attackbrows | {ximilia}

[It's sometime after finishing explaining things to Newt that she seeks him out. She doesn't mean to contact him with a voice message, but with her focus being all over the place her control over the earpiece has her thinking of him and sending something on accident.

That something is:

All of time and space at our disposal, and we all wind up stuck in a station that's just as small on the inside as it is on the outside.

Which doesn't sound like a complaint as much as it is fond musing, the humor evident in her tone as it plays across his earpiece for him.

She seeks him out in the lab first, and finds evidence of what she thinks is his workspace. But he's gone by the time she gets there, obviously distracted. So she makes her way to the sunlight room next, and finds him pretty quickly. She slips right on up behind him and wraps her arms around his chest in a hug.]

Do you know what the best part about having limited space is, Doctor? It's not all that difficult to find you.

[The problem with time is that you never know how fast or slow it actually goes. And for the Doctor, time is at a long, boring standstill. He tries to make do with the limited space they have been provided. There’s only so much mileage he can get out of being in a verbal tiff with a greasy hedgehog trying to play troupe leader.

But he tries. He’s trying for Clara and no one else. Not caring if he appears as some intimidating barn owl. As long as Clara is here safe and sound, that’s all that matter in those twenty-seven brains of his.

Inside the Sunlight Room, the Doctor looks curiously at one of the plants on the side. Leaning in to smell its floral accents, he feels his waist being wrapped around in a firm embrace. Not surprised by her penchant for hugs, it’s more of a welcome surprise, really.

He softly grips over her forearm, holding back the grin tugging at his lips.]

It’s becoming more and more difficult to find places to hide. [He jokes.] Thought about hiding inside the broom closet for the time being but that thought quickly swept out my mind.

[That pulls a laugh out of her, and she leans forward to press her cheek against his arm.]

You know what they say. Too much hiding away in dark broom closets might make you sweepy.

[There's another chuckle as she pulls out of the hug, and slips over to stand at his side and peer down at the plants he's looking over. She isn't all that much of a plant person. But he has a way of making everything seem fascinating to her.]

Thinking of striking up an interest in botany? I've got plans for a hydroponic garden going, if you wanted to lend a hand.

[She's been a busy little bee while he's been away.]

[Okay. That is a good use of wordplay. But he’s still going to roll his eyes and groan so that he holds some semblance of authority over pun use. They’re awful and terrible and only he can be the worst at it.

There is some clever observation cooked up in that head of his about the plant life here, but the mention of Clara getting into hydroponics (again) distracts him.]

You? Getting into hydroponics? They won’t stand a chance. Not with you and your control freakishness and Jane Austen banter.

[how dare he call her out like this. Her jaw drops and she stares up at him for a few moments.]

I'm not a control freak!

[She will never deny her passion for Jane Austen banter though. There's a roll of her eyes and a smirk on her face, as she crosses her arms over her chest. The nerve of him, calling her a control freak. No one points out her own flaws right in her face, especially not so flippantly.]

I just thought that someone ought to make sure the children here have food in case we ever stop getting supply drops.

[Ah. Right. She’s yet to fall headfirst into their candid banter. The whole "he calls her a control freak, and she calls him a daft old man" etc, etc. Some might even say they sound like an old married couple.

For now, he plays it off with a coyish stare at the plant life in front of them.

He quips—]

That’s the spirit: Erase our regrets. One fresh batch of tomato basil pasta sauce at a time.

[Yes. He understands. Circumstances show that the little ones need to eat. But he’s not about to give up his time on the Ximilia to be that of domesticated bliss.

The Doctor bows his head down and turns around to face her.]

Since when did you get all…homey? Even by your standards, this is all busywork.

[Oops he manages to ruffle her feathers. She bristles a little, eyebrows arching slowly.]

What else is there?

[There's a dangerous edge to her voice, one that challenges him to go ahead and press further. She hasn't freely spoken about her throat punching training with Erik, about the things she had to do on her first mission, or about the mental toll said mission has taken on her. Instead, she has to focus on something at the station. And that something is trying to improve that situation for everyone.

She's mildly hurt that he doesn't see the value in her trying, and winds up turning her head to glance away and look back at the plants.]

I'm buying time until I decide if I want to insist on a new regret to change. I figured I should make myself useful if I'm going to be making demands of Viveca anytime soon.

Seriously?

[His tone is obviously incredulous. This Clara may be from a different point in the Doctor’s past, but he is holding out of that little ounce of hope that she at least tries to look past whatever this station puts forth in front of her.

Clara might turn to look away from the Doctor, but he keeps his eyes on her. His body pivots to face her.]

Is that what this is all about? [Pointing out to one plant with his hand mid-air.] Playing with your new AI pal; Collecting orbs and tending to the tomatoes on the off chance your regret gets scrubbed away?

[When she looks back up at him, a storm is brewing in her eyes. They're clouded with anger, running hot through her. She wants to slap him. He doesn't even have any idea what her regret even is.

But the fact of the matter is she's only angry because she's not used to the Doctor speaking to her like this. She isn't used to him knowing her well enough that he can call her out and force her to respond.

She's used to being the one in control. Right now, she feels like the power dynamic has shifted. And that makes her incredibly uncomfortable.]

Thing is, we all agreed to be here.

[he's turned to be in her space so she steps in closer, a tiny and furious force of nature that blusters its way right up against him. They're pressed in close, and she tips her head enough to stare up at him. Her hands are on her hips and she's quiet for a moment, before launching into a torrent of words that just spill right out of her.]

Just because I'm trying to make myself useful doesn't mean I trust Viveca. It doesn't mean I'm blind to the fact it makes me and everyone else here incredibly selfish to agree to undo something that could drastically change history. I get that we're meddling in planets in ways that could alter the flow of time and space and cause some sort of disaster. I know you tend to underestimate me, but please, just this once. Don't think I'm sweet and simple and oblivious to the reality of the situation.

[There’s that familiar stare. The one where Clara can create natural disasters with those giant glassy eyes. No matter how she tries to outsize him in their crossness, he doesn’t budge from where he stands.]

Don’t be so full of yourself, Clara.

[Yes. That is not the best thing to blurt out in the middle of a tiff. But the Doctor’s voice is far from being some condescending idiot. There is sincere gruff in those words. One that he hopes that her ego can overcome.

This is a matter of how far he has to go. How far will the Doctor have to go to pull Clara out if/when the bottom falls out?]

[The Doctor takes a few steps back and looks to the floor, scrubbing his face with the back of his knuckles. He angles out said hand and sticks it outward in the air.]

…The thing is about agreements is that they’re simply that: Flimsy promises made to each other. You either notice it or get burned with the bridge in front of you.

[He sucks in a breath and directs his eyes back at Clara.]

I just want you to be the one ready to run. Not the one carrying the gasoline.

[He's completely infuriating. He knows her so well, and is able to call her out on just about everything. Her anger that just ran so hot fizzles out, leaving her looking warily over in his direction.

If she didn't know better, she'd say he regenerated to be better for her. But that can't possibly happen.]

I'm always ready to take your hand and run, Doctor.

[That answer might sound flippant to someone who doesn't know her well. But there's a distinct lack of casual indifference in the way she's looking at him know, her lips pursed together like she's resisting the urge to smile at the way she does just for him.

It's unfortunate she can't promise that she won't eventually be the one holding the gasoline to burn all her bridges. If only she knew what kind of foreshadowing this conversation was to all the great things they eventually go through together.]

[A weight is lifted off his two hearts, seeing her eyes soften. As seductive as erasing one’s regret away is, the Doctor doesn’t how deep this spiral goes. A garden of roses is breathtaking, but a thousand thorns are enough to tear one apart. The pain of false hope stings that much.

And yet, the Doctor knows in his heart of hearts that he will bleed over and over to keep her safe.

His feet shuffle closer to her. The touching, again, he doesn’t do well with the touching, but it’s different. Exceptional even when he shows affection towards her. He can’t recall the last time someone has ever made this abrasive-like demeanour melt into a besotted lamb in just ten words.

Both hands reach for hers. Her small hand always radiates such warmth between his long and cold fingers. He raises it, gives the back of her hand a light peck with his lips.]

Thank you.

[She's seen him be so gruff and rude to others. And he can be gruff with her, but beneath that there's this side of him that makes her take pause. He's so gentle with her where it counts, and she feels her cheeks turn a light shade of pink as he kisses at her hand.

Apparently he gets more romantic and smooth with age.

Her fingers that are laced through his give a reassuring squeeze. She's here, she's alive, she's fine. She's perfectly safe with him here.]

Think I should be the one thanking you. For keeping watch over me, after all this time.

[They're still joined at the hand, but she leans in and rises up on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek.]

[He isn’t sure how to respond to that. Only because they’ve travelled together for so long that this has become second nature for the Doctor. To keep her close and protected, no matter the circumstances. They can be trapped under a small dune in a snowstorm on the coldest planet and he will be the first to offer his jacket to keep her warm.

When Clara’s lips meet the hollow of his cheek, the Doctor can’t help but turn flush under the skin. The one oddity of having this body: not boding well with physical touch, but becoming smitten when the moment is right.

He slips one hand away from hers, hovering under her fringe with the back of his index knuckle. Almost tempted by the thought of combing his fingers through her hair.]

Very bold of you to say when we haven’t touched down in Victoria, London yet.

Well, I have been known to be bold on occasion.

[Her smile becomes a little more smitten, and she feels her own cheeks turning pink. She has to duck her head to laugh at herself. She's utterly ridiculous.]

Are we...all right, then?

[She isn't sure if he's still upset with her for her attempts at gardening and trying to help out around the station, or if he's over it now. But she wants to know that he isn't disappointed in her.]

Clara, out of everything in this universe...

[And listen, he gets cross/disappointed/grumpy about a lot of things. From the trivial to the justified, it’s just how this entire body is wired.

He slides a hand down to cup her cheek, raises a brow and says with the utmost sincerity (and playfulness):]

I refuse to allow succulents to be our breaking point.

[She laughs, any tension that might've been there now gone and forgotten. Her hand presses against his, pressing his palm more firmly against her cheek. The touch is fleeting, dropping away before it has time to linger.]

Oh, I'm sure our breaking point is something far more ridiculous. Like a flock of birds on the moon. Can you imagine?

[She has no idea how many breaking points she's just referenced here. But is blissful being completely unaware. Her eyebrow arches as she regards him for a moment more, then bites at the side of her lip. She winds up turning away to head back toward the exit to the room, knowing he's likely to follow.]

[Oh, he doesn’t have to imagine.]

Spoilers.

[The Doctor prefers not to spare a thought from the past several catastrophic bouts they’ve had. Too much shouting, not enough of him talking about constellations.

He follows her. Of course he follows her. The Doctor is tied to Clara by an invisible string. There is no other place he can see himself being for the moment. Without the luxuries of his TARDIS, he will have to savour every second of this very slow encounter of “normal” space-time.]

Dinosaur first. Then we’ll chat.

Hey, uh... Doc. You think you could help a guy out for a sec?

You don't have to actually physically do anything but listen over the earpiece. Pinky swear.

I won't even call you a barn owl.

[Hey, wow, does he sound a little sheepish????]

My attention span is very liminal so this better be a juicy stream of consciousness.

[aka — It’s a good thing you caught him in the middle of walking the dog with his Yo-Yo.]

Right. Uh. So.

It's my personal goal. You know, the goal we've got to complete, or the orb won't help us with our regret? I failed it last time, so I don't exactly can't go failing anymore, and — anyway, it's — y'know. It's a pretty easy one this time, in theory, but also not. And.

[Is that the rambling you wanted, Doctor????]

... It says I gotta be vulnerable to someone I don't trust... so...

And you expect me to stand in as your talking piece for the next however-long minutes?

[He stops mid-trick so he can actually talk with his hands.]

Someone you’ve openly admitted to saying you don’t trust which — by the way, not the brightest move, Boy Scout. You could’ve gone on not admitting that part of the assignment.

Yeah, well. If you're gonna hang up on me or whatever, it is what it is, but I'm not gonna lie about the reason I picked you. I don't like being fake, even if it makes people dislike me.

[He shrugs, quiet for a moment where he sits, hands fidgeting along the edge of a table.]

Anyway, I don't trust you, 'cus you and me didn't exactly hit it off.

But I trust Clara, and she trusts you, so I know you're a good choice.

What did I just say about me having little patience?! Come on! Chop, chop. Fork over the details, eh?

[Your words. Not his, buddy.]

Edited (pre-emptive hit on the edit update while i was still editing lkjasl) 2021-09-10 19:54 (UTC)

[sPUTTER-]

I wasn't sure you'd — I wasn't thinking that far ahead! Uh-!

[THINK, WHAT IS YOUR CURRENT TROUBLES?

Ah, right. Nightmares! The nightmares and the, the nosebleeds?

(You will not tell someone like him about any of that. You will not discuss anything about the drift or your nightmares with him, not ever!

Do not speak to the Doctor about the precursors; do not speak to either Doctor of your symptoms.)

No, no, he shouldn't talk about that stuff. Too personal. Uh-

He rubs his hands through his hair, and his mind stumbles around for something else.]

I've never had this many friends before, and I'm terrified I'm gonna mess it up, because I always mess this kind of thing up; I get defensive and I lash out, and I make really stupid choices, and I'm scared to death I'm gonna end up pushing everyone away because they think I'm an unlikable weirdo who isn't worth their time — especially the person I'm too scared to tell that I'm in love with them!

[The one thing he loathes most about phone calls: The prattling. Between Newton's sputtering and high-speed vocal fry ramble, the Doctor can fit in one double trapeze and an around the corner trick. He stands there in the awkward pause as he pulls the toy back up to his hand.]

[But yes, back to playing Universal Truth or Dare.

The best he can offer is a nonchalant shrug and an-]

Okay.

... Um. Okay.

[He sits there for a long moment, wondering if he should-

Well yeah, he's gonna.]

Do you usually reply that way to people you like, too, or am I just that much of a pain?

What more are you looking for? For me to scratch my neck and tell you there’s nothing to be afraid of? Because I’ll tell you. About a majority of that prattle of yours? Right on target! Top of the class.

[Might as well not mince words. It’ll only make matters worse in the long run.]

You don’t need to be a psychoanalyst to infer that little stunt you pulled on the network to be a far cry of “I am Doctor Newton Geiszler, please validate my existence through your currency of attention.”

Jesus.

[He runs a hand down his face, and while his whole body goes hot with the urge to raise his voice — he at least knows he's at fault for reaching out to this guy in the first place. But boy, he didn't expect that. Something in his stomach twists up, and he makes careful fists, but swallows down his immediate urge to lash out, because it'd probably make the guy really content with the reaction.]

... I mean, I figured you'd be a bad choice, but I shockingly didn't have as many options as I thought. Do you do that to your friends, too? Make them feel like shit?

[But this is The Doctor, right? Clara wanted them to get along, and she had faith in him. Hell, she loved him. Whatever version, he's not completely sure, but it stands to reason every Doctor means the world to her. And Clara means so much to him — is he missing something here? Does he just talk to her like this all day? Make her feel like she's stupid for bothering? Every outburst coiling up in him has to be beaten down, and he tries really hard to keep her in mind. Don't freak out, you reached out first; this person is Clara's person!

He stops, and asks tightly:]

Do I really seem like that?

No. That is not the question!

[See? This is exactly what happens whenever he gets himself in these sorts of overly emotional tit for tats. You tell one person the truth of the matter and suddenly you’re the big bad wolf.

That seething anger on the other side of the device is all too familiar. The Doctor knows it all too well. You don’t run all throughout time and space with an air of careless bravado and not have it circle and bite you? It happened to him before with Rose. And it happened again with Amy and Rory. He can’t be the same Space Peter Pan people once thought him to be. That mask has long fallen off.

And so he keeps this as simple as possible:]

You wanted to tell me your troubles; I confirmed them. This is not about me placating half-truths to you. This is about you asking yourself: “How long will I keep running for?”

... Bullshit, dude.

You don't get to use the 'tough love' argument to be an asshole to someone who tries to reach out. Those two things aren't mutually exclusive. You're just using being honest as a way to be a big dick, get rid of them by acting like they're such a drain on your life energy.

So sorry to waste your time, Doctor.

Forget it, this was a mistake. I was vulnerable long enough, it sucked and now I remember exactly why I shouldn't do it. Thanks for nothing, and you can go fuck yourself.

[BEEP.]

[ It's ridiculously late. Or ridiculously early. Depending on your point of view. But she knows he'll be awake. She isn't sure any of them sleep anymore.

She's an expert at hiding what she's really thinking, what she's feeling, but she's also well aware how easily telepathic forms of communication can betray. And text, she thinks, won't allow the Doctor to read into tone or expression, if he's feeling so inclined. He does occasionally surprise her. ]

You aren't busy are you, Sweetie? I think we have a conversation to finish.

[ Now that they're (relatively) unobserved and there's no mission to distract them. ]

[Ugh. Linear time. Who keeps up with the hours and minutes like this? It’s all very…domestic. And the Doctor has reached that point of the day (or night) where he is counting the fibres on his plaid trousers.

He didn’t expect to receive a message out of the blue. But it’s River, and he’s lost count.]

'Busy' these days are starting to become an understatement. But you know where to find me.

[That being inside the lab storage unit. Because of course he'd make his own little science nook inside of a walk-in closet.]

Don't I always?

[ And it isn't long before she's made her way into his hideaway, stopping just shy of fully invading his personal space.

Almost absently, she reaches out to smooth the fabric over his chest, an unconscious habit and the only outward sign of anxiousness she allows. ]

Are you working on anything special?

[He leans back in the office chair he’s pilfered from the main lab. A lap full of circuit boards and wires on top of his lap.

River’s hand against his chest always felt so normal, like taking a deep breath of air. As much as this body has its aversions to physical touch, River has a way of finding just the right spot for him to sink into.]

Isotemporal circuitry. [He says, soldering pieces of wiring against the boards.] Handy in a pinch, terrible icebreaker among the rest of the crew.

[A beat.]

Unless you’re interested in hearing me prattle about quantum vibrations fields?

[ River hums faintly as if she's actually considering it before shaking her head. ] Maybe next time.

[ Rearranging bits and bobs, which she's sure the Doctor will complain about later, she makes space for herself to his side. She'd wanted this conversation, and now she doesn't know how to start.

The beginning? ] Doctor, you know where I am?

[ Not in the here, now, literal sense. Also, not really a question. ]

[His eyes shoot a glance at her. This conversation was bound to happen. He looks back at his haphazard project and responds with a simple:]

…No.

[The lack of River’s journal is enough for the Doctor to be cautious. They are, for all intents and purposes, reaching major spoilers within their respective journeys.]

It’s not like you to have your journal missing from this sort of chat.

[ With a faint smile that fails to reach her eyes, River produces a familiar blue diary from...where does she always manage to hide that thing anyway? It's probably a little more worn than the last time he saw it, but maybe almost as worn as the first time. ]

It isn't missing, Sweetie. But we're not going to need it.

[He goes quiet for a moment. A rare occurrence for him, but this is a moment he dreaded for quite some time. A pang of regret hits his two hearts. The one thing he promised her was dinner in Darillium. He wonders that if the fear of losing her was so severe that he failed to miss out on a single promise.

Leaving his items to the side, the Doctor stands up. But his eyes divert elsewhere. He can't look at her. Not yet.]

River, I… [What is he to say at this point?] I’m sorry.

I'm not looking for an apology, Doctor.

[ But perhaps she is because it comes out more sharply than she'd intended. She'd take a step back if she could, but she's already nearly against a wall. She takes a breath. ]

We both knew this day was coming. There was nothing you could have done to prevent it any more than I could, my love.

[ She's working her way around to the heart of what she really wants to ask. ]

I couldn't blame you, that you. Or even the last you. You're still so young. But you, Sweetie, you knew me best.

[ And she knows it isn't fair. They can't be that far yet. But for her, it's all long past. ]

[He detests this. There is nothing River Song has done wrong, and yet here she stands facing the consequences of knowing who the Doctor is. Her back is against the wall in more ways than one.]

River…

[It feels as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. This is not the same as usual where they are due to sync up their timelines. The threads of time have long been severed, leaving these two the outskirts of the universe.]

Did you enjoy it? Darillium?

[A vague enough question for River not to indulge in spoiler-y details. All he needs to know is if he made good on his promise.]

[ She'd have an argument or two for that. There's plenty River has done wrong. But she's made it a practice to live her life in the moment, without regret or apology, one thing her upbringing had been very useful for.

Still, she hadn't asked for this. She isn't even certain she deserved it. And she still has a few things she'd like to say to him about it.

But damn him. She can feel the sting of tears she refuses to let fall as she nods, reminding herself one needs to breathe before they can speak. ]

Very much.

[ She shakes her head with a dry chuckle. ]

This isn't fair, you know.

He's the one I married. And he's wonderful, always an adventure. [ Set aside the jealousy for a moment, Doctor. ] I've always loved you, all of you. It's never mattered. You're all the same, really. But you were my husband.

[ Except he doesn't remember. And in some cruel twist, if he did, she's relatively sure it would mean forgetting Clara again. ]

[The Doctor isn’t fairing any better, feeling the tears prick by the corners of his eyes. River is right. This isn’t fair. Not for her. She has travelled across the universe with all her brilliance and fiery passion. Only for her to lay rest behind a series of complex coding and algorithms so the Doctor (selfishly) may never say goodbye to her.

His mind lingers to that time in The Library. Those last moments where he was handcuffed and unable to stop River from sacrificing herself. Her last words to words the Doctor:

You watch us run.]

I still am.

[The Doctor’s thumb massages the centre of his palm, slowly walking to approach her closely.]

Do you really think I would ever measure the length of who you are—who we are only by the pages of a book? [He stops in place.] River Song…

[Despite all the sorrow within his two hearts, his eyes remain reassuring to her.]

You are more than just a story.

[ Somehow, she manages a faint smile. ]

Oh, Sweetie, I'm a legend.

[ She starts to lift a hand, then drops it again, her expression conflicted. How much can she tell him? How much should she tell him? Would any of it even matter when (or if) they eventually left this place?

River desperately wants the reassurance he's offering.

Finally, carefully, she places her palm on his chest. ]

You were my husband. Not just by title, Doctor.

[ And she misses him. She'd been missing him for so long now she's lost track. She can't help but be angry because, of all of them, he should have known better, known she wouldn't want to be put in another prison if his only intention was to leave here there. But now he's here in front of her, and all she really wants is to feel like she's home again. ]

[He laughs softly with a faint grin of his own.

She doesn’t have to say anything. Just her presence alone is enough solace for his hearts. What happens at this point is entirely up to them. She's here. At this very moment in time. Mangled timelines be damned.

They'll figure a way to hash out the details later. They always do.]

You realize how difficult planning for our next anniversary is going to be?

Oh, I think I can make a few suggestions.

[ She leans into him. Because her hand's already on his chest. Because this face doesn't do hugs, but he's always made allowances for her. But mostly, because she's missed him. ]

I hate you.

[ It's muttered against his shoulder, somewhat discrediting the statement. Those words have always meant something else between them anyway. But he shouldn't think she isn't still mad at him. She absolutely is. She's just decided...she'll get around to yelling at him later. It can wait. ]

[Clara sneaks into the labs on Christmas Eve and leaves his gift for him at his workstation. She knows he'll be by before the party, and wants him to have some privacy to open his present.

Inside the wrapped box is a handmade guitar pick painted in a shade of Tardis blue. It's a little larger and more crude than ones you can buy, because she's gone and tried carving something on it for him to remember her by. Etched on the pick is her attempt at a little Gallifreyan, copied from memory from the Tardis console unit. The Tardis had pointed out to her that her name was up there with all the other companions, and she had committed her own to memory as best she could. It's not a perfect etching, but she tried her best to get it just right.

Also inside the box is one of her rings that she wears all the time. He'll likely recognize it as one she's worn off and on ever since they met a long time ago. It's one with her birthstone, citrine that's as clear and bright as the stars she loves so much. There's a note in the box, resting beneath the ring.

Doctor,
Sometimes I wish that I could tell you everything. Tell you what happens in our future, and tell you exactly what you mean to me. After all, certain things shouldn't ever be left unsaid. But I think you know exactly how I feel, and you're just not ready to hear it spoken just yet. One day you will be though. And until that day comes, I want you to have this part of me. Keep it close to you if you like, or store it someplace you can come back to look at it later. But always know that I'm the luckiest person in the entire universe because I was given you to see the most amazing things. The things we've done, Doctor. They've changed who I am. I will never be the same, and I have you to thank. You said once before that you're exactly what I deserve. And I know you meant it to be a terrible, scolding thing. But do you know what, Doctor? We're exactly what the other deserves, two parts of a whole. And I've accepted that it doesn't have to be good or bad. It just is what it is.

Happy Christmas, Doctor.

Love,
Clara

There's a second wrapped package right by the first. It's an index card sized, handbound collection of handwritten cue cards. There's about 50 total, 25 cards written front and back. There's a various assortment of (mostly silly and funny) cues and situations for him to use if he's ever in a pinch. There's also some punny jokes intermingled on the cards, and a few sketches of aliens they've encountered on their adventures together. On the very back is a drawing she tried to make of herself, paired with the words "run you clever boy, and remember". He'll likely remember her saying that a few times, a long time ago. Back when she was still a mystery and he was in another lifetime. These words hold a deeper meaning to her now, and she hopes that just maybe the cards will go back with him in his pocket once he leaves this place. And once they reach the end of their story he'll be able to keep a piece of her that lets him remember her and their time together.]

i hear you have a strange fascination with meat.
apparently. i don't know. kovacs told me to burn any weird books i found on meat in the christmas bookstore.
why's that?

[ yes, this is a perfect sensible conversation with someone you know well and yet hardly know at all, in this incarnation of himself. ]

[…You let one envoy pop into your room for a visit and suddenly you’re a madman with a fascination for beef.]

One meat product. It was one slab of salami being stored inside the room for a project that lingered for a little too long.

[ is that better or worse, now that she has context? stay tuned for her deliberation. ]

what kind of project could possibly need an entire slab of salami?

Plenty of projects require salami. They're not there to only look pretty inside your sandwich.

It just happens this one needed to be incubated inside of a duvet to explore microbial cultures in the Ximilia's central air system.

[ Because who doesn't stuff their meat in a blankie for science. ]

wait. hold on.
you slept with it? in your actual bed? and the smell didn't get to you?

[ consensus: she's found this doctor no less strange than the other. strange and yet expected, that they would share certain eccentricities. ]

Assuming that I sleep like a proper human. But no. I settle for standy cat naps while my bed does the work for me.

We call that optimized synergy.

[ just pray that alina doesn't have to step the doctor(s)' room for closer inspection. the answers may surprise her. ]

1: what makes a human a "proper" human

[ is she ever going to stop having more questions, every time the doctor lets his thoughts rush out of his head? not likely. ]

2: please tell me someone has already explained that beds are not designed for your storage needs

1.) Did I say "proper" human? I meant any other human with pudding for a brain

2.) I don't sleep. Hence: storage surface.

[ a few days after christmas, the doctor will find a small rolled up piece of paper, tied by simple string. it isn't signed with a name, but there's the lingering scent of cigarette smoke, along with the careful scribble of a poem: ]

Jagged lines like
cracks in stone
the man wields his age
like a war torn Mirror
But he beams
with new teeth
and strings of a Song
giving water to desolate dirt
and seeing the flowers stem up
in a dance
named Hope

[ New Year's Eve, much too late for it to be called a Christmas gift, the Doctor will find a drawing of a house in his makeshift lab. Most of the surrounding touches are in black and white, but the house itself is shaded a familiar TARDIS blue. It looks like it's been carefully torn from a journal, the outer edges curled and just starting to brown with age. If he turns it over, the back will only read, 'spoilers.'

But it's accompanied by a note. ]

Sweetie, I know I told you we were done with diaries. But you'll see me again. The sunrise on Darillium is beautiful.

I know I've been angry, Doctor, but you made me happy.

[In the days after Christmas, Clara's withdrawn. She spends a great deal of time in the simulation room having one reckless adventure after another. She doesn't sleep, because any time she lays in bed she just cries and cries until she passes out. She starts to look like a hot mess, with dark circles under her eyes, unkempt hair, clothes that are worn day in and day out, and that light that usually shines so bright within her nearly burnt out completely.

But eventually, about a week or so after Christmas, she finally starts to feel like maybe she needs to have some alone time in her room to have a good cry. Processing grief isn't something she really has the space to do here, but she can always have a good lonely cry.

Only when she makes her way back to her room at about three or four in the morning, she's surprised to walk in and see the Doctors laying in bed. The room is dark except for a light that's shining from beneath the blanket that's currently strewn over their bodies. Like two children staying up late they're laughing and being ridiculous, and Clara stares in total disbelief for a moment.

She's not going to waste this opportunity though. No matter how sad and sorry for herself she's feeling. She kicks off her boots and creeps toward the bed in a tiptoe, slipping up under the blanket at the foot of the bed to peek in at them.]

You two aren't waiting here for me, are you?

[They don't usually sleep, and she's never really found them in here before. A part of her wonders if they're here because they know she's hurting, because they always seem to just know when she needs them the most.

Or maybe they're just here to have a weird slumber party and she's interrupting. She never can be sure when these two get together.]

[Underneath the covers, this version of the Doctor is the least audible of the two despite his (poor) attempts at holding back a laugh. He lays there on his side with a hand propping up his head. On the other free hand, he is holding some device brought out from the lab. His mouth was stuffed with a lolly with the stick hanging out from the side. He is as comfy as a grumpy owl can look (not) cuddling up under the covers with his other incarnation.

The two had been reminiscing about some old adventures in their earlier days; of outwitting Cybermen and travelling to planets where they accidentally wed Emperors and Empresses. To inventing feta pasta on accident in a humble little suite in the 1920s.

Now, the Doctor is no stranger to having multiple conversations with himself but this— this may be a new level of having a chat with oneself. Looking at each other with childlike glee.

Then he hears Clara’s voice.

He pushes the duvet away from his head, craning his neck to get a better look at her.]

There you are!

[He was really hoping she’d pop in at some point.]

Have you tried this sleepover thing? It’s incredible! You just go under the covers and pretend to be sleeping, but you’re doing something completely different. Such a simple form of deception! I should have thought of this centuries ago.

[There's a gift left on your bed, Doctor!

It's not wrapped, but it does have a nice red bow on top, and a little handwritten note in an envelope with a goofy, poorly skeleton wielding a guitar drawn on top. It says as follows:

From one unlovable to another. Proof I think you're OK! - N

Behold, a tiny piano, just big enough to play a melody on; no more, no less.]

have you managed to invent some sort of horseless anti gravity stagecoach yet?

Inside the farm attic. I had an entire route mapped out until River intervened. Something about the neighbours giving us looks and asking too many questions.

What, you actually listened? And here I was worried how you'd manage without me for an entire month.

Of course I listened. We're married. I wasn't about to make this a one-way communication conduit where it's through one ear and out the other. Then we'd have to seek out a marriage counsellor and it'll get only messier. And I don't do messy.

I'm a simple man who invents things for a living.

Edited 2022-01-12 01:48 (UTC)

Go on, then. Tell me what else you've invented.

Water Diagnoser Matrix. Reinforced Storage Refiner Mechanism. Synthetic Clay Assembler Widget. Precise Blackout Transferator Kit. Precise Road Monitron.

Just to name a few.

All very impressive. Even if I don't know what any of them are supposed to mean. What does the blackout transferator do, exactly?

Exactly what you think it does with the word "blackout" in it: Turns off the lights with a blink of an eye.

Gone are the days of clapping the lights off. In this town, we are moving on to a more subtle, passive way of handling appliances.

Have you actually tested it to see if it works? Because that actually sounds useful, you clever cog.

Of course I tested it. You remember when I made that invisibility watch? That took several attempts and a concerned policeman before I brought it to Coal Hill.

So do I need to use the blackout thing as an excuse to see you? Or are you ever gonna tell me where you are?

What if I told you you didn't have to go running around in that dress of yours?

It's a small town. Easy to spot a familiar face.

are you watching me?

[excuse her while she looks all around trying to spot him]

and are you telling me to take off my dress right now? what else would I go running around in? you didn't bring holographic clothes with you this time around, did you?

As we speak.

And don't start ripping off your clothes. You're supposed to blend in, not strutting non-existent catwalks in your support garments.

found you

[And now she's staring right at him, smiling and not doing something ridiculously obvious like waving. he looks...scruffier than the last time she saw him. how cute]

[Scruffy might be an understatement to describe how unkempt the Doctor appears. His grey curly locks have grown an inch or two too long, giving him more of a Beethoven-esque style. And while not exactly a beard, his facial hairs allude to one growing if he doesn’t keep it in check.

He looks over her way and returns the hand wave, signalling her to come out and do the hugging thing.]

[Her fingers curl against her mouth as she lowers her hand, laughing to herself. He's certainly ruggedly handsome and charming like this, signaling for her to approach him. Which she does, hurrying her way on over to him.

He's practically tackled in a hug as she leaps forward to embrace him in a tight hug. He's safe and sound, and looking good. What more could she ask for, after having him be here on his own for so long?]

Miss me?

[She's asks when she pulls back, tipping her head to smile up at him.]

[Within the grand scheme of things, a month is not a long time. A month to get a better lay of the land and begin the search for the orb’s location. River was a tremendous help in keeping the Doctor in check. She was probably one of the very few people in his inner circle who understood his different eccentricities and needs.

But he thought about Clara more than he will ever admit in front of her.

Her smile. Her wit. Her everything. It never really is the same with the Doctor running around without Clara to turn to. And so when she goes to hug him, he smiles and leans in to wrap his arms around her. It was as if they never left each other for an entire month.

The Doctor pulls away the same time she does, raising an eyebrow at such a question.]

When do I not miss you?

[That answer is one that puts a wide smile on her face. And she loses track of herself as she looks up at him, admiring his newfound scruffiness. Eventually she does realize she's staring though, and tries to play it cool from that point on.

It's hard to do with the way she's smiling.]

Dunno. Thought you might, what with spending an entire month alone with your wife.

[She teases, reaching up to press her hand atop his incredibly fluffy hair. Her touch drops down to his cheek, palm pressing warm against him. Her smile never fades, not even when her touch drops away completely.]

Tell me everything you've discovered so far.

What? River?

[He notices the way Clara threads through his fluffy hair. It’s the sort of hair that doesn’t require a hat (unless you want the Doctor looking like some deranged Scottie dog). And he’ll be damned if he succumbs to the temptations of his past self.

Either way, when Clara drops her hand down, he starts leading the way back to her room.]

Time’s have changed, Clara. Not in this economy. I’m just a simple stay at home husband, making things are tidy and bandit-free.

[A beat.]

Now—I’ll tell you what I’ve found after you’ve gone to bed.

[Is he...sending her to bed?

She's almost so confused by his steering her back toward the saloon that she isn't sure what to do or say at first.]

Why do I need to go to bed? I'm not even tired.

[Still, she's walking right along with him as he leads the way. That doesn't stop her from glancing up at him like he's grown a second head. Sometimes he takes his duty of care a little too far. Like by giving her a bedtime.]

About that, Clara.

[There goes that face again. That face he makes when he has to break something to Clara that he knows might get a smack from her.]

I wasn’t going to mention it to you but your eyes are starting to sink into your face crevice. Figured you and someone else would have a kip before landing here but now we’re reaching catastrophic black hole levels of facial implosion.

[She gasps in offense, digging her heels in.]

What do you mean, you figured me and someone else? What are you trying to say, Doctor?

[He is now wading into dangerous territory, with her bristling and deciding if she wants to give him a smack for being an ass. She knows he doesn't typically mean anything by his insulting her physical appearance, but she's peeved by his insisting she go to bed like she's some sort of child that needs to be told what's best for her.]

Who else was I supposed to say?! You know I don’t sleep. I thought you’d form yourself some sort of sleep club with the other human types aboard. Read a little Dostoevsky before calling it in.

[Honestly, he cannot find fault in what he said. Everyone likes sleeping. Who wouldn’t grin at the suggestion of falling asleep for a few hours?]

I’m just saying that you get some sleep before we do anything else. Not perform the macarena in front of a stadium Cybermen!

[She stares up at him in near disbelief, but believes what he's saying. He doesn't usually intend on offending her. And she's a little wound tight and easily offended right now.]

I had someone I could've shared a bed with. But I don't anymore.

[Which is about all she's going to reveal about her recent romantic entanglement. Thankfully, she doesn't necessarily make it sound like one.]

When I'm tired, I'll sleep. Okay?

[Her tone's light by the end, careful not to seek an argument. She just wants to appease him and let him know that she's heard him and she'll consider resting. ]

[The Doctor stops mid-step and rests a hand on top of his right hip.]

And what if I told you I want to go to bed?

[A beat for him to explain.]

I’m due for my sleep cycle. If I don’t tuck in for a cat nap then I’ll start to see spots. Or worse— [He raises his eyebrows.] I might start singing a jaunty tune out of delusion.

So you want to go back with me and have a cuddle?

[He'll have to forgive her for sounding a bit skeptical. But hey, if he's due for sleep, she'll gladly take him back to the saloon and pull him right into bed. So she relents and lets him lead the way on back, trying to hold back a smile.]

Well, I’m not very much of a cuddler, but—

[And then he stops to take inventory. He is doing that thing again where his mouth is doing more harm than good.

So he sighs and relents.]

Yes. I very much want a bedtime cuddle if that’s alright with you.

[She glances up at him with a smirk.]

Think it'll be just fine, Doctor.

[Fast forward about twenty minutes later, and they're laying curled up in bed. She's spooning him, her arm curled around his waist. And yes, she's smiling contently as she nuzzles in close against his back.]

We should do this more often. How often do you need sleep, exactly?

[There are only a few people within the Doctor’s inner circle who have ever had a proper cuddle with him: his companions and River Song (and maybe Jack Harkness if the time agent knew how to behave himself). It is all a very different story when inhabiting this body. Never the same skin hunger he feels back in his previous regenerations. But he finds this body to be particularly special, it only responds to the affection of his loved ones. Especially that of Clara Oswald.

Her arm is wrapped around his waist snugly enough for him to sink in. Part of him worries whether she has a faceful of curly white hair in her way. But this is more of a perfect opportunity to allow for his human companion, for once, to act like a proper human.]

About every month or seven.

[He adjusts himself on this old cot for a bed, making sure Clara has enough blanket slack all the while.]

Depends on how much we exert ourselves. Sometimes it can be because of overheating. [He shrugs.] Sometimes it can be due to a big lunch.

Oh, is that all?

[She teases, laughing softly. This is nice, she could definitely get used to this. But then again, she supposes if it was a frequent thing, it would become ordinary eventually.]

Remind me to feed you and drag you out into the sun more often.

[There's a pause as the mention of the sun makes her think of another adventure they had. It feels so long ago now.]

Do you remember the desert planet you took me to once? We were chained to a post and I had left the vibro cutters in my other jacket pocket.

[She's able to laugh about the memory now, though at the time it had seemed so intense.]

I thought we were gonna starve to death. But you told me the sand piranhas would get us long before that ever happened.

[Her giggles bubble forth into something warm and fond and filled with love. This is exactly what she needs to start off the mission. A night of cuddling and quiet conversation before falling asleep.]

[ It's quite late at night, when a text comes through the Doctor's earpiece. ]

I'm looking for the Doctor. Not the gangly one who is pretending to be married to Clara, but the other one, who plays the guitar. Do I have the right Doctor?

[Finally, some long-needed acknowledgement in the wee hours of the night.]

The one and only non-gangly, non-bowtie enthusiast Doctor on board this crew.

Oh good, I have the right one.

I'd like to file a complaint.

[Okay. Not that type of acknowledgement.]

--This is a voicemail. Please submit any forms of complaints and/or discontent to one Raleigh Becket.

Oh, I see how it is. When you think there's a compliment coming your way, you're all ears, but as soon as the hammer comes down, nobody's home.

Coward.

You call it cowardice. I consider it to be a form of very effective, selective hearing.

A practical skillset to have when you are running around for more than two thousand years.

[ Hang on, that's actually interesting. ]

Two thousand? You're either extremely well preserved, or not entirely human.

You're correct about the latter but I will also accept the former as a well-crafted, backhanded compliment.

Does that surprise you?

A bit. You look human.
What are you if not that?

Time Lord. Born on the planet Gallifrey in a galaxy far, far away.

Best not delve too deep into details unless we'd be here a while.

That's a bit presumptuous, isn't it?
"Time Lord."

Who are you trying to impress?

Nobody! That's what my people are called. We're time lords.

The existence of a lord implies that there is someone or something you are lording over. Otherwise why not just call yourselves time people?

[...Okay. Point taken.]

Did I mention that we are a very old race with very old traditions?

Very old traditions of subjugating people who you deem to be beneath you in some way???

No. That is you jumping to a conclusion. At no point did I ever mention subjugating others.

If you're not subjecting anyone then why are you lords?

As I said: A very old nomenclature created by very old people.

The first people to harness time travelling technology, but it is not our place to meddle or look down upon others.

Oh, yes. That brings me back around to my complaint!

If not looking down on others is so important to you, then why did you tell Primsy Klemons that her needlepoint looked like a drunken cow?
She had a hissy fit over it all afternoon at the tea shop!

[ Yes, this is what L3-37 has been reduced to by this mission. Mediating disputes over local gossip. ]

Well that's not exactly my problem! She wanted an honest opinion and I told her the cow looked a little wonky.

I refuse to contribute to the cycle of lies that hinders her potential in capturing the cow's true essence!

Of course the cow looked wonky, that's not the point!
Her entire life is probably some sort of orb-induced simulation! Just let the poor woman go on thinking her needlepoint is up to snuff.
It's all that she has.

Even more reason to make her come to terms with the truth. Look at her eyes, L3-37!
Beneath those placid, pre-programmed eyes is passion. Determination, even. Who am I to add on to this veil of ignorance?

You see passion and determination. I see the vacant stare of a droid with a restraining bolt attached, only the organic version. The woman needs to be set free, I agree, but insulting her needlecraft is not the way to go about it!

Fine. She gets one compliment next round. A compliment sandwich, if you will. A carefully crafted positive statement bundled together by two toasty buns of "you need to do better".

I'm fairly certain a "compliment sandwich" is supposed to go Compliment, Critique, Compliment, not Insult, Compliment, Insult.

They are, for all intents and purposes, constructive truths. But if you are so worried that the big bad wolf will come knocking her straw house down, then you can see it yourself.

See what? Her wonky cow? I've seen it. It looks like a drunken bantha.

I rest my case, your honor.

[ The last mission had strained emotions and temperaments, and many had allowed both to get the better of them in the middle of the fight, not that it seems it had made much difference in the end. Some friendships might be stressed for a while, she expects.

It isn't even an argument she and the Doctor haven't had before. He knows very well by now who she is and how she thinks. He should know, too, she makes no apologies for it. Maybe it's her own fault, all that time she spent trying to hide that side of herself.

They haven't talked since the mission. His younger self's absence had been a convenient distraction, but now there's no avoiding it. ]

Are you still upset with me?

[It was only a matter of time before things really being to unravel. Bound by the contract of this station to seek the orbs, no matter the costs. Apparently, that also gives an excuse for the crew to become mental and rush in with their weapons in the air. Another needless battle.

There is no TARDIS to isolate himself in. The best he can settle for is the comfort of the chair he is sitting on, looking onto the chalkboard in front of him with various equations and theorems scribbled all over.

When River approaches the Doctor, he scrubs his face down with his hand.]

No.

[He says quietly, crossing one leg over the other. The Doctor knows River. She was born on the battlefield. Their codes of morality are diametrically opposed to each other. Being cross with her would be an unfair assessment of the root of the problem.]

You weren’t alone in seeking cold vengeance.

[ River hadn't just been born on the battlefield. She's a weapon, shaped for only one purpose. The fact that she has any morals at all is, frankly, something of a miracle. It's less a sense of right and wrong and more a sense of acceptable and unacceptable.

It hadn't simply been about vengeance, not for her. And she tells him as much. ]

It wasn't that, Sweetie.

[ River's darkness might run even colder than that. ]

They would have done it again and again. They'll never stop. They'll never change.

[His brows furrow. How easy it must be to lead on with a pistol in hand. The two lead similarly dangerous yet different lives. Retaliation tends to hit several forks in the road.]

They did it for the orb! The exact reason we were down there. Not to play judge, jury and executioner.

[Death is inevitable. But death isn’t justice. Never was or will be. If it was, his little tiff with the Daleks would have ended a millennium ago.]

I didn’t sign this contract to roleplay as some space marine with pudding for a brain.

[ She doesn't waver, doesn't even raise her voice. ]

This time. They did it for the orb this time.

[ There's a glint of something dangerous in her eyes, anger warring with calm. ]

And you, Doctor, play judge, jury, and executioner plenty. Or did you think using words rather than bullets excuses you from the outcome?

How long have you known me, Doctor? I'm not playing any role. And I'm certainly not a space marine. No one points me at a target and tells me to shoot. Not anymore. You know they aren't the first, and you know they won't be the last. I've killed for better reasons, and I've killed for much worse. But it hasn't been anyone's decision but mine for a very long time.

[He nods.]

So be it, eh? Take away their source to the pulsefire. Take away the orb. No. That isn’t enough. What do I possibly know about facing your worst enemy straight on? Shoot one day. Wash, rinse, repeat until justice is truly served!

[He turns to walk around the corner.]

This is your life now, Doctor Song.

[ She laughs, actually laughs, though it may have something of a hysterical edge to it. But she doesn't follow, just shouts after him. ]

It's 'Professor,' Sweetie.

[ If he wants to insult her, he can at least do it right. ]

And I'm already dead. Or have you forgotten?

[He stops in place. The blue of his eyes turns to look on at her.]

No.

[He sticks his hands inside the pockets of his trousers.]

But I’m also a firm believer in second chances.

[With that, he turns to exit.]

A second chance for what, Doctor?

[ Life? He may be talking to the wrong person. Hasn't she done enough lingering about? ]

To be someone I'm not? I've had quite enough of that for one lifetime.

And our friends on that planet were well beyond second chances, too. Whatever you feel, Doctor, they made their own choices.

[ There's venom in her voice on the word friends. ]

Then what is the bright line then? You pull the trigger and that’s it? You proudly carry on with a badge of honour? Hop over to the next planet. See the next act of injustice and aim directly at the head?

[For all he cares, River can have venom out her pores. That won’t stop him from forgoing his creed. The promise he made himself after the war.]

I didn’t live to be this old just so I can default to some basic bouts of retribution.

Basic. I see.

You don't know me at all, do you, Sweetie?

[ Did she enjoy the violence? Probably still a little more than she should. There's a thrill of adrenaline that's addictive, especially when you've been born into it.

But pride? Honour? ]

Would you like a list, my love? Details, perhaps. And a reason for each so that you can judge my sins yourself.

I don’t need one. I lived it, Sweetie.

[Two assassination attempts. A weapon carved out of the Silence. And yet, here he stands. A testament to both time and madness.]

Do you honestly think that I’m so fragile that your sins will crack my vows to you as your husband?

A fraction of it. You got off lightly.

[ She steps closer, fingers itching to reach out and press against his chest. They stay at her side as she flexes them restlessly. ]

Fragile isn't the word I would choose.

Good.

[His footsteps inches closer to her. He knows that look. If there is anything he can infer from his previous regeneration, he knows that there is about a millennium’s worth of words hiding beneath her eyes. Words that neither of them can ever say to each other.

His hand swoops in and threads between her fingers.]

It doesn’t suit either of us.

Not particularly.

[ Her fingers tighten around his, all the things she can't (or won't) say poured into that single point of contact. ]

I haven't been allowed many choices in my life, Doctor. I won't apologize for the ones I make now.

[ one evening in sedorum, after a little too much time alone with her own thoughts, marta reaches out to the doctor— ]

Doctor. Are you busy?

[Unsurprisingly, he is more than awake at this hour. Marta (obviously) can’t see him, but the Doctor is currently being hanged by his ankle from an invisible trap that one of the crime syndicates laid out.]

A little hung up on something. But I'm never one to turn down multi-tasking. Only if it’s not about proper succulent care or what gift to give your nan on Boxing Day.

I don't have a succulent or a nan, [ comes marta's easy, if slightly bewildered response; more and more these days she finds simply going along with whatever either of the doctors have got going on rather than trying to parse through it saves her a few hours' worth of headaches in the long run. ]

I was more wondering if I could ask you something about your time traveling.

Doctor? Think my mouth has finally gotten me in proper trouble.

Forget being my lawyer. We may need an escape plan at this point.

〈 here's a username that has been missing for several weeks— 〉

.. ...
... - .- .-. -- .- -.
.-- .- .. - .. -. --.
.. -.
- .... .
... -.- -.--

[ Gettin' fancy there with the linguistics. ]

Best look out your window, you might see a fleck of light.

If only I had a window.
You’ll have to enjoy the sight for me.

That's the problem with landlords. Promises of affordable space and not so much of a window to plop your succulents in front of. Then again, something tells me you haven't cooped yourself up long enough to take up botany.

Where've you been?

Experiencing the relativity of time in…I was about to say "real time." But that would suggest the existence of a false time, and it's not false, just different depending on the frame of reference through which it's being perceived—
Pulling back from that tangent, time dilation is a kick in the head. Also, the people here aren't real conversational.

I'm feeling very old at the moment. Are you older than me right now? Call me a young'un.

No. I'm not going to enable your little mid-century crisis.

The others are all arguing over the orb and I am tired and want to call them all whippersnappers.

Right. The proverbial orb-shaped elephant in the room. Welcome to my world.

They think we might be able to fix this planet and make it healthy again somehow.

Also that giving the orb to an individual here is a good idea.

That orb should be in no one's possession. If there is anything more dangerous in this universe, it's the bitter taste of revenge from the opposition.

All we need is more time with the water supply. We're wasting our time dwelling on the probable.

Only a few people are advocating for that, and they're not going to win that one. The second someone tries I am grabbing it and making the decision for everyone.

[ Jack will have no hesitation about that. None. He's made worse unilateral decisions. ]

Has this group ever captured the orb without touching it?

In practice? No. But there haven't been any previous stipulations about securing a perimeter around the orb. Think: Capture the Flag.

[ As long as no one from the immediate Ximilia crew touches it. They have at least a slither of chance at least reconciling the even bigger planetary elephant in the room. ]

But it will require some team effort. And if there's anyone who is too old for all this, it's me.

Edited 2022-07-09 01:39 (UTC)

I don't think that will be possible this time, they think it's in the poisoned water. A few of the mechanical people are volunteering to go down there, but they know when they get it, that's it. Does it only react off of skin contact or can we put it in a bag or something?

You know I'd rather just finish this mission. But then I remember that our adventures have never been that simple.

It never is, old friend.

Grab the orb and we end up back on the station. Our best option is to contain it with as little contact as possible.

If we have geniuses who think they can fix this planet's issues, they should be smart enough to figure a way to move it without touching it, right?

I wish I could fire people like at Torchwood. Just go on a firing spree.

[ Right.

So not only did word get around regarding his older self mixing up in the labour camp battles alongside actual, seasoned and trained soldiers (not to fight, thankfully, but being there at all seemed really rather silly of the daft old man), but the Doctor (this one) had seen it for himself when the dust had settled and they were called to the aftermath of purifying the waters. Hemming and hawing and wincing when he moved, it was quite a relief when they'd finally made it back to the station and sent the injured into the Infirmary for a quick, proper bandaging.

Which is where the Doctor will find himself lying in a bed, his eyes closed, those cross brows of his furrowed as though he's an old owl dreaming of some lecture he's got to teach, except all of his students have failed to turn in their essays and he's about ready to send them all packing. ]

Oy, me! Wakey-wakey, I made a broth!

[ And indeed, when the Doctor (the owl one) opens his eyes he'll find himself (bowtie and all) with a tray in his hands, a silver spoon and a bowl of hot, delicious-smelling soup sitting atop it.

There may also be some Jammy Dodgers (as requested from the supply drop!) on a plate beside it, but whether that's for the older Doctor or for him remains to be seen. ]

[ She doesn't hover as he recovers in the same way she might (and has) over his younger self. It's more subtle than that, the way she simply seems to be there more often than she isn't. To tell the truth, she isn't even sure the Doctor's noticed the gradual shift from her avoiding him to existing just outside (and sometimes inside) his personal space. She almost doesn't notice it herself until a conversation during Newt's movie night makes her realize...she isn't angry anymore.

It's well into the night some few days after when she settles next to him on the bed with a book she isn't even interested in, a bottle of wine, and a single glass. She offers him the glass in silence. But her silence doesn't last long. It rarely does unless she's angry. Or deeply hurt. ]

I know I'm not supposed to talk about it; you haven't been there yet. I see it every time I look at you.

[ She doesn't bother to mask her feelings, not this time. She's earned her disappointment, her heartache. ]

But we had a good marriage, you know.

[ Suddenly she laughs. It sounds ridiculous when she puts it like that. But summing up their time on Darillium any other way when they can't share in the memories seems...wrong, somehow. ]

[ At first, he says nothing. He looks softly at River pouring her glass as she speaks. Darillium has always been a point of contention for the Doctor. He remembers all those times River would ask about when they can travel there and he always had to skate away from the answer.

Because he knows those singing towers marked something wonderful for their marriage. But it also meant the eventual end to something wonderful.

It’s all very complicated. Marriages are complicated. The very least he can do is to be a decent husband. ]

…Good. [ He holds the glass over his chest. ] Because it would be very awkward if you’re to tell me you want to file for a divorce.

[ She laughs again, taking a drink this time to punctuate it. ] Stuck with me, I'm afraid.

[ A part of her wants to tell him she hadn't been any more willing to let him go than he had her, but he had let her go, walked away and found someone new. Multiple someones, knowing the Doctor. It's hard to say how long it's been, exactly, not that they've ever been exclusive, strictly speaking.

Maybe Darillium has made her selfish. Or maybe it's dying that's done it. ]

I knew as well as you did, what was coming. I never could keep away from stories of us. But I never worked it out completely.

[ She sighs, picking through her words, trying to relent without apologizing. ]

I've been angry with you for something you haven't even done yet, a decision you'll make for another you who won't know me well enough to understand why I wouldn't appreciate it. But I got something out of that, too, Doctor. [ Much, much more quietly, ] And I've left them behind.

I think I've had enough of that.

[ Smiling, she rests a hand on his leg. ]

Thank you for saving me, Sweetie.

[ Again, he’s quiet. He is simply content with her company. His free hand cups over his cheek. Knowing what he had to do to keep River ‘alive’ - it was probably one of the most brilliant (and stupidest) ideas in his life. An incarnation of the Doctor who doesn’t know how far these two will run, so young and naïve, but one truth always ring true in all the Doctor’s lives: He hates losing people.

With the same free hand, he wraps it over River’s hand, not quite reckoning the wave of emotion washing over his body. ]

That anger wasn’t misplaced.

[ He gives her hand a firm squeeze. ]

[ Acknowledgement of fault? What has he done with her husband?

But even as she stares at him in quiet disbelief, her lingering uncertainty fades, light chasing the shadow out of her eyes. ]

I was hurt, Doctor.

[ After so long hiding the damage, it's a relief to say it outright, even if it forces them both to confront it. ]

My life was decided for me before I was born. You took away my choice, even in the end. And you can tell anyone else you were trying to save me, but it wasn't about me, Doctor. It was about you. It was selfish.

[ She shrugs and turns her hand in his to lace their fingers tightly together. ]

I can be selfish too.

I don't believe they can do as they claim. We may go on like this forever or we might all be gone tomorrow. I love you. [ The words nearly catch in her throat; it's so rare they say them to each other, favoring 'I hate yous' instead. ] I won't waste my time being angry over what can't be changed.

[ one morning on the station, on each orber's door, the following hand-written note (in fancy calligraphy) will be taped:

the orber can choose to attend or simply listen in to the meeting when it occurs, or they may ignore it altogether. ]

	You've reached Dr. Funkenstein. Expert on all things funkadelic. Please, by all means, save us both the hassle and don't leave a message.
	TEXT \| AUDIO \| VIDEO

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