[The Doctor keeps his hand there, feeling the warmth of his other self radiating off his cool fingertips. In some ways, he can feel the distant breath of him. Lost. Terrified. A lost old man who was ready to accept his fate until a clever, impossible girl came along.]
Nine hundred years.
[His eyes divert away to the other side of the lab.]
They never stopped. [Beat for breath.] I only had about two hundred more years in me. Surely, I would’ve been bald by then.
Nine hundred years. [ The Doctor repeats. ] And oh, I felt those last years of it, too. Bald and very wrinkled and not half as good as you look now, I assure you.
[ The Doctor's mouth twists into a teasing smile. ]
The reset was — nice. Helpful. [ He sighs then. ] I don't know if I was ready to go or not. [ There is a difference between being ready and being resigned to it. ] We never really are though, are we?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Nine hundred years.
[His eyes divert away to the other side of the lab.]
They never stopped. [Beat for breath.] I only had about two hundred more years in me. Surely, I would’ve been bald by then.
no subject
[ The Doctor's mouth twists into a teasing smile. ]
The reset was — nice. Helpful. [ He sighs then. ] I don't know if I was ready to go or not. [ There is a difference between being ready and being resigned to it. ] We never really are though, are we?