The Midnight Clear ("Smoke" entry)

[templeremus.livejournal.com]

Title: The Midnight Clear
Rating: G
Genre: Angst/Missing Scene
Author: templeremus
Word Count: 595
Summary: Every life saved is a victory, but victories have their costs. Centuries into his vigil on Trenzalore, the Doctor's luck finally runs out. Spoilers for The Time of the Doctor.


The fighting was almost over by the time he woke.

Out in the square the townspeople called to one another, marking off each house as they swept them for any last trace of the enemy. Away in the middle distance, where the fields of Trenzalore stretched towards the mountains, there came the steady thrum of engines in retreat.

The schoolmistress, Miss Keswick, was piling logs in his fireplace. Once upon a time she had been Leticia, who had cried when an older child pulled her drawing off the wall. These days she was the kind of severe-looking woman for whom a first name seemed an imposition. She glanced up when he stirred, and banged the poker in the grate with renewed vigour. "Everyone's safe. That booby trap of yours did the trick."

The roof of his mouth tasted like ash. His clothes reeked of smoke, and his legs hurt more than the rest of him put together. He'd worry about that last point when he had to, and not a moment sooner. "What about the classrooms?"

She hesitated. He could see her battling the truth field, searching for the kindest words available. The hem of her skirt was still damp where she had knelt in the snow to help lift him. At last, she said: "We'll build others, Doctor."

The old general in him wanted to chide her, that's not the point. But she looked frailer than he remembered and more afraid than she'd admit, so he kept quiet. There were few opportunities for mercy now. He had learnt to be grateful for every one.

Over the next two nights he slept longer than he had done in as many months. The townspeople filed in and out, like mourners at a funeral. Someone unearthed Handles from the school's wreckage and presented him with great ceremony at the bedside. The Church of the Papal Mainframe sent an emissary who stood in the entrance and prayed in a loud, flat voice until shooed away by Miss Keswick.

"They think I'm dying", he said to her, on the third night. "I'm not. Cross my hearts, et cetera."

"They worry, Doctor. What else would you expect?" She was lacing up his boots for him, with the slow care of someone trying not to betray their own exhaustion. Several curls had escaped their hairpins and fallen across her face. If he half-closed his eyes she looked almost like Leticia again, determined to stay put for one more story. 

"There," she said. "Let's see how that feels."

It was worse than he'd hoped; not as bad as he'd feared. The cane had been well-made and well cared-for, and with a little practice he could get up a good walking pace. Tomorrow, perhaps, he'd try the stairs. Miss Keswick helped him into a chair and went to fetch more wood for the fire. As she reached the door he saw her harden, the gentleness of her private self receding like a tide. Living in Christmas, you soon got used to the ways in which people lied when they could not speak falsely. They told lies with their faces instead; smiled when afraid, or feigned indifference when approached. If you were only cheerful or callous enough, people soon stopped asking questions, and you were spared the pain of having to answer them. 

"I have developed a fault," said Handles, which was his way of breaking in on a silence that had grown oppressive.

The Doctor patted absently at the metal forehead. "I know, buddy. Sorry."

Dawn would be a long time coming.