Small, Beautiful Events

1. "Look, this really isn't necessary, I don't want to be President anyway, I did run off for a reason – oh, do put the mind probe away. Can't I simply say I'm not psychologically fit? Does there need to be a long, tedious process? …Of course there does. Well, I'll just make myself comfortable and start at the beginning, shall I?"

2. "You know very well many parents prefer to Loom their children as toddlers – around seven, actually. Soon after we stare into the Schism, soon after that we're sent off to Academy. I was in Prydon, as I'm sure you know. No, it wasn't very long until I met Koschei, and no, I do not want to talk about it. Missing the point, am I? You're lucky I'm sitting through this at all."

3. "Now then. I was, in essence, a brilliant slacker – yes, yes, and an infamous prankster. When I left the Academy – oh, yes, I did want to make a difference here, back then. I flouted every unspoken law I could, I fought tooth and nail against xenophobic doctrines, I did everything I could to change the world, and it was all for nothing, can we please move on?"

4. "…You're asking who influenced me most after I left Gallifrey, is that right? Well, that would be Barbara, of course. I'd become such a bitter, closed old man… Oh, I was still mischevious, still brilliant, but quite worn out. Barbara put me in line more than once, you know, when I was being…well. I could be like that as a boy as well. Back then it was usually Ushas, and often more painful. …Anyway, yes, she's the reason I became who I wanted to be, instead of what Gallifrey turned me into."

5. "Yes, I did leave Susan behind. I could never control where we went, there was so much danger, and she was so young… Of course I knew how dangerous Earth was then, quite intimately, but at least it was predictable. At least she had something stable. And I knew….I knew Gallifrey would catch up to me eventually. I wouldn't allow them to punish her as well."

6. "Of course I remember that trial, I remember ever minute. I remember saying goodbye to Jamie and Zoe, knowing they'd forget me completely. Knowing that… I remember being forced into my Third incarnation. Being robbed of my freedom. …No, it wasn't entirely horrible, I became rather fond of UNIT – I said I didn't want to talk about him."

7. "Finally being able to leave Earth was quite exhilarating, yes, and as my Fourth self … Well, I simply couldn't stay there at all, for very long. …I wouldn't call it abandonment, by that time UNIT was managing quite well, and my companions… Yes. Yes, I did. Sarah's safety meant more to me than anything else, and I know Gallifrey. At the time, it…just wasn't feasible."

8. "How is Leela doing, by the way? You don't know? Of course not. I suppose you wouldn't care. I should visit while I'm here. …Of course I miss her, I miss them all from time to time. …Oh, don't pretend I stole Romana, she came and went of her own free will. …Yes, she did leave me. She's in another universe being magnificent."

9. "I regenerated shortly after, yes, and I really don't like the implications you're making. It was time, though, I can say that. Perhaps long past it. …What about my other companion? He missed her too. …Did he leave as well. Oh, isn't that the question."

10. "This session is over. I can't say I care overmuch if you've gathered enough information. I am going back to my TARDIS, back to my friends, and we are leaving. If anyone attempts to pull me back again I will be very, very cross. Have a good day."

1. It is a goodbye kiss, given amidst stale air and dull walls, hushing his protests and sealing their time together.

He needs you too.

He would like to pull her into his arms and refuse to let her go, but that is selfish, and childish, so he does not. Instead, he squeezes her hand, and calls her brave.

She'll die here.

She knows precisely what she's doing, as she so often does, and he cannot treat her like the child she was on Traken.

Like you, I'm indestructible.

He must believe in her, because the alternative doesn't bear thinking of.

( Memories, Dreams, and Desires )

"What are you, then?"

"…Excuse me?"

They were in an empty room, the last stragglers of amateur chemists. Theta had long decided that quantum chemistry was entirely too simple to be interesting, and was bent over his desk finishing up a refined caricature of their professor when Ushas interrupted. She was a few desks over, gathering her notes – probably for personal experiments rather than the class at hand.

"Most of the people in Academy are easily classifiable, even Prydonians."

He raised his eyebrows, setting down his pencil (lead, nicked as a souvenir on a field trip to Earth). They didn't know each other very well – he acknowledged her as smarter than most of their peers, she seemed to think he was occasionally amusing. He was beginning to think there was mutual intrigue.

Tapping her desk with her own writing utensil – which was really far more advanced that it needed to be – Ushas went on.

"There are the politicians – you know the ones, bred for polite manipulation and devious ambition. Playing the part until they're insufferable." A slight nod as he settled down into his seat. He knew the type, of course; he enjoyed winding them up more than anyone else, really.

A slight smirk, because she did like commanding attention, and Theta's was often too lubricous to grasp for long.

"Then, of course, the scientists, the ones who know their field, excel in it, and ignore most everything else – the ones who will do most anything to push it further." Well, he couldn't argue with that; she rolled her eyes at the glint in his.

"Some, of course, are more brilliant than others." A fervent nod. She simply moved on. He supposed she didn't care for his validation, sincere or otherwise, which was fair enough.

"Then there are the casual geniuses – the clever ones who excel in most everything, and still manage to be – "

"Disruptive?" Theta was smirking again. He knew they were both considering one specific example.

"Yes," she said curtly. Ushas didn't like to be interrupted. Theta liked to interrupt. It was an interesting dynamic.

"Then there are the stragglers – they get by, but they're nothing special. They'll probably fail the first year if they're not diligent enough."

"That would be me, then."

"No." His eyes widened, more at the frustration than anything. She'd stopped tapping.

"You're smart. Most people don't notice – they're not looking, really, they never learned that bit. I've snuck a look at some of your test scores, you get just high enough to pass, every time I've seen them." That idle, cheerful interest had faded from his features; he was studying her, now, with keener eyes than any professor had seen.

"They think you don't care – but I've seen you argue with Koschei, I've heard you rant on and on about this law or that." He'd ask how – but then Ushas seemed rather good at not being seen, and she was on a tangent now anyway.

"You act apathetic and indolent, but you're too perceptive for you own good, and you work all night on whatever's caught your interest."

"How do you know what I do all night?" A disdainful stare silenced that line of questioning.

"You're no politician."

"Thank you!"

"You're not a scientist, you don't excel in anything people actually want you to."

"Right you are."

An exasperated frown curled her lips.

"The problem is you're cunning and intelligent enough to be both, so why aren't you?"

A faint smile curved his own, and he slowly shook his head.

"What sort of surprise would I be then?" Her brow furrowed, and she only stared at him as he gathered his things, slipping them into his bag. He didn't speak again until he was halfway out the door.

"I'm something Gallifrey isn't used to, Ushas." A swift, roguish grin as he turned back.

"I'm the wrench in the machine."

He's been sleeping a lot, lately – that is, more than usual, which is still less than a human, but she notices, and she worries.

Not much has changed, superficially. They'll land on a random world or a pivotal point of history and save lives, save planets, save Time. Except when he jokes he sounds said, when he shouts he sounds resigned, and his passion burns too brightly to last for long.

It's almost like he's going through the motions.

Except, of course, where her safety is concerned.

She knows why; it's the same reason she's so nervous, why she complains more than usual, why it's so hard to care as much as she used to.


It's the same reason she doesn't go to him for some time, because it will hurt too much to say the words, to confront the grief. She knows how he is; it's easier to run from the past, run from everything, just keep going and going and going.

One day, or she supposes it's a day, she meets him in the library, staring down at a dusty tome. His expression is blank, and his eyes are tired.

When she clears her throat, his head snaps up, a faint smile curves his lips, and the exhaustion is gone but she remembers it and she knows she can't wait anymore.

"Hello, Peri! Were you looking for something?" Cheerful. He sounds cheerful and it's so hollow it hurts. As she continues to stare at him the smile fades away.

"Is there something wrong?"

Her hands curl into fists and she wants to say that of course there's something wrong you stupid, repressed, miserable alien.


She doesn't. She walks to the table and sits down, and clutches it until her knuckles turn white. He tilts his head as if he doesn't know what's going on but he must, and she's tired of him always pretending. They haven't even said her name and she should now but she can't, she's silent and he's silent and finally she needs to ask something, anything, just so he'll answer her.


"What do you dream about?"


He stares at her, and for a moment he closes his eyes. He knew it would come to this, eventually. He knew she would notice, because at this time, at this moment, she is his very best friend, and they share so much more than grief.

It overshadows everything, of course. Every smile, every touch, every memory. They know, each time they laugh or run or fight that something is missing, something irretrievable.

She won't let him ignore it anymore, and he can't begrudge her that.

Slowly, his hands folded over thin pages, and after a moment, he spoke.

"I remember," he said softly. Peri was staring down at her hands but her head jerks up at the words.

She looks so very vulnerable. So very young. The very picture of the way he shouldn't be feeling.


"Not just Erimem. Not usually." She tenses; he knew she would, they haven't spoken her name for some time. His fault, really.

the cries of approaching soldiers drown their thoughts, steal their breath, lash aching limbs; when hope dawns again a spear whistles past, and then another steals her forever

"The images, the voices, they…tend to blend together."

he will watch her fall and her body will wither and her bones will turn to dust, and she isn't a young pharaoh anymore, she's a reformed assassin, and then she's being torn away from him, innocent and young, a sacrifice twisting in the stars


"Sometimes, when I awake, I'm not certain…"

he will awake saying "terrible waste"

"It's...not always the same, then." Her voice is weak, strained, and she never quite meets his eyes.

"No," he says softly.

the spear alights, and an explosion swallows them all but he can see her figure, burning and screaming, with a young boy's voice, and the flames begin to burn his hearts away

"How many..." Her eyes meet and they're wide, and her voice trembles.

"Too many." She looks down, and he continues.

"Sometimes they aren't...memories. Sometimes I simply imagine."


a death bed of velvet roses caressing pale skin and auburn curls, the only colour in a stagnant laboratory, becomes a worn mattress and a young man weeping over passion wilting with futility

"I don't always know...how, precisely, or when, but you see the probability..." He wishes he couldn't calculate it so easily.

the battlefield shifts, the soldiers change, and it is someone else who falls, just as young and brave and full of wonder, and he whispers a name he no longer knows

"Sometimes they..." He trails off, then, because he doesn't know how to explain.

used and discarded like so many others and he begs for death and it would be cruel to refuse

A shake of his head. He doesn't tell her that sometimes he can still hear the Master's screams. That was just, wasn't it, not at all like Erimem's death. She died selflessly, and suddenly he is very tired of selfless companions. Suddenly, he wants to tell Peri to be selfish.


He gazes at her with such sorrow, such dread, and she knows. She knows that sometimes it's her dying, or Turlough, or anyone else who lived on. Someday it will be the ones after her.

So many people she will never know, so many people he can never forget.

She swallows, and suddenly leans over the table, covering his hands with hers.

"You don't have to do this alone, you know." His eyes widen, and he simply stares at her for a moment, before a faint, weary smile curves his lips.

"No," he says quietly. He stands, then drawing his hands away; when she rises as well, he embraces her.

She weeps, and he holds her until the tears have dried. Though he sheds none, she likes to think he's finding catharsis as well, in his own way.

When he pulls back there's a faint smile on his lips, and though it's sad she returns it because it's real.

"Let's go somewhere quiet, hmm?" Peri looks up at him with scepticism in her eyes, and is relieved to find amusement in his.

"Like where?" Her voice trembles, and she's not sure if it's with grief or humour.

He seems to consider – he gets that distant look as his brow furrows and it become useless to talk to him – and then steps back, taking her hand, squeezing it. Now it is he who offers comfort, and she accepts it readily.


"I want to show you something." Her eyes widen, declaring surprise and curiosity, and then her fingers entwine with his. She doesn't know what's going to happen next, but she thinks it must be a good step.

It must get better after this.


He's silent as he leads her through the halls. It's been a long time since he's shown anyone, not least because the collection has long remained in his room. He feels he owes her this, though; not simply a rest, but something to renew their friendship, something intimate he can share.

When he pauses in front of the door she looks at him, tilting her head, raising her eyebrows, and he smiles again as he turns the knob.

There's a faint gasp beside him; she must have immediately realised where they were. Perhaps it's the walls, the perfect imitation of a summer sky; perhaps it's the endless shelves of books, the tables of various experiments; perhaps it's the cricket equipment immaculately organised in a corner.

She looks everywhere, obviously marvelling, as he takes her to a large cabinet, and opens the door.

"…Bottles?" She squints, leaning closer to read the labels below each one.

"Made from the sand of every planet I've visited," he said softly. "I started it back on Gallifrey; the Academy allowed expeditions sometimes, and I managed to smuggle a large amount of sand back with me." She gapes up at him, and he's smiling again.

"You made these? All of them?" He nods, smile lingering as she looks back with wide eyes; he waits patiently as she inspects every last one.

"Thanks." Her voice is quiet as she meets his eyes, and he knows that she realises how much they've come to mean to him, and what it is to share them.

A softer, warmer smile, and he steps forward, tapping an empty space on the first shelf between Algol and Aneth.

"I've managed to lose one; I think I'd like to replace it."

"Somewhere nice?"

He turns his head, smile widening.

"Sand as far as the eyes can see..."

When the Doctor returned to Terminus, he expected to find Nyssa in one of its many laboratories, hard at work on perfecting a cure, or perhaps sitting beside a patient, clasping their hand and speaking gentle, sensible reassurance.

It was a very different place, he realised it the moment he stepped from his TARDIS into one of the winding corridors; it gleamed, but more than that, the distant voices held hope and determination, not despair or resignation. His steps echoed on the pristine floor as he wandered, occasionally happening upon a visitor. Terminus seemed to have proper rooms for patients now, and their families and friends had full access.

When he asked these strangers if they knew Nyssa, they would give him a strange look, and sometimes laughed. He took this to mean they didn't, and walked on, looking through the many doors as discreetly as possible. He found no trace of her until he found his way into the reception hall. He wasn't entirely sure what it had been once, but now it was bustling with concerned relatives, with the newly ill who were quickly taken away – for their safety and those of everyone around them.

It was a moment before he saw it. The flawless sculpture dominated the wall farthest from him, and he hurried forward, as quickly as he could without pushing anyone aside.

Her face was level with his, framed with delicately rendered curls that fell to shoulders covered in an elegant, modest gown.

She was as beautiful as marble as she had been in life.

He felt rather numb as he knelt to read the plaque she stood on, fingers tracing the words as his chest began to ache.

NYSSA OF TRAKEN

Saviour of Terminus

"There used to be more." The Doctor started, and looked up – an elderly man, one of the nurses it seemed, was looking down at him with an odd expression on his face; something like resigned mourning.

"Did there?" His voice sounded empty to his ears.

"Yes, but it was thin, shallow, faded away eventually." He knelt beside the Doctor, fingers ghosting over the marble much like his had done. There was reverence in his touch.

"This should never break, because of what they used, but…words can fade." He sighed, shaking his head.

"We never did understand what it meant. Who she was talking to." The Doctor stared at him, and the man must have seen the desperate yearning in his eyes because he went on, voice hushed as though for a funeral.

"'I told you I was indestructible.'"

On a dying world, he watches a Lord of Time scream.

He is burning, and soon there will be no trace of him to mourn by the one man who would.

This man cannot move, cannot look away, cannot sort out the sensations twisting together in his mind to strangle his hearts. He wants none of them to be his reason, but he cannot deny them.

Vengeance.

It is justified.

He remember that first reunion of murder and manipulation, endangered friends and needless invasion. He remembers how it feels to have centuries of nightmares tear your mind a part. He remembers falling and breaking and trying to put the pieces back together, thwarted all the while.

He remembers Jo, endangered time and again to force him into compliance. He remembers Tegan, confronted with horrific, needless loss. He remembers Nyssa, a child of peace, watching as her planet fell to careless cruelty. He remembers Adric, younger still, callously bound and cruelly used.

(He has never approved of revenge.)

Vindication.

He has won.

It is a permanent victory, and he need never feel defeated again by his ancient rival. His taunts are ashes now, his villainy punished, his domination abolished with a bit of cleverness.

He is Master of nothing, and the Doctor will live on as he always has.

(They fought like brothers, once.)

Relief.

No one will be hurt by this man again.

No more people used and discarded without a thought. No more children turned into martyrs.

No more believers and warriors and leaders brought to their knees to the sound of his laughter.

No more screams and blood and shrunken corpses to quench a selfish thirst for life and power and vengeance.

(This is what he clings to.)

"Would you show no mercy…"

There doesn't seem to be room for it anymore.

I will remember this moment, forever.

I will remember the distant steel bursting silently into flame as it approaches the Earth, christening a new dawn with the death of a child.

I will remember the tears they shed, the accusations in their eyes, the trembling of their words.

I will remember the feel of shattered brilliance piercing my palm and falling with my blood.

I will remember feeling utterly, uselessly helpless.

I remember so that it will never happen again.

I will remember this moment, forever.

I will remember the quiet determination on her features, and knowing then that I could not change her path.

I will remember the chaste feel of her lips on my skin, a silent goodbye imprinted in my senses.

I will remember those words, harbinger of the image of her vacant body, giving all it could give and dying alone.

I will remember feeling utterly, uselessly helpless.

I remember so that it never happens again.

I will remember this moment, forever.

I will remember the fierce obstinacy in her eyes, so familiar, so much more infuriating than usual.

I will remember the sound of her laughter, the fond words as she says goodbye, the feel of her embrace.

I will remember gazing at her and knowing that I could fix it, and being unable

I will remember feeling utterly, uselessly helpless.

I remember, long after I die as well.

Curt: We set out to change the world and ending up… just changing ourselves.
Arthur: What's wrong with that?
Curt: Nothing! … If you don't look at the world.
(Todd Haynes, Velvet Goldmine)

---

"Why didn't you take it?" The Doctor looked up from the console, bewildered surprise softening his features and making him look young; the wayward child running away from home again.

Turlough strode from the inner door, where he'd been leaning with impressive nonchalance even if he did say himself, until he gazed at the Doctor across the controls. He could name some of them, now, even understand their purpose. Trion wasn't nearly so far behind as Earth.

"The Presidency," he clarified, less because the Doctor needed it and more to press him into words, any words at all.

The Doctor was silent for a moment, of course, that easily affected confusion slipping away as he straightened. Perhaps he would give an actual answer, for once.

"Because I didn't want it." Or perhaps not. Turlough managed, barely, not to roll his eyes, settling for a raise of his eyebrows. For some reason that drew a faint smile from the other man. Inscrutable to the last, irritating and thrilling all at once.

"I would be horrible at it."

"Worse than Borusa?" It was the wrong thing to say; the smile faded abruptly, into something fixed and cool. Turlough shook his head, hands falling from the console.

"You don't approve of Gallifrey, that’s obvious, so if you could fix it –"

"But I couldn't." Quiet, low, and even with that mask still in place he could see a very old grief.

No, grief wasn't the word. Disappointment. Regret. Resignation, and he'd certainly never seen that from the Doctor before. It made him curious, and…it was odd, but it saddened him.

He didn't speak, only listened, because he knew if he waited the Doctor would continue.

"Gallifrey doesn't change. Goodness knows I tried, when I was young…" The words trailed off and left a faint, wry smile in their wake, and bitterness, Turlough decided, didn't suit the Doctor at all.

"For decades I tried. I even had help, for a while. Activists are rare among Time Lords, you see, and most of them left."

"Including you." Too soft to be an accusation, too flat to be a question. The Doctor seemed to understand, and nodded.

"Yes. Railing against the aristocracy gets tiring after a while, you know, especially when the majority are perfectly happy with the way things are."

"So you…"

"Gave up?" His smile was too bright to be real, and Turlough couldn't say anything to it, and the Doctor didn't seem to want to add on. He fiddled with his pockets, Turlough fiddled with his tie, and it was all painfully familiar. Comfort in avoidance, that was a lesson they'd both learned very well.

Except the Doctor spoke again, and his hands rose to rest, once more, against the console. Turlough's hands fell as well, and once more, he listened.

"I spoke out against everything I could manage, in the Capitol or to anyone who would listen. Consorted with the Outsiders. Flaunted doctrines and statutes and unspoken rules – there weren't many, Time Lords like their rules set down in neat letters." That drew a faint smirk from Turlough; he imagined it clashed with the rapt attention.

It faded soon enough.

"Nothing I did made very much difference, slight or spectacular. I ended up ostracised, and quite ineffective. A very tired rebel locked in a society in love with its own stagnancy. Of course I left."

The Doctor shook his head, and his hands slid from the console to dangle at his sides.

"I tried to change the world, and all I ended up changing was myself." Turlough studied him for a moment, and then he smiled.

"Well. I wouldn't call it a waste, then." The Doctor's eyes widened, and then his brow furrowed, and then he smiled back, and it was real.

"No. No, I suppose it wasn't."

"Doctor. When you travel, what do you look for?"

"That's easy. I explore possibilities. I look for things I could never imagine. I want to know how they work and perhaps help them work better."

"And do you share that?"

"With my companions, yes. Some people call it meddling. Others actually thank me for it. It all depends on what side they're on."

"Doctor. I could be more than just a companion."

- Loups-Garoux


This wasn't supposed to happen.

I tend to say that a great deal, particularly, it seems, in this incarnation. Usually it's accompanied by bloodshed or explosions.

I've more experience with broken bodies than broken hearts.

There is a death toll here as well, however.

( I was, of course, walking with wolves. )

She was not supposed to fall in love with me. I was not supposed to wish, for however briefly, that I could stay.

He is not a Lord when the Doctor meets him. He is a young musician playing his violin on a street corner, lost in classical music amid the rotting streets and the scornful orphans.

The Doctor almost walks past him, but he cannot, and he stops, and listens as the song comes to a mournful end.

They talk. His compliments are sincere, and they talk of music and philosophy and what's wrong with the universe.

"Have you ever wanted to change the world, Darzil?"

"I can't say I have. What's the point? I'm only a musician, and honestly, I'm fine with that."

The Doctor smiles, a sad, resigned smile that the other man won't understand for a long time.

"It's a fine calling, but I think you have another."



It is the first war they will end together, an efficient bloodbath run by apathetic aristocrats.

The Doctor slams his hand on the polished desk as the new negotiator nervously looks on, wondering why he's here at all.

"There is no such thing as an acceptable loss."

"These people died fighting for freedom – "

"They died in a futile battle so you could prove your patriotism!"

When the Doctor slams the door behind him, Darzil glances at him dubiously.

"Shouldn't you be a bit more…diplomatic?"

He smiles then, a light smile.

"Oh, Darzil, that's your job."


Lord Carlisle is renowned on countless worlds, a beacon of peace and civility. He is not what people believe he is but he has always retained the determined compassion of a musician.

He is also a fine speaker when he knows what to say.

"It takes both sides to end a war. I need the cooperation of all of you to end this bloodshed, to save your families and lovers and friends. Please, help me stop this violence and lead this world to what it should have been!"

The Doctor meets him on his way out of the council, grinning and applauding. Lord Carlisle is buoyant with relief, and it's entirely too endearing.


They have settled an ancient conflict on Solis Pass.

Their thirty-sixth triumph.

The Doctor stands in front of his TARDIS, gazing at the man he's plucked from a simpler life. He's confided in him more than he ever meant to, laughed with him, fought with him.

He would never see him again.

"You are my best friend, Darzil."

He cannot change what is to come. One more lost companion, one more sacrifice to the Web of Time.

There is no such thing as an acceptable loss.