bit of a who fic and me squeeing
*happy sigh* I love Fahrenheit 451. It is one of my favorite books. Let's take a moment to bask in the fact that I am going to meet Ray Bradbury in a few days. *basks most diligently* I just reread the novel, and I'd forgotten that it was Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold that Montag reads to his wife and her friends; I love that poem. My favorite professor opened up my Victorian Brit Lit class by reciting it. :D
Also! I have proof that I am actually still working on that Doctor Who fic I mentioned however long ago. So here, have another bit (intended to take place in The Beast Below, though that's not entirely important really):
She doesn’t ask all her questions.
Some seem too absurd to voice aloud: did he forget to put his eyebrows back on when he changed his face? Does he have a stopwatch hanging on his bedroom wall instead of a clock?
Some she knows might have answers too sad for her to bear: Does he plot his timeline with numbers or with people lost?
And some, she would rather find the answers to herself: will he let me hug him? She wraps around him, buries her smile in his neck, and feels the quick ludulubdub offbeat of his two hearts.
Also! I have proof that I am actually still working on that Doctor Who fic I mentioned however long ago. So here, have another bit (intended to take place in The Beast Below, though that's not entirely important really):
She doesn’t ask all her questions.
Some seem too absurd to voice aloud: did he forget to put his eyebrows back on when he changed his face? Does he have a stopwatch hanging on his bedroom wall instead of a clock?
Some she knows might have answers too sad for her to bear: Does he plot his timeline with numbers or with people lost?
And some, she would rather find the answers to herself: will he let me hug him? She wraps around him, buries her smile in his neck, and feels the quick ludulubdub offbeat of his two hearts.