Disclaimer: My initials are not BBC.
Note: Just a thought after re-watching "Silence in the Library" and "Forest of the Dead". Please leave a review and tell me what you think!
Darkness Falls
"Oi! Space Boy!"
Bemusedly, the Doctor glanced over to see Donna standing by the jump seat, fists planted firmly on her hips. Her red hair- why could he never be ginger?- was coming loose from her ponytail to tease against her face.
She ignored it. "I am going to take a long soak," she informed him loudly. "And then I am going to sleep. There will be no trouble for at least eight hours, or I will hold you very responsible. Understood?"
Not entirely sure what the safe answer would be, he merely nodded and watched her stalk off down the corridor that would take her deeper into the TARDIS.
Despite more than sufficient evidence to the contrary, he wasn't particularly used to thinking of Donna as sensitive, so it took him quite some time to realize what she was doing.
She was giving him time to think.
The Doctor didn't talk about his problems beyond an accidental slip, and even then he rarely explained. Oh, there were some exceptions of course over the years, but for the most part he tried to move on. He could think dozens of things at once and so, if he kept himself busy, he didn't have to brood over the bad things. They could be passing thoughts as long as he was running into danger and out again, constantly on the move.
But now…eight hours, Donna said. Eight hours of spinning quietly in the vortex. Not landing anywhere or anywhen, because the gods only knew he'd land them in trouble. Not even tinkering with the console, as that tended to make him notice little things like intermittent distress signals on regressive frequencies…Eight hours of silence and solitude to sit and think.
About the woman who was his wife.
A woman he'd just met.
A woman he'd just seen die.
A woman he'd saved, but not been able to rescue.
Professor River Song, a 51st century archaeologist- he despised time-traveling archaeologists- who'd summoned him to that library and not even been terribly thrown by his not knowing her. She'd blinked, certainly, but taken it in stride, marveling over meeting an earlier version of him than she ever had before.
Part of him wished he'd kept that damn notebook, with its ridged leather design of the TARDIS on the cover. Spoilers be hanged. Then he'd be able to find out when he met her, and where, and what sort of things they did together.
Except, on further reflection, that wouldn't actually tell him when in his timeline she first met him. Perhaps it was time to forgive Scott Fitzgerald for writing that ridiculous little story; suddenly Benjamin Button didn't seem terribly far off.
But she knew his name.
He hadn't even told Rose his name. There was only way he could ever tell anyone his true name and he'd never done that with Rose, no matter how tempted he'd been. But no, not with a human who'd be gone before he turned around twice, not with someone who lived so short a time and would leave gaping new scars on his soul. He'd thought about it with Rose, wondered if it was worth the risk.
In the end, circumstances had decided for him. He'd never made that choice, never taken that risk, never revealed that secret.
And then this obnoxious, confident, intriguing woman walked up to him in the cavernous silence of the library and whispered it in his ear.
He shivered reflexively at the memory. It had been so long since he'd even thought about it, really, and to hear those syllables shimmering in the air…
Sighing, he threw himself back into the jump seat, hearing the post squeak in protest.
When did he meet her? How? What did they do together? What was it about her, about what they would go through together, that had prompted him to make that choice?
They argued like an old married couple. Wasn't that what one of her team members said about them? And though her eyes had shifted guiltily, she hadn't actually corrected him.
Spoilers.
Maybe it was her bravery, he mused. She'd been willing to risk everything. Had risked everything, and paid off that risk when it was lost. The bravery some humans showed was so disproportionate to their fragile little bodies. He couldn't help but respect that, admire it even.
Or her intelligence. She'd kept up with him. How often did that happen? He didn't think he was being arrogant when he acknowledged the rarity of any species keeping up with him.
Or maybe it was her…
He shook his head. Until he knew her, it was useless to try and understand.
With what he knew of love, probably useless even then.
The Doctor leapt to his feet with a sudden surge of urgency, pacing around the mushroom-shaped console. His hand was actually touching one of the levers before he yanked it away.
He was the Doctor, the Oncoming Storm, respected and feared through countless galaxies. He was NOT going to piss off one Donna Noble.
He fled from the console room deeper into the TARDIS, trying to run from his thoughts. Silly Time Lord, he knew better than that, and yet he ran anyway.
Until there was nowhere left to run, because even the doorway behind him had disappeared.
"No…" he whispered, shaking his head again. This was not a comforting place to be.
He loved this room normally. Rose and Martha had both asked about his bedroom- for different reasons- but while he did have a room with a bed in it, it wasn't one he used all that often. What Rose had been asking after was closer to the truth. In her mind, a bedroom was less about the bed than the feeling of safety, of home.
This book-lined room, with the battered leather sofa and the completely superfluous fireplace, was his version of Rose's bedroom, the place he could retreat to when the universe was overwhelming. Though decidedly less pink. No matter how technologically advanced a civilization, books were never quite phased out. There was something to the feel of them, the smell of the ink and the paper and the binding, the weight of them in the hands, that meant they would never become entirely extinct.
And now those walls conjured a feeling very unlike the safety they'd always before inspired.
Taking a deep, shaky breath, he reached out and snapped his fingers to extinguish the lights. The sudden darkness blanketed his senses, his eyes straining to adjust to the shadows.
Count the shadows.
Just one.
One abiding shadow, sitting heavy in the room and masking the sight of the books.
Making his way carefully to the couch, he gripped the back of it with one hand and eased himself onto the cushions. The leather was buttery smooth with age and use, long past the point of creaking with each movement.
Rose had seen this room two or three times; Martha never had. Donna hadn't yet, but that was no guarantee of anything. Besides, Donna was a woman grown, one who respected his space because she expected him to respect hers. He would never ask to see her bedroom; she would probably never ask to see his version of one.
And sitting in the darkness, breathing in the faint, musty smell of the books, he wondered how much time River would spend in this room with him.
Spoilers.
His hand curled around the empty space beside him.