So my English professor gave us a prompt for a thing and this is what happened. Not sorry.
Even Time Lords do laundry, contrary to popular belief. Sure, the TARDIS may forget where she puts the laundry room on occasion, but those bow ties don’t clean themselves. No amount of huon particles are capable of digging out those pesky stains as well as a good old-fashioned washing machine.
The Doctor’s pretty fond of his, he likes to think. She does her job and doesn’t make the lights in the console room flicker the way they do every time someone flushes the toilet. So that’s why out friendly Time Lord gets instantly suspicious when his socks start to go missing.
“Amy!” It’s irrational, completely illogical to think that his companions are taking his socks, regardless of the holes in them. He doesn’t want to buy new socks right now; the salespeople always look at him weird. Still, he figures that may be safer than the murderous intent written clear as day on his companion’s face as she comes crashing into the laundry room.
“This better be important, Doctor, or I swear—”
“My socks are missing. Did you take them?”
“Did I take them? Your socks.” She looks incredulous, and the Doctor wonders if he’s mistaken. “As in, those ratty old things you call socks. How old are they, three hundred years?”
“Close.” No, no, the TARDIS is supposed to be safe from these creatures. Sock-eating, disgusting monsters, the ones who eat socks and just eat socks and it’s not fair because now the Doctor has to go back to that weird slimy sock-planet in the middle of the Constellation of Temulsa to get new socks. He sticks his head back into the dryer and pokes it around, as he’s been doing for the past twenty minutes, despite the limited space of the interior. “This isn’t fair,” he whines, waving his sonic around the dryer to make sure he didn’t miss anything, and he’s definitely not pouting.
“Are you pouting?” No. He is definitely not pouting. “Is there a sock monster in the dryer?”
“Yes,” he snaps, hitting his head on the doorway of the dryer on his way out, and pulls himself up to his full height. “That is exactly what’s going on. A stupid, selfish, slimy sock gnome has found its way into my TARDIS and eaten my socks! Those socks were comfortable.” He sighs, bottom lip jutting out as his hair flops into his eyes.
Amy stares at him for another moment, eyebrow arched, before pushing past him and over to the washing machine. “You know,” she starts conversationally, “I noticed a few weeks ago that the washing machine does this thing where it traps loose socks in the plastic on the door.” She pulls open the washing machine and reaches over to pull the plastic protector away, and sure enough, socks fall loose, landing on the floor with a wet plop. The Doctor look at her, stupefied, and Amy groans in annoyance before shoving him out of the way so she can leave. “I’m going to bed.”
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