RP: Untitled; for metacrisised

[alwaysbrilliant]

Things have not been going Donna's way today (well, she thinks, things haven't been going well for about twenty years, but this just wasn't the time for that little saga). She'd gotten a flat on the M4 (which, why wasn't is as easy to change a tire as they made it look on television?), was three hours late to work and about fifty pounds poorer, too

Comments

[metacrisised]

And the Doctor (he insists on thinking of himself as the Doctor, anyway, even if Rose had called him John) is crouched behind the bushes on her front stoop, waiting for her to return. It's been a boring wait; he'd hoped that he would come straight home after work without lingering long enough to strain their bond, but no such luck. He's done a couple of Sudoku puzzles from the book he borrowed from Jackie (she wasn't going to do it, so he thought he might as well), but his Time Lord intellect means that Sudoku only occupied a grand total of thirty seconds. The rest of the time has been devoted to pointedly ignoring the rain dripping down his neck.

[alwaysbrilliant]

She fumbles in her bag for her keys, grumbling foully under her breath, cursing everything and everyone. And, of course, there go her keys, along with half the contents of her bag, all over the damp ground.

"Oh, brilliant," she hisses, crouching down to grope around for whatever it is she's dropped. In the dim light from the street lamp, she sees a flash of something pale. She figures it for her pay stub or something else she's tucked carelessly away, and reaches for it.

"Fuck!" she curses, snatching her hand away and tumbling back onto her arse. Someone was hiding in the dark in her mother's sodding hydrangeas! She scrambles to stand, her bag forgotten on the ground. "Oi, you! Whoever you are, just go now. I've got mace," she lies, searching her pockets frantically for anything she can use as a weapon. The only thing she grasps is a crumpled dry cleaning receipt and a half-melted lipgloss. Oh, this is just flipping fantastic.

[metacrisised]

He scurries farther away from her once she spots him; if she sees his face, he's pretty sure all her memories will come flooding back, and then she'll be dead, and he'll follow shortly thereafter, and, well, that's what he's trying to prevent.

Still, this doesn't look make perching on a tree branch outside of her room look very promising tonight.

He presses himself against the brick again and squeezes his eyes shut, hoping that if he doesn't make any sound, she'll think he's gone away.

[alwaysbrilliant]

Shaking rather violently, she finally finds her keys among the mess on the ground. She thinks she's startled the person off, but Donna keeps casting glances over her shoulder. What if he (because of course it's some man hiding in the wet bushes - any decent woman thief would have waited until it was drier) came back? What if he waited 'til she wasn't there? Neither her mother nor grandfather could stand up to any sort of threat, not really.

Her breath is coming in shallow gasps as she finally opens the front door to her silent house - briefly, she worries the attacker has already gotten her family, but then, she could see the foyer was spotless as she'd left it, and the door hadn't exactly swung open to her touch. And besides, no one was foolish to hang around that long.

She snaps on the porch lamp and peeks outside, just to be sure. She was honestly expecting the coast to be clear, but there, against the house, cowers the skinniest little streak of nothing she'd ever seen. She almost laughs - how could he expect to do anyone harm?