Travellers' Tales
by Soledad
Story title: Without Dreaming
Author: Soledad
Fandom: Dr Who/Torchwood crossover
Genre: Friendship/Angst
Rating: Teens, just to be on the safe side.
Timeline: right after "The Aliens of London" for Dr. Who. Pre-series for Torchwood.
Series: Travellers' Tales
Disclaimer: I don't own Tosh, or the 9th Doctor. If I did, they'd have featured in at least ten seasons, each. Unfortunately, they belong to the BBC and RTD – but I intend to be nicer to them.
Author's notes: This is just a short scene that was originally written for the first serial of "Travellers' Tales" but didn't fit in, in the end. Still, I'm very fond of it, so I thought I'd post it independently.
Without Dreaming
The cell was barely long enough for her to stretch out; and she was a rather short person as convicts go. There was no bed, just a cot on the floor, flat, narrow and every bit as hard as the stone floor itself. No flowing water, no sanitary conveniences. Twice a day, they were led somewhere else within the prison where the common washrooms were situated… always under surveillance, even in the most private moments, never allowed to speak to anyone; not even to their guards.
To their male guards, who watched them with dispassionate eyes as they were showering or relieving themselves.
Sometimes she almost wanted the guards to act improperly towards them, to molest them. They were young, healthy men, watching naked or semi-naked female prisoners, some of whom were even pretty. It would have been, well, understandable, had they show interest, even if it were the lowest, most brutal form of it.
They never did. And that fact, more than anything else, made her understand that they no longer counted as human beings… not even as cattle. Cattle were useful; they were not. They'd been specifically shut away because they weren't useful.
Less than that: they were harmful, a threat. A threat that had been permanently and efficiently contained.
The light in the cell was always the same: yellow, harsh, unyielding. They never lowered it, not even at night. That was particularly unpleasant, as she'd never been able to sleep well with the lights on. But after a while sleep deprivation overcame the body's reluctance… or perhaps she passed out from sheer exhaustion.
She never learned which one. There was never a medic to look after them; not when she was awake. But they did keep her alive… or, to be more accurate, they prevented her from dying. There would have been no punishment in that.
At first, she tried to count the passing of days, based on the times they led them to the washrooms. But after a while, she lost count. They didn't let her have anything to write with. There was nothing in that cell she could make marks with on the wall, either. There was nothing; just he harsh, yellow light and madness.
Sometimes she threw herself onto the floor and screamed until her throat became swollen and raw, just to hear something, even if it was only her own voice. The guards never reacted.
Once she tried to kill herself by running headfirst into the wall, hoping to break her skull. They kept her in a straightjacket for some indefinite time after that, without giving her anything for the killer headache she'd got from the failed suicidal attempt.
She never tried it again. The lesson had been brutal but efficient.
After a while, she had simply come to a halt. Nothing broke the deadly monotony, the mindless function of a body that no longer had any purpose… the slow decaying of her once brilliant mind was as unstoppable as the crumbling away of an eroding hillside.
After a while, even the screaming fits ceased… they were of no use, and she simply no longer cared. Soon, she would not even remember that anything beyond her cell had ever existed. And then she would finally have peace.
Further away in their cell block someone was screaming; most likely one of the new convicts. The new ones were always screaming… at first. Until they learned that there was no gain in it. This one would soon learn it, too.
But why could she hear the screams? Were these cells not meant to be sound-proof? Where was the sensory deprivation in that…?
She bolted upward in her bed – a nice, comfortable bed, not the prison cot – trembling and covered in cold sweat. It was dark in the room, save from the matte reflexions of some equipment, and it was quiet, save from some ethereal music that seemed to play in her head, instead of in an actual audible way.
Her throat was raw and it hurt, and she understood that she had been the one screaming.
The door slid open, letting in the soft light of the corridor, and a tall figure hurried in. It came to her bed, sat down, and strong arms enveloped her in a protective hug. A man. Smelling of old leather and some indefinable spices. She was gently pressed against a flat, broad chest, could feel the rough wool of a pullover under the leather jacket on her face. Heard the rapid, irregular, inhuman heartbeat.
The Doctor. She was in the TARDIS, she was safe – and she had just had a nightmare, apparently. A particularly vivid one. The realisation helped her to calm down, little by little.
"Better?" the Doctor asked gently and kissed the top of her head.
She nodded wordlessly, clutching to him for dear life.
"Bad dream?" he continued, not spying, just willing to help.
"N-nightmare," she replied; her throat was so sore she could barely speak. "Got them sometimes."
He nodded, pressing his chin against the top of her head. "Can I help?" he asked.
She hesitated for a moment, but the offer was too good to be refused.
"Stay with me," she said.
The request seemed to make him uncomfortable. "My people don't have the habit…"
"… not that way," she interrupted, realising that he thought she would want comfort sex. "Just... just don't leave me alone. Please."
"All right," she could hear the smile in his voice. "Make room for me."
She scooted closer to the wall. He discarded his jacket and slid under the blanket with her, taking her in his arms and holding her while she slept – this time without dreaming.
~The End~