[Alright. A deep breath, as he closes his own eyes and puts his hands on his other self's temples, and then he opens contact. If he could, he would muffle the drums; but they're beyond his control, and in telepathic rapport like this, unavoidable—as much a part of him as the memories he shares.]
[He lets his own shields down fully, too; if the other Doctor pries too closely into sensitive areas, he may pull back, try to shield, but for the moment, he'll let him see whatever he needs to, to understand the differences between them.
There's the Time War, the end of it, that choice and that burden, a common point between them, as is much of the history that goes before. Beyond that...everything starts to come apart.
No companions, for years following the Time War. Loneliness and anger and remembering the man he was, before the war, and searching for that man, across all of time and space. A restlessness, a scratching pressure at the back of his mind, that wasn't the drums yet but that would grow into them. No rest, no peace, no reasons, and no explanations. The last Dalek, and destroying it, and still finding no peace, though that may have been the first day of the drums. He can't remember; he isn't certain. They crept up, somehow, until they were a part of him and it's hard to know when they purred up from silence to thunder.
The Game Station. Jack, but no Rose. A choice. The same choice. Again.
And he chose killer.
Waking up after, as a new man. The rush of that, because, really, his Tenth is all about the rush, the wonder, the brilliant run from sight to sight, experience to experience, and, in the post-regenerative haze, in those first few moments, he hadn't had the memories to mar that outlook.
Coming awake properly, and wandering the station. No bodies, only gray dust; and he couldn't remember who he was or what had happened. The Earth below, gray clouds like duststorms continents wide and no green anywhere, and he'd known that wasn't right. Daleks, unmoving, dust pouring out through their casings, and that had stirred memories.
He hadn't wanted them back.
There was no point in changing his clothing, the way he usually did on regeneration. He was the same man. He had made the same choice. The new personality fought this, but he knew he was right. The personality was wrong. It hurt him. It wanted to reach out, to show off, to laugh and run and share the brilliant universe with friends. With humanity. It wanted to be close. It wanted to forgive.
More running, and discovering that some of the Daleks had still survived. Hunting them, always. Killing them without mercy and with cold-hot satisfaction.
Becoming the hunted, when the Family of Blood caught his scent. Using the Chameleon Arch to escape, leaving his human half back in the 20th century (and John Smith still lives, still human, still separate, a man who chose to go to the Great War, a shame) and the watch, himself, his Time Lord self, in the TARDIS.
Centuries of imprisonment. Until the TARDIS pulled him out of the watch and remade him, gave him the body he wears now, his Tenth recreated, right down to the Gallifreyan mark of exile on his arm. Gave him a second chance.
Resentment and gratitude and surprise and...something like humility. He hadn't even thought...Had never expected her to save him.
A new depth of connection with her, another change to get used to, another shift of self.
Like the drums. Which were constant now, loud and always and driving.
More hunting, and more exploring, and more anger, until...here.
The multiverse.
Learning how life had gone, for his others, in their universes. Learning what the drums meant to them. Gaining the first companion he's had since the War, Astrid, saved from her stardust existence by himself and one of his other's.
She's not even from his universe; he never met her, when she lived. Never saved the Titanic and failed to save her. She's stolen, and he doesn't understand their relationship, it's moving too fast, there's something wrong with it, but it's something. Perhaps it's a start.]
no subject
[He lets his own shields down fully, too; if the other Doctor pries too closely into sensitive areas, he may pull back, try to shield, but for the moment, he'll let him see whatever he needs to, to understand the differences between them.
There's the Time War, the end of it, that choice and that burden, a common point between them, as is much of the history that goes before. Beyond that...everything starts to come apart.
No companions, for years following the Time War. Loneliness and anger and remembering the man he was, before the war, and searching for that man, across all of time and space. A restlessness, a scratching pressure at the back of his mind, that wasn't the drums yet but that would grow into them. No rest, no peace, no reasons, and no explanations. The last Dalek, and destroying it, and still finding no peace, though that may have been the first day of the drums. He can't remember; he isn't certain. They crept up, somehow, until they were a part of him and it's hard to know when they purred up from silence to thunder.
The Game Station. Jack, but no Rose. A choice. The same choice. Again.
And he chose killer.
Waking up after, as a new man. The rush of that, because, really, his Tenth is all about the rush, the wonder, the brilliant run from sight to sight, experience to experience, and, in the post-regenerative haze, in those first few moments, he hadn't had the memories to mar that outlook.
Coming awake properly, and wandering the station. No bodies, only gray dust; and he couldn't remember who he was or what had happened. The Earth below, gray clouds like duststorms continents wide and no green anywhere, and he'd known that wasn't right. Daleks, unmoving, dust pouring out through their casings, and that had stirred memories.
He hadn't wanted them back.
There was no point in changing his clothing, the way he usually did on regeneration. He was the same man. He had made the same choice. The new personality fought this, but he knew he was right. The personality was wrong. It hurt him. It wanted to reach out, to show off, to laugh and run and share the brilliant universe with friends. With humanity. It wanted to be close. It wanted to forgive.
More running, and discovering that some of the Daleks had still survived. Hunting them, always. Killing them without mercy and with cold-hot satisfaction.
Becoming the hunted, when the Family of Blood caught his scent. Using the Chameleon Arch to escape, leaving his human half back in the 20th century (and John Smith still lives, still human, still separate, a man who chose to go to the Great War, a shame) and the watch, himself, his Time Lord self, in the TARDIS.
Centuries of imprisonment. Until the TARDIS pulled him out of the watch and remade him, gave him the body he wears now, his Tenth recreated, right down to the Gallifreyan mark of exile on his arm. Gave him a second chance.
Resentment and gratitude and surprise and...something like humility. He hadn't even thought...Had never expected her to save him.
A new depth of connection with her, another change to get used to, another shift of self.
Like the drums. Which were constant now, loud and always and driving.
More hunting, and more exploring, and more anger, until...here.
The multiverse.
Learning how life had gone, for his others, in their universes. Learning what the drums meant to them. Gaining the first companion he's had since the War, Astrid, saved from her stardust existence by himself and one of his other's.
She's not even from his universe; he never met her, when she lived. Never saved the Titanic and failed to save her. She's stolen, and he doesn't understand their relationship, it's moving too fast, there's something wrong with it, but it's something. Perhaps it's a start.]