A.N. Thanks to my reviewers, and no, I most certainly don't own it.
A smile is worth a million words, and the Doctor's is no exception. So much can be told from a quirk of his lips; whether he is happy, sad, angry, thoughtful, or reminiscing on times past. Even the absence of a smile lighting his face speaks volumes to someone who has learned to read his face. His full lips are always expressive.
He has a self-satisfied smile, just barely a smirk, which runs across his face when he does something particularly clever. Preening slightly like some enormous sparrow in his brown suit, the Doctor glances sideways at me to see if I, too, am as impressed as he is. I am of course, and I make my appreciation known. A large ego isn't really a bad thing in this case. He really is as good as he thinks he is, and after all he has done and the tragedies he's been through, his ego deserves stroking on occasion.
That's not to say I let things get too out of hand. If he gets too carried away, I gently deflate his swelled head just a bit. I am careful, but an admonishing comment here and there serve to keep things in line. Over-confidence, especially for him, is dangerous.
At these times, his smile changes to a more self-deprecating, rueful grin. We don't speak of it, but he knows what I am doing perfectly well.
When I help him in some way, the content Watson to his Sherlock, his smile says Thank You. He is never patronizing, never impatient at my slow mind trying to grasp the impossibilities he thrives on, but when I do understand, when I do something that is right, or helps in his quest to save the world, one more time…He is grateful.
If someone he met and came to care for at all dies, he still smiles. But it is a twisted, warped smile then, a disbelieving, silent scream. Unfair! It shouts to the world. Why them…Why always them and never me! But he knows that fairness has never been an issue in his lifetimes, and only increases his bitterness.
There are rare times when something happens that is so monstrous it wipes all expression off his face. There is a terrible fury, but it is so contained that it is more a feeling than something more tangible.
There are times when the Doctor abandons his sophisticated veneer of eclectic kindness, and reveals a different side, and it is at those times when he is the most frightening.
He doesn't usually raise his voice much, but the way he speaks changes somehow, every syllable resonating with power. The Doctor is no longer a competent, caring healer, but the bearer of destruction. He stands, a frown on his face, and anyone looking at him can see why he is called the Oncoming Storm.
One chance. When he is fighting through the ages, he allows his opponents one chance. If he spares their lives, he expects them to abide by his conditions. Should they abuse this, that is all they get. He strikes, and they don't know what hit them.
Hard, implacable, even cruel, he metes out his punishments without mercy. His expression is almost blank; remote like a statue of an avenging angel. He is like an Old Testament God, judging without discrimination and offering no clemency. The Doctor's word is final.
Then he goes back to his usual attitude, his usual warm, wry smile. A smile that makes you trust him, put your life in his hands without a thought. How could someone smiling like that be dangerous? But under the surface, something is there, waiting.
He has many more smiles, all shaded with meaning, hard to decipher, harder to appreciate. Many times when he gifts me with a quirky, sidelong grin, I have no idea what he is thinking. And that's all right. He's not human. Despite the Doctor's earthly appearance, he is impossibly alien. My favourite smile of his is not one he reserves for me. It is the blissful, wide grin he gives to the world in those rare moments when an event happens in just the way it should, through human bravery and sacrifice. He looks around him in wonder at a future made brand-new in just that moment, at the persistent ability of our species to do great things in spite of the odds, and he is happy.