16Vacation, Interrupted
Nicole Clevenger (March 2012)
Notes: I make no money, because they don't belong to me. A missing scene nestled right at the end of Season4 "Midnight." Written for 10_hurt_comfort over at LiveJournal.
He doesn't have the strength to pull himself up into the seat, settling instead for using the hard plastic side at the end of the aisle to prop himself up. He slumps there, breathing raggedly, unable to do much else but pull in gulp after gulp of the circulating cabin air. There's a tang to it now, a sharp new taste following the collapse of the air pressure seal. It'll be gone after a few filtration cycles, leaving no trace behind.
He feels like he's been scraped raw on the inside, hollowed out and left for dead. Mrs Cane babbles self-servingly at him, but he's got no energy to spare on her, and after a few moments she gives up and moves away. No one else approaches him. His body throbs in time to the beat of his hearts.
He's shaking, and he pulls his knees up to his chest. The icy tendril of an echo slithers across the back of his neck; he bites down on a moan. "It's gone," he whispers again, though the words are more shape than sound. Sky's faces flashes behind his eyelids. "It's gone," he tries once more.
For all of his love of these humans, he forgets how ugly they can be in their fear. He can still feel their hands on him, willingly dragging him to his death. His mind darts away from this picture, bouncing back when it finds no place else to land.
Away and back. Away and back.
Away and back, and now he can feel the panic start to bubble low in his stomach. There's always something else, a million trillion thoughts clamoring for his attention. Colorful distractions, connections to be made. Endless spinning ideas to change his mind, his mood, his motivation. But he's wrung out. And there's nothing. Nothing but bruising hands and shouting voices.
He doesn't want to think about it.
He can't think about anything else.
He tells himself to breathe, forces his focus into counting each careful one. Each memory that breaks through has him beginning again, until finally he lulls himself into a world made up of only inhalations and exhalations, tracking a linear path. The other passengers make no noise, and he doesn't look at them. He is alone in his world made of air.
He loses his count instantly when the rescue ship cuts through the silence, informing them that help is almost here. Help coming far too late for some. It occurs to him that he never asked the Hostess' name, this woman who gave her life for his. The need to know has him questioning the cabin aloud, but no one else can recall it either. Tears sting his eyes as he bows his head in defeat.
I'm sorry, he tells her face in his mind. I'm so sorry.
Sky's face now too, those lonely eyes he recognized so well. Another person he couldn't save.
I'm so very sorry.
Despite the automated warning, they all jump when the other ship locks onto their own. The lingering spell of shared experience holds them still, and no one moves at first. He's not the only one to flinch when the door opens.
The Crusader employee that comes through first is brandishing a professional smile, though the lines around his eyes betray more. The Doctor wonders what they're making of the missing front half, of the decimated ship's compliment. But nothing is said, only politely efficient instructions offered. He watches the other five start to get to their feet.
The Cranes cluster together, even Jethro allowing himself to be drawn up. Deedee follows behind the professor, mutely carrying most of their things. She hesitates as she passes the Doctor, opening her mouth as if to say something, but Hobbes looks back over his shoulder and she ducks her head and moves on. The Doctor watches them file out, uncertain if he can find the power to stand.
"Sir?" The young man hovers over him, looking anxious to get back to his ship. Suddenly they're the only two left on board. "If you'll come with me please?"
Scowling at the 'sir' but not finding it worth the comment, the Doctor uses the seat behind him to unsteadily draw himself to his feet. His muscles are rubber, useless from frantic struggling against invisible bonds. His right foot protests when he puts weight on it, and he can see a definite scuff across the top of his shoe where he'd hooked it behind the metal leg in an attempt to slow his progress in the chaos. He's studying this dumbly when a hand grabs his arm. Trapped in the memory, he jerks away violently, almost sending himself back down to the floor.
"I'm sorry, sir, I -" The man beside him looks helpless, unsure of what to do with his hands. He seems younger by the minute. It takes the Doctor a moment to recognize that the touch had been meant as an assistance, not an attack. He swallows. Gestures for the other man to lead the way.
The airlock connecting the vessels is short, the doorway opening onto a ship almost identical to their own. The others have already found seats in their two groups, and they glance only briefly at him as he enters. He makes his way to a spot at the back, their eyes fixed determinedly elsewhere as he moves by. Collapsing into the cushioned chair, he waves away his clinging shadow. The flustered young employee leaves him be.
They're plied with offers of blankets and refreshment, the Crusader staff tripping over themselves to make things right. He ignores their efforts, closing his eyes as he rests his head against the smooth metal wall. Settling into an exhausted haze, he's unable to relax enough to sleep.
An announcement comes as they prepare to dock, a mousey female voice sliding through the hush. The Doctor opens his eyes to see her standing in front of the door, his fellow passengers just beginning to shift in their seats. She looks in a hurry to be rid of them, and he finds he can't blame her for this. He wonders what they must look like to her. What secrets she must think they hold.
He shudders when the door opens, seeing again for a moment two women there, locked together in a final embrace. His throat closes against a remembered scream, trapped in Sky's sound as she uses up the last of his voice. Gripping the seat back in front of him, his knuckles go white as he reminds himself to breathe. He blinks repeatedly, and the figure narrows itself back down to one.
He's more than ready for this to be over. He hopes that when he finds Donna, she'll actually be ready to leave.
His plan is only to slip away quickly, to get anywhere away from this group. But they're funneled off the ship and down an unmarked hallway, giving him little chance to make his escape. They pass door after door branded with shiny metal nameplates, continuing on until they reach the one at the end. The sterile brightness of this bureaucratic pathway makes him feel overexposed. Like a photograph left out in the sun, all this effulgence seems likely to wash him away.
The lights make his eyes burn, doing nothing to help the pulsing beat that's been building steadily behind the left one. He rubs at it. It does no good. A chill sweeps through him, and he tries to remember where he's left his overcoat. He finds he's unusually cold.
If its position in the hallway hadn't been enough of a clue, the size of the waiting room they're shown into marks this office as that of a man at the top. Dark wood and plush seating, the plants carefully chosen to compliment. The faint fragrance of the flowers tickles at his nose as he steps inside.
The secretary smiles at them as they're asked to sit. The three security guards ringing the room do not.
The Doctor chooses to stand by the window, a giant transparent rectangle offering a view into the heart of the leisure planet. Ankles crossed and hands in pockets, he appears the epitome of casual as he waits for his turn. But his hands out of sight are clenched into fists, and his muscles tremble in their tension. The faint whisper of the artificial air sends unsettling tingles up and down his scalp.
The Cranes are called in first, and the fact that they go together speaks to this being more of an attempt for Crusader Tours to clean up their PR nightmare than any kind of criminal investigation. Though the presence of security leaves that option open. He wonders what they'll say, how they'll explain their role in things. What they'll say about him. He wonders if he'll even get a chance to tell his side.
But exhaustion drapes heavily over his shoulders, and he doesn't really wonder for long. Instead he stares out of the window, not seeing much of anything that lies beyond. Waiting. It takes him a few moments to register that he's repetitively running his thumbs over his bent knuckles, subconsciously reassuring himself that the power to move remains his. He forces his hands in his pockets to still. He debates what would happen if he simply walked out.
An hour passes, and the Cranes have not yet emerged. His legs are wobbling, tired of holding up the weight of his aching body, and the window ledge is now all but supporting his frame. But he fears that if he sits, he won't be able to summon the energy to stand. Deciding that this has gone on long enough, he plasters an empty smile on his lips and approaches the blond manning the desk.
"'Scuse me," he starts, only to find his vocal chords strained and sore. She looks up from her computer, and he clears his throat before trying again. "I'm afraid I have somewhere I very much need to be." He pulls the psychic paper from his suit coat and shows it to her. "Think you'll find you don't need to talk to me at all, really. Least not right now."
She looks at the folio, then back to his face. Her eyebrows knit together in confusion, a tiny pout pursing her lips. "Sir, I'm sorry, but I don't understand – is that supposed to be some kind of joke?"
The Doctor tilts the psychic paper back toward himself, only to find that it's blank. A wave of dizziness ripples his vision, and the hand that reaches instinctively for the solidity of the desk connects harder than he had intended. The sound of flesh meeting wood is loud in the silence of the room; even through the vertigo he senses the secretary's startled jump in her seat. In his fuzzy peripheral vision, one of the security men takes a few steps closer.
His head feels untethered, his skin like it might fly apart. The guard appears at his side, a hand floating just above his holstered weapon, and the Doctor swallows against the bile rising fast in his throat. He closes his eyes, wishing for the TARDIS. Wishing for Donna. In his mind, the creature that was Sky screams as she's torn out into space.
"Sir? Are you all right? Do you need medical attention?"
"No, I -" It occurs to him then that this may be escape he's been seeking. He opens his eyes, not lifting them from the polished surface of the desk. "Possibly." His voice is a scratch. "Yes."
She tells him he'll be escorted to the medbay immediately; he flinches at the unexpected pressure of a hand on his arm. He straightens from the desk to assure them that he can walk on his own, and the guard seems content to follow along side. He can feel Deedee and the professor watching as they leave the room.
Reversing their trip down the long hallway, they make no conversation. The gun at the guard's hip vibrates along his nerves, a presence more tangible than the man wearing it. It flutters against his awareness like a thing alive, and he side-steps to put more distance between them. The security officer says nothing if he notices at all, and the Doctor works on not tripping over his own feet as they continue on.
It takes an eternity to reach their destination, and he fights the growing fog to try and track just how long he's been gone. Is Donna looking for him, wondering where he is? His brain scrambles in its search for the flow of Time, panic sneaking in again when the thread of this habitual comfort is blurred. He stumbles, his pinstriped sleeve brushing against the wall. He recovers his steps before the guard can make a move to assist, and they enter the waiting room of the medbay.
The Doctor leans against the wall beside a row of empty seats, the guard leaving him to exchange words with the man behind the reception desk. He can't hear what they're saying. His eyes flick half-heartedly over the few other occupants of the room. A middle-aged couple, probably human, the man obviously suffering from some kind of stomach ailment. A woman with a small child, also fairly human-looking, the boy curled up in a tight ball in his mother's arms. A Charn, holding his hand in his lap, a bloody bandage wrapped around his third clawfinger.
As for the Lioite... With no face and no clear injuries, it's really hard to tell.
Not in the mood to guess, he turns his eyes back to the desk. Something the security guard says causes the other man to look in the Doctor's direction, his gaze darting away guiltily when he sees he's being watched. The Doctor feels his eyebrow move upward with an involuntary twitch, but is surprised to find that, in all honesty, he doesn't actually care. This unfamiliar apathy terrifies him. Or, rather, he senses it should. Had he any energy left to devote to being terrified.
It occurs to him that he's probably reached his quota of terrified for today. A lunatic giggle tries to claw its way up his throat at the thought.
The dizziness from before still lurks at his temples, and he's thankful when the guard returns soon after to stand in front of him. "They'll be with you in a minute," he says, the first words the Doctor has heard from him at all. "Someone can show you the way back when you're done. Mr. Jeffries will still want to talk with you before you leave."
Jeffries. It takes a few seconds longer than usual before the Doctor's brain is able to connect the name with the metal plate on the big office door. He nods his understanding, watching as the man leaves the room. He forces himself to wait through a silent count of one hundred, wanting to be sure that he's actually gone; reaching that, he pulls a fortifying breath in through his nose and pushes himself off the wall. Ignoring the wiggling lines of the carpet pattern beneath his feet, the Doctor makes his way to the exit door.
"Sir? Excuse me, sir!"
Only halfway across the room, the Doctor stops. Sighs. He thinks about ignoring the receptionist's call. Instead he straightens his shoulders, and a decent approximation of his brightest mask is firmly in place by the time the other man reaches his side.
"Sir? If you'd just take a seat..."
The Doctor turns to face him, the picture of innocence. "Who, me? Ahh, no, I'd just be wasting your time. I'm fine now, really." He lowers his voice confidentially, leaning in closer. "Just between us... First time in space. 'Fraid I got a little overwhelmed." He flashes a grin. "But look, all better. Found my spacelegs. Regular astronaut, I am."
The man looks confused. "But I thought the guard said... I mean, I know it's none of my business, but – sir, weren't you on that shuttle? The one that took the detour route?"
The Doctor's expression darkens, and he wants to lash out at the rabid interest plain in the other man's tone. But even this storm can't hold up in the face of his new exhausted numbness; he can practically see the anger as it runs down out through his feet to melt into the floor. His shoulders slump. "Yeah."
Oblivious to the shift in body language, the receptionist pushes on, hungry for this taste of gossip. "Nobody here knows what happened. I heard somebody might've died?"
Darkness haunts the edges of his vision. Claude and Joe, Sky and the unnamed Hostess. Their eyes plead with him, but they're out of his reach. He can't help them now. He only hopes that he can still help himself.
"Sorry. Blocked it out," he hears himself answer, and oh how he wishes he could. Not waiting for a reaction, he leaves the man there and heads for the door. He doesn't look back. The man doesn't follow.
He'll have to speak with someone before he goes; he knows this. He'll have to be the one to tell them what's really happened here, what needs to be done. But the anticipated effort wearies him even from a distance, and right now he has only one goal: to get back to Donna. To find her before his body shuts down.
But, like his innate sense of Time, his usual sense of direction seems to be failing him. He stops at the first map he finds, leaning his weight heavily against his forearm on the wall above. For a moment he does nothing but squint at it, until his lagging brain trudges up the suggestion of his glasses. Fumbling them out of a pocket, he puts them on. And squints at the screen some more. The Doctor resists the urge to simply rest his forehead on his arm and close his eyes. He works to plot the shortest route across the complex from where he now stands.
Assuming, of course, that Donna is still where she was when he left. He looks at the courtesy phone waiting helpfully beside the map, and supposes it's in his best interest to find out. He's certainly not feeling up to pointlessly trekking across the whole place. But he's not quite sure he's ready to talk to her yet either. In his pocket, his thumb is tracing his knuckles again. He flexes his fingers, makes himself reach for the phone.
Her hello sounds sleepy, and he pictures her waking from a doze in the sun. His mouth is dry; he swallows against the rocks in his throat as her hello comes again in his silence. Sharper this time, definitely annoyed. The dizziness threatens, lapping at the corners of his balance. He says her name, a whisper out of the creeping dark.
"Spaceman? That you? I can barely hear you." A pause. "Hey, little early for you to be back, isn't it? What happened, decided you couldn't last that long without me?"
"Something like that." His voice is flat, not his own -
Not his own? He squeezes his eyes shut against a crash of nausea as the thought registers.
Donna must notice his tone, because her words turn soft and uncertain. "Doctor? Everything all right?"
For a moment he thinks about saying no, about asking her to come find him. Imagines sliding down this wall to sit on the thick carpet, not moving until she arrives. But he'll have to explain to her why – or at least stave off more questions now than it's worth – and he's not absolutely sure that right now there's nobody looking for him. The medbay receptionist could have easily called Jeffries to report that he'd gone, and it's not inconceivable that the statements made by any of his fellow shuttle passengers may have pushed him into a spot of Alien Exhibit Number One. Depending on what they've said, he wouldn't be at all surprised to find that the Crusader higher ups have a desire to examine him. He doesn't intend on waiting for them to stumble across him here.
"Everything's fine," he tells her instead, though he can't seem to manage the lightness he aims for. "Stay where you are – I'll be there soon."
"Okay," is her only answer, and he's grateful there are no more questions. There'll be enough when he sees her, he's sure. Maybe he can sort out his thoughts before he gets there. He hangs up the phone, pushes himself up to his full height. Buries his hands deep in his pockets and starts to walk. He keeps his face blank, and tries to do the same with his mind.
His path takes him past the spot where he'd originally boarded; he shivers as he passes the gate, his focus dropping to the carpet. Commands for his pace to speed up go completely unheeded by his body, his legs feeling like they're dragging through mud. Sky's eyes loom large in his mind, slowly tearing his essence from him with every echoed word. He shakes his head to dislodge the image, and the darkness shatters into spots that pepper across his vision. He stops. Breathes deeply. Tries to convince himself that he's not about to pass out.
Maybe he should've had Donna come get him after all.
A small hand on his shoulder spins him around startled. The black spots go crazy, darting around like buzzing bees before his eyes, and somewhere in the back of his brain he wonders why it is that everyone seems to want to touch him today. Batting down the remembered hands that seem to be grabbing at him even now, he closes his eyes tightly and fights to regain his equilibrium.
"Um..."
When he opens his eyes again, he finds his vision to be relatively normal. He also finds a petite girl in a Crusader Tours uniform. Who happens to be holding his coat.
She beams at him. "It is you! I thought so! They told us your things were going to be collected, but then I saw you walking by and I thought, 'Isn't that the bloke who checked his coat on Shuttle 4?' and it sure looked like you so I went in the back to check to make sure it was still here, and sure enough they hadn't come yet to collect the stuff like they said they would so it was still there, so I ran out here with it cuz I sure didn't want to miss giving it to you." She pauses for breath, offering the coat to him. When he can do nothing but stare at her dully, she frowns. "It is your coat, isn't it, mister?"
He thinks that, on any other day, he'd probably enjoy talking to this girl. But right now he feels buffeted by her enthusiasm, wave after wave pounding against him. "Yeah," he says, his voice subdued, as he reaches for the tan fabric in her arms. "Thanks. Love this coat."
He slips it on, a layer of protection between him and this world. It isn't enough; he longs for the TARDIS.
But first, Donna.
Intent on his goal, he's a good distance away before he realizes he's just left the girl standing there. Truthfully, he can't even recall if he thanked her. The darkness in inching in now, his focus narrowed down to a point. Find Donna. When he reaches the pool decks, he misses the door he's looking for. Has to backtrack several meters. He feels like he's been walking for days.
She's standing when he enters, waiting for him. The questions he's been bracing himself for do not come. There's nothing but concern in her eyes as she wraps him in her arms, and he finds that this touch is one that he does not mind. She smells of shampoo and tanning lotion, chlorine and sweat. She's warm against him. He tightens his arms around her and closes his eyes.
They stand there for a long time. Safe in the filtered sun.
end.