(Untitled)

[thedoctorwho]

Entering now, from the back door, is a face unseen in a while. The Doctor shuffles in muttering, "Another Christmas, another crisis," and heads to the bar for some tea

Comments

[riversinger]

There's a possibly familiar face at the bar, behind her own pot of tea and an ancient tome. His scent and his voice stir her before he ever gets to the bar.

"Did you make it snow in London again?"

Her tone is perhaps familiar, but maybe he'll forgive her the presumption.

Possibly.

[riversinger]

"Thanks."

She looks up, meeting his gaze steadily. They had a good run, she thinks. But it's history, now. It's hard to think of it that way, with him sitting next to her. (She's beginning to understand the heaviness he seemed to carry with him. She can't begin to imagine a lifetime full of such loss. In reflection, it makes the time they had together that much more precious.)

Now is not the time or place, River, she mutters in canine, mustering a smile again. She pushes the plate of biscuits across to him.

"Have you had the shortbread here? It's delicious."

[thedoctorwho]

He quirks an eyebrow at the muttering, wondering when she might have had a chance to learn Grahlish, given that the Grahl had been extinct for five millennia. At least, that's what it sounds like to him, though the accent is a bit off.

Her question pulls him from the woolgathering, and he shakes his head. "I have not, but I could be convinced to try them."

[riversinger]

She gestures to the plate, giving him a questioning and somewhat sheepish look (which is a nice trick on a werewolf).

Don't tell me. You speak canine too. I should have guessed.

[thedoctorwho]

He picks a cookie off the plate, but waits to eat it until he replies. Canine is hard enough with a humanoid mouth without it being full as well.

No, but I speak Grahlish, which is the mother tongue of most canine languages in Earth's quadrant of the galaxy.

Now he has a bite of shortbread.

[riversinger]

Interesting. She takes a bite of shortbread, and asks in the more non-verbal form. All of the dialects?

The version she learned is largely body language and scents, as well as the verbal component.

[thedoctorwho]

Passably, though I know the Eastern European vernacular better than others.

[riversinger]

How curious. I suspect the one I've learned is Scottish in origin, and it seems to be part of a genetic memory. It was transmitted, not learned.

[thedoctorwho]

The Doctor frowns. The only way it could have been transmitted is if you had been exposed to Grahlish DNA. Were you already a lycanthrope when we meet, or is that a spoiler, too?

[riversinger]

She smiles broadly and gives him a cheeky wink.

Somehow I think you'll recognise me, either way.

[thedoctorwho]

Of that, I am certain. You do seem the sort to always make her presence known. Then, switching abruptly out of Grahlish, he adds, "Not that that's a bad thing. Quite the contrary, actually."

[riversinger]

"Oh like you're one to talk, pretty boy." The tone she takes with him is very familiar, old habits re-emerging like they'd never left.

She refills her tea, biting her lip as she adds the milk and sugar.

"But yes, I became a lycanthrope after I arrived here. So you don't have to worry about that, at least."

[thedoctorwho]

He gives her a playful smirk. "I wasn't worried."

[riversinger]

It's a look she knows well, and there's an answering pang in her heart. She smiles, regardless.

"No, I don't suppose you ever are, are you? No matter. I'm sure there will be plenty of other things to keep you on your toes. And I'm saying too much, now." She mimes zipping her lips and throwing away the key.

[thedoctorwho]

"Ah, yes. Never as much fun once you've peeked to the end of the book."

[riversinger]

She smiles, looks down at her tea again.

"I look forward to a time when these conversations between us aren't quite so awkward."