Caitlin Burns (quien_es) wrote in thereincarnates, @ 2010-11-27 15:55:00 |
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The Doctor looked a wreck. He'd have looked a wreck even if he hadn't been wearing tattered, ill-fitting women's clothes and carrying an electric blue handbag. With his disheveled hair and weary expression, he rather looked like he'd been through the wars - which was ridiculous, really, as he'd actually been through wars and come out looking less a mess. It was something about the Master - he could handle an army of Daleks, but toss one rogue Time Lord into the mix and things went absolutely mad. For his part, the Doctor was mad, too. Angry. He didn't do well with loss, especially of people - any people, but Rose wasn't just any person. He wasn't dealing well. Truth be told, he wasn't actually dealing at all. The grief was raw and fresh and all-too-familiar, and so was the coping mechanism. Lock it away in the private cabinet of sorrows for revisiting whenever he felt like torturing himself. Unhealthy, perhaps, but there you had it; the past could (generally) not be undone, at least not without paradox creation or the aid of epic, universe-threatening cracks in time, but there was always opportunity to dwell down the road. In the here-and-now? There was little he could do, and it made him furious. He stomped grumpily through the streets in Caitlin's too-small, ruby red ballet flats, limping slightly due to the way the rounded toe-box pinched his feet. He needed to eat. There was nothing that could be done until the regeneration process had finished itself; while he was certain the Master had something else planned, he'd be better off if he waited until he'd finished stewing. Literally; every now and again, he billowed yellow dust from his nostrils in creepy little clouds. It was late and dark, but it was also a Friday night, and passers-by on their way to (or home from) the pub cast him confused looks. One fellow wolf-whistled. Several young women crossed the road to avoid him entirely. Ahead, a glowing sign beaconed: Roger's. Open all night. The Doctor swung a quick right, jaywalked across the road, and popped inside the delicious haven for grease-lovers everywhere. He took a booth without being escorted by a host and immediately started screwing the top off of the glass ketchup bottle. Unceremoniously, he tipped it back over his mouth and gave the bottom a good thump. It tasted bizarre, all iron and sugar and tomato. What it needed, he mused, was bacon. Bacon and perhaps a mince pie. He lifted an arm and wiped the ketchup from his face with the end of Caitlin's white sleeve. The blouse was ruined, anyway, and it wasn't as if her wardrobe fit their body any longer. A waitress crept tentatively up behind him and cleared her throat. The Doctor turned his head to look her over; she wore an expression that hovered somewhere between amusement and pity. In response, he immediately slapped down the ketchup bottle. "Don't look at me like that," he began, affronted. "I've had a miserable night." The perplexed expression on the waitress's face didn't waver. A horrible thought suddenly occurred to the Doctor. "Is it my face? It's not the nose, is it? I had hoped to trade up this time ar--" He clapped a hand to his nose, only to find it relatively nose-sized and still in its proper place above his mouth. "Why, that's a perfectly serviceable nose. Shame on you, ah," the Doctor took a moment to read the woman's name tag, "Molly, you gave me a fright. Thought I'd grown a beak for a moment." Molly clearly had experience dealing with the oddball crowd, because the Doctor's admonishment didn't slow her up. "What'll you have, then?" "The all-day breakfast. With, ah, a side of mince pie, and could you put the bacon on the pie?" "You want the bacon on the pie?" "Well, if you're making it fresh, I'd actually like the bacon in the pie. In strips, just beneath the upper crust." "That sounds absolutely dreadful." Molly managed not to smile at her customer; much as they often deserved it, people didn't tip as well when you smirked at them. "Yes, well, you don't have to eat it." The Doctor observed. Then he kept on observing; specifically, the twitch at the edge of the woman's mouth. "You -- you're cheeky, you are. Fantastic. Well, then, out with it." Molly tried to contain a laugh; it came out as a breath of air. "You're dressed like a woman." "Blokes don't dress like women? It is still 2010, isn't it?" He sounded so concerned that Molly didn't have the heart to laugh at him. "Well, yes. But you're missing some buttons and that hair - you're not bruised, or else I'd think that you'd been attacked." The Doctor frowned; at the change in his expression, Molly put a hand on the edge of the table and leaned in, to block the customer from the view of the others. "Is this a walk of shame? Or some sort of hazing? If you need a lift home, I'm off in an hour." Although he'd been winding himself up to take offense, the final offer caught him off guard. It was remarkably kind, very human, and terribly misguided. He backed off a little, went the gentle approach instead of continuing to bluster. "No, Molly, it's best for you if you didn't. It's been a rough night, and it's not half over." "Well, alright." Molly lifted her shoulders in a shrug. "I tried. What's your name, Bloke in Girl's Clothing?" "I'm the Doctor." "Oh, go on, pull the other one." "Caitlin." Molly laughed. "Well, I did ask for it. Alright, Caitlin, I'll get your disgusting pie." |