Torment

[taleya]

Cleaned up a bit, seeing as the original was written in an LJ comment to taunt uktechgirl after a discussion about what a freaking trainwreck Turlough should be after Frontios following hot on the heels of the MA King of Terror. Yes, I am evil.

(and where's my Turlough icon?! *fizzgigs*)

May expand into a longer story, may not. Unsure at this stage. Still, it stands on its own feet...

Title: Torment
Author: taleya
Rating: PG
Warnings: Mention of self-abuse that may trigger. And not self-abuse in the usual dw_slash way. And Angst. Of course
Summary: In the end, it all starts to break down.



The Doctor misses Tegan. Even a blind idiot would be able to see that. He mopes about the TARDIS like a lost puppy, fiddling with unimportant components, effecting tiny, imperceptible repairs that are abandoned mid-work. Her image seems to haunt the corridors of the TARDIS at times, the ghostly clack of impractical high heels skirting on the periphery of hearing.

She was loud, opinionated and argumentative...and Turlough misses her too. More than he would care to admit. She was, at the end, something approaching a friend. Something he had precious little of, something he had convinced himself he didn't need until chance and dark machinations had thrown them together and he'd found his jealously guarded barriers crumbling despite his efforts.

He needs his barriers now, more than ever. Shadows creep at the edges of his vision, slipping past his defences, crawling through his psyche. Confusion mixes with fear, and bleeds into anger at times, driving him to fist his hands viciously, nails digging into his palms. He was fine until they had come. Closed. Defended. Reliant only on himself, no chance for hurt, emotions dead and sleeping under a superior air and vicious sneer. But now those defences are gone, now he is wide open, no chance to kill the feelings rearing their head inside him, no defence against this sudden taste for comfort, for companionship. He had fallen into a stupid, childish trap on Earth because of it, abused and violated and on Frontios his own memories had driven him near-insane.

He can't bottle it up any more. He needs someone to talk to. Someone who won't listen. Someone who won't look at him with guilty blue eyes, or offer a comfort he's unfamiliar with, cannot handle. But there's no-one there, and his jaw aches from teeth grinding against emotions too huge to hold back.

So the anger turns inwards. Turns vicious. Mental confusion to physical punishment, something he can understand, something he can see. Closed fists striking against his thigh when it all becomes too much, leaving mottled bruises and an overwhelming sense of relief. The promise in a glittering blade, marks hidden neatly like the criminal's brand under the long sleeves of his shirt.

The Doctor mopes, and Turlough tries to help. He doesn't know why, but the pain in the other man's eyes triggers something inside him, something he'd long thought dead. He knows the Doctor still gets headaches from the Dalek's mind probe - he won't admit to them, but they're evident in the strain of his eyes, in cautious movements at times, twisted and lurking under the lingering sadness of an unexpected goodbye.

So Turlough fills the void in small, quiet ways, not even sure why. He plays teaboy, and indulges in idle, mindless chatter about human things he vaguely understands and has no interest in whatsoever. Maintaining a false sense of normality, no matter how fragile, pushing his own feelings down, pushing them away with long-practised ease. Playing the part of the dutiful companion in a faux simulacrum of a relationship, keeping to the shallows, avoiding anything meaningful.

And when he wakes at night he uses a pillow to muffle his screams.

Comments

[pontisbright.livejournal.com]

Am scared of the synchronised fizzgigs. They are coming to eat me or something.

Moooooooooore. Want more. Which I know is silly, because you have successfully constructed them a lovely world o' angst on which neither of then is capable of communicating at all. BUT I still want more, whether tis sticking plaster or salt in the wounds.

[taleya.livejournal.com]

*sets up a wall of fizzgig*

Well I was pissng about and having a smoke, flipping through some ideas I had on the opal mine at lightning ridge and then this little redheaded voice crept into my head and spake thusly...

"Let's sit around a table with tea and crumpets in an insufferably human and English way, muddling awkwardly through a conversation delving into our deepest, darkest secrets until everything is all right, shall we?" the tone was light, mocking at first, then the facade slid away into an dark, ancient expression, terribly tired and worn. "That's not how the universe works, Doctor."

And then the opals got worked into it after all. in a flashback that involves Tegan getting completely ratarsed with some miners while the Doctor pontificates over aboriginal art..

[pontisbright.livejournal.com]

Let's sit around a table with tea and crumpets in an insufferably human and English way, muddling awkwardly through a conversation delving into our deepest, darkest secrets until everything is all right, shall we?

Of course that's how the universe works! I do that every day and twice on Fridays. (Though I would never put such behaviour in fic about those two, obviosuly.)

Anything involving pissed-up Tegan can't be bad. Bring on the opals! PLOT, yay!

[taleya.livejournal.com]

ah hell no, still nothing approaching plot. Just a series of scenes going in my head at the moment...

And our opals are much prettier than anyone elses *snoots*