Title: Full Circle
Rating: T for heartbreaking feels
Summary: He can't help himself – he always has to say goodbye.
Disclaimer: *sobs in despair*
Dedication: To the incredible, wonderful, hysterical, fantastic, incomparable CJ, who gave me this idea and promptly moved me to tears. This is entirely her fault.
He drops Clara off at her job, sorts through the expansive closet in the TARDIS, and double-checks that his bowtie is in place.
It's 5:47 p.m. on a Thursday. Night is falling and there's a crisp wind blowing, foretelling snow and ice and fog.
It is time.
The waiting room is empty, which suits him just fine. As he approaches the ward he hears hushed voices, one male and two female, before he turns the corner and sees them. They're in their mid to late forties, all of them, standing just outside the room. One of the women is pale with ginger hair, but the nose doesn't fit. She's shorter, too, unlike her sister who is tall and sturdily built but has darker skin and black hair. The man is bald but fair, his skin lightly dusted with brown, hinting at his father's African roots. He has his mother's eyes.
"Do the children know? I mean, really know?" The short ginger asks.
"I don't know how else they'd interpret 'saying goodbye'." The tall one snorts in a familiar manner.
"I think they understand as much as they can." The man says soothingly.
He steps closer, and they all look up. He smiles apologetically.
"Just popping in for a moment; I have to check the equipment." He explains.
This snaps something inside of the taller woman. "What's the point?" She demands, her voice sharp and chastising and oh, she sounds so much like her mother. "What's the point if you know it's only a matter of…" She cuts herself off, folds her arms, and looks away.
"I'm sorry." The man apologizes. "You're just doing your job." His eyes are warm and wet, and again, there is the mark of his mother upon him.
The shorter woman goes over to her sister, soothes her down, murmuring words of comfort. He gazes at the three of them with a residual love, caring for them because they are an expression of her, loving them because she does. There is so much of her in them, and he knows that she raised them well.
Tearing himself away, he enters the room.
It's dark, the tiny bleeping lights on the machine the only thing breaking up the shadows. He remembers another kind of shadow and snorts in remembrance. He thought he'd lost her, then. Compared to that, this shouldn't be so hard. At least now he gets to bid her adieu.
She's the only patient in the room, and he's thankful for that. He pulls up a chair and sits, folding his hands and resting his elbows on his knees. He clears his throat.
She turns her head, slightly, and opens her eyes.
"Who are you?" She asks, and her voice is frail and creaky but oh, it's still her voice. He can't stop himself from smiling – beaming, really. This is the voice that out-shouted him in many an argument, chastised him like he was a child, comforted him when there was nothing he could do to change things or to save someone, coaxed the story of Rose out of him and helped him release the ghost of her that he carried inside his chest.
He takes in her features. Wrinkles, born by a multitude of smiles and frowns and laughter, parts where the skin sags or stretches tight because it is worn and doesn't quite fit anymore. It's been a while since he's had an older form, a body marred by time, but he remembers. And despite all of that, her face really hasn't changed – especially her eyes, how they gaze at him, bright and fierce and stubborn.
She's still his best mate, after all of this.
"I said, who the hell are you?" Her voice rises a little, but not by much.
"I'm…" He clears his throat. "I'm an old friend." He wishes he had his old form back, so that it might aid her memory.
"I don't remember you." She replies.
"You're not supposed to." He explains.
"Then why are you here?" She asks. Always asking the tough questions.
"Because…" He never could lie to her. He could lie to Martha and the Ponds, far too easily. He could lie to Rose, to keep her safe, to keep her from following him back across universes and times, hiding his heart away because he knew it was best for her.
But he can't lie to her. He never could.
"I'm a selfish man." He explains. "And I wanted to say a proper goodbye." He smiles. "I don't get a lot of those."
Amy was the first, in fact.
"Oh." She is confused, but game to tackle this challenge. She was always game for anything, in the end. "Well… how do we know each other, then?"
"I stopped your wedding." He informs her.
She frowns at that. "My wedding… everything went perfectly."
"I know. I saw your children outside. I didn't mean that wedding; I stopped the other one."
It's clear that she's lost. "Right. So apparently I almost had another wedding that I don't remember, and you stopped it."
He nods. "Exactly." Then he frowns. "Actually… it was before that, in a way." He's remembering now, the cause-and-effect thing she told him of, back in the fortuneteller's shop. "It started when you turned left."
Her breath catches. "I what?"
It's his turn to frown. "You turned left."
Her eyes widen and shine oddly, and oh, he understands now. Everyone has their Bad Wolf. Everyone has a way home.
The memories flood her so quickly she can't breathe. The wedding-that-wasn't and the spider queen and Pompeii and Rose and Daleks and Oods and universes crumbling and all because she turned left, she turned left, and it was terrifying and confusing and half the time she was cold or hungry or running for her life but she didn't care, neither of them did, because they were having adventures. She was out there, among the stars, just like her grandfather always wanted to.
And then she remembers pain. She remembers knowing so much, feeling so much, until it's spilling out of her, leaking out of her brain, and it all hurts and this is what it's like when computers short-circuit, why can't she stop this, abort abort abort reboot repeat reboot and I'm fine, I'm fine, but I'm not and thoughts are all jumbled like puzzle pieces falling and her head hurts like there's liquid fire sloshing around inside of it.
She remembers fever, and shivering, and her body twitching. She remembers fire that burned inside of her, and knowledge that shone like light until it blinded. And then there's nothing left to remember, because it's all cool, soothing darkness, and a sense of something softly fading away.
And then she's waking up, smiling, and wondering why her grandfather is looking at her like that, with his eyes so soft and heavy, and his mouth full of things he won't ever say.
She turned left, and she soared between the stars.
She smiles at him, and he feels the wet heat pricking his eyes, swelling up, sees it reflected back in her own.
"Hello, Donna." He says. He forces himself to smile.
"Doctor." Her breath gives a little hitch. "What took you so long?"
He smiles, and taps her forehead with his finger. "That."
She understands, because she understands everything. It's like a secret floodgate in her head has been unlocked, and the universe is laid at her feet. "Of course. My human brain can't handle being connected to the heart of the TARDIS like that, a Time Lord mind inside of a human body, surprised your clone didn't explode like that, lucky man, and that's why you had to regenerate, regenerate, regenerate to save Rose."
He feels his smile slip. It's already starting. Her face falters a little, and he knows that she's reached the same conclusion.
"It's happening, isn't it?" She asks, softly. "I'm going to start burning soon."
He swallows harshly. "I'm afraid so." He says, trying to sound light but failing miserably.
"It's all right, you know." She informs him. "I'm going anyway. I said goodbye to my grandchildren today… I have seven."
"You'll have nine, in time." He tells her, unable to stop himself.
She brightens. "Boys or girls?"
"One of each."
She laughs. "Of course you'd spy on them. You're such a meddler."
"Only when it involves crying children." He says, a little miffed.
She just laughs harder. "Oh, Doctor." Her eyes shine like stars. "I did miss you. Never had a best mate since you."
He clears his throat, makes himself smile. "Same here."
"But tell me…" The light is creeping in behind her eyes, and she knows she doesn't have more than a couple of minutes. "Have you taken on anyone since I had to leave?"
He nods. "Got myself a little sister." He quickly tells her all about the Ponds, and River Song – which she finds fascinating since she met River – and finally Clara.
"I'm proud of you." She tells him, laying a hand on his arm. It takes effort to move. "They're good for you, you know. Don't ever travel alone."
"I won't." He promises her.
There's a pause, and then… "Rose?"
"I haven't… I can't." He replies. "She has what… what I couldn't give her."
She nods. "Martha?"
"With Mickey the Idiot, of all people. They have kids. Haven't talked to them but… I keep watch."
"You'll say goodbye to them, too, when the time comes." She whispers, knowingly. She could always read his mind. Maybe it's because, in the end, they're very similar.
"I always say goodbye." He confesses.
The fire starts in the back of her skull and begins to work its way forwards. It's odd, but although her head aches the rest of her body is relaxed and boneless – so much so that she can hardly feel her limbs.
"You're a good man that way." She tells him.
He tries to chuckle but can't. "You have such faith in me."
"You never gave me a reason not to." She assures him.
He lays his hand over hers, squeezing it gently. She can barely feel it.
"Goodbye, Doctor." She whispers. Everything is spinning painfully again, and she knows what's coming. Oddly, she doesn't mind the pain.
"Goodbye, Donna Noble." He replies.
His other hand reaches down and pulls on the plug.
Her body sinks away into soft, warm darkness, and a new kind of light fills her eyes. This one, funnily, doesn't hurt at all.
He sees her chest stop moving, feels her pulse, and removes his hand. He plugs the machine back in. It won't bring her back, but if her children see the pulled plug there will be issues. It might have been underhanded of him but he couldn't sit and watch her mind burn.
Her voice reaches out to him from the past, a memory curling about his ears.
Donna Noble has left the library.
Donna Noble has been saved.
This is, interestingly, my first non-M rated story. Despite the sadness of it I didn't think the theme to be particularly mature or inappropriate.
Anyway, now that you're all sobbing into your shirts (sorry not sorry), be sure to leave a review informing me that I have dashed your hearts to pieces and I should stop letting CJ put ideas in my head.
Also – the 50th Anniversary special is coming up! Am I the only one stocking up on tissues?