{ximilia} - ic inbox

[attackbrows]

	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.
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[bossily]

[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.]

[attackbrows]

[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.