Not Just Stories

Better known as the Doctor. Might a heard of me. Author behind the surprisingly famous novel series, Doctor Who. Yep, that's the one. [AU blog for fobwatched Nine]

[nokot]

Christopher Eccleston the World Premiere of “Thor: The Dark World” at Odeon Leicester Square on October 22, 2013 in London, England.

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[apinkandyellowgirl]

Mmph.

[It hadn’t been long that they’d been living this life — unwillingly, might she add. He’d been forced into making himself human through what looked like a terribly painful process and now they’d ended up here, sharing a house because Rose had managed to use the psychic paper as a credit card and an ID card, and writing out books. Well, Rose wasn’t the one doing the writing, thankfully. She was just editing. She hadn’t done much of that yet, because the book wasn’t fully finished. John hadn’t written all of it, as of right then.

He was John now. Not ‘the Doctor’, but John. It was strange and foreign in her mouth, and at first she’d often slipped up, but now she’d gotten used to it enough not to accidentally start with a ‘Doct—’ and have to correct herself halfway through a word. She wasn’t supposed to let him know yet; he still had years to go. (Years. She had to bring him back years from now!)

It hadn’t meant she liked it. John was nice enough, but she missed the Doctor. Then again, John was the Doctor, and she saw it in the way he acted around her, the way he looked at her, the way he smiled…

But it was different. He wasn’t the Doctor she’d run away with. It was difficult to come to terms with this sort of thing on your own, but she’d accepted this life when she’d started traveling with the Doctor. So she’d help John, and call her mother to make sure she knew everything was all right, and carry on as always.

Except she’d thought she’d be able to sleep in a little more now that they weren’t constantly adventuring. Apparently not.]

‘m up, ‘m up… [No, she wasn’t. And her calls through the door were muffled.] What time’s it?

[She rolled over in bed, the sheets following the movement of her body and bunching up on her side as she faced the ceiling and let out a loud groan of just-woke-up irritability.] Be out in a mo’, ‘ang on…

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I know you're not. [He called, leaning against the wall beside her door. Impatient though he was, they had a strict privacy policy. She didn't go in his room (even if his door was usually propped open) and he didn't go in hers. Even if it was to simply wake her up.

So instead he glanced around the hallway, fingers drumming insistently against the wall. A few boxes littered the corridor, even if they had moved into the house awhile back. He couldn't be bothered to put the majority of his possessions away. It would feel far too permanent.

Even though he'd moved a grand total of three times in his life (Once from Langworthy to London when he was four, moving into his own apartment while in his twenties, then here.), there was this small expectancy that this arrangement wouldn't last too long. He had no idea why.(something along the lines of all good things must come to an end, he supposed.) But no need to unpack if he'd just be packing up again in a few weeks.

He kept talking, not allow her to fall back asleep. As she was likely aiming to.] Eight. Not early. Early by your standards, maybe. Might want ta hurry though. Breakfast's gettin' cold.

[A pause of consideration.] Tell you what. I'll go check on the food, maybe 'eat it back up if needed, an' you get ready. Knowin' you, you'll take ages. [Not really but a bit of teasing never went amiss.

John pressed against the wall, pushing himself into a standing position. Just about to head back towards the kitchen when-] Oh, an' I'd 'urry if I were you. Got a bucket an' a supply a water. Not afraid ta use it.

[There. If the promise of breakfast didn't motivate her, perhaps the empty threat would. Even if his tone was still lighthearted, canceling out the words.]

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Hello! Yep, you. Daft question, but could ya tell me where to find the airport? Might be runnin' a bit late.

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[alienswearbowties]

The Doctor studied the man carefully. He looked a lot like his ninth regeneration. Eleven even started to wonder if he was. "Sorry. You just look a lot like… somebody I know.”

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Yeah. I get that a lot. 'lo, name's John Smith. An' since it doesn't look like you'll be leavin' any time soon, ya might as well tell me your name.

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WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE INANIMATE OBJECT?

Don't know really. S'pose that would be...[He clicks his tongue.] Dunno. Got a collection of Charles Dickens' works lyin' round somewhere. 'sides that, don't 'ave a favorite. Though. Rather attached to my cup.

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[Just out for a quick lunch. Chips. Book. Bit of privacy. Was it really too much to ask? Course it was. As here came someone, sitting down across from him.]

I'm sittin' 'ere.

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[He awoke with a start, covered in sweat, panting, heart pounding. With a sigh he realised that he was just in his room, not where he'd just been dreaming about. Not surprisingly, he couldn't remember a single detail of the nightmare that had woken him. No matter. It would come back to him eventually. It always did.

With a glance at the clock and another heavy sigh, John sat up. 5:27 AM. No chance of going back to sleep.

Right. Shower, dress, get back to writing. Maybe throw a bagel somewhere in there.

But 23 minutes later, perched in front of his computer, glasses settled on his nose, John didn't have a clue of what to write.

Currently his protagonist and his companion were having a row. He not willing to share information about himself, she realising that she knew nothing about the man she had agreed to travel with. It seemed like he'd hit a rut.

Another moment of staring at the screen, then John pushed back from his desk. It was unlikely that he'd get any quality writing down at the moment.

He drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair.

What to do, what to do.

Another glance at the clock. 6:13. Rose wouldn't be up for a while.

But at least now he had an idea to occupy his time till then.

A quick trip down to the shoppe, pick up a few supplies.

Fire up the stove, crack a few eggs, put out a few plates, squeeze a few oranges.

And at around 7:54, unable to wait any longer, John rapped a knuckle against Rose's door.]