Allowing changes that we could not have foreseen [Open to the TARDIS]

[whofrownedthisface]

With his trip to the park having turned out more fruitful than originally envisioned, the Doctor hurries back to the TARDIS, though still with next to no idea what he's up against. Something, that's for sure. Not a riftugee (so much cleverer than riftie, but it just won't catch on somehow), and it doesn't seem like there's any manifestations to investigate on site in the park. But clearly something is up. At least the rift isn't sucking in monsters from who knows where or messing with the park's timescape. And if Daine's affliction is the only trouble, well. Just being honest. Not really the crisis he got out of bed for. Metaphorically speaking.

Upon returning to the TARDIS he sets to with his usual flurry of console activity, calling up maps full of squiggly concentric lines, popping in all the readings he'd gathered, reading about strange weather phenomena involving frogs. Just an oddity to resolve, hopefully in time for lunch (why not cucumber sandwiches?), guaranteed to lift his spirits and maybe even provide new insight into the rift.

anywhere but here [open]

[postictal]

[tw: blood and bodily injury. This post is the aftermath of the events that occurred over yonder, which means Tim might need some help getting home.]

The lurching sensation of waking suffuses Tim’s body with a hollow ache, leaving him feeling roughly like he just went ten rounds with a cement truck.

While being dragged through the woods.

And on fire.

The rich smell of torn-up earth fills his nostrils with the first shaky indrawn breath, hands fisted into the grass. He’s face-down. God, but he’s face-down. Lying in the grass and the dirt with a pounding headache and a swelling soreness in his lungs, in his side.

Doesn’t take a goddamn genius.

His eyes slit open. There's a dull, scabbed red crusted over the ridges of his knuckles. Just beside him, a shallow mound of smooth white. He reaches carefully with one hand, fingertips running over the cool pale edge of the mask, that old familiarity. He doesn't need to see the empty eyes, the taunting curve of its motionless smile, to know what he's done.

With the bracing flex of fingers pushing against loose-packed dirt, Tim forces himself painfully upright and immediately sinks back to his knees, breathing out a low, agonized hiss. His fingers creep over the sharp stab of pain through his abdomen, and through the tear in his shirt he can see the red puckered skin of - Jesus, did someone stab him?

Yeah, so take the cement truck analogy and add to it, something like triple the magnitude, because that’s about what it feels like.

His legs shake beneath him when he half-crawls, half-drags himself to the nearest tree and plants one hand against it, sucking in deep, slow lungfuls of air between ragged coughs. He tries to swipe a hand through his hair to push it from his face, but his fingers tangle into the clinging mat of - oh, wonderful. Twigs and leaves in his hair. Blood in his hair. The dark stain stretching of his side is unmistakeable; peeling back the blood-dampened layers of clothing doesn't make the sight any easier to stomach. Something pitted in his chest jolts as he grimaces and quickly looks away, breathing heavy and fast through his nose.

Still, and he summons up his bitter sense of not-optimism, it could be worse. He could be waking up with a broken leg. He could be waking up miles out of the state. So, sure, he has no idea how he's getting home like this when he can barely even walk - at least when his leg was broken he could still drive, he still had a car, and it might have been painful as fuck but he'd managed it. Teeth gritted against the agony buried in every tiny movement, he fishes out the phone that is thank god still in his pocket, but the sheer number of text notifications plunges his flicker of relief into ice. Even panicked, Jay wouldn’t send him so many -

Oh.

Oh god damn it.

Fuming, Tim thrusts the phone into his pocket and hopes to god that he's not about to be sick.

this was never meant to feel good [closed]

[johnny_truant]

[follow-up from here]

Tim's last kick to his stomach did him no favors. He staggers home, weak, sore, and shaking - scared as all hell by what he's done, what he had to do. Tim might be bleeding out in the park and it's his fault. He's not doing too well himself, he feels like that kick may have broken something, but at least he's heading home to a an angel. Not scrambling around the park halfway out of his head.

He gets to the building after what seems like an interminable struggle southward, and climbs the stairs automatically, no sense going into his own apartment at this hour, where Lilly's (hopefully) sleeping. As much as he needs this, he's dreading it, too. Gabe can put him back together, but at what cost? What questions is he going to have to field, what lies will he tell, and will Gabe believe any of them. He can't give up Tim, not until he knows more about - everything, all of this. Like he can actually make a difference. Such bullshit.

He might know it's bullshit but he's resolute all the same. He gets to Gabe's door and lets himself in. "Gabe," he murmurs weakly, unable to focus on Scout as the dog comes running to greet him.