The Redhead Outlander

Terrible Night

It was a constant, irritating, noisy buzzing that woke me up that night. The Tardis, which seemed to want me to awake, did all she could and succeeded. Growling and in a grumpy mood I abruptly pulled the blanket to get out of bed before rubbing my face, mumbling insults in French. I got up, put on the shorts I had taken off while I was asleep and walked to the bathroom to put a cold, wet flannel over my neck and face. My arm raised to pick up a Tardis blue satin robe and I put it on before tying a loose knot to close it and walked out into the dark, quiet corridor.

The Tardis lights were twinkling in a particular direction, urging me to follow the way. My feet met the cold fence at every step, and as I brushed my hair out with my fingers I realized that I had never wandered into this part of the Tardis before. I finally came to a wooden door that seemed extremely old because of its condition - which was still well conserved - and because of the golden engravings representing the circular Gallifreyan that had slowly faded away as time went by.

I conscientiously examined the old door before raising my hand and knocking softly. A muffled response came to me and I turned the handle to open the door and enter the unknown room. The room happened to be the Doctor's bedroom. And the bad mood that I wore as aura before instantly disappeared when I saw the Doctor. I closed the door silently before I reached the Doctor quickly, worried about his current mood.

The Doctor was sitting on the floor against his bed in his jammies, and folded himself into a ball, holding his head with both hands; hands which seemed to sink painfully into his hair and scalp. I pulled his hands away from his head before putting my two hands down so that I could raise his face. His chin trembled as did his lower lip, his nose sniffed softly from time to time, while his eyes, so watery brown, didn't dare look at me.

"Hey..." I whispered softly as if he were a terrified wild animal. "Are you all right, Doctor?"

"No..."

For the first time in my life the Doctor said something other than 'I am always fine' and it tore my heart out to hear that in a broken voice. I moved a bit closer, not letting go of his face but gently caressing his jaw and cheekbones.

"Please, tell me. Tell me what's making you feel so bad. Let me help you." I pleaded softly. "Please, look at me, Doctor. Don't turn away those pretty eyes."

As I gently encouraged him, he finally raised his eyes to me. My heart that was already torn by his condition broke and twisted even more when I saw such deep sorrow blended with horror and a terrible shock in his dark brown eyes. Tears began to roll down gently as his shoulders trembled with tearful sobs. I held him in a comforting embrace, kissing his forehead and the top of his head as he clung to me like a lifeline and cried with all his soul against me; his tears were choked into my neck and shoulder and his hands clutched the t-shirt and robe I was wearing, his fingers thrusting fiercely into my shoulder blades from time to time in a mildly painful way. But I ignored that pain to take care of the Doctor; that man who was revealing his heart to me wide open and trusting me. I had never seen him in this state before, the closest was in his last episode when he saved Wilf at the cost of his life and set in motion his regeneration and the last moment when he spoke as the tenth Doctor.

I'd never seen him like that before and it was tearing me apart to see him that way. So as best I could, I whispered comforting words to him, switching from English to my native language with facility. My voice was less hoarse as I whispered in French in his ear. My fingers ran gently through his hair while my other hand softly rubbed his back in a circular pattern.

The cold floor as well as my position later caused the lower part of my body to become engorged and I did my best to get up and get into bed. The Doctor was silent. We were lying on our sides, face to face, my head resting on one of his dark red pillows, his head resting on my neck and his breath close to my collarbone. He was holding me just as I was holding him, my French monologue had finally stopped, and I was humming the tune of his theme as well as that of his old body. Then my humming stopped too, plunging us into silence.