The Doctor (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} fromgallifrey) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} vas_captio_rpg, |
He wished he had his coat. That he could shove his hands deep down in his pockets in his own peculiar version of crossing his arms. Instead he was forced to stand there, his hands all out in the cold with his trainers feeling like they were super glued to the pavement.
"Thick as thieves," he said quietly. Little clues were coming together for the Doctor. The quiet grace, the practiced moves, the almost cunning demeanor; not to mention the inquisition conversations sometimes turned into with Gambit.
The Time Lord didn't make any motion to come between Gambit and the Post Office. Instead he stood his ground, itching for that coat of his still. The Doctor didn't do intimacy. Usually people found things out about him in a slow and methodical manner and then when they were gone, they were gone. He didn't learn favorite colors or jam preference. He didn't learn birthdays or pets. No, he traveled with them for a time, and when their time came they left. The Doctor was used to being alone and having things on his terms.
Yet, here was Gambit, calling no one his people. Kicking himself for whatever it was he did outside of this place. Acting like he was a fish out of water when clearly he'd managed to find his stride somewhere in the heart of all this.
He hadn't even let his mind fathom the thought of what Gambit meant about leaving. What he was trying to say about getting out of here. The Gallifreyan was just a touch more intrigued by why the Cajun was saying what he was.
"I can't tell you what you are or what you aren't. Though, you could have very easily left all the people you helped behind." He was still so very quiet, keeping still. He felt like an observer seeing a creature in it's native habitat.