The Twelfth Doctor

broken wrist meme

Helplessness is a strange thing to feel when he’s always tried to hard to avoid it. It’s one thing to be helpless against some kind of enemy, and entirely another to be so helpless that he can’t even wash his own hair. But he supposes that’s what he gets when he refuses to waste regeneration energy to heal himself. 

The cast is, he’s decided, one of his least favourite things in the world. It’s heavy and gets in his way. He wouldn’t be wearing it at all if he’d been living and travelling alone. 

The Doctor sits as still as he can, reclined so his head is over the sink. It’s just like one that might be found in a hairdresser’s, helpfully provided by his TARDIS. Letting someone wash his hair isn’t a particularly difficult thing for him in terms of his feelings about touch - it’s just that nobody has done this to him for a very, very long time. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to sit, whether he’s supposed to look up at Koschei or keep his eyes shut…

Koschei tsks softly at the obvious disgruntlement inside the head of his beloved.  He chuckles, and continues to massage the Doctor’s scalp, while humming Oh Darling by the Beatles.  

     “O-ho darlinnn, please be-lieeeeeve meeeee, IIIII neverrr        dooo you no harrrm,”

      he breaks both soothingly and cheekily into song, thrusting his       head to and fro, rocking enthusiastically to the music, and well       aware of the Doctor’s penchant for electric guitar.  

He pauses to smugly smirk around that mass of suds, and loudly obnoxiously smooch his charge’s forehead.      “Properly annoyed yet?”

He cackles.     “We’re not cheating with regeneration energy, it’ll shorten our lifespans,      so my dear, give it a month or so.  You are exactly seven hundred      seconds in.”  

The Doctor, despite his usual dislike for karaoke and all things close to it, finds the singing endearing and amusing. He watches as much as he can without moving his head, wishing he had a camera to record such a moment for later use as blackmail.

“Annoyed? No, not when you’re doing such a good job of washing my hair. If you’re trying to annoy me, I’m afraid you’re failing miserably.” He stops when he learns he must keep the cast on for ‘a month or so’. “A month? No, that can’t be right, surely there must be some other option...” 

His surface level frustration is about keeping the cast on and this does hold truth; the cast is heavy and he has no doubt it’ll start to itch at some point. He’ll have to find some pointy object to push down the side of it. But his eyes hold a deeper fear of prolonged helplessness and vulnerability. One of his hands is essentially useless for the forseeable future. For someone who relies so much on being able to do things for himself, that is terrifying. 

I also submit, for your recollection, this picture of the Competitive Idiot™ on his tiptoes:

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