You ripple through time, knocking over buildings and topping empires. You fix ecosystems and destroy civilizations. Rain is a blessing and a curse and you're both. An unstoppable event. A force of nature. That's you.
They call you the Oncoming Storm.
She's the storm chaser. Her name is synonymous with tornadoes and wherever you take her the sky darkens with heavy rainclouds. They're chasing her, she says, though you think she might be chasing them, as well. The weather of Oz is lovely in the springtime, but she's like you. She loves the chase and the wind and the lightning of a storm.
Her name is Dorothy Gale. She's a storm. Gale winds blowing straight from another world right onto this one.
Just like you.
You're each the only one of your kind.
Funny that you two might find each other so easily. (It's only been 116 years for her, 900-ish for you. Relatively speaking, starlight and supernovas have it significantly harder.)
The sky outside the TARDIS is blue and sunny. It's the easiest way to know she isn't there. She hasn't been here for weeks, now. Business back in Oz. For all that you think you might retire there one day, it's impossible for you to stay still for so long. So you leave, and you'll see her again soon.
It's impossibly quiet in the TARDIS without her there. The sunshine outside is the only real way you know it's daytime. But what day? Your back hurts from the time you've spent underneath the TARDIS console, filling your mind with wires and computations and the motion of time in a time machine. It could've been a week for all you can tell.
You prefer it when a companion lives with you. There are days and nights with a companion that needs eight hours of sleep. You become used to the notion of making breakfast and staying quiet while they sleep and sending them off to bed. It's something that isn't there when you're alone.
Oh, you need sleep, too, but not nearly as much as they do. A few hours a week? If that? Generally only acquired once you've collapsed onto your bed or on the side of the console, dead weight until you've come out of your meditative sleep-trance. Tegan said once that it was terribly disconcerting, watching you just nod off in the middle of a conversation once in a while. You prefer to think of it as "endearing". Because you are, if nothing else, endearing to yourself.
You've never asked her what she thinks of it. But knowing her, she'd probably find it terrifying, and you'd wake up with water being splashed into your face and her standing over you.
She's hardly the Judy Garland damsel in distress. She thinks she has to save you. She's a hero.
Just like you.
And the probabilities of two such hero/storms running into each other in the universe? It's astronomical. You really should sit down some time and write out exactly how astronomical it would be. It would be impressive.
It's fairly impressive how much work you've managed to finish in the TARDIS without her as an interruption. You've rewired half the systems, booted up three-fourths of the broken mechanisms and... There's no one to show off your accomplishments to. No one to tug on your arm or proclaim just how bored they are and demand you take them somewhere interesting.
Nowhere to run from.
No storms chasing you.
You step into your washroom and splash some water on your face. It's not just being alone. It's being without her. You've finally admitted to yourself and to her that you love her. Fairly ridiculous, finding someone who compliments you so well. Fairly ridiculous, how oblivious you both were to your own feelings. Silly things, feelings. Even she agreed.
She's so like you, sometimes, it's downright terrifying.
But she's still so young, you think, dropping backwards onto your bed. She doesn't know what it's like to be the Oncoming Storm. She chases them, but you are the storm. You walk with a reputation ahead of you while she walks with storms behind her. You're both in the eye of the universe and moving too fast or too slow will end time catching up on you both.
You think about the nicknames you've had over the centuries. The number of them. What they meant to so many people. You're not even just the Doctor anymore. You're a fairytale.
Just like her.
The phone in your pocket chirps and you fish it out. It's not an Earth number, but you pick it up all the same.
"I can't sleep," she says, without preamble.
And you talk. Time passes. Hours are relative when you spend them talking to a pretty girl. The sun might be shining outside, but it becomes the middle of the night for you as she stays up to talk. You wander the bedroom, make yourself a cuppa in the kitchen, and eventually find your way back to the console room.
"I have to go," she says. "Ozma's here. Early meetings."
"Sounds like fun," you reply. "Don't snore too loudly."
"Don't hit your head when you fall asleep at the console, either." She sighs. "You'll come pick me up next week, right?"
You prepare to hang up, and turn to look at the monitor. Big storm clouds have just rolled in. Rain starts to patter off the roof of the TARDIS.
Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 907
Partner: (RP) galeforcehero
As companion (with permission) to this lovely ficlet.