DW Fic: Ave Atque Vale [RPF]
Jan. 3rd, 2009 05:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fictionalTitle: Ave Atque Vale
Characters/Pairing: David Tennant [David Tennant/Georgia Moffett; implied David Tennant/John Barrowman & David Tennant/Billie Piper; appearances by sundry other British thespians such as Patrick Stewart, Catherine Tate, Christopher Eccleston, John Simm and a host of others...]
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kalichan
Rating/Warning: RPF (R for language)
Summary: Everything has its time and everything ends.
Wordcount: ~6,619 words
Author's Note: Er. I seem to have committed RPF. Really, it was just that I was very sad. This is formagnetgirl with whom it all started, for R, who will understand why, and for the Tenth Doctor, who will always be my Doctor. Y'all know this is completely fictional, right? It is. I promise.
What child is there that, coming to a play, and seeing Thebes written in great letters upon an old door, doth believe that it is Thebes?
- Sir Philip Sidney, The Defense of Poesy (1580)
It's raining, David notices. And why not? It's October. In Stratford. Of course it's raining. Two of the spear carriers -- Rob and Nick -- have been dragooned to stand behind him and hold up an umbrella, so he can break up with Doctor Who, in front of God and everyone... over the phone.
Pure class, that's him, he thinks to himself, as he reaches up to fidget with the ridiculous ear piece he's got stuck in his ear. On some level, he can't quite believe he's doing this in the interval of Hamlet. He's still in costume, even, and there are spear carriers behind him. Spear carriers. Because he can't get wet. There's a joke in there somewhere, he thinks. Maybe if he were Ophelia.
Mind, over the phone is better than by text message. Not that David has ever broken up with anyone via text message... except that one time... Anyway, he can just see the screen playing on youtube now, (and for the rest of his life, probably) appearing one character at a time: so long and thanks for all the fish. l8er, suckers. xoxo, david tennant aka tenth doctor. Except the predictive text would probably screw up, and it would be 'so long and thanks for all the dips' or something instead.
Because he's thinking of Douglas Adams, David finds himself remembering when he first got to see Shada. He must've left the academy by then, because he'd already been living with Arabella - yep, definitely then, because he can remember the exact positioning of sofa and television, and the dying plants on the sill, the fizzy feeling in his stomach as he pushed the tape in, and prepared to watch new Doctor Who that he'd never seen before. He must have been what, twenty one? twenty two? The Adams ones used to be mainly pretty funny, but that one had been creepy as fuck all, even all cobbled together. He'd loved it.
He wonders briefly where that tape is. Not that he still has a video.
There's a lot of hurry up and wait before they can get him in the live feed, of course, and David looks back at the stage door a little nervously. It's not like they're going to start the show without him, he knows, but still. He doesn't want to lose the audience, and the tempo tonight has been a bit weird anyway. His fault, he knows, but he can't help but wonder if they're all going to be sitting in there when he goes back in for the second half, reading the news on their mobiles or whatever.
The PA nods to him, and it's a go.
Through the entire awkward, horrible speech -- and the leaden, fake conversation with Catherine, with its terrifying delay, he's on autopilot, saying his canned words (just this morning he'd been practicing them in the mirror, over and over, till they'd lost all meaning). In the end, he'll remember only one real moment from it: when his announcement sinks in and the tinny roar of the audience's cheering in his ears goes so completely silent that he's worried for a sec, that technology has failed, and he's lost the connection.
Catherine accepts the award for him, and finally, finally he's able to shut it down, after the longest three minutes of his entire life. He takes the ear thing out, hands it over to the PA with a brief word of thanks, and she just grabs it out of his hand without acknowledging it.
Don't worry, he thinks at her. Right now, he hates himself a little too.
And now he has to go on stage and be the Prince of Denmark, who is also not having a very pleasant day. At least he gets to die soon. And there's a sword fight. No green screen, no nothing. Just him, and the rest of the cast, and the people watching.
What he was born to do. The only thing he's fit for, really.
After the show, Patrick presses his shoulder in the wings.
"All serene?" he asks softly.
"I think we got it back by the end," David says, wilfully misunderstanding. "Bit ragged, but the death went okay, I think."
Patrick still lifts one eyebrow better than anyone David's ever met. "You know what I mean," he says, but then, thank God, he lets it go. And seriously, he can't possibly have enjoyed the sci fi convention that this run in Stratford has turned into. Because it's also probably been the first sci fi convention Patrick's ever been near that was almost entirely uninterested in him. Which, actually, maybe he's grateful for, though he's also so bloody gracious about it all. But still. Picard forever.
David, on the other hand, has never been through a theatre experience like this one, where he can't even get notes from his director in a coffee shop without getting mobbed by fans, and sometimes people actually leave before the death scene so they can, presumably, stand outside the stage door and wait for him to autograph their dvds or breasts or what have you. He wishes that these people could be identified somehow -- surely the ushers could carry red markers or paint guns or something -- so when he got to the stage door, he'd know the difference between them, and folk who have some vestige of manners, but sadly this seems impossible to orchestrate.
Shakespearean fans are mostly, thank God, a little more decorous.
In his dressing room, he fishes out his mobile and calls Georgia. She's been avoiding Stratford these past few weeks, and he hopes it's just because she's sick of the tabs and their endless headlines blaring "the Doctor dates his daughter" that for some reason they never seem to get tired of.
She picks up, and her voice sounds strained and exhausted.
"How did it go?" she asks.
"I don't know why everyone's making such a big deal. It's not like I'm quitting. Not right yet. They've got a whole other year of me in the TARDIS."
"You announced it, so obviously you knew it was going to be a bit of a thing."
"It was going to leak anyway. I wanted them to hear it from me," he says.
"Regrets?" she asks. "Like Dad?"
"No," he replies. "Still got a year to go. You sound knackered."
"Long day, filming," she says. "And Tyler's got a fever or something."
"Sorry, should I let you go?"
"In a minute. Miss you, though."
"You too," he says, and means it. "And the kid."
"Yeah, he's going to be thrilled when he hears the news."
"Seriously?"
"No, you idiot. He's going to cry, and throw a temper tantrum. Don't you remember what it was like?"
"The Doctor wasn't my granddad. Or you know, banging my mum, so no, I don't think it's the same thing at all."
"He's six, of course it's the same thing."
"I'm sorry," he says.
She laughs. "He'll get over it. You will too. It's just a part, David."
"Yeah," he says. "Back to the classics for a while. Kids are going to love my Pericles. Or Doctor Faustus. Do people even do Marlowe anymore?"
"Another doctor already?" Georgia teases.
"Maybe not. What about Benedick in Much Ado? World's my oyster, right? Could do Romeo and Juliet again, even."
"Who would you be this time?" she asks. "Lord Capulet? The friar?"
"Ouch. Not that old, am I?"
"You're asking me?" she says.
"Fair point," David admits, feeling like a bit of a berk. When he watching Shada, she was if not in nappies, certainly still learning how to walk. On the other hand, he's pretty sure that they're the same age emotionally, so it's probably okay.
"Maybe some films?" she says encouragingly. "Hollywood."
"Right," he says, less convincingly this time. "Or Broadway."
"Works for me," she says. "New York's lovely in the springtime."
There is a pause, and then she says, "Duty calls. And you need to take your makeup off. I'll ring you tomorrow. Get some rest."
"Bye," he says into the speaker, and then she clicks off.
He wishes he didn't have to go out and sign autographs now, but he does. Maybe they won't have heard yet. Anything's possible, right?
At home -- well, not home, but the flat the RSC's got for him -- he sits down with a bottle of Laphroaig, and thinks about flipping on the telly, or popping in a DVD. Maybe the news. US election's in a few days, it's looking good for ending eight bloody years of misrule, might be a note of hope in an otherwise sombre world.
There was one woman sobbing, while waiting for an autograph . He'd put his arm round her, and said, in a line he could already tell he was going to be very sick of very, very soon, that it wasn't over yet, still a year to go.
He can't get drunk, obviously, because he's got another show tomorrow, and he can't think of anything worse than the show he just got through tonight, except that, plus a hangover.
Maybe if he'd brought one of the girls in the show back -- the ASM is gorgeous, and has a wicked utility belt -- they could've -- no. This is ridiculous. He's happy, he's Hamlet, he's apparently alliterative as well, everything is fine. He is not going to spiral into one of his lovely little bits of self-sabotage. He's just not.
The mobile goes into its little West Wing theme, and David has never been so happy to hear it go off in his life.
"Hello?"
"You fucker," he hears Barrowman say through the speaker.
"Johnny," he says, feeling a grin stretch his lips. John hates it when he calls him that.
"Don't call me that, you asshole."
"Why not?"
"Because you broke up with Doctor Who, and ME, and you didn't even tell me first. Asshole." John's voice swoops on the last word like he's singing. What a grandstander.
"Twat," David returns, but without any heat. What can he possibly say? "I didn't break up with you. The Doctor already kicked you to the curb, remember? And it wasn't breaking up. No shagging in the TARDIS."
"Your predecessor wasn't so high and mighty."
"More so, actually," David says. "Besides, you hate that guy."
"Yeah," John says, "but now I kind of hate you too. Bath chair? Really?"
"So...you saw it? Isn't watching ITV a violation of your contract?"
"Ha bloody ha. You're one to talk. Giving Auntie Beeb the boot on a different station. I was watching, actually, but I heard about it before. It was in the papers."
"Fuck," David says succinctly. "Oh well. Bound to come out sooner or later."
"I should come down there and kick your scrawny ass."
"Yeah, would you? When are you and Scott coming to see the show anyway? Doesn't anyone love me anymore?"
"I'm in Cardiff. We're filming."
"Yeah," he says.
"Besides, you left us. Why would we love you?"
"Not fair," David says.
"Too soon?"
There is a pause, and David feels bruised by it all. Everyone's so angry, and no one understands. Either they think the whole thing is stupid to begin with, or they feel betrayed. There's no middle ground. "Yeah," he says finally, after taking a couple of pulls at his drink. "Too soon."
"Dav, you all right?"
"Yeah, fine."
"Why'd you do it anyway?"
"You know," he says, trying for insouciance. "Miss theatre, want to do some films. The usual."
"That's bullshit," John says. "You're doing Hamlet right now. Like they wouldn't let you have a break whenever. What's the problem?"
"Money."
"You're joking."
"I asked them for a few million quid. They said no."
"You think?" John sputters. "What the hell kind of socialist are you? It's the Beeb, not fucking 20th Century Fox."
"I knew they were going to say no. That's why I asked. You know when it was Moffat, I thought, maybe I stick around, do one more series. And then I thought, I'll ask for this ridiculous sum of money, and if they say yes, it'll be a... a sign. Or something. But they said no."
"You're crazy, David. They don't have any more money."
"Best time to leave a party is when you're still enjoying yourself."
"That is so... so Presbyterian," John says.
David laughs. "Waste not, want not."
"So, you're quitting 'cause they didn't add enough zeros and you're still having fun. That's... amazing."
"You know it's not that. Not really."
"Well, what is it then?"
"I can't explain," David says.
There is a pause, and David gets up, still holding the mobile to his ear, and begins to pace around. He walks up to the cupboard in the entry way, and looks at his shoes. There's a lonely pair of trainers, several pairs of boots, some Armani loafers. The daily lady likes to put them in alphabetical order by colour. David can't decide if this is disturbing enough on its own, or if it even requires the additional fact that he's spent enough time looking to figure this out.
John is pacing too, David is sure of it. Because Barrowman couldn't sit still if you tied him down. Of course, neither can he.
"Try," John says finally.
"It's the shoes," David says.
"You've lost the plot, my son." John sounds some combination of amused and frustrated, which of course David can understand, because he himself is both those things. As well as empty, and lost, and alone.
"See, I told you that you wouldn't understand."
"Talk sense," John says.
"It's the trainers. They were mine, that first pair, you know? And now they're not. They're his."
"...Okay..."
"And I'm afraid that if I keep going, it won't be real anymore. It'll just be me. No Doctor at all."
There is another pause. "Oh," John says finally.
"You don't have this problem." His voice is accusatory, even though he doesn't want it to be.
"No," he replies. "The Captain's only ever been me."
"And a head in a jar," David reminds him, still gleeful about the whole thing.
"David, are you drunk?"
"A Scotsman is never drunk," David announces grandly, and then suddenly realizes that the level in the bottle has sunk quite a bit since he started this conversation. "Bugger."
"Ye daft bastard," John says, and then exhales in a sigh.
"Easy on the brogue there, laddie," David says. "Did I ever tell you that you sound extremely fake when you do it?"
"Piss off," John says, and he actually sounds upset.
David winces. "You called me," he points out.
"Yeah I did. Go to bed, man. You're going to be a wreck tomorrow. Hungover Hamlet."
"I bet Burton was drunk his entire run," David says, pouring another finger into his glass. Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, as his gran used to say. "O'Toole too."
"Yeah, you haven't got that kind of talent."
"I'm extremely good. All the papers say so. I'm a national treasure."
"The Doctor's a national treasure. You know how many guys they have playing Shakespeare?"
"You should come on board. We could do a musical version."
"Except you can't sing," John says.
"I can sing as well as you can act," David points out, and the words sort of hang there in the air.
"Yeah," John says. "I gotta go."
"Barrowman, wait. I--"
"S'okay, David. Really. I gotta go. Early call tomorrow. We're blowing things up. Long day."
"I'll watch it with you lot," David says hurriedly, remembering them all piled up together, watching that first ever episode of Torchwood in their pajamas. Like a slumber party. "Your place, or Evie's. It'll be great."
"Yeah, I might be touring. We haven't got an airdate yet."
"But you always--"
"Things change," John says. "You should know."
"Not that," David protests.
"Yeah, okay," John relents. "We'll do it. Get Gaz to come this time too. None of these punk show excuses. How do they even call that music?"
David laughs. While he'll miss Naoko and Burn, he doesn't actually know Gareth all that well, but does know that John is inordinately fond of him. He decides not to get into yet another argument with John about punk sensibility, and why it rocks. "Didn't I hear something about him making an ass of himself on the con circuit this summer?" he asks instead.
"Yeah." John chuckles ruefully. "He'll learn. They always do. Maybe I'll have to do something really outrageous, take the heat off."
"You're so generous, I know how much you hate being outrageous."
"Do as much for you," John says, off handedly. "Think you might do some now?"
"Cons?" he asks. "Hadn't thought, really. Anyway, can't yet. Still--"
"Got a year to go," John chants in unison with him.
"Bastard," David says.
"Don't you forget it."
"I won't."
"Go to bed," John says.
"You just want to imagine me in my altogether," David says primly. He is mildly afraid that he is far too drunk, and John is far too sober for this conversation.
"Is that an offer?"
David laughs. "Come to Stratford. We'll talk."
"Promises, promises."
"Okay, I'm hanging up now," David says. "You should as well. Bed. Yes."
"And you've lost verbs now, so you should too."
"Love to Scotty," David says. "And the dogs."
"You know, if you weren't so straight, you could be gay," John says. "Mine to Georgia."
"Right." Just as he's sure John's about to ring off, he finds himself saying, "Barrowman, listen."
"What now?"
"You thought about the specials?"
"The Doctor Who specials?"
"You should talk to Russell. You should come back. We should...it would be fun."
There is a long pause. "David," John says gently. "You don't have to convince me. I'm not the one who wants to leave."
"Yeah," David says. "Okay then. I'm going now. Good night."
"Night." And then David hears a click, and the dead silence on the other end of the line.
He drops the mobile on the floor, pulls an afghan over himself and curls up on the sofa. He doesn't even take his shoes off.
There is some ghastly pounding going on somewhere behind his left eye, and an agonizing pain coming from the side of his neck. David manages through sheer force of will to peel the other eyelid back, so he can figure out where the hell he is, and as well, who would be so cruel as to drive a spike through an innocent man's head at what he is sure is some ungodly hour of the morning.
And then he sees the three quarters empty bottle of whiskey by the side of the sofa, and remembers there is no one but himself to blame.
Blearily he gets up, and struggles towards the toilet. Once there, he finds the paracetamol and swallows four, plus a glass of water. Heading towards the bedroom -- better late than never -- he peels off his clothes and collapses on the bed. It is 8 am. He has about ten hours to knock himself into shape before he has to go back to the theatre. He pulls a pillow over his head, and tries to go back to sleep, but his alcohol addled mind refuses to cooperate.
After two solid hours of tossing and turning, he is almost grateful for the sound of the telephone. Perhaps there has been a plague throughout all England, and all entertainment has been cancelled for the forseeable. That sounds nice. His hand gropes blindly for the receiver, and finally finds it. May God have mercy on their soul if it happens to be a reporter.
"Hello?"
"David?" he hears a voice say. "You sound terrible."
"You got that from hello?" he says. "Who is this?"
"I got that from watching you on telly last night," she says, and then of course he recognizes her voice, which is pretty much the last voice on earth he's expected to hear from this week.
"Billie," he says, sitting up with a jerk.
"Did I wake you?"
"No," he says. "What sort of layabout do you think I am?"
"I don't think, I know," she says.
"Seriously, not that I'm not over the moon to hear from you, but what are you doing? Shouldn't you be... I don't know... resting or something?"
"I am resting, you idiot. Watching telly and talking on the phone aren't life threatening activities."
"But you've just had --"
"My stomach cut open and a baby yanked out? Yeah, I have. So what's your excuse?"
"Where's -- what are you calling him?"
"Winston. He's tucked right next to me. Want to say hello?"
"Uh... okay..." David thinks this is a slightly bizarre choice of name, especially since to him, all babies look a bit like Churchill anyway, but he supposes the lad will grow out of it. Can't help it really, with a mum who looks like that.
"Say hello to Uncle David, Winston," he hears Billie coo. It is distinctly odd.
"Hello, Winston," he says, even though he doesn't hear anything. "Be nice to your mum, and don't ever drink a half bottle of whiskey at a time. You'll thank me."
"So, now that you've said hello to the baby, what made you drink yourself into a stupor last night?" she asks.
"Where's Laurence?" he counters.
"In the other room," she says patiently. "Now that I've given you gps coordinates on all members of my immediate family, could you get to the point?"
"There's a point?" he says feebly, not sure what to make of the fact that Billie, recovering from major surgery, and with a baby, can still scare him a little bit.
"Yes, David," she says. "What's the matter?"
"I quit," he says.
"I know, I saw it. I told you. You all right?"
There is a pause, while he considers if he's really pathetic enough to complain about this to a new mother, who happens to be more than a decade younger than him, and also one of his best friends. "No," he says finally. Yep, exactly that pathetic, as it turns out.
"Yeah," she says. "That's what I thought. Oh, David."
"You miss it?" he asks.
"Sometimes. Not really. Pretty busy with this whole having a kid thing."
"Right, yeah. Of course."
"You could do, as well," she suggests. "Settle down."
David laughs. "Don't know if that's me, really. I'm not --"
"Ready?" she supplies, when his voice trails off.
"Yeah. Suppose so."
There is a pause. He hears the baby begin to fuss a bit, and Billie make soothing noises. "I'll have to go in a minute," she says. "I just wanted to check on you."
"Billie," he says hurriedly. "What if I changed my mind? Maybe I should. I could go back. We could go back. It'd be great, we could --"
"David. Be serious. You can't," she says, cutting him off. "You can visit -- I mean, it's all written in, isn't it? Sometime, if you talk me into it, maybe we will. But it won't be the same, and you can't change your mind. You have to do the next thing now."
"What if I don't want to?" he says.
"Doesn't matter." He hears the baby -- Winston -- start to cry, and she adds, "I really have to go."
"Okay," he says. "Thanks for calling."
"Bye," she says, sounding distracted, and then she rings off. Leaving him behind. Again.
David puts the phone down, and stares up at the ceiling. He remembers watching that first episode, when it all started up again, and the moment when Eccleston'd said, "I'm the Doctor...Run for your life!" He'd known the fellow enough to nod to, of course, if they were passing, but hadn't thought of him much, just that intense bloke from Jude. He'd always respected him as an actor, and not really known anything about him as a person. Later he'd found out that Billie and John hated him. But it hadn't mattered, not really. Because once he was the Doctor, he was the Doctor. In the TARDIS, and with a companion the like of which they'd never seen. And Captain Jack Harkness, oh yes. David is still a little jealous that Rose and Jack never got to be his companions at the same time, not really. He is certain he would have been more fun to be around.
He'd been so scared to take this part, when they offered it to him. Way back, when he'd heard about Ewan McGregor's experience on Star Wars, the first thing he'd thought was, God, poor sod, that would be like if I'd got to be on Doctor Who and it'd turned out to be a disaster. But it had all been hypothetical then, cos after that pitiful excuse for a movie -- poor bastard, Paul McGann, but he should've known, when they'd made it all American like that -- no one at all was talking about bringing back Who. But then he'd met Russell, and done Casanova, and they'd talked about Genesis of the Daleks which he thinks is probably still his favorite episode, and maybe is a little why Russell brought Davros back for him this year; they'd rebooted the show, made it something any actor ought to be proud to do, and then they'd offered it to him for God's sake...and he'd realised if he didn't take it, he'd be kicking himself for the rest of his life.
And now he'd left it. Done. Finished. Or as good as. Now it was just all about wheeling down to the end.
"I wasn't to know how it was going to feel, was I?" he whispers to the ceiling. There is no reply. A small voice in the back of his head answers, Of course you were. Idiot.
"That's it. Enough," David says out loud, feeling a bit ridiculous, but he needs to jog himself out of this stupor, or he's never going to get anything done, ever again, and that's just not on. He plumps up the pillows, and reaches for the remote. He's almost through his most recent rewatch of the West Wing, which he's been going through in honour of the upcoming elections. Only the last few episodes left to go, he congratulates himself, and they've got nothing at all to do with Doctor Who, or indeed anything British at all.
Just what he needs. He presses play. The scene picks up from where he'd left off, and he settles back against his pillows. And then C.J. shouts, "You think I don't know I'm living the first line on my obituary right now?!" and David throws the remote at the wall. It makes a satisfying crash.
Fuck this, he thinks, and gets up to have a shower.
The water's boiling hot, and David relaxes into the steam, trying to empty his brain of everything, let all the aches and pains from exertions on stage and his night of fairly pathetic debauchery wash away. He's not as young as he used to be; the recovery periods just keep getting longer and longer. His back hurts.
It's actually the only way he knows that he's getting older. Everyone else has been moving on, settling down, getting married, popping out kids, taking the next step in their careers. He's been standing still, just doing the same thing over and over, working all the time, true -- David can't remember the last time he had a proper vacation -- but not changing.
He still feels just the same inside, really. He traces a line down the tile, through the condensation, remembering when he was a kid and he used to pretend the bath was a spaceship and all the separate tiles were buttons that did cool stuff when you pressed them like reversing the polarity of the neutron flow, or accelerating to warp speed, or providing him with a drink from whatever constellation cluster took his fancy.
David rests his forehead against the wall.
Sophia used to love making him wear the costume in bed, and David had obliged, even if he hadn't liked it much, because that's what you did, when asked by your girlfriend. It sounded too stupid to try to explain why he didn't think it was a good idea, because either he'd take too seriously or not seriously enough. Georgia, understandably, has never suggested it, and David is relieved cos that's obviously too grotty, even for someone with her undeniable wicked streak.
David loves being the Doctor. He really does love it. He is going to miss it forever, and wouldn't suggest otherwise, even for a moment. But even though he knows he made the right decision, taking the part -- he can't help feeling a little bit sad that the rest of the world gets to fall in love with ten doctors, and he only gets nine. It doesn't seem quite fair.
He gets out of the shower and wipes the steam from the mirror, stares at his face, doing the automatic actor's check for new lines and wrinkles. He's lost weight again, he realises, and wonders when the rest of the world's going to cotton onto the fact that he's just a scrawny geek with a bizarre taste for velvet jackets and a facile face, who has somehow managed to snow the whole world into thinking that he's a Time Lord, or failing that, at least a romantic swashbuckler extrordinaire.
David knows his steady romantic march through all and sundry connected to Doctor Who has made all the columns; it's a bit of a joke round the set, and probably among fans too, though he tries not to think about that.
And now he's afraid, really, truly afraid that he's been consumed, that he's in danger of no longer knowing where he leaves off, and the Doctor begins. And that's not even the real terror.
It's all lies, is the thing. Because the Doctor is a Time Lord, and he's just David MacDonald from Paisley. And David loves the Doctor, and many days, he's not even sure whether he likes himself at all. So, okay, probably he's being mad, but he simply can't go on doing it. Not forever. Not till the magic's completely wrung out.
He is tired. He is very, very tired.
And now he's going to have to trot out on all the morning shows, with a smile nailed to his face, answering endless questions about why he's quit, what's his favorite episode ever, and if he's incredibly lucky, he'll have to listen to some kids crying as they call in.
He wishes he had a proper answer for it all. One that made sense.
But he doesn't. So this is what he has to do. He has to let go, give over the TARDIS, his TARDIS, hand it on to the next chap -- who he doesn't know but already hates, just a bit --, and resign himself to the fact that it may already be too late, and it might never, ever be real again.
***
It's raining, David notices, as he walks out into the blustery 5am morning that feels nothing at all like spring. Which is pretty much the way of things in Cardiff. The more things change, he thinks to himself, with a slight chuckle. But luckily he's only out in it for a bit before he clambers into the car they've got for him. And it's meant to clear up later in the day, and anyway, it's an indoor shoot that they've got planned today, the final wrap-up, and then the publicity shots, stills and moving, with everyone.
This whole thing has felt a bit like a slumber party anyway, frankly, and David is reminded of another shoot, long ago now, in that old TARDIS set. Journey's End.
When he sits down in the trailer to have his makeup done, he closes his eyes and smiles. At least his suit still fits. And they've even managed to get back the trainers. The same ones that he'd bought for himself, all those years back.
They were in the Tower of Rassilon set yesterday, him and Freema, and some of the newer companions, and he'd remembered watching them bring back Gallifrey; it'd sent shivers running up and down his spine, as he watched it in his flat. And then the dark, silent time again, after Moffat's run, which had been mostly brilliant even if he had brought shagging into the TARDIS [David still sort of resents that]... the long radio silence, until one day a slip of a girl -- they all seem a bit like children to David now -- decided she was going to bring it all back. They'd even restarted the regeneration cycle in a convincing way (which David was dead impressed by, having never thought it could successfully be done) and now it could, truly, go on forever. So many possibilities to unfold, new things to say.
And here they all were.
They're waiting around as they do the set up for the shot where the TARDIS materializes in the Time Museum. John comes up behind him, and slings a companionable arm round his shoulder.
"Long time no see, stranger."
David laughs. "Got any hot air built up, Captain?"
"Had some beans on toast, and I'm saving it all for you, baby."
"Better out than in, I always say," David says, feeling his face stretch into an enormous smile. "Pretty mad feeling to be in the Tower, wasn't it?"
"You're telling me," John says. "And is it just me, or have the sets got way classier round here?"
"It's her," David whispers, gesturing over to the producer. "She Who Must Not Be Named. She's quite terrifying, isn't she? I didn't think you could have beat Julie Gardner, but this one's something else. No coaxing. She just bludgeons the top brass into submission, or so I've heard."
"David, anyone ever tell you, you're a terrible gossip?"
"Not really?" David says, trying to sound shocked.
"Look, there's Liz and her hair's gone all white," John says. "And who's that with her, Christ, that's Tilda."
"She scares me as well."
"You know, if women frighten you that much," he hears a voice behind them say, "it's a miracle Barrowman here didn't get you to switch sides long ago."
"Who says I didn't?"
"Who says he didn't? David chimes in at the same time, and gives Simm -- who's got the Thirteenth Doctor, Phil Glenister with him -- a wide, happy smile.
"Still can't get over Tilda Swinton on Doctor Who," Billie says, walking up to them, arm linked with Catherine's.
Catherine laughs. "Figures if they ever got a woman Doctor, it'd be for the flipping evil incarnation."
"She's not the Doctor--" John says.
"She's the Valeyard," David corrects at the same time, and they look at each other and laugh.
"Whatever, fanboys," Billie says with a grin, before they all move off with Simm.
"An Oscar winner on Doctor Who," John marvels as if they hadn't been interrupted. "Who would have thought?"
"Don't forget about me," David says.
"As if you ever let anyone forget. Besides, you were a Doctor who won the Oscar, not the other way around." John grins at him, and David remembers the moment so clearly, chuffed to death, tearing up a bit, wishing his mum was still alive to see it, getting up there on stage, choking up, and thanking not just Tom Stoppard, and the producers of the film, his costars, but as well, Russell and the Doctor who'd led him to this point. And afterwards at various parties, being doused with champagne, and in one quiet moment thinking that maybe the Doctor wouldn't be the first line on his obituary now, and feeling rather sad about it. Wasn't true though, at least not in Britain. Still the Doctor, always and forever. He thinks now, maybe he always had been... even as all the other people he is -- the prince of Denmark, who'd missed out on London but had got to open in New York, Lord Peter Wimsey, Francis Lymond, Casanova, Bertram in All's Well, DI Carlisle, Alan, Christopher Chant, Bernard Nightingale who'd won him his Oscar, the Fool in Lear -- clamour inside his head,
"I've always told you that I'm a national treasure."
"Yeah, yeah, suck my balls."
"Whip them out then," David retorts. "Or have you gone all old and scraggly?"
"You should ask Scotty about that."
"Scott thinks the sun shines out of your sagging arse, so don't think that's a fair cop, really."
"Hey! I am not sagging. Listen, if we're talking about old and scraggly," John says.
"Okay, okay, pax. We're too old for this shit anyway."
"Says you."
"Could we have all the Doctors, for a group shot, please?" one of the ADs says.
They all cluster around, and pose for the cameras, then it's time for the interview bits, the scene specifics and extras roll.
And then the question comes, as it always does.
Colin Baker says Jon Pertwee and Matt Smith; Chris Eccleston -- who has made sure everyone knows he's only here cos it's a good cause -- says he doesn't really have a favorite, because they'd all brought things to the part [David remembers giving that stock answer when he was so shell shocked with loss, he'd no idea what to say at all]; Matt Smith -- who still seems impossibly young to David -- says the expected Tom Baker and slides in Sylvester McCoy, Paterson Joseph says Tom Baker and Christopher Eccleston; Philip Glenister says Peter Davison and David Tennant, which gives him a bit of a glow, really, even though he follows it up by saying that his daughters have told him that if he didn't add that last, they'd eviscerate him.
What is it with him and the Doctor's daughters, anyway, David wonders briefly. Peter Davison -- who, thank God, like Georgia (who's also about here somewhere) holds no grudge -- says that Patrick Troughton is still his favourite. Thomas Sangster says Paterson Joseph and David Tennant. Paul McGann says William Hartnell. And then it's his turn.
"So, Sir David," the interviewer says, and David chuckles, still vaguely amused by the whole title bit. "Who's your favourite Doctor?"
He thinks for a second, and then decides to just start talking. "You know, I could tell you that I genuinely love every single one. And I do, I really do. It's important to note that. I've seen them all, and they are all brilliant. Every single one."
The interviewer smiles vaccously and nods, figuring that she's getting another canned answer, lumping him in with Eccleston.
Fuck that, he thinks. Because he's old now, and who cares anyway?
And then, almost against his will, he feels a familiar grin pull at the corners of his mouth. It doesn't belong to him though, except that, well, actually... it does. Still, when the Tenth Doctor decides to step out to answer the question, there's nothing that David could do to stop him, even if he'd wanted to. Which he doesn't. "But honestly? My favourite Doctor?"
The interviewer sits up a little straighter, as if she's been revitalized by a quick shot of energy, or at least sensing a possible end to boredom coming.
"Me, of course."
She blinks at him. Cos that's not done, he knows it, she knows it, and what's more she knows he knows. It's just not polite. "You?" she repeats weakly.
"Best Doctor ever," he says, the manic energy bubbling up inside him, and for a second, just one shining second, really truly feeling it all -- the movement of the earth, the pull of time, everything all at once. "Oh, yes!"
end
Characters/Pairing: David Tennant [David Tennant/Georgia Moffett; implied David Tennant/John Barrowman & David Tennant/Billie Piper; appearances by sundry other British thespians such as Patrick Stewart, Catherine Tate, Christopher Eccleston, John Simm and a host of others...]
Author:
kalichanRating/Warning: RPF (R for language)
Summary: Everything has its time and everything ends.
Wordcount: ~6,619 words
Author's Note: Er. I seem to have committed RPF. Really, it was just that I was very sad. This is for
magnetgirl with whom it all started, for R, who will understand why, and for the Tenth Doctor, who will always be my Doctor. Y'all know this is completely fictional, right? It is. I promise.It's raining, David notices. And why not? It's October. In Stratford. Of course it's raining. Two of the spear carriers -- Rob and Nick -- have been dragooned to stand behind him and hold up an umbrella, so he can break up with Doctor Who, in front of God and everyone... over the phone.
Pure class, that's him, he thinks to himself, as he reaches up to fidget with the ridiculous ear piece he's got stuck in his ear. On some level, he can't quite believe he's doing this in the interval of Hamlet. He's still in costume, even, and there are spear carriers behind him. Spear carriers. Because he can't get wet. There's a joke in there somewhere, he thinks. Maybe if he were Ophelia.
Mind, over the phone is better than by text message. Not that David has ever broken up with anyone via text message... except that one time... Anyway, he can just see the screen playing on youtube now, (and for the rest of his life, probably) appearing one character at a time: so long and thanks for all the fish. l8er, suckers. xoxo, david tennant aka tenth doctor. Except the predictive text would probably screw up, and it would be 'so long and thanks for all the dips' or something instead.
Because he's thinking of Douglas Adams, David finds himself remembering when he first got to see Shada. He must've left the academy by then, because he'd already been living with Arabella - yep, definitely then, because he can remember the exact positioning of sofa and television, and the dying plants on the sill, the fizzy feeling in his stomach as he pushed the tape in, and prepared to watch new Doctor Who that he'd never seen before. He must have been what, twenty one? twenty two? The Adams ones used to be mainly pretty funny, but that one had been creepy as fuck all, even all cobbled together. He'd loved it.
He wonders briefly where that tape is. Not that he still has a video.
There's a lot of hurry up and wait before they can get him in the live feed, of course, and David looks back at the stage door a little nervously. It's not like they're going to start the show without him, he knows, but still. He doesn't want to lose the audience, and the tempo tonight has been a bit weird anyway. His fault, he knows, but he can't help but wonder if they're all going to be sitting in there when he goes back in for the second half, reading the news on their mobiles or whatever.
The PA nods to him, and it's a go.
Through the entire awkward, horrible speech -- and the leaden, fake conversation with Catherine, with its terrifying delay, he's on autopilot, saying his canned words (just this morning he'd been practicing them in the mirror, over and over, till they'd lost all meaning). In the end, he'll remember only one real moment from it: when his announcement sinks in and the tinny roar of the audience's cheering in his ears goes so completely silent that he's worried for a sec, that technology has failed, and he's lost the connection.
Catherine accepts the award for him, and finally, finally he's able to shut it down, after the longest three minutes of his entire life. He takes the ear thing out, hands it over to the PA with a brief word of thanks, and she just grabs it out of his hand without acknowledging it.
Don't worry, he thinks at her. Right now, he hates himself a little too.
And now he has to go on stage and be the Prince of Denmark, who is also not having a very pleasant day. At least he gets to die soon. And there's a sword fight. No green screen, no nothing. Just him, and the rest of the cast, and the people watching.
What he was born to do. The only thing he's fit for, really.
After the show, Patrick presses his shoulder in the wings.
"All serene?" he asks softly.
"I think we got it back by the end," David says, wilfully misunderstanding. "Bit ragged, but the death went okay, I think."
Patrick still lifts one eyebrow better than anyone David's ever met. "You know what I mean," he says, but then, thank God, he lets it go. And seriously, he can't possibly have enjoyed the sci fi convention that this run in Stratford has turned into. Because it's also probably been the first sci fi convention Patrick's ever been near that was almost entirely uninterested in him. Which, actually, maybe he's grateful for, though he's also so bloody gracious about it all. But still. Picard forever.
David, on the other hand, has never been through a theatre experience like this one, where he can't even get notes from his director in a coffee shop without getting mobbed by fans, and sometimes people actually leave before the death scene so they can, presumably, stand outside the stage door and wait for him to autograph their dvds or breasts or what have you. He wishes that these people could be identified somehow -- surely the ushers could carry red markers or paint guns or something -- so when he got to the stage door, he'd know the difference between them, and folk who have some vestige of manners, but sadly this seems impossible to orchestrate.
Shakespearean fans are mostly, thank God, a little more decorous.
In his dressing room, he fishes out his mobile and calls Georgia. She's been avoiding Stratford these past few weeks, and he hopes it's just because she's sick of the tabs and their endless headlines blaring "the Doctor dates his daughter" that for some reason they never seem to get tired of.
She picks up, and her voice sounds strained and exhausted.
"How did it go?" she asks.
"I don't know why everyone's making such a big deal. It's not like I'm quitting. Not right yet. They've got a whole other year of me in the TARDIS."
"You announced it, so obviously you knew it was going to be a bit of a thing."
"It was going to leak anyway. I wanted them to hear it from me," he says.
"Regrets?" she asks. "Like Dad?"
"No," he replies. "Still got a year to go. You sound knackered."
"Long day, filming," she says. "And Tyler's got a fever or something."
"Sorry, should I let you go?"
"In a minute. Miss you, though."
"You too," he says, and means it. "And the kid."
"Yeah, he's going to be thrilled when he hears the news."
"Seriously?"
"No, you idiot. He's going to cry, and throw a temper tantrum. Don't you remember what it was like?"
"The Doctor wasn't my granddad. Or you know, banging my mum, so no, I don't think it's the same thing at all."
"He's six, of course it's the same thing."
"I'm sorry," he says.
She laughs. "He'll get over it. You will too. It's just a part, David."
"Yeah," he says. "Back to the classics for a while. Kids are going to love my Pericles. Or Doctor Faustus. Do people even do Marlowe anymore?"
"Another doctor already?" Georgia teases.
"Maybe not. What about Benedick in Much Ado? World's my oyster, right? Could do Romeo and Juliet again, even."
"Who would you be this time?" she asks. "Lord Capulet? The friar?"
"Ouch. Not that old, am I?"
"You're asking me?" she says.
"Fair point," David admits, feeling like a bit of a berk. When he watching Shada, she was if not in nappies, certainly still learning how to walk. On the other hand, he's pretty sure that they're the same age emotionally, so it's probably okay.
"Maybe some films?" she says encouragingly. "Hollywood."
"Right," he says, less convincingly this time. "Or Broadway."
"Works for me," she says. "New York's lovely in the springtime."
There is a pause, and then she says, "Duty calls. And you need to take your makeup off. I'll ring you tomorrow. Get some rest."
"Bye," he says into the speaker, and then she clicks off.
He wishes he didn't have to go out and sign autographs now, but he does. Maybe they won't have heard yet. Anything's possible, right?
At home -- well, not home, but the flat the RSC's got for him -- he sits down with a bottle of Laphroaig, and thinks about flipping on the telly, or popping in a DVD. Maybe the news. US election's in a few days, it's looking good for ending eight bloody years of misrule, might be a note of hope in an otherwise sombre world.
There was one woman sobbing, while waiting for an autograph . He'd put his arm round her, and said, in a line he could already tell he was going to be very sick of very, very soon, that it wasn't over yet, still a year to go.
He can't get drunk, obviously, because he's got another show tomorrow, and he can't think of anything worse than the show he just got through tonight, except that, plus a hangover.
Maybe if he'd brought one of the girls in the show back -- the ASM is gorgeous, and has a wicked utility belt -- they could've -- no. This is ridiculous. He's happy, he's Hamlet, he's apparently alliterative as well, everything is fine. He is not going to spiral into one of his lovely little bits of self-sabotage. He's just not.
The mobile goes into its little West Wing theme, and David has never been so happy to hear it go off in his life.
"Hello?"
"You fucker," he hears Barrowman say through the speaker.
"Johnny," he says, feeling a grin stretch his lips. John hates it when he calls him that.
"Don't call me that, you asshole."
"Why not?"
"Because you broke up with Doctor Who, and ME, and you didn't even tell me first. Asshole." John's voice swoops on the last word like he's singing. What a grandstander.
"Twat," David returns, but without any heat. What can he possibly say? "I didn't break up with you. The Doctor already kicked you to the curb, remember? And it wasn't breaking up. No shagging in the TARDIS."
"Your predecessor wasn't so high and mighty."
"More so, actually," David says. "Besides, you hate that guy."
"Yeah," John says, "but now I kind of hate you too. Bath chair? Really?"
"So...you saw it? Isn't watching ITV a violation of your contract?"
"Ha bloody ha. You're one to talk. Giving Auntie Beeb the boot on a different station. I was watching, actually, but I heard about it before. It was in the papers."
"Fuck," David says succinctly. "Oh well. Bound to come out sooner or later."
"I should come down there and kick your scrawny ass."
"Yeah, would you? When are you and Scott coming to see the show anyway? Doesn't anyone love me anymore?"
"I'm in Cardiff. We're filming."
"Yeah," he says.
"Besides, you left us. Why would we love you?"
"Not fair," David says.
"Too soon?"
There is a pause, and David feels bruised by it all. Everyone's so angry, and no one understands. Either they think the whole thing is stupid to begin with, or they feel betrayed. There's no middle ground. "Yeah," he says finally, after taking a couple of pulls at his drink. "Too soon."
"Dav, you all right?"
"Yeah, fine."
"Why'd you do it anyway?"
"You know," he says, trying for insouciance. "Miss theatre, want to do some films. The usual."
"That's bullshit," John says. "You're doing Hamlet right now. Like they wouldn't let you have a break whenever. What's the problem?"
"Money."
"You're joking."
"I asked them for a few million quid. They said no."
"You think?" John sputters. "What the hell kind of socialist are you? It's the Beeb, not fucking 20th Century Fox."
"I knew they were going to say no. That's why I asked. You know when it was Moffat, I thought, maybe I stick around, do one more series. And then I thought, I'll ask for this ridiculous sum of money, and if they say yes, it'll be a... a sign. Or something. But they said no."
"You're crazy, David. They don't have any more money."
"Best time to leave a party is when you're still enjoying yourself."
"That is so... so Presbyterian," John says.
David laughs. "Waste not, want not."
"So, you're quitting 'cause they didn't add enough zeros and you're still having fun. That's... amazing."
"You know it's not that. Not really."
"Well, what is it then?"
"I can't explain," David says.
There is a pause, and David gets up, still holding the mobile to his ear, and begins to pace around. He walks up to the cupboard in the entry way, and looks at his shoes. There's a lonely pair of trainers, several pairs of boots, some Armani loafers. The daily lady likes to put them in alphabetical order by colour. David can't decide if this is disturbing enough on its own, or if it even requires the additional fact that he's spent enough time looking to figure this out.
John is pacing too, David is sure of it. Because Barrowman couldn't sit still if you tied him down. Of course, neither can he.
"Try," John says finally.
"It's the shoes," David says.
"You've lost the plot, my son." John sounds some combination of amused and frustrated, which of course David can understand, because he himself is both those things. As well as empty, and lost, and alone.
"See, I told you that you wouldn't understand."
"Talk sense," John says.
"It's the trainers. They were mine, that first pair, you know? And now they're not. They're his."
"...Okay..."
"And I'm afraid that if I keep going, it won't be real anymore. It'll just be me. No Doctor at all."
There is another pause. "Oh," John says finally.
"You don't have this problem." His voice is accusatory, even though he doesn't want it to be.
"No," he replies. "The Captain's only ever been me."
"And a head in a jar," David reminds him, still gleeful about the whole thing.
"David, are you drunk?"
"A Scotsman is never drunk," David announces grandly, and then suddenly realizes that the level in the bottle has sunk quite a bit since he started this conversation. "Bugger."
"Ye daft bastard," John says, and then exhales in a sigh.
"Easy on the brogue there, laddie," David says. "Did I ever tell you that you sound extremely fake when you do it?"
"Piss off," John says, and he actually sounds upset.
David winces. "You called me," he points out.
"Yeah I did. Go to bed, man. You're going to be a wreck tomorrow. Hungover Hamlet."
"I bet Burton was drunk his entire run," David says, pouring another finger into his glass. Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, as his gran used to say. "O'Toole too."
"Yeah, you haven't got that kind of talent."
"I'm extremely good. All the papers say so. I'm a national treasure."
"The Doctor's a national treasure. You know how many guys they have playing Shakespeare?"
"You should come on board. We could do a musical version."
"Except you can't sing," John says.
"I can sing as well as you can act," David points out, and the words sort of hang there in the air.
"Yeah," John says. "I gotta go."
"Barrowman, wait. I--"
"S'okay, David. Really. I gotta go. Early call tomorrow. We're blowing things up. Long day."
"I'll watch it with you lot," David says hurriedly, remembering them all piled up together, watching that first ever episode of Torchwood in their pajamas. Like a slumber party. "Your place, or Evie's. It'll be great."
"Yeah, I might be touring. We haven't got an airdate yet."
"But you always--"
"Things change," John says. "You should know."
"Not that," David protests.
"Yeah, okay," John relents. "We'll do it. Get Gaz to come this time too. None of these punk show excuses. How do they even call that music?"
David laughs. While he'll miss Naoko and Burn, he doesn't actually know Gareth all that well, but does know that John is inordinately fond of him. He decides not to get into yet another argument with John about punk sensibility, and why it rocks. "Didn't I hear something about him making an ass of himself on the con circuit this summer?" he asks instead.
"Yeah." John chuckles ruefully. "He'll learn. They always do. Maybe I'll have to do something really outrageous, take the heat off."
"You're so generous, I know how much you hate being outrageous."
"Do as much for you," John says, off handedly. "Think you might do some now?"
"Cons?" he asks. "Hadn't thought, really. Anyway, can't yet. Still--"
"Got a year to go," John chants in unison with him.
"Bastard," David says.
"Don't you forget it."
"I won't."
"Go to bed," John says.
"You just want to imagine me in my altogether," David says primly. He is mildly afraid that he is far too drunk, and John is far too sober for this conversation.
"Is that an offer?"
David laughs. "Come to Stratford. We'll talk."
"Promises, promises."
"Okay, I'm hanging up now," David says. "You should as well. Bed. Yes."
"And you've lost verbs now, so you should too."
"Love to Scotty," David says. "And the dogs."
"You know, if you weren't so straight, you could be gay," John says. "Mine to Georgia."
"Right." Just as he's sure John's about to ring off, he finds himself saying, "Barrowman, listen."
"What now?"
"You thought about the specials?"
"The Doctor Who specials?"
"You should talk to Russell. You should come back. We should...it would be fun."
There is a long pause. "David," John says gently. "You don't have to convince me. I'm not the one who wants to leave."
"Yeah," David says. "Okay then. I'm going now. Good night."
"Night." And then David hears a click, and the dead silence on the other end of the line.
He drops the mobile on the floor, pulls an afghan over himself and curls up on the sofa. He doesn't even take his shoes off.
There is some ghastly pounding going on somewhere behind his left eye, and an agonizing pain coming from the side of his neck. David manages through sheer force of will to peel the other eyelid back, so he can figure out where the hell he is, and as well, who would be so cruel as to drive a spike through an innocent man's head at what he is sure is some ungodly hour of the morning.
And then he sees the three quarters empty bottle of whiskey by the side of the sofa, and remembers there is no one but himself to blame.
Blearily he gets up, and struggles towards the toilet. Once there, he finds the paracetamol and swallows four, plus a glass of water. Heading towards the bedroom -- better late than never -- he peels off his clothes and collapses on the bed. It is 8 am. He has about ten hours to knock himself into shape before he has to go back to the theatre. He pulls a pillow over his head, and tries to go back to sleep, but his alcohol addled mind refuses to cooperate.
After two solid hours of tossing and turning, he is almost grateful for the sound of the telephone. Perhaps there has been a plague throughout all England, and all entertainment has been cancelled for the forseeable. That sounds nice. His hand gropes blindly for the receiver, and finally finds it. May God have mercy on their soul if it happens to be a reporter.
"Hello?"
"David?" he hears a voice say. "You sound terrible."
"You got that from hello?" he says. "Who is this?"
"I got that from watching you on telly last night," she says, and then of course he recognizes her voice, which is pretty much the last voice on earth he's expected to hear from this week.
"Billie," he says, sitting up with a jerk.
"Did I wake you?"
"No," he says. "What sort of layabout do you think I am?"
"I don't think, I know," she says.
"Seriously, not that I'm not over the moon to hear from you, but what are you doing? Shouldn't you be... I don't know... resting or something?"
"I am resting, you idiot. Watching telly and talking on the phone aren't life threatening activities."
"But you've just had --"
"My stomach cut open and a baby yanked out? Yeah, I have. So what's your excuse?"
"Where's -- what are you calling him?"
"Winston. He's tucked right next to me. Want to say hello?"
"Uh... okay..." David thinks this is a slightly bizarre choice of name, especially since to him, all babies look a bit like Churchill anyway, but he supposes the lad will grow out of it. Can't help it really, with a mum who looks like that.
"Say hello to Uncle David, Winston," he hears Billie coo. It is distinctly odd.
"Hello, Winston," he says, even though he doesn't hear anything. "Be nice to your mum, and don't ever drink a half bottle of whiskey at a time. You'll thank me."
"So, now that you've said hello to the baby, what made you drink yourself into a stupor last night?" she asks.
"Where's Laurence?" he counters.
"In the other room," she says patiently. "Now that I've given you gps coordinates on all members of my immediate family, could you get to the point?"
"There's a point?" he says feebly, not sure what to make of the fact that Billie, recovering from major surgery, and with a baby, can still scare him a little bit.
"Yes, David," she says. "What's the matter?"
"I quit," he says.
"I know, I saw it. I told you. You all right?"
There is a pause, while he considers if he's really pathetic enough to complain about this to a new mother, who happens to be more than a decade younger than him, and also one of his best friends. "No," he says finally. Yep, exactly that pathetic, as it turns out.
"Yeah," she says. "That's what I thought. Oh, David."
"You miss it?" he asks.
"Sometimes. Not really. Pretty busy with this whole having a kid thing."
"Right, yeah. Of course."
"You could do, as well," she suggests. "Settle down."
David laughs. "Don't know if that's me, really. I'm not --"
"Ready?" she supplies, when his voice trails off.
"Yeah. Suppose so."
There is a pause. He hears the baby begin to fuss a bit, and Billie make soothing noises. "I'll have to go in a minute," she says. "I just wanted to check on you."
"Billie," he says hurriedly. "What if I changed my mind? Maybe I should. I could go back. We could go back. It'd be great, we could --"
"David. Be serious. You can't," she says, cutting him off. "You can visit -- I mean, it's all written in, isn't it? Sometime, if you talk me into it, maybe we will. But it won't be the same, and you can't change your mind. You have to do the next thing now."
"What if I don't want to?" he says.
"Doesn't matter." He hears the baby -- Winston -- start to cry, and she adds, "I really have to go."
"Okay," he says. "Thanks for calling."
"Bye," she says, sounding distracted, and then she rings off. Leaving him behind. Again.
David puts the phone down, and stares up at the ceiling. He remembers watching that first episode, when it all started up again, and the moment when Eccleston'd said, "I'm the Doctor...Run for your life!" He'd known the fellow enough to nod to, of course, if they were passing, but hadn't thought of him much, just that intense bloke from Jude. He'd always respected him as an actor, and not really known anything about him as a person. Later he'd found out that Billie and John hated him. But it hadn't mattered, not really. Because once he was the Doctor, he was the Doctor. In the TARDIS, and with a companion the like of which they'd never seen. And Captain Jack Harkness, oh yes. David is still a little jealous that Rose and Jack never got to be his companions at the same time, not really. He is certain he would have been more fun to be around.
He'd been so scared to take this part, when they offered it to him. Way back, when he'd heard about Ewan McGregor's experience on Star Wars, the first thing he'd thought was, God, poor sod, that would be like if I'd got to be on Doctor Who and it'd turned out to be a disaster. But it had all been hypothetical then, cos after that pitiful excuse for a movie -- poor bastard, Paul McGann, but he should've known, when they'd made it all American like that -- no one at all was talking about bringing back Who. But then he'd met Russell, and done Casanova, and they'd talked about Genesis of the Daleks which he thinks is probably still his favorite episode, and maybe is a little why Russell brought Davros back for him this year; they'd rebooted the show, made it something any actor ought to be proud to do, and then they'd offered it to him for God's sake...and he'd realised if he didn't take it, he'd be kicking himself for the rest of his life.
And now he'd left it. Done. Finished. Or as good as. Now it was just all about wheeling down to the end.
"I wasn't to know how it was going to feel, was I?" he whispers to the ceiling. There is no reply. A small voice in the back of his head answers, Of course you were. Idiot.
"That's it. Enough," David says out loud, feeling a bit ridiculous, but he needs to jog himself out of this stupor, or he's never going to get anything done, ever again, and that's just not on. He plumps up the pillows, and reaches for the remote. He's almost through his most recent rewatch of the West Wing, which he's been going through in honour of the upcoming elections. Only the last few episodes left to go, he congratulates himself, and they've got nothing at all to do with Doctor Who, or indeed anything British at all.
Just what he needs. He presses play. The scene picks up from where he'd left off, and he settles back against his pillows. And then C.J. shouts, "You think I don't know I'm living the first line on my obituary right now?!" and David throws the remote at the wall. It makes a satisfying crash.
Fuck this, he thinks, and gets up to have a shower.
The water's boiling hot, and David relaxes into the steam, trying to empty his brain of everything, let all the aches and pains from exertions on stage and his night of fairly pathetic debauchery wash away. He's not as young as he used to be; the recovery periods just keep getting longer and longer. His back hurts.
It's actually the only way he knows that he's getting older. Everyone else has been moving on, settling down, getting married, popping out kids, taking the next step in their careers. He's been standing still, just doing the same thing over and over, working all the time, true -- David can't remember the last time he had a proper vacation -- but not changing.
He still feels just the same inside, really. He traces a line down the tile, through the condensation, remembering when he was a kid and he used to pretend the bath was a spaceship and all the separate tiles were buttons that did cool stuff when you pressed them like reversing the polarity of the neutron flow, or accelerating to warp speed, or providing him with a drink from whatever constellation cluster took his fancy.
David rests his forehead against the wall.
Sophia used to love making him wear the costume in bed, and David had obliged, even if he hadn't liked it much, because that's what you did, when asked by your girlfriend. It sounded too stupid to try to explain why he didn't think it was a good idea, because either he'd take too seriously or not seriously enough. Georgia, understandably, has never suggested it, and David is relieved cos that's obviously too grotty, even for someone with her undeniable wicked streak.
David loves being the Doctor. He really does love it. He is going to miss it forever, and wouldn't suggest otherwise, even for a moment. But even though he knows he made the right decision, taking the part -- he can't help feeling a little bit sad that the rest of the world gets to fall in love with ten doctors, and he only gets nine. It doesn't seem quite fair.
He gets out of the shower and wipes the steam from the mirror, stares at his face, doing the automatic actor's check for new lines and wrinkles. He's lost weight again, he realises, and wonders when the rest of the world's going to cotton onto the fact that he's just a scrawny geek with a bizarre taste for velvet jackets and a facile face, who has somehow managed to snow the whole world into thinking that he's a Time Lord, or failing that, at least a romantic swashbuckler extrordinaire.
David knows his steady romantic march through all and sundry connected to Doctor Who has made all the columns; it's a bit of a joke round the set, and probably among fans too, though he tries not to think about that.
And now he's afraid, really, truly afraid that he's been consumed, that he's in danger of no longer knowing where he leaves off, and the Doctor begins. And that's not even the real terror.
It's all lies, is the thing. Because the Doctor is a Time Lord, and he's just David MacDonald from Paisley. And David loves the Doctor, and many days, he's not even sure whether he likes himself at all. So, okay, probably he's being mad, but he simply can't go on doing it. Not forever. Not till the magic's completely wrung out.
He is tired. He is very, very tired.
And now he's going to have to trot out on all the morning shows, with a smile nailed to his face, answering endless questions about why he's quit, what's his favorite episode ever, and if he's incredibly lucky, he'll have to listen to some kids crying as they call in.
He wishes he had a proper answer for it all. One that made sense.
But he doesn't. So this is what he has to do. He has to let go, give over the TARDIS, his TARDIS, hand it on to the next chap -- who he doesn't know but already hates, just a bit --, and resign himself to the fact that it may already be too late, and it might never, ever be real again.
It's raining, David notices, as he walks out into the blustery 5am morning that feels nothing at all like spring. Which is pretty much the way of things in Cardiff. The more things change, he thinks to himself, with a slight chuckle. But luckily he's only out in it for a bit before he clambers into the car they've got for him. And it's meant to clear up later in the day, and anyway, it's an indoor shoot that they've got planned today, the final wrap-up, and then the publicity shots, stills and moving, with everyone.
This whole thing has felt a bit like a slumber party anyway, frankly, and David is reminded of another shoot, long ago now, in that old TARDIS set. Journey's End.
When he sits down in the trailer to have his makeup done, he closes his eyes and smiles. At least his suit still fits. And they've even managed to get back the trainers. The same ones that he'd bought for himself, all those years back.
They were in the Tower of Rassilon set yesterday, him and Freema, and some of the newer companions, and he'd remembered watching them bring back Gallifrey; it'd sent shivers running up and down his spine, as he watched it in his flat. And then the dark, silent time again, after Moffat's run, which had been mostly brilliant even if he had brought shagging into the TARDIS [David still sort of resents that]... the long radio silence, until one day a slip of a girl -- they all seem a bit like children to David now -- decided she was going to bring it all back. They'd even restarted the regeneration cycle in a convincing way (which David was dead impressed by, having never thought it could successfully be done) and now it could, truly, go on forever. So many possibilities to unfold, new things to say.
And here they all were.
They're waiting around as they do the set up for the shot where the TARDIS materializes in the Time Museum. John comes up behind him, and slings a companionable arm round his shoulder.
"Long time no see, stranger."
David laughs. "Got any hot air built up, Captain?"
"Had some beans on toast, and I'm saving it all for you, baby."
"Better out than in, I always say," David says, feeling his face stretch into an enormous smile. "Pretty mad feeling to be in the Tower, wasn't it?"
"You're telling me," John says. "And is it just me, or have the sets got way classier round here?"
"It's her," David whispers, gesturing over to the producer. "She Who Must Not Be Named. She's quite terrifying, isn't she? I didn't think you could have beat Julie Gardner, but this one's something else. No coaxing. She just bludgeons the top brass into submission, or so I've heard."
"David, anyone ever tell you, you're a terrible gossip?"
"Not really?" David says, trying to sound shocked.
"Look, there's Liz and her hair's gone all white," John says. "And who's that with her, Christ, that's Tilda."
"She scares me as well."
"You know, if women frighten you that much," he hears a voice behind them say, "it's a miracle Barrowman here didn't get you to switch sides long ago."
"Who says I didn't?"
"Who says he didn't? David chimes in at the same time, and gives Simm -- who's got the Thirteenth Doctor, Phil Glenister with him -- a wide, happy smile.
"Still can't get over Tilda Swinton on Doctor Who," Billie says, walking up to them, arm linked with Catherine's.
Catherine laughs. "Figures if they ever got a woman Doctor, it'd be for the flipping evil incarnation."
"She's not the Doctor--" John says.
"She's the Valeyard," David corrects at the same time, and they look at each other and laugh.
"Whatever, fanboys," Billie says with a grin, before they all move off with Simm.
"An Oscar winner on Doctor Who," John marvels as if they hadn't been interrupted. "Who would have thought?"
"Don't forget about me," David says.
"As if you ever let anyone forget. Besides, you were a Doctor who won the Oscar, not the other way around." John grins at him, and David remembers the moment so clearly, chuffed to death, tearing up a bit, wishing his mum was still alive to see it, getting up there on stage, choking up, and thanking not just Tom Stoppard, and the producers of the film, his costars, but as well, Russell and the Doctor who'd led him to this point. And afterwards at various parties, being doused with champagne, and in one quiet moment thinking that maybe the Doctor wouldn't be the first line on his obituary now, and feeling rather sad about it. Wasn't true though, at least not in Britain. Still the Doctor, always and forever. He thinks now, maybe he always had been... even as all the other people he is -- the prince of Denmark, who'd missed out on London but had got to open in New York, Lord Peter Wimsey, Francis Lymond, Casanova, Bertram in All's Well, DI Carlisle, Alan, Christopher Chant, Bernard Nightingale who'd won him his Oscar, the Fool in Lear -- clamour inside his head,
"I've always told you that I'm a national treasure."
"Yeah, yeah, suck my balls."
"Whip them out then," David retorts. "Or have you gone all old and scraggly?"
"You should ask Scotty about that."
"Scott thinks the sun shines out of your sagging arse, so don't think that's a fair cop, really."
"Hey! I am not sagging. Listen, if we're talking about old and scraggly," John says.
"Okay, okay, pax. We're too old for this shit anyway."
"Says you."
"Could we have all the Doctors, for a group shot, please?" one of the ADs says.
They all cluster around, and pose for the cameras, then it's time for the interview bits, the scene specifics and extras roll.
And then the question comes, as it always does.
Colin Baker says Jon Pertwee and Matt Smith; Chris Eccleston -- who has made sure everyone knows he's only here cos it's a good cause -- says he doesn't really have a favorite, because they'd all brought things to the part [David remembers giving that stock answer when he was so shell shocked with loss, he'd no idea what to say at all]; Matt Smith -- who still seems impossibly young to David -- says the expected Tom Baker and slides in Sylvester McCoy, Paterson Joseph says Tom Baker and Christopher Eccleston; Philip Glenister says Peter Davison and David Tennant, which gives him a bit of a glow, really, even though he follows it up by saying that his daughters have told him that if he didn't add that last, they'd eviscerate him.
What is it with him and the Doctor's daughters, anyway, David wonders briefly. Peter Davison -- who, thank God, like Georgia (who's also about here somewhere) holds no grudge -- says that Patrick Troughton is still his favourite. Thomas Sangster says Paterson Joseph and David Tennant. Paul McGann says William Hartnell. And then it's his turn.
"So, Sir David," the interviewer says, and David chuckles, still vaguely amused by the whole title bit. "Who's your favourite Doctor?"
He thinks for a second, and then decides to just start talking. "You know, I could tell you that I genuinely love every single one. And I do, I really do. It's important to note that. I've seen them all, and they are all brilliant. Every single one."
The interviewer smiles vaccously and nods, figuring that she's getting another canned answer, lumping him in with Eccleston.
Fuck that, he thinks. Because he's old now, and who cares anyway?
And then, almost against his will, he feels a familiar grin pull at the corners of his mouth. It doesn't belong to him though, except that, well, actually... it does. Still, when the Tenth Doctor decides to step out to answer the question, there's nothing that David could do to stop him, even if he'd wanted to. Which he doesn't. "But honestly? My favourite Doctor?"
The interviewer sits up a little straighter, as if she's been revitalized by a quick shot of energy, or at least sensing a possible end to boredom coming.
"Me, of course."
She blinks at him. Cos that's not done, he knows it, she knows it, and what's more she knows he knows. It's just not polite. "You?" she repeats weakly.
"Best Doctor ever," he says, the manic energy bubbling up inside him, and for a second, just one shining second, really truly feeling it all -- the movement of the earth, the pull of time, everything all at once. "Oh, yes!"
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-03 11:48 pm (UTC)I shall not comment on the fanservice, not when even Tilda Swinton is there. All the past Doctors, and the ones we haven't had yet...
And now I will always consider it canon that John takes it personally that he's leaving.
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Date: 2009-01-05 05:56 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-04 12:00 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-05 05:57 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-04 12:03 am (UTC)I like the hopeful note at the end, after a wrecking first 90% of the story.
Favorite bit though, definitely the phone conversation with John for its honesty and its bleakness but also its understanding.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-05 06:00 am (UTC)*laughs* I'm sure he did; it's me that had trouble with it! Although after hearing he went back into Hamlet the night after Eleven was announced, I begin to wonder.
Anyway, thank you so much for reading and commenting. It was my first foray into RPF, and I was kind of afraid no one would touch it with a barge pole, esp. considering there's no sex! but I had to write it, anyway. I was really heartbroken when I began it, so that perhaps explains the tonal quality, and the shift too. Had to slap myself around someway. ;-)
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Date: 2009-01-04 12:31 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-05 06:00 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-04 12:34 am (UTC)also: tilda swinton as evil doctor is so very right.
and also: the assistant stage manager's utility belt???? how naughty.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-05 06:02 am (UTC)Re: asm's utility belt, *laughs* kinky lad, isn't he? I wonder if that counts as self insertion. *hangs head in shame*
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Date: 2009-01-04 12:35 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-05 06:04 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-04 01:54 am (UTC)This so well-written that I can't help but feel it's real. I'm going through so many different grieving process right now I can't even explain it.
Thanks for posting.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-05 06:05 am (UTC)Man. I'm still so overwhelmed by it all. And it's been a rough year for everyone in so many ways. *hugs*
(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-04 02:04 am (UTC)*chortle* Really, really lovely from beginning to end.
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Date: 2009-01-05 06:07 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-04 07:16 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-05 06:09 am (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2009-01-04 08:12 am (UTC)First off, it was great and fantabulous, but it really proved that I know nothing about the actors’ personal lives at all. I had to look up Georgia Moffet b/c the name did not ring a bell. Had no clue they were dating, either.
Also, Billie Piper had a baby? News to me.
But this was truly brilliant. Funny and kinda sad.
Loved all the DT/JB banter.
And the last bit there! *very big grin*
(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-05 06:12 am (UTC)I thought about putting in a key at the end explaining who everyone is, and their (actual) relationships to one another, but then I forgot. Oops! *laughs*
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Date: 2009-01-04 08:33 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-05 06:13 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-04 02:21 pm (UTC)And the Oscar just made me smile like a madwoman :)
(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-05 06:17 am (UTC)And yeah, after therapeutically torturing David for leaving us in the first part, I had to make it up to him somehow. Now I really want to see those movies! Curses! *laughs*
Thank you again for your fantastic comments. :-D
(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-04 03:07 pm (UTC)And then the second bit, the return with all the Doctors and he's Sir David and an Oscar winner, and I think it's interesting that I don't get a sense of him having a family, but he's clearly happy with his career and what he's doing and the return is a joyous one. And Tilda Swinton as the Valeyard? Brilliant.
This one's a keeper. Thank you.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-05 06:22 am (UTC)he's Sir David and an Oscar winner, and I think it's interesting that I don't get a sense of him having a family, but he's clearly happy with his career and what he's doing and the return is a joyous one.
Yes, that, exactly. No family, but at peace with that, and himself. And also at peace with being an actor, and being other people, and *always* having bits of them live inside you, and therefore having very complicated relationships with the world, and the people (and their characters) who inhabit it with you.
Is it wrong that I now totally want to watch this multiple Doctor episode? *laughs*
Thank you so much for reading and commenting; it means a lot.
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From:(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-04 05:48 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-05 06:23 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-05 05:05 pm (UTC)Secondly-that bit of business in casting yourself as the show runner-FUCKING AWESOME!!!!! I was totally cheering in my head at that.
Also-BRILLIANT ending. So perfect, so very very perfect. I also love the 12th and 13th doctor casting, really really great.
I think the phone call with John should be etched in platinum and hung in the Fandom Hall of Fame for others to cower under.
This makes me want to creep into the shared garden again and lay on our backs telling stories ;)
(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-05 05:20 pm (UTC)I wasn't sure if it was you or me actually, so I left it vague ;-)
Thank you so much darling, for reading, and also giving me the Gift of Who. And hey, how could I not dedicate my first official RPF to you, huh?
This makes me want to creep into the shared garden again and lay on our backs telling stories ;)
Let's do it!!!
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Date: 2009-01-05 07:26 pm (UTC)Fab, fab stuff.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-06 07:01 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-06 04:32 am (UTC)Now that you've made me think of it, I really want to see David Tennant play Lord Peter.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-06 07:02 pm (UTC)Oh man, do I want to see all those movies now. Who would be Harriet Vane to his Lord Peter? Who would be Bunter???
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Date: 2009-01-06 10:24 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-06 07:04 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-30 10:48 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-02-02 04:34 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-02-12 10:38 pm (UTC)And I love it. Crue and I were talking about it and he called it "authentic", which is really the perfect phrase for it, especially in reference to the first conversation with John ("I can sing as well as you can act." oh god, yeah, and ouch) and the second conversation they have, too.
But the ending? Total joy.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-02-13 05:23 am (UTC)(Although the boy and I had a creepy RPF conversation -- he loathes the genre with a fiery loathing -- and now I feel a bit odd, sort of like making a voodoo doll and trying to capture real live people's thoughts... But still... I can't help it. I really had to try and understand.)
I'm so glad you liked it, and found it authentic. And crue too! It's like Christmas.
It was so funny while I was writing it and trying to fit all the real bits together and it kept not cooperating, like when I wanted to have Billie Piper in it, and then discovered she'd had a baby that week! lol. But I had great fun knitting it all the facts I could dig up together, like his love of punk rock, and him being a self-proclaimed socialist.
You've read JB's book? The picture of all of them -- the TW cast (sans GDL), and DT all in their pajamas on the couch watching the 1st ever ep. of TW? ♥ ♥
Anyway, I am writing a brief novel in response to your comment, but thanks. It means a lot.
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Date: 2009-02-12 11:06 pm (UTC)And I especially like your post-Who itinerary for DT. Not just Lymond, which was rather the point of this detour, but also Casanova and Wimsey and, oh, ESPECIALLY Arcadia. (Has Tennant actually done any Stoppard? Because I just immediately hear him in half a dozen roles.) Honestly, if he does anything even half this good, it will be a hell of a career.
I'm with the chorus about the beauty of the first phone with JB. But the one with Billie gets me almost as much -- partly because, hello, this is a variant on every other leaving-the-Tardis conversation we've heard IC. "Do you miss it?" "I made my choice!" etc.
So maybe this is therapy. But it's GROUP therapy!
(no subject)
Date: 2009-02-13 05:34 am (UTC)*grins* I was sort of percolating a fic in my head of JB and DT talking whilst DT was doing Hamlet; I wanted a chance to do some RPF that would really dig into the whole doing theatre thing, and doing Shakespeare thing... And then Tennant quit Who, and this was the only thing I could think about. Why did he do it? Why??? And I watched interview after interview, and he never gave a straight answer. And then I watched the thing on youtube, where he announced it, which is where this story starts, and I realized I had to try and understand.
This is my stab at it. And JB had to go in there; he's, after all, like DT, a fanboy too. I wanted Billie in there... and then discovered after doing some research that she'd just had a baby that week! Lack of cooperation for the win! But thanks for commenting on it; I was fond of her in it too -- trying to understand, but not getting it really.
Then I had to try and make it better. So a bit of a fantasy future. But it comforted me. *grins*
I'm so delighted you enjoyed it. It's a piece very dear to my fannish heart.
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
Date: 2009-03-15 09:36 pm (UTC)I really liked this story. I thought the characterizations were believable. It made the characters sound like real people (which they are). I loved the end where they were having a reunion. It brought tears to my eyes. I also believe it is quite possible David Tennant will win an Oscar someday.
Thank you for the great story.