Title: Moving To Stand Still
By: angstytimelord
Pairing: gen
Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating: PG
Table: 50ficlets
Prompt: 28, Motion
Disclaimer: This is entirely a product of my own imagination, and I make no profit from it. I do not own the Tenth Doctor. Please do not sue.

***

There had always been a reason he liked to keep in motion constantly, the Doctor thought idly as he drummed his fingers on the console of the Tardis. If he kept himself constantly moving, then he didn't have to slow down to think.

Thinking on his feet was something he'd always been good at, ever since he was young. It was one of the things that had made him a good candidate for being a Time Lord; people had told him that when he was little more than a child.

That was one of the things that had fired his imagination when he was young, one of the reasons he'd wanted to become what he was.

He'd been told that he would be good at it, though that might have been a mistake on the part of the people who'd said those words. They'd started an unquenchable desire in him, one that might have been better left to grow on its own.

Even when he was small, he'd always been moving -- though that was due to excessive energy at the time. Now, it was something he did to drive more introspective thoughts from his mind -- though they could always catch up to him when he was in a more quiet mood.

They could even catch up to him at times like this, when he was trying to avoid them, the Doctor thought with a sigh and a shake of his head. He might as well stop running from those thoughts, and let his mind wander freely through them.

It was funny how he felt as though he was slowing down to move in slow motion whenever his mind lingered on the past.

Maybe Jack was right, and he was running from his thoughts -- or from his memories. But wasn't that something everyone did, sooner or later? No one could live a life where they were totally free of things they didn't like to think about.

Still, it didn't explain why he always felt mired down when he thought of the past, as if he was trying to pull his feet out of some kind of primordial muck that refused to let go. He was reduced to standing still, marking time, held prisoner in the same place.

His mind made its way over the many eras of his past, stopping here and there to linger over a memory or two, slowly moving forward into his more recent incarnations. Yes, the feeling of moving only to stand still was always there.

It was like a slowly moving old film was playing out in front of his eyes when he thought of his past, the figures moving by in a slow waltz before moving off and making way for the next characters.

And all he could do was sit there and watch, let those figures dance slowly by and wish that he could turn his mind to something else, though he knew that his thoughts would stay right where they were until they'd satisfied themselves.

He hated the way his thoughts could seem to linger on parts of his past that he'd prefer to forget, on things that he'd done that he wasn't particularly proud of. He supposed it was a way his conscience had of trying to insinuate itself into his mind, of making him feel guilty.

Ah, he was all too good at that, wasn't he? he thought ruefully. He'd become a connoisseur of his own guilt over the centuries, letting himself become mired in it at times until he wasn't just moving in slow motion sometimes -- he was barely moving at all.

These times when he more or less felt forced to stop moving, to contemplate his past and the mistakes he'd made, were the times he hated most.

After all, the past was the past, he argued with himself. It was over and done; he couldn't go back and change it. He might want to try more than anything else in the world, but he'd discovered the folly of attempting to do so, and he wasn't going to try it again.

Besides, everyone's life was a series of successes and mistakes, he told himself, and the bad had to be accepted along with the good. He couldn't expect himself to make the right decisions all the time. He wasn't infallible.

And he wouldn't want to be, he told himself fiercely. He wouldn't want that kind of responsibility on his shoulders. He had enough to deal with as it was. The last thing he'd need was to feel as though he had to be perfect all the time.

Perfection? He almost snorted aloud at the idea. That wasn't something he'd ever be able to attribute to himself. He had all too many flaws.

But he worked at becoming better all the time -- and sometimes, he even achieved that goal. That was the important thing. He allowed himself a small smile, and the inner acknowledgement of those words. He wasn't complete hopeless.

Of course he wasn't. He wouldn't have become a Time Lord if he was -- and he wouldn't have been able to do so much good for the world in all the centuries that he'd been one. He took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders and pushing his doubts firmly into the back of his mind.

He might feel as though he was moving to stand still at times -- but even if he moved slowly, he always eventually got to where he was going. Even if he didn't always accomplish what he'd set out to do once he'd arrived.

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