Warnings: Speculation, Introspection, Character Study, Dark!fic, Horror, Tragedy, Angst
A/N: Written for who_contest's Prompt:Eyes. This one came at me - and as is the case every time with these fictions, if the words will come, I must write it. I realize it has been a year (13 months, really), since I have had the pleasure of writing for the Doctor. Real Life, lack of ideas, then lack of Words got in the way; so needless to say, I was super happy when this idea struck and wouldn't let me go...and the Words came as if they had never left (typical). Feels MARVELOUS, really - having Words again. Unfortunately, this is a sad one - so I do apologize in advance. I am also quite rusty, so it may be a tad wonky in areas. I had to cut this one down severely as Eleventy wanted to get wordy with it (which was thrilling, but not what was needed here). So if it seems choppy, I do apologize. This really needed a longer fic, but the Muse (and Words) come as they see fit, so a drabble it shall be! As always, this fic is mostly unbeta'd and written in one go, so please forgive any mistakes and/or blatant vagueness. I also apologize for any repetition, misspellings, sentence fails, grammatical oh-noes and general horridness. Unbeta'd fic is overly-thinky/wandery/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!
There were many reasons he stayed away all those years.
His wife accused him of sulking. The Paternoster Gang accused him of cynicism and selfishness. All these things were true (even as they weren't the whole truth), so he took the stinging rebukes, the lectures and exasperated outbursts, because other things (the things little and not so little), were difficult to explain.
He often found it difficult to explain his hearts. The thoughts that swirled in his mind. Language was limiting – and for a species that had fourteen different words for 'love' that was almost laughable. But for all the words and gestures and ceremonies his home-world had devised for the universe they shunned – and the small, insular society they fostered – they had very few of them for heartbreak. Or grief. Or the shock of both of these things slamming into your very soul in mere nanoseconds. The concept of such was beyond them.
The Incident (as he had come to think of it), was one of those moments that he could never tell – only because he had no way to describe it, let alone 'come to terms with it' – as his loved ones would say. It wasn't something he did. He wasn't even something he failed to do. It was just something he happened to stumble into; a case of too late (and yet, not late enough).
His hearts were already overly saturated with sorrow and loss. He was coming to the end of his lives with absolutely nothing to show for it. All the lessons were learned – and they led him back to square zero. He had less than what he had started out with and he had made the mistake of taking a walk, thinking it would cheer him. After all, it was Christmas time in London: a season of bright lights, smoggy streets, delicious (and terrible) smells, flickers of warmth between perilous cold – and the feeling of good will, happiness and hope laced through it all.
He took one shortcut down the side alley, two blocks from the residence his friends called home. The gloom was falling, but he could see a small child was huddled near a doorway, resting against the wall. She looked bitterly chilled, the poor mite – and in the damp of falling evening, this was no place for a child to be. Her dress was ragged and tattered, soot from the chimneys ground into the linen. She looked hungry. She looked tired.
But when he got closer, bending to talk to this wee lost one, he found her eyes were already upon him; but they would not be blinking, crying, shuttering themselves for sleep in an hour's time (when all children should be abed). Shock iced his muscles and the sound of carolers in the distance seemed cold and blasphemous. That's when his memory (blissfully) failed him.
He didn't recall wrapping her in his cloak and calling for help. He didn't remember when help never came, his only recourse being a church doorstep, as even that establishment was closed as they prepared for services. He didn't remember making his way home hours later, his hearts broken afresh.
He just remembered (with bitterness), that not being able to save them all was not the point.
Sometimes you just wished you'd saved the one.