1. The Curator:
Hi everyone. This is where I'll be uploading all my one-shots set in the Doctor Who Universe. Most of these will be more related to the main show, though as I become more familiar with its spinoffs I'll write some for those as well. Please take the time to read and tell me what you think. If you have any feedback I could use, I would definitely appreciate that. Though no rude comments please. :)
Also, if you are not caught up with certain parts of the franchise, some of these could potentially have spoilers, so be aware of that.
If this is read by anyone who's waiting for the next chapter of my first story 'In Memory of Carl Grimes', I'm so sorry for how long I've been taking. I had meant to get it done a lot sooner. I'm trying to get a few one-shots done for Christmas (for this and my other one-shot collections), but after that I promise I will focus on getting the rest of 'In Memory of Carl Grimes' done.
Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who or any of its spinoffs or anything else that's part of the franchise.
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The elderly man strode through the Under-Gallery beneath London's National Gallery, casually observing the various paintings and other pieces of art as he passed them. He could easily remember the location and details of every single piece of artwork throughout the museum without having to look at them, having passed them almost every day for the last several hundred years. Still, he continued to check each one, knowing the dangerous nature of these arts. There had been many times when he'd had to contain strange threats that emerged from the Under-Gallery's contents.
This time was different though. When the paintings were found with shattered shards of glass in front of them, with figures missing from them, he allowed U.N.I.T to bring in a certain traveler instead of handling it himself, knowing from a distant memory that this needed to happen the way it had just had.
And now he had to witness the conclusion of this event.
He stopped a little outside the entrance to one of the gallery's rooms, hearing the muffled voices of four people from within. Or two people, if he thought about it in a certain way. He smiled at this. These kinds of paradoxes never ceased to amuse him.
Vworp, vworp, vworp, vworp, vworp.
The old Curator suddenly felt nostalgic as he heard that familiar sound. It had been so long since he had last heard it, yet he could never forget it, nor could the years take away the feeling of hope the sound always brought to those who heard it. He also felt some sadness, knowing this particular sound meant the Doctor's life from the Time War, having just been freed from the burden of the conflict, was ending, and his next regeneration would be yet again consumed with guilt from the false belief that he'd massacred his own people.
Vworp, vworp, vworp, vworp, vworp.
And that was the departure of the incarnation that called himself the Tenth Doctor. Only two voices could be heard from within now. The Curator got ready, knowing his part was coming.
"Oh, by the way, there was an old man looking for you. I think it was the curator."
Hearing that voice again brought him back to the first time he heard it that day, less than an hour earlier when he'd asked her to tell her Doctor he wanted to speak to him. He had kept an outwardly appearance of composure, knowing Clara did not know who he really was or what her future would entail, yet he'd felt quite emotional in that moment. Happy to once again see his old friend, his Impossible Girl, yet sad as it had been an extraordinarily long time since he had lost her.
Seconds after hearing Clara enter her Doctor's T.A.R.D.I.S, the Curator walked into the room. The face he saw there he had not seen for many lifetimes, yet he immediately recognised it, as he would recognise all of the faces worn by the same being. The Eleventh Doctor was sitting on the bench gazing at the painting of the Time War's Last Day. It had not been easy to capture that image, the Curator recalled, having to once again do the impossible and break through the time lock.
"I could be a curator," the Eleventh Doctor spoke aloud to himself, drawing the older man's attention. "I'd be great a curating. I'd be the Great Curator." He laughed, then continued. "I could retire, and do that. I could retire and be the curator of this place."
The Curator smiled at the irony, then said to him, "You know I really think you might."
The Doctor turned towards him, then rose to his feet and moved closer, eyebrows furrowed with surprise and recognition. He then smirked and told him "I never forget a face."
"I know you don't, and in years to come you might find yourself revisiting a few, but just the old favourites," the Curator responded, referring to his more recent regenerations, nostalgia influencing them to repeat some of his earlier faces.
After the Doctor winked in response, the Curator turned to the painting. He hadn't heard the Doctor's previous conversation, but he could still faintly remember it, from other lifetimes.
"What is it actually called?"
"Either No More, or Gallifrey Falls."
"Not very encouraging."
"You were curious about this painting, I think," the Curator said. "I acquired it in remarkable circumstances. What do you make of the title?"
The Doctor looked down forlornly and asked in response, "Which title, there's two? No More, or Gallifrey Falls."
The Curator, wanting to dispel the sadness he could see in the Doctor's eyes, that same sadness that had driven him to dark places many times, shook his head and said "No, you see that's where everybody's wrong. It's all one title. Gallifrey Falls No More. Now, what would you think that means, hey?"
Hope suddenly shown in the Doctor's eyes as he smiled and said "That Gallifrey didn't fall. It worked! It's still out there!"
"I'm only a humble curator. I'm sure I wouldn't know," the Curator said, starting to turn away.
"Then where is it?" the Doctor asked.
The Curator turned back and said "Where is it indeed. Lost!" He suddenly shushed himself, not wanting to get carried away and give spoilers. River's admonishments about that had never been forgotten. "Perhaps, things do get lost you know. Now you must excuse me. Oh, you have a lot to do."
"Do I?" the Doctor asked excitedly. "Is that what I'm supposed to do now? Go looking for Gallifrey?"
"That's entirely up to you. Your choice. I can only tell you what I would do. If I were you-" the Curator suddenly laughed at what he said. "If I were you-. Perhaps I was you of course. Or perhaps, you are me."
The Curator and the Doctor chuckled together at this, then the Curator shook hands with the Doctor and congratulated him for his recent accomplishments in saving Gallifrey and creating peace between the Humans and Zygons.
"Or perhaps it doesn't matter either way. Who knows? Who knows?" the Curator said, tapping his finger to his nose, before he turned and walked out of the room and back down the hall, mentally wishing the younger man good luck for his future.
The ageing Time Lord proceeded to walk back through the gallery, thinking about the man he'd just left. He envied him for believing the Time War was the worst thing he'd go through, and for creating a better ending for it, ignorant of the horrors still to come. The nine century long Siege of Trenzalore. The four and a half billion years spent trapped within the hellish conditions of his confession dial. Losing his wife and fellow time traveler River, and later tragically losing his oldest frenemy just as she had begun to redeem herself. And countless more conflicts, particularly against old and vicious enemies such as Rassilon, Davros, the Daleks, the Cybermen, the Weeping Angels, and so many others. And finally succumbing to his own darkness.
His time as the ruthless Valeyard had been catastrophic, resulting in a significant amount of destruction. He was eternally grateful towards the friends he had at the time, who had not left in disgust and instead helped bring him back, as he had previously brought Missy back. The reformed traveler spent so many years afterwards dedicating himself to repairing the damage he had caused, and fighting harder than ever before to protect people from those with malicious intentions.
Only now there were no more battles for him to fight. All of his enemies were gone now, having been finally stopped for good. And while the universe would always have people fighting each other, hardly any of them needed him anymore.
Weary after his many, many lifetimes of defending the universe, and desperate for a chance to recuperate from his countless battles in peace, the ancient Time Lord had retired from his traveling and hidden himself away on Earth, starting a quiet life as the curator of London's National Gallery. And there he had remained since, watching over the Under-Gallery's various pieces of art while also waiting to talk to his past self.
The Curator stopped in front of a supply closet and opened it, revealing a familiar blue box. The T.A.R.D.I.S he had stolen so very long ago. His one constant companion, the only one to stay while all others had eventually left. As he gazed towards it, hearing that soothing humming sound that always made him feel at peace, he felt tempted to once again let her fly him somewhere, to see the stars again. He debated with himself for a moment; one voice saying he was old and tired, had done everything he needed to do for the universe and would inevitably be drawn into another conflict; another voice saying he had rested enough over the past few centuries, had made peace with himself, and should have another opportunity to explore the cosmos.
"What do you say, old girl?" the ancient Doctor murmured to his beloved T.A.R.D.I.S. "Should us weary old souls have one last adventure?"
