The Doctor (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
consolidator) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
atardisofourown2021-03-10 09:09 am
consolidator) wrote in atardisofourown2021-03-10 09:09 am
(no subject)
It feels different, this time.
Death always does, he supposes, but he can't help but wonder if the poison that's been eating away at him for the past six hours has damaged something irrevocably. It's not the pain wracking his body; he's had centuries of practising analysing it, accepting it, thinking through it. It's proportionate, considering.
Collapsing to his knees, that part is reasonable too; he knew his nervous system would start failing about now. It's all right, they're in the control room; after taking care of a few vital errands they'd headed straight to the TARDIS.
"Doctor? Doctor! What's happening?"
Oh, yes, he hadn't told Peri that. Hadn't revealed just how dire this was. For all the ruthless brutality he's encouraged in her, she's still deeply emotional. (Erimem, he would have been more forthright with, but Erimem is gone.) They had to be rational, methodical, take advantage of every scrap of time he had left.
She's still speaking, but the words all blur together in his head; he only knows they're increasingly frantic.
"Hush, now." Soft but steady, enough to make her stop and kneel down beside him. He blinks blood from his eyes, focusing on her face, anxious and intent and so very, very young. He thought he'd have more time. "Listen. There are people you need to contact. You need - you need to - "
It's so hard to think, harder than it should be. He raises a trembling hand to Peri's cheek, and tries to transmit the information through a gentle caress. When she flinches away, he realises that all he's given her is pain.
His hand drops like a stone. His eyelids flutter, and his vision begins to fade. He hasn't felt this helpless in a long time. Not since -
"Adric? Who's Adric?"
His throat has closed up. He feels himself sinking to the floor, but not his head hitting the grating. This is it, then, and it might be permanent, all of his work unfinished, all of it for nothing and it's not fair -
There's another voice, now, resonating deep within his mind, making some sort of offer. It's hard to fully grasp in this state, but he knows it's a chance. A deal.
He's been making deals for centuries, in good faith and bad. Why not?
When the Doctor opens his eyes, he's in his TARDIS bedroom. His head is pounding, but he can breath, and when he flexes his fingers they respond normally.
Slowly, he pushes himself into a sitting position. It takes him a few tries to swing his legs over the side of the bed, but eventually he manages, and his head only spins a little when he stands.
He's not the prettiest sight in the mirror. His skin is ashy, his eyes are bloodshot, and blood has stained his cheeks. Hair mussed, clothes rumpled. It's possible to fix some of it - a simple comb of course, he has wet wipes in a first aid kit, there are spare clothes in here - but perhaps looking pitiful will prove an advantage.
As he heads to the door, he reviews what he knows. Some sort of being - an Eternal, perhaps, or a Guardian? - had interrupted his death and brought him here, to do...something. Earn his right to live again.
The moment he steps into the corridor, his eyes go wide. Then he leans back against the wall with a beleaguered sigh.
No one told him there would be Time Lords.
Death always does, he supposes, but he can't help but wonder if the poison that's been eating away at him for the past six hours has damaged something irrevocably. It's not the pain wracking his body; he's had centuries of practising analysing it, accepting it, thinking through it. It's proportionate, considering.
Collapsing to his knees, that part is reasonable too; he knew his nervous system would start failing about now. It's all right, they're in the control room; after taking care of a few vital errands they'd headed straight to the TARDIS.
"Doctor? Doctor! What's happening?"
Oh, yes, he hadn't told Peri that. Hadn't revealed just how dire this was. For all the ruthless brutality he's encouraged in her, she's still deeply emotional. (Erimem, he would have been more forthright with, but Erimem is gone.) They had to be rational, methodical, take advantage of every scrap of time he had left.
She's still speaking, but the words all blur together in his head; he only knows they're increasingly frantic.
"Hush, now." Soft but steady, enough to make her stop and kneel down beside him. He blinks blood from his eyes, focusing on her face, anxious and intent and so very, very young. He thought he'd have more time. "Listen. There are people you need to contact. You need - you need to - "
It's so hard to think, harder than it should be. He raises a trembling hand to Peri's cheek, and tries to transmit the information through a gentle caress. When she flinches away, he realises that all he's given her is pain.
His hand drops like a stone. His eyelids flutter, and his vision begins to fade. He hasn't felt this helpless in a long time. Not since -
"Adric? Who's Adric?"
His throat has closed up. He feels himself sinking to the floor, but not his head hitting the grating. This is it, then, and it might be permanent, all of his work unfinished, all of it for nothing and it's not fair -
There's another voice, now, resonating deep within his mind, making some sort of offer. It's hard to fully grasp in this state, but he knows it's a chance. A deal.
He's been making deals for centuries, in good faith and bad. Why not?
When the Doctor opens his eyes, he's in his TARDIS bedroom. His head is pounding, but he can breath, and when he flexes his fingers they respond normally.
Slowly, he pushes himself into a sitting position. It takes him a few tries to swing his legs over the side of the bed, but eventually he manages, and his head only spins a little when he stands.
He's not the prettiest sight in the mirror. His skin is ashy, his eyes are bloodshot, and blood has stained his cheeks. Hair mussed, clothes rumpled. It's possible to fix some of it - a simple comb of course, he has wet wipes in a first aid kit, there are spare clothes in here - but perhaps looking pitiful will prove an advantage.
As he heads to the door, he reviews what he knows. Some sort of being - an Eternal, perhaps, or a Guardian? - had interrupted his death and brought him here, to do...something. Earn his right to live again.
The moment he steps into the corridor, his eyes go wide. Then he leans back against the wall with a beleaguered sigh.
No one told him there would be Time Lords.
no subject
"It could even be both, Doctor. I am Bianca. Welcome to our little cruise."
Exquisitely polite and forgiving, she recalls herself saying, and she laughs in the privacy of her mind at her own apparently eternal naiveté. Then she straightens out of her artistic lean and indicates the stairwell.
"I expect you'd like a cup of tea, wouldn't you, Doctor? This way."
no subject
"Very nearly always, yes."
He doesn't allow himself to hesitate. He simply walks slowly, keeping his gaze appraising rather than strained or wary. His hands remain clasped behind him; somehow, he doubts he'll find a weapon if he slips them into his pockets.
"I assume I'm going first?" He doesn't wait for her to answer, heading upwards and resting his hand on the rail. He'll sense the movement if she really does attempt to stab him in the back.
no subject
He walks in front of her, and she eyes his back. Between the twelfth and thirteenth ribs, she thinks, close to the spine. Her hands don't move.
"Age before beauty, then," she says, and follows him up the stairs. "Turn right at the top. It's a bar, but there's a perfectly good kettle."
no subject
How well does she know him? He could reach back with his free hand, brush against her wrist and deepen the connection - but that goes both ways, and he's hardly at his strongest at the moment.
No, best to wait and learn. For now, he follows her instructions, and he lets his hand glide across the wall instead of placing it behind him again. It could be taken for simple curiosity, and that certainly plays a part.
Without pausing or slowing, "The ship is alive." He says it quietly, thoughtfully; it's not a revelation, of course she must have noticed.