And I stiill don't know if I'm a falcon or a storm (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
amythorthree) wrote2010-06-30 04:53 am
amythorthree) wrote2010-06-30 04:53 am
Entry tags:
Doctor Who: Unless You Are Getting Found
Title: Unless You Are Getting Found
Characters/Pairings: Theta (AU Metacrisis Doctor)
Word Count: 980
Summary: Someone lost finds a home.
Notes: So, if I were to make a timeline for Thetas canon verse, this would probably be the first fic unless, at one point or another, I get around to writing something with Rose in it.
He's very good at wandering.
There isn't too much more he can say he's good at but he's definitely very good at this. His feet lead him around a city he's supposed to be familiar with and his eyes take in sights he should already know. It's something he can do for hours, days even.
Besides, even if he's just wandering in circles, he wouldn't know it. The place never loses it's novelty.
Sometimes he has to stop though, to let himself fall over into the grass or the concrete or the side of a wall because he forgets how long he's been walking, forgets when the burning in his legs first started. He'll consider trying to will himself up long enough to walk back home, then he realizes he can't figure out which direction he'd come from and decides that maybe it's better to simply make a new home right where he is.
It's nice when he does that, it makes him almost feel like he belongs against that wall or in that grass, even if he knows that somewhere there's a door waiting to be opened.
A part of him suspects he'll forget that, he'll be able to believe that whatever patch of ground he settles in is the one place he's meant to be. It's a nice thought really, one that makes him smile even as his keys jingle in his pockets and within his bag. They're the keys to all the doors he's ever needed to open, all the places that he'd considered calling home.
One day he's going to lose them, lose every last one of those keys and then he'll find where he needs to be, he's almost sure of it even if it's only because he won't be looking for anywhere else.
Now though he has all of them, or at least what he thinks might be all of them, and he turns one around in his hand, trying to recall what kind of door it belonged to. No luck of course, he never remembers, but he imagines it in his mind and it's warm and welcoming, asking to be opened.
Yes, that's the kind of door it is, that's the kind of door they all are.
His eyes close and he swallows hard. He wants to get up and find his doors again, he wants to go home, but his legs aren't up to the task and his stomach turns at the thought. Maybe if he had food he could manage to keep moving for a while longer but he's not had anything in some time now. Hunger is like walking for him, after a while you simply forget how long it's been and everything stops bothering you.
Someone would think that's unhealthy, he's almost sure of it but if he closes his eyes and listens to the traffic, he knows that soon enough, it won't be him.
It's not the traffic though, that winds up distracting him. In fact, it's nothing that he was expecting because the sound, the soft whirring in the distance, is something almost familiar and while he expects a lot of things, familiarity is not one of them.
Picking up his head, he peers down the street, head tilted slightly as he tries to look for something, anything at all, that seems out of place. Nothing strikes him at first but he's on his feet anyway, moving uncertainly on shaking legs. He's still tired, his body wanting nothing more than to curl in on itself for a while but instead he keeps walking, keeps searching for that familiar sound.
His hands reach out, brush at everything until he feels what he's looking for. It's not quite right, not what he thought he'd found but it's close.
Fingers grasp for his keys and he's searching through them, examining the lock on the door he now stood in front of while he tries to decide which one should be tried. The oldest first, or at least what he thinks might be the oldest, then the second and so forth until he is at the last one and his hands are trembling, though this time it's not from exhaustion.
He wants this to be right, wants this door to lead to somewhere safe, somewhere that he can close his eyes and go to sleep, even if it's just for a while. he wants this place to be his home, even if it's only for a few hours.
It doesn't work, of course, and a part of him knew it wouldn't. It's not a door that works with locks, not a door that can be opened with a key if it doesn't want to be. Maybe there are words, some magical phrase that can open it but he has no idea what it might be so he's left muttering pleas, soft quiet things that he hopes might be accepted.
"Please, I...Please? Just wanna go inside, just wanna go--...Somewheresomewheresomewhere..." In the back of his mind he's sure he must look mad to anyone walking by them but he's used to that and right now he almost doesn't care.
One hand moves to rest on the knob and gives it a turn. He knows it won't open, it was a certainty in his mind, so when it does, he stumbles back almost like the thing had offended him.
"Not supposed to do that," he mutters, though not ungratefully. "Not supposed to open, don't have the right keys. I don't belong here." But the door stays open and he can't help but peer inside, note how the room looks far bigger than it should and for a moment he lets himself smile.
Then, taking a breath, he adjusts his bag and takes a few cautious steps inside, hoping that maybe, just maybe, he's found somewhere to stay for a while.
Characters/Pairings: Theta (AU Metacrisis Doctor)
Word Count: 980
Summary: Someone lost finds a home.
Notes: So, if I were to make a timeline for Thetas canon verse, this would probably be the first fic unless, at one point or another, I get around to writing something with Rose in it.
He's very good at wandering.
There isn't too much more he can say he's good at but he's definitely very good at this. His feet lead him around a city he's supposed to be familiar with and his eyes take in sights he should already know. It's something he can do for hours, days even.
Besides, even if he's just wandering in circles, he wouldn't know it. The place never loses it's novelty.
Sometimes he has to stop though, to let himself fall over into the grass or the concrete or the side of a wall because he forgets how long he's been walking, forgets when the burning in his legs first started. He'll consider trying to will himself up long enough to walk back home, then he realizes he can't figure out which direction he'd come from and decides that maybe it's better to simply make a new home right where he is.
It's nice when he does that, it makes him almost feel like he belongs against that wall or in that grass, even if he knows that somewhere there's a door waiting to be opened.
A part of him suspects he'll forget that, he'll be able to believe that whatever patch of ground he settles in is the one place he's meant to be. It's a nice thought really, one that makes him smile even as his keys jingle in his pockets and within his bag. They're the keys to all the doors he's ever needed to open, all the places that he'd considered calling home.
One day he's going to lose them, lose every last one of those keys and then he'll find where he needs to be, he's almost sure of it even if it's only because he won't be looking for anywhere else.
Now though he has all of them, or at least what he thinks might be all of them, and he turns one around in his hand, trying to recall what kind of door it belonged to. No luck of course, he never remembers, but he imagines it in his mind and it's warm and welcoming, asking to be opened.
Yes, that's the kind of door it is, that's the kind of door they all are.
His eyes close and he swallows hard. He wants to get up and find his doors again, he wants to go home, but his legs aren't up to the task and his stomach turns at the thought. Maybe if he had food he could manage to keep moving for a while longer but he's not had anything in some time now. Hunger is like walking for him, after a while you simply forget how long it's been and everything stops bothering you.
Someone would think that's unhealthy, he's almost sure of it but if he closes his eyes and listens to the traffic, he knows that soon enough, it won't be him.
It's not the traffic though, that winds up distracting him. In fact, it's nothing that he was expecting because the sound, the soft whirring in the distance, is something almost familiar and while he expects a lot of things, familiarity is not one of them.
Picking up his head, he peers down the street, head tilted slightly as he tries to look for something, anything at all, that seems out of place. Nothing strikes him at first but he's on his feet anyway, moving uncertainly on shaking legs. He's still tired, his body wanting nothing more than to curl in on itself for a while but instead he keeps walking, keeps searching for that familiar sound.
His hands reach out, brush at everything until he feels what he's looking for. It's not quite right, not what he thought he'd found but it's close.
Fingers grasp for his keys and he's searching through them, examining the lock on the door he now stood in front of while he tries to decide which one should be tried. The oldest first, or at least what he thinks might be the oldest, then the second and so forth until he is at the last one and his hands are trembling, though this time it's not from exhaustion.
He wants this to be right, wants this door to lead to somewhere safe, somewhere that he can close his eyes and go to sleep, even if it's just for a while. he wants this place to be his home, even if it's only for a few hours.
It doesn't work, of course, and a part of him knew it wouldn't. It's not a door that works with locks, not a door that can be opened with a key if it doesn't want to be. Maybe there are words, some magical phrase that can open it but he has no idea what it might be so he's left muttering pleas, soft quiet things that he hopes might be accepted.
"Please, I...Please? Just wanna go inside, just wanna go--...Somewheresomewheresomewhere..." In the back of his mind he's sure he must look mad to anyone walking by them but he's used to that and right now he almost doesn't care.
One hand moves to rest on the knob and gives it a turn. He knows it won't open, it was a certainty in his mind, so when it does, he stumbles back almost like the thing had offended him.
"Not supposed to do that," he mutters, though not ungratefully. "Not supposed to open, don't have the right keys. I don't belong here." But the door stays open and he can't help but peer inside, note how the room looks far bigger than it should and for a moment he lets himself smile.
Then, taking a breath, he adjusts his bag and takes a few cautious steps inside, hoping that maybe, just maybe, he's found somewhere to stay for a while.