Before I Go-Doctor/Reader

He’d never felt his twin hearts beat faster as they pounded in his chest cavity, knocking against his ribs. Every part of him hurt, every single part. He wanted to curl up on the floor of the TARDIS, to force out the overwhelming heat within his body. He wanted to scream. He wanted to die.

But, oh, how he wanted to live.

He deserved it, he managed to reason, though his stream of consciousness was shaky. He pulled at the levers of the TARDIS console, propelling him through time and space to the people he’d loved best. He deserved to break the rules. Not vindictively, not triumphantly, like the god he’d pretended to be. He deserved to break them humbly, softly, and allow himself a final kindness. A final brushing of his fingers against the lives that had mattered most, in return for the good that he’d managed during his time.

Closing the doors on snowy London 2005, the Doctor stumbled back to the center of the control room, hands pressed to his abdomen and breathing tight. Too shaky to fly his ship himself, he muttered a fervent thank you when she took off without him, clearly knowing where to go even when he didn’t. He managed to straighten when the familiar landing noise rattled the floor, and he sucked down the regeneration, pretending it was something he could hold back through sheer will.

The doors slid open, letting in a haze of golden light and the thick smell of summer. Blinking, the Doctor stepped outside and found himself in some sort of park, surrounded by beautifully gnarled honeysuckle vines and faint laughter in the distance. He knew the TARDIS wouldn’t have gotten the wrong destination, not now, and he leaned back against her blue wall, waiting.

He heard your voice first, rapid and excited. Probably going on about a book, he thought with a ghost of his crooked smile. He’d missed your voice. It played in his head sometimes, chiding him when he’d gone awry with himself. Sometimes it screamed at him. Most often it whispered that you missed him when he tried to sleep, and other soft murmurings that he’d guiltily wished for when you had travelled with him. He was never quite sure which was worse, imagining your bitter accusations or your sweet-nothings. Both tore him apart.

He saw him before you, some man whose face was turned away from the Doctor. His frame was a little thicker than the Doctor’s, less wiry. The Doctor swallowed. He may deserve one last look, but he certainly didn’t deserve jealousy.

You finally walked into view, your hand intertwined with the stranger’s and a bright smile dancing on your lips. A simple cardigan was pushed up past your elbows, and your hair was swinging as you spoke. The Doctor lips curled up, slowly, watching as you batted a lock of hair out of your eyes. You kept dropping the man’s hand to make elaborate hand gestures, and he was beginning to get ahead of you. The Doctor heard him say something about there being a water fountain and a rest stop only a little further down the path, but you kept on talking.

When you turned, it was gradual, the sun catching across your cheekbones, then lighting your eyes as they landed on the Doctor. Your foot stuttered backward when he met your eyes, gaze soft, and your mouth opened a bit as if to start saying his name. Catching yourself, you turned back toward the path and called for the man to go on without you for a moment. Then your eyes belonged to the Doctor again. He reveled in it.

You began to take a step forward toward him, like you were ready to run. He thought about it for a moment, holding you in his arms again, your soft warmth pressed to him, his fingers woven through your hair. The TARDIS hummed behind him, and his hearts felt as if they’d slammed together. With a grimace, he shook his head at you once. It was enough to stop you.

“I’m so sorry,” he tried to say, but his lips were pressed together too tightly, and he wasn’t entirely sure why. Instead he took a deep breath, letting his shoulders fall slack. He knew he had to say it, at least once, even if it wasn't fair or good, or even kind.

“I love you.” The Doctor’s words were faint, far too gentle to be heard from where you were. But maybe that was better, because as you read his lips, you didn’t hear the pain, or the regret breezing through them.

He was thankful that you didn’t look surprised. You swallowed, then whispered back, “I love you too.”

The Doctor managed something like his brilliant smile, and you grinned, lips quivering gently. He knew you were probably terrified, him coming out of the blue like this, looking so shaken himself. Maybe it was cruel of him, to show up when you seemed to have settled without him. But then again, he was so often cruel to those around him, wasn’t he?

That was why he didn’t say goodbye. For all of his selflessness, he wouldn’t force himself to say it to you. He didn’t want closure. He didn’t want peace. He didn’t want to fade into his regeneration with grace or a catchy one-liner. He thought of your face, your smile, how you’d shouted his name, the way you two fit—as if all of time and space had lined up so that you could be tucked so perfectly under his arm. He wondered if his next self would be haunted by that hollow space by his side where you belonged, if he would feel that choking tightness in the base of his throat when he passed your room.

In his TARDIS, burning in spirals of gold, dying, he whispered, “I don’t want to go.”

And in a park, surrounded by honeysuckle and children laughing, you let tears swirl down your cheeks, not wanting to stay.