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ximilialog2022-09-29 09:52 pm
lateness) wrote in ximilialog2022-09-29 09:52 pm
Entry tags:
[ closed ] the owl's flown the coop (and now there are all these feathers everywhere)
CHARACTERS: the doctor (11), clara oswald
LOCATION: private quarters
DATE: post-wish full mission, and post-a beloved doctor (12) and river song gone home
CONTENT: just sadness
WARNINGS: none so far
[ The return from their fishy mission is ... a little more solemn than usual. Really, it ought to be full of fun and touching things — touching everything now that he's got his hands back, hands with their fingers and palms and not-fins — and it is fun for a bit, riding that adrenaline wave ... right up until it stops being fun. There's the realization that half of the room is empty now where the TARDIS-blue bunkbeds ought to be; and the white-board, while still there with its scribblings of ideas and future PowerPoint presentation notes and not a smudge of marker-pen to be found anywhere, won't get quite the same chaotic use now. Not for quite some time. Maybe not ever again.
There is no sign of old snack-wrappers, no crisps bags, no concrete disc to be hoarded under an all-too-flat pillow and a scratchy blanket barely used. Two beds now sit vacant from their former roommates in an all-together odd arrangement that he'd grown to become quite ... oddly comfortable with. In its own weird way.
But at the end of it all, there's no silly, irritated quip about the wetness of that water, and the relief of a talent show ended and forgotten, and no one for the Doctor (this one) to ... well, riff off of. There's no one to huff and puff at for being so impossibly stupid. So impossibly him.
It isn't just the Doctor that notices this of course — well, not all of it, anyway — and as he glances off towards the other side of the room, just beside his own heap of clothing and trinkets and other lost artifacts, there's Clara. Clara, who is far more quiet now than she has been in a while ... not since she'd returned from her brief spell away from the Ximilia with her new memories, the same as he had. Clara, whom he has very little idea how to approach about this sort of thing. After all, this is about him (isn't it always?) but not him him.
It's odd.
It's odd to miss yourself when you're still you.
But he feels like he ought to try anyway, otherwise it'll be the big ol' owl in the room. And oh, what an owl he was. ]
Clara. [ He clears his throat, scratching at the side of his face distractedly.
He's got the perfect thing to say. Absolutely, bloody perfect. ] Do you think we should add some round things to the room?
LOCATION: private quarters
DATE: post-wish full mission, and post-a beloved doctor (12) and river song gone home
CONTENT: just sadness
WARNINGS: none so far
[ The return from their fishy mission is ... a little more solemn than usual. Really, it ought to be full of fun and touching things — touching everything now that he's got his hands back, hands with their fingers and palms and not-fins — and it is fun for a bit, riding that adrenaline wave ... right up until it stops being fun. There's the realization that half of the room is empty now where the TARDIS-blue bunkbeds ought to be; and the white-board, while still there with its scribblings of ideas and future PowerPoint presentation notes and not a smudge of marker-pen to be found anywhere, won't get quite the same chaotic use now. Not for quite some time. Maybe not ever again.
There is no sign of old snack-wrappers, no crisps bags, no concrete disc to be hoarded under an all-too-flat pillow and a scratchy blanket barely used. Two beds now sit vacant from their former roommates in an all-together odd arrangement that he'd grown to become quite ... oddly comfortable with. In its own weird way.
But at the end of it all, there's no silly, irritated quip about the wetness of that water, and the relief of a talent show ended and forgotten, and no one for the Doctor (this one) to ... well, riff off of. There's no one to huff and puff at for being so impossibly stupid. So impossibly him.
It isn't just the Doctor that notices this of course — well, not all of it, anyway — and as he glances off towards the other side of the room, just beside his own heap of clothing and trinkets and other lost artifacts, there's Clara. Clara, who is far more quiet now than she has been in a while ... not since she'd returned from her brief spell away from the Ximilia with her new memories, the same as he had. Clara, whom he has very little idea how to approach about this sort of thing. After all, this is about him (isn't it always?) but not him him.
It's odd.
It's odd to miss yourself when you're still you.
But he feels like he ought to try anyway, otherwise it'll be the big ol' owl in the room. And oh, what an owl he was. ]
Clara. [ He clears his throat, scratching at the side of his face distractedly.
He's got the perfect thing to say. Absolutely, bloody perfect. ] Do you think we should add some round things to the room?