Hullo.
This is a oneshot, you could say, but it's sort of fractured. There are three chapters, you see.
I'd like to point out that there is a lot of original dialogue stirred into this one, and some of it was intentionally amended to fit my uses. So be aware of that. Um, can you be sued for doing that?
Oh, disclaimer, okay. How about this: all characters mentioned and featured in this fic belong to the esteemed BBC, and some of their direct quotations have been used without any permission or guidance whatsoever and have therefore been altered for the author's (my) own purposes.
Note: expect some experimental opposites and line-reversal, *hence the title,* which is (oh, look!) backwards. Ha. Clever.
He became a little bit less himself each time he did it.
Each time, his eyes betrayed just a little bit more of that mysterious sorrow that he is so tight-lipped about. Each time, he became just a little bit greyer, lost just a little bit more colour. Each time, he was drained just a little bit more of his enthusiasm, his optimism. Each time, his hearts were just a little bit heavier, and the weight bearing down on his chest was just a little bit more. Each time, he gave just a little bit more of himself away.
And when he was asked in that cautious voice that everybody used with him just what was wrong, if everything was okay, he had to work just a little bit harder each time to muster a smile that was sincere enough to be convincing.
Each time.
Each time…
Looking for a device to extract himself from the depths of his thoughts, he looked around the console room, considering suddenly how much it's changed. The console, the stairs, the seats, the front doors, and the circle-things that had recently been absent… he loved the circle-things. The thought of their disappearance almost brought tears to his eyes. Oh, the adventures they'd been on.
He touched the console. "You're different, old girl…" he ran a finger along an especially favoured lever, his voice trailing off.
Had he changed, too? He could never really tell. Physicalities, of course, aside, he's always just been him to himself. The Doctor. Always him.
He sighed, rising. He knew that he must get moving, else he might ascend to a better mood. Besides, he told Clara he'd only be a minute or two gone… Oh, wait. Time Lord. TARDIS. Duh. He could take as long as he wanted. But then again, things did tend to gain an extent of approximation when it came to lengths of time and the Doctor. It was never just what he said it would be.
He practically flew from his seat nonetheless, nabbing his sonic from the console on the way out of the doors.