Chapter 1: Star Gazing
After saving Gallifrey, the Doctor takes a few victory laps then comes to a decision.
Gallifrey falls no more! The Doctor in pinstripes hadn't stopped smiling since heading off from the grand finale of the day, all thirteen of him towing Gallifrey back into existence. The muscles in his face were actually beginning to hurt from grinning. It had been a brilliant performance, by him, and him, and all the rest of him. He was strolling around the Tardis' console while she flew, humming, brushing his fingers over a control here and there, for no particular reason except he thought his ship was looking exceptionally shiny; smug, even.
All of him had an impressive sight. All those wonderful Tardises! He began singing, softly, to himself. It was an old Earth jazz standard: "All of me,why not take all of me? Can't you see, I'm no good without you." He did a little turn, tripped along a few steps on the toes of his cream-colored trainers. His volume rose. "Take my lips, I want to lose them. Take my arms, I'll never use them." He gestured expansively, pursing his lips, throwing out his arms gracefully. Gallifrey falls no more!
The Tardis was materializing. With a twist to a large black wheel on the console, he opened her doors. Slowly they swung outward, revealing a stunning blue-orange nebula. He had come to do a few victory laps around it, and enjoy the view, after saving the universe, again, thank you very much.
He walked to the doorway and sat down on the edge of his time ship, dangling his legs into deep space. The Tardis' clever shielding extended around her open doors and the Doctor, enough to protect them both from the vacuum of space, not to mention the slightly chilly 2.7 degrees Kelvin weather. Safe and cozy, he turned his attention to the majestic scene before him: the Shrestari nebula. He had meant to bring Rose here. Then they ran out of time. He picked up the old Earth song again, whistling it softly, with the lyrics still playing in his mind, more wistfully this time. Your goodbye left me with eyes that cry. How can I go on without you? He was happy, but he was also raw. That whole business with the Moment looking like Rose, what had been the point of that, exactly? It was upsetting, uncalled for. Cruel, even.
Within the nebula, dark clouds of dust billowed up in seven great, connected towers of creation, glowing with thousands of newly-born stars. The view certainly helped put today in perspective. Looking at any nebula tended to give you a long view. He had seen a future self, today, talked to him, touched him, even, and they had shown one another their sonics. His future self certainly had a very large head. The Doctor had heard that having a large head was key in making it in show business, which had nothing to do with anything. He kicked his feet, up and down, and regarded his shoes. "Cream," he said. "I wore the cream. Thought I'd put on the red? But, ah!" he cried. "Of course, the wedding. It would have to be white, to marry the Queen."
Sighing, he leaned against the Tardis' door jamb, letting his head tilt against her wood, his hair falling across his forehead. Lizzie had promised there'd be wedding cake, but they had not got to that. And it was supposed to have had tiers, and a little stream running 'round it, with floating, marzipan swans. Missing cake was worth it though - he grinned, the smile he had been sporting for hours making its way back across his face. They had said "Thank you," to him. Time Lords, saying thanks, to him. Again.
He sat up straight, and frowned, and said to himself, "Am I gloating?" He quickly added, to the Tardis this time, "Don't answer that. That was a rhetorical question." He stood up, feeling restless now. He didn't want to sit here and rest on his laurels. He stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and continued frowning. What exactly had been saved, today, and by whom? Seemed like his redemption as much or even more than Gallifrey's. Yesterday, he had been Last of the Time Lords, with a stain of mass-murder across his soul. Today, it never happened. But it had. Given the same circumstances, he knew he would make the same choices, again, if he had to, so what was he, really? The flare of a hot blue-white star caught his attention. Its newly-ignited stellar wind had blown the dust from around it, revealing a dozen sisters. The brightest ones would not live long, burning too hot for their own good.
Absent-mindedly he sifted the contents of his trans-dimensional pockets, watching the stars. An object moved into the palm of his left hand, as if on its own. Smooth, egg-shaped, of medium size. He knew what it was, though he'd forgot he had it. This particular item would come to hand, right now, this evening. It was a psychic gazer, a fancy party favor at some god-awful state function Romana had dragged him to, aeons ago.
He brought the gazer from his pocket and held its small opening to one eye. The vision within moved into his mind, and took root there, as real as nearly-real can be. It was a vision of Gallifrey, long before the War. Specifically, it was a view of the Citadel as seen from the foothills of the Mountains of Solace. It had been scoped not far, really, from his family's estate, just over a nearby summit and down another vale. The vision had been taken from amidst a field of flamegrass. Copses of cadonwood trees were dotted about the hillside, leaves shimmering. It was late spring: clumps of purple arenweiss had already started to lose their petals, turning to puffballs. As he watched, one lone seedling drifted past, its brown seed held aloft on a wee tendril of fluff, pushed along by the soft, perfumed breezes the Doctor had assumed no one would ever feel again on their skin, much less him.
He'd allowed Rose to look into this, once, long ago. Just briefly. She had been getting something out of his pocket, while his hands were busy, probably hanging from a rope or a ladder over a pit of some sort or another, and, instead of a stick of chewing gum or whatever it was they needed, had clasped her fingers around this, and drawn it out. She had wondered what it was, and he had told her there was no time, he'd tell her later, and she had tucked it in the pocket of her own hoodie, then continued on saving the day. Later, in the library, safely back aboard the Tardis, he had sat upon the sofa, reading something, and she had sat as his feet, upon the rug, before a gently snapping fire. She'd brought the gazer out, and he had shown her how to relax her mind, to look into it.
He lowered the gazer and put it back in his pocket. Now that Gallifrey existed again, tucked safely in its pocket universe, he should retire this thing to a drawer somewhere and try and forget about that whole stage of his life. It might feel good, to forget. He turned his back on the stars and returned up the gangway. He walked, counter-clockwise, around his console, regarding the Tardis' time rotor at rest, a contented turquoise-sea blue glinting off the collection of polished brass and tin and glass and wires that formed the mnemonic template of her controls.
A surge of wanting overtook him. Nostalgia, and longing. He didn't want to forget: he wanted to go back. He needed to go back. Back to Gallifrey. He wanted something real, not a memory, a real, living thing. He did not want to try and forget anything, any more, not if he could grasp for it instead. He wasn't supposed to go into the pocket universe where his home world nestled, but he could think of six ways, no make that seven, that it was possible to do.
The instant the thought occurred to him, the Tardis whirred a bit louder, with a heightened pitch. The Doctor patted her, smoothed his hand down a piece of a supporting strut. "Just a short trip," he said, putting on a more cheerful air than he felt. To what purpose, he couldn't say, as the Tardis certainly wasn't going to be fooled. Most likely, he was bolstering his own resolve. He was going to do it. "Maybe they, I dunno," he was moving faster now, tweaking in coordinates and flicking switches, turning the Tardis' doors shut, "perhaps throw a little reception? I did bring them all back to life," he chuffed. There was that gloating, again...ah, to hell with it. The past was the past, and he was going home. "Just pop in, have a look 'round, then pop right out again."
He deserved a do-over. He was going to get it.