#paullo

-DW Secret Santa Ficathon-

I started this before the 50th, and then just wrote most of it in class. But still, disregard the 50th and it's alright. 

"What I did... What I became..." he trailed off, his voice drowning in anguish, regret, horror. "A killer. I murdered my planet to finish the war... I did what I had to do to end the suffering."

It was too easy to lose himself in grief and in his memories, and all he could see were the bodies of Gallifreyans, of people he knew and people he didn't - all were dead or very well near it, however; they had that in common. Some were partially covered in blood, having been injured badly; others lay stone still, eyes open and unblinking, skin deathly pale.

A trembling hand - his, he realised, reached out to somewhere, to someone. He didn't recognise it, but he wouldn't, of course, not long before had he been forced to regenerate. He was different now, a stranger. War had made him so.

His eyes were shut tight and darkness overwhelmed him until a faint light shone over him. He found himself in an unfamiliar room, too empty and cold for him to feel at all safe. A small device lay atop a tall but thin podium, and he knew what it was, despite never having laid eyes on it before.

Every step he took echoed loudly; his shoes felt different and he no longer wore the ill-fitting fancy clothes his past regeneration had favoured. When had he changed? Whose clothes were these? He remembered bits and pieces from the time -weeks? or had it been months? - before, but he had been different back then. Charming and handosome. He didn't feel charming and handsome anymore. He was a killer-to-be, destroyer of Gallifrey. The only consolation he had was that the universe would be rid of the Daleks.

His hands - older now, more rugged and used even though this, this would be the first thing they'd do - hovered over the device. It was ironic, in some way, that something so small and seemingly useless would kill so many. No one had thought him capable either.

Screams and blasts turned gradually louder and louder, as if the volume on some telly were being turned up, and he did all he could to not scream himself, to not cover his ears and hide, and cower. Instead he took it as an incentive, as a reason that proved he was doing the right thing. He raised his hand and activated the device, knowing he'd be condeming everyone he knew to death. All his family and friends and people he'd known, people he'd spoken to on a regular basis or rarely at all.

Then there was nothing.

Silence.

The noises stopped, as if some higher power had pressed the mute button. The reality was that it was him, a Time Lord who was far too old as it were, that pressed the power off and pulled the plug, so to say. There was no shaking, no explosion, no great announcement or warning of any kind that alerted the universe of the genocide just committed. 

But they would know. A battle this grand and this bloody would not - could not - end quietly and without being noticed. Others would learn of this, and wonder what had happened. Who had been the one brave enough - or foolish, selfish enough, others may say - to end the war and two mighty races?

Anger bubbled up within him, and he was already running - running out of the room, across the hallway and through the TARDIS doors. He realised what he was doing, what he was starting up yet again. He was running to escape what he had done, and he didn't think he could bring himself to stop.

It was his fault; they were gone, dead. Their blood was on his hands, and he couldn't even say he tried to find another way, because he didn't. He found the easiest solution to the problem - easiest as in quickest, because pressing that damn button and killing all of them was the hardest thing he's ever done - and took that way out. He had known them, dammit; he'd looked up to some, grown up with others...

A warm hand - had it been resting on his all this time? - tightened around his hands and another one touched his cheek with the lightest and most gentle of touches. He could feel a wetness in his eyes, but he didn't stop talking. He continued, unable or unwilling to stop - he didn't know anymore. He knew, and god help him it seemed to be the only thing he was sure of, that repeating it wouldn't bring his people back, but it eased the pain minutely. 

He opened his eyes and saw his companion. She was so young and untainted, and part of him hated himself for bringing her along. He would taint her, but he was lonely and it had been so long since he'd had company, a friend. 

"Doctor," she called when he fell silent. "Doctor, are you-"

He interrupted her, shaking his head, "I did it to end the war. To finish the battles that never seemed to end. I killed my people to end the Daleks, but they came back. They always come back, when I lose everything. It was my fault, Rose. I should've found another way - any other way - but I was desperate and sure it was the only option so I did it." 

Rose ignored the tear that slid down her own cheek and she embraced the Doctor as he repeated three words he seemed to use a lot. Maybe, she thought, this was why he was so determined to give a second chance, to find another way of ending conflict. He'd done the wrong thing and was paying for it, but she only wished he didn't have to feel such crushing guilt and pain. If only.