Eva Salazar (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
economicalrhinoplasty) wrote2011-12-10 02:46 pm
economicalrhinoplasty) wrote2011-12-10 02:46 pm
Entry tags:
Tuck Those Ribbons Under Your Helmet [Closed]
Eva waits on the log for a very long time, until the chill from the shoe tree leaves her shivering slightly, her teeth clicking irregularly as a replacement for her normal twitching and jerking. She's become a very patient person, she thinks - she measured her life in three-day cycles for so long that she thinks she no longer views time like a normal human being, but rather in some extended and flimsy nature, like a rubber band with all the elasticity stretched out of it.
Given that she has no watch on her - Stacy's unique perspective on time, even more distorted and deformed than Eva's, has long since made watches useless - she can't properly estimate how much time she spends sitting there waiting, but she expects it must be hours, since she feels tired and bored and tiny icicles are starting to form around her eyelashes and bangs.
Somehow it seems strangely appropriate to sit around waiting for the Doctor. He doesn't seem to follow anyone else's schedule. She wonders how many people before have sat on this log, waiting for something, maybe for the Doctor or for deliverance or for God. Or maybe she's singularly unique, the sole passenger in this log's history, and this is the one moment in time where this log not only exists but is sittable, and has been seen by sentient eyes.
She's starting to think like him. All the silence in her own head is getting to her. Maybe she should get her Yeerk back. She misses conversation.
That's a terrible idea.
She gets up and twists her back some, eking little pops out of her spine. She wipes the ice from her eyes, careful not to harm her makeup, although it did get smeared somewhat during the dumbwaiter trip and library attack. It's the principle of the matter.
Tossing her hair up into a clip again, she walks in the direction the Doctor took off towards, her feet adjusting to the sockless interior of her new shoes. "Doc?"
Given that she has no watch on her - Stacy's unique perspective on time, even more distorted and deformed than Eva's, has long since made watches useless - she can't properly estimate how much time she spends sitting there waiting, but she expects it must be hours, since she feels tired and bored and tiny icicles are starting to form around her eyelashes and bangs.
Somehow it seems strangely appropriate to sit around waiting for the Doctor. He doesn't seem to follow anyone else's schedule. She wonders how many people before have sat on this log, waiting for something, maybe for the Doctor or for deliverance or for God. Or maybe she's singularly unique, the sole passenger in this log's history, and this is the one moment in time where this log not only exists but is sittable, and has been seen by sentient eyes.
She's starting to think like him. All the silence in her own head is getting to her. Maybe she should get her Yeerk back. She misses conversation.
That's a terrible idea.
She gets up and twists her back some, eking little pops out of her spine. She wipes the ice from her eyes, careful not to harm her makeup, although it did get smeared somewhat during the dumbwaiter trip and library attack. It's the principle of the matter.
Tossing her hair up into a clip again, she walks in the direction the Doctor took off towards, her feet adjusting to the sockless interior of her new shoes. "Doc?"
no subject
It’s not the first time she started taking on water and, he thinks, it’ll probably happen again anyway in the near future. The TARDIS is a tough girl – she’ll be okay. The Doctor spends the kayak-trip rubbernecking at the pond, their rescuers, chatting them up and by the time they make it to shore, he’s acquired an invitation to the local knitting club and a soggy newspaper. Shoving the newspaper under his arm, the Doctor steps out of the kayak with a splash and turns to look back at the TARDIS. She’s no longer in sight, having sunk to the bottom only minutes ago. Hopefully she won’t be towed. If there’s a UNIT on this version of Earth, there’s a real chance that could happen.
“I’ll get that sorted,” the Doctor says quickly. “Now! Let’s find out where we are.”
He huddles off to the side with his soggy newspaper, a few onlookers still gaping at him and Eva. Snapping open the newspaper – hard to do when it’s wet, but he tries anyway – the Doctor scans the headlines and dates, flicking through the running ink.