#campblls

@campblls​​​ sent: “It’s late. Shouldn’t you be asleep?” ( norton saying this to emily as if he isn't up late , the fool )

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Fluff/Angst—Still Accepting

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“I couldn’t sleep,” the Doctor responded as she held a mug full of warm tea in her hands. She looked different outside of her uniform—due to how late it was, she simply wore a long and white nightgown with her hair down to her mid-back. It was dark save for a candle resting on the table in front of her. Emily wasn’t expecting anyone else to be awake this late at night... She felt almost embarrassed at being caught awake at this hour. 

“I could ask the same for you, Mr. Campbell,” she commented before taking a sip of her tea. They eat had their own reasons for avoiding sleep... Sometimes dreams helped cure the panic she felt in complete isolation, but sometimes the nightmares only made them worse. That was the case tonight.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒  //     ᵃᶜᶜᵉᵖᵗⁱⁿᵍ !  

( @campblls​​​ ) ＰＲＯＳＰＥＣＴＯＲ  ؛           [ look ] for your muse to catch mine staring (norton looking respectfully??)

                The  quiet.  Oh  how  it  stalked  him  at  every  turn.  Haunted  him  with  memories  and  voices  he’d  quite  like  to  forget.  At  least  this  manor  was  good  for  something,  what  with  its  endless  supply  of  drinks  which  he  could  find  in  various  cupboards  throughout  the  manor.  Outside  of  matches,  the  ex-Officer  could  never  be  found  without  a  glass  of  some  intoxication  in  hand,  if  not  a  whole  bottle.  Old  habits  were  hard  to  break,  and  besides  coming  here--  why  would  he  ever  decide  against  his  momentary  cure?  Even  if  it  damned  him  in  the  same  stroke  to  which  it  numbed  him.                 And  tonight  was  no  different.  Here  he  sat  in  a  corner  of  one  of  the  many  dens  of  this  endless  manor.  One  knee  high  boot  propped  against  the  knee  of  his  other  leg  as  he  sat  reclined  back,  shirt  practically  unbuttoned  without  much  thought  to  his  disheveled  appearance.  His  good  hand  reaches  out,  mindlessly  tracing  the  lip  of  his  glass  as  amber  liquid  swirled.  His  self-prescribed  medicine.  It  never  dulled  the  ghosts  completely,  but  it  certainly  muddled  their  voices  in  his  head.  

He sniffles. The inventor hardly considered himself susceptible to cold; all those nights spent on a cold, dirty cell floor surely should have granted him a kind of immunity to it. And yet, he can feel the season’s chill through his thin garb. Perhaps he should’ve listened to his instincts and dressed in something warmer, but he convinced himself earlier it couldn’t possibly be that cold outside, and stubbornness barred him from going back inside to change.

So when the prospector offered him his coat, he stared at it incredulously, as if the idea hadn’t occurred to him. His gaze redirects towards the taller man, eyebrow raised in a silent question.

“I’ll be fine,” he responds, a bit embarrassed over the kind gesture. “Cold weather has nothin’ on me. You should keep that for- for your- ah-”

A sneeze interrupts him, and he wipes his nose on his sleeve. It was apparent that he’d clearly contradicted himself. With flushed cheeks, whether due to the icy air or shame, he humbly accepts Norton’s coat and wraps it around his shoulders.