Imposter
Prologue
Click. Click. Click.
The Doctor flicked between three live feeds of the same event, his eyes scanning the scrolling text at the bottom of the television screen. The glow it cast around the darkened room reminded him of the TARDIS's engines, and his single heart ached at the memory.
Click. Click. Click.
Rubbing his chin, he felt bristle beneath his fingertips, and with his mussed hair and rumpled flannel pajamas, he knew he didn't look his normal dapper self. But being human required so much... effort. In a while he'd have to tear himself away from the proceedings in order to commence the morning drudgery of showering, shaving, brushing his teeth. He had to floss now. A Time Lord–flossing! But as Rose frequently reminded him, he couldn't just get a new set of teeth this time around. And he had to admit that experiencing this era's version of dental care was something he'd like to put off for as long as possible.
On the screen, a tall reptilian humanoid draped in ceremonial battle armour stood ramrod straight, delivering long strands of indecipherable syllables, which the scrolling text attempted to keep pace with. The Doctor's eyes took in the words and then he flipped to the next channel and the next, noting the differences. "Windy headlands," in one was replaced by "wind-swept cliffs," in the next, and the third took a flying leap into, "the breezy beachfront," earning a grimace from him. It was a pity he'd never taken the time to learn Draconian. Earth's shiny new translation softwares, much touted by GeoComTex, were no match for the TARDIS's translation circuits. The Doctor's TARDIS.
Hand resting on his chest, over that strange single heartbeat, he drew in a slow breath and turned back to the screen, just as the words scrolled to, "the rolling storm." Click. "The approaching thunderclouds." Click. "The oncoming storm."
He sat bolt upright and stared.
"Doctor?" The query was followed by footfalls, padding across the bedroom carpet. He looked up to see Rose peering at him blearily in her pajamas in the bedroom doorway. She fumbled for a light switch. Lights sprang to life in the room behind her, surrounding her with a glowing halo, and for a moment she was transformed into a memory.
I am the Bad Wolf. I create myself.
Though it had been through another set of eyes, he could still recall what it had been to look up at her, surrounded by a halo of bright light, eyes blazing with it, transformed into something otherworldly, eternal... and fragile.
Rose stepped out of the pool of light and into the darkened living room towards him. "Are you all right?"
He shook himself. "Yes! Fine! Brilliant!"
"What time is it?"
"Four-thirty," he replied, with perhaps more enthusiasm than the hour warranted if the pained expression on her face was any indication. "Just nipped off to watch the Olympics. Kuala Lumpur– very exciting!"
Groaning, Rose slumped down next to him on the sofa. "You could stream it later, you know."
He pouted. "It's not the same as watching it live. Living history, Rose! The first non-human at the Olympic Games."
"And what's he doing exactly? Announcing his invasion plans?"
"He's reciting a traditional Draconian battle poem in honour of the athletes."
"A poem," Rose repeated, incredulous.
"Nothing like a good war poem to befuddle primitive translation software."
She pulled her knees up to her chest and sank back into the sofa cushions. "You snuck out of bed before sunup to watch a lizard read poetry on the tele."
"Oh," he said, scrunching up his face and giving a little shrug, "I was awake anyway. Don't need much sleep."
He slept as little as ever now, but he dreamed more. Or perhaps he remembered more. It was hard to tell. His memories were every bit as strange and dreamlike sometimes as what he saw in his sleep.
She looked up at him, and he began to talk very quickly before she could ask again if he was all right. "Back in our world, Earth doesn't make official contact withe Draconians for well over hundred years. Even the Olympics–different year, different place– everything different." He squinted again at the screen and the scrolling lines of poorly translated poetry. "All that travel through time and space, all that knowledge of history, and then I come here and– poof!"
He must not have sounded nearly as glib as he'd intended, because Rose reached for his hand, interlacing her fingers with his. "I know it's not what you planned," she said quietly. "Being stuck here." He glanced down at her in time to see a grin spread across her face. "But at least you didn't have to get a mortgage."
He smiled back. Pete had bought Rose the flat. In this world she was heir to a family fortune. "True enough. I'm a kept man now."
"Mmm. I like the sound of that," she said, cuddling closer to him. She leaned in to whisper in his ear. "I'm planning on keeping you forever." And then, with another squeeze of his hand, she hoisted herself off the sofa. "Guess if I can't get back to sleep I might as well get some tea."
"Rose," he said, as she stepped toward the kitchen. She paused, turning to him. "Stuck with you, that's not so bad."
The smile she gave him made his one heart soar.
As she began preparing her caffeinated beverage of choice, he turned once more to the television. The Draconian had finished his poem, and the Doctor clicked away to the next channel. A vintage cartoon sprang to life, with three pigs gambolling about and singing, "Who's afraid of the big bad wolf?"
And then he changed the channel. Because there was, after all, such a thing as a coincidence.