or_timelords | This could prove to be interesting.

[Is sleeping. Quite deeply, in fact, and on his stomach, as usual. Snuggled under the blankets in his stripy pajamas.]

[Is coming properly awake, and realizing that, yes, there actually is someone else in his bed. Him. There's him in his bed. Because he's getting the Time Lord 'ping'—a clear tone, unmarred by the hint of the drums that marks his own mental signature, and the Master's.]

[Okay. Um. This is bizarre. But maybe his other decided to stay over after the Christmas party?]

Oi, you. [He pokes the other Doctor in the shoulder with one finger]

[For the narrative record, the Doctor who owns this bed is sleeping in his Time Boxers. Which are black. Like just about everything he wears.]

[He is sitting on a chair in an empty room, eating a banana. Outside, he can hear a crowd cheering and a band playing; there are some kind of festivities going on. The banana tastes good, like bananas tend to do, and the drumming from the music is seeping into his head, and there's someone else here, someone he knows but - not?]

What?

[The room's gone, but the drums haven't stopped. They're very faint, though, and he remembers this feeling from not so long ago. The waking up process suddenly happens a lot quicker.]

[There's someone here alright, but it's not the Master. That's - that's him. Himself.]

What?

[He wasn't expecting his other to be quite that surprised. After all, the other Doctor's the one who decided, for whatever reason, to sleep in the same bed he was sleeping in. Granted, this is one of the most comfortable beds in the TARDIS; he's not sure how it got tucked away in this storeroom, with the 52nd-century aerocricket gear and the baby icthyosaurus skeleton and the samurai armor he picked up that one month he met Oda Nobunaga...]

What what? You couldn't find another bed?

[The man does look like him, but in the Doctor's mind, he sounds like the Master. Sort of. This is bizarre enough to be part of one of the Master's schemes, anyway, and for the moment, an illusion conjured up by the Master to confuse the Doctor sounds like the most plausible explanation.]

[Great. Captured by the Master, that's always fun. Not. He reaches out to poke the other Time Lord in the bare chest.]

Drop it now. You're forgetting that I can hear you.

[Okay, what? One eyebrow crawls up the Doctor's forehead as his other pokes him.]

Noooo, I'm not. You'd prefer telepathy? 'S not much of a way to wake up, me in your head, worse than a clock radio. Didn't think you'd want that.

[What?]

No, I mean, I can hear you. Hear that it's you. Your, you know...

[But no. He can hear the drums, and they sound like the Master's, but the rest of the telepathic signature doesn't feel at all like the Master. It feels more like - his own. Yeah. Now. That. That is creepy.]

[He narrows his eyes.]

Who are you?

[Right. So this isn't the other-Doctor he knows. This is...someone else. Another alternate, another Doctor. In his bed. That makes absolutely no sense.]

What?

[His turn for total loss in this conversation.]

[Okay, this is getting no-one anywhere. Also, drums. Creepy. He gets out of bed, partly to put some distance between the other - person? Time Lord? Doctor? - and himself, and partly to feel less vulnerable. And maybe to find his clothes.]

[He looks around. No clothes. But, oh. So that's where the icthyosaurus skeleton ended up. But what is his bed doing in here? And what is that man doing in his bed? And why does this feel not at all like the TARDIS, even though all of this is his stuff, and the room looks like the storage room on the 7.8th level?]

Where am I?

[The Doctor is very glad he can't read narration right now. "Creepy" is not high on his list of "First Impressions I Like to Make on Myself."]

[He sits up in bed, arm resting on one knee, watching the other Time Lord curiously, a bit wary but...this is another him. He's not worried, just puzzled.]

The TARDIS. Well. My TARDIS.

I'm the Doctor. [Because apparently he has to say this. Really, his identity should be obvious to his other self. He's never thought of the possibility that another Time Lord might mistake him for the Master. See similarities between him and the Master, yes—but not mistake him entirely. So he hasn't put two-and-two together yet, figured out why his other had to ask his identity.]

[What's the term for déjà-vu, but from the wrong perspective? This feels too much like that time when Donna showed up in the TARDIS, only that this time around, he's Donna. Only less ginger. And less rude. Or not. Also, he's not wearing a wedding dress. And this line of thought isn't helping.]

No, I'm the Doctor. And this can't be the TARDIS, because it's not my TARDIS, and my TARDIS is the only TARDIS still in existence and, and this is an alternate reality, isn't it.

[Oh. Oh, this isn't good.]

Mm, nope. [And he really shouldn't be amused by this situation but, um, he is. Because he's not met a version of himself that hasn't met other versions of himself before, so getting a reaction like this is rather novel. Though it doesn't explain why this other Doctor appeared in his bed.]

[He runs a hand through his hair and concludes that, yeah, he's awake enough now to get out of bed. So he does so, snagging his pants from where they're hanging over the ichtyosaurus' spine and hopping into them.] We're in the multiverse. Well, I call it the multiverse. Nexus, hub, rabbit hole, it's semantics, really. No paradox, absolutely none, it's the only impossible thing here, that's the fantastic bit.

Doesn't explain what you're doing in my TARDIS, though. [And you really don't know, either?, his expression asks.]

No paradox? As in, none at all, ever?

[That's a concept that needs some getting used to. Not necessarily bad, but - no paradoxes? What? Really, where the hell has he ended up here?]

But if there are no paradoxes, then random people waking up in your bed should not surprise you. I mean, it's hardly as surprising as meeting yourself.

[And, really, this isn't so much surprising as utterly confusing. And unsettling, considering the steady rhythm of the drums distorting the telepathic signal he's getting from his other self. He's having the whole fight or flight thing - or in this case, it's more the 'find out more' or 'get the hell out' thing - so it's time for a displacement activity.]

Where are my clothes?

[They should be in the bathroom, it's where he left them. Maybe if he got transferred, they got transferred as well? There's a worrying thought, maybe random things from his TARDIS got transferred and are now duplicates on this TARDIS. Like himself. Okay. Displacement activity.]

[He looks around, locating a door behind himself, and opens it. Yup, storage room on level 7.8. His bedroom is somewhere else entirely, though, and that's where the bathroom is, and hopefully his clothes. Time to go and find out.]

[The bit about other people waking up in your bed is actually a Rather Good Point. He frowns and rubs the back of his head as he considers that.] Well, macro-level physics holds, it's just...partial. It plays by the house rules, to each his own. My TARDIS, my physics. Except for you, you're your own physics, but that doesn't cancel out my physics, so no paradox, it's all a bit...

[Oh, hey, his other's leaving. Something about clothes. Well, speaking of which, he's still standing about in just his trousers. He snatches his jumper and jacket from the ichthyosaurus and pulls them on as he heads out after his other, still barefoot.]

Wardrobe's that way. [Not the way his other's going, where's he heading?]

[Left, right, left, down those stairs, and this is exactly like his TARDIS, except that the mental connection is missing, and that's just another weird, unsettling thing on a weird, unsettling morning. He brushes his fingers against the wall and feels - well, not nothing, there's a tingle, but it's not his TARDIS. Being in this familiar space and not feeling her, that's just not how it should be.]

[The other - his other, he supposes, but whatever - is following him, and he's saying something about the - oh right, the wardrobe. There should be something to wear in the wardrobe. It's a rather extensive wardrobe, after all.]

[He turns around, and there's another little detail that makes this experience just another touch creepier; the other Time Lord is dressed exactly like his Ninth. Well. That means the brown suit should still be in the wardrobe. Or at least a duplicate of it.]

Right! Wardrobe. This way, right?

You'd know as well as me. [He grins at his other, reflexively, but the expression dies quickly. This could all be a lark, a new problem to solve—with himself, of all people—and the last time he worked with himself, together they'd saved a life that had been nothing but dust and memory—but something's wrong. His other—it's not panic, but it's like he's trying to run by everything around him so fast he won't see it through the blur. The Doctor knows running, knows why they do it. There's something here his other doesn't want to stop and think about.]

[It started the moment his other saw him.]

Yeah, that way. Second left after the calender room, three doors down, past the armor—[OI, that won't help]—armoire. The armoire room. Past that.

[If his other heads off in that direction, he'll follow, but at a distance. To see if that makes a difference.]

Past that, yes that's right, molto - armoire room? I don't have an armoire room.

[But then, he doesn't have a leather jacket like that. Or the sound of drums in his head.]

[He doesn't wait for an answer but walks off towards the wardrobe. Calender room, yes, he's got one too, three doors that to his knowledge lead to a dining room (rather old-fashioned and British, complete with sinister chandeliers), a storage room with all kinds of knick-knacks, and a graveyard (he's been meaning to move it for ages, but for some reason, he never gets around to it), and there's the last room the other spoke of; the armoire room.]

[The Doctor stops and looks around. He can't see the other Time Lord; maybe he didn't follow him. He hadn't realized how nervous that guy had been making him until now, when there's sudden relief at the absence of the steady drumming echo at the edge of his mind. The curiosity's stronger now. Who is that man? And if he's the same but not, then what does the 'but not' part entail?]

[This room is a room he doesn't have on his own TARDIS. It's different. It might be worth taking a look. The Doctor steps up to the door; let's see if it's locked.]

[Well, it is; but the lock's isomorphic, so it responds to the other Doctor's touch after only a moment's hesitation. The TARDIS knows something's wrong—but the DNA's a match, a closer match then even her own Doctor's now (these days, his own's a touch off, contaminated by pieces of her she let slip into him, when she remade him), so what can she do?]

[The Doctor in black turns the corner just as the door's sliding back.]

Oi, no! Don't touch that!

[And he starts running down the hallway, which won't help, because there's no way he can get there to close it in time and running really lets the cat out of the bag, but he has to try anyway.]

[The door, meanwhile, will be opening on a small room—a glorified walk-in closet, really, it's nothing compared to some of the TARDIS' rooms. Hooks and straps and magnetic clamps cover three of its walls—all securing guns, from a wide range of times and places, some of them nothing a 21st-century human would even recognize as a weapon. They have one thing in common—none of them are light arms. They're designed for going up against armored opponents; a few could even take out tanks or small spacecraft. A worktable stands against the fourth wall, with tools hanging on a retro 21st-century pegboard above it.]

[Oh, the guns have something else in common.]

[They're perfectly maintained. Not as display pieces, but for use. Which, judging by the lack of dust and tell-tale wear, many of them have seen. Some of them quite recently.]

[The shout from the other Doctor startles him, and he's starting to turn when the door slides back completely. His head snaps back, and he stares.]

[Those are not armoires.]

[He takes a slow step into the room and lets his eyes wander across the walls. Guns. Guns mounted to the walls of the TARDIS, guns of every shape and kind, as long as it's a shape and kind that will wreak destruction on a grand scale. He recognizes most of them, but there are some that even he can't place. It's an armory. An armory on the TARDIS.]

[Something turns inside of him, and there's anger. Guns, war, destruction, they make him so angry. He turns around, and there he is, the other man, standing in the doorway. And the echo is back at the edge of the Doctor's mind, a steady beat, and it only makes him angrier. His jaw is set, and the expression in his eyes is hard.]

Why are you keeping guns on the TARDIS, Doctor?

[Ever since he arrived in the multiverse and discovered how very different his life has been, his choices, from the lives and choices of his others, he's known that there were parts of himself he could never show them. Just as there are parts of themselves the other Doctors hide away from their companions, their friends. The mistakes, the destruction, the hurt. Those pieces of the self that cut and wear, that might make others shun them.]

[Two other Doctors know about the choice he made on the Game Station. None of them know about the armory.]

[He stands in the doorway, one hand resting on the frame. The other Doctor's anger is terrible and fascinating—because it's his anger, an anger he's felt and used and been driven by but never seen. It looks the way it feels, even when it's coming from a version of him in pajamas. Hard. Distant yet precisely, needle-sharp present. Certain.]

[He's fairly certain he's looked like that when he's killed.]

Because they're necessary. Because the Daleks survived the War. Doctor.

[His tone isn't defensive or angry. It's a statement of fact, tinged with slight challenge. It's tempting to be defensive, but why? This is him, as much as the outrage in his other's face is his other's. This is what he and his universe have made of each other.]

[Oh, this Doctor isn't the Master. The Master enjoys guns and death and war, he pursues them out of pleasure. This Doctor is worse. This Doctor thinks they are necessary.]

Guns, [the Doctor makes a gesture at the room,] guns are never a necessity. They are always a mistake. Using a gun makes you as bad as the one you're firing it at.

[His voice isn't raised, but every word is perfectly enunciated, and his jaw is tight. He takes a step closer towards the other Doctor.]

If you had learned anything in the War, that would have been it.

[He doesn't back down, his own eyes as dark and old and challenging as the other Doctor's, anger held back but ready to snap forward at any moment. A constant anger, perhaps unlike his other's. An anger that never leaves, never since the War. Never since the drums.]

Well, I'll tell you what I've learned when the War's over. Properly over, that is.

[He tips his head, from where he's now leaning against the doorway, indicating the hallway.]

C'mon, you'll want your suit and that coat.

[And he wants to get him out of here before he lets himself get angry or defensive, too.]

[Oh, and he knows that tune. It was his own for quite a while; 'won't rest or sleep till every last Dalek in the universe is dead'. It makes the anger recede somewhat. He knows the feeling that comes with this motto, remembers the constant hate that's always there, sometimes sleeping, but never gone entirely. It's the old cliché of the weight that you don't know to be there until someone takes it away. It's still resting on this Doctor's shoulders.]

[He swallows, partly because his mouth is dry, partly because it helps getting control of the anger, and ignores the other Doctor's attempt at deflection.]

The War is over, Doctor. Everybody died, and there's nothing left, but it is over.

[This Doctor knows the weight's there. It reminds him, every moment of every day, tapping on his shoulder—1-2-3-4. Once in a very great while, it quiets, or he almost forgets—and in those moments, he can feel the man he's supposed to be, the man standing in front of him now, his Tenth, free of his Ninth, free(r) of the War.]

[He rubs at one eye, his version of something like a sigh. He hadn't wanted to get into this, but he can never seem to avoid it. Right now, they're talking at cross-purposes, and that won't change unless he explains.]

You're right. Everybody died. [He doesn't want to do this, he doesn't want to think about this again, it brings it up fresh every time, but...]

[He pushes off from the doorframe and stands straight.] Let me show you something. [And he raises his hands, reaching for the other Time Lord's temples, but not touching, not yet. He's waiting for permission.]

[There's weariness in the other Doctor's demeanor, as if he's heard all of this before, as if he's tired of repeating himself. But he'll have to, one more time, because something has made this other Doctor different from him, and the Doctor needs to know.]

[He needs to know what saved himself from becoming the man standing before him.]

[When the other man reaches out, his fingers spread out in the traditional gesture, asking for permission to create a connection, the Doctor tenses at first. So close to the other Doctor he can hear the drums; it's more than an echo now. He's got the drums, he's got guns; this other Doctor is a warrior, and the Doctor doesn't trust warriors.]

[He'll have to, though. If he wants to know, he will have to trust this other version of himself. He drops all his mental shielding and sends out an invitation, his eyes sliding shut almost on their own.]

//Show me.//

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