[For Rob]
Gwen's been feeling a bit like a beached whale lately. It's to be expected, the books tell her -- When you hit the home stretch, you just want it to be over. She's on the cusp of her third trimester, which apparently is designed to be so awful that you can't help but look forward to the pain of childbirth just to have the kid out of you, and has been doing her best to stay positive despite the perpetually achy muscles and heartburn. Nearly there, she's told herself, and Peter's been a help. The bathtub she just received didn't go amiss, either.
Left hand braced against her lower back, Gwen pushes open the front door to the Treehouse and peers inside. It still feels like home, and she wonders if that will ever change. Part of her wishes it would, wants to blame that nostalgia on the chasm currently residing between the Doctor and herself.
"Rob?" she calls in lieu of knocking, and steps inside without invitation. It's the principle of the thing.
Left hand braced against her lower back, Gwen pushes open the front door to the Treehouse and peers inside. It still feels like home, and she wonders if that will ever change. Part of her wishes it would, wants to blame that nostalgia on the chasm currently residing between the Doctor and herself.
"Rob?" she calls in lieu of knocking, and steps inside without invitation. It's the principle of the thing.