posted by ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
katherine_b at 06:17am on 21/08/2009 under daydreams, dw, fan fic, nightmares, time in flux, whump
katherine_b at 06:17am on 21/08/2009 under daydreams, dw, fan fic, nightmares, time in flux, whumpTitle: Time In Flux
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
katherine_b
Rating: G
Characters: Donna and the Doctor
Summary: Donna sees the Doctor in a whole new light.
Chapter I
“Feeling better?”
Donna nods, smiling at the Doctor, trying to bring him out of his gloomy state. He manages a half-smile in return, perhaps understanding what she wants, but before he can speak, the TARDIS gives such a sudden, violent shake that Donna finds herself on the floor.
“Ow!”
“Hey!” Grabbing the console edge, the Doctor only just manages to keep his feet, staring up at the time rotor. “We're not in flight,” he bursts out. “How can that have happened?”
“What is it?” Donna demands as she gets back on her feet.
“I don't know.” The Doctor pulls the scanner towards him and enters some data, but the TARDIS gives a faint beep as if in denial. “Nothing happened,” he tells her. “We're fine. Except...”
“Except...?”
“There's something,” he turns and stares at the corner of the TARDIS opposite the doors, “right there.”
“Where?” Donna stares at the spot he's indicating until her eyes hurt, but she can't make anything out. “What is it?”
“I'm not sure.” Pulling out the sonic screwdriver, he activates it and begins walking towards the corner. “Nothing dangerous.”
“Sure?”
“Donna, nothing could get through those doors! Well, nothing that could kill us anyway. So that,” he points at the empty space, “can't be dangerous. I hope,” he adds under his breath as he steps closer to the invisible threat, but she catches the words and her eyebrows lift.
“Oh, great!” She rolls her eyes as the Doctor edges towards the space, but when she looks again, she's horrified to see that he's gone. “Doctor!”
“What?” He reappears with stunning suddenness at her frightened scream. “Donna, what is it? I'm right here!”
She stares at him, one hand clapped over her mouth, before pointing a trembling hand in his direction as her eyes widen. “Your legs,” she whimpers, gesturing at the empty space where the lower half of his body is usually located.
He looks down before returning his gaze to her face, his expression one of confusion. “What? What's wrong with them?”
“Where are your legs?!” she demands.
“My legs – oh, I know.” He moves forward and the rest of his body suddenly reappears. A grin – a proper expression of amusement that reaches into his eyes – appears on his face “Is that better?”
“But,” she stares, frightened, “what is it?”
“A time pocket.” He crosses the space between them and takes her hand. “A bubble in the TARDIS where time is a second out of sync with everything else.”
“What, so your legs were a second out of time with the rest of your body?” she demands as they walk in the direction of the mysterious space.
“Yup.” He grins, suddenly stopping short, waving his arm so that his hand abruptly disappears. This close, she can see a tiny ripple in the air. “It's right in front of us,” he explains.
She stares at his arm, where the hand seems to have disappeared altogether, before he draws it back to reveal his familiar fingers, which he waggles at her.
“Hello!”
“Oh, don't 'hello' me,” she tells him impatiently. “Explanations, thanks! What's going on?”
He sighs, a half-smile on his face. “There's another TARDIS.”
“How can there be?”
“There is.” She glances at him to see that any hint of happiness has faded from his face. “Right next to us. The bubble of time exists between the two ships to protect them.”
“But Doctor, there can't be another TARDIS!” She stares at him. “Can there?”
“Once upon a time, there were hundreds – thousands – millions!” He waves a hand in a gesture of demonstration. “And right now, at this instant, many of them still exist.” He swallows hard. “But not for long.”
“I don't understand,” she's forced to admit.
“Come with me.”
He gently tugs on her hand and she steps forward, feeling a ripple of something she can't identify pass over her, and then the TARDIS that the Doctor told her was on the other side of the time pocket seems to open out in front of her into a massive, dimly lit room.
“Oh, my God...”
There's a tiny smile on the Doctor's face. “What do you think?”
“It's...” She stops and stares around. “It's like a cross between the Library and a futuristic torture chamber!”
“Hey!”
Chuckling at his obvious indignation, Donna steps forward to get a better look. The most striking feature of this TARDIS is the six massive metal arms that reach from each corner of a hexagonal raised floor to a central point above what Donna presumes is the time rotor. Each arm is decorated with circular holes and metal braiding.
The main illumination comes from a series of spotlights that create circular pools of light on the wooden floor. Dimmer beams of light shine from tall medieval candelabras and lamps attached to the wooden panelling in between huge bookshelves.
Around the central console, down the single step onto a larger area of wooden flooring, is a scattering of furniture, including heavy armchairs, a variety of tables and standing lamps, and rugs that look almost Persian in origin. The ceiling is further supported by vertical wooden beams, many of which hold a variety of interesting-looking devices that she imagines would fascinate the Doctor.
The other feature of the console room is a set of stairs, at the head of which is a massive circle containing an image that Donna has seen often enough to recognise as the seal of Rassilon.
“Stairs in a TARDIS?” she says faintly.
“Well, they're mostly there for show,” the Doctor admits almost sheepishly, tugging at his earlobe. “Don't actually go anywhere. Not anymore. The rooms are all down there.”
As he points in the direction of a doorway off to their right, she turns to face him.
“How do you know?”
“Oh, I've been here a few times,” he says carelessly, his eyes travelling around the room's massive interior.
“Why do I think you’re lying?” she asks idly as she stares around. “It's all so – wooden!”
“Well, the theme is antique,” he admits, stroking his hand down the panelling of a nearby wall. “Suits him.”
“Suits who?”
“Him.” The Doctor points at the doors of the TARDIS, which are suddenly flung open and a man staggers inside.
Donna shrieks as the lights of the TARDIS reflect off the stranger's clothing, revealing that much of it is soaked with blood. She's about to dive forward when the Doctor grabs her arms and holds her back.
“No, Donna!” he says sharply. “You can't do anything! Stay still!”
“He's injured, Doctor,” she exclaims impatiently, trying to shake him off. “Why don't you want to help him?”
“Because I can't,” he tells her insistently. “You can't. It doesn't happen like that.”
After a moment, he relaxes his hold a little, apparently trusting her not to dart forward. She stares at the other man, who is holding onto the furniture as he makes his way over to the console, his arm still pressed over the wound on his stomach. As he comes into the light, she can see that his hands are glistening with blood, which is dripping off his fingers and clothes onto the wooden parquetry.
What intrigues her most is that he doesn't seem to have heard or seen the other two people in his TARDIS.
“It's because we aren't there, Donna,” the Doctor tells her as she suggests this to him in a faint whisper. “We're just out of time with him. He can't see us or hear us until we leave this space.” He glances down at her, and she's somewhat intrigued by the expression in his eyes. “What do you think of him?”
For the first time, Donna looks properly at the man. His hair is longer than that of the Doctor and hangs in loose curls and ringlets around his head. His clothing looks like a period costume – neatly pressed brown pants, a white shirt with a high collar, a silk vest, cravat and what looks like a velvet jacket. In spite of her horror at his wounds, she can’t help being amused by his appearance.
“God, he looks like a nineteeth-century playboy!”
“Hey, d'you mind?” the Doctor exclaims softly. “Be nice!”
“Do you know him then?”
“In a manner of speaking.” He shrugs, and then glances at her, perhaps seeing the confusion in her eyes for the first time. “Donna, don't you understand? That's me!”
“What?” She turns and eyes the man who is now leaning heavily against the console, before gazing at the clearly uninjured Time Lord beside her. “You? How could it be?”
He sighs, casting another glance at the man who has now backed against one of the metal towers, apparently using that to hold himself up, and Donna sees his hand creep across his stomach to the same location as the other man's injuries, gently rubbing the spot as if in sympathy.
“I told you about regeneration, Donna, remember.” He waves a hand at the man near the console. “This is what it looks like. Will look like. When he gets on with it.”
“I suppose –” She hesitates for a moment, gathering her thoughts. “I hadn't realised what it would be like. Completely different face and all that. It's one thing to hear it, but something else entirely to see it with your own eyes.”
“I suppose that's true,” the Doctor admits, suddenly grinning. “Still, better for you to see it now than when I decide to pop my clogs. Well, these particular clogs anyway. Not,” he adds quickly, perhaps seeing the horror in Donna's eyes, “that I'm planning to do that any time soon, so get that look off your face.”
“No.”
The voice makes them both start, and they look over at the other Doctor. His fingers, still dripping with blood, are pressed to his temples, and he has returned to the TARDIS doors. He's staring out at the glowing planets below them.
“No,” he repeats softly, “I won't. No more. I can't bear any more.”
“Oh, no, I'd forgotten about this.” The Doctor shakes his head. “Me and my stupid indecision.” He begins pacing the small, concealed space. “Come on, you daft so-and-so, get on with it!”
“No.” The other Doctor drops his hands from his face so that the long ringlets fall, almost covering his eyes, except for those caked to his skin with blood.
Donna can't help feeling that there's something very familiar about the tone of that man's voice. The determination, the certainty, is something she's heard so often that she's surprised the Doctor beside her seems unable to hear it. She turns to him, folding her arms across her chest, challenging him.
“And so he'll eventually decide to change, will he?” she demands. “Sure?”
“Of course!” The Doctor throws his hands in the air. “He has to! He will! He does! Unless,” he stops suddenly, staring at the ground, continuing slowly, “time is...”
He falls silent and she looks up at him knowingly. “Time is what, Doctor? In flux?” She turns and gestures at the other Doctor, glancing at the man beside her, whose jaw has dropped slightly as he stares at the former version of himself. “So what happens if he doesn't regenerate? If he doesn't become the next Doctor?”
The Doctor nods, turning to face her, cupping her face in his hands, studying her features as if desperate not to forget what she looks like, and she can see the fear in his dark eyes, feeling it flicker inside her, too. “You know, Donna. You already know the answer. If he doesn't decide to change then we cease to be.”
Next Part
Author:
katherine_b Rating: G
Characters: Donna and the Doctor
Summary: Donna sees the Doctor in a whole new light.
Chapter I
“Feeling better?”
Donna nods, smiling at the Doctor, trying to bring him out of his gloomy state. He manages a half-smile in return, perhaps understanding what she wants, but before he can speak, the TARDIS gives such a sudden, violent shake that Donna finds herself on the floor.
“Ow!”
“Hey!” Grabbing the console edge, the Doctor only just manages to keep his feet, staring up at the time rotor. “We're not in flight,” he bursts out. “How can that have happened?”
“What is it?” Donna demands as she gets back on her feet.
“I don't know.” The Doctor pulls the scanner towards him and enters some data, but the TARDIS gives a faint beep as if in denial. “Nothing happened,” he tells her. “We're fine. Except...”
“Except...?”
“There's something,” he turns and stares at the corner of the TARDIS opposite the doors, “right there.”
“Where?” Donna stares at the spot he's indicating until her eyes hurt, but she can't make anything out. “What is it?”
“I'm not sure.” Pulling out the sonic screwdriver, he activates it and begins walking towards the corner. “Nothing dangerous.”
“Sure?”
“Donna, nothing could get through those doors! Well, nothing that could kill us anyway. So that,” he points at the empty space, “can't be dangerous. I hope,” he adds under his breath as he steps closer to the invisible threat, but she catches the words and her eyebrows lift.
“Oh, great!” She rolls her eyes as the Doctor edges towards the space, but when she looks again, she's horrified to see that he's gone. “Doctor!”
“What?” He reappears with stunning suddenness at her frightened scream. “Donna, what is it? I'm right here!”
She stares at him, one hand clapped over her mouth, before pointing a trembling hand in his direction as her eyes widen. “Your legs,” she whimpers, gesturing at the empty space where the lower half of his body is usually located.
He looks down before returning his gaze to her face, his expression one of confusion. “What? What's wrong with them?”
“Where are your legs?!” she demands.
“My legs – oh, I know.” He moves forward and the rest of his body suddenly reappears. A grin – a proper expression of amusement that reaches into his eyes – appears on his face “Is that better?”
“But,” she stares, frightened, “what is it?”
“A time pocket.” He crosses the space between them and takes her hand. “A bubble in the TARDIS where time is a second out of sync with everything else.”
“What, so your legs were a second out of time with the rest of your body?” she demands as they walk in the direction of the mysterious space.
“Yup.” He grins, suddenly stopping short, waving his arm so that his hand abruptly disappears. This close, she can see a tiny ripple in the air. “It's right in front of us,” he explains.
She stares at his arm, where the hand seems to have disappeared altogether, before he draws it back to reveal his familiar fingers, which he waggles at her.
“Hello!”
“Oh, don't 'hello' me,” she tells him impatiently. “Explanations, thanks! What's going on?”
He sighs, a half-smile on his face. “There's another TARDIS.”
“How can there be?”
“There is.” She glances at him to see that any hint of happiness has faded from his face. “Right next to us. The bubble of time exists between the two ships to protect them.”
“But Doctor, there can't be another TARDIS!” She stares at him. “Can there?”
“Once upon a time, there were hundreds – thousands – millions!” He waves a hand in a gesture of demonstration. “And right now, at this instant, many of them still exist.” He swallows hard. “But not for long.”
“I don't understand,” she's forced to admit.
“Come with me.”
He gently tugs on her hand and she steps forward, feeling a ripple of something she can't identify pass over her, and then the TARDIS that the Doctor told her was on the other side of the time pocket seems to open out in front of her into a massive, dimly lit room.
“Oh, my God...”
There's a tiny smile on the Doctor's face. “What do you think?”
“It's...” She stops and stares around. “It's like a cross between the Library and a futuristic torture chamber!”
“Hey!”
Chuckling at his obvious indignation, Donna steps forward to get a better look. The most striking feature of this TARDIS is the six massive metal arms that reach from each corner of a hexagonal raised floor to a central point above what Donna presumes is the time rotor. Each arm is decorated with circular holes and metal braiding.
The main illumination comes from a series of spotlights that create circular pools of light on the wooden floor. Dimmer beams of light shine from tall medieval candelabras and lamps attached to the wooden panelling in between huge bookshelves.
Around the central console, down the single step onto a larger area of wooden flooring, is a scattering of furniture, including heavy armchairs, a variety of tables and standing lamps, and rugs that look almost Persian in origin. The ceiling is further supported by vertical wooden beams, many of which hold a variety of interesting-looking devices that she imagines would fascinate the Doctor.
The other feature of the console room is a set of stairs, at the head of which is a massive circle containing an image that Donna has seen often enough to recognise as the seal of Rassilon.
“Stairs in a TARDIS?” she says faintly.
“Well, they're mostly there for show,” the Doctor admits almost sheepishly, tugging at his earlobe. “Don't actually go anywhere. Not anymore. The rooms are all down there.”
As he points in the direction of a doorway off to their right, she turns to face him.
“How do you know?”
“Oh, I've been here a few times,” he says carelessly, his eyes travelling around the room's massive interior.
“Why do I think you’re lying?” she asks idly as she stares around. “It's all so – wooden!”
“Well, the theme is antique,” he admits, stroking his hand down the panelling of a nearby wall. “Suits him.”
“Suits who?”
“Him.” The Doctor points at the doors of the TARDIS, which are suddenly flung open and a man staggers inside.
Donna shrieks as the lights of the TARDIS reflect off the stranger's clothing, revealing that much of it is soaked with blood. She's about to dive forward when the Doctor grabs her arms and holds her back.
“No, Donna!” he says sharply. “You can't do anything! Stay still!”
“He's injured, Doctor,” she exclaims impatiently, trying to shake him off. “Why don't you want to help him?”
“Because I can't,” he tells her insistently. “You can't. It doesn't happen like that.”
After a moment, he relaxes his hold a little, apparently trusting her not to dart forward. She stares at the other man, who is holding onto the furniture as he makes his way over to the console, his arm still pressed over the wound on his stomach. As he comes into the light, she can see that his hands are glistening with blood, which is dripping off his fingers and clothes onto the wooden parquetry.
What intrigues her most is that he doesn't seem to have heard or seen the other two people in his TARDIS.
“It's because we aren't there, Donna,” the Doctor tells her as she suggests this to him in a faint whisper. “We're just out of time with him. He can't see us or hear us until we leave this space.” He glances down at her, and she's somewhat intrigued by the expression in his eyes. “What do you think of him?”
For the first time, Donna looks properly at the man. His hair is longer than that of the Doctor and hangs in loose curls and ringlets around his head. His clothing looks like a period costume – neatly pressed brown pants, a white shirt with a high collar, a silk vest, cravat and what looks like a velvet jacket. In spite of her horror at his wounds, she can’t help being amused by his appearance.
“God, he looks like a nineteeth-century playboy!”
“Hey, d'you mind?” the Doctor exclaims softly. “Be nice!”
“Do you know him then?”
“In a manner of speaking.” He shrugs, and then glances at her, perhaps seeing the confusion in her eyes for the first time. “Donna, don't you understand? That's me!”
“What?” She turns and eyes the man who is now leaning heavily against the console, before gazing at the clearly uninjured Time Lord beside her. “You? How could it be?”
He sighs, casting another glance at the man who has now backed against one of the metal towers, apparently using that to hold himself up, and Donna sees his hand creep across his stomach to the same location as the other man's injuries, gently rubbing the spot as if in sympathy.
“I told you about regeneration, Donna, remember.” He waves a hand at the man near the console. “This is what it looks like. Will look like. When he gets on with it.”
“I suppose –” She hesitates for a moment, gathering her thoughts. “I hadn't realised what it would be like. Completely different face and all that. It's one thing to hear it, but something else entirely to see it with your own eyes.”
“I suppose that's true,” the Doctor admits, suddenly grinning. “Still, better for you to see it now than when I decide to pop my clogs. Well, these particular clogs anyway. Not,” he adds quickly, perhaps seeing the horror in Donna's eyes, “that I'm planning to do that any time soon, so get that look off your face.”
“No.”
The voice makes them both start, and they look over at the other Doctor. His fingers, still dripping with blood, are pressed to his temples, and he has returned to the TARDIS doors. He's staring out at the glowing planets below them.
“No,” he repeats softly, “I won't. No more. I can't bear any more.”
“Oh, no, I'd forgotten about this.” The Doctor shakes his head. “Me and my stupid indecision.” He begins pacing the small, concealed space. “Come on, you daft so-and-so, get on with it!”
“No.” The other Doctor drops his hands from his face so that the long ringlets fall, almost covering his eyes, except for those caked to his skin with blood.
Donna can't help feeling that there's something very familiar about the tone of that man's voice. The determination, the certainty, is something she's heard so often that she's surprised the Doctor beside her seems unable to hear it. She turns to him, folding her arms across her chest, challenging him.
“And so he'll eventually decide to change, will he?” she demands. “Sure?”
“Of course!” The Doctor throws his hands in the air. “He has to! He will! He does! Unless,” he stops suddenly, staring at the ground, continuing slowly, “time is...”
He falls silent and she looks up at him knowingly. “Time is what, Doctor? In flux?” She turns and gestures at the other Doctor, glancing at the man beside her, whose jaw has dropped slightly as he stares at the former version of himself. “So what happens if he doesn't regenerate? If he doesn't become the next Doctor?”
The Doctor nods, turning to face her, cupping her face in his hands, studying her features as if desperate not to forget what she looks like, and she can see the fear in his dark eyes, feeling it flicker inside her, too. “You know, Donna. You already know the answer. If he doesn't decide to change then we cease to be.”
Next Part
contemplative