand, too hard, the feeling of complete immobility. He could do nothing for himself, completely dependent on others, giving up control. No, control being forced away from him. And though it had been such a long time (and that, too, was a relative statement, but he assume it was true in different aspects for the both of them), it was a fact that he could not grasp nor live with effectively. There were possibly still decades, centuries left in this one life to age and wither and hunker down and grow old naturally, as had happened with their first regeneration. There was still so much possible time left. There was still so much to see and to do in life. In his other lives.
He asked his other self to kill him.
It would have been merciful, and they both knew it. A mercy killing. Just allow him to die. Fade away. Let him shut himself down, no more food, no more water, or perhaps a quick and painless one. Too much medication, or the wrong type. Anything, he didn’t care. Smother him with a pillow. Slit him across the throat. Anything just so that he would die, so he could have a new body, a useful body, and he could rejoin his other self, who he loved and hated too much to make sense. Anything to see the stars again. Anything to have his feet on foreign soil again.
Anything to feel once more.
And anything for that adventure he always saw. Anything for those images and feelings and everything along with that; it made him feel like a leech, sucking off and living off of the things that were not his. And he could share in all of that, if only his body would allow him the proper movement, and please, couldn’t he just die, if there was any love and care left in those much older hearts, would he just be allowed death.
There was the arguing. A big decision, an awful request. He didn’t have many lives left. Not many at all. Time was growing shorter for them all the time. He wouldn’t even be quite the same person anymore. But he didn’t care. And he saw the pity in his other self’s eyes, and it made him hate him all the more, and himself, and that bloody look.
And maybe mercy was all that mattered, in the end.
His other self stepped to the door and turned the lock.