Value of the Storm.
A/N: Don't know where this came from. But I like it. ;-P
Contains spoilers for S5 finale.
All the things the Doctor isn't, and the one thing he is.
11!Doctor featured. But definitely ambiguous Doctor at the start. Kind-of self depreciating writing, here, for the Doctor.
Disclaimer: Doctor Who and its affiliates are property of the BBC.
He isn't fearless.
Oh, they thought he was. The Doctor did seem to radiate that self-confident, cocky aura that just seems to scream, "I'm the bloody one in charge and the only one smart enough to know what to do!" With a smile plastered on his face, he'd run into the thickest of the fray, all guns—well, sonic screwdriver—blazing, and a war cry to indicate his return. How could he admit his fears when his companions always looked on with an almost reverent, childlike gaze of utter belief? It had been a long time since he'd been completely trusted. The Doctor always did his best to uphold that trust and not give a reason for them to lose faith in him.
He isn't always the victor.
Losing was a constant in his life, just as much as winning. He could feel both at the same time, more often than not. Good and evil were simply a matter of perspective. They didn't call him the 'Lonely God' and the 'Oncoming Storm' for nothing. He'd chosen humanity as his surrogate family. They were who he protected at the cost of his life, reputation, and perhaps, sanity, too. Just because he had reasoning and a cause, he still felt the blood of countless races staining his hands. Was it worth the survival of one human city at the fall of an entire alien race? And because he couldn't say otherwise, especially not when his companions looked at him like that, he always had to say 'yes'.
He isn't always benevolent.
Laughter rings hollow in his ears, though warm enough to others. Oh, how his hypocrisy sounds so utterly, bitterly false to the man who had slaughtered more than even he could count. "No weapons." It was a mantra of the naive. Like it could somehow redeem his past errors—they were sins, in almost every culture and level of society, that's what they'd be called. Everything and anything could and can be considered a weapon. It matters not on their weight, firepower, shape or design. The holder of the instrument determines its use. It's no wonder he changed his sonic screwdriver's light from red to blue, and now to green. Never again would it be red, regardless of what River Song may hint at. The Doctor can't stand the colour reminding him that his little tool is as much a weapon as the greatest nuclear warhead; simply because he held it.
He isn't all-loving.
Hatred coursed through his veins like a burning torrent of pure acid. Hatred of the Daleks, mainly. For how they destroyed his home, his only true utopia. Small amounts of hatred were doled out to those who killed his friends, who killed his family, who had hurt him, who had wanted to hurt others. Too many people, species, planets and scenarios to remember and recount them all. But there was hate for his own people, too, of course. It took two to dance, and the Time Lords had their fair share of bloody conflict in the Last Great Time War. Time Lords were renowned for being wise, kind and caring people, looking after the cracks in time, space and alternate realities. The first time the Doctor had seen a Time Lord die anything but a natural death was when he was when the war started. However, it was also the first time he'd seen such a horrific, murderous face of any of his kin—it was like death personified itself on his brethren. So he ran.
He isn't always brave.
The Doctor ran from battle, only coming back to end it. However, that mightn't fully be counted as bravery; after all, he'd have died too, if the war raged on and time collapsed upon itself, taking everyone else with it. He ran from commitment. From relationships, from friends, from death, and a job completed. He didn't want to have to see the aftermath, the ruins of what he caused. He ran from responsibility when he did what he could. All the Doctor did was observe enough to see that everything was alright—it had to be, if nothing else, he had to have helped a little—and then he'd leave, towing behind him whatever bewildered companion that wasn't ready to go. Because he was scared, just that smallest bit; not that he could admit it, ever.
He isn't immortal.
Close enough, though, perhaps to the eyes of humans. He sometimes lay awake—not that he technically did that much sleeping in the first place—and fretted over just how short of the lives of his current companions were. Taking them around space and time was probably one of the few ways he, personally, could immortalize them. When they would die in 2050, another younger version of them could be running around in the year 3000, chasing and being chased by aliens and monster and having one heck of a time. Time wasn't a linear line of cause to effect. It was wibbly-wobbly-timey-wimey-stuff, and the Doctor was glad it was like that. So he never really had to think of his companions dying; they would always be alive somewhere, sometime. And perhaps, the Doctor was immortal in that way, too.
He isn't going to live much longer, actually.
Everyone was dying at every moment, technically, but he could feel his end nearing sooner than he had thought it would. Perhaps there was a little irony in the phrase, "He's only human." The man was no man, but the last of the Time Lords, two hearts beating as one and his mind whizzed by at speeds the human brain can only boggle at. Time, which had worked with him for so long, was now nipping away at what moments he had left. They—his teachers when he was young and Gallifrey still stone brilliantly like the star it was—said that every Time Lord and Lady came to this stage in their later regenerations. They would see the world and realize that their death was coming, and would accept their fate with grace. How could his teachers have known how he would need to sacrifice himself?
He isn't worthless.
In the end, he would always sacrifice himself for the world. If he was going to die, he might as well go out with a bang, surrounded with the gaze of loved ones, and for a spectacular reason that would always be remembered. The idea of a quiet death alone in the TARDIS was as peaceful sounding as it was terrifying. And then he met Amelia Pond with her crack in the wall and he could feel his hearts tick as if something had changed. She'd taken away his options. How could he say no to that face? So he was willing to die, and be totally erased from the world, because of all his greatest weaknesses, one he could never conquer was the majesty of humanity. So, while he isn't fearless, he isn't worthless, either.
He is, however, quite brilliant.
Mind over matter. The Doctor always came back with the skin of his teeth. He never gave up without trying all options he could see. Planting the seed of memory was a huge long shot, but he came back. As he watched Amy and Rory dance on the floor, hands in his pockets, face set in a smile, he felt a crushing relief that it worked. Amy brought him back. He came back from the void between worlds. The Doctor was terrified, bone-crushingly terrified, at his almost-death, but he knew, deep down as he always did, that he'd do it again and again.
Still, he wasn't fearless.
A/N: The many contradictions are intentional. No one is a set structure of ideals, and even though we might claim otherwise, we all are hypocrites.
I hope you enjoyed, as convoluted as my thought process was. *Huge puppy-dog baby doe eyes mixed with candy and sugar and rainbows and flowers*. Review?