[for rude_not_ginger] clouds are shrouding us in moments unforgettable
If you didn't know otherwise, you'd probably be surprised to find out that the Library is one of Dorothy's favorite places in the TARDIS, but it's true. When she's with the younger version of the Doctor, on the TARDIS that's wooden and gothic, she can often be found there, stretched out on a leather couch, surrounded by flickering candles and a pile of books as tall as she is. Sometimes he'll join her there, chattering away as he rummages through the stacks, attempting some sort of organization, being fully aware that the fairy tale, engrossed in her book, isn't really listening. But it isn't about actually talking, it's about just being together. It's comfortable, and it feels like home. Not the room-- sharing it with someone she cares about.
When she's on the other TARDIS, organic and glowing, it's different. The Library is deeper inside the ship, through twisting corridor after labyrinthine hall, and getting there is like arriving at a great art-nouveau cathedral, with a ceiling domed and tall as the sky, lights seeming to hover like fairies in the air itself. The shelves seem to grow from the walls and the floor. All the actual furniture looks mismatched and old, patched and worn, as if it's all been rescued from the curb at one time or another. It does have the good fortune of all being supremely comfortable, though, so there's been many an occasion where Dorothy finds herself curled up on the beat-up old brown couch, very nearly dozing off with her nose in a book.
Today is one of those days.
There's nothing wrong with that, on a lazy Sunday afternoon, but alone? On the TARDIS? When there's adventures to be had? That's just a little sad, don't you think? Dorothy might think so, if she weren't about thiiiis close to nodding off. The TARDIS is ever so helpful, dimming the lights. Or is it just her eyes closing?
Does it matter?
When she's on the other TARDIS, organic and glowing, it's different. The Library is deeper inside the ship, through twisting corridor after labyrinthine hall, and getting there is like arriving at a great art-nouveau cathedral, with a ceiling domed and tall as the sky, lights seeming to hover like fairies in the air itself. The shelves seem to grow from the walls and the floor. All the actual furniture looks mismatched and old, patched and worn, as if it's all been rescued from the curb at one time or another. It does have the good fortune of all being supremely comfortable, though, so there's been many an occasion where Dorothy finds herself curled up on the beat-up old brown couch, very nearly dozing off with her nose in a book.
Today is one of those days.
There's nothing wrong with that, on a lazy Sunday afternoon, but alone? On the TARDIS? When there's adventures to be had? That's just a little sad, don't you think? Dorothy might think so, if she weren't about thiiiis close to nodding off. The TARDIS is ever so helpful, dimming the lights. Or is it just her eyes closing?
Does it matter?