TRIGGER WARNINGS: Unsanitary moments, food, graphic description of suffocation in a vacuum, eye scream, body horror.
Author's note: I wanted to play around with blind!autistic!12 using a mobility device and being independent. The Doctor losing his sight doesn't have to be tragic and I don't think he would see it as such.
This story is an acknowledgement of Face the Raven from the Doctor's POV, and it's meant to point towards Every Love Story. That makes it kinda-sorta an AU, yet I wrote it with a "could be canon if you squint" mindset.
Bring tissues, you might need them. Allons-y!
.o
"Had to let you know just what would happen.
Yes, I had to let you know the truth.
I know I've got to do this.
Would you hold my hand right through it?
Would you…"
–Gloria Estefan, "I See Your Smile"
.o
People died because of his recklessness. But not Bill. Not today. Not if he could do something to prevent it.
The Doctor inhaled deeply and blew all the air out ten times in a row. Hyperventilating left him tingly, but it would buy him time. Chaos reigned around him, yet he remained calm. He removed his space helmet with a decisive snap-click.
Frigidness bit into his skin like fangs. Pain slammed through his ears as they popped in the negative pressure, and they rang so loud he hardly heard his own hearts pounding. The last breath he inhaled rushed out in a cloud of thick, white mist. It seemed to shape like a bird before evaporating.
Bill's eyes fluttered and rolled; she had lost consciousness. Ice formed where she sweat from fear. Her brown skin looked ashen and the membranes inside her twitching mouth turned a terrifying blue-gray.
The Doctor's chest burned. He shoved the helmet over Bill's head, twisted it into position and grabbed her arm. Ringing continued inside his skull while he pulled Bill's space suit panel open and rerouted its circuitry. His body gasped spasmodically for air, but the strength of his diaphragm couldn't overcome a vacuum. What little breath he dragged in got violently sucked out before he fully inhaled it. He swore his internal organs were on the verge of bursting through his nostrils.
One more twist and Bill's suit began to march in the same instant he felt the spit in his mouth become froth. He gestured at Nardole to get Bill outside. Ivan and Abby had already gone ahead to clear the way.
The Doctor hunched his shoulders, which pressed the rim of his space suit over his ears and mouth. Somehow, that helped the pain. He staggered outside. Now there was nothing to inhale, like having plastic wrap pressed over his nose and mouth. Flashes of light lit his visual field. Just cosmic rays, not too dangerous in small doses.
His eyes stung, then burned. So did his eyelids. The lack of oxygen triggered a brief myoclonic seizure– his whole body jerked and flailed. Nobody saw that, thank the stars.
Nardole kept stopping and looking back. The Doctor stumbled ahead of him when Bill's suit took her off-course. Another seizure wracked his muscles. Darkness pricked the edges of his vision. Details began to disappear as if his retinas lost resolution. Everything swam around him. Who turned his vitreous and aqueous humor into carbonation? Oh, right, vacuum.
Bill came closer. She was still too out of it to correct her course. The Doctor caught her shoulder and redirected her towards Nardole. Their destination was ten steps away. Nardole didn't look back when Ivan and Abby disappeared into the other open airlock with Bill. Maybe they thought he was right behind them.
Pain became unbearable agony. The Doctor's skin went numb. Pressure built up in his muscles and a feeling of irrational anguish heated his bones. How ironic, he was going to have a meltdown in the vacuum of space and probably die right after.
But he saved Bill. That made the pain worth it.
The Doctor spread his arms, squeezed his eyes shut and screamed. It didn't matter that his lungs had no air to produce sound. Screaming felt good. Screaming gave that energy somewhere safe to go. He curled his fists and thrashed his head backwards. There was nothing to bang it against, but his body did it anyway.
Reality turned dizzying as his eyes rolled. Now his entire visual field bubbled as he cried the tears that always followed the peak of a meltdown. Euphoria flooded through him. Reality became decidedly less real. He didn't care about the pain anymore. Endorphins were kicking in. If dying felt like this, it wasn't the most horrible thing in the world.
Consciousness began to leave him as someone grabbed his arm and hauled him forward. Visions of a petite woman wearing a pale blue sweater danced through his head. Briefly, he glimpsed the edge of a smile on her lips.
He noticed himself shouting something. It didn't make any sound until the chamber pressurized.
"C-Cl-Clara! Clara? Clara!"
Mid-shout, he noticed something missing. Then he passed out. When he woke up later, he realized he was blind.
.o
.o
Palimpsest
.o
.o
A search for solitude drove the Doctor into what he always did– he ran. He needed to get away from Bill and Nardole for awhile. Bill wasn't much of a bother. Nardole's overabundant concern after the events aboard Chasm Forge wore on his last nerve. He tried to be helpful without it seeming obvious…and it got annoying!
The Doctor hated other people imposing limits on him. Rules were one thing. Rules needed to be followed, and he understood the utterly painful consequences of breaking them.
But limits? Limits were, well, limiting! How did anybody expect him to adapt as a blind man when they tried to do everything for him? Everyone bumped their head, banged their knees and tripped over things. Why did he hear sighs of pity if he did it a little more often than sighted folks? Blindness, shimdness!
So off the Doctor ran, and here he was, materializing the TARDIS in Nevada yet again. He liked Nevada. A huge, rocky nowhere similar to Mars. Somebody could wander the highway forever and never see another living person unless they sought them out on purpose.
He'd been coming here for a month now to practice independent blind travel. Being careful to park the TARDIS back in his office exactly zero-point-zero-zero-zero-one seconds after departing made his exits and re-entrances almost undetectable.
The Doctor tugged his coat lapel for a reassuring whiff of chalk. The electric guitar strapped to his shoulder shifted against his back. He saw the TARDIS so well in his mind's eye that he forgot he wasn't actually seeing until he opened the door.
Hot, dry and dusty desert air stung his nostrils. Everything looked like what he saw if he pointed a flashlight at his eyelids while they were shut, except they weren't really shut and the haze had more white than red in it. Light perception was all he had. Ironic, his eyeballs didn't hate light until they couldn't see properly anymore. They focused instinctively whenever they sensed bright illumination even though his brain knew they weren't going to see anything useful. Old habits died hard.
Cutting out vision reduced his chronic sensory overload and absolved him from worrying about bothersome social cues. Actually, going blind made his tendency to miss social cues a little more understandable. Only one dilemma remained: the anxiety of chronic sensory under-load. No problem– his previous incarnation was prone to hyposensitivity. Doing something stimulating filled in the void.
And a long walk in the hot desert sun would do just fine. Nardole might tear out the hair he didn't have if he found out about this. The Doctor chuckled at the mental image without regret.
He whipped his sonic sunglasses out of his breast pocket and put them on. A tap from his fingers turned the already-dark lenses nearly opaque. Dimming the perception of light forced his eyes to relax. Next, he reached into his side pocket for his white cane. The rigid cane fit in his pocket the same way he fit inside his TARDIS. Pocket dimensions were awesome like that.
Folding canes didn't work for him. They were nifty, however they didn't transmit enough tactile information. Also, they weren't sonic.
This cane was the coolest thing he ever asked the TARDIS to design, if he said so himself. The long white cane looked nearly identical to the typical white canes used by blind humans. Black golf club handle, white body and a reflective red strip near its mushroom tip. It nearly reached his nose when he let the tip touch the ground. People who walked fast needed longer canes.
The Doctor arranged the leather handle comfortably in his right hand. Leather, because rubber felt disgusting to his hands the same way unevenly lumpy foods felt disgusting on his tongue. He held it as if shaking hands with the handle, slid his index finger down until it rested on the smooth fiberglass length and positioned his hand in front of his navel. This pushed the cane tip forward at an angle outside the TARDIS door.
Faint blue light shone in the cane's tip, the glow overpowered by the sun. The same blue light erupted off the top of the handle. Information traveled telepathically from his hand to his brain– there were plants and rocks ten meters ahead. Fifteen meters beyond them, the highway. He grinned as he received input about the position of the sun and the direction he faced.
Not the first sonic cane I ever used, but definitely the best!
"Nice work, Sexy," The Doctor patted the TARDIS' door frame.
After he emerged onto the dusty desert soil, he marveled at how everything sounded clearer without walls blocking the sound waves. He swung the cane to the left and tapped the tip against the ground as his right foot took a step. Then he swung it in a low rightward arc to tap the ground again when he brought his left foot forward. Clear a space, step into it, clear the next space, step into it. Each swing arced slightly wider than his shoulders.
Wait, there were rocks around, weren't there? He switched to sliding his cane instead of tapping it. Instantly, he found himself gathering more information about the hard-packed dirt that felt like cracked clay. The repetitiveness of exploring the ground wore itself familiar in his mind. He hardly had to think about using the cane just like he hardly thought about blinking, breathing or stimming.
Thinking about stimming prompted the Doctor to bring his left hand up to his face. Few people knew of the stim toy he kept literally up his sleeve. He chewed the stem of his black No Gloom 'Shroom, which he wore on his wrist via a clear key ring coil. His sleeve concealed it perfectly when he wasn't using it. He continued forward with the 'Shroom poking out of his mouth. Gnawing the hard food-grade silicone felt similar to chewing the bottom of a well-worn tennis shoe. Biting that instead of his fingers redirected his urge to chew his fingernails until they bled.
Lots of toe-smashing rocks peppered the area. The cane warned him of each one. He stepped over them without breaking his stride. Hot tar scents wafted towards him. Loose, rough dirt gave way to hard smoothness. He put the No Gloom 'Shroom away and slid his cane in a wide arc to seek obstacles. Asphalt had a much different rattle than the dirt. Ah, the highway. Newly re-paved since his last visit, judging by the feel and smell of it. He knelt and gave it a quick lick so he wouldn't burn his tongue. It tasted strongly bitter and a tiny bit earthy. Yup, re-paved exactly one week ago.
"South," said the Doctor. He knew which way was south, but he wanted to see if the cane did, too.
The cane shifted slightly left like metal trying to reach a magnet. Perfect.Excellent. He hopped onto the road, letting his cane lead him to the double yellow line in the center. The seemingly endless asphalt radiated the sun's heat like a furnace. He welcomed the warmth.
Being able to go any direction he chose without being shouted at to watch out for something in his path felt like liberation. So what if he looked a little silly when he stumbled? Did sighted people really think he experienced the same discomfort they did about his blindness?
Sure, things were hard and frustrating at first because losing a sense took getting used to. Honestly, he had more trouble shaving than he did walking, but he figured shaving out eventually.
Regeneration was harder than going blind. Learning how to use a whole new body with all new sensory issues, differences in hand-eye coordination, being taller or shorter than before and learning to recognize a different face in the mirror definitely took more getting used to than being blind.
Maybe that was the tragedy to the sighted– they thought of all the things a person never got to see before they went blind and they forgot that life experiences came from more than vision. The Doctor had already seen a great many things. In his mind, there wasn't much to miss now.
Loud, fast rattling noises made him pause mid-stride. Its rhythm was snake-ese for back off, stranger.
"Oy, Hissy, I'm not going to step on you. You'll get run over if you stay there." He gestured to his right with his cane. "Go on, go find a rock to sun yourself on."
The snake hissed in protest. She got here first, this was her spot. The Doctor stood his ground.
"You won't attract a boyfriend if you're road pizza."
This stubborn snake didn't relent until he sent her a weak telepathic nudge. Using barely-functional telepathy without touch required immense focus and effort. All he did was appeal to the snake's instinct for safety. Finally, the reptile came to her senses and slithered off the highway.
The Doctor resumed his former stride and recalled the entertaining outing he yesterday. He popped into the early 1950′s for a visit with an old friend who happened to be blind. The moment he told her he lost his sight, she sprang into action and taught him a few tricks that made eating a much cleaner affair. His only issue was understanding some of what she said. She spoke with the unique pattern of a deaf person and read his lips by touching his mouth. They had a fascinating conversation about politics over dinner.
Then he accidentally left his Rubik's cube behind, yet didn't have the hearts to retrieve it when he went back and discovered her fiddling with it. He wondered if she ever figured it out. She probably did– that cube had raised patterns as well as bright colors.
Nothing about her seemed tragic at all.
And last week, a present-day pal gave a guest lecture on physics at the university. The Doctor held the elevator for the esteemed visitor while he and his entourage filed in. There was a lot of beeping and soft hissing while the elevator whirred.
As they emerged, the Doctor said, "Don't get tired up there, Stephen."
A long pause followed. The Doctor waited patiently.
Stephen's synthesized voice replied, "Dream on, Doctor."
Nothing about him seemed tragic, either.
The Doctor surfaced from his thoughts and listened to his cane clacking. Colors and shapes swirled through his 'visual' field. On some occasions they resolved into elaborate multicolored grids on a solid gray background. Other times, they were swirling blue-white blobs much like what he experienced when he closed his eyes to sleep. More often than not, it resembled old analog TV static.
Humans called it prisoner's cinema, the hallucinogenic response of a brain amusing itself when its eyeballs couldn't relay visual input for long periods. It got its name via the experiences of prisoners kept in dark solitary confinement cells. The Doctor learned to enjoy the 'visual' stimulation whenever it happened.
Freedom like this had his feet itching to dance, so he did! He took a diagonal forward step with his left foot, crossed his right leg behind the left one so the toes of his right foot pointed to his left heel, bounced off his right foot and immediately opened up again by landing on his left foot. Another dance step followed, this one beginning on the right foot. A hop punctuated every step in perfect syncopation. His cane stayed centered in the road, almost acting as a pivot point while his skipping had him hopping from one side of the double yellow line to the other.
He did an absolutely perfect imitation of Judy Garland following the yellow brick road in The Wizard of Oz. Being able to dance like a total goof without hearing someone chastise his carelessness greatly lifted his spirits. He skipped half a mile down the highway without a care in the world.
Normal walking resumed once the Doctor worked the excess energy out of his system. Exerting himself caused sweat to bead on his forehead. His cane alerted him to a TARDIS a hundred meters ahead. Oh, that ridiculous thing, it still thought buildings were TARDISes?
The Doctor detoured off the highway. His cane gently tugged him towards the door. He shifted to hold his cane like an extremely long pencil and choked up on his grip to shorten his swing. The tip clanked against the metal on the bottom of the door. He extended his arm until the cane lay flat against the door and slid it side to side until it hit the handle.
Air-conditioned coolness wafted against his face as he stepped off grit and onto smooth laminate tiles. Outside the diner, he had zero idea of why he woke up in the middle of the night panting with desire or longing to kiss the lips on a face his mind refused to see.
Everything rushed back whenever he entered here, and it would leave him again when he exited. Very similar to dealing with Silents, except no suggestions got left behind. Neural blocks never liked the overabundance of neurons in autistic brains. Time and neuroplasticity would eventually restore everything the way nature overtook abandoned towns. Until then, he had to play mental peekaboo.
A sigh escaped him. This was the one place where his loss of sight wasn't horribly tragic. His first stop-in brought a ton of questions. He explained that being exposed to the vacuum of space boiled his eyeballs like eggs and that was that.
Here it came, the memory flood. He let it wash over him.
Her smile. Her laugh. Her face. Their adventures together. The trap street. Darkness. Feeling time fracture and snap back. A flash of light as the raven plunged into her chest. Hearing her shrill scream of agony. Watching black smoke emerge from her mouth. The way she fell to her knees, her arms still stubbornly outstretched. The way he nearly rushed forward to stop her head from hitting the cobblestones. Being held back only by his honoring her wish to face the raven alone. How helpless he felt at seeing her slump backwards. Her body convulsing in a death spasm. Approaching her and kneeling amid the leaves littering the cobblestones. Seeing her last agonal gasp. The shock, the silence, the utter pain. Finding pebbles from Gallifrey caught in the treads of her shoes. Feeling the end of his own timeline in those pebbles and realizing he could still save her. The hell within his confession dial. Those billions of years he gave up for her sake. His rage at the Time Lords.
He plucked her out of time like he swore he wouldn't. He broke every rule laid out for him and almost tore apart the universe because she meant more to him than his own existence. His duty of care nearly ended everything.
Somehow, mere days afterward (relatively speaking), he found himself in the past, blabbing to a stranger named Erwin about the whole thing before his last memories of it faded away. After hearing the rant, all dear Erwin wanted to talk about was cats in boxes.
The Doctor mentally derailed his own spiraling thought patterns and refocused on the present moment. He came here on Wednesdays for…well some memories weren't so clear. Habit, perhaps.
Telling stories about his adventures over a snack or drink showed her he was wasn't wandering the universe alone. He needed her to know that, but couldn't tell her why without jeopardizing their future.
She sought desperately to see any sign that he remembered her. He worked desperately to convince her that he didn't. Breaking the facade needed to be done carefully or not at all. No tidal waves allowed.
The diner door swung shut behind the Doctor. Ice cubes crackled into a glass cup, followed by the slush of liquid being poured over them. He smelled tater tots fresh out of the oven. His mouth watered. When did he last eat? He couldn't remember.
"You're early," said a woman's voice.
A brief, brilliant smile lit the Doctor's face as he propped his cane up against his shoulder. "I beat my old record by–" he licked his lips, tasting the air, "exactly ten-point-two minutes."
She snickered. "What did you do? Run the whole way?"
"Nope. I skipped." He demonstrated for her upon approaching the counter.
"You're daft."
"Mmhmm." The Doctor waggled his eyebrows behind his sunglasses. "Tried to be normal once. Worst ten minutes of my life."
His guitar and cane got propped up against the counter while he eased himself onto the stool. The sunglasses came off next. He placed them beside the radio. She liked to see his eyes, so he wouldn't deny her that even though it meant being irritated by the daylight filtering through the windows. The colorful prisoner's cinema show dissolved as the left side of his visual field turned uniformly gray. By contrast, the right side was hazy black.
Always the perceptive one, she closed the blinds on the windows framing the door. The bothersome brightness cut in half. He followed the sounds of her movements with his eyes. Just a reflex he allowed to "run" without interference– the exact same reflex that prompted students to glance up whenever someone slunk into class late. People born blind lacked it because those pathways never formed in their brain. The same wasn't always true for those who lost their sight.
Footsteps crossed behind the counter again. Water ran. A damp towel wiped down the counter top. A plate clunked and slid audibly closer. Near it, a glass.
"Lemonade is at twelve o'clock, napkins are at two and the tater tots are at three."
"Thank you."
The Doctor brought the warm plate to six o'clock, placed the napkins at three o'clock and shifted the cold, moist glass to two o'clock. The greasy tater tots were already arranged end to end in concentric circles with the ketchup in the middle. Just how he liked them.
He started on the outermost ring of tater tots first. "Your lady-friend mentioned you'll be heading out soon the last time I came here. Are you flying back home?"
"No…I'm going to travel for a bit to clear my mind." She sighed. Her shoes squeaked softly on the tile floor. "The man I told you about still has amnesia."
"Oh. Nothing new? At all?"
"Nope."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Clara," said the Doctor with sincerity. He offered her a tater tot.
Clara's small, soft fingertips brushed his when she accepted his offering. The brief touch rippled across his nerve endings like fireworks. He absentmindedly rocked back and forth a few times to avoid reaching for her hand. Instead, he pulled his lemonade glass closer and sipped generously. His eyebrows went up in pleasant surprise.
"Oh, this must be the pink lemonade. It's sweet."
"Yeah? A sour drink and tater tots don't sound appetizing." She smiled– it was remarkable how easy it was to hear smiles in peoples' voices– and poured herself a glass. Then she cleared her throat and took a sip. "How are classes going?"
"Fantastic. Did I mention I'm the professor and not a student?"
"Huh. No, you didn't." Clara leaned on the counter. "I was a teacher once."
The Doctor tilted his head to make eye contact with her. Not hard, he followed her voice and measured a few centimeters upward. His eyes instinctively focused. Sometimes it made Nardole forget briefly that he wasn't actually seeing. He liked that it unnerved some people.
"You were a good one," he said. Silently, he added, You taught me, so I teach the world.
Something dripped on the counter. She wasn't holding the towel or anything drippy. He made her cry again. That wasn't good. He pretended to reach for a napkin and knocked over his lemonade, causing it to spill everywhere.
"Oops!" The Doctor leaped to his feet and tried unsuccessfully to contain the spreading mess with his hands.
"I've got it." Clara seized the wet towel that plopped on top of the sticky spill.
"Sorry, I wasn't watching what I was doing." The Doctor joked. He reached for the towel. "Did I ruin anything?"
A barely perceptible giggle entered her voice. "No, no, it's fine. Eat your tater tots. I'll clean this up and get you a fresh glass."
Success, he steered her away from feeling bad for now. He let her clean while he finished off the delicious tater tots. She took the plate and set his new lemonade in its place.
"Ah, thanks. So…" The Doctor sipped generously, using it as an excuse for his sudden, awkward pause. His mind scrambled through a list of 'small-talk' phrases. Talking at people was easy. Talking to them proved challenging. "Where do you plan to travel to?"
Clara was at the counter again. Her gaze felt like a physical presence. One that wasn't unpleasant.
"I don't know yet," she said, "Maybe somewhere far away and not like here. Somewhere different."
Faint crackles issued from the radio when the Doctor settled his guitar against his body and began absently strumming chords. Each note transmitted through his sonic sunglasses to emerge loud and clear despite the tiny speaker.
Lately, he'd been on an embarrassing Gloria Estefan kick. He caught himself strumming the vocal line of I See Your Smile. Then he decided that wasn't so bad and kept playing.
Clara tried to move stealthily closer. She forgot how sensitive his ears were. Their sensitivity hadn't changed since he went blind, but he paid more attention to the information they gathered. He feigned obliviousness as he 'accidentally' turned his eyes towards her. Only a blind man could look into the eyes of the woman he loved without her realizing it.
All at once he switched to the song she wrote across his hearts in the cloisters. That song was love, and love was a promise. It sounded slightly more elaborate than its first incarnation. He still hadn't finished it yet. Maybe he never would. How did anyone finish a song still being sung for the first time?
The Doctor's fingers stilled, letting the dissonant chord he just played fall silent without resolving. Somehow, in two swift movements, he set the guitar down, grasped Clara's shoulder and stood up.
Rather than pull away, Clara clutched his coat lapels and stepped forward to wrap her arms around his waist. He returned her embrace. The crisp, stiff fabric of her waitress uniform almost burned his fingertips, yet he couldn't make himself care. She felt so small in his arms. Was she always so tiny?
Time to drop the bomb.
"Clara," said the Doctor, "I won't remember much –or any –of this when I step outside."
Clara's arms tightened. Not feeling her heart quicken became unsettling. Unsettling wasn't the worst thing in the world, though.
"So you're heading out?"
The Doctor nodded gravely. If he stayed any longer, he knew he wouldn't want to leave.
"I may not recognize you if we cross paths outside this diner." He turned his head and spoke against her hair, "I'll always be around, Clara, but this is when we talked."
"So that's it? Goodbye forever?" She sounded slightly cross, and he didn't blame her.
He snorted disdainfully at fate. "What's 'forever' to an immortal?"
Clara slipped her hand past his coat's collar to cup the back of his neck. Her warm, soft skin suffused a myriad of emotions through his body. Tears welled in his eyes when he tried unsuccessfully to see her face. He sensed her looking back. What irony– he struggled to make proper eye contact with her when he had perfect eyesight. Now, he couldn'tstop doing it.
"Clara, there's something I didn't get to say to you."
Clara's other hand joined the first. She didn't care that he couldn't see her. "You said goodbye when the neural block kicked in."
"I'm not saying goodbye again." A teary-eyed half-smile appeared on the Doctor's face. "I wanted to say hello. Hello, Clara Oswald, it's so very nice to meet you."
He cupped her cheeks in his palms. They were wet with tears. Another fell as he touched the corner of her mouth.
"There has to be something I can do." She swallowed hard, struggling to maintain barely maintainable composure. "Something to help you remember."
The Doctor expected heartbreaking sadness. Instead, he felt the same warm joy he got after seeing Rose one more time. Hope worked miracles on broken hearts.
He wiped her tears away. "Smile for me, Clara. Go on. One last time."
Clara gave him a little, impatient shake. Such an endearing human response.
"How could I smile?" she asked, her voice cracking.
"Because love is a promise," the Doctor's half-smile finished unfurling, a reflection of the joyful hope he felt inside, "and I promised you that I'll remember your smile."
Finally, Clara, by virtue of being Clara, picked up on why he asked. The Doctor noticed her tense facial muscles relaxing. Her cheekbones softened and rounded. Feeling her smile form was as glorious as seeing it happen.
He slid his hands inward, his long fingers tracing all the details of her lips, cheekbones and the corners of her eyes. Time had no grasp on her skin. Like a photograph, the way she looked now was how she would look forever. Only death had the power to corrupt the smile beneath his fingertips, and plucking her out of time meant she decided when to meet her ultimate fate.
"I won't forget," whispered the Doctor.
Fresh tears dribbled onto his thumbs. Clara's uniform rustled when she leaned closer to him. He bent towards her. They bumped foreheads once, nuzzled noses twice and exchanged three brief pecks on the lips. A perfect Wednesday kiss.
The Doctor drew back for a breath and returned to kiss her properly. Clara slid one hand up into his curly hair, keeping him close. No tongues, just the silken slide of soft lips and warmth.
When their mouths parted, she asked, "Will you be okay, Doctor?"
He brushed his lips against her brow. Her hair smelled like strawberries this time.
"Of course," he said, "I'm the king of okay."
A total lie. He was going to resume feeling empty and lost without knowing why. A grief different than he felt for River. He knew what became of River. He wasn't going to know what became of the hole in his mind where someone very important to him used to be.
"The sun's going down," said Clara.
"Hm, describe it?"
She stepped out of his embrace to open the blinds. They creaked a lot. He squinted instinctively in the light.
"It's bright yellow at the horizon, orange higher up and fading to dark blue. Kinda reminds me of an ocean."
"Visit Europa in 9990. They have a great seafloor cafe if you like sushi."
"Space sushi?"
"Clara, you can't put 'space' in front of everything that isn't on Earth. I thought we went over this."
"Right, space-man."
The Doctor had no comeback for that. He closed his mouth and put on his best grumpy old man frown. Rather than speak, Clara leaned against him with her arm around his waist. He relaxed and awkwardly slipped his arm around her shoulders.
People treated sunsets like endings. The Doctor hated endings, so he saw sunsets as sunrises somewhere else. Planets turned and life went on. Sometimes part of continuing onward included painful separations. He couldn't sit around doing nothing for a thousand years. Stagnation ruined people. What good was he if he let his skills get rusty?
The Doctor watched his 'gray' world go dark as the sun sank below the horizon. He reached past Clara to gather his guitar and cane. She handed him his sunglasses. He put them on with flare.
Clara offered her elbow even though the distance to the door was less than ten steps. The Doctor accepted and let her guide him.
"Let me be brave, let me be brave," He heard her mutter to herself. She worked up the admirable courage she showed on the trap street.
They paused just inside the closed door, hugged and exchanged another long, lingering kiss in the last moments of dusk.
Clara cupped his cheek in her palm, her soft hand like balm on his aching hearts. "Run, you clever boy, and remember your promise."
Smiling– a sad, hopeful smile– the Doctor turned and said something he always wanted to say to her.
"Run, you impossible girl, and remember me."
She laughed. It was music that made his hearts dance. His throat ached at knowing he wouldn't remember that sound five seconds from now, but he got her to laugh one more time. Her happiness became his hope.
The Doctor pushed the diner's glass door open. Stinging pain screamed across his skull and faded. Everything that took place inside sloughed away. A small pang tightened his throat. He frowned and pursed his lips, trying to figure out why he remembered what he ate and drank, but not who he talked to.
Who was that girl again?
"Hm." The Doctor absentmindedly stepped without tapping his cane.
Lucky for him, the cane caught a rock long before his foot did. That reminded him to start tapping. Wait, wasn't he testing this new cane?
"TARDIS," he said.
The cane's mushroom tip and handle glowed brilliant blue in the darkness. And the damn thing tried to turn him around towards the building he just exited.
"No, no, no, not the diner. TARDIS."
But the cane insisted a TARDIS was present. Apparently, the programming still had some bugs. Pesky, annoying bugs.
Suddenly, the diner emitted a groaning noise that rapidly faded. The Doctor gasped when air rushed in to fill the empty space. He walked across the vacant ground, reaching with both his hand and his cane. Nothing, like a diner never stood there at all.
A strange sense of familiarity washed over him. He tugged on his coat lapel and breathed in the reassuring chalk scent.
"You're going senile," muttered the Doctor. To his cane, he said, "And you are, too, you silly thing! Take me to the TARDIS."
Now it began leading him in the right direction. Arriving here required going south on the highway, so the return trip took him due north.
The cane informed him of which prominent constellations were present in the sky. Remembering the stars caused grief to wash over him. He traveled among them with someone special, and he couldn't remember what she looked like or how she sounded.
No, Doctor, get away from the hole in your brain. It hurts to poke. Just leave it.
Making his brain think of something else often helped. He thought about his cane. The sonic cane proved a rousing success. A success to be proud of, bugs notwithstanding. He gripped it properly, grinned at the night sky and 'Dorothy-skipped' his entire return trip to the TARDIS. In fact, he got so into skipping that he would've overshot his destination if the cane didn't alert him.
The Doctor pocketed his cane and removed his sunglasses once inside. He twirled around the console room, shifting dials and pulling levers. The TARDIS wheezed around him as he sang under his breath.
"I get a little tongue twisted every time I talk to you…"
Ding went the cloister bell. A perfect landing less than a second after he took off. He cracked the door, waited for signs of Nardole and stepped out when there weren't any. For effect, he brought along a broom. Brooms provided great excuses for being in strange places.
The Doctor hurriedly swept his shoes clean, then swept the floor around the TARDIS until he didn't feel any grit under his feet.
Satisfied, he left the broom leaning on the TARDIS and crossed the room to his desk. Daylight poured through the windows, so he put his sunglasses back on to block it out. Then he sat, spun his chair around once and laid his hands on the heavy book atop his desk. Still open the way he left it. Of course it was, he hadn't been gone a full second!
Raised dots peppered the page like tiny bubbles. Grade two Braille was way more efficient and quick than grade one. Grade one Braille spelled out entire words. Braille cells were six dots high and two wide. And whole words filled a lot of page-space. Books written in it were enormous.
Now, grade two Braille? It took long words and shortened or abbreviated them. Syllables and even whole words got condensed into fewer cells. It had a lot of similarities with text-speak, but grade two Braille abbreviations made more sense.
The Doctor's Braille reading speed wasn't as fast as he read while sighted. He annoyed himself by continually trying to look down at the book, so he closed his eyes. Wiggling the toes on his right foot as his fingertips glided across the page helped him process the dot patterns. Funny, his brain didn't fully absorb the information unless he did something with his right foot.
He considered himself a quick study, though, so he fully expected to be an expert by tomorrow morning. Besides, knowing Braille would let him read in the dark if he got his eyesight back. Why wasn't it required curriculum in every school on Earth? Braille was cool.
"A-hem!" Nardole announced his presence. He didn't sound pleased.
The Doctor did his best to appear distracted by Edgar Allan Poe's poetry. He turned the page when he realized he was reading The Raven. That poem upset him for reasons he couldn't pinpoint.
Nardole cleared his throat again, louder. "Doctor, you did it again."
"Did what?"
"Traveled."
Oh, great. Did Nardole find out about his trek on the highway? The Doctor removed his sunglasses and squinted at him.
"I didn't go anywhere."
"Liar." Nardole stomped forward and plopped something paper on the desk, "That's a photograph of Helen Keller."
"Yes, and it's a very nice photograph. But I can't judge a photo as much as I judge thoughtless potato-heads who wave photos in a blind man's face."
"That's not the point!" Nardole's voice rose in pitch. "It's a photograph of Helen Keller solving your textured Rubik's cube! This is…Doctor, this-this– this is an epic fail!"
"It didn't change history, did it?"
"Again, that's not the point!" Oh, the poor bald bloke's face had to be redder than his clothing by now. "Stephen Hawking just sent me an urgent email. He wants an explanation for the monster truck tire delivered to his house yesterday afternoon."
The Doctor slammed his Braille book shut and burst out laughing.
.o
Groaning-wheezes issued from the TARDIS engines. Such a comforting, hopeful sound.
"…so wait, you're like, I dunno– Rain Man?" asked Bill.
The Doctor had just spilled a secret to Bill, a test to see what she knew about the information he gave her about himself.
"Actually, the character of Raymond was based off a man named Kim Peek. Kim Peek wasn't autistic. He had FG syndrome, a condition that results in learning disabilities due to partial or complete agenesis of the corpus callosum."
"Oh! I saw a documentary about him in high school. I don't remember much about it– I kinda, uh, fell asleep in that class."
The Doctor smiled and shook his head. "Kim's memory was exceptional because his brain tried to work around its own unusual structure. Not everyone with FG syndrome has abilities like he did. Nice fellow, by the way, much smarter than people gave him credit for."
"What makes autistic brains different, then?"
"Autistic brains have an excess amount of connections that don't get trimmed away over time. Some areas have stronger connections than others." He shrugged his shoulders and cocked his head. "Simply put, my 'socializing' and 'recognizing social cues' connections are dialup, but my mystery-solving connections are fiber optic. Splinter skills, basically."
"Really?" She was asking questions. He liked that. It meant she didn't pretend to know things when she didn't. "Doesn't life get hard, though? I thought autistic people were sensitive to noise and stuff. Are you?"
"Yeah, sometimes. I have more trouble with touch than hearing." He followed her pacing with his eyes out of habit.
"Let me put it another way: Autistic brains constantly search for symmetry and asymmetry. Then they try to avoid asymmetry as much as possible because they prefer symmetry. Symmetry makes sense. Symmetry is safe. Sometimes, if symmetry isn't present, I create it myself– that's the repetitive behavior known as stimming."
"Stimming, that's what you're doing with your hands." Bill smiled– she absorbed what he said like a sponge. What a great student.
"Yes, actually, I am. I do it a lot." The Doctor twisted his clasped hands against each other to put pressure on the joints. "Every autistic person's inner balance is unique to them. Some people don't prioritize socializing because their brains are too analytical to chin-wag about somebody's new baby. Sometimes sensory issues make focusing on conversation a chore if the lights are too bright or flicker too much. It's like you trying to have a conversation with someone constantly taking your photo."
"Ugh, that happened to me at a party once. It was annoying. I finally shouted at him to clear off before I broke his camera."
"See? Autistic people can have a similar reaction to things that seem totally innocuous to you." The Doctor waved his hand in a 'there you go' gesture.
"And all those 'difficult' behaviors you see so-called 'martyr autism mums' complain about? They're what happens when somebody mucks up the mental symmetry an autistic person creates for themselves. Maybe it's a routine, maybe it's a form of stimming, maybe it's an interest– and these mums wreck it all the time because they think it looks too abnormal. Then they blame the child for being difficult or misbehaving.
"Guess what? A teetering tightrope walker flails to keep their balance, and so do autistic brains. If either loses their balance, they fall. For autistic people, falling means meltdowns or shutdowns."
"But what about people who are…um, I dunno, really severe?" Her jacket's zipper clanked against the console. "You know, the ones who wear diapers and can't communicate at all?"
Amusement crinkled the corners of the Doctor's eyes. "That form of autism doesn't exist."
"Why?"
"High functioning, low functioning. Mild, severe." He opened his hands in a sweeping gesture, "All arbitrary observations from the outside. Autism is autism. Nonverbal autistic people communicate in their own way. They're not locked up in another dimension– they're right here, waiting to be treated like real people instead of problems. Someone who can't talk or feed themselves can still be smart. Just because you can't see what's going on in their head doesn't mean nothing's going on."
"Like Stephen Hawking," Bill said, smiling, "He isn't autistic– he has ALS– but I went to his lecture a few weeks ago. What an amazing man. He has eyes like yours."
"Blue?"
"Wise."
"Ah. There! Wait! There you go! Stephen Hawking is a fine example of what I'm talking about. Take his computer and fame away, and all of a sudden people will start treating him like he's an infant incapable of complex thought and lamenting how tragic his disability is. The same thing happens to autistic people. I was one of those, as you put it, 'really severe' ones when I was a kid. Not everyone 'grows out' of being nonverbal or needing help with basic tasks. But I know first hand what that's like to be talked to as if I'm stupid. It's offensive."
Rustling noises from Bill's coat. The puffy yellow one. He could tell by how it sounded. She was scratching the back of her head in thought.
"But you talk. How did you learn that?"
"Painfully," he answered, "It isn't something I like to talk about. Let's just say damage was done."
"I'm sorry…"
"Bah," He shrugged, "it's not your fault."
"How can I help if you need it?"
"For me, personally? No light touches. It hurts. Firm is better." His eyes crinkled at the corners even though his mouth didn't smile. "And in general? Listen to autistic people about autism. They know what it's like."
He blinked, "Oh, and avoid Autism Speaks and anything 'light it up blue' in April. That 'charity' doesn't represent what autistic people want. They operate like Chasm Forge, so barely any of your money goes to autistic people who need it right now. Donations fund marketing, advertising, fundraisers and research that may lead to eugenics later. Autistic people may end up like a lot of Down's syndrome babies."
Bill stayed quiet for a long moment, taking it in. A rail creaked when she leaned on it.
"Blimey, I had no idea about any of that. I just did a walk for– oh, wow. Never again. I hope I didn't offend you or anything."
That time, he smiled. "You wanted to help. That's a good thing. Sometimes good intentions go bad. That doesn't mean you're bad. You know better now, so do better. Wear red next year and you'll be fine."
"Red instead of blue. Gotcha."
And that was that for the conversation.
A light flashed on the console. The Doctor sensed it and instinctively looked down towards the source as he eased the locking mechanism into the upright position. Deeper wheeze-groans sounded while the TARDIS rematerialized.
They were in Nevada again. The Doctor crossed the console room and stepped outside. It wasn't as hot out this time. The air smelled wet.
Bill hesitated in the doorway. Good, she was learning to be cautious and curious. Her rich, low voice almost blended into the wind when she asked, "We aren't going to run into robots that speak Emoji, are we?"
"Nope. Not in that timezone. We're still in the present." The Doctor snapped his fingers to close the TARDIS doors. "All we're doing is taking a walk."
"Ah, like a Sunday stroll?"
"More of a 'Wednesday wander' if you want to get literal."
The Doctor pulled his cane out of his coat pocket and held it in the pencil grip. Bill joined him, her shoes crackling on the dry soil.
"Good thing I brought my umbrella." She jiggled her umbrella. It squeaked. Ah, one of those huge clear ones that four people could fit underneath. "The sky looks dark."
"Over there?" He pointed south.
"Good guess."
"Tch, no. My cane told me."
Bill chuckled and zipped her coat up all the way. Dirt crackled when she scuffed her shoes over it. "Does it make coffee, too?"
"Har-har. It's not a Starbucks, but it can find the nearest Starbucks." He beckoned her closer, a gesture of trust. "C'mon, elbow."
More coat rustling. The Doctor felt Bill's elbow brush his knuckles and lightly held onto the back of it. His fingertips rested just above the joint in a manner that wouldn't obstruct its free movement.
"I'll assume you already know about the rocks."
"Mmhmm. Let's get on the highway. It's straight ahead."
Bill stepped cautiously over the rocks. The Doctor's cane bounced off a few. They hopped onto the highway and walked south. Their footsteps nearly got lost in the desert's vast openness. Bill stayed close to the highway's edge rather than venture down the center. The Doctor edged her inward.
"Don't worry about vehicles, Bill. It's flat for miles, you'll see one coming long before it gets here."
"It's a two lane road."
The Doctor released Bill's elbow and dodged ahead of her. He spun around to face her while walking backwards, clasped his hands behind his back and tapped his cane just as he would if he were moving forward. A big, silly grin lit his angular features.
"We're fortunate, then. I have great hearing."
Oh, he could almost sense her momentary alarm at seeing him walk backwards like that.
"You're weird," she muttered under her breath.
He stopped squarely in front of her and curtsied elegantly. She laughed and whacked his arm in passing. Chuckling, he pivoted on his heel to grasp her elbow again.
"There's a truck coming towards us," said Bill, her voice still light with a smile. She edged over to the opposite side of the highway despite it being a long way off yet.
The Doctor heard its engine. Typical knock-knock noises. It was a semi.
"Oh? Big truck, little truck? What's it look like?"
Engine noises rumbled closer. Now the truck would be close enough to see details.
"Big truck. Not sure of the make. The nose curves sort of downward and there's three pipes on each side of the cab. There's a silver grill and bumper." Bill slowed her stride as the truck noises approached. "It has a really cool custom paint job. The background color is blue, but there's stencil work that looks like red flames on the front and sides."
"Ah, an old friend."
"You know the driver?"
"Yeah."
He raised his hand in a wave when the semi was less than a hundred meters away. The truck honked its horn as it rumbled by, its huge tires vibrating the asphalt.
Bill stopped and twisted to look at the departing truck. "Um…"
"Problem?"
"I didn't see a driver." She faced forward again. "Probably too much glare from the sky. Anyway, speaking of tires– did you really get a tire delivered to Stephen Hawking's house?"
"Yup." The Doctor grinned at his own impish wit. "You could say I 'tired' him out."
Bill wiggled the elbow he held back and forth. "Doctor, you're impossible. Absolutely, ridiculously impossible."
That word. Impossible.
An impulse in the back of his mind had him releasing his grip on Bill's elbow before he realized he'd moved. He turned abruptly right. His cane slid off smooth asphalt to rattle over hard-packed dirt as he ventured into a large, empty space beside the highway.
Something important happened here. But what? Why? How?
"Doctor?" Bill hedged.
Mysteries. The Doctor loved mysteries. He grinned as he rubbed his chin in thought.
And froze.
Here. Here, on this spot, he touched and kissed another smile. The owner of that smile didn't materialize in his mind. He propped his cane against his shoulder and extended his hands to trace an invisible face.
A tsunami of grief slammed through him. In its wake, an incredible, comforting love stretching beyond time or space. A love that eclipsed his sadness and shone around the hole in his memory like an ethereal solar corona.
Tears trickled out from beneath his sunglasses. They weren't sad. Sad tears meant endings, and this didn't feel like an ending.
Bill, sensing his concentration, came closer without talking. Her unobtrusive presence subtly shifted the air flow on his right. He could hear her breathing.
"Brains forget people, but hearts remember the feelings those people gave us," said the Doctor. He remained poised, his fingertips mapping the air. "It's why you never doubt that your mum loved you, isn't it?"
"I was too young to remember her," she said back, her voice soft.
"Your heart beat inside your mum's belly for nine months. It knows things your brain doesn't. Sometimes, I think people would be better at listening to each other if hearts had ears."
"Really?"
"Mmhmm."
A cool drop hit his face. Not a tear. Another landed in his hair. Splat-splat noises began around him. Within seconds the sky opened up with a full-on downpour that drenched everything it touched.
"Oh!" Bill's umbrella squeaked, then snapped open. Rain pattered noisily on the plastic. "Doctor, you're getting soaked."
The Doctor pocketed his sunglasses to keep them clean. He pushed Bill's umbrella aside. She got the picture. Her umbrella plopped on the wet ground as she opened her arms to let the downpour swish over her coat.
"See? It's just water falling from the sky." He grinned, invigorated by the hope rising inside him. "The best parts of life are experienced, Bill. So be still. Close your eyes. Experience the rain with me."
"Wow." She was smiling, too.
"Yeah. Wow."
The impact of each chilly raindrop twinkled like stars against his skin. He ran both hands through his wet hair, tilted his head back and spread his arms. The hope in his hearts spiraled upward into the rain pouring down.
Once, he told Missy that love was a promise. And Clara's smile– the tactile memory of its wrinkles and curves– had embedded itself in his fingerprints where the neural block couldn't wholly wipe it away. The rest of her face escaped him, but not the smile. He must have promised to remember it because he loved her.
And love always found a way to continue, regardless of time and space.
"Doctor…are you crying?"
The Doctor totally forgot Bill was still there. Rain pattered off her umbrella– she picked it up when he wasn't paying attention. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. They were wet. It wasn't rain.
"Yeah, I am, but it's not sad." He sniffled, "I was having an experience."
"I can tell. I didn't want to interrupt. Aren't you cold?"
Light wind blew against his face. The downpour began to let up. They were both soaked to the bone.
"Me? Cold? Nah." The Doctor said, feigning offense. "I have a lower body temperature than humans. Now come along, Potts. Let's get you somewhere warm."
She automatically stepped ahead of him. He sped up and walked beside her, opting to tap his cane rather than hold onto her elbow.
"Have you seen The Wizard of Oz, Bill?"
"Of course. Who hasn't? Why?"
"Oh, no reason…just this."
The Doctor showed Bill his Dorothy-skip. She was greatly amused. Then he taught her how to do it. They skipped back to the TARDIS together.
.o
"…'Cause when I close my eyes,
I still can see your smile.
It's bright enough to light my life,
out of my darkest hour…"
–Gloria Estefan, "I See Your Smile"