Author's Note: I've been a Doctor Who fan for as long as I can recall. Being an American I admit I only got to know the 3rd, 4th, 5th and 8th incarnations of the Doctor. I've recently been 'introduced' to the 9th and he one of the most interesting. Of course that may have something to do with the fact that I was a kid for number's 3 through 5… or it might have something to do with a fascination for British men in black jeans, black leather coats and Doc Martins. I wonder if Nine ever met Spike? Hmmm… Anyhow, this is my first new fanfic/character study in two years.
Special Thanks: A great big Thank You to 'gomalley' and 'kali' who Beta'd for me.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not Doctor Who, not the BBC, okay, maybe a cat and three ferrets, but they are not in this fic, so we're back to me owning nothing. It all belongs to the BBC. Except for the cat and ferrets…
Connections of the
Subconscious Mind
By Rhondda Lake
He hadn't realized what he had done until later, of course. This seemed to happen often, and it was something had had learned to live with.
Mostly.
The subconscious had a hell of a lot to do with split second decisions, good and bad. So when she had challenged him, he had risen to the challenge and the subconscious filled in the blanks.
Most sentient species had a subconscious, though many argued over its existence. Get a Minokian Terradok in the same room with a Fochiaxorian and the ensuing debate on the idea of the subconscious mind and awareness on any level would rage on for months, as their own worlds measured them, which equaled some 2.68 years apiece as Earthlings counted them. And he was slipping again, skirting away from the issue within his own mind. And, as was often the case, his mind was the problem here. He was acutely aware of his subconscious. Could even tap into it voluntarily, and don't even get him started on the arguments regarding it technically remaining 'sub' conscious when one could direct it even a little. Direction, suppression, manipulation of any sort really, was a controlled, therefore conscious action. Now where was he, oh yes, realization of his own subconscious' actions.
He was alone.
In a universe swarming with trillions of species, and uncountable singular life forms, he was alone in ways none had ever dared comprehend. It was funny, really, ironic to the point of absurdity. He had fled the company of his own people, reveled in his own singularity and individuality, actively avoiding them all in favor of other, more interesting, lively and spirited races. And now, now that his own people were so totally gone as to have never existed, he longed for the connectedness he had so long fought against.
Be careful what you wish for.
But the point was that he was alone, and he had asked her to join him. Asked, not once, but twice, because she was so vibrant, alive, intelligent, courageous and full of energy and life that the only word to adequately describe her was 'brilliant'. He had been drawn to that light for it seemed capable of temporarily blinding him to all else, sending the shadows scurrying off. And she stood toe to toe with him without batting a heavily mascara covered eyelash. Someone like that didn't come along very often. She could push back just a bit of the loneliness. But his subconscious wanted more. It wanted understanding, some measure of comprehension, no matter how disparaging the proportion, of his loneliness and loss.
So when she challenged him, "You think you're so impressive."
He was ever so slightly offended,
"I am so impressive!"
And his subconscious had struck. He had taken her to see something 'impressive' indeed. He had taken her to the place and time where she could connect with him on a level no other place and time would allow. He had, in essence, forced her to share some of his own pain, so she could start to truly comprehend him. He had taken her to see what it was like to watch your homeworld burn. To see it reduced to nothing before your eyes and to know that it was irretrievable. The sudden emergency and need to save everyone on the station was par for the course, but in the end his subconscious had gotten what it had wanted. He had watched her, looking out the viewing window, a shadow against the brilliant flaming wreckage that had been Earth, and realized that her own light had dimmed a bit. The very brilliance that had drawn him to her was a dark silhouette against this monumental thing she had witnessed. And for that moment she felt what he had felt to some small degree. And while that connection was made he instantly and irrevocably regretted it.
He had reached for her, offering what comfort he could through their clasped hands, flesh to flesh, heart to hearts, and he had tried to take some measure of it back.
He took her home, lessened the connection by giving her what he could never have again. Let her feel the connection to her own world, her own people.
He had tried to explain, let her know why. He told her of his own loss in as few words as possible, because speaking of it still hurt too much. She understood to a degree, but her comprehension was just forming.
He was glad when she regained a bit of her brightness, her brilliance, even if it drew her away from that connection with him. She was willing to stay, and it was enough. He could only hope his subconscious had no more bright ideas, did nothing more to dim that light. He would rather bask in the radiance for now, than have her really connect. He wanted to have her beside him only, not to have her become part of him. Because what kind of monster would that make him? Would he ease his own loneliness at her expense? No, he couldn't. He would not make that choice for her.
In truth he barely knew her at all, even though it felt as if he had known her forever, in the literal sense of the word. There was time enough for them both to learn, and maybe, just maybe, connect on some less dark and needy level.
Yeah. And there was time enough for chips.