Author's Note: After the Japan tsumami/earthquake disaster this spring, a fandom auction was hosted on livejournal in which a whole variety of fics, vids, etc. were offered up, with amounts bid to be donated to charity. A huge thanks to Kerravonsen for bidding on my offering (and the subsequent donation to charity). Thank you also to Metonomia and accidentalsquid for beta-ing.
Initial Prompt: Susan as a companion to the Doctor, helping him work through his issues.
(I'm not sure how well I accomplished the "working through his issues" part of the prompt, so much as merely uncovering them and having Susan sympathize, but I'll leave that up to you to decide.)
-—x—-
The Susan her brothers say goodbye to is not the same Susan who watches their last minutes with tears in her eyes from a distance at the train station. When the event has passed and the ring of screaming metal has faded, she picks herself up from the gravel and almost runs off to see if there is still time - because surely, surely, there must still be time -
Maybe it is because the Doctor has trained her too well; maybe it is because she's balanced choices and consequences before as a queen. Whatever the cause, she holds herself back, forces herself to breathe - brushes herself off and searches out the Doctor.
When she finds him, he takes one look at her expression and doesn't say a word.
—x—
If my life were a story, she whispers one day to the heart of the TARDIS, I think it just might be a tragedy.
—x—
The first time she'd entered the TARDIS, the metal-grate floor had reminded her of bomb shelters and secret tunnels and war. She'd stood in the entrance, separated from the world by a set of deep-blue double doors, and wondered if she'd ever be able to escape the memories.
Even now, the groaning song of the TARDIS hints at chaos and pain and sharp, bitter joy. Sometimes, Susan sits alone in a corner that could have been made for her between coral pillar and thrumming wall. She listens to it and finds comfort in it; sometimes, she hums along.
The Doctor finds her there one day and raises an eyebrow in mild surprise. "Not many can make out the tune," he says.
—x—
The difference between a comedy and a tragedy, the Doctor misquotes, is that in a comedy, everyone lives.
We all die in the end, she retorts.
—x—
"If you had to pick a time of day," the Doctor asks, "which would it be?"
It is a typical Doctor question: abrupt, without warning, and with very little point. Susan is startled from her train of thought; she blinks and looks up over the railing to where the Doctor is waiting beside the console. His hands hover over the controls as she deliberates, putting more thought in the answer than he had into the question.
"Dusk," she answers finally. End-of-day when night falls and the peaceful release of sleep approaches; alternatively, a time to hide in the shadows and watch without being seen. "You?"
"Sunrise." He looks over and must see something in her eyes because he adds defensively, "I like the colours."
Susan doesn't tell him - doesn't know how to tell him even if she wanted to - but it had not been judgement in her eyes. She envies his appreciation of the time of day when hope is strongest.
—x—
A tragedy ends in death, the Doctor says, but I just keep on living. On and on. No end in sight.
So you're a comedy, then, Susan whispers.
He raises his head to stare at her and adds, The only one of my race.
—x—
The sunset is fading as Susan steps from the TARDIS to the surface of Krixlo. Dry dust puffs up about her boots, thick and orange in the dying light. The sky is a deep, rich purple; the mountains in the distance shine gold.
"Krixlo of the Vortune System, second planet from its sun, located in the wing-tip of the Ashuan Galaxy." He pauses, breathes in the hot, dry air. "It's the closest match to Gallifrey I have ever found."
She doesn't turn at the admission, just stands still and waits until the Doctor has reached her side before taking his hand in hers. "She must have been very beautiful, your planet," is the only thing Susan can think to say.
"Oh yes." He speaks with reverence and longing. Susan remembers another beautiful place that is gone forever and her heart aches.
She pushes away the memory as best she can and asks, "Are there any people here? Anyone sentient?"
"Not this continent. Not yet. We have the place to ourselves." He kicks his foot and another cloud of dust lifts into the air.
She wonders how often he comes here, how many others he has invited into his hidden memories. "Where shall we go?"
"Oh, just here for now." He turns to her and lifts his arm to reveal an old, plastic cooler. "I brought refreshments."
—x—
The Doctor's hand takes her own and squeezes tight. Two old, worn souls, he sighs.
—x—
She doesn't try to get drunk off the wine the Doctor has pulled out - not exactly. She suspects the Doctor doesn't really, either, but by now it's rather too late to turn back. They sit together in the middle of the wide, dusty plain, staring up at the constellations. Two bottles of wine are already empty, the third nearing its end.
"That way. It was that way," the Doctor says suddenly. He's lifted his hand to gesture vaguely towards the sky. Susan leans towards him - it feels as though gravity is shifting, as though she's simultaneously floating up and falling down, and then she recovers herself to squint up at the stars above.
"Was it close?"
He snorts and lifts his glass for another sip. "Close is relative."
She expects him to continue but the Doctor just takes another drink and then tips his head back. "I'm old, Susan," he sighs, "I'm old and alone and there's no direction to my life anymore."
If she could think of any way to comfort him, she would. But how can she tell him that he is not alone when she understands the bitter mark death has left on his life? So Susan lifts her own glass and stares down at the swirling wine - clockwise, like the constellations above - and reflects on the parallels between them.
—x—
They stand together in the TARDIS, old and older, each full of so many memories. She runs a finger along the metal rail of the console and wonders how Shakespeare would choose to depict their story.
—x—
End.