but the doctor is mourning

Bear with me

As Whovians, we learn to accept change. Sometimes it takes a while to get over our grief at some change. (I will never be over Bill Potts) But I am watching people I know and love struggle with the casting of Jodie Whittaker. It’s excess change in their minds. I understand to an extent, but here’s the thing… While I am always on the fence about a new Doctor, it’s isn’t because I don’t believe they are right for the part, it is because I am mourning the loss of a character I have come to love. The Doctor is always the Doctor, despite different looks and/or personalities. But I accept, embrace, and welcome Jodie into this elite club of fantastic actors playing this iconic role. This does not mean I will not mourn the loss of Capaldi… and it took me quite a while to warm to him. (I mourned Matt for a long time, guys.) Watching people tear down, and drag the new cast and crew simply because the change is too much for them… well, it damned well breaks my heart. Don’t give up on her before you give her a chance. Look at Missy, we took to her like ducks to water! Who is there to say that Jodie won’t be as, if not more, amazing. Before you write it off, give yourselves the time to mourn, and give Jodie a shot. I know she’ll be Fantastic!

Originally posted by ruthielikestodraw

To Rise From Ashes

“Sometimes, my body feels like a burial ground for all the people I should have become.” 

– Requiem by Molly Gardner 


The Good Son

Leonard is a good son.

He is polite, gets good grades, and doesn’t get in too much trouble.

He helps his Mama in the kitchen, standing on the stool next to her, kneading dough for bread with concentration written on his face and his tongue poking out of his mouth.

He asks his Papa questions about work, sits at his feet in the living-room with starry eyed amazement in his eyes as he listens to his Papa, his mentor, his hero.

And when he grows so does the pride in his parents’ eyes.

Following in his father’s footsteps, his beautiful wife, his sweet daughter. Leonard is the best son any parent can wish for.

And then Papa gets sick.

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fluffykeldora  asked:

Bill is not going to die. Moffat has gone above and beyond bringing representation into the show and killing off Bill would be career suicide for him. Also people are angry because even if Bill lives she still suffered. Yeah because we should never let bad things happen to protagonists! That's not how writing works.

Characters need obstacles to over come and handling those who are in the minority with kid gloves never letting bad thing happen to them pisses me off. I’m a bisexual woman and I would feel insulted if characters that represented me in the media never suffered and were written to be perfect and happy all the time. Sorry for the rant just this fandom will be the end of me.

I think people are just scared and vulnerable because she isn’t straight and because queer characters so often get treated disproportianately badly by the narrative. So her dying, despite likely in no way being the end of her story, and, hell, her still being active in the narrative the whole way through, bears a lot more weight. It shouldn’t. Lke you say, it’s not reasonable to write LGBT characters in a bubble, either. It’s just a risky and politically charged space for any narrative, and without the rest of the story, I’m not too surprised people are panicking. Hell, I feel worried myself. A part of me fears that, after all people have gone on and on about wanting permanent death (ugh, I could not disagree more with that criticism), Moffat just decided to go for it on his last outing. But nothing of the presentation here suggests that’s what it’s going for. Bill’s getting shot isn’t an ending. It’s a plot point, crucial just for setting up the last leg of this journey. And Bill’s own life will be an ongoing part of that, not an abrupt, characterless ending. Hell, even look at Sherlock. I’m not happy Mary was killed off, but it was in an episode all about everything she is. Whereas, frankly, this is very light on exploring Bill beyond her immediate situation. It would not make sense for this to be her final fate.

Of course, this isn’t the end of Bill. We can still see her. She’s still there. And we can even hear her voice in the TV trailer for The Doctor Falls. She’s going through hell, yes, but that is where drama comes from. I expect in the next part she will survive and have more agency. The first parts of finales, they’re the darkest hour. Amy getting shot by Rory, Danny getting converted from beyond the grave, the Doctor mourning Clara, these are not happy story moments. But they are vital to the journey. If Bill is at all being represented fairly, this isn’t the last we’ve seen of her. And to me, all signs suggest that will be the case. We haven’t seen the rest of her, and this isn’t the story of her death. As the pre-titles inform us, it’s the story of the Doctor’s.

Dove

Gency Week 2.0 Day 2 — Feathers. Fluff. 


There is very little life outside of helping others, and doing her job as a doctor. For quite some time, her only companion was a small Mourning Dove. A beautiful bird with soft coos that would sit on her shoulder while working through papers. Now at the Watchpoint, D.va and Zenyatta have grown quite fond of the little guy. D.va now carries seeds in her pockets whenever she comes to visit Elmar.

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Twelve for Twelve: July 23

Continuing my contributions to the Thank You, Peter Capaldi project.

July 23: Time Lord Rock Star

OK, I have to admit I never saw it coming. Yes, I knew Peter Capaldi used to be a rock singer. Yes I know he was inspired by David Bowie when setting Twelve’s original style. But I never expected him to evolve Twelve’s persona into that of a rocker. Yet he did, with his triumphant ride into the courtyard standing on a tank as he played a mutated version of the Doctor Who Theme.

It just felt so, right - such as when he broke the fourth wall and played a proper Doctor Who Theme, or played a mournful “missing you” ballad while waiting for Clara to return at the end of Woman Who Lived. And of course, his playing the song he wrote for Clara in Hell Bent and the Pilot deleted scene. It’s a shame Series 10 never gave him much of a chance to play the old rocker again.

Of course the irony of Twelve having the rocker persona while being played by a man in his 50s is not lost when you consider how many people could not accept an “old guy” as the Doctor. Maybe the evolution of Twelve into the rocker was a big middle finger to the critics, I don’t know. But it worked.

Twelve Days of Twelve: The Moment You Fell in Love with the Twelfth Doctor

Eleven was my first Doctor — as far as I knew, he was my Doctor. And I was told that transitioning to a new Doctor after losing your Doctor was a drawn-out, complicated experience in which you first hate the new Doctor before finally coming around to them. Then I met Twelve. And I felt guilty — here I was, supposed to be mourning my Doctor. Instead, I was completely taken with this new guy. 

Falling in love with Twelve happened in a million tiny moments, but let me try to pinpoint the first few in Deep Breath: 

  • I very distinctly remember being so struck by the look on Twelve’s face when he sees his reflection while saying, “You have replaced every piece of yourself, mechanical and organic, time and time again. There’s not a trace of the original you left. You probably can’t even remember where you got that face from.” He looked so afraid, so bothered by who he’d become, and why he’d become it.
  • The final scene in the TARDIS with Clara and Twelve remains among my favorite Twelve scenes of all time. After all of the action of the first episode, to have that final, quiet moment between the two of them in TARDIS was incredibly emotional. He is so raw, so real, so honest — something up until that point was something of a rarity in nuWho, something I was craving. I was so moved about “Clara I’m not your boyfriend…I never said it was your mistake,” that I wrote about it immediately. His kindness when he tells her she’s home in the TARDIS if she wants to be solidified him as Clara’s Doctor. That was the start of him becoming my Doctor, too. Because I was home. I felt it the second he arrived. My home. My TARDIS. My Doctor.
Bring Me Back, Part One

Requested by Multiple Flubbles

There will be three parts to this fic. This part is mostly just angst. Yeah.

Suggested song for this fic: “Oblivion” by M83

“No!” you screamed, pounding your fists against the glass that separated you from the Doctor. “No! Doctor! Doctor!”

This couldn’t be happening. It just couldn’t be happening. But your chest screamed with the reality of it, with the pain, because you knew what was coming. If this happened (and it was happening, alright, sure as the sun rises), then you would never see the Doctor again. That realization burned your insides like fire and you screamed, rage and fear bundled into something primal and horrifying that pushed you beyond what was human. You pounded your fists so hard that skin broke and blood smeared the glass and you didn’t even feel it.

“Doctor!”

He was fighting, screaming your name.

“Bring her back!” he howled at the Cybermen who had ahold of him. “Bring her back! Don’t you dare take her, don’t you dare! Back off! Bring her back to me!”

Why couldn’t you break the glass? Why couldn’t you just break the damned glass?

You shrieked as you felt metal hands grab at you. They were pulling you, pulling you away from the Doctor, and fear jolted so harshly through you that it physically hurt.

“Doctor!” you cried out as you fought against them. “Doctor! Doctor!”

His head snapped in your direction. When his eyes found yours, the scream on your lips fluttered away, soft and soundless like a moth. There was fear in his eyes, terrible fear like you had never seen from him before, but worse than that was despair. You weren’t even gone yet, and he was in despair, which meant… which meant… that he already believed that you were lost. That your chances were less than even the Doctor would take, which meant that there was no chance at all.

In that moment, you should have been afraid for your life, or your existence, or something. Death by Cybermen was an awful thing no matter how they offed you. There were only so many options, and none of them were easy ways to go. But your heart dropped to your stomach and your stomach shot to your throat and your throat constricted and your ribs slid tightly into your gut like an iron corset, not because you knew that you were about to die a horrible death, but because you would never see the Doctor again.

You had promised. You had promised that you would never leave him. You had promised that to him. You had sacrificed your human life, your normalcy or any semblance thereof, because you loved him. Because he needed someone to stay.

He’s going to be alone. The thought stabbed into your mind like an icicle, cold and sharp and bright. He’s going to be alone.

There was the sharp sensation of pointed metal at the back of your neck, the echo of the Doctor’s wrathful screaming in your ears, and then there was only darkness.

And there was only darkness.

And there was only darkness.

And there was only darkness.

And then the Doctor’s eyes opened.

He blinked rapidly, trying to find his bearings in the dark. The smell of laundry detergent filled his nose, stinging his ‘superior’ olfactory senses with its sharp chemical tang. Soft fabric slid along his skin, the surface under him had just enough give and spring to bounce on if he so pleased, and something that reeked of laundry detergent cradled his head. A pillow.

Bed. He was in bed. And if the burning pain in his throat was any indicator, he had been screaming.

The Doctor reached a hand out for you, searching the landscape of Kamalzan cotton sheets for the comforting warmth of your body. You didn’t sleep together, not by default, but whenever he had bad dreams, you came to him (or, occasionally, he came to you, asking if he could sleep in your bed like a scared child, and you always said yes and managed not to let him feel humiliated about it). He hadn’t woken up screaming, but his raw throat proved that he had been screaming at some point in the night, which meant you had probably come in awhile ago and settled him down without waking him up.

His wandering hand found only cold, twisted sheets.

“Sweetheart?” the Doctor rasped. Fear crackled through his gut and he scrabbled for the switch on the lamplight. He clicked it on and the yellow bulb nearly blinded him, but it was immediately apparent that you weren’t in the room.

Had you left to sleep in your own bed? Had you only stayed long enough to calm him down before leaving? That didn’t seen right. You never did that. But the sheets on the other side of the bed were cold and there was no indent in the mattress or the pillows to suggest that a second person had been in the bed that night. Which meant… well, it didn’t mean anything other than that you hadn’t gotten into the bed, which was highly unusual, but maybe… maybe you had foreseen his raw throat and went to get him some tea or something. Yes, you had done that before while he slept before. You wouldn’t have left him alone if you knew he would wake up, would you? Of course not. There was no reason for you to think this would happen. If he had slept through his own screaming, you probably hadn’t imagined that he would wake up while you went to make tea.

Feeling relieved and a little bit foolish, the Doctor relaxed against his pillows and tried not to wrinkle his nose at the smell of laundry detergent. He definitely wouldn’t be getting this kind again. It reeked of chemicals and overpowered every other smell in the room (including the faint scent of you that always clung to his bed after one of these nightmare-plagued-Time-Lord-support-system-sleep-over nights, and he was rather fond of that scent). He would just have to get some of that organic stuff from Orion.

The Doctor shifted onto his side. He felt sad, for some reason. It was probably because of the nightmare. It was all fuzzy in his mind now, but he recalled the sensation of despair. It must have been an especially bad one, to leave him with echo emotions.

Fifteen minutes passed. You hadn’t returned.

Twenty minutes.

Half an hour.

The Doctor stopped convincing himself to wait and slipped out of bed. He grabbed the blue robe hanging on the bedpost and pulled it on, synching the tie tightly around his middle. In this skinny body, everything felt too big for him (with the exception of his suit, which happened to be half a size too small). Oddly enough, the Doctor couldn’t find his slippers, so he was left bare-footed as he padded out of his room and down the hall.

Other than the deep hum of the TARDIS, everything was silent. If you were in the kitchen, there would be some noise. That only left your room, because you couldn’t be anywhere else, not at night.

The Doctor opened the dark wood door to your room and found it empty. Not just empty, though. The air was wrong, the smell was wrong. Even the bed was wrong - he could tell by the way the folds fell that you had dashed them aside and jumped out of bed, which was the norm whenever alarms went off in the TARDIS, but they had also been folded back. He blinked at the odd sight. You didn’t do that. It was the middle of the night. If you had heard him screaming, you wouldn’t have bothered to halfway straighten-out rumpled covers. And there was a tank top on the floor, one he recognized that you slept in… slippers were ignored under the bed, flannel bottoms were tossed across the far side of the bed. You had changed in a hurry. Why in the world would you have changed?

Something sharp and red prickled at the back of the Doctor’s mind. Oh. Oh, no, no, no.

The Doctor carefully pulled back the covers and slipped into your bed as gently as he could, trying not to disturb anything. Your bed smelled like you, but the smell was stale. Old, faded. You hadn’t slept in this bed for weeks.

The memories slipped back into his mind like fog over the ground, and the Doctor let out a quiet sob as the pain and loneliness of your absence reasserted themselves in his hearts. Everything hurt. Everything hurt so badly and he had tried to make himself forget, but he couldn’t. He clutched at your pillows and breathed in your scent as well as he could manage despite the tears that were closing his throat. He whimpered your name, calling for you, hoping against all hope that you would suddenly appear, or wake him up from this nightmare.

You had been dead for weeks. The Doctor was alone in the TARDIS.


“I hate you!” the Doctor spat at the console.

The TARDIS had, in her own mourning for you, allowed the Doctor to wallow in his hurt for a whole month. No more. She was kicking him out to adventure, to save someone, to something. To do anything, as long as it stopped him from trying to block his own memories and failing and breaking down into a sobbing mess over and over and over again.

“I hate you!” he snapped again. “Rassilon, I hate you, you meddling, heartless machine! You knew it wasn’t safe! You knew it wasn’t safe and you landed anyway and now she’s gone because of you!”

Silence answered the Doctor. He spat out more insults, including a litany of cusses from various language that insulted the TARDIS’s parentage, sexual orientation, offspring, physical aesthetics, personal character, and mother specifically. And then the Doctor broke down.

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed, dropping to his knees and pressing his forehead to the side of the console. "I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t… I just can’t do this.“

The TARDIS decided to let him stay inside for just one more day.

The Doctor stared at the Cybermen in front of him and felt nothing.

"You took her,” he said, dangerously calm. He almost sounded bored. “You took my girl from me. That girl, do you know her name? I bet not. She was gonna be my wife. I’ve got the ring and everything. I was just waiting for the right moment to ask her.”

The Cybermen stared blankly, just as all Cybermen stared. They didn’t seem to care.

“I was gonna be happy again,” he stressed to them. “I was gonna be a better man. For her. But you took that from me, so now… what’ve I got to be a better man for? Y'know, I always try to save you poor gits, or to at least kill you nicely. Put you out of your misery. I know you’d be miserable, if you had feelings. But you took my girl. That means I don’t care anymore.”

He surged forward. The Cybermen that had stood so perfectly still all reacted at once, but one of them was down before it even got the chance to move. And then the second one was down just as fast.

And so it went.

“You alright, mate?”

The Doctor glanced up at the young man standing above him. Very young, mid-twenties by the look of him. Odd chin, floppy hair, bowtie. A pretty boy, definitely, with a strange smile, like he knew some brilliant secret that he was just dying to tell but still wouldn’t because it was too good to spoil.

 "I’m fine,“ the Doctor answered.

"Nah,” said the young man, flopping down to sit next to him on the park bench. Flop was a very good word for him. He was floppy. And sparky-eyed. "You’re not. I can tell. Go on, spill.“

The Doctor glared, adding a hint of the Oncoming Storm into the look. The man didn't seem one bit bothered. And then, because sometimes the Doctor just could tell, he thought that you might have liked this man. Maybe you would have liked him a wee bit too much, and that- that- oh, that would have made him jealous before, but now it just seemed sort of funny.

With a sigh, the Doctor sat back. "It’s a girl, alright? Just a girl.”

“Oh, it’s never just a girl,” the man corrected. Wise words from a puppy, the Doctor thought. "So, what? Breakup? Were you a rubbish date? Ooh, even better: you’re completely in love and she doesn’t even know you exist.“

"I lost her.”

“Oh, darn. Breakup is the worst option outta those.”

“No, she-” The Doctor scrubbed a palm down his face, angry with himself for talking to a stranger about this. But he just couldn’t stop, could he? "She died. There was an accident.“

"Ah.” The young man nodded sagely. “I see.”

“Do you?”

“My wife’s had some health problems,” the man admitted, shrugging in a way that made him seem uncomfortable with the broadness of his own shoulders. “We thought that she wasn’t gonna live half as long as me. We had to search all over the world for something to tack on a few more years to her life expectancy.”

Despite himself, the Doctor was curious. “Yeah? And how’s she doing now?”

“Funny story, actually. We went back to my hometown, in Ireland, and whaddaya know! They’ve got what she needs. She’s got full life expectancy now. She might even outlive me.”

The young man seemed so genuinely pleased with this that the Doctor couldn’t help smiling, just a little bit.

“Good for the both of you,” the Doctor said, softer and kinder than he had been before.

“Yeah,” the young man agreed. And then, unexpectedly, he patted the Doctor on the shoulder and gave him an encouraging smile. “Hey now, don’t you give up.  I’ll betcha that something good is just around the corner.”

“Maybe,” the Doctor said, and he didn’t believe it at all.

For some reason, the young man laughed.

alas poor Confidential

…This is where I really mourn the loss of Doctor Who Confidential.

Because I want to know ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING about the making of that episode.

I want to see Pearl Mackie’s reaction to Bill being shot. I want to see Moffat talk about how he got the ideas to bring the Master back and repeat the story about Simm taking back what he’d said about only being Tennant’s Master like two minutes after he said it. I want to know how he felt about the Mondasian Cybermen and whether he thought they were much scarier than their later incarnations like I do.

I want to meet the people who played the converted colonists. I really want to see them putting on Simm’s Rumplestiltskin makeup while he complains bitterly about how horrible it is. I especially really want to see EVERY SECOND of the read-through, and Michelle Gomez’s reaction when she realized what John Simm was actually doing there since she didn’t read the script beforehand, and see the two of them being interviewed together because my god the chemistry.

Sorry, The Fan Show. You’re sweet and all, but you’re not a patch on Confidential.

There better at least be some ‘making of’ featurettes on the dvd.

Just want tomorrow doctor who news to be over so we can stop stressing over who the next doctor is going to be and mourn the fact Peter Capaldi is going.

Let’s be real, the media have been guessing who the 13th Doctor has been since Peter was first announced as the doctor all those years ago.

Bring Me Back, Part Two: Entanglement

WARNING: Depression (duh), character death (it won’t be a surprise), very mild language (nothing worse than I’ve written before), anorexia and self-harm (mentioned in the narrative but not directly seen), and Jack Harkness (definitely seen). This story might just be a little hard for some people to chew, so read cautiously. Also, just to help you understand the gravity, this is based off of real events in which I was basically this fic’s Jack Harkness.

Also, if I had actual drawing skills instead of just being a maker of tribal-looking paisley patterns, this would be the fic I would draw art for. SO MANY SAD DRAWINGS.

This MIGHT end up being four parts instead of three. I dunno. Shame on me.

More angst, but also some fluff at the end. But mostly angst. Original concept requested by @pianovata


In 1935, physicist Erwin Schrödinger created a theoretical experiment on a paradox of quantum physics, specifically quantum superposition. The experiment theorized a scenario in which a cat is held inside a steel box with a radioactive atom. Whether the cat lived or died was completely dependent upon whether the atom decayed (emitting deadly radiation) or remained stable. Since there is a fifty-fifty chance of either, as long as the cat remains in the box and therefore unobserved by another party, the cat is theoretically both alive and dead at the same time, because neither option can be confirmed or denied until the box is opened. Schrödinger termed this kind of experiment as Verschränkung, which means entanglement.


The Doctor screamed.

He went out. No, he really went out. Not to scream at the skies (well, that hadn’t been the plan), or to exact revenge upon Cybermen (been there, done that). He just went out. Exploring. The Doctor, as usual, but with just a bit more alone-ness than there ought to have been. But that was okay. He needed the alone, because he couldn’t handle togetherness quite yet. Not without you. He thought of going to see Donna and Wilf, but he dismissed the thought when he realized that they would ask where you were. Then they would be mourning too, not to mention that they would both fuss over him horribly. He didn’t want to be fussed over.

He ended up on a planet known for its long nights and amazing night skies. He had been there before, plenty of times, to see the famous stars that danced on blue ink. He had never brought you here, but he had planned to. It was where he wanted to propose to you.

A cliff-side in the middle of fall season was the Doctor’s preferred observation spot. Still warm enough to be comfortable but cold enough that you would have snuggled up against him for warmth. That’s what you would have done. He knew you would have. And you would have liked this place. And you would have liked stargazing with him, and you would have listened while he babbled random trivia about the alien constellations, and whether or not you understood it, you still would have made him feel like the cleverest man in the universe.

Would you have stayed awake all night? He had to wonder, even as he nestled into the soft grass that smelled like pine so that he could gaze up at the glittering sky. Or would you have fallen asleep with your head on his shoulder? And if that had happened, would he have stayed there with you until morning so that you could wake under the planet’s vibrant sunrises, or would he have carried you back to the TARDIS and tucked you in?

A tear rolled down the side of the Doctor’s face and got caught in his sideburn, tickling wetly against his skin. He harshly pawed at his face to rid himself of the sticky tear-track, but even as he did, his eyes stung with fresh tears that burned and welled up and out so that they could streak hotly against his skin.

His lip was wobbling, he realized. His whole face was folding, squinting, trying to rid itself of tears that burned his eyes and were too hot for his skin. The stars above him blurred and he turned onto his side and curled into the fetal position, pressing his face into his sleeves.

“Stop it!” he gasped harshly on a sobbing exhale, humiliated as the tears poured freely and made his sleeves damp. “Stop it, damn you!”

The TARDIS sang a mourning song and the Doctor screamed.

Out, said the TARDIS, out, out, out, out.

“No,” snapped the Doctor, scratching at the stubble on his chin that had grown unchecked in his negligence. “No.”

Out.

The Doctor threaded his fingers through his limp, un-groomed hair. His tie was askew, falling off, his clothes were rumpled and unwashed, and there was still blood on his jacket from where you had gotten a nasty cut on the forehead and he had used his jacket to stop the bleeding. He hadn’t meant to let himself fall so completely to pieces, but it had just been so easy to forget, especially without you there to remind him. He hadn’t eaten since… before. Before when, he wasn’t sure, but it had been long enough that the hunger pains had stopped and he no longer felt it. The empty space in his gut was gone, too. It had tightened up and swallowed itself. The idea of eating made him fell a bit sick.

Eat.

“No, you stupid machine.”

He had been doing better. He really had. But his most recent breakdown had left him worse off than before.

Out!

The TARDIS turned on every single alarm that she had until the Doctor was forced to leave in order to escape the noise.

Her name was River Song. When she saw him, she gasped, pressing her hand to her painted mouth as her eyes filled with shine. It was pity and it was terrible and the Doctor hated it. He knew he looked a fright. He had shaved, yes, and gotten his suit into halfway-decent shape, but the shadows under his eyes were dark, like he had taken a few hits, and his skin was pasty and clinging and that the hollows of his cheeks and the spaces between his ribs had drawn in, making him look like he ought to be on a mortician’s slab.

She hugged him, held him close, and he struggled away. He was not for her. He was for you. She didn’t get to hold him that way. And it hurt. Her hands traveled down his sides, stinging the red lines where he had dug his nails into his skin and dragged them across the dipping planes of his sunken ribcage.

That wasn’t the worst part of their meeting.

Professor Song whispered a name in his ear, and it was your name. The secret one, the Gallifreyan one that he had given to you when he decided that he wanted to marry you, the one that he whispered in your ear like a prayer, the one that he taught you how to say so that one day you would have an easier time pronouncing his true name. (Because he wanted to tell you, he wanted, he wanted, he wanted.) She shouldn’t have said that name, it wasn’t for her, and hearing it on the lips of someone other than you or himself made his empty gut twist painfully.

How do you know that name?" He was on the edge of the Oncoming Storm, right on the edge, waiting to fall and become rage and fury incarnate. It would be so easy. He was already falling. "How the hell do you know that name?!”

She smirked at him even as she prepared for her own death (and she was just like that, wasn’t she, that brokenhearted creature who prodded at the empty spaces of his body and just knew?). The death that should have been his. The death that he wanted. She was taking it like she expected no less. "Shouldn’t I know it?“

"That was the name I gave her,” he snarled, torn between hate and despair as she stole a secret that was his but then took it to her early grave of sacrifice in his place. "No one else knows that name, no one!“

She knows it,“ River said.

"She’s dead, damn you!”

There was a great deal of fuss after that. Handcuffs were definitely involved. He insisted, screamed, that time could be rewritten, that this could all be undone, that she could live if only she would just listen to him, but she didn’t listen.

“River, NO!”

“Goodbye, sweetie. You’ll see me again.”

She didn’t listen.

The Doctor didn’t like interventions. They were usually helpful to him, in the end, but while they happened, they could be very unpleasant and certainly unwelcome. Especially when they came from people who cared more about him than they cared about his privacy.

And if there was one thing Jack Harkness didn’t give a darn about, it was privacy.

“You’re a mess,” Jack said. He was in Captain Mode, the Doctor noticed with a painful prickle of irritation running up and down his spine and around his torso. “What the hell, Doc?”

“Get off my TARDIS,” the Doctor muttered, pulling away.

“Your TARDIS called me,” Jack said, tone not allowing for any measure of nonsense. The Doctor scowled, but Jack frowned right back at him. “I thought you were in trouble. I didn’t think you’d be this.”

The Doctor swayed on his feet for a moment, empty and cut under his suit. He felt scabs break and weep thin creases of blood into his skin, following rusty trails of blood that had run and dried in the days before. He reeked of blood, and it made his head spin and he flung himself forward, knocking into Jack’s side.

Jack took the blow and didn’t fall. The Doctor had no strength, no weight, and his whole body falling against Jack was nothing to the captain. The Doctor bit and scratched uselessly, trembling fists batting at Jack, while Jack wrapped one arm around the Doctor’s skinny middle and hauled.

“I’m not your punching bag,” Jack grunted, slapping the Doctor’s fists away as he dragged the smaller man out of the console room. “Just because you’re angry. Where’s your girlfriend, huh? Because if you tried to dump her for her own good, we are going right back and getting her, mister. Pray that she takes your miserable ass back after all the bull you’ve put her through.”

The Doctor whined like a broken electronic shutting down, curling his fingers into the captain’s coat.

“C'mon. How long has it been since you ate?”

“Dunno,” the Doctor murmured.

Jack kicked the door to the kitchen without waiting for the TARDIS to open it, dragging the Doctor at his side as the lights flickered on, dim and gentle. The Doctor dropped limply into a chair, supporting himself on the small dining table, while Jack pushed him into a position that might be more comfortable. He gripped the Doctor’s jaw gently, examining the hollowed face and cringing at what he found.

“You’re dehydrated,” Jack said sharply, scolding, like a worrisome mother who had caught her child playing in the snow without a coat. The Doctor didn’t respond.

The Doctor choked when Jack pressed something into his mouth and suddenly there was water, cold and crisp and filling his throat without being invited. He gagged, spewing water back up and allowing it to dribble out the side of his mouth, before his body suddenly remembered what water was like and how much he needed it. He swallowed greedily, burning his unused throat before soothing it with cool softness. Jack dabbed the spilled water off of his face, gentle, gentle, gentle with the spindly leftovers of what was once a great man.

“What happened, Doc?” Jack asked when the Doctor had finally had his fill of water. The Doctor huffed out small puffs of breath as the water soothed his insides, like a wash over a dirty floor. The dust in his systems was being cleared out.

“She’s gone,” the Doctor rasped.

The color drained from Jack’s face. His mouth opened, closed, opened again, and gasped silently like a fish as his knees trembled. He shook once, violently, before he reached out and gripped the Doctor’s bony arm with all the force of a vice. The Doctor whimpered and Jack immediately released his hold, snatching his hand back like the Doctor’s arm had become a snake.

“… How?” asked Jack.

The Doctor exhaled heavily. “Cybermen.”

Jack hissed angrily. “Did she… did she become one of them or did they… did they delete…?”

“I don’t….” The Doctor curled even further into himself than he already was, drawing his knees up to his chest. “I don’t know.”

At this, Jack stilled. He tilted his head to the side, eyes lighting up oddly. “You don’t… know.”

“No.”

“You mean you didn’t see her die.”

“They took her away!” The Doctor snapped. “She couldn’t have escaped, she-”

“Nuh-uh!” Jack cut the Doctor off, jumping a little bit on his heels before he knelt face-to-face in front of the Doctor. “So in all likeliness, she’s dead.”

The Doctor snarled.

“Okay,” Jack continued, “but you didn’t see-”

The Doctor rallied strength that he shouldn’t have had and smacked Jack across the face.

“She’s dead, Jack,” the Doctor whimpered, withdrawing as Jack rubbed the red side of his otherwise perfect face. “She’s dead and I don’t know how they did it but I know it hurt her and I know she was afraid and I know she probably died wondering why I didn’t come to save her and I don’t want to know any more.”

Jack stared. The Doctor stared back, brown eyes unable to shed tears.

And then a small smile graced Jack’s face. “Now, Doc, I’m surprised at you. You’re always talking about what a superior Time Lord you are, but you didn’t think of Schrödinger’s cat. Shame one you.”

The Doctor blinked rapidly. “What?”

“Schrödinger’s. Cat.” Jack booped the Doctor on the nose. “Y'know. With equal chances of death and survival, the cat is theoretically both alive and dead as long as it remains unobserved?”

“I know what Schrödinger’s Cat is, Jack, but I don’t-”

“Ah-ah-ah!” Jack scolded. “You didn’t see the cat. The cat is dead, but it is also alive. And this would be completely inapplicable, however… I have a Vortex Manipulator, and you have a big Time Machine. Schrödinger would be insanely jealous.”

Jack jumped up to his feet, bouncing as he went, and snatched a banana off of the counter, which he tossed to the Doctor. The Doctor caught it, barely, and couldn’t seem to decide if he wanted to look at Jack or the banana.

“You eat at least three bites of that before I get back,” Jack said firmly, pointing at the banana.

The Doctor cocked an eyebrow at the captain.

“No arguments,” said Jack. “I assume the coordinates of the tragic separation are still in the TARDIS computer?”

The Doctor nodded.

“Good. Off I go, don’t wait up for me, and please eat something. I would hate to have to force-feed you, but that doesn’t been I won’t do it, Doctor!”

And then Jack bolted from the room, leaving a very confuddled Doctor behind with no clue of what was going on. And a banana.

Update! 27/39 AU!Series 9: What We Deserve

New chapter from ToryTigress92,

What We Deserve
Chapter 27: Death Becomes Her

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10826428/27/What-We-Deserve

Doctor Who

Words: 8,191
Genre: Adventure/Angst
Rated: M
Character: The Master, Clara O., 12th Doctor, Osgood

Summary: AU after Death in Heaven. The Doctor refused to kill the Mistress and now all three are stuck in an uneasy truce as they travel between universes in the search for Gallifrey. As Clara mourns, the Doctor and Missy begin a new game. Can Clara avoid being sucked into this millennia-old battle, and what surprises lie in wait if she fails? Twissy/Whouffaldi/Missfle/Twisswald.