[ Ah, that space between the question and answer, the moment of deciding how much to share, what to share, how to share certain details at all when it might be incredibly complicated. He'd give her all the time she needed to answer, too, he wouldn't push. There's plenty enough to distract him with while they talk as it is, and he's not going anywhere. In so many ways, he's incredibly impatient, while for other things, he could wait as long as needed.
They reach a curve in the shore to the lake and he briefly stops walking, looking at her with a soft and gentle expression before his gaze turns out to the water as she continues.
He can almost feel it coming, what she's about to say next, and his hearts do an aching flipping thing that always comes with the hard things, the things that hurt the ones he cares for most. He knows it's there and then the pause, the way she seems to hesitate, and as his right arm dangles at his side, he runs the pad of his thumb across the tip of his middle finger, an idle movement while he waits, and then there are those words again — I don't know.
Three words he's admitted to himself countless times before, yet now feel utterly agonizing and dreadful. She should know, she shouldn't have to be here without knowing (though he's grateful she is here, and far from Hades). But those are the things he can't control, much as he wants to. He can't wave his hand and make it all magically better, and he's limited without his TARDIS, without an inkling — truly — of what comes next after Akhuras. He knows pieces of his fate and Red knows much of her own, but the Doctor also knows enough about time and the universe to understand that just by being here as long as they have been, there are ripples that can't be altered, fates have shifted, parallel universes have splintered off beyond their knowing.
He can't control that instant, the moment she was dragged down before she came back here, but there's so much — oh, there's still so much he can and he will, and he won't accept otherwise.
A slightly darker expression tints his eyes as he looks back to Red, his jaw tensing. ]
You were getting dragged down, and I don't know what that means for you immediately after and I don't know what happens to us here tomorrow or the day after, but I know this — if we're separated again and you leave or I leave, I won't forget you. I can't. The shape of people, the memory of our time, it won't go away. I'll remember and I'll come for you. I'll find you, Red. The universe is too small for Hades to hide from me.
[ Of course, the universe is far from small, but it's practically tiny when the Doctor is angry. What he wouldn't do for his dearest friends. ]
( Red was expecting this. How could she not? She knows his aura. She clocked it when they first met in all its beautiful complexities, and even now, she sees the sharp red of the lava within it boil up, bubble, threaten to burn and devour whatever it wishes to touch. He has always been more - complex layers of cozy warmth and sheer destruction, and naturally the news she has to share would ignite it even if that is not why she shares what she shares. It's not why she told him.
She is ancient too is the thing - old as the Underworld, created and carved and made to be pet, guard dog, creature with teeth and claws and no choice of their own.
She knows what Hades is - primordial, unflinching, unmerciful.
She knows what the Doctor is. She sees how he has fought, how he has lost, and she does not need any promises, but he gives them anyway. And how terrible would it be to say she doesn't believe them? She's been sent back, every being wiped from her mind, and he's going to die himself. He is going to die. She hasn't forgotten that either.
And she doesn't need him to save her. She doesn't need to be saved - two decades out in the world, out in life, out living. What a beautiful time it was. She doesn't even need the comfort. She just- She needed someone else to know, someone else to carry it like she carries his own death in her heart, heavy and terrible and wrong. Something she'd rail against with her whole heart if she had the chance. But the world is filled with wrong.
She reaches out, fingers hooking on to his own, hand wrapping around his. ♪ )
It's okay. ( The words are low like a whisper, hoarse with tears in her eyes. ) It's okay.
( She's come to grips with it - the dragging, the ending. Her death is not for him to carry, to feel responsible for stopping. )
But if you could remember me like I wish I could remember you that's- that's everything. ( Her eyes burn with anger at the wrongness of forgetting, family, friends, loved ones- her hand tightens over his. ) And I'm sure as fuck not going toward any beacons ever again unless I'm dragged there, okay?
[ Ideally, of course, things turn out far differently when they've fixed everything here. People go home if they want to, or they stay here, and the Doctor helps everyone get where they most want to be going when he's reunited with his TARDIS. Nothing matters more to him than the people here being safe and for their party of wayward travelers, the ones he loves most, to be happy and okay. He needs them all to be okay.
And then she says it — It's okay. She reaches for him, and he looks down to study their intertwined hands as though there were something miraculous about it. Perhaps there is. Whatever mechanism brought them all here, they are all here together, at this exact moment in this precise instant of time, for a purpose. They may leave and they may not remember and he loathes the thought of it all, but life keeps going and going. And Red's hand is bigger than he remembers because she grew, she changed, she lived. There was some good in that life, he can see it in her eyes. The good and the bad, the turning and the great unknowing and beauty of life with all its pain and joy alike. She had that, she got to have that, and he's grateful. It's hard to let go of the thought that Hades might steal it all away from her, but her words echo again — it's okay.
It's not, it's not, it's not, he wants to insist otherwise. He can't relinquish the idea of hope, he can't let go. But here, they are two ancient creatures tethered together, connected by what they understand about each other, and learning as they go. If you could remember — he could, he has to believe. And maybe that's enough for now.
Sometimes, all they really get in the end is time. Moments, like this one. Something he's still trying to grasp and learn to accept because nothing else is guaranteed.
He squeezes her hand tightly, grateful for the anchor. ]
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no subject
They reach a curve in the shore to the lake and he briefly stops walking, looking at her with a soft and gentle expression before his gaze turns out to the water as she continues.
He can almost feel it coming, what she's about to say next, and his hearts do an aching flipping thing that always comes with the hard things, the things that hurt the ones he cares for most. He knows it's there and then the pause, the way she seems to hesitate, and as his right arm dangles at his side, he runs the pad of his thumb across the tip of his middle finger, an idle movement while he waits, and then there are those words again — I don't know.
Three words he's admitted to himself countless times before, yet now feel utterly agonizing and dreadful. She should know, she shouldn't have to be here without knowing (though he's grateful she is here, and far from Hades). But those are the things he can't control, much as he wants to. He can't wave his hand and make it all magically better, and he's limited without his TARDIS, without an inkling — truly — of what comes next after Akhuras. He knows pieces of his fate and Red knows much of her own, but the Doctor also knows enough about time and the universe to understand that just by being here as long as they have been, there are ripples that can't be altered, fates have shifted, parallel universes have splintered off beyond their knowing.
He can't control that instant, the moment she was dragged down before she came back here, but there's so much — oh, there's still so much he can and he will, and he won't accept otherwise.
A slightly darker expression tints his eyes as he looks back to Red, his jaw tensing. ]
You were getting dragged down, and I don't know what that means for you immediately after and I don't know what happens to us here tomorrow or the day after, but I know this — if we're separated again and you leave or I leave, I won't forget you. I can't. The shape of people, the memory of our time, it won't go away. I'll remember and I'll come for you. I'll find you, Red. The universe is too small for Hades to hide from me.
[ Of course, the universe is far from small, but it's practically tiny when the Doctor is angry. What he wouldn't do for his dearest friends. ]
no subject
She is ancient too is the thing - old as the Underworld, created and carved and made to be pet, guard dog, creature with teeth and claws and no choice of their own.
She knows what Hades is - primordial, unflinching, unmerciful.
She knows what the Doctor is. She sees how he has fought, how he has lost, and she does not need any promises, but he gives them anyway. And how terrible would it be to say she doesn't believe them? She's been sent back, every being wiped from her mind, and he's going to die himself. He is going to die. She hasn't forgotten that either.
And she doesn't need him to save her. She doesn't need to be saved - two decades out in the world, out in life, out living. What a beautiful time it was. She doesn't even need the comfort. She just- She needed someone else to know, someone else to carry it like she carries his own death in her heart, heavy and terrible and wrong. Something she'd rail against with her whole heart if she had the chance. But the world is filled with wrong.
She reaches out, fingers hooking on to his own, hand wrapping around his. ♪ )
It's okay. ( The words are low like a whisper, hoarse with tears in her eyes. ) It's okay.
( She's come to grips with it - the dragging, the ending. Her death is not for him to carry, to feel responsible for stopping. )
But if you could remember me like I wish I could remember you that's- that's everything. ( Her eyes burn with anger at the wrongness of forgetting, family, friends, loved ones- her hand tightens over his. ) And I'm sure as fuck not going toward any beacons ever again unless I'm dragged there, okay?
no subject
And then she says it — It's okay. She reaches for him, and he looks down to study their intertwined hands as though there were something miraculous about it. Perhaps there is. Whatever mechanism brought them all here, they are all here together, at this exact moment in this precise instant of time, for a purpose. They may leave and they may not remember and he loathes the thought of it all, but life keeps going and going. And Red's hand is bigger than he remembers because she grew, she changed, she lived. There was some good in that life, he can see it in her eyes. The good and the bad, the turning and the great unknowing and beauty of life with all its pain and joy alike. She had that, she got to have that, and he's grateful. It's hard to let go of the thought that Hades might steal it all away from her, but her words echo again — it's okay.
It's not, it's not, it's not, he wants to insist otherwise. He can't relinquish the idea of hope, he can't let go. But here, they are two ancient creatures tethered together, connected by what they understand about each other, and learning as they go. If you could remember — he could, he has to believe. And maybe that's enough for now.
Sometimes, all they really get in the end is time. Moments, like this one. Something he's still trying to grasp and learn to accept because nothing else is guaranteed.
He squeezes her hand tightly, grateful for the anchor. ]
I believe you.
[ That's for so many things. ]