#ohbrilliiant

-chinhands- //tell me//

i don’t have the ability to write this coherently atm but i just !! bill potts, a wonderful smart woman who asked all the odd questions simply because they were the most obvious questions. bill potts, in love with the stars and finding a world where she just feels so wholly herself in. bill potts, who found a family in a madman and his cyborg and their time n space machine. bill potts who could have become so much in the end - even as a space puddle, she could have done so much that she wanted to. and then she got reduced to a memory, fucked over by some sentient library bullshit. even before that, reduced to the bottom of the bottom by trusting an old man that had planned this all along.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝖺 𝗐𝗈𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗌. She has been sitting on it for eighteen minutes, and Aziraphale has been noticing her for thirteen of them. Initially, he must admit, because she is quite stylish. Then, because she also happened to have a copy of the New York Times –which had no way of getting there and was due printing for a few hours still.  That made him a smidge suspicious, and all the more attentive. Thirdly and, most inevitably, because she seemed to have noticed the same thing. And rather than do anything suspicious or attentive about it, she’d been upfront. Changing seats to sit hear him, even as he changed seats further away.

He’d considering merely stepping down and walking home, but couldn’t. If she was up to no good, she had to be stopped. What she was up to became clear soon enough: the crossword! She’d been prickling at his back constantly, always lurking in the hunt for seven across. He knew it was precisely seven across because he’d had an odd feeling about it the minute he read it, and odd feelings could only result in odd things for an angel –they don’t get them randomly. The moment her nose poked his ear, that was when he had quite enough of it.   “ Good grief ”

                                 ❝ is that a loner i sense? ❞ her voice sounds like a hiss carried along by a non-existent wind, echoing through the never-ending caves covered by SOIL AND ROOTS. it’s not an earthling, my queen. her most loyal servant’s deep rumbling voice answers, the only one she trusts in this god forsaken world. they called her home hell, little did the ones who walked the earth know how much worse it was RIGHT ABOVE HER. ❝ tell me, who is it ― before i set you AFLAME. ❞

@ohbrilliiant

She’d told the Doctor once that she had pictures of all his faces, and at the time she’d thought that to be true. She had pictures of those she’d known to look for in the dusty remnants of history. But, in all of time, there was one thing that never altered. One constant. The TARDIS sat nestled between two stalls in one of the largest markets in the galaxy - the finest goods, from wine to art, from a hundred different worlds; street performers and pick pockets. She’d seen it in a photograph, tucked away in the archives of the Museum of Humanish History, and seized the opportunity. 

Yet she’d been sitting a few booths away, a glass of wine forgotten between her fingers, for the better part of an hour, waiting. It felt silly, it felt ridiculous and she would never let on to the Doctor that she’d even known he was here, but it had been five years since she’d seen her husband last... So, she’d submitted to sentimentality. She’d misjudged the exact time, arrived too late to be there when the ship landed, taking instead for watching the crowds for, she hoped, the familiar glimpse of daft hair, a red bow tie, and, if she was very lucky, her parents in tow. She’d heard, for a moment, someone call out the Doctor’s name, yet when she’d turned, he’d not been there. Not a face she’d seen had that matched those she had tucked away, in pictures and in drawings, in her diary. 

Stupid sentimentality. River finished off the last sip of wine and stood, deciding that, while she was here, she might as well have a bit of fun - after all, if she caused enough trouble, her husband was sure to show up eventually. 

She cut through the crowds, sounds and movement ringing through the air, looking up to see an acrobat twirl through the air when suddenly a child, a boy of no more than ten, dressed in rags, his blue skin pale and grubby, slammed solidly into her and River was pushed into a small group, nearly on top of a blonde woman in a grey coat. But River paid very little attention to her, no recognizing her for who she was, and instead put her hand to her wrist. It was bare. 

He’d taken her vortex manipulator. 

      it’s the end of another eventful day for the fam, as the doctor says. they spent most of it running around in the purple woods of a planet of feline-humanoids, trying to find the source of some strange happenings. but now it’s all over, & they’ve swung by the best ice cream parlor on this side of the galaxy.

                          “ Oh COME ON, you’ve got to be in here somewhere. “  Bigger-on-the-inside bags were great. You could hold all sorts inside them and still have room for more. The one thing they weren’t good for storing? Bloody keys.  She roots around, growing more and more frustrated the longer it takes to find the key to the big, blue box in front of her.  When she finds it, it’s not even in the bag. It’s in her bloody pocket. 

      Stupid thing. River curses as she inserts the key into the lock, turning it and opening the door. She’ll have to reprimand her husband later for taking away the finger-click unlocking system. She’s concocting a speech when she stops dead in her tracks. This is new. He’s redecorated and she doesn’t like it.  Where’s her wine and whiskey gone?!