This is all entirely new to the Doctor; the TARDIS has always been his sanctuary, the one place where very little triggers the drums, where he can be as close to his whole self as he ever is, anymore.
Outside, beyond the TARDIS, there's always room to act. If something triggers the drums, the anger, he can run from them; he can yell; he can strike out, if the situation allows it and the target has earned that response.
He can use the drums to help, to be a hero.
But now, standing in the TARDIS full of personal, petty anger and the only target himself, another self who's the man he should still be, he can't find his footing.
His hands ball into fists at his sides, when he hears the other Doctor stumble over his non-apologies, and he starts at the pain in his right, straightens the fingers again.
"Shut up." He takes the few steps over to the wall, runs his left hand over a damaged rondule, asks his TARDIS questions-that-aren't-questions-but-sudden-understandings in his mind. It's surface damage, easily fixed. Painful, for her, but less than his broken fingers are for him. She doesn't blame his other, she doesn't blame her sister—well, not for this damage, she might have some things to say to her sister about that door-slamming trick, later. He rests his forehead against the wall, closes his eyes, and she trickles into the back of his mind, takes away some of the useless anger.
A second later, he straightens up and stalks the few steps to the inner door, which he flings open and then stands against, holding it open and quirking an impatient look at his other. "Well? Are you coming?"
He's still angry, and it reads in his tone and his body language, but he won't kick his other out of the TARDIS yet.
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Outside, beyond the TARDIS, there's always room to act. If something triggers the drums, the anger, he can run from them; he can yell; he can strike out, if the situation allows it and the target has earned that response.
He can use the drums to help, to be a hero.
But now, standing in the TARDIS full of personal, petty anger and the only target himself, another self who's the man he should still be, he can't find his footing.
His hands ball into fists at his sides, when he hears the other Doctor stumble over his non-apologies, and he starts at the pain in his right, straightens the fingers again.
"Shut up." He takes the few steps over to the wall, runs his left hand over a damaged rondule, asks his TARDIS questions-that-aren't-questions-but-sudden-understandings in his mind. It's surface damage, easily fixed. Painful, for her, but less than his broken fingers are for him. She doesn't blame his other, she doesn't blame her sister—well, not for this damage, she might have some things to say to her sister about that door-slamming trick, later. He rests his forehead against the wall, closes his eyes, and she trickles into the back of his mind, takes away some of the useless anger.
A second later, he straightens up and stalks the few steps to the inner door, which he flings open and then stands against, holding it open and quirking an impatient look at his other. "Well? Are you coming?"
He's still angry, and it reads in his tone and his body language, but he won't kick his other out of the TARDIS yet.