The Doctor (fantastic) wrote in thedisplaced, @ 2017-12-06 09:38:00 |
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He stirred against the bed as consciousness came too frustratingly slow back to him. In those first few moments, with hazed vision, comprehension wasn't completely at his grasp. The sense of dread and fear was still inside of him though he couldn't necessarily place why; as confusion was the dominating feeling. Questions that should have so easily been answered were now clogging his mind. Where was he? What happened? Why was he in a bed? Tumbling, he rolled so that his boots could touch the floor, and he brought his hands up to press against his forehead. Rose. He'd sent her away. He'd sent her away and she'd come back. She'd come back, with the TARDIS, and her eyes had been on fire. The Time Vortex. Bolting upwards, standing upright, he cast his eyes around the room. His vision was clearing and the emotions now made sense. He'd been in a whirlwind of emotion even before Rose had arrived. Rose's arrival had escalated things. She'd looked into the time vortex and it was going to make her burn. And he knew this. Recollection was coming to him. He'd been moving for her, to try to help her, when all of the sudden everything changed. He'd been pulled from that space and time. He was in a Military location. Guns were pointed at him. Soldiers coming in. People telling him to be calm. Calm? When he didn't have complete certainty that the Daleks were gone? When he knew that every second wasted was another second closer to Rose burning up completely. "No, no, no, no, no..." he began to repeat and he propelled himself forward, towards the door, as his hands tried to find a weakness. He needed to get out. He needed to get back. Was the TARDIS even here? Would he be able to pinpoint the exact destination and place in time? One variable off and he'd be incapable of stopping it. She'd be gone. Her and Jack. His hands fumbled now to his jacket. He'd thrusted them into the pockets of the beat up leather jacket. It was gone. Where was the Sonic? "No!" He shouted and hands slammed against the door in anger. Now he remembered the attempts to speak to him. The attempts that had gone south. He remembered the last moments before sleep had taken him, just after they'd tranquilized him, and he'd tumbled to the ground. His forehead leaned forward and he pressed it to the metal of the door, taking in a shaky and angry breath. As soon as he'd gotten word that another regeneration had arrived, the Doctor quietly took his leave and left wordlessly to the base. He had not a clue which it could be, there were so many to choose from, and it didn't matter. It was just a feeling, a shuddering on the back of his neck. Not like when Bowtie or Eyebrows had arrived, but something new. Escorted to the room in question, the Doctor stood solemnly in front of the window with eyes glued to the floor and hands in his coat pockets. A glimpse of his predecessor was caught from the corner of his gaze, then a deep breath taken. This was somehow harder to face as opposed to a successor, perhaps because the tenth has numbed himself to the experience of looking at the face of his own end. “Hello,” he greeted without the usual charm in his voice. This would be difficult for them both, wouldn't it? “They've got your sonic,” added the Doctor, keenly aware of his own instincts in this scenario. “It'll be returned in two days time. And Rose is safe, she's fine. She’ll be along soon. What's your next question? Daleks? The TARDIS? Who I am? Suppose you've already gotten an inkling as to the latter, but…” The Tenth turned to lean back against the glass and shifted upward his gaze. “I'm all ears. Well. No. You are, but. Go on. Ears.” He lifted his head at the sound of the voice. It was unrecognizable. Perhaps another soldier. Had they decided to try to come back and have a second go at the chat? His fingers curled in against the door frame, balling up into fists that dropped down by his side, before he'd whirled around to face the unfamiliar on looker. But, of course, he wasn't so unfamiliar, was he? No. Eyebrows came together in equal amounts of aggravation and confusion as the man began to prattle on. The Doctor was listening, of course, but he was advancing towards the glass window. He felt like a creature on display and this certainly did not do much for his present mood. He'd been without his sonic before. He could, and would, make due without it. But it worried him that it was now in the hands of an unknown group of people. He would have spoken about this, about how it was vital that he not be withheld any longer, but then the man had moved on. Rose. A flicker of a new emotion registered on the man's face. Rose was safe. Rose was here. But how could that be? There was only one of two possible outcomes for Rose, and if he didn't get back to her soon, that would leave her with only one ultimate future. A future he didn't want for her. The man moved on. The Doctor's expression returned to the look of aggravation. All of the talking points he mentioned, of course, were fresh on his mind. But he had a feeling that he was going to have access to all of that information quite soon. And instead, he shifted to cross his arms over his chest once the man had lifted his gaze. "Which are you then? Next?" He had been born out of this Doctor’s feelings for Rose, had been overcome by them from the moment he opened his new eyes and encumbered by them in the endless time without her. There was so much he didn’t know, so many faces yet to come, and a great deal more of anger to fail in quelling. Perhaps this was the one face, apart from the Seventh’s or Eight’s, that would have his genuine sympathy. “There we are,” he smiled at his younger self, false as the sentiment seemed and felt. “Got your attention properly, haven’t I? That’s me, the next you. Look at that, not ginger, see?” He coiffed his hair for good measure. “Your fault, you know. That’s not a spoiler either. We’ve a long way to go until we’re ginger, I expect.” It was so easy for him to lapse into an almost melancholy humor to deal with any version of himself. Tragedy had enveloped them both. This face had a connection for him, not because of Rose specifically, but because of how much running into rage they’d both done in the name of escaping their wrongdoings. “Never thought I’d see you, if I’m honest. Seen loads of us, but never you. Not sure I like it.” This one talked. He talked a lot. It was the first proper observation that came to mind, though now he was studying the man, taking in the noted differences. He wasn't quite sure he liked the changes. But, he supposed, when had he ever really initially liked the differences between himself? He didn't need to ask what had happened to bring forth the change. Unless another curve ball was tossed the Doctor's way, well, it was quite clearly about to happen. He'd have done anything to save Rose in those moments he was just pulled from. And hearing his future self say she was fine, and that he was next in line, was enough information to fill in the blanks. "And you've introduced product, I see," he made note of in regard to his hair. He was quite thankful for the lack of time his current appearance required. He didn't have patience or time for it. Shave it and be done. Then his head tilted to the side. "Got a feeling there's a reason you say that." How many of their future selves had he seen? There couldn't be many more. They were running out. "Well, can't really say I'm pleased about it either," he scoffed as he glanced past the Doctor to look out the window. "They telling the truth? 48 hours and free?" “Product--what!” He scoffed, then touched his hair self-consciously. “I’ll have you know this is the marvel of backcombing, not product. Product…” He trailed off with an audible grumble. The nerve of this old face. Then again, he couldn’t be surprised. The Doctor never got along with himself at first. Ego had a whole lot to do with that. Telling him that, to his knowledge, they were on a twelfth face that shouldn’t have been possible because of his handy spare hand didn’t seem ideal, given the circumstances. Granted, his old face had two days to stew in quarantine and so had plenty of time to get a rundown, the Doctor as he was then didn’t feel so inclined to speak of the worst of his choices. He had done dreadful things with this face. “It’s the truth,” he answered, glad for the subject change. It staved off the shadows on his face. “They won’t be keeping our blood on record, which is ideal. Hate for that to get out in a brand new universe. Just wait ‘til you get outside, air tastes bizarre for 2017.” He gave an amused smirk at the scoff and shifted his weight to the other foot. "Ah, of course. Back combing. How could I have missed that?" He retorted sarcastically. He did take note that no confirmation was given to his first inquiry and that in itself was confirmation of a sort. He half wondered if another of himself was trotting around in this space. All of this was wrong and shouldn't have been, but here they were. If they were here, perhaps others from the past were too. He didn't want to see his previous faces. He didn't want to see his future one either. But he had a feeling the previous ones would be more painful. A reminder of all that had been before the Time War. Then he nodded his head. "Right. 48 hours. Not so bad. Plenty of time to get caught up," he mused, before giving an appreciative nod. "You watch them get rid of yours then? Certain they didn't stash some away while you were otherwise engaged?" “Well, all that light reflecting off that forehead of yours can’t make it easy to see properly,” he jabbed back, actually quirking a grin. There was something troublingly fun about picking on your own self, wasn’t there? He couldn’t help it. “Could lend you my sunglasses. Then again, the twelfth face of ours has got sonic ones. Can you believe that?” Nope. Not jealous. Turning to lean back against the glass, arms and ankles crossed, he decided to watch the ceiling. Looking at that face brought up quite a few old feelings, very old and indescribable sentiments. The decision to bottle them up for confide in someone about them would prove a difficult conundrum to parse. “I did,” responded the tenth. “I’ve no reason to doubt that they deceived me, not yet. No other rogue Time Lords or Jen--general mixes of human and Time Lords have cropped up. Just you, me, and the last face. Well. A shouldn’t-have-been possible. Hang on. Are you suggesting I wasn’t paying attention when they’d released me?” He couldn't help it. A small smirk formed at the retort the Doctor gave. He wouldn't acknowledge that he was amused, but it was there, clear as day. "Seems a bit unnecessary. Screwdriver's always worked fine before," he commented with a shrug of his shoulders, not willing to admit that, alright, it was kind of cool. "Less he's finally figure out a way to work with wood?" He doubted it. "Been here long enough to form that kind of trust?" He responded before nodding his head. He supposed the lack of hybrids was an indicator. But if they knew who he was, and what he was, was it likely they'd let him know their intents? Then he shook his head and uncrossed his arms. He pointed past the Doctor, towards the exit door that shut them off from sight. "No. I'm suggesting they had 48 hours to do what they liked behind that door. Watching them destroy it at the end isn't necessarily equating comfort." “Hah, work with wood,” he scoffed. Then, his expression fell in mild alarm. “Has he? I wonder…” He mumbled under his breath, now curious to see if he’d managed to work that out by an impossible regeneration. Did he trust the military? Not remotely. He trusted them as much as he did Torchwood or UNIT. So, somewhere between a hybrid Dalek and himself. Though that much could be reserved for future regenerations, only because he had the memory to reassure himself of his actions and intentions. The same couldn’t be said of faces that followed. “It’s not,” the Doctor agreed. “Who’s to say they haven’t got a copy and destroyed the one they did for deceit? Then again, if they wanted to keep us and copy us genetically, they’ve been dragging their feet as I’ve been in this town for, oh say, a year now. Give or take. Done a bit of traveling in general, but Tumbleweed’s been… well, home. I suppose.” "That'd be steady on my mind for a bit, that notion right there," he replied, nodding in agreement. Perhaps he was being overly suspicious and cynical but it wasn't like he didn't have good reason. Then he gave a shrug of his shoulders. If they were dragging their feet, it wasn't like it wouldn't make sense. Why make a move when he, or one of his other regenerations, was around to stop them? A waiting game. "Right then. Got plenty of time to kill. Tell me about home," he murmured before shifting to get cozy for the forthcoming conversation. |