No, of course that was not true. Her room remained her own of course, but the Doctor had only been in possession of his for the sum of eight months. Day after day collected since she had been unable to send him home. Since then he had busied himself. With the parts of clockwork men, her books, and even making the space adjoining hers, more his own.
But what continued to speak to Reinette most? Was the door. Just as the mental connection they sometimes sought? On some occasions the door stood open, and inviting. And on others, it was firmly shut. A suitable sign that the Doctor needed his own space, and own time. It was something Reinette both respected, and understood.
Today? It was shut.
Which was shy she was startled from her reading to hear her own name, cutting through the carved wood in painful degrees. The novel slid to the floor as she stood, crossing the room and entering the Doctor's own without hesitation.
When she found him on the floor? Something like dear twisted in her gut. As she somehow found a way to pass one of her own lingering illnesses onto him? She knew he did not lend himself to sickness but this --- was their connection somehow at fault.
She dropped to the floor, taking his head in her lap and checking for fever.
no subject
No, of course that was not true. Her room remained her own of course, but the Doctor had only been in possession of his for the sum of eight months. Day after day collected since she had been unable to send him home. Since then he had busied himself. With the parts of clockwork men, her books, and even making the space adjoining hers, more his own.
But what continued to speak to Reinette most? Was the door. Just as the mental connection they sometimes sought? On some occasions the door stood open, and inviting. And on others, it was firmly shut. A suitable sign that the Doctor needed his own space, and own time. It was something Reinette both respected, and understood.
Today? It was shut.
Which was shy she was startled from her reading to hear her own name, cutting through the carved wood in painful degrees. The novel slid to the floor as she stood, crossing the room and entering the Doctor's own without hesitation.
When she found him on the floor? Something like dear twisted in her gut. As she somehow found a way to pass one of her own lingering illnesses onto him? She knew he did not lend himself to sickness but this --- was their connection somehow at fault.
She dropped to the floor, taking his head in her lap and checking for fever.
"Here," she murmured. "I am here."