Title: Tears and Rain
By: angstytimelord
Pairing: gen
Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating: PG-13
Table: 10_per_genre
Prompt: 5, Tears
Disclaimer: This is entirely a product of my own imagination, and I make no profit from it. I do not own the Tenth Doctor. Please do not sue.

***

Usually, he didn't like rain, the Doctor reflected, standing near the Tardis in the downpour. He was like a cat in that respect; he never liked getting wet, unless he was in a shower or bath. Water falling from the sky wasn't something he'd ever been used to.

But today, he felt indifferent to the weather; he couldn't have cared less if he was soaked to the skin. He hadn't expected it to be raining, obviously, or he'd have brought an umbrella out of the ship with him. But now that he was out in the elements, it didn't seem to matter.

What did it matter if he was soaking wet? He was alone here; there was no one to see if he decided to strip off his clothes and stand here naked in the rain. It was an interesting idea; maybe if his wet clothes became annoying, he'd do that.

But at the moment, he felt deflated, devoid of energy. He didn't feel like moving; he only wanted to stand here in the rain and let his thoughts wander.

This wasn't the first time he'd allowed his thoughts to go back to the day that Gallifrey had ceased to exist; he thought of it often, but this was the day when it always seemed the most poignant. This was the day that it had happened -- the worst day of his life.

He'd tried to ignore the anniversary of that day in the past, to give it no more than a passing thought. He hadn't wanted to let himself drown in his own sorrow; it was far too easy to give himself over to those feelings, to wallow in self-pity.

For some reason, it had hit him harder this year than it usually did. Maybe it was because he was alone and companionless at the moment -- just as he'd been in that year. It was the first anniversary that he'd been without a companion.

That took him back as though it had only happened yesterday; he could remember every moment with crystal clarity, every nuance, every emotion.

Being alone only made those feelings come to the surface more strongly, as he'd known it would. But he couldn't bring himself to take on a compnaion simply to divest himself of those emotions; it would have been unfair to the person he chose, at any rate.

As well as being unfair to himself, he reflected, bowing his head as the rain began to fall even harder, plastering his tawny hair to his head. At this rate, he was going to feel like a soaked cat before he decided to go back into the Tardis.

He'd never really allowed himself the time to grieve, had he? He'd tried to bury that grief, to assuage it in a hundred different ways. First by his actions, throwing himself into dangerous situations, then by being around other people and pretending that he was all right.

But he wasn't "all right," no matter how often he claimed to be. He hadn't been since the day that he'd had to destroy his home and his people.

He had tried so hard not to face his grief; the few times he had, he'd made sure that he was alone, that no one else could see those emotions come tumbling out of him. Even though he hadn't been able to keep his feelings from other people entirely, he'd certainly tried his best.

No one else had ever really known how deep that grief went. How could they? Their planets hadn't been destroyed; they weren't the last of their race, other than an insane megalomaniac who roamed the universe trying to find a way to bring it to an end as well.

His human companions would never be able to understand that grief, though they could sympathize with it. So he'd tried not to let it show; it had peeked through at times, when he'd briefly talked to them about Gallifrey, but they'd never known the extent of his feelings.

No one ever would. He'd vowed that from the day it had happened; something had closed down in him, something that he didn't want to open up to the world again.

Places like this, where he was completely alone save for his ship, were the only safe havens where he could let himself go and let the full range of his emotions show. And there were more feelings there to let out -- not just his immense grief.

There was rage -- at himself, and at the cause of the Time Wars. A rage that was never-ending, one that simmered inside him all the time. He successfully managed to push it to the back of his mind, but it was always inside him nevertheless.

And there was also regret; regret for the loss of his people, of his home, and for the fact that he had been the one to make the decision of destroying them. Regret for his part in the Time Wars, the part that he had never wanted to play.

But overlying all of that was his grief, the overriding emotion that washed over him whenever he thought of his lost home. A grief that would never leave him in peace.

The Doctor raised his face to the sky, closing his eyes as the raindrops fell onto his skin. He didn't realize that he was crying, the rain mingling with the tears that had been coursing down his pale cheeks for some time now.

This was what he'd never done in front of anyone; he'd never let any other being see his tears. He wouldn't cry in front of anyone; he wouldn't show that kind of weakness. It was far too easy for people to squirm under those chinks in his armor.

He'd long ago learned to keep his innermost emotions to himself; his companions might think they knew how he felt, but they would never see his most deeply held feelings. No one alive had seen him at his most emotionally open -- not even the Master when they had once been friends.

The Time Lord almost smiled at that thought; it was a bit ironic that the only other surviving member of his race was further away from him than anyone could possibly be.

It was strange that he could bring a smile to his face in the midst of the greatest grief he'd let himself feel in a very long time. It wasn't a smile, not really -- it was only another weight added to all the ones he already carried with him each day of his life.

Even though he hadn't been responsible for the Master's tumble from the edge of sanity, he still felt that he owed it to the world to keep his enemy under control -- and that was something he'd failed to do, time and time again.

If only he'd been able to stop some of the Master's plots from coming to fruition, then maybe the Time Wars could have been averted. Maybe he could have saved the universe -- without destroying his own race and his home in the process.

But he hadn't been able to do it. And because of him, the Master was still running amok in the galaxy -- and many of the possibilities of containing him had been destroyed.

He'd caused untold damage in the world, because of his decision to lead the battle. He'd been the one responsible for all of that destruction, all of that death. If only he could go back and undo it .... but that wasn't possible. Not any more.

Time wasn't immutable. Some things could be altered. But the Time Wars were locked, a fixed point in time, one that could never be changed, or revisited. He would have to live with the consequences of his mistakes -- and spend the rest of his life trying to repair them.

That was yet another cause of his grief; he'd dedicated his life to something that seemed more and more impossible to carry out as more time went by. He would spend all of his life in relentless pursuit of some abstract sense of obligation that he might never be able to live up to.

Tears and rain mingled on his face, sliding down his cheeks as he tilted his head back, closing his eyes and feeling the water beating down on him. If only that rain could cleanse him of all of the grief he felt, all of the guilt that he would always live with.

If only. That seemed to be the litany that he came back to over and over, didn't it? If only he'd not had to make the decision that had destroyed Gallifrey. If only he could have captured the Master for good. If only ....

If only he didn't have to live with the weight of his grief that no rain could ever wash away.

***