genessia | Video/action sometime before midnight

[he's staggering around somewhere in Nova City, unsteady on his heels in the snow. The lights from the city flash off the beads in his fringe dress and he's also wearing a wig because you might as well. Tho occasionally arcs of static electricity come from it. Some theatrics company is going to be a bit put off but it's Christmas or would be if it were. A handcuff dangles from one wrist with a bedpost on the other side of it and in his other hand he's holding a case of bottles of ginger beer which he drinks from intermittently... and sings this song almost on loop thought the words aren't quite right.]

Now everybody's cried
and until the tears have died
we'll drink and drink and drink and drink
and then drink the floor
we'll dance and bright and fight
until turn off all the lights

[he staggers left and nearly gets run over. The horn blaring as he flails back and salutes them]

and then pass out change face wake sup
and go drinking once upon a time.

[falls into the remains of a snowbank and hiccoughs]

Hello Doctor world is me!

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[the memories are clanging around his head now and even he can't slot them all in at once but they are there and are painful-- all the bad decisions, the missteps, the mistakes, that he could have done but didn't do and that he shouldn't've at all. He sits, braced against the wall, head bowed almost between his knees, fingers in his hair as he clutches his head-- trying to make the whirlwind stop.

Only to have that voice ask him as that voice asked him before. Except the last time was from inside. Others too. Asking. Demanding. Too much time]

Go away. Get out.

[he didn't want to hear it. Didn't want to-- It was hard enough without that. Hard enough to think and everything was still a jumble]

[Get out? Get out?!]

That's... that's all you've got to say--get out?!

[The Doctor lurches up and forward with a grunt. He wants to spring to his feet like a bolt, all blazing fury like he might have done a regeneration ago, but he's still reeling too much, as though his hearts are reluctant to beat. As well they should be; each double pulse hammers those two nails in deeper:

I'm going to get Clara killed.

And then do something bad enough that she'll want me to forget her.

Instead, he sort of staggers to his feet, teetering somewhere between rage and horror as he stares down at his older self. He would have been furious if anyone had done what he'd seen and pieced together, but if there had ever been one person he could really hold a grudge against...]

You're telling me to get out?!

[...he's not the kind of person to throw an ailing man out a window because he doesn't deserve to stay under the same roof, but the thought sure does pop up.

Is it less bad, or worse, because the ailing man is his future self?

He'll philosophize about that later. At the moment, he's focused on stopping himself short of ordering his older self to get out, instead. Oh, he wants to, so much, but he knows Amy won't understand... he's not sure even River would understand.

Really, he knows only one person who surely would, and, well, he can't talk to him about it, can he?]

Yes, get out! [because his head feels like it's splitting apart and it's too much and the fragments of memory seem to be jabbing into his skull. What's the use of it anyway? Of all that rage? It's not going to do anything! Not going to change anything! What was done was done]

Or I will... [and maybe he should. He gets up, staggers a few feet and nearly falls into himself. He can barely see the pain in his head is so bad but he moves to the side, guiding himself against the wall. His office. He can go there. The void. No... that's gone. Is it ? Yes? No? Anywhere where that face can't follow him with the sort of injured fury.]

[A matter of minutes ago--had it been only minutes since they'd shared those memories?--the Doctor almost certainly would have bowed out, gotten out of his older self's way. Even if they were at odds, he couldn't help feeling he was, in some way, intruding in his future self's life. Had his younger selves felt that way, whenever he'd met them, as well...?

A thought to shelf for another day, because at the moment, he absolutely does not feel like getting out of the way. One hand raised to either catch his older self or push him away, he steps forward, drawing himself up, glowering as all that anger he usually keeps well bottled and carefully stashed away directs itself on the man in front of him. For a stranger, he might have had one of those cold smiles, but his older self knows him too well to be deceived by it, and he's still too frazzled to do it for his own sake just yet, as he stares his counterpart in the eye searchingly for a few seconds.]

...I don't know who you are.

[What else can he really say? It doesn't even occur to him at the moment who he might be referencing in saying that; it's just the only rebuke strong and comprehensive enough to encapsulate his anger, his disappointment, his sense of betrayal into words. Another second, and with that, he manages to plaster on that smile, that defense mechanism, casually reaching out to tug at his older self's lapels to straighten them in a mockery of concern.]

Don't worry, just on my way out. You get some rest. For Amy's sake. And River's. Just try to remember how important they are, to me.

[Because at the moment, Twelve, when it comes to his friends, he doesn't trust you as far as he could throw you.]

[he says nothing. does nothing. The fact that he can barely function right now has about ninety percent to do with it. He does gather the strength to grab the other's hand and pull it away, meeting those eyes. You know who you are. More than anyone. You know.

But he knows, too.

He knows more than you because he, after very many many many years, has been able, on occasion, to stop running and turn the other way.

Then he turns away and stumbles to the bed sitting with his head in his hands.]

[The Doctor meets that stare, keeping the smile in place, even if his older self can see right through it to the anger burning underneath, darkening his eyes. He barely puts up any resistance to his hand being pulled away; he's made his point already, after all. His eyes stay fixed on his older self as he stumbles to the bed, and casually straightens his own jacket, rolling his jaw combatively behind his counterpart's back.]

Sweet dreams.

[Practically anyone else ailing as his older self is, he'd be concerned, sympathetic, but when the one person he's always slowest to forgive has pushed him this far...

No, no, he has to get some fresh air, away from the problem. With a shake of his head, he wastes no more time before stepping out of the room--the only other parting shot being to slam the door as he leaves.]

Video/action sometime before midnight

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