old school

Rose’s gaze cuts through her with laser-like precision, allowing shame and embarrassment to seep in, taking the edge off of her anger. She is suddenly and painfully aware of the precariousness of their situation -- how readily she had positioned herself to cause pain.  The very thought of what she might have done if left unchecked brings bile to the back of her throat and forces her to take a step back, finally letting the other woman go. Rose’s opinion of the act is irrelevant to her distaste of it. The woman doesn’t know her past, her mind, the fear that follows close of the heels off blistering rage. Her hands find her face. fingers dragging across skin as though she might be able to claw her way out of it. It would be so much easier to be somebody else, but no matter how many times she changes faces and how hard she tries to cling to all that is good, something always seems to coax her back to that dreadful, terrible ledge beneath which legendary anger roils. When she speaks, it seems as though she hadn’t even been listening to the redhead’s words.        “I’m sorry.”                 “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Maybe. Not sure. Bit tricky.” Her head bobs back and forth with every thought, marking her uncertainty. She tucks the sonic screwdriver back into the lining of her coat as she moves across the room, bracing her palms against a window sill and looking down at the ground below. Too far to jump. “How long do we have?” 

      “Depends on the revolution, doesn’t it? Some revolutions get a bit bloody, but there are plenty of revolutions of thought or technology or art where nothing is shed aside from tears and old beliefs. Impossible to keep moving forward without a bit of upheaval now and again.” 

“The future has very good plastic surgeons.” She’s kidding, a fact made evident by the tilt of her head and the slight shrug of her shoulder as it brushes against the ends of her hair. A moment later, she drops her voice ever so slightly, eyes sparkling with untamed mischief as she dances a bit closer to the truth with a question of her own, guiding him in the right direction. “Have you ever met a proper alien before? Hard to tell an alien from a human, sometimes. You’d never believe how many species pass as humanoids from a distance. It’s a right laugh.”  She would probably know these things, but her brain has always been picky about the facts that it holds onto. Some things linger forever -- useless tidbits that haven’t been relevant since her youth -- but other things slide right off, and she can’t seem to hold onto them no matter how hard she tries. Normally, she can lean on a friend to help fill in the blanks, but she’s been traveling alone, of late. Just her and the TARDIS -- bouncing from point to point in search of an adventure.  “Time and space. Not very convenient to travel through one without the other.”

“Principles, technically.” Though the answer sidesteps the entire point of the question, it’s not entirely untrue. The Doctor clings to her principles harder than she clings to most other things in the universe, aside from her TARDIS and her friends. They keep her afloat, keep her from devolving into the vengeful monster that she had so long threatened to become. She’s desperately trying to be better than that, even though old temptations sometimes creep in when the nights grow long and her hearts confront the sheer weight of her loneliness.

      “Fine as I’ll ever be, I expect.” A bit off-balance, maybe, but when is she not? New body, new center of gravity, new inner ear -- it all amounts to reeling arms and an inability to center herself, even without bumping shoulders with strangers. Green eyes flick upwards, narrowing slightly as she regards the other. “Something got you down?” 

      Can't promise you kind road below, but I’ll walk with you.

“If it helps, think of it less like cynicism and more like a friendly precaution. Granted, I’m not usually the poster child for care -- I’m more of a jump in with both feet kind of person -- but I very occasionally manage to think before I act. Lucky for us, today is one of those days.” There’s a pause as her head tilts into a slight shrug, blonde hair brushing against her shoulder before she adds a quick, “Apparently.”

        Finally here & working on replies!

I know I said I’d be back today, but I’m a liar and I’m actually going to be back tomorrow.

     I have a super busy weekend on the horizon that I need to prep for, so you probably won’t see much activity from me until Tuesday. 

     If anyone wants to plot some stuff for longer threads, give this a like and I’ll hop into your inbox.

The Doctor nods, eyes following the thestral’s head as it bumps lovingly against Newt. She’s no stranger to the idea of rescue. Even when she’s not dragged into saving planets or mitigating disaster, she’s picking up human strays in her trek across the universe, showing them the possibilities before they either grow past her or are lost. She prefers the former, if offered the choice, but she mourns their departures all the same. She wonders how Newt feels when his rescues don’t need him anymore. Does he rejoice, or does a part of him grieve? She can’t bring herself to ask. It feels too personal.  “Seems like she’s glad you did. I think most things would feel that way, if I’m honest.”                       Herself included. 

Eyes narrow slightly as her mind races backward, sifting through memories of all the young women that she has dragged along on her travels over the centuries. She had fallen in love with more than one of them, and she can’t help but wonder if they, too, had faced this criticism. If they had, she hadn’t noticed...or hadn’t bothered to care. She had liked to think that she had been rather open-minded for a bloke, but her pain and privilege had often blinded to the needs of others. Now that she’s free of grief and the world sees her differently, she’s begun to notice things that she hasn’t before, emphasizing more deeply with the plights of the women of not only this world but the hundreds of thousands of worlds that lie beyond.  A painfully uncomfortable “I didn’t know that,” is all she can manage by way of reply. She shifts in her seat as she seeks to relieve some of the nervous shame that’s coursing through her veins.  It doesn’t work.            “No, I don’t.” Her tone is slightly stronger, uncertainty momentarily cast aside.  “It’s how you connect with others, isn’t it? Can’t make friends or have a conversation unless you’re willing to open up a bit.”