DISCLAIMER: We do not own.
A/N : This story is co written between me and Jesa463! So a big thanks to her!
The Doctor listened to the gut-wrenching noise of the TARDIS doors slamming shut. "Bye-bye, Ponds." he whispered underneath his breath. With each farewell he had to say to the fiery red-head and the Roman his hearts broke a little more. Every time he said the word goodbye, something within himself told him that there could very well be one day when he and the Ponds just wouldn't see each other again. That thought devastated him. He loved the Ponds, and they loved him, they were his family. Whatever danger he put them in they would always stand by him. He can't remember his own family ... or rather he chooses not to. Instead those memories lie under years of dust, regret, and woe. He's never had a mother, not that he can recall, and Amy in a way he supposes is the closest thing he's ever had to one. She opens up her arms to him, she's been with him in good times and bad, and most importantly she doesn't judge him. She sees past all the wrongs he has ever committed very much like a mother who forgives their child, no matter how destructive a path they have been down. Rory, ah the last centurion. He was like the father he had always wanted, but was always cut off from having. From what very little memories he has of his father he knows he was a cruel man. He can still feel the sharp pain in the back of his neck as a metal rod was forcibly whacked into him as a punishment for ... what? He hadn't done anything wrong. He had only said that he wanted to see the universe and explore the was the only clear memory of his father. It was a memory he tried to avoid. Rory on the other hand was kind, and gentle, and incredibly big-hearted, and there were many enjoyable memories. In fact there were so many memories he had with the Ponds that, sometimes, it physically hurt. He found himself wondering to himself about what would happen to all those wonderful memories in a thousand years time. Would they rot within his mind like so many others had? Would they simply slip away into a faded picture of what once was?
He typed in a few random coordinates on the console with a shaking hand. He found himself delving into the images of the day's events. These were memories that he wished he didn't have. Why was it that the bad memories stuck firmly to his mind, whilst the good ones just simply slipped through like tiny grains of sand?
Exhaling deeply he scrunched his eyes shut and rubbed at his forehead. All-in-all, everything had gone to plan ... well kind of. Everything had gone to plan: Doctor style! Which is basically short for: there was no plan in the first place, but everything worked out alright in the end. He had fixed the Ponds, or they seemed to have fixed themselves, successfully gotten the Daleks to blow up the most dangerous place in the universe: the Asylum of the Daleks. The Asylum had been far more brutal than he had imagined. The Daleks there were insane, and terrifying, and the ones that had crossed his path in battle had left him with a grotesque feeling in the very pit of his stomach.
A shiver ran up his back as he remembered staring into Oswin's eye stalk. He was sickened and enraged at how the Daleks had manipulated yet another life. At first he had been certain that Oswin was nothing more than a puppet but, to his horror, she had been converted into a fully fledged Dalek, yet right at the end she proved to him just how very wrong he had been with his judgements. Oswin had been human, so human she had created a dream for herself: a world of souffle making, and listening to classical music whilst messing with her captors' minds. She had been so human that she had sacrificed herself for him.
When will this stop, Doctor? When will all the death and destruction you cause stop? he thought to himself coldly. Hatred for himself bubbled over, and he could feel himself almost at his tipping point. He just hoped he didn't fall into the trap of falling off the edge. If he did that who knows what he'd become? He would stop at nothing. He would become the Timelord victorious, a righteous being who bent the universe into a shape that fitted him. No! He couldn't go back to that dark place. No one, not even him, should have that kind of power.
Perhaps the Daleks had been right. They had never been able to kill him because of how much hatred he held over himself. They saw him as beautiful ... that was a nauseating and terrifying thought. He had risen above the Daleks and they, in turn, had grown stronger in his name. Now there wasn't a single Dalek who could remember him. It hurt, it hurt so much. It's not so easy for him. He can't forget who he is, ever, or else there may be detrimental effects to the universe that not even he could stop. His name, once exposed, would be fatal for so many. He himself had buried his name away, deep under the surface of his skin. His own people had treated him as an outcast because of the name he was cursed with, and look where they were now: burning in a timelocked hell. From his tiny beginnings on Gallifrey to the great almighty Doctor. How had he come to this? It hadn't been his intention. He had started off so innocent, borrowing a TARDIS, and running away to explore, to walk on new planets, to breath new air. Then the war came, the great endless war, and he began to change, he had become a warrior, the best warrior in existence. It was completely out of his control, yet it was still all his fault. He could never run away, and he could never forget no matter how much he wanted to, or how much he tried to divert his thoughts away from every dark moment of his past because, sooner or later, it would catch up with him. Everyone he ever lost, everyone who sacrificed themselves for him, all the lives he destroyed. It was the curse of a Timelord. How was that fair? He hadn't chosen to become a Timelord. He had been born a Gallifreyan, and if it had been up to him he would have stayed one, but that would have been seen as sacrilege by his people. He was only a child when he was initiated. Eight years old and forced to watch the raw power of time and space.
He had run.
He had been inspired.
He had gone mad.
Any protest about becoming a Timelord had been drowned out by the ferocity of time itself.
He had been cursed to lead a life of death and destruction.
Clenching his fist angrily, he banged a random red button on the console with brute force, but he soon found himself regretting that action immediately as the ground caved in from beneath him.
That's when he heard it: a panicked, low-pitched yell. The whole TARDIS tumbled around him and he barely managed to catch a glimpse of a very familiar face before everything came to a shuddering stop. Groaning, he stood up and rubbed his back which was now covered in a layer of bruises from the fall. He quickly surveyed his surroundings looking for the person he had just seen, but he couldn't see them anywhere. A couple of ragged breaths alerted him that the person had fallen just behind the console.
The Doctor rushed there and let out a slow, deeply-saddened sigh. "Oh, Rory. You got a proper whack to the head, didn't you?" he muttered, shaking his head slightly at the unconscious man splayed out on the TARDIS floor. He inspected the man for any signs of obvious injury, but there were none that he could see. Still, there was always the chance he had broken something. Humans were just so fragile, so breakable. That was why humans were so precious to him; their lives were so short, so mundane he couldn't resist their wonder of the universe when it was right in front of them to see. That was also the reason he had to keep on saying goodbye. Humans didn't last forever, but he did, or so it seemed to him. He envied them: they could end their suffering, but he couldn't end his. Frowning, The Doctor scooped the man up into his arms and began carrying him to the medical bay. He couldn't help but feel a little disconcerted that Rory had been on-board the TARDIS. Shouldn't he have gone home with Amy? They had made up, hadn't they? Or at least all that humany-wumany kissing malarkey had made it seem that way.
He watched the unconscious man carefully and found, to his surprise, that he was almost instinctively snuggling closer against his chest and wrapping his arms around him in a vise-like grip. A blush raced up The Doctor's neck and flooded across his cheeks. He never really understood the concept of "snuggling" but he was over one thousand years old, so he'd seen plenty of highly-disturbing Earth films about it ... and other things too, though those other things were highly understandable, and were all in the name of nature, but snuggling? It felt unnatural, yet warm, and gave him funny tingling sensations all over. Sort of like a hug, but far less huggy and far more snuggly, he supposed.
He was only glad when he could finally place the young human on the cot in the medical bay. Rory's warmth quickly left him, but that tingling sensation persisted. It ran across his skin and fell steadily in his chest.
Running a weary hand over his face The Doctor took a step forwards and kissed the top of Rory's head, "You humans. Always wriggling your way into my hearts somehow, hmm."
He raked a hand through his dark brown hair. Another person hurt because of his foolish, rash actions.
Now all he had to do was wait for the Roman to open his eyes. Then he could apologize to him, and let him go back to the normal life he led in Leadworth. He would be left alone once more, a mad lonely man with a box. The way it should always have been. The way it was going to be from now on.
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