AN: So. I don't know. This is a result of my fatigue after work, my lack of tea and the fact that Australia is currently trying very hard to make me sick of rain. Which I would have thought impossible. Apparently not. Hope it's ok :) Don't own anything etc.
The Doctor liked to consider himself a reasonable man.
A wise, old man.
A boisterous, blistering, youthful man.
An important, towering, formidable man.
A man with impeccable dress sense.
It was this calming, seemingly unalterable perception that soothed him, whispered that perhaps he was right. Perhaps he had reason to be slightly agitated, slightly unnerved, maybe even slightly put out by the fact that, quite recently, he was nearly erased from history.
The man who had witnessed a thousand civilisations commence, exist and then die. Who had made them die.
The man who charmed all those he met, particularly those of the female or Captain Jack persuasion; offers of cups of tea, a meal down the pub, royal banquets and uh, intimate soirees, accumulating about his person like a million pointed, socially frustrated mosquitoes.
The man who made Daleks quiver and scream on the inside, made Cybermen almost feel, and made entire, hostile alien forces, equipped with lasers, guns and a bloody great onboard prison retreat and then flee with one single word – 'Run'. With no TARDIS, no screwdriver and 2 minutes to spare.
The man who, for Rassilion's sake, could pull off a celery stick attached to a lapel with all apparent grace and confidence, make knitting fashionable once more, traverse the wild, unruly plains of 'geek-chic' and install a pleasantly surprising amount of sex appeal in a fez.
Erased.
He could not fathom it.
Oh, he pretended of course – spouting off lengthy, technical sentences, stocked with space time continuum jargon and the silences filled with his placating, accepting, knowledgeable tone.
In the brief seconds before impact, with the Pandorica shaking around him and the explosion's light beginning to seep through, the Doctor's mind slithered into an academic's robe, dusty with chalk and crumpled with use and assumed a condescending, methodical, superior veneer.
It scoffed and glanced disdainfully at the towering blackboards of knowledge before it and erased the whole lot.
He saw Gallifrey disappear again in a cloud of chalk dust and the stereotypical wheezing of an aged professor.
Languages from the 17th Cerox Galaxy were scrubbed away, customs from Slomar, visions from Plak 23, memories from Asseille.
Friends were swiped, lovers gone, and Amy was wiped slowly off, her recent tears, her faults, her patience, her infuriatingly sexy retorts.
The mural of Rose, in the centre of them all, left him again.
Then, his mind, dreadfully detached, raised its arms in a symbolic manner and melded, seamlessly in to the glistening, uninterrupted black behind it.
His ears, however, and his mouth, more attached to, and infinitely more fond of his heart, appeared to have a different idea. So, as he woke, as he knew he would, on the floor of the TARDIS, he validated the existence of his legs (Legs. Good.), fondled his beloved battle piece (Bow Tie. Cool), lamented the loss of his most recent fashion acquisition (I can buy a fez) and his mind howled in frustration.
He saw, as he knew he would, Amy lounging luxuriously against the TARDIS rail, preparing for their relatively harmless trip to Space Florida (automated sand, yes, but flesh-eating sand flies and cannibalistic natives also yes). His mouth commented ponderously that he must be retracing his own timeline, reversing it – hello Universe, goodbye Doctor - his curiosity still betraying corrupt fluctuations of optimism. His cold, efficient mind sneered contemptuously.
He chanced upon Amy delivering the letter at Craig's three weeks ago, yelled brazenly to her and received a miraculous reaction. His mind, previously pacing intelligently, blandly, up and down and up and down and up and down suddenly faltered, exhaled, grinned and allowed its footsteps to trace a maneuver greatly resembling The Nutbush, then The Shopping Trolley, then The Soulja Boy Tell 'Em concoction of bodily movements.
Indeed. Superman, that ho.
Behind it, the blackboards were, once more, filling up.
His heart spoke now for his entire being and it poured and poured and poured.
He jabbered confusedly at Amy in the Byzantium, kissed her and dared to imagine that he would do so again.
He sat, seemingly muted, seemingly resigned at Amy's bed, the night she waited, and his words floated about the room, dipping and soaring, then thickening and swirling around hazily like an exotic, tempting perfume.
He wafted them over her, let them sink and imprint and meld, infusing themselves separately into each window, each sliver of her subconscious, creating and conducting her dreams like a concerto.
He was methodical, purposeful, driven, but kind. For these words protected The Best, so there was simply no other way.
Ancient and brand new.
Borrowed, not stolen.
And the bluest blue ever.
Behind his facade he begged, he pleaded, he prayed. The Oncoming Storm knelt before Chance and Luck, sitting high on their golden thrones and their soaring pedestals and tore his precious pride to shreds.
Then he went to put on his suit.
For the split second after mad, impossible Amy Pond had remembered him back into existence, the Doctor wanted to go back.
What if it was wrong? Different? Changed? What if this was not his world, not his TARDIS, not his place? What if, now, Jackie Tyler could actually sort of cook, or bow ties were dorky, or Rory had a normal sized nose? What if his Rose severely disliked him? What if his Amy was quiet, conservative, and not a ginger?
What if he had failed?
He was only a reasonable man after all.
Then, there was knock, and unbelievably, uncomfortably frightened, he swung the TARDIS door open.
And there she was.
Infuriated, flustered and positively beaming.
A suave looking man three tables over sported a red bow tie, and garnered lots of appreciative glances from the ladies nearby. All over 60, of course. No matter.
Rory's nose trumpeted at him from across the floor, his vague psychic link with meta-crisis Doctor showed him Rose's continued love for both of them, and even here, above the low buzzing of bemused wedding guests, miles and miles away and in between Jackie's incessant chattering and the nasal whinging of EastEnders on the telly, he still heard Mickey's quiet sigh as she placed her "Curry Surprise" in front of him.
When Amy turned to him, red hair blazing triumphantly beneath her veil, and forwardly declared, "You may absolutely, definitely kiss the bride.", he was quite tempted. Out of joy more than anything. But instead, he deftly passed to her to the new Mr. Pond, stuttering and stumbling and loving as he knew he should be.
The Doctor won the unofficial dancing competition with his peculiarly attractive style, as he knew he should have, ate too much cake, as he knew he should have, and spent a great proportion of the night gently fending off Amy's persistent advances - joking, intoxicated, yet laced with a unnerving, familiar undercurrent of bizarre seriousness.
His world twisted and weaved back around him, enveloping him in its wonders, its faults and its undeniable brilliance.
Which, deep down, he always knew it should have.