[for perfect_shoes] your best friend I've come to be
Dorothy's had a weird couple of weeks. It started with the Doctor (tall, pinstripes, hair that does that thing) showing up in the middle of a meeting in Oz, sitting her down and telling her he's scared he's turning evil, and maybe they shouldn't be together anymore, which was very much a low point in... several months, actually. Once that was worked out, she'd gone on a hike to help clear her mind, and then she ran into the Doctor (new, tweedy jacketed and bowtied, startlingly young) coming apparently directly from a regeneration, all quick words and an obvious, slightly unsure air to him. It had been awkward and slightly upsetting and she'd quickly put on her best Smiling Face and be the good companion, when all the while the questions and doubts whirled away in her brain. So. Pretty strange.
There was always one place to go for refuge from insanity, and strangely enough (especially if she were to tell him so), the TARDIS of the Doctor (slightly more posh, green velvet jacket, curly hair) was it. Sure, absolute madness went on there every now and again, but it was he kind of madness she could deal with. Out of control robots out to take over the universe, sinister plots to clone football players to create a master race of Goalies, homicidal shades of the color blue. To Dorothy, this stuff is normal. This is what she does to relax.
In the Vortex, the TARDIS quietly reboots some system or other that the Doctor has just fixed (or attempted to fix-- he was unclear as to the extent of his success) and the Time Lord himself has, rather annoyingly, settled down in his armchair to have a cup of tea, maybe a nice biscuit, and read his first edition of Around The World In Eighty Days. This is annoying to Dorothy mostly because it results in her being ignored, and that is insufferably boring.
So after a few turns around the console, sometimes stopping to take a loop around one of the iron support struts jutting incongruously from the floor, she leans one elbow against the console, her ankles crossed, her other hand on her hip, and stares at the Doctor impatiently. Expectantly.
"I feel like dancing," she announces.
There was always one place to go for refuge from insanity, and strangely enough (especially if she were to tell him so), the TARDIS of the Doctor (slightly more posh, green velvet jacket, curly hair) was it. Sure, absolute madness went on there every now and again, but it was he kind of madness she could deal with. Out of control robots out to take over the universe, sinister plots to clone football players to create a master race of Goalies, homicidal shades of the color blue. To Dorothy, this stuff is normal. This is what she does to relax.
In the Vortex, the TARDIS quietly reboots some system or other that the Doctor has just fixed (or attempted to fix-- he was unclear as to the extent of his success) and the Time Lord himself has, rather annoyingly, settled down in his armchair to have a cup of tea, maybe a nice biscuit, and read his first edition of Around The World In Eighty Days. This is annoying to Dorothy mostly because it results in her being ignored, and that is insufferably boring.
So after a few turns around the console, sometimes stopping to take a loop around one of the iron support struts jutting incongruously from the floor, she leans one elbow against the console, her ankles crossed, her other hand on her hip, and stares at the Doctor impatiently. Expectantly.
"I feel like dancing," she announces.