Title: The Ways and Wounds of the World
By: angstytimelord
Pairing: gen
Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating: R
Table: 3, 10_hurt_comfort
Prompt: 8, Open Wound
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.

***

The Doctor frowned, glancing down at the reddened scar on his thigh that he'd just peeled a bandage away from. It was healing nicely; much more quickly than most wounds would heal, of course, given the resilience of his Time Lord body.

It had been annoying that he'd had to throw away the clothes he'd been wearing when that little mishap had occurred though, he grumbled to himself as he stepped into the trousers of his pajamas and pulled them up. He was getting tired of losing so many of his clothes.

But at least the Tardis provided him with several copies of each suit, he told himself with a sigh; that was a very good thing, considering that he'd never been handy with a needle and thread thought any of his different incarnations.

If he'd had to learn to sew for himself, he'd probably have gone naked without the Tardis providing him with a wardrobe, he thought wryly. Not an attractive prospect.

Wounds like this one were getting more and more commonplace; he'd have to learn to be more careful rather than leaping into the breach when he didn't always know what was going on. He had to remember not to take so many chances.

Still, that had always been what he was about, hadn't it? Though he was, for some reason, a bit more reckless in this body than he'd been in any other -- especially since he'd been alone. He didn't watch out for himself at all any more.

There was an explanation for that, of course. He pushed the thought away, but it kept returning, so strongly that he knew he'd spend the rest of the evening ruminating on it even though he didn't particularly want to do so.

The truth was, he didn't seem to care much for what happened to him at this point. Maybe he'd lived too long -- or maybe it was because he'd ceased to feel that his continued existence wasn't overly important, even to the rest of the world.

Which wasn't how he should feel, he thought as he made his way to his bedroom. The world needed him, even though it didn't seem so at times.

He couldn't simply decide that he didn't want to do this any more, and turn his back on being what he was. He'd felt that way in the past before, and he'd always gotten past it. Though this time, it did seem as if the feeling was going to linger longer than it ever had.

No, he'd made too many sacrifices for this life to just turn away from it. If he didn't stick with it, then what else did he have? He'd made this choice, and he'd been aware that it wasn't always going to be roses and rainbows. He'd accepted that.

The Doctor sighed, his steps down the hallway slowing. He rested his forehead against the wall, closing his eyes, letting his feelings come to the surface in a way that he hadn't done for what felt like much too long.

It wasn't the wounds that he incurred in the battles he threw himself into that were breaking him down bit by bit. It was the aching loneliness that ate away at him, the gaping chasm that he kept trying to fill with new companions and never could.

No one stayed. Nothing ever lasted. He'd been warned that would happen, and he'd thought that he could accept that, too.

But he hadn't realized how disheartening it would be to see people who he came to care for turning their backs and walking away from him. He hadn't realized just how much it would tear away from him, how it would cut into his hearts.

Even though none of those people had been lovers, they'd still been close to him. He'd clung to the idea that maybe this time, this one would be the person who would stay with him for the course of their lives -- that he would be first choice, for once.

How many times had he been told not to expect that? And yet, he'd never listened. Well, he had -- but there had been that stubborn part of him that had insisted he was different, that he would be the Time Lord who wouldn't be lonely.

Oh, how others of his kind had laughed when they'd heard that! They'd warned him not to depend on humans for his companionship -- and maybe they'd been right. He certainly didn't seem to have done such a good job of picking those companions.

He'd insisted on finding humans to accompany him -- and to form bonds of friendship with. And the result had always been the same.

The loneliness that always descended on him when those humans left him and went back to their lives was worse than any open wound -- because it was a wound that would be ripped open again and again, no matter how many times he thought it was healed for good.

The physical wounds that his body sustained would always heal. That wasn't anything he had to worry about -- unless, of course, those wounds were bad enough to force a regeneration. But he had always been able to avoid getting hurt that badly.

Lately, he hadn't really cared enough to avoid that kind of danger. In fact, he'd thrown himself into it with an abandon that had almost shocked him. He hadn't really thought about it until now -- but it was obvious that he was tempting fate, daring himself to draw the wrong cards.

He was playing Russian roulette with his life, with this body. And really, he didn't have any clear idea as to why he'd do something so foolish.

Getting himself killed in this body, regenerating into another one .... that wasn't going to make the ways of the world change. As long as he chose humans to be his companions, they would always leave him, whether he was in this body or any other.

Hadn't he learned that yet? he admonished himself, one small fist clenching. It wasn't up to him when those people chose to leave him. He couldn't make them stay. They had to be able to make their own choices, live their own lives, with or without him.

If letting himself be hurt physically was his way of coping with the hurt that he endured emotionally, then he had to find a way to stabilize his emotions. It wasn't going to do him -- or the universe -- any good if he wasn't around.

The Doctor's lips twisted into another wry smile at the thought. The physical wounds he'd sustained today were only the outward reflection of the deeper wounds he always carried with him, wounds that no one could see. Had it really taken him this long to realize what he was doing to himself?

Apparently, it had. And it was time that he stopped trying to equate those outer wounds that would never leave an outward scar with the ones that were nothing but scars.

He continued down the hallway, entering his bedroom and sinking down onto the mattress, pulling the covers over himself. He could assuage some of those wounds by giving himself up to the healing oblivion of sleep; and hopefully, they'd have healed at least a little by the time he awakened.

***