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atardisofourownThe memory of something that never happened.
The Doctor had spent three months in 1965 searching dictionaries for a word he was certain existed. He'd been thrown out of a lot of libraries. He'd tried to explain to one reference librarian that it didn't matter, that he would still be looking long after the library had forgotten this moment. He'd felt badly about that, she'd gotten him a cup of tea even as obviously unnerved by the fit of laughter that had interrupted his argument. For a time after that, he'd tried to be the sort of person who liked librarians, and not the sort who was escorted out for sharing fascinating pieces of information at a volume that bothered other patrons. The arguments that visitors to a library should be interested in learning what they could had started new arguments. Under a sky far from Earth, unbound by what year it had been on the calendar the day before, free to go anywhere he wants, the Doctor feels a little embarrassed about the whole thing. It's better to keep those memories tucked away, however more empty spaces that leaves.
He'd been right, about the word. He knows he was - is. He hasn't found it yet, can't remember what language it's from, but it doesn't worry him any more. The universe is a very large place. He'll come across it eventually, or he'll find something even more interesting. There's always something new, just he'd known there was. Known that he belonged out here, where the exact details of 'here' don't matter much. Many of the weights he'd gathered over his century on Earth have turned out not to matter as much now he's left it behind.
Still, there are moments when the old feeling of something on the edge of his mind, lost, itches. The Doctor had never been to this market, couldn't say why he took what he did. He remembers that they're important, that they'll fix the problem with the TARDIS' screen, but it's hard to hope it's a flash of memory returning when it's not his hands he can see working when he closes his eyes. He wonders if it might be the TARDIS, the connection between them that he can feel letting her direct his hands. But that doesn't feel quite right - his luck with repairs argues against it.
Maybe he could ask Fitz. He suspects Fitz knows more than he says, but he's never tried to question him. On a day like this, when everything has gone so well, it's easy to tell himself that it's just because he doesn't want Fitz to get that worried look he tries to hide every time he's reminded that as much as the Doctor remembers about the universe (which sometimes feels like everything, he surprises himself with some of the information that comes out when he's not thinking about it), there are things he doesn't know about his own home. It's too nice a day to think anything else.
It's also far too nice a day to return from shopping to find a stranger looking far too interested in his home. People don't notice the TARDIS. That's something he's grown sure of over the years. This man does, and that sets off a feeling of unease the Doctor wasn't even aware he had. He moves closer, glad that he'd given up whistling once he'd lost track of the song, weighing the bag of tools in one hand.
The Doctor had spent three months in 1965 searching dictionaries for a word he was certain existed. He'd been thrown out of a lot of libraries. He'd tried to explain to one reference librarian that it didn't matter, that he would still be looking long after the library had forgotten this moment. He'd felt badly about that, she'd gotten him a cup of tea even as obviously unnerved by the fit of laughter that had interrupted his argument. For a time after that, he'd tried to be the sort of person who liked librarians, and not the sort who was escorted out for sharing fascinating pieces of information at a volume that bothered other patrons. The arguments that visitors to a library should be interested in learning what they could had started new arguments. Under a sky far from Earth, unbound by what year it had been on the calendar the day before, free to go anywhere he wants, the Doctor feels a little embarrassed about the whole thing. It's better to keep those memories tucked away, however more empty spaces that leaves.
He'd been right, about the word. He knows he was - is. He hasn't found it yet, can't remember what language it's from, but it doesn't worry him any more. The universe is a very large place. He'll come across it eventually, or he'll find something even more interesting. There's always something new, just he'd known there was. Known that he belonged out here, where the exact details of 'here' don't matter much. Many of the weights he'd gathered over his century on Earth have turned out not to matter as much now he's left it behind.
Still, there are moments when the old feeling of something on the edge of his mind, lost, itches. The Doctor had never been to this market, couldn't say why he took what he did. He remembers that they're important, that they'll fix the problem with the TARDIS' screen, but it's hard to hope it's a flash of memory returning when it's not his hands he can see working when he closes his eyes. He wonders if it might be the TARDIS, the connection between them that he can feel letting her direct his hands. But that doesn't feel quite right - his luck with repairs argues against it.
Maybe he could ask Fitz. He suspects Fitz knows more than he says, but he's never tried to question him. On a day like this, when everything has gone so well, it's easy to tell himself that it's just because he doesn't want Fitz to get that worried look he tries to hide every time he's reminded that as much as the Doctor remembers about the universe (which sometimes feels like everything, he surprises himself with some of the information that comes out when he's not thinking about it), there are things he doesn't know about his own home. It's too nice a day to think anything else.
It's also far too nice a day to return from shopping to find a stranger looking far too interested in his home. People don't notice the TARDIS. That's something he's grown sure of over the years. This man does, and that sets off a feeling of unease the Doctor wasn't even aware he had. He moves closer, glad that he'd given up whistling once he'd lost track of the song, weighing the bag of tools in one hand.
