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DW/TW AU fic: To Save A Life. (5/5)
And we're finally at an end. Can't believe how this thing grew... (It's back to My Immortal now - I think my muse returned!) Beginning of fic here.
Setting: 2027 (AU post-S3 of DW)
Summary: It's Christmas, but the rift doesn't care about peace and goodwill.
Characters (this part): The Doctor (10th), OC.
Warnings: Angst, character death.
Rating: PG-13.
Wordcount: 2150.
Chapter 5.
Re-emerging in his room, the Seeker decided that maybe teleporting was like driving - not a good idea when drunk. The room seemed to spin all around him, and for one horrifying moment he thought he might actually be sick (much, much too human and undignified).
Carefully he made his way to his bed, listening to work out whether his parents were awake (his father was home, he could tell) but the house was as quiet as could be. This was good - he didn’t want to act out a Timelord version of ‘kid comes home drunk and gets lectured’ that seemed to be a staple of any soap he could think of.
Had there been alcohol on Gallifrey he mused, as he sank into the bed - he couldn’t imagine a society without some sort of inebriant, but then the Timelords hadn’t been exactly average. For a little while he amused himself by conjuring up a Gallifreyan pub - Timelords staggering out, hats askew and robes a mess, singing rude songs about Rassilon and Omega.
Oh he really was an impudent, irreverent, human-tainted brat, he thought wryly to himself, wondering for the millionth time what it would have been like to grow up on Gallifrey. His temperament, he knew, would have been very well suited to the society, but would he even so have chafed against the rules? Raised by two renegades on a planet in constant flux, a traveller of the universe since he was a toddler and possessor of more freedom (and attendant danger) than any child on Gallifrey could have dreamed of, he was naturally drawn towards stability - but, if life had provided him with order, would he have wished for chaos?
Instead of trying to solve this unsolvable conundrum (and to escape the room which was still worryingly unstable) he closed his eyes and lost himself in sheer time, focussing inwards and outwards at the same time... All there had been, all there would be; the unalterable, eternal wonder forever playing out in his mind.
But the recent happenings overrode the grandeur of eternity, and with an internal sigh he finally focussed his attention on what he had done (his mind still appeared to work, even though his body was rather compromised, which was nice to know): Basically he had saved one life at another’s expense.
Well, that wasn’t quite right - he had taken advantage of people who would have died anyway. And although there was no doubt that the Sisterhood’s methods were reprehensible, no matter how many lives they saved, there was nothing he could do to stop them - indeed interfering with established events would be far worse than anything else he could do.
So, whilst he wasn’t absolved, he wasn’t quite as guilty as he might seem. And... once more falling into the great sweeps of history, he knew that always, everywhere, people died so others could live. Indeed, the first thing he had ever learned was that the Timelords had had to die so the rest of the universe could live. Life and death were just two sides of the same coin, and you couldn’t have one without the other. (Except for Jack, the one-sided coin. The human Moebius strip. The One who shouldn’t exist, and yet did, gloriously so.)
Turning the problem over in his mind, he thought that his problem really wasn’t with guilt, but whether the end justified the means. And to that question, he - without a shadow of a doubt - could answer ‘yes’. Not just that, but he’d do the same again, in a heartbeat. (That was, so far, one of his main guidelines. Rash decisions were often ones he regretted, but not this time.)
He had made sure that Jack would not be alone, if only for a little while - but sometimes that was enough. No one should lose everyone at Christmas, especially not someone as old, or as lonely, as Jack.
Conscience laid to rest, he finally allowed himself to drift off to sleep, not noticing the snowflakes that had begun falling outside his window.
On the street below, the Doctor quietly closed the TARDIS door, watching the silent whiteness swirling down on the unassuming North London house, eyes drawn to a certain dark window and mind occupied by the phone call he had just received.
Jack had not said much - had not been entirely coherent, actually - but the bare bones of the story were more than enough. And the Doctor had been wondering why Christmas had been so quiet... he hoped that the Torchwood tragedy had been a fluke, and that the boy hadn’t somehow inherited his own predisposition for Christmas misery.
But since the Seeker was already asleep, and the Master safe in the house too, it couldn’t hurt to take a little trip around the world, just to check that there were no other emergencies...
***
When he returned in the morning (with only a slight limp to show for the night's adventures), he found the Master and his wife already at the breakfast table, Lucy sending him a chilly glance before pointedly remarking that he was late.
“And a Merry Christmas to you too, Lucy! Also, I am obviously not the only one who’s late...”
This time the look was subzero. “I’ve called Alexander at least five times, but he’s not come yet. Actually - why don’t you try to get him out of bed?”
How she invariably managed to insinuate that everything in the whole world was his fault the Doctor would never know, but he knew better than to argue with her. Remembering Jack’s call however, he realised that there might be several reasons - some of them physical - for why the Seeker hadn’t come down, and he made for the kitchen, wondering where Lucy kept her blender and if she had any cayenne pepper.
A few minutes later he softly knocked on the Seeker’s door, a glass of murky liquid in his hand, and - after hearing a muffled reply - opened it.
“Merry Christmas Seeker!” he said cheerily, and this time the reply wasn’t quite as muffled.
He frowned and studied the curled up duvet, under which his young charge was hiding.
“Now now, no need for language like that. Even if your head is killing you.”
At this a bleary face appeared, looking at him with accusatory eyes remarkably like his mother’s.
“Why did you never tell me that Timelords can get hangovers?”
The Doctor grabbed a chair and sat down, attempting nonchalance. “Well to be honest I never thought you’d actually drink enough for it to be an issue.”
The anger vanished and was replaced with dejected resignation.
“Yay me for being too brilliant at projecting an image of responsibility for my own good.”
Smiling the Doctor held out the glass. “Drink this.”
The Seeker took the glass and drank, carefully letting the (undoubtedly foul tasting) liquid run over his taste buds, probably noting the chemical components for future use.
Waiting for him to finish, the Doctor let his eyes trail around the room, taking in all the familiar objects - as normal a boy’s bedroom as could be found anywhere on Earth, although possibly with more Star Wars toys than average. (“Uncle, can I have a real lightsaber?” “No.” “But Obi-Wan let Luke have one!” “Not when he was only five” “You’re not fair!”)
Although it was the large Mowgli poster from the 2012 blockbuster that struck him now... (“Uncle - I’m like Mowgli, aren’t I? Because I’m growing up amongst a different species and I’m a lot cleverer than them, but they’re still really brave and brilliant, and please can I have a knife like Mowgli’s to carry around my neck?” “What? No!” “You’re not fair!”) They had later - after ‘The Incident’ - agreed on the teleport pendant, and the Doctor was sure the Seeker had never taken it off in the 4 1/2 years that had passed since.
But looking at the boy now, who was silently letting the concoction do its work, the truth of that early analogy was brought home again. Had he been wrong (reckless? selfish?) to choose 21st Century Earth as the place where the child grew up? The endless arguments with the Master often made him doubt his decision (“Is it so much to ask that I want my son safe? Earth is a trouble magnet, you know that more than anyone!”), but not as much as the quietness of the usually happy youngster on this Christmas morning. Finally the Seeker broke the silence.
“Jack called you?”
The Doctor nodded, and an oddly guarded look stole into the boy’s eyes. “What- how much did he tell you?”
“Enough,” the Doctor replied, studying the other. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
A vehement shake of the head. “No.”
The hurt must have shown on the Doctor’s face, because the Seeker quickly amended.
“I mean - I don’t want to talk about what I saw, about what happened - that bit’s just too...” His fingers gripped the glass tightly, and the Doctor ached for the vivid pain on his face. How could he have failed so spectacularly in keeping the boy away from heartbreak? He wanted to blame Torchwood, but knew that this was quite simply the consequence of living amongst humans, the assurance of loss built in. It would have come sooner or later, although he dearly wished it could have been later than this, and less... abrupt.
The Seeker, as if reading his thoughts, spoke again. “But I’ve been wondering... Doctor - does it ever get easier?”
He sighed, but there was no point in lying. “No.”
“But... but why go through it over and over again? You've been hanging out with humans for centuries... Why?”
The Doctor took a slow breath, the look in the brown eyes across from him one that he saw in his own every time he looked in the mirror. Time to pass on whatever wisdom he’d gained - or maybe foolishness, they felt oddly similar.
“Because they’re worth it.”
“So L’Oreal got something right...” the Seeker smiled faintly, but his heart clearly wasn’t in it, and within seconds the pain was back. “It just hurts so much, and they’re so... vulnerable.”
The Doctor reached out and grasped his hand, understanding the boy far, far too well. “Which is why we have to look after them. Seeker - you did well. No, you did brilliantly, and I am very, very proud of you!”
The boy flushed at the words; unable to stop a swift, bashful smile.
Giving his hand a squeeze, the Doctor continued. “I know it hurts, and that it isn’t fair that it happened right now when you ought to be celebrating. But... I can’t think of a better way to honour the spirit of Christmas than to save a life.”
The Seeker thought for a moment, then smiled softly and dragged a hand through his blonde hair, looking for all the world like he was no older than 14. The Doctor wanted to do nothing except scoop him up and keep him safe from all the ways in which life could hurt him. But that had never been an option...
“You know, that’s a good way of looking at it. Thank you Doctor.”
There were so many more things the Doctor wanted to say, except he couldn’t find the words. But they had time...
Instead he stood up, raising an eyebrow.
“And I’ve just remembered that I was sent here by your mother to get you out of bed. Go on, get dressed and come downstairs - I’m pretty sure I saw a stocking with your name on it. If nothing else, you’ll get a satsuma. Very good for you satsumas are, underrated as a fruit!”
The Seeker shook his head and laughed. “Christmas the Timelord way - get horribly traumatised, save someone’s life, have a satsuma!”
"That's the spirit!"
And the Doctor finally allowed some tension to drain away - the kid would be alright.
...
A little later, as they were standing outside the door of the dining room, the Seeker turned and looked at the Doctor, tilting his head.
“So - you’re really not going to tell me off for getting completely plastered?”
The Doctor shook his head. “I think you’ve probably learned your lesson.”
Eyes growing distant, the young Timelord nodded. “Learned a lot of lessons these last few days.” And then he suddenly smiled, pure mischief dancing in his eyes.
“And the drinking lesson was definitely my favourite!”
Stunned into silence the Doctor slowly followed him as he opened the door, and watched as he with deceptive ease greeted his parents, before busying himself with breakfast and presents. Yet again the Doctor was left with the impression that the Seeker was raising himself - quite simply allowing the rest of them to lend a hand when he needed it.
Whether this was the reason for, or a consequence of, spoiling him rotten, the Doctor couldn’t decide. But somehow, miraculously, things seemed to have worked out.
So far at least.
The End
Setting: 2027 (AU post-S3 of DW)
Summary: It's Christmas, but the rift doesn't care about peace and goodwill.
Characters (this part): The Doctor (10th), OC.
Warnings: Angst, character death.
Rating: PG-13.
Wordcount: 2150.
Chapter 5.
Re-emerging in his room, the Seeker decided that maybe teleporting was like driving - not a good idea when drunk. The room seemed to spin all around him, and for one horrifying moment he thought he might actually be sick (much, much too human and undignified).
Carefully he made his way to his bed, listening to work out whether his parents were awake (his father was home, he could tell) but the house was as quiet as could be. This was good - he didn’t want to act out a Timelord version of ‘kid comes home drunk and gets lectured’ that seemed to be a staple of any soap he could think of.
Had there been alcohol on Gallifrey he mused, as he sank into the bed - he couldn’t imagine a society without some sort of inebriant, but then the Timelords hadn’t been exactly average. For a little while he amused himself by conjuring up a Gallifreyan pub - Timelords staggering out, hats askew and robes a mess, singing rude songs about Rassilon and Omega.
Oh he really was an impudent, irreverent, human-tainted brat, he thought wryly to himself, wondering for the millionth time what it would have been like to grow up on Gallifrey. His temperament, he knew, would have been very well suited to the society, but would he even so have chafed against the rules? Raised by two renegades on a planet in constant flux, a traveller of the universe since he was a toddler and possessor of more freedom (and attendant danger) than any child on Gallifrey could have dreamed of, he was naturally drawn towards stability - but, if life had provided him with order, would he have wished for chaos?
Instead of trying to solve this unsolvable conundrum (and to escape the room which was still worryingly unstable) he closed his eyes and lost himself in sheer time, focussing inwards and outwards at the same time... All there had been, all there would be; the unalterable, eternal wonder forever playing out in his mind.
But the recent happenings overrode the grandeur of eternity, and with an internal sigh he finally focussed his attention on what he had done (his mind still appeared to work, even though his body was rather compromised, which was nice to know): Basically he had saved one life at another’s expense.
Well, that wasn’t quite right - he had taken advantage of people who would have died anyway. And although there was no doubt that the Sisterhood’s methods were reprehensible, no matter how many lives they saved, there was nothing he could do to stop them - indeed interfering with established events would be far worse than anything else he could do.
So, whilst he wasn’t absolved, he wasn’t quite as guilty as he might seem. And... once more falling into the great sweeps of history, he knew that always, everywhere, people died so others could live. Indeed, the first thing he had ever learned was that the Timelords had had to die so the rest of the universe could live. Life and death were just two sides of the same coin, and you couldn’t have one without the other. (Except for Jack, the one-sided coin. The human Moebius strip. The One who shouldn’t exist, and yet did, gloriously so.)
Turning the problem over in his mind, he thought that his problem really wasn’t with guilt, but whether the end justified the means. And to that question, he - without a shadow of a doubt - could answer ‘yes’. Not just that, but he’d do the same again, in a heartbeat. (That was, so far, one of his main guidelines. Rash decisions were often ones he regretted, but not this time.)
He had made sure that Jack would not be alone, if only for a little while - but sometimes that was enough. No one should lose everyone at Christmas, especially not someone as old, or as lonely, as Jack.
Conscience laid to rest, he finally allowed himself to drift off to sleep, not noticing the snowflakes that had begun falling outside his window.
On the street below, the Doctor quietly closed the TARDIS door, watching the silent whiteness swirling down on the unassuming North London house, eyes drawn to a certain dark window and mind occupied by the phone call he had just received.
Jack had not said much - had not been entirely coherent, actually - but the bare bones of the story were more than enough. And the Doctor had been wondering why Christmas had been so quiet... he hoped that the Torchwood tragedy had been a fluke, and that the boy hadn’t somehow inherited his own predisposition for Christmas misery.
But since the Seeker was already asleep, and the Master safe in the house too, it couldn’t hurt to take a little trip around the world, just to check that there were no other emergencies...
When he returned in the morning (with only a slight limp to show for the night's adventures), he found the Master and his wife already at the breakfast table, Lucy sending him a chilly glance before pointedly remarking that he was late.
“And a Merry Christmas to you too, Lucy! Also, I am obviously not the only one who’s late...”
This time the look was subzero. “I’ve called Alexander at least five times, but he’s not come yet. Actually - why don’t you try to get him out of bed?”
How she invariably managed to insinuate that everything in the whole world was his fault the Doctor would never know, but he knew better than to argue with her. Remembering Jack’s call however, he realised that there might be several reasons - some of them physical - for why the Seeker hadn’t come down, and he made for the kitchen, wondering where Lucy kept her blender and if she had any cayenne pepper.
A few minutes later he softly knocked on the Seeker’s door, a glass of murky liquid in his hand, and - after hearing a muffled reply - opened it.
“Merry Christmas Seeker!” he said cheerily, and this time the reply wasn’t quite as muffled.
He frowned and studied the curled up duvet, under which his young charge was hiding.
“Now now, no need for language like that. Even if your head is killing you.”
At this a bleary face appeared, looking at him with accusatory eyes remarkably like his mother’s.
“Why did you never tell me that Timelords can get hangovers?”
The Doctor grabbed a chair and sat down, attempting nonchalance. “Well to be honest I never thought you’d actually drink enough for it to be an issue.”
The anger vanished and was replaced with dejected resignation.
“Yay me for being too brilliant at projecting an image of responsibility for my own good.”
Smiling the Doctor held out the glass. “Drink this.”
The Seeker took the glass and drank, carefully letting the (undoubtedly foul tasting) liquid run over his taste buds, probably noting the chemical components for future use.
Waiting for him to finish, the Doctor let his eyes trail around the room, taking in all the familiar objects - as normal a boy’s bedroom as could be found anywhere on Earth, although possibly with more Star Wars toys than average. (“Uncle, can I have a real lightsaber?” “No.” “But Obi-Wan let Luke have one!” “Not when he was only five” “You’re not fair!”)
Although it was the large Mowgli poster from the 2012 blockbuster that struck him now... (“Uncle - I’m like Mowgli, aren’t I? Because I’m growing up amongst a different species and I’m a lot cleverer than them, but they’re still really brave and brilliant, and please can I have a knife like Mowgli’s to carry around my neck?” “What? No!” “You’re not fair!”) They had later - after ‘The Incident’ - agreed on the teleport pendant, and the Doctor was sure the Seeker had never taken it off in the 4 1/2 years that had passed since.
But looking at the boy now, who was silently letting the concoction do its work, the truth of that early analogy was brought home again. Had he been wrong (reckless? selfish?) to choose 21st Century Earth as the place where the child grew up? The endless arguments with the Master often made him doubt his decision (“Is it so much to ask that I want my son safe? Earth is a trouble magnet, you know that more than anyone!”), but not as much as the quietness of the usually happy youngster on this Christmas morning. Finally the Seeker broke the silence.
“Jack called you?”
The Doctor nodded, and an oddly guarded look stole into the boy’s eyes. “What- how much did he tell you?”
“Enough,” the Doctor replied, studying the other. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
A vehement shake of the head. “No.”
The hurt must have shown on the Doctor’s face, because the Seeker quickly amended.
“I mean - I don’t want to talk about what I saw, about what happened - that bit’s just too...” His fingers gripped the glass tightly, and the Doctor ached for the vivid pain on his face. How could he have failed so spectacularly in keeping the boy away from heartbreak? He wanted to blame Torchwood, but knew that this was quite simply the consequence of living amongst humans, the assurance of loss built in. It would have come sooner or later, although he dearly wished it could have been later than this, and less... abrupt.
The Seeker, as if reading his thoughts, spoke again. “But I’ve been wondering... Doctor - does it ever get easier?”
He sighed, but there was no point in lying. “No.”
“But... but why go through it over and over again? You've been hanging out with humans for centuries... Why?”
The Doctor took a slow breath, the look in the brown eyes across from him one that he saw in his own every time he looked in the mirror. Time to pass on whatever wisdom he’d gained - or maybe foolishness, they felt oddly similar.
“Because they’re worth it.”
“So L’Oreal got something right...” the Seeker smiled faintly, but his heart clearly wasn’t in it, and within seconds the pain was back. “It just hurts so much, and they’re so... vulnerable.”
The Doctor reached out and grasped his hand, understanding the boy far, far too well. “Which is why we have to look after them. Seeker - you did well. No, you did brilliantly, and I am very, very proud of you!”
The boy flushed at the words; unable to stop a swift, bashful smile.
Giving his hand a squeeze, the Doctor continued. “I know it hurts, and that it isn’t fair that it happened right now when you ought to be celebrating. But... I can’t think of a better way to honour the spirit of Christmas than to save a life.”
The Seeker thought for a moment, then smiled softly and dragged a hand through his blonde hair, looking for all the world like he was no older than 14. The Doctor wanted to do nothing except scoop him up and keep him safe from all the ways in which life could hurt him. But that had never been an option...
“You know, that’s a good way of looking at it. Thank you Doctor.”
There were so many more things the Doctor wanted to say, except he couldn’t find the words. But they had time...
Instead he stood up, raising an eyebrow.
“And I’ve just remembered that I was sent here by your mother to get you out of bed. Go on, get dressed and come downstairs - I’m pretty sure I saw a stocking with your name on it. If nothing else, you’ll get a satsuma. Very good for you satsumas are, underrated as a fruit!”
The Seeker shook his head and laughed. “Christmas the Timelord way - get horribly traumatised, save someone’s life, have a satsuma!”
"That's the spirit!"
And the Doctor finally allowed some tension to drain away - the kid would be alright.
...
A little later, as they were standing outside the door of the dining room, the Seeker turned and looked at the Doctor, tilting his head.
“So - you’re really not going to tell me off for getting completely plastered?”
The Doctor shook his head. “I think you’ve probably learned your lesson.”
Eyes growing distant, the young Timelord nodded. “Learned a lot of lessons these last few days.” And then he suddenly smiled, pure mischief dancing in his eyes.
“And the drinking lesson was definitely my favourite!”
Stunned into silence the Doctor slowly followed him as he opened the door, and watched as he with deceptive ease greeted his parents, before busying himself with breakfast and presents. Yet again the Doctor was left with the impression that the Seeker was raising himself - quite simply allowing the rest of them to lend a hand when he needed it.
Whether this was the reason for, or a consequence of, spoiling him rotten, the Doctor couldn’t decide. But somehow, miraculously, things seemed to have worked out.
So far at least.
no subject
And Lucy made me snicker!
no subject
Well I *had* to do something to get away from all the darkness - and DW is very good at finding glimmers of hope. :)
I'm not typically a huge fan of OCs, but I have a soft spot for the seeker.
*is terribly happy*
I just loved him with the Doctor in this; very sweet and believable.
He's been so mature throughout, that it was nice to let him be a little more childish and vulnerable.
And Lucy made me snicker!
Lucy... oh I have entirely too much fun with Lucy. When I put the original fic up on the Teaspoon, I actually added a little bit to the part where the Doctor, Lucy and Alex are in the headmistress' office:
Alex nodded eagerly. “My uncle has promised to show me a black hole on Saturday if I’m good! Our people invented them!”
Lucy paled for a moment, but as soon as the door closed she turned to the Doctor and pointedly said, "Well you're obviously going to have to sort that out!" - as if the situation was all the Doctor's fault and didn't have her husband's fingerprints all over it.
He glared back silently, yet again thinking to himself that the Paradox Machine might have been the Master's masterpiece, but that in his opinion Lucy came a close second. Times like these he often felt like asking her if she honestly thought her husband would still be so devoted if it wasn't for their child - he knew the Master to be notoriously careless with his toys, and he felt sure that Lucy would have gone the same way as all the rest if things had been different. But he didn't say that, because that would mean lowering himself to their level, and that was the one thing he couldn't do.
no subject
Well I *had* to do something to get away from all the darkness - and DW is very good at finding glimmers of hope. :)
That's what made me fall so in love with DW. I fell in love with BtVS for the writing, and stayed for the redemption. But it was the hope that made me love the Doctor!
no subject
Thank you! I really ought to do something more with Lucy, but I have about a million plotbunnies already, so... anyway, she's a fabulous character.
That's what made me fall so in love with DW. I fell in love with BtVS for the writing, and stayed for the redemption. But it was the hope that made me love the Doctor!
I liked Buffy for Buffy (and the writing), but it was Spike that won me completely. And DW... yes, the hope is a big part of it - the Doctor's infectuous joy at everything around him. Although it was Doctor/Master that made me *love* the show - as in, all the meta and so forth. (This is a terrible explanation. But it's rather early in the morning here...)