Not Just Stories

[It hadn’t been long that they’d been living this life — unwillingly, might she add. He’d been forced into making himself human through what looked like a terribly painful process and now they’d ended up here, sharing a house because Rose had managed to use the psychic paper as a credit card and an ID card, and writing out books. Well, Rose wasn’t the one doing the writing, thankfully. She was just editing. She hadn’t done much of that yet, because the book wasn’t fully finished. John hadn’t written all of it, as of right then.

He was John now. Not ‘the Doctor’, but John. It was strange and foreign in her mouth, and at first she’d often slipped up, but now she’d gotten used to it enough not to accidentally start with a ‘Doct—’ and have to correct herself halfway through a word. She wasn’t supposed to let him know yet; he still had years to go. (Years. She had to bring him back years from now!)

It hadn’t meant she liked it. John was nice enough, but she missed the Doctor. Then again, John was the Doctor, and she saw it in the way he acted around her, the way he looked at her, the way he smiled…

But it was different. He wasn’t the Doctor she’d run away with. It was difficult to come to terms with this sort of thing on your own, but she’d accepted this life when she’d started traveling with the Doctor. So she’d help John, and call her mother to make sure she knew everything was all right, and carry on as always.

Except she’d thought she’d be able to sleep in a little more now that they weren’t constantly adventuring. Apparently not.]

‘m up, ‘m up… [No, she wasn’t. And her calls through the door were muffled.] What time’s it?

So instead he glanced around the hallway, fingers drumming insistently against the wall. A few boxes littered the corridor, even if they had moved into the house awhile back. He couldn't be bothered to put the majority of his possessions away. It would feel far too permanent.

Even though he'd moved a grand total of three times in his life (Once from Langworthy to London when he was four, moving into his own apartment while in his twenties, then here.), there was this small expectancy that this arrangement wouldn't last too long. He had no idea why.(something along the lines of all good things must come to an end, he supposed.) But no need to unpack if he'd just be packing up again in a few weeks.

He kept talking, not allow her to fall back asleep. As she was likely aiming to.] Eight. Not early. Early by your standards, maybe. Might want ta hurry though. Breakfast's gettin' cold.

[A pause of consideration.] Tell you what. I'll go check on the food, maybe 'eat it back up if needed, an' you get ready. Knowin' you, you'll take ages. [Not really but a bit of teasing never went amiss.

John pressed against the wall, pushing himself into a standing position. Just about to head back towards the kitchen when-] Oh, an' I'd 'urry if I were you. Got a bucket an' a supply a water. Not afraid ta use it.