His Ship (Doctor Who fic)
His Ship
by Sue DeNimme
Disclaimer: Doctor Who and its characters are the property of the BBC. No copyrights were harmed in the making of this fanfic.
Summary: The TARDIS does what she can. Spoilers for Journey's End (the Season 4 finale).
In the dark and the rain, I wait.
After an hour, he emerges from the door across the street. He stops and turns as a white-haired human appears behind him, and they speak to each other. Then he turns and walks toward me at last. The human watches him go, then closes the door softly.
He snaps, and I open to admit him. He steps inside me, walks to the console. He checks my instrumentation, but his movements are slow, listless. Water is dripping from his clothing and hair; his shoes squelch and leave puddles on the solid sections of my floor. I increase heat and lower humidity to dry them out. He does not notice, but removes his jacket, circles the console and leans against it, staring at nothing. Not all of the wetness on his face is rain.
I hum a soft query at him.
She's not coming, he replies after a moment, and sighs. His hands move on the console, and I dematerialize.
We have been bonded for an age and more. Each of us is the other's only constant. For him there is always me, and for me there is always him. That will never change until one of us dies. The others come and they go, but it is always hard when they go.
I liked Donna. She was good for him. She filled the emptiness. She was a voice loud enough to bring him back from the edge when he might have fallen. She was a new pair of eyes for him to show the wonders of the universe. She loved him, but did not wish to mate with him, and did not make him feel bad for not wishing to mate with her. She was his friend, and that was more than enough for both of them. She laughed with him and argued with him, slapped him when he deserved it, and hugged him when he needed it.
All I can do is sing to him, and speak to him through images and feelings, and take him where he wants to go.
He seems not to want to go anywhere now. Just away from Earth. Without coordinates to follow, I drift through the vortex, like a leaf on a stream, waiting for him to decide.
It is so different now than it was a little while ago. For the first time since he and I fled Gallifrey, I had a full crew of six pilots. I gloried in their delight at the privilege of steering me. I had not felt that strong in ages, and it was intoxicating. So was his happiness and pride in watching them all. And to think that not long before that, I had nearly been destroyed.
But once the Earth was back in its place, they began to go away again. Sarah, Jack, Martha, Mickey. Then Rose, her mother, and his half-human duplicate. When he left them in the other universe, I felt his hearts begin to break. When he left Donna, I felt them shatter.
He is alone. That is not good. This version of him does not do well alone. Some of his previous versions could have coped with this solitude: the one before now, for example.
But this version? No. He needs people. He must talk. He must touch. He must share himself, or he will go mad. Madder. His silence is beginning to frighten me. I do not think he has been silent so long since the last change. Even when he came back from that place where his voice was stolen and he was nearly murdered by members of the same species he has always had the most faith in. He had Donna then. He does not have her anymore.
I feel at him. I send him love. I send him reassurance. I send him worry. I send images of happier times, when our world still turned beneath its orange sky.
He simply stands and stares and drips.
Finally I cannot bear it any more. I send one image: a towel.
He is startled, but chuckles, and I drink in the sound.
"All right, all right," he says aloud. He leaves the control room and walks through my corridors, the rubber on his soles squeaking with every step. I make the way to the bathroom shorter for him, and he pats the wall in appreciation. Once he has dried himself enough to stop dripping, I sing him my most soothing songs. I dim the light, and lower the temperature ever so slightly.
He looks up. "Ordering me about, eh?"
For answer, I begin to emit waves, to stimulate his production of melatonin.
"Oh, now that's just cheating," he says, and yawns.
Normally he would be able to fight me, but he did just regenerate less than a day ago, and though he didn't change this time, it still took a lot out of him, more than I think he has realized until now. To do what he did in saving Donna took even more.
Though he is cleverer than he is wise sometimes, I think that even he knows that the sacrifices he has just made will mean nothing if he does not care for himself at least enough to keep living his life, bleak as it is right now.
At last, inevitably, he surrenders. I enfold him, and I guard him from his dreams, and I keep him safe. For he is mine, and I am his, and we will always be together.
Yet there will be others to run with him and marvel with him and give him what I cannot.
Even if I have to call them myself.
~end
by Sue DeNimme
Disclaimer: Doctor Who and its characters are the property of the BBC. No copyrights were harmed in the making of this fanfic.
Summary: The TARDIS does what she can. Spoilers for Journey's End (the Season 4 finale).
In the dark and the rain, I wait.
After an hour, he emerges from the door across the street. He stops and turns as a white-haired human appears behind him, and they speak to each other. Then he turns and walks toward me at last. The human watches him go, then closes the door softly.
He snaps, and I open to admit him. He steps inside me, walks to the console. He checks my instrumentation, but his movements are slow, listless. Water is dripping from his clothing and hair; his shoes squelch and leave puddles on the solid sections of my floor. I increase heat and lower humidity to dry them out. He does not notice, but removes his jacket, circles the console and leans against it, staring at nothing. Not all of the wetness on his face is rain.
I hum a soft query at him.
She's not coming, he replies after a moment, and sighs. His hands move on the console, and I dematerialize.
We have been bonded for an age and more. Each of us is the other's only constant. For him there is always me, and for me there is always him. That will never change until one of us dies. The others come and they go, but it is always hard when they go.
I liked Donna. She was good for him. She filled the emptiness. She was a voice loud enough to bring him back from the edge when he might have fallen. She was a new pair of eyes for him to show the wonders of the universe. She loved him, but did not wish to mate with him, and did not make him feel bad for not wishing to mate with her. She was his friend, and that was more than enough for both of them. She laughed with him and argued with him, slapped him when he deserved it, and hugged him when he needed it.
All I can do is sing to him, and speak to him through images and feelings, and take him where he wants to go.
He seems not to want to go anywhere now. Just away from Earth. Without coordinates to follow, I drift through the vortex, like a leaf on a stream, waiting for him to decide.
It is so different now than it was a little while ago. For the first time since he and I fled Gallifrey, I had a full crew of six pilots. I gloried in their delight at the privilege of steering me. I had not felt that strong in ages, and it was intoxicating. So was his happiness and pride in watching them all. And to think that not long before that, I had nearly been destroyed.
But once the Earth was back in its place, they began to go away again. Sarah, Jack, Martha, Mickey. Then Rose, her mother, and his half-human duplicate. When he left them in the other universe, I felt his hearts begin to break. When he left Donna, I felt them shatter.
He is alone. That is not good. This version of him does not do well alone. Some of his previous versions could have coped with this solitude: the one before now, for example.
But this version? No. He needs people. He must talk. He must touch. He must share himself, or he will go mad. Madder. His silence is beginning to frighten me. I do not think he has been silent so long since the last change. Even when he came back from that place where his voice was stolen and he was nearly murdered by members of the same species he has always had the most faith in. He had Donna then. He does not have her anymore.
I feel at him. I send him love. I send him reassurance. I send him worry. I send images of happier times, when our world still turned beneath its orange sky.
He simply stands and stares and drips.
Finally I cannot bear it any more. I send one image: a towel.
He is startled, but chuckles, and I drink in the sound.
"All right, all right," he says aloud. He leaves the control room and walks through my corridors, the rubber on his soles squeaking with every step. I make the way to the bathroom shorter for him, and he pats the wall in appreciation. Once he has dried himself enough to stop dripping, I sing him my most soothing songs. I dim the light, and lower the temperature ever so slightly.
He looks up. "Ordering me about, eh?"
For answer, I begin to emit waves, to stimulate his production of melatonin.
"Oh, now that's just cheating," he says, and yawns.
Normally he would be able to fight me, but he did just regenerate less than a day ago, and though he didn't change this time, it still took a lot out of him, more than I think he has realized until now. To do what he did in saving Donna took even more.
Though he is cleverer than he is wise sometimes, I think that even he knows that the sacrifices he has just made will mean nothing if he does not care for himself at least enough to keep living his life, bleak as it is right now.
At last, inevitably, he surrenders. I enfold him, and I guard him from his dreams, and I keep him safe. For he is mine, and I am his, and we will always be together.
Yet there will be others to run with him and marvel with him and give him what I cannot.
Even if I have to call them myself.
~end