Small, Beautiful Events

"Doubt is not a pleasant condition, but certainty is absurd." –Voltaire

He's sitting in his bed, leaning wearily against the headboard. It is one of those few times he truly needs sleep, but it won't come to him. Old images bite at closed eyes, leaving the darkness too raw to soothe; old words sting his mind and chase dreams away.

The Doctor knows that his life is never certain.

It has been proven, again and again, that everything changes; his appearance, his mind, his hopes, his beliefs, his friends. A constant state of flux - and he wouldn't know how else to live. A wry, hidden smile curves his lips.

He knows how to say goodbye. He's done it so many times over the centuries, and sometimes it was perfectly all right, if wistful. Sometimes it was time, and they were both content with fond memories. They would miss each other, on occasion, but they would go on.

Then there were times when it was dreadfully painful, because his friends were torn from him, mercilessly, utterly.

"I'll never forget you, you know."

Times when it was bittersweet, because he waited too long to do, to say something that would have made all the difference.

"In a funny way, he reminds me of a sort of... younger you."

Times when it stung horribly because he couldn't shield them from the horrors of the universe; couldn't stop them overshadowing the wonders.

"It's just I don't think I can go on."

Times when he couldn't…

He tenses, because he doesn't want to think about that, not now. He doesn't want to think about Katarina or Sara or Adric, of sacrifices he never wanted to make. It is always a possibility, even now…

A deep breath, and he pulls himself back to his train of thought, such as it is.

The point of it all is that anything could happen, at any time at all, and in a blink he would lose his best friend.

A shudder, then, just slight, hardly perceptible even to him.

Promising eternity isn't fair. Certainty of anything is absurd.

He swallows, eyes opening for the first time since he whispered good night. He isn't alone in his bed; this distant place, with walls the colour of morning and shelves cluttered with his past, is shared with two, both pressed close to his side.

The problem is that he has promised. He has, despite everything, vowed never to let them go.

His gaze is tender as he reaches out, caressing a warm cheek, brushing the curls from his eyes; then it turns, and he's stroking auburn hair, the touch gentle, almost reverent.

The problem is that he can't bear the thought of losing them to anything, and if he does he fears he would fall apart at the seams.

So many centuries of not allowing himself this intimacy, and now that he has, for that to be taken from him as well…

There is, quite suddenly, a change in his demeanour. His eyes are harder, back straighter, lips a thin, determined line. He looks, in the darkness, like the ancient renegade he is.

No.

No, he won't allow it, no matter what came to pass. Time, Death or Pain, none will separate them, not this time. He is the Doctor, and he does not give up, he does not yield.

Not this time.

Slowly, he relaxes, content in that silent vow, in a resolute confidence that's saved hundreds of lives.

Careful not to disturb them, he lowered, slid himself beneath the covers, rests his head. His hands slide down and find theirs, and he clutches them loosely.

Certainty is absurd. He'll hold on to it anyway.

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.

01. Leave me a comment saying, "Interview me."
02. I respond by asking you five questions of a very intimate and creepily personal nature. Or not so creepy/personal.
03. You WILL update your LJ with the answers to the questions.
04. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the post.
05. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Here are my own.

( From Ace )

( From Melissa )

"Do not judge a book by its cover."

"Things are not always as they seem."

"Appearances are often deceiving."

These mantras persevere in some form for generations on many a planet, and yet so few listen to them.

Look at me, for instance. What do you see?

You see youth, and innocence.

You see passivity, and fragility.

You see always the man who holds his friend's hand, and never the man who has burned another to death.

That is why you always lose.

I have seen more death than you can possibly imagine, lived more lives than you can dream.

I am a tired renegade, a bitter exile, a disillusioned meddler. I will not stand for your cruelty, your corruption, your oppression.

You would do well to know this, but I will never tell you.

There's no need to feel obliged, of course.