The biggest lie the Doctor has ever told is that he prefers traveling alone. It's a personal lie, meant to make him feel better, said under the flimsy belief of being able to say something enough times until you believe it. But he's a bloody genius, can never truly believe it, yet while a part of him wonders why he even tries, the part that wants to believe keeps clinging to the lie like clinging to an eel wriggling to be free.
It's especially slippery on days like today, when he took a sting from a giant Eelax meant for someone else, because his system can handle it while the someone else's can't. His body is processing it and he won't die, but it hurts. He took it in the back near the spine, and that's not a good place to be stung. His backbone feels like it's being fused and the agony words quail at even trying to describe. All the doctor can do is curl up on the TARDIS floor and ride it out.
It's days like today that the very existence of the lie is an insult to him, because it's a big universe out there, that ball of wibbly-wobbly time immeasurable, and for all the greatness others heap on him he's still just one man, one life form out of trillions, one Time Lord all by himself.
He needs somebody, if just to hold his hand and tell him that everything will be all right. Someone to ramble to, someone to show the wonders of that great big universe to, someone, anyone.
He's so lonely.
He's so scared.
The pain passes, leaving him so exhausted he sleeps where he lays. Then he wakes up, gets up, sets off and lies to himself.
Lies (PG)
The biggest lie the Doctor has ever told is that he prefers traveling alone. It's a personal lie, meant to make him feel better, said under the flimsy belief of being able to say something enough times until you believe it. But he's a bloody genius, can never truly believe it, yet while a part of him wonders why he even tries, the part that wants to believe keeps clinging to the lie like clinging to an eel wriggling to be free.
It's especially slippery on days like today, when he took a sting from a giant Eelax meant for someone else, because his system can handle it while the someone else's can't. His body is processing it and he won't die, but it hurts. He took it in the back near the spine, and that's not a good place to be stung. His backbone feels like it's being fused and the agony words quail at even trying to describe. All the doctor can do is curl up on the TARDIS floor and ride it out.
It's days like today that the very existence of the lie is an insult to him, because it's a big universe out there, that ball of wibbly-wobbly time immeasurable, and for all the greatness others heap on him he's still just one man, one life form out of trillions, one Time Lord all by himself.
He needs somebody, if just to hold his hand and tell him that everything will be all right. Someone to ramble to, someone to show the wonders of that great big universe to, someone, anyone.
He's so lonely.
He's so scared.
The pain passes, leaving him so exhausted he sleeps where he lays. Then he wakes up, gets up, sets off and lies to himself.