[The other Doctor wanders around his mind, carefully, almost warily. There is hurt here, and there is love, but it's the love that hurts him. Because no matter what the Doctor said, no matter what he offered, it's not his love. The Doctor understands that. He wishes it could be different. He wants to share, would love to give, even.
The other Doctor goes deeper. As deep as he can, goes back, goes to a time so long ago, when the Doctor first started to run. The Schism, the Vortex, the oppressing infinite vastness of it all. It still makes him want to run, even though it's only a memory, glossed over by centuries of flight. And yes, he was a different person back then. He changed when he left. Or so he'd thought for a long time. Lately, he's beginning to wonder.
But no, there are no drums. He's never felt them, not in himself. He doesn't know where they take their origin, but they are not a part of him.
The other Doctor pulls back. Along the way, he brushes by some memories, memories that are the Doctor's. Memories of times they don't share.
It's already over. It's been over for a long time. Killing the Cult of Skaro wouldn't have made any difference. It wouldn't have brought anyone back. It simply would have ended more life.
Astrid is a hurtful memory; she died for him. Like so many others. He is grateful that she was found, thankful she's not drifting amongst the stars anymore. Although, maybe his Astrid is. Maybe she's still lost. Like Donna. Like Rose. Like so many others.
And then there's anger, resentment from his other, and no. Don't. He didn't have a choice, he didn't know what to do. He had been lost. So much had changed, and none of them could see it, with their small human minds and their small human worlds. Even his duplicate hadn't, because even though they shared memories, he wasn't a Time Lord. And there hadn't been time to explain. There never is.]
[Then the other Doctor leaves his mind, abruptly, and the silence is deafening. Everything is so still, so quiet, and blindly the Doctor reaches out, putting his hand on the door frame for balance.
The world slowly bleeds back around him, sensation by sensation. His vision is blurry, and as he blinks, tears make his eyelashes stick together. He raises his other hand to his face, and there is wetness on his cheeks. He wipes it away, quickly, not wanting the other Doctor to think that he is pitying him. It's not pity. It's grief.]
[When he raises his eyes to meet the other Doctor's, his throat constricts. He doesn't know what to say. He has to say something, words are what he does, words are his power. But for once, he is at a loss. All he could have said he already expressed when their minds were connected.]
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The other Doctor goes deeper. As deep as he can, goes back, goes to a time so long ago, when the Doctor first started to run. The Schism, the Vortex, the oppressing infinite vastness of it all. It still makes him want to run, even though it's only a memory, glossed over by centuries of flight. And yes, he was a different person back then. He changed when he left. Or so he'd thought for a long time. Lately, he's beginning to wonder.
But no, there are no drums. He's never felt them, not in himself. He doesn't know where they take their origin, but they are not a part of him.
The other Doctor pulls back. Along the way, he brushes by some memories, memories that are the Doctor's. Memories of times they don't share.
It's already over. It's been over for a long time. Killing the Cult of Skaro wouldn't have made any difference. It wouldn't have brought anyone back. It simply would have ended more life.
Astrid is a hurtful memory; she died for him. Like so many others. He is grateful that she was found, thankful she's not drifting amongst the stars anymore. Although, maybe his Astrid is. Maybe she's still lost. Like Donna. Like Rose. Like so many others.
And then there's anger, resentment from his other, and no. Don't. He didn't have a choice, he didn't know what to do. He had been lost. So much had changed, and none of them could see it, with their small human minds and their small human worlds. Even his duplicate hadn't, because even though they shared memories, he wasn't a Time Lord. And there hadn't been time to explain. There never is.]
[Then the other Doctor leaves his mind, abruptly, and the silence is deafening. Everything is so still, so quiet, and blindly the Doctor reaches out, putting his hand on the door frame for balance.
The world slowly bleeds back around him, sensation by sensation. His vision is blurry, and as he blinks, tears make his eyelashes stick together. He raises his other hand to his face, and there is wetness on his cheeks. He wipes it away, quickly, not wanting the other Doctor to think that he is pitying him. It's not pity. It's grief.]
[When he raises his eyes to meet the other Doctor's, his throat constricts. He doesn't know what to say. He has to say something, words are what he does, words are his power. But for once, he is at a loss. All he could have said he already expressed when their minds were connected.]