ever so much more than a pretty girl
The Doctor was sort of adjusting to being a woman again. Sort of. At least, this time, she hadn't screamed at the bits, at least this time Chase was himself, and she couldn't exactly spend ages having a good cry when there was a wee Nate to care for, a Will to remind to eat, and plenty of people to reassure that it was going to be all right, that this would sort itself out in a few days and everything would be fine and this was how you put on a bra, mate.
What the Doctor usually did, she was sure, just with tits. God, she hated that word, even though there weren't any good alternatives. Breasts was clinical or biblical. Boobs was American. Jugs was old school, and she was fixating.
After leaving Nate, who seemed to be unbothered by the whole thing, she found a good place to decompress. She sat down in the rec room with a cup of tea and an old (actually new, considering that 25 January 2009 hadn't happened yet) edition of the Sunday Times, the jukebox humouring her with the Clash at a reasonable volume. It was a good thing, even if she did hope Nate wasn't being too focused on the other children, or too withdrawn, and maybe she should pick him up early or make him some biscuits for his teething and--
"Oh dear Rassilon's hairy spleen," the Doctor swore, and sank behind the newspaper. She was getting broody. Worse, she was letting herself get broody. "What ever happened to the Feminine Mystique, Doctor," she muttered to herself. "Emmeline Pankhurst would kick your arse to the kerb, and then rob you bloody blind." And she bashed her head against the newspaper a few times, the image of Rahm Emmanuel on the page almost seeming to give her a sardonic look, and the headline proclaiming 'economic crisis' turning to 'ec sis'.
Not only broody, but apparently slightly hormonal. At least she wasn't on the rag, she thought, and then sort of hated herself for it.
Subject line is Ani DiFranco, and yes, you're reading the pronouns correctly. If you're looking for Nate, we can work something out. New tags through Saturday.
What the Doctor usually did, she was sure, just with tits. God, she hated that word, even though there weren't any good alternatives. Breasts was clinical or biblical. Boobs was American. Jugs was old school, and she was fixating.
After leaving Nate, who seemed to be unbothered by the whole thing, she found a good place to decompress. She sat down in the rec room with a cup of tea and an old (actually new, considering that 25 January 2009 hadn't happened yet) edition of the Sunday Times, the jukebox humouring her with the Clash at a reasonable volume. It was a good thing, even if she did hope Nate wasn't being too focused on the other children, or too withdrawn, and maybe she should pick him up early or make him some biscuits for his teething and--
"Oh dear Rassilon's hairy spleen," the Doctor swore, and sank behind the newspaper. She was getting broody. Worse, she was letting herself get broody. "What ever happened to the Feminine Mystique, Doctor," she muttered to herself. "Emmeline Pankhurst would kick your arse to the kerb, and then rob you bloody blind." And she bashed her head against the newspaper a few times, the image of Rahm Emmanuel on the page almost seeming to give her a sardonic look, and the headline proclaiming 'economic crisis' turning to 'ec sis'.
Not only broody, but apparently slightly hormonal. At least she wasn't on the rag, she thought, and then sort of hated herself for it.
Subject line is Ani DiFranco, and yes, you're reading the pronouns correctly. If you're looking for Nate, we can work something out. New tags through Saturday.