Blood. His other coughs, jarred into it as he breathes, and each spasm brings up more blood, bright flyspecks of blood, getting on his other's Proper Doctor clothing, on the suit and blood on the sleeves of the coat, from when he tries to stifle the coughing.
He rarely bleeds; the danger he gets himself into involves energy devices and clean injuries, all-or-nothing scenarios.
He bled in the War. Not all of the opposing forces were Daleks; plenty of other species took their chance to feed on the chaos, the rippling of time, and some of them enjoyed blood.
His other tries to anticipate their direction, and it's like running a three-legged race (his Fourth did that once, won track-and-field subbing for an Atlackian athlete who'd sprained his seventh-through-twelfth toes)—he has to keep correcting and not allow his other to pull him off balance. Irritation flickers through him, as his other trips him up again and again. Is it really that hard to tell where they're going? This isn't the blind leading the blind, after all.
They're almost there—almost to the console room, and the sick bay's right down the hall once they get into his other's TARDIS—when his other missteps again and falls against the Doctor, hands groping for support.
"Watch out, we're almost there—"and then his other's hand over his face, like a man more accustomed to blindness feeling the shape of a new acquaintance, fingers coming to rest on the Doctor's temple. "No, listen, what are you doing, I don't want you hurt any—"but his other's already testing at the edges of his mind, and he can feel what he wants. Eyesight. He wants the Doctor to share, quite literally, his vision.
"Right. Rightright, here, we're at the console room. Mine. See?" And this isn't something he's tried before, but he links up a connection with his other's mind, as light as he can possibly make it, relaying, he hopes, only visual images. (Though it's impossible to filter out the rest of his mind entirely, particularly the drums.)
Don't go too deep, be careful, I don't want to hurt you. What happened?
no subject
He rarely bleeds; the danger he gets himself into involves energy devices and clean injuries, all-or-nothing scenarios.
He bled in the War. Not all of the opposing forces were Daleks; plenty of other species took their chance to feed on the chaos, the rippling of time, and some of them enjoyed blood.
His other tries to anticipate their direction, and it's like running a three-legged race (his Fourth did that once, won track-and-field subbing for an Atlackian athlete who'd sprained his seventh-through-twelfth toes)—he has to keep correcting and not allow his other to pull him off balance. Irritation flickers through him, as his other trips him up again and again. Is it really that hard to tell where they're going? This isn't the blind leading the blind, after all.
They're almost there—almost to the console room, and the sick bay's right down the hall once they get into his other's TARDIS—when his other missteps again and falls against the Doctor, hands groping for support.
"Watch out, we're almost there—"and then his other's hand over his face, like a man more accustomed to blindness feeling the shape of a new acquaintance, fingers coming to rest on the Doctor's temple. "No, listen, what are you doing, I don't want you hurt any—"but his other's already testing at the edges of his mind, and he can feel what he wants. Eyesight. He wants the Doctor to share, quite literally, his vision.
"Right. Rightright, here, we're at the console room. Mine. See?" And this isn't something he's tried before, but he links up a connection with his other's mind, as light as he can possibly make it, relaying, he hopes, only visual images. (Though it's impossible to filter out the rest of his mind entirely, particularly the drums.)
Don't go too deep, be careful, I don't want to hurt you. What happened?