Imagine
For rude_not_ginger for the song drabble meme. [This might be technically considered to contain spoilers for Waters of Mars]
Dennis refuses the Doctor's invitation to travel only once. He's eighteen at the time, being trained up as an Unspeakable in London's Department of Mysteries. They won't let him touch the good stuff yet -- there may have been an explosion or three, because Dennis has never yet met a button he wouldn't press just to see what it did -- and so, when the TARDIS groans its way down into the belly of the Ministry, it appears surrounded by chalk-boards covered in runes and arithmantical equations.
"Well, that's wrong for a start," the Doctor says, grinning hugely in the doorway.
Dennis just smiles and holds out the chalk and the Doctor bounds to the boards, slipping his glasses on and cheerfully slashing lines through hours of work, scribbling notes into spaces in the margins.
"You should get bigger margins," he tells Dennis, and then grins even wider. "I just said that to Fermat. Hah!"
Dennis blinks at him. "It's a chalk-board? You can just wipe stuff you don't need off if you want more room; that's the whole point!"
"Yes!" The Doctor pulls his glasses off dramatically. "Exactly. I've always said you were smart, Dennis."
This is, in fact, a blatant lie, and Dennis is going to call him on it, but he gets distracted; there's something off about the Doctor's eyes. Dennis frowns. "Wait, you told Fermat to get larger margins?"
"Turns out his proof was wrong anyway," the Doctor says, shrugging. "Still! Worth a try, right?"
Dennis stares. "Are you on drugs? Did you bang your head? Have you been possessed by the undead spirit of the Master that crawled into your body while you were sleeping through your nose?"
"Of course I'm not -- wait, my nose? Why my nose?"
"It's easier than the ear?"
The Doctor stares at him for a bit and then shrugs this off with sudden manic energy. "So, anyway, I had a revelation. Or an epiphany. I like epiphany, let's go with that. I had an epiphany."
"January sixth?"
"No, Dennis. I realised something very important: I am the last of the Time Lords. That's it. Just me. Numero Uno." Dennis stares at his nose. The Doctor sighs. "Will you move away from the crawling possession thing? Let's go save your brother."
It's a punch. It's exactly like being punched. Dennis hits the board behind him, sending chalk dust puffing up into the air.
"No," he says, before he knows he's going to speak.
"It's simple. We go in, we pluck him out, we leave, and Bob's your uncle. Well, no, he's your father, but close enough." The Doctor grins toothily, waving a hand at the TARDIS. "Allyons-y!"
"Stop it."
"No, but really," the Doctor says, frowning now. "It's just me, Dennis. There are no Time Lords, no Daleks, no Osirians, no Borads, no Eternals, no Guardians -- they're gone, Dennis. They're all gone. There's just us, now. You're the most capable. Well, except for Adric. And Luke, but Sarah Jane would kill me, and I have no intention of dying yet, Ood or no Ood. Or Zoe! Oh, she's was brilliant. Just... smashing. Absolutely smashing. You never met Zoe, did you? We'll do that, too. Come on; time waits for no man, except me."
"Doctor?" Dennis says, rubbing his eyes on his sleeve, smearing himself with chalk dust. "Stop it."
"There are no rules anymore," the Doctor says, quietly. "We can make a difference. I can make a difference."
"It's not-- You can't start cheating, just because no one is watching!" Dennis snaps. "That's not how it works -- that's not how it should work! The rules don't matter!"
"That's what I'm saying--"
"No, no, I mean, the rules do matter!"
The Doctor blinks. "Well, now I'm confused, and I'm a genius so--"
"I mean, the rules don't matter because they're rules, like how if it was made law that we all walked on our hands, that would be stupid! Not everybody has hands! Which isn't the point," Dennis corrects himself, waving this off, "the point is, rules, the good, proper rules are there for a reason, to make things fair or keep people safe, and we don't follow the rules because they're rules, we do things because they're right, no matter how hard that is, and I loved my brother! I loved him! And you need to go away now."
"But -- I can make it better!" the Doctor insists. "Everybody lives, Dennis. Not just once, by fluke, by chance, but always. The good people get good lives and the bad people get bad and everybody lives."
"No! Everybody dies, Doctor! Everything ends! And I'm sorry, I'm so sorry for your loss, for all of them, but you can't just--" Dennis shakes his head, turning back to the board. There are numbers smeared across his back, stretched symbols, loopy eights. "You can't. You just can't."
He stays facing the board until he hears a door shut, until he hears engines wheeze and groan and fade off in impossible directions. The room smells like thunderstorms, lightning waiting to happen; the chalk snaps in his fingers when he tries to write again, and then so do all the boards. Dennis stands still.
After a while he draws his wand, fixes and erases the boards, sighs, and slowly starts his work again.
Dennis refuses the Doctor's invitation to travel only once. He's eighteen at the time, being trained up as an Unspeakable in London's Department of Mysteries. They won't let him touch the good stuff yet -- there may have been an explosion or three, because Dennis has never yet met a button he wouldn't press just to see what it did -- and so, when the TARDIS groans its way down into the belly of the Ministry, it appears surrounded by chalk-boards covered in runes and arithmantical equations.
"Well, that's wrong for a start," the Doctor says, grinning hugely in the doorway.
Dennis just smiles and holds out the chalk and the Doctor bounds to the boards, slipping his glasses on and cheerfully slashing lines through hours of work, scribbling notes into spaces in the margins.
"You should get bigger margins," he tells Dennis, and then grins even wider. "I just said that to Fermat. Hah!"
Dennis blinks at him. "It's a chalk-board? You can just wipe stuff you don't need off if you want more room; that's the whole point!"
"Yes!" The Doctor pulls his glasses off dramatically. "Exactly. I've always said you were smart, Dennis."
This is, in fact, a blatant lie, and Dennis is going to call him on it, but he gets distracted; there's something off about the Doctor's eyes. Dennis frowns. "Wait, you told Fermat to get larger margins?"
"Turns out his proof was wrong anyway," the Doctor says, shrugging. "Still! Worth a try, right?"
Dennis stares. "Are you on drugs? Did you bang your head? Have you been possessed by the undead spirit of the Master that crawled into your body while you were sleeping through your nose?"
"Of course I'm not -- wait, my nose? Why my nose?"
"It's easier than the ear?"
The Doctor stares at him for a bit and then shrugs this off with sudden manic energy. "So, anyway, I had a revelation. Or an epiphany. I like epiphany, let's go with that. I had an epiphany."
"January sixth?"
"No, Dennis. I realised something very important: I am the last of the Time Lords. That's it. Just me. Numero Uno." Dennis stares at his nose. The Doctor sighs. "Will you move away from the crawling possession thing? Let's go save your brother."
It's a punch. It's exactly like being punched. Dennis hits the board behind him, sending chalk dust puffing up into the air.
"No," he says, before he knows he's going to speak.
"It's simple. We go in, we pluck him out, we leave, and Bob's your uncle. Well, no, he's your father, but close enough." The Doctor grins toothily, waving a hand at the TARDIS. "Allyons-y!"
"Stop it."
"No, but really," the Doctor says, frowning now. "It's just me, Dennis. There are no Time Lords, no Daleks, no Osirians, no Borads, no Eternals, no Guardians -- they're gone, Dennis. They're all gone. There's just us, now. You're the most capable. Well, except for Adric. And Luke, but Sarah Jane would kill me, and I have no intention of dying yet, Ood or no Ood. Or Zoe! Oh, she's was brilliant. Just... smashing. Absolutely smashing. You never met Zoe, did you? We'll do that, too. Come on; time waits for no man, except me."
"Doctor?" Dennis says, rubbing his eyes on his sleeve, smearing himself with chalk dust. "Stop it."
"There are no rules anymore," the Doctor says, quietly. "We can make a difference. I can make a difference."
"It's not-- You can't start cheating, just because no one is watching!" Dennis snaps. "That's not how it works -- that's not how it should work! The rules don't matter!"
"That's what I'm saying--"
"No, no, I mean, the rules do matter!"
The Doctor blinks. "Well, now I'm confused, and I'm a genius so--"
"I mean, the rules don't matter because they're rules, like how if it was made law that we all walked on our hands, that would be stupid! Not everybody has hands! Which isn't the point," Dennis corrects himself, waving this off, "the point is, rules, the good, proper rules are there for a reason, to make things fair or keep people safe, and we don't follow the rules because they're rules, we do things because they're right, no matter how hard that is, and I loved my brother! I loved him! And you need to go away now."
"But -- I can make it better!" the Doctor insists. "Everybody lives, Dennis. Not just once, by fluke, by chance, but always. The good people get good lives and the bad people get bad and everybody lives."
"No! Everybody dies, Doctor! Everything ends! And I'm sorry, I'm so sorry for your loss, for all of them, but you can't just--" Dennis shakes his head, turning back to the board. There are numbers smeared across his back, stretched symbols, loopy eights. "You can't. You just can't."
He stays facing the board until he hears a door shut, until he hears engines wheeze and groan and fade off in impossible directions. The room smells like thunderstorms, lightning waiting to happen; the chalk snaps in his fingers when he tries to write again, and then so do all the boards. Dennis stands still.
After a while he draws his wand, fixes and erases the boards, sighs, and slowly starts his work again.