(no subject)
WHO: The Doctor (Meta Crisis), Rose Tyler, The Doctor (Tenth), Martha Jones
WHEN: After this post. So... post-port for most of the above. :B
WHERE: The ship's promenade deck.
WARNINGS: Language? O lawd, mix Tens and anything can happen.
The fevered dash up several decks had left him winded, the chilly air burning his lungs when he bent to catch his breath. Far from a hindrance, there was something exhilarating about the stitch in his side and the single heartbeat thudding in his ears:
It meant he was alive. Human still, yes, there was no changing that, but the sheer feeling of existence was a visceral thrill. And Rose was on the ship too, he hadn't left her behind, hadn't broken his word.
Once recovered, stalking the length of the deck, the Doctor thrust his hands into the pockets of his coat. It had been an early Christmas gift from, of all people, Jackie. A little too "Pete" in its colour and cut (really, black just washed him out), he'd found the length to be acceptable and the amount of pocket space to be a study in extremes. Just like he liked it.
The banality of that line of thought drew him up short. Just what was he doing here? An inmate? He didn't need any kind of help or advice or any of the figures from his murky past rising up like avenging weeping? angels to sort him out.
All he needed was Rose.
WHEN: After this post. So... post-port for most of the above. :B
WHERE: The ship's promenade deck.
WARNINGS: Language? O lawd, mix Tens and anything can happen.
The fevered dash up several decks had left him winded, the chilly air burning his lungs when he bent to catch his breath. Far from a hindrance, there was something exhilarating about the stitch in his side and the single heartbeat thudding in his ears:
It meant he was alive. Human still, yes, there was no changing that, but the sheer feeling of existence was a visceral thrill. And Rose was on the ship too, he hadn't left her behind, hadn't broken his word.
Once recovered, stalking the length of the deck, the Doctor thrust his hands into the pockets of his coat. It had been an early Christmas gift from, of all people, Jackie. A little too "Pete" in its colour and cut (really, black just washed him out), he'd found the length to be acceptable and the amount of pocket space to be a study in extremes. Just like he liked it.
The banality of that line of thought drew him up short. Just what was he doing here? An inmate? He didn't need any kind of help or advice or any of the figures from his murky past rising up like avenging weeping? angels to sort him out.
All he needed was Rose.