oncoming-storms; 42.2 - "Adventure"
He spent most days running. Sometimes, there was a purpose to his running; a few guards that seemed strangely upset over a trespasser in the Royal Court or a bomb with a timer that was ridiculously short. (Really, no timer should be that short. His trainers were scorched). Yet sometimes, there was no purpose greater than a steep hill and a strong wind at his back.
He ran anywhere and everywhere, because he could, except on Caliafer with their anti-running laws, but that just made it even more fun. He ran even faster there. Breaking rules and running just went hand-in-hand, like the hands he sometimes held as he ran for his life. (Running just because he was alive was equally common).
He did favour some places over others, of course. A little bias was okay. After all, a well-worn traveller knew the best running spots and he was the most well and worn of them all. (For example, he would never recommend the glass skyway of Tirirtiriy, for they were far too slippery and fragile). He had each place mapped in his mind; the moons of Vega, the savannah of Africa, the streets of Paris and the underground tunnels of Mars.
He actually had a running buddy on Mars by the name of Tweel, who was sort of a bird, except he really wasn’t a bird at all. He just had vague descriptors applied to him that, when pieced together, made him sound like a bird until you actually saw him. Though the Doctor was sure Tweel’s great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother had been a Moa. (Repeat the ‘greats’ for another minute to get a more accurate description of Tweel’s heritage). It was more polite not to ask history of a running partner. They need only be ready when he shouted for them to get ready.
He had so many friends to run with, because in reality, he could be friends with just about anyone he met. It was a gift. Naturally, this in turn led him to have a great number of enemies. (Unlike the Doctor, the rest of the universe wasn’t as content with hand-holding and peaceful betterment and looking at the stars. It was a lesson he learned more times than he cared to admit). He also had the gift of angering people by opening his mouth but it wasn’t really his fault if they couldn’t handle his plain, honest statements. If they couldn’t, he would just run. He ran quite a bit for this reason, even from friends. (He ran especially from friends, though not for that reason).
Each run held something of volcanoes and giant leeches and dark corporations and dictators and clowns and broken buses and time-looped starships. There were mock Westerns and real Vampires and living stars and dying planets and screaming entities from higher dimensions that even he couldn’t quite understand. He didn't always want to. Sometimes he ran for them and sometimes he ran from them. (Sometimes, if he was lucky, they ran with him).
He needed someone to run with him, you see, because that was when he felt most alive and that was when he wanted - needed - someone to tie him to the ground or he‘d just run forever. Run until he hit a wall. At least it would be a good way to go. He was happy with the running. They, possibly, had mixed feelings. (Eventually, his friends found their own paths to run or walk or even sometimes a new hand to hold. He never said how much it hurt when they let go of his hand but it was he that refused to reach out for them again).
It wasn't his fault, really. There was nothing that could compare when his hearts raced against his feet to see who could outrun the other. (His hearts tended to win, in his opinion, because he could always feel the blood rushing with him and hear it in the wind in his ears). He was capable of enjoying more than those moments. Sometimes, even more so. (Nothing like that ever fell on a Sunday, however).
The greatest thrill came down to a single beat. Just one thread of time's web, before his feet had moved and sometimes after and other times during. Him, always in a rush, urging onwards, towards safety or danger or somewhere they had to just go, quickly, run.
‘They.’
That first time they stood facing it together. Sometimes they didn’t even know each other’s name. Yet or ever, only time knew. But there was a face and a feet and hands and blurs moving across valleys and alleys with lungs and hearts singing in their chains.
“Hello, I’m the Doctor. And you?”
He offered them his hand, holding the universe in short breaths and smiles. The promise of everything there ever was, for as long as they wanted to run his path. Sometimes, they realized they couldn’t run as fast as him. (Sometimes, they ran faster). Sometimes they accepted.
He tried not to be too disappointed when they didn’t.
But generally, it was agreed that it was worth the single moment of knowing you weren’t running alone, even if the path forked afterwards.
(For the Doctor, in a universe of people who couldn’t see the potential in a steep hill, that was enough).
Mostly, it was just worth it to run.
((ooc: I apologise in advance for any mistakes I may have missed. I am very tired at the moment.))
He ran anywhere and everywhere, because he could, except on Caliafer with their anti-running laws, but that just made it even more fun. He ran even faster there. Breaking rules and running just went hand-in-hand, like the hands he sometimes held as he ran for his life. (Running just because he was alive was equally common).
He did favour some places over others, of course. A little bias was okay. After all, a well-worn traveller knew the best running spots and he was the most well and worn of them all. (For example, he would never recommend the glass skyway of Tirirtiriy, for they were far too slippery and fragile). He had each place mapped in his mind; the moons of Vega, the savannah of Africa, the streets of Paris and the underground tunnels of Mars.
He actually had a running buddy on Mars by the name of Tweel, who was sort of a bird, except he really wasn’t a bird at all. He just had vague descriptors applied to him that, when pieced together, made him sound like a bird until you actually saw him. Though the Doctor was sure Tweel’s great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother had been a Moa. (Repeat the ‘greats’ for another minute to get a more accurate description of Tweel’s heritage). It was more polite not to ask history of a running partner. They need only be ready when he shouted for them to get ready.
He had so many friends to run with, because in reality, he could be friends with just about anyone he met. It was a gift. Naturally, this in turn led him to have a great number of enemies. (Unlike the Doctor, the rest of the universe wasn’t as content with hand-holding and peaceful betterment and looking at the stars. It was a lesson he learned more times than he cared to admit). He also had the gift of angering people by opening his mouth but it wasn’t really his fault if they couldn’t handle his plain, honest statements. If they couldn’t, he would just run. He ran quite a bit for this reason, even from friends. (He ran especially from friends, though not for that reason).
Each run held something of volcanoes and giant leeches and dark corporations and dictators and clowns and broken buses and time-looped starships. There were mock Westerns and real Vampires and living stars and dying planets and screaming entities from higher dimensions that even he couldn’t quite understand. He didn't always want to. Sometimes he ran for them and sometimes he ran from them. (Sometimes, if he was lucky, they ran with him).
He needed someone to run with him, you see, because that was when he felt most alive and that was when he wanted - needed - someone to tie him to the ground or he‘d just run forever. Run until he hit a wall. At least it would be a good way to go. He was happy with the running. They, possibly, had mixed feelings. (Eventually, his friends found their own paths to run or walk or even sometimes a new hand to hold. He never said how much it hurt when they let go of his hand but it was he that refused to reach out for them again).
It wasn't his fault, really. There was nothing that could compare when his hearts raced against his feet to see who could outrun the other. (His hearts tended to win, in his opinion, because he could always feel the blood rushing with him and hear it in the wind in his ears). He was capable of enjoying more than those moments. Sometimes, even more so. (Nothing like that ever fell on a Sunday, however).
The greatest thrill came down to a single beat. Just one thread of time's web, before his feet had moved and sometimes after and other times during. Him, always in a rush, urging onwards, towards safety or danger or somewhere they had to just go, quickly, run.
‘They.’
That first time they stood facing it together. Sometimes they didn’t even know each other’s name. Yet or ever, only time knew. But there was a face and a feet and hands and blurs moving across valleys and alleys with lungs and hearts singing in their chains.
“Hello, I’m the Doctor. And you?”
He offered them his hand, holding the universe in short breaths and smiles. The promise of everything there ever was, for as long as they wanted to run his path. Sometimes, they realized they couldn’t run as fast as him. (Sometimes, they ran faster). Sometimes they accepted.
He tried not to be too disappointed when they didn’t.
But generally, it was agreed that it was worth the single moment of knowing you weren’t running alone, even if the path forked afterwards.
(For the Doctor, in a universe of people who couldn’t see the potential in a steep hill, that was enough).
Mostly, it was just worth it to run.
((ooc: I apologise in advance for any mistakes I may have missed. I am very tired at the moment.))