Drift
Title: Drift
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: Eleven
Word Count: 394
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I own no Who, as usual.
Summary: It’s so quiet he’s certain the silence will kill him if the lack of air doesn’t get him first.
A/N: Written for Challenge 3 at whoverse_las
Sometimes he dreams that his TARDIS is no more than the police box she appears to be. He finds himself spinning in the void, toes on the threshold of a hollowed-out phone box, blasted by the elements and slowly rotting away. He teeters on the edge and there’s nothing to hold on to but wood worn thin as paper. Vertigo rises from somewhere even deeper than his stomach, and he sits down hard, letting his legs dangle through the open doors. Stars and supernovas wink at him mercilessly. It’s so quiet he’s certain the silence will kill him if the lack of air doesn’t get him first.
He wakes and puts a furtive hand out for the wall, brushing it with long fingers. She hums back at him and he thinks, yes, I know it’s my fault.
*
Suppose a closed space of finite proportions containing two bodies governed by random movements. As time approaches infinity, the probability of their meeting approaches 1.
He thinks about Romana, and all the others he’s lost. He could go back now, he could be sorry-but there’s nowhere left to go. It’s not as if he can just pop by E-Space, or Gallifrey, or a whole host of other places where he’s left someone behind.
He knows probability works differently for wanderers in the fourth dimension. But he’s seen a real miracle now, a whole universe healed of its cracks, and he can’t help but hope.
*
Watches are cool. He wears a watch now, because he’s finally conceded that linear time might be worth knowing, if not keeping up with. When the little hand creeps toward twelve, hovering over his pulse point, and Amy pulls Rory off to bed, he finds time starts to slow. He can fiddle with the zigzag plotter and the gramophone for hours, he can read books he bought centuries ago and tossed aside, he can even fly off on his own adventures while he waits-but he can’t shake the feeling of being on his own.
He hates being tied down, but he can’t stop tying heartstrings and having them yanked fiercely from the other end.
*
It’s so easy to come untethered, floating out into time and space, and a lifeline always hurts when it’s pulled. He winds the lines around his hands and holds on for all he’s worth.
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: Eleven
Word Count: 394
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I own no Who, as usual.
Summary: It’s so quiet he’s certain the silence will kill him if the lack of air doesn’t get him first.
A/N: Written for Challenge 3 at whoverse_las
Sometimes he dreams that his TARDIS is no more than the police box she appears to be. He finds himself spinning in the void, toes on the threshold of a hollowed-out phone box, blasted by the elements and slowly rotting away. He teeters on the edge and there’s nothing to hold on to but wood worn thin as paper. Vertigo rises from somewhere even deeper than his stomach, and he sits down hard, letting his legs dangle through the open doors. Stars and supernovas wink at him mercilessly. It’s so quiet he’s certain the silence will kill him if the lack of air doesn’t get him first.
He wakes and puts a furtive hand out for the wall, brushing it with long fingers. She hums back at him and he thinks, yes, I know it’s my fault.
*
Suppose a closed space of finite proportions containing two bodies governed by random movements. As time approaches infinity, the probability of their meeting approaches 1.
He thinks about Romana, and all the others he’s lost. He could go back now, he could be sorry-but there’s nowhere left to go. It’s not as if he can just pop by E-Space, or Gallifrey, or a whole host of other places where he’s left someone behind.
He knows probability works differently for wanderers in the fourth dimension. But he’s seen a real miracle now, a whole universe healed of its cracks, and he can’t help but hope.
*
Watches are cool. He wears a watch now, because he’s finally conceded that linear time might be worth knowing, if not keeping up with. When the little hand creeps toward twelve, hovering over his pulse point, and Amy pulls Rory off to bed, he finds time starts to slow. He can fiddle with the zigzag plotter and the gramophone for hours, he can read books he bought centuries ago and tossed aside, he can even fly off on his own adventures while he waits-but he can’t shake the feeling of being on his own.
He hates being tied down, but he can’t stop tying heartstrings and having them yanked fiercely from the other end.
*
It’s so easy to come untethered, floating out into time and space, and a lifeline always hurts when it’s pulled. He winds the lines around his hands and holds on for all he’s worth.