So… wow, hi everyone! It's been a while – but all assignment deadlines have been met, and I am now free to rid myself of these evil plot bunnies that have been gnawing away at me when I've been trying to write about educational theory!
I know it's another switch in fandoms, but currently my HTTYD muse has flown off leaving several unfinished fics in it's wake – but with the fast approaching HTTYD 2 film coming out, I'm sure she'll be back. So a quick apology to all my lovely new subscribers who were expecting this to be a HTTYD fic - But hopefully there are a few Whovians in there too to enjoy this!
While avoiding writing one of my assignments, this quote floated into my head – at which point the plot bunnies attacked :) so after scribbling the skeleton for this down I left it until everything was handed in… and then wrote over 1,200 in a few hours. Why could I never get the assignment done that fast?!
A Hand To Hold
"There's a lot of things you need to get across this universe. Warp drive… wormhole refractors… you know the thing you need most of all? You need a hand to hold."
If he thought about it – really thought about it, in the way that he would only allow himself to do in the dead of night in the darkest, most private corner of the TARDIS – this body had been made for her. This regeneration looked closer to her age for one thing, all smooth features and ridiculous hair. It had been born from his love for her; after all, he had sacrificed his 9th body to take the vortex out of her head, knowing full well what that meant for him. And if he was honest (as he only could be in this, the darkest corner of the TARDIS), he could have removed the vortex with a simple touch to her temples. He hadn't needed to kiss her – well, not for the vortex's sake anyway.
Even as he regenerated, burning with the strength of a supernova, all he could focus on was her. He made himself a pretty boy for her, opened his hearts for this small, pink and yellow human and honestly? That terrified him.
As much as his Time Lord instincts screamed at him to pull away from her, create a distance, keep away… this body was so tactile – always touching, or holding hands, or hugging. A constant need to be near her, to touch her, to make sure she was still safe; Still with him. He knew, oh how he knew, that he couldn't rely so heavily on one fragile, little human. He couldn't make her his safe harbour from the storm within.
"You wither and die. Imagine watching that happen to someone you-"
"You can spend the rest of your life with me, but I can't spend the rest of mine with you. That's the curse of the Time Lords."
Oh Rassilon; and he had given himself away so many times. Shown his dependence, his greatest weakness to an unkind universe. Even a Dalek, a stinking Dalek, a creature that knows only hate, sealed inside its casing. Not feeling anything ever, from birth to death, locked inside a cold metal cage. Completely alone. Even it had known how to use her against him.
"What use are emotions if you will not save the woman you love?"
He risked the entire population of Salt Lake City, one million people, for one human girl. Because he needed a hand to hold. Hers. And He'd known the damage giving in could do. He'd said it himself!
"One million people, all dead. If the Dalek gets out, it'll murder every living creature. That's all it needs, because it honestly believes they should die."
And yet there he was, handing the Dalek the keys to the door, all to save one fragile girl.
"I killed her once. I can't do it again."
Did the importance of one girl out-weigh the entirety of Salt Lake City? One million people facing extermination because he needed to hold the hand of one Rose Tyler?
Yes.
Because she made him better.
"Get out of the way. Rose, get out of the way now!"
"No. I won't let you do this." And there should stood, protecting a Dalek of all things. Shielding one of the deadliest creatures in all of the universe, a creature bred from hate for the purpose of war. A creature encased in armour, and she stood defiant; protecting it with her fragile form.
"That thing killed hundreds of people."
A pause as she watched him, judged him, and found him wanting.
"It's not the one pointing the gun at me."
And the sadness in her tone nearly broke him. From a fraction of a second he lowered the gun, before pulling it up again. He had to stop it. A Dalek was a monster, a heartless being that would butcher millions without stopping, because it believed it was right to do so. Never stopping, because the orders for retreat would never come. It would kill and kill and kill until nothing was left, because it had no other purpose.
"I've got to do this. I've got to end it. The Daleks destroyed my home, my people. I've got nothing left."
"It's changing, and what about you, Doctor? What the hell are you changing into?"
He lowered the gun, heartbroken.
"I couldn't… I wasn't…" he broke off, eyes pleading her to forgive him. "Oh, Rose. They're all dead."
She made him better. But oh how she made him worse.
"They did what?"
His fury was barely contained, raging at boiling point beneath a thin veneer of calm. But even that was slipping as he stared at her featureless face.
"I'm sorry?" The Detective Inspector's voice seemed quiet against the pounding rage that filled his ears. The rush of blood as the red mist descended.
"They left her where?" he asked, through gritted teeth. His brow furrowed in anguish.
"Just… in the street." Bishop replied, surprised by the almost tangible shock of emotion suddenly crackling in the room
"In the street."
His eyebrows lifted; and the tenuous control he held over his fury snapped as the calm mask slipped over his features. An unnerving quiet before the storm.
"They left her in the street. They took her face and just chucked her out and left her in the street."
His teeth were gritted. His words coming faster and faster as the internal tidal wave of rage swept through him. Rising higher and higher, flooding his mind and sweeping away the mercy and the control as the storm took hold. And then… he paused. He took a deep breath, his face not betraying the maelstrom of emotion roiling below the surface. His voice dropped to a low, seductive growl. A tone that made the hairs on the back of Detective Inspector Bishop's neck stand up.
"And as a result, that makes things simple. Very, very simple."
His head tilted as he looked over his shoulder towards the Detective, carefully pulling the glasses from his face. "Do you know why?"
"No." A shiver shot down Bishop's spine and the Detective was afraid. This man, this strange, dangerous man seemed to radiate a power that made the Inspector want to run away and hide. In the same way he had effortlessly turned the tables of power in the interrogation room, the Doctor whirled to face him and the Inspector quailed beneath the smouldering glare.
"Because now, Detective Inspector Bishop," the Doctor spat, his temper flaring as the storm ripped through the thin veneer, "there is no power on this Earth that can stop me. Come on!"
He was dangerous. The Oncoming Storm. The Killer of his own kind. But that was nothing compared to her. She was dangerous in to what she did to him. She made him better, but she made him vulnerable. She was his weakness, his Achilles heel. His dependence for her hand to hold, to tether the storm, to help him across the universe… He must have given himself away so many times – shown her the power she held over him, over the entire universe.
She must have known.
"Quite right too."
She had to know.
"And, I suppose… if it's my last chance to say it…"
He needed her hand to hold.
"Rose Tyler-"
Well I enjoyed writing that far too much! Then again, considering all I've allowed myself to write for the past few months was academic theory… I'm not all that surprised!
Hope you enjoyed it and feel free to drop me a review – I've got another 8 or so Doctor Who plot bunnies gnawing at my ankles, so more like this to come!
Love and Hugs,
Spannerspoon out.