"I assume you didn’t get any sleep, then." It was more a statement than a question. She looked tired, angry, and exactly like he always did after a few days without sleep. He opened his mouth to say something along the lines of ‘get some rest’, but he stopped himself before he did.
Not caring was rule number one now, so why did he want to?
The Doctor looked at her, wondering exactly how much damage he had done. Not an amount he could fix, probably. And he shouldn’t care about that, but he wanted to fix it so, so bad. It had been his mistake, after all It had been his mess. The least he could do was to try to clean it up. At least that’s what he would’ve done, a few years back. Before the TARDIS dematerialised. Before the sound of the TARDIS started to be on his nightmares instead of his dreams.
Except he wasn’t that man anymore, and he didn’t plan on being that man ever again, because he had felt too much, he had loved too much, too deeply. He had given all of himself at all times, and that had only ended in heartbreak. Pain. Fear.
So why did he want to be the Doctor again? Why did he want to be that stupid, pathetic man, who gave all of himself and got nothing in return?
Maybe he had gotten to attached to the name, and it was time to let it go. A man like him—or, well, like the man he was now—didn’t deserve to be the Doctor. (Ha, deserve. Like it was a privilege.)
Help me ‘ere, ol’ girl. You always know what to do, don’t you? Mind givin’ me a bit of advice again?
He looked up, returning his attention to Rose. Maybe if the TARDIS helped, he would be able to fix it. Or as close as he could get, at least. It was better than nothing, right?
However, it still wasn’t enough.
