Author's Notes:
Doctor Who belongs to the BBC, I just borrow him in the quiet corner of my heart. Betaed, as always, by the loving z0ireech
Final Moments in Parting of the Ways – Doctor Nine
Without the TARDIS, he won't regenerate. Oh, it might begin, a reflex beyond his control. The emperor will remember how fragile those hours are. False gods have long memories.
Poet, Warrior, Coward
He spent the war in velvet and silk knots, quoting poetry at allies and enemies. It was how he stayed sane, or it appealed to his sense of humor. Either was true, both were false, depending on the moment of consideration.
After the war, he shelters in the hide of an animal over dark clothing. A slow, soft-shelled turtle, home in another dimension, disguised by a box stained blue. Poetry lodges in his throat, but puzzles still appeal to him.
In a refined voice and clothing, he'd been a storm. In leather and coarse tones, he is a bewildered survivor. Contradictions have always amused him. Laughter makes his ears wiggle. Fringing self-reflection, he knows these ears are prominent because the last thing he remembers of velvet and knots was listening.
Listening to the screams, the shock, the recriminations, the curses, the agony, even the relief. He's stopped listening for forgiveness because he wouldn't…he couldn't…. Accepts condemnation, echoes from poetic self-argument. Listens instead for death. Now. When he's rediscovered wanting to live.
Without the TARDIS, he won't regenerate. Oh, it might begin, a reflex beyond his control. The emperor will remember how fragile those hours are. False gods have long memories.
Maybe, for a few moments at least, he'll be ginger! Maybe he'll quote poetry, or crave the restorative powers of celery. Perhaps he'll wrap the wires around his neck, like a scarf and offer the victors a jelly baby.
Doesn't matter.
He can say that, without rage, at last. She'd hate that. He can feel her elbow gouging his ribs like a phantom limb. Welcomes the bruise. He's earned it.
It ends for him. Begins for others.
Because even if the shell is a warrior's, the hearts are a coward's. Hope keeps them beating, even now. No one has the right to exterminate hope, not Dalek, not Time Lord.
He wants to, hovers, toys with desire, but, as before, won't…. Everything dies, but hope.
"Coward. Any day."
Let hope fester in the remnants, poison nestle in the shell of metal. Exterminated from within. Justice.
Maybe it's time. Not fantastic last words, but who remains to know?
"You will not escape!"
Nine hundreds years and still amazed. Bloody-minded, arrogant, stubborn, tender hearted, human spirit: Poetry, scratching in public. Humanity continues to insist time works a miracle if nudged, just a wee bit, with a hammer.
Grotesque beauty. Determination banished in the name of promise, stands. Burning without thought, breathing fire without flames. Defying laws her body or mind can't endure. Tears attempting to extinguish an inferno, fuel it instead.
And who glorified that before her? Who, Mr. hide behind the warrior's shell, arms crossed, grin smug, and laughter shared, yes, who professed it wasn't a bad life? Who agreed it was better with two?
"Stop. Stop now."
Who dashed about a relentless declaration: Time is too brief to hold an entire life?
"Safe. My Doctor."
Who dared her to run without the word, "don't" in front of it? Who enticed her from the umbilicus of "be careful, mind your way, watch the road," and encouraged — required her to jump in, experience, say no, use the wrong verbs and get kissed? Who knew her delight could restarted hearts without right to beat?
"my fault"
"…it's killing me…."
Time is fluid, rushing when you most want it to stop, crawling when you wait.
Not yet. Please. Not just yet.
"What happened?"
"Don't you remember?" Did you really hear the singing? Will you still see the warrior, when you learn what the coward has not done? Will the poetry scorch you when you know what you wiped, and breathed, and salvaged from the storm?
Just...give me...time. To be delighted by one unwilling to listen to don't before run….
"do something."
Oh, Rose…they're all dead. And so am I. Except….
"Don't say that!"
"And so was I."