silliness
Because this is what I do when I'm wide awake at one AM, I have committed silliness. Post-"The Doctor's Wife," decidedly pre-canon as far as GO is concerned.
She sees him coming, of course; it would be difficult to forget such a distinctive mode of transportation, even among all the other images that run through Agnes’s head on a daily basis. So she puts some water on the fire and waits for him outside, and when the odd blue box finally appears, she lets his companions go on their way and says, “It’s your own fault if your tea is cold. You ought to have been here fifteen minutes ago.”
The man blinks at her. “Should I have? Most people aren’t that precise about it.”
“I am not most people, young man.” As Agnes gets a better look at him than her visions allowed, she suspects that’s not the most accurate description of him; at the very least, he’s a much older soul than any she’s met in the village. It’ll do for now, though. “Are you going to have your tea?”
“Of course, of course, since you went to the trouble.” He picks up the cup and sips it, still eyeing her cottage. “I just can’t think why, of all times, she would bring me to the seventeenth century. More interesting period than some, to be sure, but you hardly appear to be in any danger, and this isn’t exactly a tourist destination.”
“She takes you where you need to go,” Agnes says, sure that the ‘she’ in question is not the scandalously-dressed young woman who had emerged from the box. “And she always will.”
The man freezes, peering at her as though for the first time (which would hardly surprise Agnes; he hasn’t been paying proper attention). “That’s twice lately people have started talking about things that haven’t happened yet,” he says, “and I know why she was doing it - the question is, why are you?”
“You’re here now, so there’s no sense in writing it down for you to read about later. Surely you’ve heard of prophecies in your time.”
“Naturally, but they’re rarely worth anything, and in any case they make no sense until after the fact.”
“Of course they don’t,” Agnes says. “If I understood half of what I see - no, I still couldn’t explain it to anyone else. Except, perhaps, for you.”
“I dare say I could follow. I’ve seen it all.”
“I rather doubt that.” And in that moment - whether it’s a flash of the man’s future or simply the wistful glance he directs toward his box, she never quite determines - Agnes thinks she knows why he needed to be here.
“The things you hope for are not necessarily beyond your reach,” she says. “They simply require more thought than you’ve applied.”
It certainly seems to give the man pause; after a few silent moments, he sighs. “It’s impossible. Both of them are. There’s simply no--”
“Nothing is impossible so long as you’re alive.” Before he can say anything else, Agnes adds, “Now, go and collect your companions. You have twelve minutes before the Witchfinder decides he’s found a witch in that girl with you. And I’ll thank you to return my cup before you leave.”
“Er - right, of course, thanks,” the man says, before rushing off - tea still in hand, Agnes notes. She takes comfort in the fact that he can’t get far without his box (certainly not so far that she won’t see the cup again) and lets her mind wander.
After he’s gone, she has another vision about him. It’s not nearly as immediate as the first; she’ll be long dead by the time he returns. Judging it by what she’s seen before, it’s much closer to the end of the world, and yet he looks no different than he did this morning.
It’s enough to make a woman glad she has no interest in traveling. Looking forward in time from the comfort of her own home is confusing enough without actually being there.
She sees him coming, of course; it would be difficult to forget such a distinctive mode of transportation, even among all the other images that run through Agnes’s head on a daily basis. So she puts some water on the fire and waits for him outside, and when the odd blue box finally appears, she lets his companions go on their way and says, “It’s your own fault if your tea is cold. You ought to have been here fifteen minutes ago.”
The man blinks at her. “Should I have? Most people aren’t that precise about it.”
“I am not most people, young man.” As Agnes gets a better look at him than her visions allowed, she suspects that’s not the most accurate description of him; at the very least, he’s a much older soul than any she’s met in the village. It’ll do for now, though. “Are you going to have your tea?”
“Of course, of course, since you went to the trouble.” He picks up the cup and sips it, still eyeing her cottage. “I just can’t think why, of all times, she would bring me to the seventeenth century. More interesting period than some, to be sure, but you hardly appear to be in any danger, and this isn’t exactly a tourist destination.”
“She takes you where you need to go,” Agnes says, sure that the ‘she’ in question is not the scandalously-dressed young woman who had emerged from the box. “And she always will.”
The man freezes, peering at her as though for the first time (which would hardly surprise Agnes; he hasn’t been paying proper attention). “That’s twice lately people have started talking about things that haven’t happened yet,” he says, “and I know why she was doing it - the question is, why are you?”
“You’re here now, so there’s no sense in writing it down for you to read about later. Surely you’ve heard of prophecies in your time.”
“Naturally, but they’re rarely worth anything, and in any case they make no sense until after the fact.”
“Of course they don’t,” Agnes says. “If I understood half of what I see - no, I still couldn’t explain it to anyone else. Except, perhaps, for you.”
“I dare say I could follow. I’ve seen it all.”
“I rather doubt that.” And in that moment - whether it’s a flash of the man’s future or simply the wistful glance he directs toward his box, she never quite determines - Agnes thinks she knows why he needed to be here.
“The things you hope for are not necessarily beyond your reach,” she says. “They simply require more thought than you’ve applied.”
It certainly seems to give the man pause; after a few silent moments, he sighs. “It’s impossible. Both of them are. There’s simply no--”
“Nothing is impossible so long as you’re alive.” Before he can say anything else, Agnes adds, “Now, go and collect your companions. You have twelve minutes before the Witchfinder decides he’s found a witch in that girl with you. And I’ll thank you to return my cup before you leave.”
“Er - right, of course, thanks,” the man says, before rushing off - tea still in hand, Agnes notes. She takes comfort in the fact that he can’t get far without his box (certainly not so far that she won’t see the cup again) and lets her mind wander.
After he’s gone, she has another vision about him. It’s not nearly as immediate as the first; she’ll be long dead by the time he returns. Judging it by what she’s seen before, it’s much closer to the end of the world, and yet he looks no different than he did this morning.
It’s enough to make a woman glad she has no interest in traveling. Looking forward in time from the comfort of her own home is confusing enough without actually being there.