#p: thread.

oh  --  by  rassilon,  how  many  of  these  sort  was  he  going  to  encounter?  the  doctor  halts,  as  if  settled  into  a  temporary  stasis,  gazing  intently  at  the  offender.  ‘  stop  tha’.  ‘   everything  he  does  revolves  around  a  pitch  in  time,  whether  he  realizes  it  or  not  --  manipulation  of  the  temporal  stratosphere,  breaking  barriers  of  physics.  even  right  now,  the  way  he  jitters,  that’s  upsetting.  

don’t  take  his  dribble  to  heart  --  frustration  has  worked  it’s  way  into  the  doctor’s  hearts,  burning  at  his  ribs.  it  happens  on  days  where  everything  begins  to  fail  him,  such  as  today.  his  brow  pinches,  the  corners  of  his  mouth  pulling  into  a  tight  frown.  ‘  i  haven’t,  have  i?  ‘ 

‘  there’s  no’  many  of  you  left.  ‘    those  sorts,  monstrous  cosmic  balls  of  light  and  fury.  beautiful  and  terrifying.    ‘  ‘m  so  sorry.  ‘  and  god  had  left  those  celestial  halls  gored  open  and  undone.  he  sees  the  empty  planes  of  heaven,  and  --  he  does  not  fear,  he  feels.  the  empathy  is  wicked.  

he  doesn’t  need  to  be  smart  to  know  that.  she  treats  everything  like  a  wonder  --  the  magnification  on  that  scale  surpasses  the  typical  human  understanding  of  the  unknown.  they  gasp  and  coo,  but  laura  looks  on  with  bright,  intelligent  eyes,  and  that  tells  him  --  there’s  more  there,  so  much  more.  

‘  yanno,  ‘    the  doctor’s  grip  on  this  beam  of  metal  is  precarious,  at  best.  his  heels  gird  into  the  floor,  skinny  legs  solid  podiums  beneath  him  --  surprisingly  so,  considering  the  contradictions  of  his  physiology  versus  his  appearance  ( looks  all  frail  and  weak,  but  stands  with  the  body  of  a  durable  gallifreyan  --  an  alien  of  various  physical  superiorities  )  --  ‘  if  you  want  t’  help  out,  i-an-to,  i  c’n  use  some  help.  get  o’er  here  an’  put  them  muscles  to  work  an’  help  me  pull  this  door.  i’ve  popped  the  lock  mechanism  with  the  sonic,  but  the  sonic  can’t  swing  it  open  fer  me.  manpower,  ianto!  manpower!  ‘  

the  doctor’s  features  coil  in,  like  a  child  with  a  tantrum  winding  up,  furls  his  tongue  out  and  gags.   ‘  ugh.  bleh.  i’m  sure  it’s  righ’  fine  fer  you,  ‘cus  yer  all  humany,  but  tha’  was  bloody  ripe.  ‘   the  remnants  of  the  berry  are  a  gory  mess  in  the  timelord’s  palm,  fruit  flesh  and  saliva.  he  turns  his  palm  over,  waves  his  hand  until  it  falls  to  the  ground.   ‘  ye  don’t  have  ta  keep  eatin’  berries,  if  ya  don’t  want.  ‘m  sure  there’ll  be  a  restaurant.  somewhere.  always  is.  we  aliens  are  real  particular  ‘bout  food.  well,  some  of  us.  or,  if  we’re  a  li’l  less  lucky,  there’ll  be  some  sorta  burger  joint.  d’n’t  really  trust  those.  but  i  don’t  have  anythin’  left  on  th’  TARDIS.  ‘ 

‘ y’ want t’ touch it? s’not gonna hurt, i promise. these li’l fellows   are a bundle of nerves, essentially. they’re not harmful t’ hum-   anoids. actually--they live on rain water. ‘ 

a beat, his teeth scrape his lower lip. and the amber of his gaze lights up like it always does when he grasps a memory.  ‘ oh! i know! it’s--today’s th’ day heraclius' fleet took constantinople. an’ the day spain declared war.. on england. and... oh! th’ flyer 3. th’ wright brothers. ‘