Small, Beautiful Events

He knew this was coming.

She lingers at the inner door for a moment before walking towards the console, where he was fixing something he allowed to stay broken for this very purpose. She waits, patiently, for him to straighten, for him to look at her.

It has been several days, or the nearest equivalent. They've saved the world since then, and brought Tegan home. Their makeshift family has been whittled down to two, and now he must tell her why.

"The first rule of Time travel, the most important rule," he begins, and he's staring right at her but he can't bear to actually look at her, "is that one cannot interfere with their own past." His hand tightens around a tool older than them both, enough to hurt, enough to leave a mark.

Her gaze is sad, and gentle, and it inflicts a far deeper wound.

"If I...if I were to be tempted...the consequences…" He's not used to this. He's not used to stumbling over words and falling into silence.

"I wish I could," he says, finally, and the words are fervent.

"You must know that, I just – "

"Doctor." The word is soft, but firm, and she steps closer and rests her hand on his where it grips the console.

"I wanted to say that I understand." His eyes widen, and then close, and his arm wraps around her and pulls her close.

It is an awkward embrace, in the way walking is awkward for those just learning, but she returns it, and they are no longer alone in their grief.

The Doctor wasn't accustomed to unwanted dreams; he had a great deal of control over his psyche, and didn't tend to allow tragedy to interfere with his rest. He saw too much of it for that, and though he didn't need much sleep, he needed it to be effective. He always had to be at his best.

So when he first had the nightmare, he knew something was amiss; when it continued he grew quite concerned.

It manifested in several different ways, but always ended with one image - a small figure, cracked like glass yet with blood seeping steadily from his ruined skin. It was if he had been torn apart and carelessly put back together again.

He would stare with blank eyes and scream. Sometimes there were words, brimming with agony and accusation.

Then his voice would grow silent and pleading, and he would always say the same thing.

It hurts so much, please, please make it stop, please save me this time.

As the Doctor ran to him his as if through water, the boy's body began to disperse in a cloud of crimson that tasted of copper and salt. He would inhale it and awake, gasping, chest aching and eyes burning.

He would spend long hours in the library, dragging out dusty books of parapsychology from a number of different worlds and times. Nyssa knew somehow not to disturb him, and he was grateful - even more so when she simply raised an eyebrow as he performed complex calculations when walking through the corridors, or executed intricate tests in various rooms.

Nothing came of it. He grew frustrated, with himself, with the countless useless explanations.

Eventually he accepted that there would be no solutions, and that the answer was in his grasp the entire time, festering with neglect.

Some tragedies are far too personal to distance yourself from.