Warnings: Slight Spoiler Warnings for events set after 7.05, Introspection, Character Study, Angst, Speculation, Hurt/Comfort
A/N: Written for who_contest's Prompt: Reunion. I was actually not going to post this (as it is overly long and even I have no idea what the point is, or where the Doctor was aiming), but my inner!Eleventy insisted and so here the fiction is. Blame him, his thinky and his wandery-blithery if you so choose. It leans towards the dark side (as all my fictions do), but there might be a splash of hope (even as we know he spent a rather long, bleak period in the era I present here). I have no surety as to the adherence to the prompt, but that has become rather standard of late - and something I leave to the reader to decide. As for the title: 'A Christmas Carol' has always been one of my favorite Specials and for some reason, bits of it landed in here, so I felt the title was appropos to the text within (if you have not heard Abigail's Song, you should remedy that and take joy in the sweet, yet hopeful sorrow of that piece).
As always, mostly unbeta'd and written in one go, so please forgive any mistakes and/or blatant vagueness. I apologize for any repetition, misspellings, sentence fails, grammatical oh-noes and general horridness. Unbeta'd fic is overly-thinky/blithery and unbeta'd.
Disclaimer(s): I do not own the scrumptious Doctor or his lovely companions. That honor goes to the BBC and (for now) the fantastic S. Moffat. The only thing that belongs to me is this fiction - and I am making no profit. Only playing about!
He didn't know why he wound up in Victorian London of all places (and times). He wasn't overly fond of it – the people were flat, uninteresting and deliberately dull. The air reeked of excrement, sulfurous fog and the weary grayness of self-induced oppression.
Ironically enough, that might mean this was the perfect time and place for him, as he would blend in quite well.
He was tired of himself. Tired of his Old Girl. Tired of trying to be what he couldn't afford to be right now. He was truly an exhausted old man at the end of his rope and he didn't give one damn about mustering the energy to force himself out of what was shaping up to be a spectacular bout of depression. He was already there, if he bothered to acknowledge it (which he did not), and though this era would not soothe or erase it, it might make that feeling a little more bearable. It was still home, this little planet – so there was that much to be going on with.
He truly feared the day he could no longer say that. When his adopted home and peoples were no longer sufficient. To keep from heading down that path, he needed to rest. He needed to stop trying so hard to make his friends happy when they were no longer there to see it. He needed to stop eating the days with River (selfish, selfish old man), to ease the loss of her parents. It didn't work and it only drove him to guilt and horror as their time dwindled to mere months, then weeks, then barely days (or hours).
He never envied Kazaran Sardic. And right now, he wished he had never met him: maybe if he hadn't, he would never know this kind of quiet terror and loss could exist.
He lied.
He had always known. He had just never been unfortunate enough to be forced to experience it. He had lost many people. He had loved and lost and been bereft before – but this loss was different. In so many ways this loss was different because he was the same man, but he was not. They were Companions, but they were not. They were family – even more so than his actual genetic family, in many ways (except for the one, his Susan) – but yet, they were not.
This grief was damnable. It was terrible and selfish – and yet so much less than they deserved. He had never felt pain quite like this and was astounded to find it didn't kill you. Well…not outright anyway. It ate at you (quiet, creeping), it left shadows upon your heart and sucked away the ability to feel anything but grief.
And then, one day, you wouldn't even feel that.
He longed for that day.
Which was likely why he was here.
His TARDIS' last ditch effort to save him from himself. Give him one last shred of hope to hang onto. He would be angry with Her, if he didn't understand. If he didn't feel Her grief thudding just under his skin with every breath. He was a selfish, terrible old man – but he was keenly aware he was not the only one to have lost them. He was alone, but he was not. And he needed to escape Her awareness, Her kindness and sympathy, Her understanding and pain. He would surely go mad if they didn't rest. Just this once. Let the universe manage itself.
He had done enough damage. And now it was revisited upon his hearts a hundredfold. It mattered not how desperately he scrambled to eradicate himself from the stretch of the stars. The holes he left behind were telling by themselves – and it didn't undo the histories that unraveled before him.
It didn't bring them back. Any of them.
He paused midstride, mid-thought – not seeing where he was going (or where he had been) he hadn't for a while, not overly taxed about caring where he ended up. He only knew he had been walking a long time
stretching ache in the legs, burn of his respiratory system, dull awareness of his cardiovascular systems – not as good as running, but with no one to run with –
long enough for the afternoon to burn away under the threat of dusk. Night was falling in London-town and he still hadn't truly escaped himself or his thoughts. He couldn't go home, as nothing was there but more grief. A duality of sensation that would only make him feel heavier and more tired – acknowledging that fact didn't lessen thrill of anger at his own selfishness. She would miss him, if he was away too long. And he had taken too much from Her, already – Her Sisters, Her Home, timelines that were even and uncomplicated and clear. He needed to get back to Her, wrap himself in Her soft thought-waves-music, soothe them both, even if it was only for a little while; but he couldn't even contemplate it. Not really.
He had never thought he would see the day when he dreaded going home to Her – and that idea alone made him wish he was human enough to express his grief and inexplicable rage. The emotions he could not articulate seemed to pile upon themselves, leaving him shaking in the middle of the dwindling sea of people, all intent on their lives and business – paying no mind to the strange man halted in the center of the walk, lost within his own mind.
Victorian London was a mistake after all.
But where do I go now?
Such a mistake, but he couldn't go home, either. What did he have to offer, but more sorrow, more heartache to the being who had always cared for him and loved him no matter what the cost to them both?
And this wasn't helping.
"Doctor?"
He didn't startle. He would feel almost normal if he had. The voice filtered through the gray of his thoughts, a familiar voice, a voice from the past – a touch of light to the shadows of his hearts. It was enough to get him to raise his head, to wrench him from the spiral he was walking internally: but when he remembered when he had last heard that voice –
He could feel the clench of muscle in his thigh respond (almost an automatic), escape and running and fear shivering through his nerves, though he was hardly afraid of the owner of that voice. He was more afraid of what he would do when (if) he was made to face that person. Admit his accountability. Admit his failings. Because he had. He had failed. And he was standing in his own judgment –
Ahh, the truth of it, then
And he couldn't face another's. He was incapable of handling that right now. He was an old man and only just discovering how very, very old he was indeed. He was only just able to admit he couldn't win them all, or even a miserable handful. He was only just able to see that it became too much, even for someone like him. To be faced with another's judgment or pity would be the final straw and he couldn't contemplate the darkness beyond that idea.
He was too tired.
And they were persistent.
"Doctor." At his elbow now. Quiet, low, less of a greeting and more of an order. He owed her much, this wonderful being. Ignoring her or running from her would be a cowardly act that would do her a great disservice in the long run. Not to mention she was one of the few he couldn't afford to lose face to.
"Madame," he acknowledged, turning to face her questions, her dismay, her sympathy or apathy – either one would cut and shred what little dignity he had left – but he would endure that. She deserved no less from him, and like so, so many she deserved so much more.
She remained watchful from beneath her veil, her presence not inviting curiosity (which was Victorian London all over), nor any sense of unease. Which meant her countenance was duly noted and dismissed as normal – just part of the crowds that made up London of this era. Obviously she had become a well-known figure amongst the human populace. He would be proud of her, pleased for her – if only he could muster the strength.
She said nothing, laying one hand on his arm in warm greeting, then using it to guide him (firmly, but unhurried) to the waiting carriage that resided not but five feet away. He must have truly been lost within his thoughts to not notice it, as hansoms were typically noisy conveyances that drew attention, even as they were very much a part of the scenery in this era.
He was seated before he even really knew what he was doing, the burn in his legs (the urge to run, the ingrained need to escape), easing to be replaced by a bone-deep weariness that he would never have thought possible until he felt it. He leaned back in the seat, eyes drawn to the bustling walkway he had just vacated, knowing he was being rude, knowing he was worrying his hostess, but too tired and filled with grey indifference to really care. He didn't know why he followed, but it felt almost good to do that. Leading had gotten him nowhere. Maybe it was time to follow. Maybe it was time to stop thinking and let someone else do that for him, even if just for a little while.
He could feel Vastra's gaze, heavy and yet translucent, much like the veil she wore to cover her face. That same veil was being lifted away, her eyes averting long enough to give him a moment to breath, her mouth thin with understanding, though he had told her nothing. Was he truly that transparent to her? To everyone? Should he even really care if he was?
The silence was light, yet oppressive – the sounds, smells and sights of London passing in a hazy blur, filtering dimly through the carriage as if they had been transported to another world altogether. The idea sent another bolt of incomprehensible grief through him, but he had no way to form a context around it, so he let it slip in to lie beside its cousins to be acknowledged when he had strength enough to do so. The next few minutes (or was it an hour?) passed in this fashion, Vastra leaving him to his non-thoughts, as she pretended to not be watching him, but watching the scenery – the atmosphere not uncomfortable, but not familiar either. If he had been up to snuff, he would have been intrigued – instead all he could feel was empty and exhausted.
He didn't know whether to be sorry or relieved when the cab came to a stop outside of a residence, the shift of Vastra's skirts telling him that this was their destination and so he obliged her by climbing out first (steady, steady), offering a hand to assist her – a sheer reflex action and one that required no thought. He wondered in a distant way if this was where he took his leave, only to have that notion shattered by that same firm hand taking his arm, leading him to the front door.
There was a murmur of sound (the door opening, soft voices exchanging pleasantries), and a flicker of dim amusement when he noted the door's color (home), but he couldn't muster anything beyond that flicker before it was lost to warm-voices-movement and automatic responses to the same. This would have worried him if he had thought to care, but his ability to do so had been lost when he had closed the doors to his TARDIS and gone walkabout hours before. He had just been too preoccupied with the reasons why to even notice.
He sat when indicated to do so, took the cup and saucer of sweet tea when it was pressed into his hands and drank it in slow, steady sips, letting the warmth of the liquid fill in the spaces that seemed to be missing, everything a study in concentration. When he could stall no longer, he set the china on the table in front of him, steeling himself for the questions, the pity, the dismayed responses to what he had to say. The press of sympathy and good-will that he really didn't want, but would endure because he dearly loved these people.
These people who were also his friends. Bad things happened to his friends; so the best he could do was give them what they wanted, what they felt he needed – then slip away when they were finished, when he had exhausted his welcome. He had already done so, but to drink their tea and escape was beyond rude – it bordered on insufferable. They (like so many others) had not earned that and deserved better treatment.
Two deep breaths and he made himself face them, their kindness, their unspoken questions and was hit with yet another jolt of sorrow when he saw no explanations were necessary after all. Vastra's gaze was the open calm of one who had lost much, who had endured pain but had learned to live with that. She was a veteran of the heart. Jenny…Jenny was composed, quiet, her eyes averted to give him room, give him space to speak or to be silent. Another one who had felt keen losses and hurt, whether at the hands of her fellows or within her own heart; she gave no judgment, she gave no pity and no apology for the lack of these things.
He was utterly dismayed.
Then he was enraged for no particular reason at all.
"Well?" He demanded harshly, cringing inside at how he was behaving, but unable to stop himself. "Out with it! I know you're curious. I know you must be dying to hear it. So where is it? Where are all of the-the stupid questions? The 'what have you gone and done now'? Surely you want to know. So let's be having it then."
He was breathing hard now, upper respiratory system out of rhythm, hearts beating wildly out of sync, an unfamiliar flush creeping up his cheeks as the room increased in warmth and yet narrowed in some unexplainable fashion – everything urging him to leave-run-go-now. He found he was not just angry – he was embarrassed (mortified), ashamed and filled with such bleakness in this room of warmth and cozy comfort that he felt much as he would if he was a stain in Jenny's immaculate carpets.
He wanted to disappear, he wanted to rage and throw things and bellow at the top of his voice and scandalize all the tiny, impotent creatures within and without this home that he didn't fit into. The one place he had once belonged was too large and too small, the people he once belonged to long gone – not his planet, never his planet, he had never belonged there – but his little family that he had made and lost. He was a misfit, a miscreant and an oddity and he wanted to rip off his masks and show them. He wanted to show them the terrible being he was if they would only stop looking at him; the faces of these two women reflecting the depth of his loneliness and terror and horrible, misplaced anger and grief. He had no right. He had made himself unwelcome with his shouting and rudeness and yet they wouldn't stop looking at him like they understood. They did, but they did not – and that left him lonelier than ever before.
"Where is it?" He collapsed back into the soft cushions, unaware that he had been standing, towering over them in his sudden fury – shame creeping into his voice. His voice that had become small and weary and exhausted. He was beyond horrified. This was too much for him to handle – these emotions. And displaying them in such a way in this quaint, well-ordered home that was not his…
Vastra stood with a rustle of skirts, looking more elegant and natural in this setting than he would have ever thought. He was so proud of her, even as he was so terribly sorry he had come. He had brought darkness to her home, he had brought ideas and feelings he could not comprehend into this little well of domesticity and this was where she would tell him to shove off. To take his ill-manners and his strange clothing and ways and speech and leave – and never come back. She had paid her debt. She owed him no obligation.
He braced for it, even as he cringed within – wanting to beg her forgiveness, yet also wanting to draw the mystery and power of 'Time Lord' around him like a cloak before stalking away in a dignified manner (instead of slinking away like he should). He fortified himself and raised his chin, defiance held barely in check, prepared for what she had to say before he removed himself from her residence. He thought he was prepared. He thought he was ready.
He had forgotten that his friends were always full of surprises.
"We have a room laid out for you upstairs in one of the guest rooms," Vastra said calmly. "Jenny is having Strax fetch some nightclothes for you, should you require it. He should be back shortly. Dinner will be ready within the hour. We would be honored if you would join us."
"What?" It came out more of a croak than a retort, but there was no mistaking the bewilderment. "I'm sorry – what did you say?"
"Now Doctor," Vastra said with some mild amusement, eyes still shining with understanding even as a smile flickered (briefly) across her lips. "You know I do hate to repeat myself. Run along and freshen up if you are so inclined, while Jenny finishes the preparations for dinner."
She was turning, leaving and he couldn't have that. Not yet. He didn't understand and he needed to…he needed to understand. So he was sorry if he startled her, he was sorry he grabbed her so harshly (hand clamped firmly over her wrist, just above the lace), but he didn't understand.
"Please," stronger than a whisper, but only just. And he didn't even know what he was asking anymore. He was so lonely and tired and he was imposing – but he didn't know anymore and he needed her to clarify it for him – even as his fingers closed over that delicate structure of bone and muscle.
She didn't look angry, (though maybe she should, gentlemen do not paw at ladies under any circumstances), she didn't look surprised. But she did stop, the rustle of her skirts overly loud as she gently took his hand from her arm, seating herself beside him – her fingers now interlaced with his – and it was fascinating, really. Her skin was smooth and cool, the scales packed tightly together like jewels across her knuckles and he concentrated on that, too overwhelmed and confused to do anything else. She should have made him leave. You didn't invite madmen in for tea. You certainly did not extend the invitation after they had a blazing snit of temper in your drawing room. You did not comfort them and hold their hand after they grabbed you (quick as lightning) and made you stand still, made you stop –
"Please," it seemed to be the only word he knew. He knew how to say 'sorry', he knew how to say 'thank you'. But these words stuck in his throat and he should be leaving now. He should get up from this couch, thank her for her hospitality and go home to his lonely Old Girl and try to find the Doctor again. He just didn't know how. After all these years he should know. He leaned too much on these fragile creatures. These delicate, impermanent beings that were his friends, even when they shouldn't be.
Especially when they shouldn't be.
"Doctor," so endlessly calm, filled with such deep understanding and compassion that he couldn't quite grasp that she was addressing him. It had to be someone else she was talking to – not this bitter, terrible old man that he had become. Because it would get worse. It would get so much worse and he wanted to tell her to let him go now. Save herself the trouble, save herself from trouble. Because that's what he was in the end. He was just less so without someone to hold his hand and run with him.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled, relieved at being able to say it, though he couldn't articulate what for. He was sorry for so many things, but as he raised his head he was even sorrier for whatever would put that look on her face. The unshakeable Madame Vastra looked like she had been slapped. Like someone had taken her world and removed the foundations, leaving her standing for a mere moment on empty air. He didn't know what he had said to put that look there, but if he would leave he wouldn't say anything else to make her unhappy.
He had to leave.
"Old friend," Vastra murmured, clasping his hand tightly in both of hers, the twist of her mouth telling him that she knew he was going to leave. He always left. And he always left a mess behind. He didn't want to do that this time. He didn't want to break this warm and welcoming home. And he would. He always did. "Please, Doctor. Just for a little while. We would be happy to share our home with you. You have given us so, so much. It would be an honor if you were our guest. I know it won't be forever, it never is – but for a little while."
He felt other eyes on him and looked behind her, beyond her warm, sad smile, to find Jenny and Strax standing silently by, waiting for his answer. He had to go, but he couldn't hurt them. And he knew if he stood up now and left, if he made his apologies and bolted, somehow he would hurt them. He would in the end, he always knew that. Being his friend was a dangerous proposition, but he couldn't help wanting friends. He couldn't stop himself. And they were asking him not to.
"Vastra, Jenny...Strax. I don't…what I mean to say is –"
"Please, sir," Jenny broke in quietly. "The Madame means it. Let us do this for you. We know it isn't much, but however we can help. We-we want to, you see."
He stared at her, but aside from the flush on her cheeks (at what she would consider a breach of etiquette and a rude one at that), her eyes and mouth were firm, steady. He had always known that Vastra loved Jenny, but as Vastra flashed an approving, proud smile her way, he finally knew exactly why she did (if such things as love could ever be explained).
As for Strax, the normally abrasive and outspoken Sontarin just nodded his agreement, quiet for once as he waited for the Doctor to give in. Like it was inevitable and something that just needed enough of a display of patience to fall in line as it always would. The Doctor had to admit that the Sontarin likely had the way of it.
He always gave way when his friends asked, when they needed something from him. And he didn't quite know why they needed him here, just that they did.
They wanted to help him. And he couldn't refuse them wanting to try.
"For tonight," he finally replied, the relief and happiness in their faces a flash of warmth that he couldn't help but to bask in, selfish creature that he was. "I can make no promises –"
"And we expect none to be made," Vastra said, patting his hand soothingly before releasing it and rising with that distinctive rustle of fabric. "Dinner will be ready within the hour, as I've said. And Strax can show you to your room whenever you are ready. Jenny? Strax?"
And then he was alone in the drawing room: alone, but somehow not lonely. At least, not like he had been before Vastra had stumbled across him. The thoughts and terrible emotions didn't go away, but they were made a little easier to grapple with as the next few minutes ticked by; the fresh tea Jenny had poured going cold by degrees as he contemplated drinking it.
This tenuous peace wouldn't last long. He knew that, deep down beneath his hearts that it wouldn't last – it never did. But for a moment (just one), maybe he could be granted a reprieve. He hadn't earned it. He was quite sure he didn't deserve it. He could do nothing but take it (as he did all things) and hope that for a while (maybe), he could stop.
Here was as good a place as any. Maybe even better than most. Maybe he could find something to take home to his TARDIS, an offering of peace and rest that could be shared. Some small taste of warmth and love to ease the pain of their losses. It wouldn't make everything magically better. He was far too old to believe in such fairytales. But he owed them all too much to not try, for Her sake and for the sake of his friends.
This wasn't quite the reunion his grieving hearts had been hoping for. He wished in so many ways that he was the man these people called 'friend', that he could be who he once was (even if it was just for show). At this time, in this place, maybe he could try to learn how to be that man again. He would just have to take it one day at a time and hope he hadn't made the same mistakes all over again. But only time (as ironic as that was) could tell.
For a brief flash, just a mere moment – he found he was content with that notion. Maybe one day, the march of hours wouldn't weigh so heavily upon him. Maybe one day, he could breathe again without the weight of his losses being felt through every beat of his hearts. He didn't quite look forward to that time (not yet), but he was ever hopeful that he could get there. For them, for his TARDIS, if not for himself.
He held tight to that hope, letting it clear away some of the fog he had been drifting in. Letting that hope take in the soothing tick of the clock above the mantle, the sweet, hot jolt of the tea as he sipped it, the softness of the cushions beneath him. He had spent so long just existing, holding on because he didn't know what else to do, he felt as though that was all he had come to know. It may be selfish, it may be terrible, but he needed this moment, this wedge of time to survive. He would recall this and let it keep him hanging on when all else failed – because it would not last, it would not ever last – but it was something that was. Something that could be remembered without pain.
Too many memories offered pain nowadays.
So no, it wasn't quite the reunion he was hoping for. But maybe the next one after that would be better. Maybe he'd have more to offer, more to share than what he had now. But maybe he could take some of what he gathered here (for however long that may be) and present that to Her – a reunion he was rather looking forward to, which was saying something in and of itself.
But for now, he'd have dinner, pretend to be okay (the King of Okay) and let his friends (his odd and lovely friends) attempt to heal his broken hearts. It might not last forever, or even half the night. It might not lessen or lighten the darkness when it chose to present itself again. It might not even work. But they were worth the effort.
They all were.
He sipped his cooling tea and tried to not think on how fleeting his time with them would likely be (it was always fleeting, it was always too much and not enough). Tried to comfort himself with the idea that Amelia would approve. She didn't want him to be alone. Alone actually protect his friends, his loves (for he did, he loved all of them). Alone protected his old and increasingly brittle hearts. But she asked him to not be. She asked him to find a way to surround himself with those he cared for and be cared for in return. He didn't know how (exactly) to do that, but he could try. For Amelia, he could try anything. She was the one (most of all), that he found he could not bear to disappoint.
So for just tonight, he would not be alone. Tonight he would share hearth and home with a different family and honor the family he had called his own. Tonight he would let go of his pain and heartache and try to fill his soul with warmth and new memories made. Here he would find strength enough to try to face tomorrow, to face his Old Girl and start again, different but ever the same. He may not be out of the woods. There may yet be more sorrow (or more of the same) in the days ahead: but for right now, for this tiny space of time, he knew what it meant to be halfway out of the dark.