Forgiveness
Rating:
K
Summary:
He wonders, sometimes, if he'll ever find forgiveness. Ninth
Doctor
Spoilers:
Dalek
Disclaimer:
Don't own it. Wish I did. I do own this story and the ideas
contained within.
Author's
Note: I felt the need to make up for my pitiful drabble (although not
that many people read it, so I think I'm safe). And this idea came
upon me (actually the end came upon me) when I was supposed to be
sleeping and wouldn't go away. So here it is.
He wonders, sometimes, if he'll ever find forgiveness. It's impossible for him to forgive himself, of course; he tried it during the long dark between putting the destruction in motion and regenerating. And the ones whose forgiveness would mean the most are gone, voices too silent to speak the words.
Most of the time, he tries to distract himself from wondering, from the pain and despair that are inevitably born from the act. He moves, fast and furious, never slowing down much less stopping, never letting the quiet fill his head. And it's easy; there's always somewhere to show Rose and let her wide-eyed wonder drive the silence away. There's danger, too, for him or for Rose or for the planet, and most commonly all three. Sometimes he thinks the TARDIS is helping him by landing closest to the nearest site of peril. He thinks maybe she feels the silence, too.
And even when there's no danger to be found, or a fried circuit or broken part makes finding danger impossible, there's still Rose. Rose sitting with him, reading him sections of her inane magazines and keeping him updated on the latest news of who's with whom; Rose bringing him tea and biscuits; Rose asking questions about anything and everything. Rose chattering on at him, making his head so full he wonders if the quiet is just a wisp of a bad memory.
But then her body forces her to sleep and the silence is deafening, making up for lost time and filling the void she leaves behind. He desperately tries to fill it by tinkering, by making a cup of tea, by reading, anything, everything. Nothing works. He's left alone with the silence and his wonderings, filling up his head until it hurts.
Sometimes she finds him in the morning, still in his chair in the console room or in the library, head in hands, consumed by what went on while she slept, a God reduced to something less than mortal.
Can I help? she asks, her voice so earnest and concerned and loving that it almost breaks him. She knows, has known since they found the Dalek, and somehow she still wants to comfort him.
I don't know, he says in a quiet voice, as if whispering will turn it into a half-truth. But she wraps her arms around him anyway and he thinks, maybe this is what it's like to be forgiven.
i should learn to grammar check. heh. i changed the rating, too, because it really wasn't K+