A/N: Back again, not ten days later with another one-shot. Twelve stories I have, all perfectly continuable ... "No, sir. All Thirteen!"
(And isn't it just a happy coincidence that the same actor who played the Time Lord who said that quote also happens to be the actor who portrayed Horatio in the 2009 edition of Hamlet with David Tennant ... ? Ah, never mind.)
((I've recently watched the 1996 edition of Hamlet with Kevin Branagh as Hamlet. Yeah. Lockhart. He's quite good. Go watch it. I also found the interpretation of Polonius rather startling, having seen the 2009 edition first. Vibrant clash of character. Wonderful.))
Anyway, I'll tell you now, this is rather ambiguous as to whom it's referring to. That was my intent. All the background you need to know is that this is set sometime in the Year That Never Was with Lucy and the Master and Martha and Jack and the Doctor. Another vague, blurry introspection from the point of view of another character. My favorite.
Regardless, don't mind my ramblings above, no revision for this one-shot, hope you enjoy.
He never stops.
Talking, running, jumping, chattering, sitting, swinging, singing, and he's never still. (A voice in the back of her head wants to know why, for all of his movement, he never seems to go anywhere.)
He's in constant motion, with no equal and opposite outside force to stop him except his other counterpart, the other Time Lord, over whom he seems to think he has the upper hand. She wonders, constantly, if this is the way of all Time Lords, to run and run and overexert until they drop (or are beaten) and then some, or if it's just these two that she's come to analyze.
She supposes it doesn't matter, anymore. It's not like there are any other samples to observe. They're the only Time Lords left, therefore any similar idiosyncrasies between them become the things that distinguish them as Time Lords.
But one thing is for sure. For all of their fighting and arguing and disdainful glares, they share some sort of bond. At first look, neither of them seem to have any similarities, bar species (and not even that is outright visible) and that pompous arrogance they both hold, and are complete arch-enemies. But she prides herself on being able to look past the surface material and realize the true relationships between people.
Each other are all they ever talk about. Ask one, he'll tell you about the other. Ask the other, he'll tell you of that one. (Or, more likely, ask one he'll tell you about the other, ask the other, he'll mumble something small and divert the conversation away from that territory.)
Talking, chattering, burbling, and the only real truth comes when it's about each other. They dare not lie about each other. She wished she knew why. Some voice inside her head tells her she should be glad she doesn't know.
Her Time Lord is springy. Bouncy. Like a coiled slinky, full of tense, potential energy that he can never seem to use. The other Time Lord is mellower in the mind. Not calmer, and most definitely not anywhere near sane, but older. Aged. Whether in mind or body, she'll never know.
But there's a naive impetuousness about the both of them that makes her think maybe - just maybe - they hadn't always been like this. Hadn't been ignorant, to the point of childish distractions. Hadn't been pigmented with the same experiences, same losses and gains, same thoughts. Same insanity. Perhaps there was a before, when they weren't like this.
Perhaps before had never been.
But that wasn't for her to pick at. All she knew for certain (could know; because all that her Time Lord tells her comes with its own gallons of salt, at the expense of no chance of mineral deficiency) was that regardless of which Time Lord she and the other companion kept close, the only difference between the two Time Lords was the will to live.
Time Lords are (were?) mighty, indomitable, and far too advanced for their own good. But no matter how hard they may try, they'll always be that little bit of distance away, never able to come closer, always far too willing to back away. The word 'xenophobic' comes to mind, a word she had heard her Time Lord offhandedly offer about his race.
She wondered if he knew how alike he really was to his species (if he didn't lie to her about them, either). She supposed perhaps it didn't matter if he did. If either of them did. The rest of them are gone, now, and the only thing they can be compared to are themselves.
Lucy glanced through the screen at Martha Jones on the other end. Their eyes locked, their gazes taut and inspecting, testing the other. And of all of the humans left on planet Earth, of all the aliens roaming around amongst her, of all of the people she had ever met and would never meet, she felt as if Martha Jones was the only one who really understood.
Lucy knew her Time Lord, knew his secrets and everything about him there could be to know. And yet she felt as if the 500,000 kilometers between her and Martha Jones was infinitely closer than any Time Lord and companion could ever be.
A/N: Y'know, that review box is really ticklish. Really, really ticklish. Give it a tickle. Go on. Just a tiny tickle.
Moving on, I hope you enjoyed that one-shot, another will be coming soon (probably), and hopefully I can get myself off my arse and actually finish my other stories.
Peace out, friends,
~IsomorphicTARDIS