No, no, he shouldn't. Sometimes he wants to scream it, yell about it, stamp his foot and be petulant and petty, bearing none of the maturity that his long years should actually contain. He knows this about himself, though, he's very, very aware of his faults. It's why his friends have ever and always been the best of him. How can the Doctor be here, of all places? How and why? What's kept him trapped all this time, what's kept him from his oldest and dearest friend, or rather, what's kept her from him? She would always find him, she was always there, his TARDIS, his old girl.
And she always took him where he needed to go — whatever the reason, this is where he is now. His feet itch to run, his hands long to touch, to flip switches and pull levers and stroke a console that hums with life, that will whirl and spin and phase them all in and out of this space and into another, far from here. Any wise creature would no better than to trap him, but here he is, here he remains, and while the Darkwalker looms as a threat over all, he won't stray from his belief that it's his duty of care to protect them all. Whatever that takes. He reminds himself of that when there's that whisper of I shouldn't be here at the doors of his own mind.
He leans in a bit closer as he speaks, fidgeting with his hands. "Some might call that lost," the Doctor says, rather than confirming or denying he should be free. "We're displaced here, somewhere we don't belong, but anything lost can be found, and that's what we hold onto now. Until you're free, I've got you." Found. Like he said.
Just as quickly as he's leaned in, he pulls back, snaps his fingers like he's just come up with something of great importance. He feels a connection to Tom already, though, a way of knowing each other in intangible ways, and sometimes it's easier not to think on things like that too long, lest he risk sharing things about himself he's willing to admit to. "Fish! Food, you need — something to eat. Fish or food — fish is food, or in some cases, very dear friends. I have some! Not friends, these ones, of course. Dried and smoked, hang on." He's warm enough at least, or seems to be, he needs sustenance. And probably a bit of proper rest, if his mind could relax enough for it.
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No, no, he shouldn't. Sometimes he wants to scream it, yell about it, stamp his foot and be petulant and petty, bearing none of the maturity that his long years should actually contain. He knows this about himself, though, he's very, very aware of his faults. It's why his friends have ever and always been the best of him. How can the Doctor be here, of all places? How and why? What's kept him trapped all this time, what's kept him from his oldest and dearest friend, or rather, what's kept her from him? She would always find him, she was always there, his TARDIS, his old girl.
And she always took him where he needed to go — whatever the reason, this is where he is now. His feet itch to run, his hands long to touch, to flip switches and pull levers and stroke a console that hums with life, that will whirl and spin and phase them all in and out of this space and into another, far from here. Any wise creature would no better than to trap him, but here he is, here he remains, and while the Darkwalker looms as a threat over all, he won't stray from his belief that it's his duty of care to protect them all. Whatever that takes. He reminds himself of that when there's that whisper of I shouldn't be here at the doors of his own mind.
He leans in a bit closer as he speaks, fidgeting with his hands. "Some might call that lost," the Doctor says, rather than confirming or denying he should be free. "We're displaced here, somewhere we don't belong, but anything lost can be found, and that's what we hold onto now. Until you're free, I've got you." Found. Like he said.
Just as quickly as he's leaned in, he pulls back, snaps his fingers like he's just come up with something of great importance. He feels a connection to Tom already, though, a way of knowing each other in intangible ways, and sometimes it's easier not to think on things like that too long, lest he risk sharing things about himself he's willing to admit to. "Fish! Food, you need — something to eat. Fish or food — fish is food, or in some cases, very dear friends. I have some! Not friends, these ones, of course. Dried and smoked, hang on." He's warm enough at least, or seems to be, he needs sustenance. And probably a bit of proper rest, if his mind could relax enough for it.