Disclaimer: The Tardis and the Doctor are the property of the BBC, not yours truly. I'm not trying to profit from them.

Believe it or not, I had this half-written in my head before the release of The Doctor's Wife. It picked up definite influences from that episode, but the meat of it existed before that (which made watching that episode really SURREAL. I CALLED that she was leading him into danger on purpose).

This is Day 3 of my New Year's Project (I'm posting one oneshot or poem every day in the month of January. Varying fandoms, see my profile for details if you're curious).

I chose him. Of course I did. He's young, and his mind is open and eager, and he's in a hurry (someone may find him at any moment, and there's bound to be a spot of bother if they do). It's simple to reach out and call him in. I gently pulled his eyes to the demure little Type 40 tucked between the abandoned maintenance vehicle and the confiscated Atraxi speedster. The child by his side will try to pull him away, wanting him to look at the shinier, newer ships, but I will catch his eye and hold it. Of course I did. I know the moment I sense him that we were, are, will be a space-time event unlike anything the universe has seen, can see, will ever see.

Have I confused you, child? You will have pardoned me in a minute; it's simply my nature. I can taste the inevitable. I am, was, will be at every point along the path. It makes language a slippery medium of expression for something very simple: I choose him, and I had already chosen him before time began, and I will always be choosing my Doctor. He didn't call himself the Doctor when I stole him (he had some meaningless name, given instead of made), but I knew him. He will laugh when the Council takes his name and declares him an exile, and then he will choose a name to his own liking.

He laid a hesitant hand on my door (at that moment, a stylish mosaic tile in the style of the Middle Darynian Empire). He pushes gently (it says pull, but he never will learn, my dear, ridiculous darling), almost flinches away as my door swings open at his touch. He will enter, pulling the child behind him. I know what he feels. He is a Time Lord, and he senses the beautiful, perfect inevitability of this fixed point, though he doesn't know why.

"Exquisite," he said in his dry, elderly voice (though I heard the echoes of a dozen other voices behind the words). He'll choke, overcome without knowing why, "Quite…quite the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." Always I hear, have heard, will hear those words.

I know where he must go (to me, he has already gone), where there is hurt for his healing, wrong for his righting, shadows to be chased away. He blamed his own capabilities as a pilot, or assumed that my navigational instruments were warped (impossible for a sentient ship, but then, he never will read my manual). I will take him to each crisis as he is ready, or when he must soon know what they can teach him.

I carried him to cracks in time and showed him my own death, so that he could cause it and undo it. I will conspire with Dalek Caan (he sees the flow of time, always, and he sees me as I am), and together we will guide him to Donna Noble, lead him to the shadows of missing planets, and bring all things together to prevent the end of days once again for the first time.

I lead him to the friendships of those who need him and whom he needs. In the wreckage of the Time War, I carried him to Rose Tyler for healing. In our early centuries, when his body is aged and weak, I will bring him Ian, Jamie, strong young backs, willing hands. Always, I bring him those who check his pride, who call him back from vengeance or from cruelty.

Only three times do I enter the time stream for myself: Once, I lend my strength to a human girl for scant minutes (a shameful indiscretion, but I had no choice; the Bad Wolf has always been written deep into the flow of time, inevitable. I know, for I will write it there). Once, I enter the stream for a few, blessed, limited moments and see him face to face. You want to know about the third? My dear, it's being a legend in every sentient race right this very moment (haven't you heard?), and our time here is limited.

I make myself into the blue box written into a million legends (it's a simple enough matter to freeze one's chameleon circuit) and never let him think to change me back. I will throw him into every danger, and I have carried him safely away from every one. I'm there for him the day he first opens my door, and I'm with him the day his travels finally come to an end (not the way he expects, bless him. But then, when did things ever go as planned for my Doctor?).

Perhaps it's wrong to say that I choose him. Perhaps, since it always was and always will be and could not have been otherwise, I had no choice. Or, perhaps, I am always choosing him. Yes, I think so. I do, and this moment contains all moments. I define myself by one eternal instant. I choose, and so the universe will never have been the same.

I have always loved, do love, will never stop loving my Doctor.

My OTP, right here. :) Tomorrow, I'll be visiting the Firefly-Verse to muse on the relationship of another of my favorite couples. Join me if you're interested.

What did you think of the tense-changing conceit? Did it work? Did it give you a headache? Drop me a review.