Warnings: Introspection, Hallucination, Character Speculation, Angst, Dark!Fic
A/N: Written for who_contest's Prompt: 'Weakness' prompt and yes, it is comprised of the usual overly thinky (dark, angsty) ramblings, too much speculation and a lack of proper tea. I don't know what I was going for here. Eleven spoke and I wrote, but I am left wondering (as always of late) where exactly he was going. What his point is. I think I might have an inkling, but...well, it will be left up to my Readers in the end. I can only hope it is mildly enjoyable. 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!
It was like a shiver just under your skin; the humming of nerves as the hair rose (follicle by follicle) on the back of your neck; an ache in your teeth that couldn't quite be explained, though the churn and roil in your gut could tell you even more than that.
It was all of these things (but it wasn't). If it helped one understand the way his flesh tightened and crawled, the whisper of anxiety chasing down his spine as his bones chilled to their very marrow – then yes. But not really.
You see, it was less of a feeling and more of a thought, but it wasn't that either; something was Wrong.
He could hear (the absence of) it in his mind and feel it in his hearts. It was a crack along the skin of the universe and it was the opening of the Eye. It was both of these things even as it was neither of them –
The floor beneath his feet was weak. He could feel the pinch-crackle of it as it sagged under his boot – the tile almost rising to hug the worn leather; a lover's tired embrace. One that was never meant to be felt. Not like this. Not here.
It was a bending of reality and a collapsing of the physical and…and it was the TARDIS Herself.
If he had been human –
Well. If he had been human he wouldn't be feeling the creak and yaw of Her essence coming apart around him and would therefore feel no alarm. But he definitely would have fallen (forever and ever and ever) as he stepped down at this exact spot, in this exact corridor – so, so near the bedrooms, even as it was half a thought away.
Dangerous.
Terrifying.
He was almost glad there were no Companions aboard, even as he wished desperately for someone to come explain this to him. Or at least, ask the right questions so he could explain it to himself. The Old Girl (apparently) wasn't up to answering said questions as She seemed to be…unavailable at the moment.
Unavailable. That's a funny thought.
If funny was comprised of one's worst nightmare.
A hesitant step back doesn't make the worry lessen. Of course it doesn't – but he gets odd ideas every now again. Spending so much time with humans, one has a tendency to almost think like them. Stepping away from the unstable portion of floor should bring relief – but it only brings more questions.
He doesn't have answers. And his connections to the TARDIS being…faint…doesn't help. He unconsciously tries to reach Her again, only to get that static white-noise that he so dreaded. She was silent after Gallifrey. So, so quiet and he had been so sure She was dead. That he was alone.
This was kind of like that, but not.
So many contradicting facts. So many things that echoed and reflected the past, though it was completely new. He was too old for this. He was an old man and it was easier, it was tempting to let himself fall into the absence of memory. To blame this on cracks that no longer existed.
Or did they?
On Eyes that were closed and had been for centuries. On ghosts that haunted him only in his mind.
Phantoms of the Mind, that's all…
On Voids and eternities that never happened. Words spoken to pull him back from a brink he had never been standing in.
Or had he?
Were the cracks still there?
Don't you know where they came from –
And why was there only silence in his thoughts?
He stepped forward again, his curiosity only human –
Therein lies the problem
The floor was solid beneath his feet.
Not a crackle. Not a creak. Not one slight give to the prod of his boot. He paused then applied his full weight to the floor –
He had been so, so sure.
The TARDIS hummed within his mind; peaceful purring like he-She had never left. Maybe She hadn't. Maybe he had.
Was he still here? Or was he dreaming?
Prickling at the back of his neck. Solid floor beneath his feet. Closed Eye. Sealed cracks. The Void light years away in a Time that never happened.
Old man.
Mouth dry, the Time Lord considered forgetting this little slip. This little…'episode'. He could be forgiven the occasional waking nightmare. Best to let this one lie. Some things have no explanation. Some things are better left alone.
To be contemplated when the simulated nights were long, the corridors were cold, She was asleep and he was too, too awake
The future was mysterious enough. No need to call up fears and terrors from the past. If that was (indeed), what this had been. But likely it wasn't (even if that made one feel better).
Not really.
His foot was solid against the floor. But his hearts pounded high and hard against his ribcage.
The silly fears of an old (dying) man. Nothing to be ignored, but screaming to be dismissed. Fairytales and cobwebbed memories. Split-second terror –
floor collapsing, breaking, falling away beneath his feet, landing him nowhere and everywhere at once; Sexy asleep at the dimensional wheel –
tasted like loneliness. Loneliness tasted like fevered imaginings.
Prickling at the back of his neck.
Skin cold and too tight against (suddenly) fragile bone.
He shook himself and backed away from the (too-solid) spot of flooring, forcing himself to turn away, to walk to the console room where it was
safe
more familiar. The corridors oddly alien and uninviting in the wake of his mental vertigo; trying to convince himself that it was all nothing. Just the dreams of a tired and ageing mind.
Such a human reaction, (but really, was that so bad)?
He tried to tell himself it wasn't as he set course for Wednesday. For breakfast and adventure and a mystery that still begged to be solved. No need to create more when there was one still dangling in front of him, right?
Nice and safe and…human.
After all for him, there were no more surprises. He loved a good puzzle, loved an adventure (a weakness with him, really), but…there were no more surprises. Not for him. Not anymore.
Mouth dry. Prickle along the nape of his neck. Nerves blazing. Bones hollow. Mind silent.
Right?