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or_timelords) wrote2009-02-07 08:37 pm
or_timelords) wrote2009-02-07 08:37 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: Two Sides
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watch_is_me, who wanted to know how my Doctor dealt with the Master dying in Last of the Time Lords. Thanks to earlwyn and recrudescence for beta'ing.
The Doctor never knew what humans meant when they said they were acting on autopilot. Certain processes and procedures stored away in their brain performing without needing conscious thought was one thing. But he never understood what they meant when they said they were feeling as if they were not in full control of their actions, following their instincts to get them through a current situation because their mind wasn't capable of dealing.
Not until now.
When he feels the psychic power of the whole of humanity, channelled through the Archangel Network, transform him and give him back his youthful shape, the Doctor switches to autopilot. Suddenly, he's in control again; suddenly, he's making decisions again. Quick decisions. He's been waiting for this moment for a whole year; he knows what to do. It doesn't require thinking.
I forgive you. He says it because it's what he would say. He's the Doctor, and he forgives.
Minutes later, on that ledge somewhere in the Russian taiga, he talks again. Chooses the right things to say, because that's what he does. He's the Doctor, and he fights with words.
Then he's back, and time is reversing, the paradox resolving. And there's Martha, and Martha's family, and because he's the Doctor, he greets them, shakes her father's hand because he hasn't met him before, and then there's the Master, asking him: what now?
What happens to me?
They want to kill him. Of course they do; he's caused them so much hurt and pain and tears. The Doctor can't let them, though; the Master can't die. Not now. Not when the Doctor might be able to help.
But the Master does die. The Doctor fails to stop them; he lets them kill him anyway.
As he's crouched on the floor, the Master cradled in his arms, the Doctor's autopilot fails. There's no precedence for this, no standard reaction. He's the Doctor, and the Doctor doesn't lose. Except he's losing now; he's losing the Master, he's losing his last chance, and it's throwing him off course. He was running full tilt to put distance between himself and the year that didn't happen, and now the ground beneath his feet has disappeared.
It can't end like this, that's what he says, but that's not what he means; what he means is that it can't end. The Master and the Doctor, there's never been one without the other; throughout exile, years of enmity and even the Time War, it's always been the both of them. But the Master is looking at him, and his eyes are telling the Doctor that it will end. Now. It ended with the War, and the Master is not going to overstay his welcome. The Doctor, the look in those eyes seems to be saying, will follow soon enough.
So the Master dies. The humans don't understand the Doctor's tears, and he can't blame them. He's not sure he understands them himself. All he knows is that when the Master dies, when the Doctor loses the feel of him, the sound of him in his mind, it's like losing part of himself. He hadn't been aware that the Master had survived the War, but the Doctor realizes now that had the Master died then, he'd have known. It would have torn his hearts out. The way it's tearing his hearts out now.
He picks him up, and he leaves, getting away from the humans and the conference room and the Valiant. This is his, this is the Doctor's. He can't share it with anyone. He brings the Master to his TARDIS and, ignoring the ruins of the paradox machine, carries him into the inner rooms and lays him out on a table in the infirmary.
Then he just stands there, hands in pockets, silent. His eyes are dry now, but he feels disconnected. The Master's body, dead and unmoving, the blood from the gunshot wound marring the white of his shirt. And that's what killed the Master in the end? A gunshot wound? That, and the Master's stubbornness. Too stubborn to live, to stubborn to let the Doctor help.
"You idiot," the Doctor says quietly, "you bloody great idiot, you didn't have to do this. I wasn't going to--" but then he has to stop, because his throat closes up and he has to swallow, hard, to make that feeling go away.
He listens, and it's silent; everything's so quiet. Will it stop, the Master had asked him, and the Doctor supposes they have stopped. For a whole year the Doctor was hearing the drums close-by, a constant presence, and now they're gone. There's nothing. He's alone in his mind.
He leaves. Not the TARDIS, not yet. He can't face the humans right now, but he can't stay here with the Master's body either. He's walking along the corridors of the TARDIS, and he can't even feel her. Hasn't felt her for the whole of last year, and he's realizing now that this is wrong, she's not caught up in the paradox anymore, she should be there.
And she is. The moment he starts thinking about her, when he visits that place in his mind that's reserved for her, that he had shut out for the last year because the emptiness hurt too much, she's there. Waiting for him. She wasn't going to just leave, was she? Silly Time Lord.
The Doctor stops walking. Somewhere in the middle of an empty corridor, he stops in his tracks and puts his hands flat against the wall, sensing her, feeling his ship, his TARDIS, who he'd been missing for so long. For the first time in almost a millennium, she had not been there, and now that she's back, the Doctor can't even say how he didn't lose his mind in her absence.
I missed you. He leans his head against the wall and closes his eyes. I missed you, I missed you so much, I'm sorry he hurt you. He's dead.
She knows. Of course she does. The Doctor turns around and slides down until he's sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, knees pulled up to his chest. His TARDIS is back, she's there again, making him whole again, and that's good, but he's not. He's not whole.
The Doctor closes his eyes and lets himself fall into his TARDIS's presence. She takes him in, as she's always done, giving him an anchor to hold on to. She doesn't try to comfort him, to belittle his grief; she's just there, and it's enough. It's always been. He may not be whole, but he's alive, and as long as he is, he will keep going. He's the Doctor. It's what he does.
He stays where he is for a long while, his eyes closed and his head leaned back against the wall, lingering in his TARDIS' embrace. Not thinking at all, just floating and waiting for the storm that's roughing up the sea of his mind to settle. Eventually, it does, and the Doctor looks out over the calm surface of the water. No doubts to disturb it, no memories to ripple it. It's all buried deep down at the bottom of the sea, and this is good. This is how it's supposed to be. Calm, quiet, undisturbed. He can get up now. He can move on now.
And he does. He returns to the console room and tears down the last few remains of the paradox machine, preliminarily fixing the worst of the damage. Then he takes the TARDIS to the same place where the Master decided to live, where he conceded and let the Doctor help. It was such a brief moment, over so quickly, but the Doctor honours it, paying the Master the respect in death that he could have had in life, had he just listened.
After that, he moves on. The TARDIS needs to be fixed, Martha's family needs to be taken care of, Jack needs to be taken home. Captain Jack Harkness, who found his home with Torchwood. Who would have thought?
Martha leaves. It's not a surprise. It may be better this way. He's sorry for what he did to her, for lying to her, but he can't say it. She knows, though. They always do.
So he's alone again. Just him and the TARDIS, same old life. Well, he's been here before; a new start into an old life. He'll be all right. He always is.
watch_is_me, who wanted to know how my Doctor dealt with the Master dying in Last of the Time Lords. Thanks to earlwyn and recrudescence for beta'ing.The Doctor never knew what humans meant when they said they were acting on autopilot. Certain processes and procedures stored away in their brain performing without needing conscious thought was one thing. But he never understood what they meant when they said they were feeling as if they were not in full control of their actions, following their instincts to get them through a current situation because their mind wasn't capable of dealing.
Not until now.
When he feels the psychic power of the whole of humanity, channelled through the Archangel Network, transform him and give him back his youthful shape, the Doctor switches to autopilot. Suddenly, he's in control again; suddenly, he's making decisions again. Quick decisions. He's been waiting for this moment for a whole year; he knows what to do. It doesn't require thinking.
I forgive you. He says it because it's what he would say. He's the Doctor, and he forgives.
Minutes later, on that ledge somewhere in the Russian taiga, he talks again. Chooses the right things to say, because that's what he does. He's the Doctor, and he fights with words.
Then he's back, and time is reversing, the paradox resolving. And there's Martha, and Martha's family, and because he's the Doctor, he greets them, shakes her father's hand because he hasn't met him before, and then there's the Master, asking him: what now?
What happens to me?
They want to kill him. Of course they do; he's caused them so much hurt and pain and tears. The Doctor can't let them, though; the Master can't die. Not now. Not when the Doctor might be able to help.
But the Master does die. The Doctor fails to stop them; he lets them kill him anyway.
As he's crouched on the floor, the Master cradled in his arms, the Doctor's autopilot fails. There's no precedence for this, no standard reaction. He's the Doctor, and the Doctor doesn't lose. Except he's losing now; he's losing the Master, he's losing his last chance, and it's throwing him off course. He was running full tilt to put distance between himself and the year that didn't happen, and now the ground beneath his feet has disappeared.
It can't end like this, that's what he says, but that's not what he means; what he means is that it can't end. The Master and the Doctor, there's never been one without the other; throughout exile, years of enmity and even the Time War, it's always been the both of them. But the Master is looking at him, and his eyes are telling the Doctor that it will end. Now. It ended with the War, and the Master is not going to overstay his welcome. The Doctor, the look in those eyes seems to be saying, will follow soon enough.
So the Master dies. The humans don't understand the Doctor's tears, and he can't blame them. He's not sure he understands them himself. All he knows is that when the Master dies, when the Doctor loses the feel of him, the sound of him in his mind, it's like losing part of himself. He hadn't been aware that the Master had survived the War, but the Doctor realizes now that had the Master died then, he'd have known. It would have torn his hearts out. The way it's tearing his hearts out now.
He picks him up, and he leaves, getting away from the humans and the conference room and the Valiant. This is his, this is the Doctor's. He can't share it with anyone. He brings the Master to his TARDIS and, ignoring the ruins of the paradox machine, carries him into the inner rooms and lays him out on a table in the infirmary.
Then he just stands there, hands in pockets, silent. His eyes are dry now, but he feels disconnected. The Master's body, dead and unmoving, the blood from the gunshot wound marring the white of his shirt. And that's what killed the Master in the end? A gunshot wound? That, and the Master's stubbornness. Too stubborn to live, to stubborn to let the Doctor help.
"You idiot," the Doctor says quietly, "you bloody great idiot, you didn't have to do this. I wasn't going to--" but then he has to stop, because his throat closes up and he has to swallow, hard, to make that feeling go away.
He listens, and it's silent; everything's so quiet. Will it stop, the Master had asked him, and the Doctor supposes they have stopped. For a whole year the Doctor was hearing the drums close-by, a constant presence, and now they're gone. There's nothing. He's alone in his mind.
He leaves. Not the TARDIS, not yet. He can't face the humans right now, but he can't stay here with the Master's body either. He's walking along the corridors of the TARDIS, and he can't even feel her. Hasn't felt her for the whole of last year, and he's realizing now that this is wrong, she's not caught up in the paradox anymore, she should be there.
And she is. The moment he starts thinking about her, when he visits that place in his mind that's reserved for her, that he had shut out for the last year because the emptiness hurt too much, she's there. Waiting for him. She wasn't going to just leave, was she? Silly Time Lord.
The Doctor stops walking. Somewhere in the middle of an empty corridor, he stops in his tracks and puts his hands flat against the wall, sensing her, feeling his ship, his TARDIS, who he'd been missing for so long. For the first time in almost a millennium, she had not been there, and now that she's back, the Doctor can't even say how he didn't lose his mind in her absence.
I missed you. He leans his head against the wall and closes his eyes. I missed you, I missed you so much, I'm sorry he hurt you. He's dead.
She knows. Of course she does. The Doctor turns around and slides down until he's sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, knees pulled up to his chest. His TARDIS is back, she's there again, making him whole again, and that's good, but he's not. He's not whole.
The Doctor closes his eyes and lets himself fall into his TARDIS's presence. She takes him in, as she's always done, giving him an anchor to hold on to. She doesn't try to comfort him, to belittle his grief; she's just there, and it's enough. It's always been. He may not be whole, but he's alive, and as long as he is, he will keep going. He's the Doctor. It's what he does.
He stays where he is for a long while, his eyes closed and his head leaned back against the wall, lingering in his TARDIS' embrace. Not thinking at all, just floating and waiting for the storm that's roughing up the sea of his mind to settle. Eventually, it does, and the Doctor looks out over the calm surface of the water. No doubts to disturb it, no memories to ripple it. It's all buried deep down at the bottom of the sea, and this is good. This is how it's supposed to be. Calm, quiet, undisturbed. He can get up now. He can move on now.
And he does. He returns to the console room and tears down the last few remains of the paradox machine, preliminarily fixing the worst of the damage. Then he takes the TARDIS to the same place where the Master decided to live, where he conceded and let the Doctor help. It was such a brief moment, over so quickly, but the Doctor honours it, paying the Master the respect in death that he could have had in life, had he just listened.
After that, he moves on. The TARDIS needs to be fixed, Martha's family needs to be taken care of, Jack needs to be taken home. Captain Jack Harkness, who found his home with Torchwood. Who would have thought?
Martha leaves. It's not a surprise. It may be better this way. He's sorry for what he did to her, for lying to her, but he can't say it. She knows, though. They always do.
So he's alone again. Just him and the TARDIS, same old life. Well, he's been here before; a new start into an old life. He'll be all right. He always is.