Yowzah Oneshot Collection (1)

19(M)

my dignity’s become undone

He hates the whispers.

He can hear them, just below his feet. Tangled words spoken low and strained. He can’t make out what they are saying, of course, but he knows they are whispering. And judging by Amy’s stricken look, they are whispering about him.

He hates this.

It’s not a feeling he normally indulges, but he is the Doctor and he is never the least informed man in the room. But this time he is, and it eats away at him, like acid bubbling between his hearts and he wants it to just go away.

They climb the stairs, but Amy’s footfalls are heavy and River’s are cautious, and why does he even know that about her – when he still doesn’t know the most basic of things about her? He swallows that burning feeling down, and stares up at the monitor, waiting for the full audience to begin his performance. Life is a stage, but if they think he’s about to play his part when he doesn’t even know his lines, none of them know him at all.

And these three people are supposed to be the ones who know him best.

Once they are all gathered around the console, he jumps back with a fixed smile and begins. “Time isn’t a straight line. It’s all... bumpy wumpy.” He moves past Rory and throws levers to give his hands something to do. Anything to stop the shaking rage that is sitting just beside his left heart. “There’s loads of boring stuff. Like Sundays and Tuesdays and Thursday afternoons.” He steps back with flare, throwing his arms out as he continues moving toward River. “But now and then there are Saturdays. Big temporal tipping points when anything is possible.” He is drawn to her despite his banked anger. Rory and Amy are looking at him like they are crushed by whatever it is that they’re all keeping from him. But River – oh River is more than accustomed to keeping secrets. She is an expert and it shows because she can look at him without that shadow lining her eyes. She can look at him with – he doesn’t like to name it because if he names it, it begins to all mean things. Things like the fact that she can keep soul-crushing secrets from him, and still look at him like she is right this second. The look on her face shoots through him as he continues on about the TARDIS being drawn to Saturdays. “Like a moth to a flame.”

She is smiling up at him, her eyes bright and his hand raises almost of its own volition to stroke along the bridge of her nose – just there. He tells himself it’s to smooth the crinkle from her nose, because he can’t seem to stomach the fact that she can smile at him like that and make his insides twitch and wobble, even while Amy and Rory are behind them, looking sick with the weight of their secret. “So I give her 1969, NASA  - cause that’s space in the sixties – and Canton Everett Delaware the third,” He forces himself away from River, because he can’t look at her joy when his own hearts are twisted with rage. Everything about it feels wrong. Right. But wrong. He types, before straightening and flicking the monitor on once more – like he hadn’t already inputted all of this while they were all discussing him below deck. But the showman in him wouldn’t allow for any less, “and this is where she’s pointing.”

They follow him over – of course they do, he’s planned on them doing it. Amy frowns at the screen. “Washington, D.C. April the 8th, 1969.” She reads the words dutifully off the screen and looks at him. “So why haven’t we landed?”

“Cause that’s not where we’re going.” He shrugs and turns to her in time to see hers and Rory’s perplexed faces.

“Oh. Where are we going?” Rory asks hesitantly and the Doctor smiles. Ah Rory. So dependable, even in moments like this.

“Home.  Well, you two are. Off you pop and make babies. And you, Doctor Song,” he swings toward River and strokes a hand along her jaw, even while he curses his own temptation to touch her. Twice he’s given in now, despite his anger and irritation. It unsettles him that his body reacts so freely without his consent. “back to prison. And me,” he flicks levers as anger finally finally bleeds into his voice, “I’m late for a bi-plane lesson. Or it could be knitting. Knitting or bi-planes, one or the other.” He throws himself into the jump seat with a flair that even Heathcliff would envy and presses his hand against his forehead.