watch_is_me

'Verse: Personal canon.
Words: 649.
Prompt: Just me.

In my personal alternate universe canon thingie, the Doctor never reclaimed his human half in the equivalent of the "Human Nature" eps. So John Smith got to live his own, entirely mortal life. This is part six of a long story I've got drafted and am writing up this week, on how that life might have gone.

And here I have my personal future canon and my Grand Overarching Scheme for my AU meandering on in to say hello. Hello, G.O.S.!

Part one is here, part two here, part three here, part four here, and part five here.

One night, while he was jammed into his niche in the mud of the trench wall, trying to sleep and trying to ignore the itching of the bloody lice that had moved into his hair and clothing (and doing neither with any great success), a man stepped out of the dark between lamps and spoke to him.

Hello, John.

He brushed his hair back out of his face and blinked through the night at the newcomer. A stranger. Middling height, lean but not thin. A strong face, bit of bristle on the jawline. Flaming red hair. Hard to say his age. And dark, dark eyes—not so much dark in color as in content. Deep eyes, gravity eyes, eyes that had seen a great deal and taken it all in and were prepared to see more yet.

I’m sorry. Do I know you?

No. This is the first time we meet. The only time. I’ve checked.

What’s this about? Am I needed somewhere?

Of course you are. Just where you are.

The man leaned back against the trench wall, arms crossed across his chest, legs crossed, casual. Something was wrong about his uniform, and it took John long moments to realize what. Clean. Crisp and clean and new, worn with the shine and superficiality of a costume, as though the other man had never slept in it, never fought in it, certainly never hunted down those damned lice in its seams, with a candle and a very personal vendetta.

Who are you?

Someone who knows someone you knew. A relative, you might say.

You’re not him. I’m not asleep. Or dead. I’m not dead, am I? All things being equal, I’d prefer not to be dead.

The man brought a hand up to his face to cover a smile.

You’re very him.

...Whatever you have to say, say it.

You’re right, I’m having fun with you, and that’s not fair. ...What is it?

You don’t look anything like him.

No, I don’t look like you.

I didn’t say…

It’s the same thing. Isn’t it?

Don’t.

The other man broke eye contact first, looking away, passing a hand over his eyes.

Yes. Sorry. Cruelty. Favorite game of gods and men. He was cruel to you.

This has gone far enough. Whoever you are, whoever put you up to this, you can stop now.

The other stepped across the trench, hooked the binding of John’s current journal where it peeked out of his pack. Drew it out. John moved to stop him, but found that he couldn’t—couldn’t bring himself to touch the other man, the too-perfect clothing, the soldier who was and was not a soldier, who was also something else entirely.

They’re only odds and ends. Adventure stories. Dreams.

The other flipped through the journal, frowned at some pages, smiled at others.

Escapism?

Yes.

Then why can't you get away from them, John Smith?

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Why did you come to this war?

I couldn’t stay away. It was my duty. My boys came, I had to come. England needs her soldiers.

You didn’t come chasing a dream?

Would you have come, if he hadn’t?

I can take them away. I can make you certain that every choice you make is yours and yours alone. That you live for yourself and your wife and your daughter and your son and not for him.

My son?

Mm. Careless of me. Spoilers.

The other closed the journal with a snap, and tossed it to John, who fumbled it out of the air.

I can take away the mess he left you. The burden of his mistakes and his expectations and his knowledge. You’ll be free.

John opened the journal, eyes falling on sketches and broken sentences—the blue box, the fantastic faces, the phrases that made no sense and perfect sense, simultaneously.

What will I lose?