Title: Surreal
By: angstytimelord
Pairing: Tenth Doctor/Ten.5
Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating: R
Table: 1
Prompt: 73, Hallucination
Author's Note: Spoilers for Journey's End, somewhat. This is an completely alternate take on the ending of Season Four.
Disclaimer: This is entirely a product of my own imagination, and I make no profit from it. I do not own the Tenth Doctor, or his human clone. Please do not sue.

***

The Doctor paced the length of his bedroom on the Tardis, to the door and back again. Events hadn't happened exactly as he'd planned; but then, nothing ever seemed to do that, in his experience. Somehow, there always seemed to be a spanner thrown into the works somewhere, and usually at the last moment.

At least he could be thankful that he was still alive, and that he hadn't regenerated. He'd done everything he could to prevent that, and thankfully, this time, it had worked. He hadn't counted on having to create a second version of himself -- but that hadn't seemed to be so bad, either. It almost felt like .... having a child, in a strange way.

Except that the "child" was a carbon copy of himself, looking exactly the same, with his memories, his face, and his body. Himself, with one very large difference. Himself as a human, something that he would never want to be.

However, his double didn't seem to have a problem with it -- well, now that he was coping with his status and accepting it. He'd seemed to find the fact that he had only one heart worrisome at first, but he'd settled down once the initial shock of being "born" had passed. Even now, he was sleeping soundly, in one of the many rooms in the Tardis.

The others had dispersed, leaving the two of them to themselves, at least for the night. And possibly a day or so as well, he thought, wondering what he was going to do with that time. He knew that he should try to talk with his human self, impart any knowledge that he might not have, try to prepare him for .... for what?

He had nothing to tell the other side of himself, he realized with a start. He was so used to being the giver, the teacher, that it was shocking to discover that for once, he couldn't lead someone. His human self literally was him -- only with a different physiology. It was nearly impossible to imagine that there was another version of who he was.

It was strange, looking at his human counterpart and seeing his exact features, his body, all the same physical aspects -- and know that it somehow wasn't him, that this Doctor had his own life to lead, and even his own needs and desires that might be different from his own. It was an interesting thought, if a slightly disconcerting one.

What must it be like for the other Doctor to look at him, to know that he was the original? No matter that there were two of them now -- he was the first, the life that his human self had sprung from. It had to be odd for his other half to know that he could never be exactly what the Doctor himself was.

How in the hell was he going to spend a day -- or possibly more -- with a being that was him, but not him? It was an awkward situation all around.

What would he say to his human self when they parted? "Nice to know you, have a good life, hope to see you again sometime"? That somehow didn't sound like quite the right thing to say to a being who he had, in a way, given birth to.

It was fascinating, this other form of life that had generated from his own body. It wasn't the same as a woman giving birth, obviously, but he could swear that the pain he'd felt when he was forcing the regenerative process into that severed hand was comparable to birth pains. Hmmmm. Perhaps he could honestly say that he knew what it was like now.

The Doctor held up his own hand in front of his face, flexing his fingers and studying them. He hadn't changed; he was still the same, still in this body, the body that many people had apparently loved. But even though they'd said they loved him, they had left him. He was still, for all intents and purposes, alone.

And he would be even more alone when this was all over, and they'd all gone on their separate ways again. No companion, no one to share his travels through time and space. Of course, he could probably find someone else -- but it was too soon. He'd cared for Donna as he would a sister, and losing her hurt terribly. He wasn't ready to replace her yet.

And Jack .... Jack was there, along with the young man who he'd fallen in love with. It was obvious that the two of them shared a very special bond -- perhaps an even stronger bond than he himself had shared with Jack in the time that they'd been together. It was time to move on from that, to let Jack go and lead his own life. Away from him.

Still, it hurt to know that Jack had found someone to love, and that he himself was still alone, still searching. At this point, he doubted that he would ever find what everyone else who'd been in his life seemed to have fall into their laps so easily.

What was it about him that pushed people away? he thought to himself, scuffing the toe of his shoe along the floor as he paced. There had to be something that made people initially be attracted to him, and then cause them to turn and run. It had happened time and time again, until he was nearly at the point of accepting that it would never change for the better.

He crossed the room once more, dropping onto the bed with a heavy sigh. Somehow, he had to think of something to say to his human self, a way to engage the other Doctor in conversation, to make things seem light and friendly. Of course they were friendly. Of course. There was no reason for them not to be, was there?

The Doctor rested his head in his hands, pondering that question. What was it that made him so wary of this other version of himself? He shook his head, trying to negate the suspicion that was growing in the back of his mind. If he admitted it to anyone -- even to himself -- they would think he was barmy, ready to be carted away to a padded room.

He was attracted to himself. He didn't know why, or how, or even if he wanted it, but there it was. Was this some bizarre form of masturbation? Some way of his subconscious telling him that he was a vain bugger who should get over himself? Whatever it was, it was bothersome, and he was sure that it wasn't natural.

This wasn't something he could talk about with anyone, not Jack, not Donna, not .... anyone. He'd have to keep it hidden, locked away in the recesses of his deepest self, something that he couldn't pull out and examine unless he was assured of being alone. Was he ashamed of feeling this way? He wasn't sure. It wasn't shame, exactly; it was more like confusion.

Should he even attempt to talk to his human half about this? Of course not, an inner voice screamed, making him wince with its vehemence. Knowing what he was like, he probably wouldn't be able to keep the knowledge to himself.

Oh, and he would more than likely crow about it. It was, after all, an affirmation of his own desirability. And yes -- if he was truthful, he was a vain bugger.

Sighing, he closed his eyes, letting his head loll forward. It had been a long day; he'd almost regenerated, and he was still feeling weak and drained from the aftereffects. There had been a period of disorientation, almost as bad as an actual regeneration, and it would take a while for him to get past that, though at least it wouldn't be as bad as the real thing.

"Doctor."

His head jerked up, his eyes flying open and focusing on the door. His human self stood there, framed in the doorway, a quizzical expression on his face. The first thing the Doctor's startled gaze registered was that he didn't look confused, but rather, purposeful.

The second was that his human self was utterly, completely, beautifully naked.

He didn't say a word as the other man approached and sat down on the bed beside him, taking his hand and studying it. The human Doctor held his hand up, pressing their palms together, then twining his fingers with his Gallifreyan counterpart's. They sat like that for a long time, both gazing at their intertwined hands.

It was a while before the human Doctor spoke. It was eerie, the Doctor thought to himself, how their voices were exactly alike; no difference in timbre or inflection. But this man was, after all, himself. "Our hands .... fit, don't they? As if they were meant to be together." There was a sense of wonderment in his voice, as though he couldn't quite believe his own words.

The Doctor could do nothing but nod; he didn't trust his voice. Just what was his human self getting at? Surely there had to be some reason behind that choice of words.

Suddenly, the room seemed much too warm; was this an aftereffect of his near-regeneration, or just because his other half was sitting next to him, so close that the Doctor could reach out and touch that glowing, pale flesh? His heart shouldn't be racing like this -- and he most definitely shouldn't have a raging hard-on.

His counterpart turned slightly, one hand moving to rest on the Doctor's thigh. The Time Lord's eyes widened as that hand slid inward, fingers nearly touching his balls through the fabric of his trousers, the warmth of the human Doctor's hand on his inner thigh sending chills through his entire body. What was happening here?

He was pushed down, onto his back on the bed, so that he was staring up at the other Doctor. His head was spinning, his senses reeling; reality had somehow skewered itself, turned inside-out, become something completely different, surreal. This couldn't actually be happening; he had to be dreaming.

His human self was leaning over him, those parted lips only an inch or so away from his own. He could lift his head slightly and kiss those lips, the Doctor thought hazily, blinking to try to focus his sight. He had to be hallucinating; things like this didn't happen. Yes, that was it. A hallucination brought of by the aftereffects of nearly regenerating.

He could feel that hand moving from his thigh to his crotch, unzipping his trousers and slipping inside. Massaging his cock, knowing exactly how he liked to be touched. Of course he would know that, the Doctor thought, his breath catching in his throat. He would know everything about what pleasured him the most.

When the other Doctor spoke, his words were something that the Doctor hadn't thought he would hear; he'd briefly thought of them, yes, but pushed them to the back of his mind as something that he should never acknowledge, never say aloud, never think about -- and, most of all, never want to hear.

"I want you."

He could do nothing but stare up at the other Doctor, his mouth hanging open in shock. That was, until his human self closed the gap between them, leaning down to press his lips against the Doctor's mouth in a searing, demanding kiss that left nothing to the imagination.

From that moment on, he was utterly lost. He wrapped his arms around his human self, pulling the other Doctor down against his own body, knowing that now, there was no turning back.

***

Next story in series - Same Blood.