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rivendellroseFandoms: Doctor Who, Star Trek XI
Characters: Ninth Doctor, Spock Prime.
Summary: On an icy planet, two outcasts discuss planets. Specifically their own.
Notes: SPOILERS FOR STAR TREK XI!! Also, it's all![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tavern_wench1's fault. And un-beta'd, so forgive any glaring mistakes, please.
Rating: Suitable for all audiences, if slightly sad.
Title: Ice and Fire
“You know this isn’t right.”
“I could hardly be unaware of that,” the man standing before him agrees drily. He’s tall and thin and looks very tired, much like the Doctor, but unlike the Doctor, age and time have worn permanent lines and furrows over his stark features. High cheekbones that must once have been sharp as glass now sag, and the line of eyebrows that look like they were once strangely pointed is thicker now, and edged in rows of wrinkles. His eyes are still bright, though - and insightful. Looking at him is like looking at a mirror that shows the Doctor’s own curiousity, and excitement at the novelty of finding something to surprise him after all these years.
Bad enough to destroy one’s own planet to destroy one’s enemy - worse still to wake up after pushing the button and find oneself unaccountably still alive and, in fact, newly regenerated. But that was exactly what the Doctor had done. He had been bitterly unsurprised to find, as well, that the planet the Tardis had dumped them on in her panicked flight was icy, barren, and inhabited only by the sort of creatures who’d rather eat a visitor than help him out by providing shelter or a convenient few pills of aspirin. And then, shortly after finding himself in this place, the Doctor had tracked the signal of an unfamiliar and highly primitive form of timeship that landed on the world, and went to see it just in time to see a group of tattooed and altogether unpleasant-looking fellows toss an old man out onto the snow. Their leader - or at least so the Doctor guesses he is, from the arrogant angle to his head and the way all the others seem to scramble in his wake - delivers what looks like a dramatic speech. The Doctor was not displeased that he can’t hear it, and gained some respect for the man on the ground from how dispassionately he listens to the whole thing. Soon after, they leave, and the Doctor, following instinct as always, approached the man they left sitting, head bowed, on the ice. Just before he noticed the Doctor, the stranger looked up at the sky with an expression of such heartfelt exhaustion and guilt that the Doctor can’t help but identify with him.
Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to know that everything in this new universe, especially this man, is entirely wrong.
It certainly is a right pickle, the Doctor considers. A quick conversation reveals that this man doesn’t belong in this timeline, any more than he, the Doctor, belongs in this universe. Now that he’s paying attention, he can taste that in the air, feel it in the way the time here seems to prickle on his skin like the ice crystals that have only just begun to melt now that the other man has started a small fire in the little cave they’ve both sheltered in. They warm themselves in silence, the wrongness of the situation hanging between them, two men who should never have met.
“I could take you back,” the Doctor tells him. “I should. Take you back and put you where you belong, and let this timeline do whatever it’s going to do, on its own. That’s how it’s supposed to work.” It is not quite a threat. In any event, the man standing in front of the Doctor looks only vaguely amused. “I should,” the Doctor repeats, though he’s aware of how petulant it makes him sound.
“Before my work here is done, you would have to force me.”
“I could. I’m stronger than I look, me, and you’re older than you look.”
“As are you. By a great deal. And I, too, am stronger than I appear. So the question becomes, will we fight?”
The Doctor huffs and folds his arms against his chest, tucking his hands into his leather jacket. “Had enough of fighting to last me for a while.”
“As have I,” the stranger acknowledges.
“Those men who left you...”
“Believe that I destroyed their homeworld. I did not,” the stranger says calmly, before the Doctor can question further. “I was on my way to help them, but I... was too slow. They believe that I betrayed them. And so they have left me here, for punishment.”
The Doctor digests this information. “Seems like a pretty civilized way to punish someone for destroying a whole planet,” he offers, casually as he can. “If they think you did it on purpose.”
“This is not the whole of the punishment Nero intends,” the old man tells him calmly. “He will destroy my world. It can be seen from the sky here, at night. Vulcan, and then Earth. Both my homes. And since we are here in the past...”
“Then your homes will never be.” Earth. Even in an alternate universe, even as he still feels like his own planet’s funeral dust is still caught in his brand-new throat and lungs, the Doctor cannot remain untouched by the thought of that little blue world getting blown up by some revenge-crazed alien. It’s not his Earth, sure. But it’s Earth.
Not his Earth...
A sudden, wild hope kindles in the space between the Doctor’s hearts.
“Have you... have you ever heard of the constellation Kasterberous?”
The old man inclines his head, apparently unfazed by the sudden change of subject.
“And...” It’s hard to force the word out. The Doctor swallows the smoke of the war, the bitter taste of failure and fear and sorrow, and tries again. “Gallifrey. Have you ever heard of a planet called Gallifrey?”
In a thousand multiverses, Gallifrey is just a whisper, a legend that no one ever believed. In a hundred more, now, it’s only a memory - a distant fairy-story of something that once was and never shall be again. Once upon a time, and nevermore. But maybe, somewhere, somewhen, maybe here...
“I have heard stories,” the old man agrees delicately.
Long ago and far away... The Doctor’s hearts resume their normal speed with a lurch and a shudder, disappointed, lagging from their race of excitement.
“Forget it, never mind.” He stands up, brushes off his hands. “Just an idle question. Let’s get this figured out, then, shall we? So you’re in your own past, and your planet - your planets,” he corrects himself, remembering the old man’s words, “are about to be destroyed by the same time-traveling idiot who brought you here in the first place. Is that about right?”
“It would be false confidence to underestimate Nero,” the old man warns him. “Although crazed by grief, he is no fool.”
“Time-travelling through a black hole?” The Doctor snorts. “No, believe me, from where I’m coming from, he’s an idiot. Stupid little apes, always thinking they understand what’s going on... even if they’ve got pointy ears,” he mused.
“Most illogical,” his new friend comments.
“Exactly,” the Doctor agrees, although he’s pretty sure that’s not how the old man meant it. “There’s got to be a way... got to be a way, got to be a way...”
“Time Lord,” the stranger says softly.
His hearts freeze. So does his blood. “What did you say?” he asks, looking up at the stranger.
The old man... doesn’t quite smile, but he manages to tuck his hands into his sleeves in a very sympathetic manner, and bow his head in a way that indicates he wishes he could do more. “I am sorry for your loss, Time Lord. For the loss of your world. It is a loss that I know I, myself, will soon suffer... both with and without the wisdom of age that you benefit from.”
So he does know. And it is gone. Even here, in this strange place, his planet - his friends, his family, all the people he disdained and mocked and loved only to leave behind... all are gone.
“It... burned...” the Doctor frowns. “I burned it. It was the only way. The Daleks...”
“Are only a legend in my universe, perhaps thanks to your sacrifice,” the stranger points out. “And likewise they are surely gone from your own, correct?”
The Doctor nods.
“Then that, at least, is a kind of victory, though it may feel a hollow one.” He sighs, and the Doctor has the sudden and exceptionally rare feeling of finding someone outside of Gallifrey who seemed to understand all the burdens that time travel and great responsibility and age placed on a person. Hell, even on Gallifrey that kind of understanding had been rare. He tries to laugh at that, and finds a sob blocking his throat instead.
To his surprise, the old man clasps his shoulder. It's a friendly, almost brotherly gesture, and too much for the Doctor in his current state of mind. He falls onto the man’s shoulder, and cries.
“The needs of the many,” the old man tells him in a low voice, “outweigh the needs of the few. But that does not mean that we who make the choice may not sorrow for what has been sacrificed.”
Characters: Ninth Doctor, Spock Prime.
Summary: On an icy planet, two outcasts discuss planets. Specifically their own.
Notes: SPOILERS FOR STAR TREK XI!! Also, it's all
tavern_wench1's fault. And un-beta'd, so forgive any glaring mistakes, please.Rating: Suitable for all audiences, if slightly sad.
Title: Ice and Fire
“You know this isn’t right.”
“I could hardly be unaware of that,” the man standing before him agrees drily. He’s tall and thin and looks very tired, much like the Doctor, but unlike the Doctor, age and time have worn permanent lines and furrows over his stark features. High cheekbones that must once have been sharp as glass now sag, and the line of eyebrows that look like they were once strangely pointed is thicker now, and edged in rows of wrinkles. His eyes are still bright, though - and insightful. Looking at him is like looking at a mirror that shows the Doctor’s own curiousity, and excitement at the novelty of finding something to surprise him after all these years.
Bad enough to destroy one’s own planet to destroy one’s enemy - worse still to wake up after pushing the button and find oneself unaccountably still alive and, in fact, newly regenerated. But that was exactly what the Doctor had done. He had been bitterly unsurprised to find, as well, that the planet the Tardis had dumped them on in her panicked flight was icy, barren, and inhabited only by the sort of creatures who’d rather eat a visitor than help him out by providing shelter or a convenient few pills of aspirin. And then, shortly after finding himself in this place, the Doctor had tracked the signal of an unfamiliar and highly primitive form of timeship that landed on the world, and went to see it just in time to see a group of tattooed and altogether unpleasant-looking fellows toss an old man out onto the snow. Their leader - or at least so the Doctor guesses he is, from the arrogant angle to his head and the way all the others seem to scramble in his wake - delivers what looks like a dramatic speech. The Doctor was not displeased that he can’t hear it, and gained some respect for the man on the ground from how dispassionately he listens to the whole thing. Soon after, they leave, and the Doctor, following instinct as always, approached the man they left sitting, head bowed, on the ice. Just before he noticed the Doctor, the stranger looked up at the sky with an expression of such heartfelt exhaustion and guilt that the Doctor can’t help but identify with him.
Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to know that everything in this new universe, especially this man, is entirely wrong.
It certainly is a right pickle, the Doctor considers. A quick conversation reveals that this man doesn’t belong in this timeline, any more than he, the Doctor, belongs in this universe. Now that he’s paying attention, he can taste that in the air, feel it in the way the time here seems to prickle on his skin like the ice crystals that have only just begun to melt now that the other man has started a small fire in the little cave they’ve both sheltered in. They warm themselves in silence, the wrongness of the situation hanging between them, two men who should never have met.
“I could take you back,” the Doctor tells him. “I should. Take you back and put you where you belong, and let this timeline do whatever it’s going to do, on its own. That’s how it’s supposed to work.” It is not quite a threat. In any event, the man standing in front of the Doctor looks only vaguely amused. “I should,” the Doctor repeats, though he’s aware of how petulant it makes him sound.
“Before my work here is done, you would have to force me.”
“I could. I’m stronger than I look, me, and you’re older than you look.”
“As are you. By a great deal. And I, too, am stronger than I appear. So the question becomes, will we fight?”
The Doctor huffs and folds his arms against his chest, tucking his hands into his leather jacket. “Had enough of fighting to last me for a while.”
“As have I,” the stranger acknowledges.
“Those men who left you...”
“Believe that I destroyed their homeworld. I did not,” the stranger says calmly, before the Doctor can question further. “I was on my way to help them, but I... was too slow. They believe that I betrayed them. And so they have left me here, for punishment.”
The Doctor digests this information. “Seems like a pretty civilized way to punish someone for destroying a whole planet,” he offers, casually as he can. “If they think you did it on purpose.”
“This is not the whole of the punishment Nero intends,” the old man tells him calmly. “He will destroy my world. It can be seen from the sky here, at night. Vulcan, and then Earth. Both my homes. And since we are here in the past...”
“Then your homes will never be.” Earth. Even in an alternate universe, even as he still feels like his own planet’s funeral dust is still caught in his brand-new throat and lungs, the Doctor cannot remain untouched by the thought of that little blue world getting blown up by some revenge-crazed alien. It’s not his Earth, sure. But it’s Earth.
Not his Earth...
A sudden, wild hope kindles in the space between the Doctor’s hearts.
“Have you... have you ever heard of the constellation Kasterberous?”
The old man inclines his head, apparently unfazed by the sudden change of subject.
“And...” It’s hard to force the word out. The Doctor swallows the smoke of the war, the bitter taste of failure and fear and sorrow, and tries again. “Gallifrey. Have you ever heard of a planet called Gallifrey?”
In a thousand multiverses, Gallifrey is just a whisper, a legend that no one ever believed. In a hundred more, now, it’s only a memory - a distant fairy-story of something that once was and never shall be again. Once upon a time, and nevermore. But maybe, somewhere, somewhen, maybe here...
“I have heard stories,” the old man agrees delicately.
Long ago and far away... The Doctor’s hearts resume their normal speed with a lurch and a shudder, disappointed, lagging from their race of excitement.
“Forget it, never mind.” He stands up, brushes off his hands. “Just an idle question. Let’s get this figured out, then, shall we? So you’re in your own past, and your planet - your planets,” he corrects himself, remembering the old man’s words, “are about to be destroyed by the same time-traveling idiot who brought you here in the first place. Is that about right?”
“It would be false confidence to underestimate Nero,” the old man warns him. “Although crazed by grief, he is no fool.”
“Time-travelling through a black hole?” The Doctor snorts. “No, believe me, from where I’m coming from, he’s an idiot. Stupid little apes, always thinking they understand what’s going on... even if they’ve got pointy ears,” he mused.
“Most illogical,” his new friend comments.
“Exactly,” the Doctor agrees, although he’s pretty sure that’s not how the old man meant it. “There’s got to be a way... got to be a way, got to be a way...”
“Time Lord,” the stranger says softly.
His hearts freeze. So does his blood. “What did you say?” he asks, looking up at the stranger.
The old man... doesn’t quite smile, but he manages to tuck his hands into his sleeves in a very sympathetic manner, and bow his head in a way that indicates he wishes he could do more. “I am sorry for your loss, Time Lord. For the loss of your world. It is a loss that I know I, myself, will soon suffer... both with and without the wisdom of age that you benefit from.”
So he does know. And it is gone. Even here, in this strange place, his planet - his friends, his family, all the people he disdained and mocked and loved only to leave behind... all are gone.
“It... burned...” the Doctor frowns. “I burned it. It was the only way. The Daleks...”
“Are only a legend in my universe, perhaps thanks to your sacrifice,” the stranger points out. “And likewise they are surely gone from your own, correct?”
The Doctor nods.
“Then that, at least, is a kind of victory, though it may feel a hollow one.” He sighs, and the Doctor has the sudden and exceptionally rare feeling of finding someone outside of Gallifrey who seemed to understand all the burdens that time travel and great responsibility and age placed on a person. Hell, even on Gallifrey that kind of understanding had been rare. He tries to laugh at that, and finds a sob blocking his throat instead.
To his surprise, the old man clasps his shoulder. It's a friendly, almost brotherly gesture, and too much for the Doctor in his current state of mind. He falls onto the man’s shoulder, and cries.
“The needs of the many,” the old man tells him in a low voice, “outweigh the needs of the few. But that does not mean that we who make the choice may not sorrow for what has been sacrificed.”
