Warnings: No Spoilers, Multi-Era, Introspection, Mild Fluff
A/N: Originally written for who_contest's Prompt: Light, but not only was it overly long, it was written a tad too late. Mostly unbeta'd and written in one go, so please forgive any mistakes and/or vagueness. This is actually a multi-era fiction (pick your Doctor!) and as such, I have tried to leave it a little more loose than normal, even as I tried to get the idea across. Also, also - there may be *GASP* fluffiness in thar - you were warned. As always, I apologize for any repetition, mispellings, sentence fails, grammatical oh-noes and general horridness. Unbeta'd fic is overly-thinky 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!
Sometimes, when he felt alone or small (or even big and overwhelmed), he would stop in deep space, open the doors and admire the vast placidity of the black. The potential beginnings at the end and all that was in between. Sometimes he was alone, more often he was not. And in those moments he was not, he would want to show them, see if they could understand. See if they could let their eyes catch on the dull wonder, take in all the shining glory that surrounded them and know what it was all for.
"Do you see it?" He would ask, breeze of a non-existent wind ruffling their hair, nipping playfully at their clothing – tossing their words carelessly (forever) to the great expanse beyond. "Can you See?"
"I don't understand," they would say (if they even said anything at all). "What are we looking at? What are we looking for?"
Sometimes these questions (such innocent questions), would make him sad. Sometimes they would make him angry. Sometimes (though it was rare), they would delight him.
Sometimes he was the one asking.
His arm would sweep out beyond the doors (smoking jacket-harlequin coat-leather-tweed), and his smile would be incomprehensibly old and unbearably young, filled with all the terrible joy that had ever been or was yet to come.
"The Universe," he would whisper/laugh/shout. "The darkness that shines blackly throughout all the Known and Unknown. The spark that dazzles and dances through us all. The very reason we look to the sky and Dream."
They would look. They would even smile. Sometimes they Understood – though sometimes they didn't do that until much, much later. Sometimes they Saw. Sometimes they were Blind.
He loves it when they see it. He loves it when they understand. He had always been careful about who he picked – or should that be Who He Picked? At times he knows that this arrogance is a fallacy, for they ultimately find each other (always) don't they?
All the same, he holds a special fierce love for those who see it. The ones who understand within their hearts, no words or prompting needed. The innocent ones. The ones who shine with their own inner light, that light reflected, answered an underscored by the blackest-black around them.
Because the innocent ones (though blind to all but the wrenching Beauty) see so much more clearly than even he can. He will happily guide them through the Darkness, never able to tell them (explain-logic-extrapolate) how they are the Light. They are what makes the Universe shine on. They are the stars in his sky – so high and beautiful in that endless sky of his memories, memories that span a millennia and beyond.
"Take my hand," he'll say (has said-will say-says now).
"Run with me," he'll implore.
Be My Guide.
My Light.
My Reason.
Together he and they (in all their wonderful forms) blaze across that expanse together. They dance with the stars from beginning to end (and all those places in between) as everyone, in every possible when and where will see them as they shine against the black.
And all the stars, in all the skies that shine so very dim against the light of those he loves should know envy. For if only they could burn so brightly in the eyes of Time.