Humans always got it wrong with Timelords. If he ever wrote an auto-biography – which he wouldn't – that would probably be the title. In 8D Print. With a little screaming Dalek on the front. And maybe some of those wavy vines he had taught the Gregorian monks to paint.
Still not writing one.
Though honestly, with what he put up with from these creatures, he might as well write a book. Probably keep someone else's head from exploding. At least the Timelords were altogether bothersome. That tidied things up nicely: rude Timelords, rude Doctor, rude TARDIS; fine and simple.
Humans on the other hand -! Rassilon, they were outrageous. They were both. Of anything. And none at all. And maybe both and none at all at the same time, depending on your angle. Okay, should probably go back and check that last sentence.
ORTHOGONAL ENGINE FILTERS ran across the monitor near his head, the alert outlined in warning red. His eyes flickered up to the message. Distractedly he began preparing the TARDIS for dematerialization, initiating Hover Mode until his Time Machine was far enough to engage spacial displacement without the gravitational interference of earth.
But for one thing! Humans shove their expectations of love and companionship on other species in a way that would be inexcusably annoying if it was not so endearing. No, no no no - not endearing, more like plaintive, like those badgering sheep that baa'ed until they got attention.
Probably why humans love sheep. Make everything they wear with them and everything. The species is practically a walking billboard. Ohh I love cats! Let me plaster their tacky faces over all of my belongings and my dog.
The Doctor braced his hands on the console as the Time Rotor began driving up and down; dematerialization initiated and the TARDIS deftly slipped between Chronon particles and into the Vortex.
But like most species, humans were a singular person for their lifespan. Sure, they chopped their hair and dieted and stood in the sun too long and had their hearts broken, but they stayed themselves their whole life. Their face and their personality and their teeth belonged exclusively to them.
Not that one could tell. Hiding it under makeup and beards. Facial appreciation had never been his strong suit. He'd had a job of it just trying to make sure he ended up with two eyes and one mouth. He never had the time to develop a palate for pleasing features (unless, of course, they were lizards) so he didn't have the necessary perspective - or energy - to distinguish between one face and another. Not this regeneration, anyway.
Timelords were always above that sort of thing. At least, they were when he left. Probably explained his ongoing bad luck in the earlier regenerations. No telling what the Highborn had gotten to now. On one hand, a good face was always appreciated, yeah! But what if you had annoying heartbeats? Or breathing that never quieted enough for one to hear the silent ticking of the universe. Or frankly all your teeth.
The TARDIS stabilized in its travel through the 5th dimension. The Doctor straitened and began entering the specifications of the nearest draft-ACER.
There was so much more to find out about a person than the face. That was just the wrapper! No telling what was brewing and bubbling inside. Thirteen regenerations in and he still had no idea how certain creatures ticked. He really couldn't blame the humans for trying to squish it all in one lifetime.
Timelords didn't have that problem. Not when they actually paid attention, anyway. Their senses had been tweaked and sharpened to razor-like intensity in areas humans didn't even understand. Three days in with someone and you know them better than your own mother. You've got to pick and choose very carefully. Individuals make giant holes in a Timelord's hearts. That's why he could only handle one or two humans at a time.
That's why she must have left such a hole in this regeneration.
His slender hands paused in their dance over the TARDIS navigational console. For a mere millisecond of time they trembled, brushing against the glinting knobs as though feeling for the heat and softness of a hand that no longer rested there.
Deep gouges and wounds are never the problem. They were there all the time. It's the skin that's gone and stays missing that causes the pain.
And this skin called Clara was terribly torn.
In the span of a soundless breath the moment had vanished.
Time resumed.
The Doctor finished keying in the information and stood, watching and listening, his hand resting upon the brakes, waiting for the TARDIS to initiate the landing protocols before he began materialization. Time flew by in calming waves.
Their peaceful administrations had no effect in drawing his wild ruminations elsewhere.
His mind was not calm.
Clara.
Like watching an inward eye of a storm, his inexorable mind ran staggering and hostile and useless circles around the unruffled vacuum surrounding that name.
He felt the incisions.
All of them. Places of absence. They were everywhere. Not just one. Billions. Uncountable. Unacceptable. He couldn't recall a regeneration that didn't hum with that teeth-gritting absence of memory.
In a sudden violent motion, the Doctor slammed the breaks down, hearing the alarmed screeching of the machinery and living metal that made up the TARDIS. The ship jerked as the TARDIS compensated for the sudden command. He felt the ship spin as it exited the wormhole in the Vortex, smelling and tasting the Artron Energy released that consolidated possible timelines into a single stretch of space. The alarms in the TARDIS faded slowly as he leaned unperturbed against the console. Pulsing blues and reds streaking across the devices in front of him, Gallifreyan feedback flashing across the monitor. The haphazard glows illuminated the Doctor's pale face, his thin, sensitive mouth, danced through his distant eyes.
Of course, he couldn't look for her. Never mind why; whys are things to be avoided. Especially in these sort of things. They could drive you insane. "When" was the real question; any of the other questions were answered by "when".
He glanced down at his hand. If it hadn't been so clenched on the brake handle, its' shakiness would've been apparent. As it was, the unpleasant sensation was spreading to his arm.
"When" was exactly the problem. She was too much of it. Oh Clara. She was "when", for all matters. Even if he could glean information from her shadows, from people who still had her fixed in their mind-
It wouldn't matter. He wouldn't be able to find her again. Too much when. Like trying to talk to someone but only catching recorded messages.
The real thing was gone.
His eyes never left his hand.
Her laugh. Always notice the laugh; human's laughter is always directly built from their experiences. From what they'd done together, she must have had a fearless laugh. One that people liked.
The shaking had reached his insides.
Oh -! What about the smell? Or her heartbeat? Her smile? Or the time that surely must have begun to warp delightfully around her, because that's what the Vortex did to beings that resided in its shadow too long. Did she stay in the TARDIS like he must have ordered or did she go bouncing about on her own, snogging strangers, crashing régimes, liberating children, scorching the very galaxies with her presence?
The cloister-bell rang out, startling the Doctor from his reverie. He glanced up sharply, bushy eyebrows drawing down over his gaze in a weary frown.
Yes.
Clara had been like that.
Of course she had.
He knew that.
He knew because that's how he was.
The cloister-bell rang again, and the Doctor straitened, the shakiness in his frame determinedly gone.
And his bothersome, bumbling, brave and idiotic and stubborn and frightened and angry, fragile, sweet companions-
-they always followed his example.
The Doctor resumed his travel, but instead this time he let the TARDIS operate at lowest power, letting the route be the long way. He slowly made his way up the stairs to the balcony that ran round his console room, letting his hand slid over the leather of his sitting chair before he sank into it. His elbows came to rest on the arms, his fingers creating a steeple that his fierce eyes could peer through.
The chalkboard across the room could be seen through that narrow steeple. The unfamiliar writing still powder-fresh.
"Run you clever boy. And be a Doctor."
The Doctor closed his eyes.
Funny last thing to say. Didn't flow very well.
But the most infuriating thing about the whole mess –
-was that he had nothing to miss. Nothing.
Nothing.
And that was the most lonesome thing of all.