My Honor


[Doctor Who: End of Time]


6 Jan 2010

And then it was all over.

Wilfred Mott sagged against the side of the tiny booth, hardly able to believe it, still trying to blink the spots from his eyes. Time people and that Master fellow and it was over. Humanity had been restored and the Earth was saved. Again. Saved by the Doctor, again.

The Doctor— he looked up, apprehensive. Poor man said he was supposed to die… had he then? Wilf could see him, lying still on the floor, and felt a horrible empty sensation in his middle. Could he really… After so much? Could he really be gone?

The Doctor coughed then, rolling up on his side, drawing an arm up. Wilf let out another exhausting sigh of relief. He was still alive… he even found a tiny smile forming on his lips. The Doctor was alive.

The man in question was just discovering this for himself. "I'm alive…" he whispered, staring at his moving, bleeding, living hand, still attached to his arm, attached to his body— "I'm…"

He began to push himself up, amid the broken glass lying all around him. It wasn't a dream… His eyes grew wide, taking in the scene around him, and he began to breathe hard. "I'm still alive," he repeated, amazing himself. This was real, he was still here, the prophecy—

The prophecy was wrong. Tears began to sting his eyes. He had stood there in front of Rassilon, prepared to die with the rest of his kind, certain that it was his time and there was nothing he could do about it. But he had lived! It was wrong!

As he pushed himself up onto all fours, he began to shake, something between laughter and crying and he didn't care one single bit. There was only one thing that mattered right now.

He was happy. He had to face the Time Lords and sentence them to death one more time, and he thought he was ready to end it… but he wasn't. Because, even though he had stood there, watched them die, watched his oldest friend and enemy die, the only thing he could feel now was happiness. The pain and the grief would come later… he would still be there to feel them, and that thought brought with it elation. He wasn't ready to go, didn't want to… and with that realization came the most wonderful fact that he didn't have—

Tap-tap-tap-tap.

The breath caught in the Doctor's throat.

Tap-tap-tap-tap.

He will knock four times. The sound of his death.

This time, Wilf thudded on the door with his closed fist— now assured that the Doctor was alive, he had come to remember what a predicament he was in. The Doctor could have him out in a jiff, though, with that marvelous little pen-thing he carried around.

At last the Doctor seemed to take notice of him; the man sat up on his knees, but still didn't look his way. A little less insistent this time, Wilf rapped the glass with his knuckles a fourth time.

Tap-tap-tap-tap.

The Doctor turned his head 'round to the left. From the glass booth, Wilfred gave a small wave. The Doctor said nothing, only staring.

After a few uncomfortable seconds, Wilf spoke up. "They gone, then?... Yeah, good-o." He glanced around at the consoles and contraptions around him, rather out of his element. "If you could, uh… let me out?"

The Doctor continued to stare at him, before delivering a flat reply. "…Yeah."

A small crackling caught Wilf's attention momentarily, before he returned his gaze to the other man. Gesturing about the booth, he said, "Here, this thing seems to be making a bit of noise!"

The Doctor rose to his feet, eyes still wide but with no discernable emotion on his face, only something which confused Wilfred, and he was a bit too distracted to puzzle it out at the moment. "…The Master… left the nuclear bolt running." He began to drift towards the booths. "Gone into overload."

"And that's bad, is it?" Wilf asked, trying to follow along.

"No," the Doctor commented offhand, but there was something wrong in his tone, in his expression. "…'Cause all the excess radiation gets vented in there," he concluded, with a nod to Wilf.

The man's mouth fell open as he looked around, even upwards. Radiation… in here, but that meant…

"Vinvocci glass," the Doctor continued, voice breaking. "Contains it." He knew what was coming… knew what he was going to do. "All 5,000 rads, about to flood that thing." The words came out almost conversationally, and almost lost on the dumbfounded Wilf.

"Oh." He recovered himself after a moment though, and willed up a smile. "Well, you better let me out, then."

The Doctor wasn't looking at him. Wouldn't look at him. He gave a tiny nod, before saying, "Except it's gone critical. Touch one control and it floods." He slowly pulled his sonic screwdriver from an inner pocket of his suit jacket, eyeing it for a moment before he looked back to Wilf, idly twiddling it between his fingers. "…Even this would set it off."

Wilfred looked around, at the machinery that had suddenly become a deathtrap, processing the Doctor's words. He couldn't free him… not without the radiation. His mind flashed back to the young scientist, begging to be released, and Wilf had gladly stepped in to let the young man get away. It wasn't like he was going to run off and leave the Doctor, anyways, even if he was useless. He didn't consider doing anything else at the time… Maybe he wouldn't have been able to decide so easily, but Wilf believed he would have chosen the same, if he had known then what was about to happen.

But it explained the Doctor's expression. Pain, it was. Pain he was trying to hide. "I'm sorry," Wilfred offered, knowing that this was his fault. The Doctor turned, once more unable to meet his eyes. "Just… leave me," Wilf instructed, holding up his hands in a placating manner, as if to say, 'it's all right'.

It… it wasn't, really, he guessed, but, he was an old man after all. He'd about had his time. Certainly couldn't think of a better adventure to top it all off with, though he might not have picked radiation as a way to go, if he'd had the choice. He didn't, though, did he… It wasn't like he hadn't thought of death before. He was getting to that age, after all. It was just… he was going to die. That was it, the end. It was all a bit sudden, and Wilf supposed he really didn't want to.

Still, the Doctor said nothing, and Wilf stared at him. When the alien man looked up and found Wilf's eyes locked onto his, imploring him to say something, he glanced away again, ashamed, before he spoke, in a slightly loud and forced tone. "Okay, right then, I will."

He turned on his heel, starting to walk away. Wilf was admittedly a little surprised at the Doctor's blunt reply.

But then, he wasn't walking off. "'Cause you had to go in there, didn't you?" he demanded, turning again, pacing back and forth. "You had to go and get stuck, oh yes!" he continued, growing louder and more aggrieved with each word. He paused, looking at Wilfred, refusing to turn away this time as several seconds passed. Wilf simply didn't know what to say. The Doctor's voice broke again. "'Cause that's who you are, Wilfred. You were always this… Waiting for me, all this time," and now, Wilf could see the tears that were forming.

"No, really," he said, starting to feel a bit numb, as opposed to the Doctor's sudden flood of emotion. "Just leave me… I'm an old man, Doctor. I've had my time."

"Well, exactly, look at you," The Doctor spat back, twisting his head back up, now seeming to grow angry through the tears. "Not remotely important!" Again, Wilf was struck by the bluntness, but this time he accepted it, accepting the Doctor's hurt and swinging emotions. "But me? I could do so much more." He had begun pacing again, face twisted up. "So much more!!" he cried towards the now shattered ceiling, which had given way to the sky, as though calling his grief out to the universe. Maybe he was, Wilf reflected.

The Doctor's behavior was confusing him again… he should have just left. Why was he making such an ordeal out of whether Wilf was important or not? He wasn't, he'd never thought so. He was important to his family, of course, and to his friends, and it hurt to think he wouldn't see them again, that he'd never get to say goodbye, but the Doctor was right. He wasn't important, and the Doctor, he was. Why, he'd saved the planet many a time, would probably have to do it again. That brought a little pang of hurt too, as Wilfred realized he wouldn't be there for it.

Now, the Doctor was resting with his forearms on an abandoned desk, folded over, head bowed. "But this is what I get… My reward." With an anguished cry, he swept all of the contents of the desk top to the floor— "Well it's not fair!!"

He stood up breathing hard once more, eyes watering, as he managed to look back to Wilf, who was still just staring at him. He tried to say something, but no words would come.

A part of the Doctor wished he could just… no, no. He gave his head a small shake. He couldn't. He would never. Because he was always this. This is who he was. "Live too long," he muttered.

They did. Time Lords lived too bloody long. And after nine hundred and four years of life, he was absolutely terrified of dying. He'd had so much life, had so many lives, it was terrible— letting go, it was terrible.

Wilfred, a puny human being, with only a handful of decades under his belt, though… he, oh yes, he was standing there, trying to pretend it was all right. Telling the Doctor to go. He was afraid, he had to be— sometimes it was as if humans were nothing but bundles of fear wrapped up in themselves, but he was telling the Doctor it was okay, to just let him die. Funny, that a puny little human could master his fear of death after so short a time alive, while he… He began to stride towards the second booth.

But by now, Wilfred had realized what was going on. He was stuck in here because each booth had to have somebody in it at all times, and if the Doctor couldn't force his door open with his little techno-gizmo, then the only way to let him out was to step in the other booth and hit the button there— but that would trap the Doctor, killing him instead.

"No… no, no, please. Please, don't," he said, holding up a hand, but he still felt numb, and the Doctor still kept coming, and he felt something stirring within him, his voice growing stronger and more desperate. "No, don't, don't!" He wouldn't stop— "PLEASE, DON'T!!" He had to stop him!

The Doctor took the handle of the other door, pausing to look up at Wilf, sadness and pain and loss in his eyes before a genuine smile came to his lips. "Wilfred. It's my honor."

And Wilf knew, then, he couldn't, couldn't let the Doctor do this.

"Touch one control…" he murmured, the words springing unbidden to his mind, but once there, they quickly rooted.

The Doctor snapped his head up, having caught the words and in a flash realized what Wilf was thinking. This time, it was his turn to plead, as he tore open the door— "No, Wilfred! No—"

But this time, Wilf was faster, and he slammed his whole arm into the console, into at least a dozen and a half switches and buttons. And just as the Doctor had said it would, that set the system off.

"NO!!" the Doctor was screaming— all the lights had gone red and there was a buzzing— it felt like there was a prickling across his whole body, then in his innards, and then it was intensifying into something horrible— Wilf doubled up, unable to hold in the sound of the agony.

"No, no!" The release button would no longer work, the other booth locked down. The Doctor was fumbling for his screwdriver once more— too slow, too clumsy, and he cursed himself— he had to get the door open! Even though it would flood him and the room with deadly radiation, he had to, had to get to Wilf, ignoring the fact that the man had been hit with so much radiation by now that he couldn't survive.

But it wasn't working— it wasn't working! With a cry of frustration and anger and grief, he slammed the door open, rushing back to the door of Wilf's chamber, where the man had now collapsed into a pitiful little heap on the floor, now silent and still.

And then it stopped. The buzzing was gone, but the red light persisted, indicating that the radiation was still present.

He sunk to his knees to be on level with the man. "Wilf…Wilfred!" he screamed, pounding his fist into the door. "Why?! Why would you do that?" His anger faded into despair, his final few words accompanied by tears— the same ones that had threatened to spill over the whole time he was planning his own death, now streaming down his face, head bowed.

"Someone… had to." The soft, wheezed reply had the Doctor jerking his head back up.

"Wilf!" The man inside had turned his head ever so slightly, his own eyes watering in pain and effort. "I'm going to get you out of there," the Doctor said, resolve quickly forming.

"Don't you dare." Wilf coughed, before shaking in pain, face contorted, before he realized the Doctor was still watching him, horrified, and he made an effort to steel himself. "I may be an old codger, but I know about radiation… it's not gone… So don't you dare," he warned again, voice barely audible. "Or I'll have given it up for nothing."

"You shouldn't have given it up in the first place!"

In response to the Doctor's anguished words was a short chuckle. "And neither should you have," he managed to get out, stifling a soft moan.

"Yes, yes, I should!" he cried, before furiously rubbing at his eyes, the tears growing too thick to see. "I was supposed to die, Wilfred. Me, not you!"

"You didn't want to die, though." And the soft, honest reply cut the Doctor deeper than any hateful thing Wilf could have said to him at that moment. "And y'don't have to…"

The man's eyes fluttered shut, and the Doctor pressed up against the glass even closer, only letting out a bedraggled breath after he realized Wilf's chest was still moving. He had to be in so much pain… "You don't understand," he whispered. "There was a prophecy. It said, 'my song was ending'. It should be me who's dying…"

It was a few seconds before Wilf had recovered enough breath to reply. "Oh… tosh. You… you're the Doctor. You're right… I'm not important. But you… are…" His breathing grew labored again, and the Doctor clenched his fists with a sense of urgency, a desperation to do something but knowing there was nothing he could do.

"No, no no, you are important, your life is important! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry Wilf…" He ducked his head, breathing heavy himself, before he composed himself enough for his next admission. "I should never have said that, any of it!" He stared into Wilf's glossy eyes, watching the man slip away before him. "It was my own stupid selfishness—"

"You… stop that there, sir" Wilf cut him off, as best he could. By this time, the Doctor was so frayed at the edges that the interruption silenced him completely. Now Wilf was becoming stern, as best he could anymore. "Not another word." He fell silent again, trying to ignore the pain and get his breath back, but the Doctor remained quiet as ordered. "You say… your song's ending? Well you… you just rewrite it, then!" he said, somehow working vehemence into his tone, though it caused another coughing fit that prompted the Doctor to call his name again. When the fit finally settled into more wheezing breaths, Wilf let out another small, dry chuckle. "Never put much stock in that fortune-telling nonsense anyway."

"Oh… Wilf." The Doctor could help but let out a short rueful laugh at the man's words. He was dying, and yet still trying to make him feel better. "I never deserved you," he murmured, beginning to shake his head. "I never deserved any of you… humans, they look so small, and yet you're every one brighter and better than me and I don't deserve you…"

"Now… what did I say… about that?" Wilf demanded, but this time, the Doctor just continued shaking his head.

"Good people… sacrificing their lives, for me. I've watched too many people sacrifice themselves, die, because of me," he said, staring at Wilf and for all his nine-hundred-odd years, looking like nothing so much as a lost child.

"Oh…" Wilf couldn't help but feel a small bit of the Doctor's pain… "Don't you worry, sir… about little old me." He sluggishly blinked his eyes. "It is… an honor."

And then he raised one trembling arm, trying to get his fingers and his elbow and all the other parts to work, to form into a salute, but they just shook. By the way the Doctor reacted, letting out a short sob even as he tried to make himself smile, Wilfred knew he understood, and let his arm fall.

"You have to tell… my girls. Tell them, I'm sorry. And I love them, so much," Wilf added after a moment. The Doctor clenched his eyes, trying to deny the new tears that brought, but he nodded his head vigorously.

"I will. I'll tell them. I'll tell them how you were a hero, how you helped save the world, the universe, and you were amazing." Wilf managed a smile at the man's rambling.

"That'll be good then…" he whispered. "Promise… one more thing?"

"Anything," the Doctor swiftly agreed.

"Keep living. Don't be sad…. Have adventures. I know… I had the best one today." He laughed that old-person-conspiratorial laugh, which did nothing to help the Doctor.

"The best," he managed to get out.

"Okay… could have… gone better," Wilf admitted, and this time the Doctor really laughed, although as much from hysteria as from amusement.

And Wilfred smiled again… it wasn't real laughter, maybe, there was still just too much hurt in it. All the same, there wasn't much a better way to be rung out than by that incredible man and his laughter. Yeah… that was good, then. His eyes slipped shut, and stayed that way.

It didn't take the Doctor but a moment to notice. "Wilf? Wilf!" He thudded the glass again, but nothing came of it this time. The man's breaths were growing shallower and shallower.

He continued to hammer at the glass, until his hand was raw and sore, but no reply came, only the sight of the man fading away. At last, defeated, he let his hand slide down the door, and rested his head against it, crying once again.

It wasn't fair… it seemed no matter which way he turned, there was death.

Someone had to die.

And once again it was someone innocent. It didn't matter that he was old, or that he wasn't a Time Lord and maybe wouldn't accomplish a single important thing again in his life.

The Doctor scrubbed at his face with the back of a sleeve. It was supposed to be him. And he didn't want to die, but he didn't want Wilf to die either! His happiness of earlier seemed to mock him. He had been happy simply to live, then had that same happiness stolen away by the choice he knew he had to make. And then suddenly the choice had been made for him and he was allowed to live it is was all wrong!

The promise Wilf had asked of him sounded in his mind once more. 'Keep living. Don't be sad.'

"Ha! Well, how am I supposed to do that?" he demanded from the world at large. "How?!"

There was no answer. He looked back to Wilf. He was still now. He was gone.

"It's not fair," he repeated… Not fair that Wilf made him promise that. Not fair that he had taken his own life to spare the Doctor's. Not fair that it had to be one or the other.

He couldn't do this, he couldn't, not alone. Seemed he was always getting left alone, though, one way or another. "This is why I travel alone!" he screamed into the quiet. And yet, still they found ways to get to him, and still he lost them, and still it killed him inside.

He… he couldn't be alone right now. He closed his eyes, pressing his head up against the glass once again. He just couldn't handle it… He needed to be with someone. And right then, he couldn't bring himself to abandon this man he had called a friend. Wilf would have scolded him again, he knew, imagined the scene in his mind. Would've tried to be sly and tell him to go to Donna, to help him get through this. That brought another half-hearted smile, but it didn't last.

He'd tell him to find the others then… Not to be alone. He shouldn't be, not with the way he was. Oh, he was in a right state.

"I won't be," he whispered at last. "I'll find them after this, I promise… but not yet."

For now, he would stay with Wilfred Mott, a fine man, an old soldier, and more of a hero than the Doctor could ever hope to be. It was just going to have to hurt for a while. He was staying here until the rescue crews came, until they found them, until they brought Donna and Sylvia, and he would tell them, tearfully, what had happened, or as much as he could tell with Donna present.

He turned, resting his shoulder and his side up against the glass, preparing to wait.

It would take a long time… but Wilf had bought him that much. Wilf had waited for him, always there.

He owed him as much.