#fff257

—x—x—x—

The Doctor with the new-old face moved in with the Temple-Nobles. That in itself wasn’t hard. What was hard was actually living with them.

He had never been one to stay still for long. They’d been bad at it when he’d last worn this face; but nowhere near as bad as their fish-fingers-and-custard self. That one had been downright awful at stillness.

They managed a grand total of four hours of ‘still’ on the first day before he’s up and moving again, heading back into the TARDIS. Not to leave — he wasn’t going to leave, he’d promised their future self and Donna that he would stay in 2024.

Even though they knew that, Donna didn’t; she followed him to the TARDIS.

“You better not be trying to leave already, Spaceman,” Donna’s voice sounded out from behind him, echoing slightly.

They spun on his heel.

“What? Oh. no, no…I’m not. Came in here to do some repairs after how the TARDIS crashed yesterday,” The words tumbled out of their mouth.

She ended up sitting with him while they fiddled about beneath the console doing repairs that weren’t that urgent (the TARDIS could fix herself for the most part) but certainly helped quieten the nagging urge to run.

The days passed. The Doctor found himself counting the days. It’s not a conscious thing, at first. They wanted to make sure he would remember absolutely everything that happened during this period.

It was weird, counting up the days they spent with the Temple-Nobles instead of counting down to something ending.

…Okay that was a lie. He was also counting down. Counting down the days he had left with Donna before he lost her for a second, far more permanent time.

The last time he had worn this face all those years ago, they had made the mistake of going and finding out all the details surrounding Donna’s death.

It had been comforting (mostly) back then, to know she would be surrounded by family at her passing. The details had been comforting then, but not so much anymore. Because now he had their best friend back again and every day that passed meant one day closer to when they would lose her again.

So the Doctor did what he did when faced with any particularly negative thing: run away. Only this time no actual running was done.

They started another counter. Counting up.

Twenty-four days after the bigeneration, he bought a house. It was the solution to the looming problem of all the damage done to the Temple-Nobles’ house. Damage that he had responsible for. Blue tarps had been a temporary fix but a more permanent solution was needed.

The house-buying had nothing to do with the stepping-on-toes feeling that plagued him the entire month, not at all.

The Doctor defined this counter, the increasing one, with moments. Sitting outside to watch the sunrise with Donna; Helping Rose with her homework; Somehow managing to improve his interactions with Sylvia so they don’t run the risk of being slapped (again); Even sneaking out in the TARDIS with Rose to take her to see purple sunsets or try alien ice cream. Amongst dozens of other memories.

Despite how much they filled their days with, the Doctor’s still acutely aware of the counter counting down. No matter how much they tried to lose track of it he couldn’t, his brain wouldn’t let them.

It was Thursday, game night. Everyone was gathered in the living room to play The Game of Life. The Doctor was sitting on the sofa, with Rose to his right and the armrest to their left.

Later he would realise this wasn’t the best choice of game. They’d only chosen it because it was space-themed. But right now he was too busy being zoned out.

“Oi, Martian, your turn,” Donna called, leaning forward from Rose’s other side to look at them properly.

It was their turn yet they were blankly staring at the table like he had for the last twelve minutes. Donna would bet good money he wasn’t actually seeing the board.

He saw an older Donna being told she only had four months left to live, and then their best friend on her deathbed. The memories of a future yet to happen (and might not even happen anymore) had frozen them in place.

“Doctor?” Rose tried. A moment passed and still nothing.

When this happened before, he’d be back to normal again within minutes. Not this time.

“Take your turn, Mum,” Donna told Sylvia before she stood up and crossed around the table towards the Doctor. “Spaceman?”

They’d zoned out like this before, touch had brought him back out then so maybe it would now.

Donna reached out and touched the back of his hand. As soon as her fingertips touched, the Doctor jerked backwards, back thumping against couch cushions.

Some images slipped through from the contact, of an older version of herself. She only saw it for a few seconds but that was enough time to realise what it was : Their memories of her last moments.

He knew how she was going to die. It felt wrong for her to have seen it.

“Is it my turn?” they asked.

“You know how I die,”

He froze where they’d been reaching towards the spinner. “Yeah, I do…You weren’t supposed to see that,”

“So what, you were gonna keep it secret forever?”

“No! Not forever. And it might not even happen like that anymore,”

“How long have you known?” It’s hard to keep the horror-concern out of her voice. The last time he had zoned out was because he had been remembering her death.

The Doctor looked away.

“Not long I took you home,” That was very specifically vague.

That wasn’t the last time the Doctor got lost in those memories. The two of them eventually talk about it at-length, and Donna finds out about their counting down counter.

“Count the days. Count the hours. Count the minutes. Count, count, count, until you cry,”

Bilbo was mumbling to himself over and over again.

There was nothing to distract him from both the heartache and physical pain apart from his own mind.

He refused to look down. To see what HE had done to him. To remember how he had cradled Bilbo’s feet before breaking each toe and his ankles whilst cooing softly and saying it was for Bilbo’s own good before placing shackles around them.

Bilbo’s wrists were similarly shackled before him, and all attached to the wall behind him.

Bilbo was an utter shell of the hobbit he had been before this, both physically and mentally, and now he was just counting the days until it was finally over. Until his own personal void rushed forward to embrace him and cover him in its darkness.

“Count the days, count the hours, count the minutes. Count, cou...”

“Will you stop that infernal racket Bilbo?” Thorin suddenly bellowed as he stormed over to his hobbit.

He grabbed Bilbo by his chin and roughly pulled it up, adding more bruises to the bruises he had already inflicted on his little One. “You are my treasure. You are to sit and look pretty. I have no need for your wicked little tongue, not after you betrayed me,” Thorin said as he viciously pushed Bilbo into the wall.

Bilbo could do nothing but whimper in pain and heartbreak.

This demon in Thorin’s skin was destroying him, bit by bit, moment by moment.

Bilbo could no longer stop his soft little whimpers as he curled himself up as best as he was able.

“What’s Uncle Bilbo snivelling for now, Uncle Thorin?” Kili asked as he walked through the treasury.

Bilbo watched as the same half awake sheen covered the younger Durin’s eyes too. It covered all of his dwarves’ eyes. The dragon sickness having infected them all and now all they were was monsters.

“You know him. Always snivelling about something. Don’t worry about him, Kili. I will break his fingers if he carries on whining,” Thorin said dismissively. Kili just chuckled and carried on wandering around the vast treasure mountains in Erebor.

Erebor, Bilbo thought with silent tears falling down his face. It was supposed to be a new, wonderful start for the dwarves. He had also hoped it would be for him.

Bigger fool that he was. Now he could hear the men and elves and orcs battling with Dain’s troops outside of the mountain. Bilbo didn’t know if any of them would survive. But no matter what the outcome was, he was as good as dead. He was never getting out of here. He would never see the sky again, he thought mournfully.

Bilbo had first thought that Gandalf would save him. That he would use his wizardry to get his friend out of Thorin’s greedy hands, but the dwarves had refused to let him scurry away.

Gandalf had been powerless against the three leaders at that moment, but he also hadn’t realised what Thorin was going to do to his friend. Dear, sweet, stupid Gandalf, who wouldn’t have a friend left to save after the battle.

Bilbo just bit his lip until it bled. It didn’t matter now, anyway; he thought as he accidentally wiggled his toes and screamed in pain from it.

He was destroyed. From the inside out and there was no point counting the days until Gandalf came to rescue him.

There would be no rescue for Bilbo, not this time. This he understood and was ready to welcome it.

He silently picked up the item he had been moving closer to himself by steadily shifting the gold for days. Almost glad that Thorin and The Company were all wandering the treasury, acting as if they didn’t have their burglar, their friend, their hobbit, chained to the wall like a damned animal.

Bilbo managed to grab the item in both hands and cradled it softly to his chest.

Having it in his hands must have served as some kind of pressure valve because Bilbo started sobbing and just couldn’t stop.

Thorin of course heard him and stalked over to Bilbo, showing him who was prey and who was the predator ready to rip the other’s throat out.

“Why are you sniffling now? I swear to Mahal Bilbo, shut up,” Thorin hissed out, putting his face close to Bilbo’s threateningly.

Unlike all the other times where Bilbo had cringed back and tried to make himself invisible, this time Bilbo sat up as straight as he could and snapped his teeth at Thorin, causing him to draw back in surprise.

Bilbo looked into Thorin’s glazed over eyes sadly and saw nothing of the dwarf he was once, the one who had cared and loved Bilbo more than anything else.

Bilbo slowly raised one hand to Thorin’s cheek and stroked it gently before pressing a soft kiss to it.

He then pulled back, one hand still on Thorin’s check, the other clenched at his breast.

Bilbo looked into Thorin’s eyes before he spoke again.

“Count the days, count the hours, count the minutes. Count, count, count before you cry. Cry, cry, cry before I die,”

he whispered with a sad smile before plunging the hidden dagger straight into his own heart.

The last thing Bilbo heard before everything faded was Thorin’s anguished howl.

The first day was always the hardest.

Being the victim advocate at the police station meant being ready to support people—monsters and humans alike—in whatever way they needed, be it comfort, finances or magic, Sans loved his job, truly; it was an easy way to help so many people and keep monsterkind safe, but...

There shouldn't be this many victims.

The day after was always more bearable. Sure, he'd be exhausted from expending so much energy and magic on the victims to make sure that they'd be okay, but he usually didn't have to do it the next day. All he really needed to do was check in on them, make sure that they were coping alright, refer them to therapists or doctors if they wanted him to. And then he could rest some. Not that he wanted to, but Papyrus and Muffet would have his head if they found out that he wasn't.

By the time a week had passed, the victim wouldn't need daily checkups, a community of caring monsters doing that for him. Making sure that they were going to therapy if they had started, that the people around them were taking good care of them; making sure that his job was completely and thoroughly taken care of.

Then, he could really start.

The first day was always the easiest. Being the victim advocate meant talking to people, calming them down, asking them questions about what happened. Sans loved his job, truly; it was an easy way to help so many people and keep monsterkind safe, but...

There was still more he could do.

The day after was always more difficult. By then he would have exhausted all information from the victims, but it never hurt to try again. All he had to do was check in on them, and use that to do some investigating on his own as he made his way to their houses. He could eavesdrop om his colleagues' conversations too. Sure, he hated the invasion of privacy, but he'd long since been desensitised when he realised how much information he could get from it. And he couldn't rest. Not that he wanted to, but he had to make sure that Papyrus and Muffet didn't find out.

By the time a week had passed, there was nothing more he could really do, the detectives already doing what they can to investigate. Having interviews, looking for clues, making it clear that it was just as futile as when Sans had first started looking.

12 days.

I was dragged to the same building as other hackers by a soldier. I am given a computer and told to talk with the other about our new job.

The job in question is the creation of a program that would target foreign countries and I am told to obey if I want to live. A gun is in my back, I can feel the pressure on my spine and fear close my throat. I grab the computer and begin.

10 days.

I talk with my fellow hackers, some have been here for weeks, some hours. Josh argue with ushed voice with another hacket about the morality of all this. My throat is still closed, I do not say a word. Someone says we should make the program fail on purpose, like a failsafe.

7 days.

Josh yell at one of the soldier, he says he wont do it. The bang echoes in my ears for hours, the blood that stains the cement floor remains for a week. No one dares to raise their voice or voice their concern again.

2 minutes before disater.

I watch one of the smallest bombs fall on the city around me, on the news a reporter says the entire planet is getting bombed by nuclear missiles, many by their own arsenal. I grab my dictaphone and record one last message on it before locking it in the metal box. The next bomb that will fall on this city will be nuclear, I know it will.

The message I record on the dictaphone is an apology, on behalf of humanity. It is a plea for forgiveness.

3 days.

I am codding the program that controls and acces the weapons when I realized something. I discrealty grab the attention of another hacker, when I show it to her she tells me to do it, whatever I planned. I disregard the fear of doom and the guilt clawing at my guts and I code the program.

8 hours.

We are ordrered to start the program for a test run on some foreign country. I tell the general that the program isn't ready, that it could blow up the whole world. I look at Isabelle, she nods in understanding. I accept to start the program. We are resigned.

2 days.