I dream of gardens in the desert sand...
There was only so long one could wallow and hide from society, and if the Doctor did it any longer, he was pretty sure Benny Summerfield would make good on what she'd told him last week. The weather change was what did it, made up his mind that he needed to get out of the house which was no longer a goddamn yurt. (Okay, that and the song that was playing in the rec room.)
Arthur had been cooped up save for daily exercise for most of the last month and a half, Nate was under good supervision, and the Doctor needed to live a little. It was a very dangerous combination, the notorious volatility of a bored Time Lord, and it was fortunate for the island that the last of them only decided to run the hell out of his horse.
He had ridden once, and this was quite a good deal of hims ago, in one of the Dubai desert races in the late twenty-third century. It hadn't been exactly by choice, seeing as he had been blackmailed into it by a South African journalist who'd threatened to expose him as an 'unlicensed alien observer', when he was really just there to prevent the real unlicensed observer from making off with one of the Emir's finer palaces (yes, the whole palace). It had meant he'd learned a few things about riding on sand, different as the island might have been. And Arthur was adaptable, and the beaches were some of the rare open straightaways...
Which probably was only a weak explanation for why he and his horse were tearing away down the southern beach late in the afternoon, after the worst of the heat had gone down. Some people might have called it a coping mechanism, if they had been reading a lot of psychology texts lately in an effort to throw themselves into work and childcare.
The Doctor laughed and patted Arthur on the flank, as the wind shot through his hair, making it even more of a mess than it already had been.
A good day to be alive, anyway.
aka the poneh EP. Subject line is Sting's 'Desert Rose'. Finding the two closer to the compound and not acting insane can be arranged, just ping me.
Arthur had been cooped up save for daily exercise for most of the last month and a half, Nate was under good supervision, and the Doctor needed to live a little. It was a very dangerous combination, the notorious volatility of a bored Time Lord, and it was fortunate for the island that the last of them only decided to run the hell out of his horse.
He had ridden once, and this was quite a good deal of hims ago, in one of the Dubai desert races in the late twenty-third century. It hadn't been exactly by choice, seeing as he had been blackmailed into it by a South African journalist who'd threatened to expose him as an 'unlicensed alien observer', when he was really just there to prevent the real unlicensed observer from making off with one of the Emir's finer palaces (yes, the whole palace). It had meant he'd learned a few things about riding on sand, different as the island might have been. And Arthur was adaptable, and the beaches were some of the rare open straightaways...
Which probably was only a weak explanation for why he and his horse were tearing away down the southern beach late in the afternoon, after the worst of the heat had gone down. Some people might have called it a coping mechanism, if they had been reading a lot of psychology texts lately in an effort to throw themselves into work and childcare.
The Doctor laughed and patted Arthur on the flank, as the wind shot through his hair, making it even more of a mess than it already had been.
A good day to be alive, anyway.
aka the poneh EP. Subject line is Sting's 'Desert Rose'. Finding the two closer to the compound and not acting insane can be arranged, just ping me.