Clothes Without Pockets are a Bane to Society

I’ve wanted to lean a lot harder into the much more eldritch-y alien hcs i’ve had for a while now, but they’re not,,, the most conducive to rp at times, not to mentioned that’d be a pretty hard change for kind of the status quo of where tentoo is on this blog (which admittedly has been way tamed down from my proper tentoo feelings for a while now). 

                     it’s hardly as if she can get away from them – or will; the Doctor’s in an odd, quiet mood where they keep themselves busy to avoid something else, and besides, they’d only follow after her if she were to leave – but Rose very much feels compelled to break away from the smothering attention they’re paying to her, nevertheless. she doesn’t need it right now. the mission hadn’t gone quite as planned, she’s tired, and damn near ready to snap at someone – she doesn’t want it to be the Doctor. 

 “there’s nothin’ that y’ can do,” is her retort, and though there’s the faintest trace of irritation in her voice, the blonde keeps a firm grip on their hand still, as if to hold their attention, so that they truly take in how serious she’s being about this. “look – ‘m fine, see?” she adds earnestly. and indeed she is: any injuries she’d sustained from their mission are purely superficial. small scrapes that require maybe a bandage or two, at their worst – they’re making a bigger deal out of this than it needs to be, and stressing her out in the process. “i jus’- the best thing y’can do for me right now is t’ just stop fussin’ an’ come sit down. drop it, Doctor. please.” 

There’s nothing you can do. They know her words weren’t intended that way, that she’s simply referring to the fact there’s no injuries for them to fix, but the words reflect their own internal self doubt all the same, bouncing around their head. They hardly glance over her injuries as she insists she’s fine-- they know they’d already verified that, they just couldn’t do nothing. After a few moments they give her a slight nod, but their jaw is tightly clenched and their leg begins bouncing too fast almost immediately as the settle down beside her. 

Maybe Torchwood was the wrong choice-- this wasn’t them, they didn’t work in teams, too many more lives to worry about, more people that would just turn into more deaths on their conscience. They didn’t stick around, didn’t have to deal with repercussions, and likely inevitable lectures on what they were supposed to be doing and on taking too many risks. Didn’t have to be stuck riding in a zeppelin, unable to run. 

Text: ‘Course not. Text: I’ll be more specific then– don’t get up from where you’re sitting. Text: I didn’t have it in my head that you were going to.. TARDIS off somewhere. Text: I’m just…. worried.