spiro et spero

doctor who day again already? time flies :D well i've now done 30 of these doctor who portraits, so time for an all together update

❝  do  my  eyes  deceive  me,  or  is  that  really  who  i  believe  it  is  !  ❞  in  another  life,  adelé  would  have  made  a  fine  entertainer.  something  tender,  someone  who  had  not  learned  how  to  take  fluttering  eyelashes  and  turn  them  into  daggers.  she  is,  however,  not  the  soft  girl  she  could  have  been  had  the  world  been  kinder  to  her.  instead  she  now  resides  in  cesspools  that  would  kill  her  father  from  the  deep  cut  of  shame.  ❝  valjean,  your  presence  is  not  requested,  but  it  may  be  appreciated.  yet  that  remains  to  be  seen,  will  it  not  ?  ❞

sinks  down  next  to  him  in  a  chair  that  was  never  meant  to  seat  someone  like  her.  would  have  brought  him  a  drink,  if  only  she  weren't  so  stubborn.  ❝  remind  me,  are  the  french  and  spaniards  fighting  this  time  of  year  ?  it  would  be  a  shame  for  us  to  betray our countries  by  being  near  friendly  with  one  another  during  times  of  war.  ❞

At first his gaze stays where it is, hovering over the room with no apparent focus. A brief blink serves as a tell, proof he has heard. The reluctance to leap into engagement should convey his desire; perhaps it does and goes unheeded anyway. When the inevitable arrives, he surrenders reluctantly to it, the eyes turned to her painted a strange indiscriminate hue by candlelight and shadow. “You have approached me,” he points out. “I doubt it’s for my company.” Pure fact, no malice offered, in spite of his initial flash of annoyance and lingering caution.

@reverdies (thank you!)

Meg's eyebrows rose and an admonishing chuckle followed close behind. "Darling, I've seen things you most likely wouldn't believe. If you think whatever this is," a vague gesture accompanied Meg's words, "is overkill, then all that tells me is you haven't been here long."

She lit up a cigarette, her eyes never leaving Ninon's figure. Meg wasn't stupid— even the women couldn't be trusted round here.

Judgment reserved, Ninon watched the cigarette catch fire in envy. Not that she couldn’t physically, just that it would seem too alike. The insincerest form of flattery if also the oldest: theft. Perhaps that also explained her outrageous outfit; no one would dream of copying it.

Halos. Thirty plates illustrative of natural phenomena. 1846.

Alfred. A good name. Without the addition of his surname, it felt all the more special. Fox opened her mouth to give him a name of her own and hesitated. What should he call her in return? She, like the creature they had watched, could be called by the correct name of a fox sparrow or simply by sparrow. It didn't make the naming any less true, but she wasn't certain which would be better.

"There are many names by which I go," she started. Feeling as though she was about to recite to him the beginning of some folklore rather than give him an answer. Vasilisa, Vasa, Vasya, Vasinka, Lissa, Lissa-chka, Vasen'ka, Lisa, or more notably, Fox. Did the English have as many names for one being? Certainly, they must. He could be Alfred or Fred or Al or Alf or Alfie or Freddie.

"I am known most commonly, here, much like the sparrow," she bowed her head the same way she did when making an acquaintance of any forest creature who happened to notice her. "As Fox." She wasn't certain he'd believe she was being honest, considering the circumstances, but giving him Vasilisa had felt a step too proper. She was reserved for beautifully written dance cards, for pearls and jewels, for lace and velvet and polite, painted smiles.

At the question of names, he had been decisive and daring, holding up his first name as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The same question gave her pause. A brief thought flashed; was her name perhaps secret? As if mimicking their feathery guest, he tilted his head at her. He didn’t press; patience a tool he already wielded with the birds themselves. As her answer came, the beat made sense. He had made his own choice of simplicity; now she must make hers.

A choice that made him smile. Perhaps the name too was her choice; he wouldn’t be opposed to that either. He came from a world that imposed names like prison sentences, inescapable and rigid. Oh, to share a name with something vibrantly full of life, to associate it with joy! Instead, all his names felt restrictive to a degree. He would enjoy vicariously that hers did not.

“Then it is good to meet you, Fox.” His head dipped, more crane than sparrow. The encounter came as a surprise for him as well. Remote, perhaps on the way to somewhere but never the most likely path. He could well ask her the same. Instead he chose patience again. “You may ask, and no, this is not my home— though it feels more that way than where I come from.”