Fortunately or unfortunately for Tom, the Doctor so very much loves a good story. To listen to, yes, but to tell most of all. Those are the magic words, in that sense: I want to hear. And he wants to tell. There are many secrets the Doctor holds close, many lies he may tell, falsehoods he might weave. Not all the time, no, not even often, but sometimes he must. Or sometimes — he simply can't speak of the truth, not when to speak of it would require giving too much of himself, revealing too much. But this is a good question, an easy one, even as it frustrates him, the reminder of what he's lost by being here.
He says nothing yet while the tea brews, he simply holds up a finger that seems to say, hold that thought, I'll be right with you, all the while grinning and spinning about in that small kitchen that's not nearly big enough for him. The whole universe wouldn't be big enough for him, though.
The mug gets handed over promptly once it's all brewed, and he sits across from him again. "Then I'll tell you a story, Tom." He folds his hands together, leans in and smiles. "This is a story that could be true." Ah, that is true. Small details.
"We sit here now and we're still for a moment, aren't we? There's quiet. You can get up and walk a straight line to the door, even though beneath your feet, this world is spinning a thousand miles an hour. It's orbiting the sun even faster — that big bright star, out there always, even when you can't see it. Even when the dark seems all that's left. And what do you have in those seconds when we're spinning, when you should fall off into the void but you don't? What fills up the space between us? What leads us from this moment the next? Time. Fragments of time that perch on a wobbly nexus, moments splitting off into other moments, alternate moments, parallel moments. Points that are fixed, that must be, points that can move, that can be changed, rewritten. Who says, though, who knows?"
The Doctor taps the side of his nose with the tip of his index finger. "I feel it. I see it. Everything that is, that was, that could be, that shouldn't be."
He'd called it once the burden of a Time Lord. It's no less heavy, no, but the madness sits comfortably in him. This is who he is. He's come to the end of his long years, he's lost so much. To hold that sort of knowledge in him now feels less like a burden and more like letting out a very long-held breath. Heavy, but it belongs to him. He can carry it. He's learned. Besides, it's all easy enough when it lives behind a touch of whimsy.
"It feels different here, different since I was brought to this world. But it's who I am, who I've always been." He laughs a bit under his breath, wringing his hands together. "Anyway, it feels like holding a slinky, if you must know."
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He says nothing yet while the tea brews, he simply holds up a finger that seems to say, hold that thought, I'll be right with you, all the while grinning and spinning about in that small kitchen that's not nearly big enough for him. The whole universe wouldn't be big enough for him, though.
The mug gets handed over promptly once it's all brewed, and he sits across from him again. "Then I'll tell you a story, Tom." He folds his hands together, leans in and smiles. "This is a story that could be true." Ah, that is true. Small details.
"We sit here now and we're still for a moment, aren't we? There's quiet. You can get up and walk a straight line to the door, even though beneath your feet, this world is spinning a thousand miles an hour. It's orbiting the sun even faster — that big bright star, out there always, even when you can't see it. Even when the dark seems all that's left. And what do you have in those seconds when we're spinning, when you should fall off into the void but you don't? What fills up the space between us? What leads us from this moment the next? Time. Fragments of time that perch on a wobbly nexus, moments splitting off into other moments, alternate moments, parallel moments. Points that are fixed, that must be, points that can move, that can be changed, rewritten. Who says, though, who knows?"
The Doctor taps the side of his nose with the tip of his index finger. "I feel it. I see it. Everything that is, that was, that could be, that shouldn't be."
He'd called it once the burden of a Time Lord. It's no less heavy, no, but the madness sits comfortably in him. This is who he is. He's come to the end of his long years, he's lost so much. To hold that sort of knowledge in him now feels less like a burden and more like letting out a very long-held breath. Heavy, but it belongs to him. He can carry it. He's learned. Besides, it's all easy enough when it lives behind a touch of whimsy.
"It feels different here, different since I was brought to this world. But it's who I am, who I've always been." He laughs a bit under his breath, wringing his hands together. "Anyway, it feels like holding a slinky, if you must know."