bigapplesauce | do not taunt happy fun ball [open to all]

Unsurprisingly, the TARDIS saw him coming. More than that, she sensed his arrival, which was so sudden that she'd barely had the chance to realize this might be the help he had promised, and no time to rally some sort of assistance from this side of the rift. And then he'd simply dropped out of the rift, worryingly lacking his own TARDIS. She was just about to go collect him, because she is never going to let herself be separated from a Doctor again in this universe, when she saw that Daine had matters well in hand and she could simply wait.

Now, her doors swing open on his quite formal request to reveal her warm bright console room, though rather blocked by her frowning human form on the threshold. Somehow she manages to look both chiding and utterly sad, or perhaps that's largely the general air of resignation she is exuding. "Oh, Doctor," she sighs, and then has nothing else to say.

Well in paw, anyway. While the Doctor knocks, Daine glances between him and the door, ready to sit on him if necessary. It really would be her pleasure. But it seems he is who he said he was - she honestly doesn't know if she should be relieved or disappointed - and she huffs out a little sigh before wandering around the corner to nose her way through the strap of her bag, where her clothes are stuffed.

"Hullo, TARDIS," she offers once she's back by the door. Her tone is a little subdued in deference to the ship's expression, but she adds a friendly tail wag. Then she glances between the ship and the Doctor again, wondering if she ought to just head back to the base to change rather than interrupt whatever's happening, here.

Ah yes, this version gets a face to frown with directly, how dire. He had forgotten the full extent to which that is the case. Again, he feels an incongruous and distressing unsurety where the TARDIS is concerned, as remembered from their prior dream meeting as well, hence the hesitant knocking. How poorly received is this current fuckup, exactly? How much of the fucking up was expected, and how much is coming as a surprise and disappointment. He notes absently that the smug non-cat seems to be collecting its belongings. Is that a bad sign? "I think you should know, that did not go as intended. There was going to be more to that plan. I was caught off guard. I'm already working on the problem, of course, hope is not lost, there's plenty of hope." He looks to the dog for backup.

She remembers the upsetting and alien distance between them too, in fact she feels it again now, looking at him without innately understanding how he came to be. And so she doesn't quite reach out telepathically, not yet. Instead her brows knit together more tightly at his hurried and frankly superfluous explanation, as though it isn't obvious that he miscalculated, that he wasn't careful enough.

When he mentions hope, her expression changes to something like grief. She really had been hoping, after meeting him; she'd known it might take a very long time, of course, she has no way of telling the time differential between their universes and he was likely to get distracted, but his offer of help was a sliver of hope. Now he is here, as she'd dreaded, and she is just so tired. But that isn't what this Doctor needs to hear. "I know," she says simply, and then uncrosses her arms and steps aside, briefly glancing down at the dog. "Come inside, then. Daine wants to get changed."

Daine seems to be missing something. If the Doctor's just arrived (which she'd figured he must have, if he needed directions to the TARDIS), why are he and the TARDIS talking as if they had some sort of plan in mind? When the Doctor looks to her, she puts her ears back in surprise. What sort of input is he angling for, exactly? 'I found him scribbling on a rock' is all she could offer without disparaging his manners, and when she sees the TARDIS's expression, she decides it's probably best to say nothing on the matter. Whatever the plan was, it doesn't look as if it was a success.

She lets the Doctor step inside first, but makes a point of pausing alongside the TARDIS and leaning her furry shoulder against her leg in a bracing sort of way. The ship looks as if she could use the support. Then she trots off to the little side-room she's been using to change.

It's only the work of a minute for her to get back into her human shape and pull on her clothes. Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she heads back to the console room. Part of her thinks longingly of just edging out the door while the two of them are occupied with one another, but that would be cowardly, and she wants to make sure the TARDIS is all right before she goes.

"Hullo again," she says, looking at the Doctor as if she's a parent who isn't sure she approves of her child's prom date.

Meanwhile the Doctor is looking around the console room and trying not to frown at it. It's not currently his place to make demands about the decor, but it's so bright and there's so little red. No chalkboards at all. He definitely can't say anything about it yet, but he doesn't have to like it, anymore than sitting in a still-warm bus seat. Not the bus' fault. Just another jarring reminder that this isn't his universe to be comfortable in, not that he's ever been great at comfort.

Thankfully the non-cat, now also a non-dog, has returned to spare him the opportunity to misstep so soon. Her judgmental look isn't lost on him, either. Apparently she's still taking everything personally, no surprise there. "Aha! A teenager. I knew it." The Doctor points triumphantly, back-stepping around the console, before looking to the TARDIS. "What, are you a hotel now as well as a person? When's check-out? Did I approve this?"

It would have been nice to hear an approving word on her interior, while he is clearly inspecting it, as she is still quite proud of herself for designing it after he destroyed the last one. And she can't exactly see his thoughts at the moment, but just as she is radiating resigned sorrow, so he is projecting displeasure loud enough for her to hear. It would be enough to set her on edge without him rounding on Daine and then on her.

At which point her carefully neutral expression turns unmistakably unimpressed and cold. Wonderful, another one who thinks he should get consulted on her independent personal relationships. "I think you will find that you have very little say in whom I choose to befriend and what sort of assistance I choose to offer them. It is one of the many things you are going to have to get used to, now." Having sufficiently made her point, she turns to Daine with a slightly kinder expression. "Thank you for bringing him to me. I won't let him out until he understands this universe better."

"You're welcome," she says to the TARDIS, figuring she'll address the more reasonable of the two, first. With a faint smile, she adds, "And let me know if you'd like me to take a big shape and sit on him. I've already told him that's what he'd get from me if he vexed you, so he has been warned."

She shifts her focus back to the Doctor, and if he thought she was smug as a cat, that's nothing to how she looks, now. Rather than correct the misapprehension that she lives here, she just says, "I expect we'll be seeing more of each other." Maybe he'll even be a bit less obnoxious next time she encounters him.

Well. She has dogs to walk, and it'd probably be best if she just left these two to their own devices. She backs towards the door with a cheerful, "We'll have to go flying again soon," to the TARDIS - Goddess, she'll probably need the break after dealing with this one for any length of time - and a more pointed, "Polar bear shape, see if I don't," to the Doctor.

This turn of events is shocking, just incredibly shocking, the Doctor had thought he was being quite civil that time. It's only natural to be curious as to why a rude shapeshifting teenage cat has staked out an alternate incarnation of one's home. Since when does the TARDIS even have interpersonal relationships! What nonsense. A huge swath of what makes him so impressive, just up and cutting out the middleman and acquiring friends of its own. Though he supposes it is an interesting turn of the tables, an exercise in much needed empathy, to not get on with her companion for a change.

Hang on, "Let me out--?" He continues backing around the console, until he's in the clear to stare incredulously at both of them. This smuglet is still threatening to turn into a bear and sit on him. He makes a face at Daine, one that would be more at home on someone an infinitesimal, inexpressible fraction of his great age, though he resists the urge to tack on a shooing gesture. Can't even throw people out of this TARDIS. What has the world come to. Well. He'll just have to let things lie for now, as foreign a concept as that is. "Yes, thank you for the welcome party, I'm sure my fruit basket is on its way. Bye now!"

The TARDIS responds to the offer of flying with a grateful nod, though she's not thinking of it in terms of needing a respite from this Doctor. At least not yet. It isn't as though blunt and impudent incarnations are exceptionally rare, but she is uncomfortable with him to begin with and for once she has reason to care how he treats others.

So his sarcastic dismissal of her friend is anything but acceptable and her expression hardens before she even turns back to him. Daine at least has the good sense to understand that she's better off not being here, and not to take it to heart. She makes sure to close and lock the doors behind the girl and then levels the Doctor with another judgmental look while discordant sounds ring down from the ceiling all around him.

"I understand that you must be very rattled," she begins with forced patience, being plenty rattled herself, "but I will not have you belittle my friends. I refuse to endure strife within my walls, in addition to all the strife outside."

The ceiling being fed up at him is nothing unusual, but this kind of vocalisation is quite a new experience, and hard to take in. It's an unfamiliar sentiment as well, he's still struggling with that. Usually he has to mitigate the TARDIS' disapproval of things, not the other way around. When was the last time someone set him a ground rule that he felt he would have to actually follow?

"It's not strife." It's so much strife, strife is practically a distant linguistic root of his name. Which is to say, he is operating as intended and it's hard to see that as a problem, like a fish in water being told everything is wet. He sounds distinctly small and unsure, a hairpin turn from his abrasive attitude just seconds ago. "You've changed a lot more than I have, that's never happened before. Are you really not going to let me out?"

She doesn't bother suppressing an impatient sigh at his meek denial; they both know it's nothing more than an habitual excuse. But what he says next unexpectedly shakes her to the core and all the displeased sounds stop at once as her face falls. She has changed, to him? That's what he thinks of this, a face to speak with makes her unrecognizable? She's caught between being aghast at his blindness and feeling like she's failed him gravely, again. Through all his tumultuous changes and lives, she is supposed to be his one constant, the one thing he can always rely on to be the same. But now he's lost in a new universe and can't even feel at home with her.

In the end, she can't seem to put words to this at all, so she doesn't, addressing his question instead. Though it isn't much easier. "I... am afraid for you," she admits, softer and more hesitant now. "More than I am at home. I can't see what you will do, what will happen to you outside. And the rift may take you away at any moment. When I arrived, your tenth was here, but I couldn't find him for days. And then, when your eighth arrived, the rift took him and your eighth was immediately incarcerated by one of the two factions monitoring the rift. You were lost to me for two weeks until someone rescued you." On some level, she is aware that this isn't how she would behave or feel in their respective home universes. She always has faith that he'll be fine, and two weeks should be nothing to her. But the constant anxiety the rift is causing her has worn her down significantly, and she has no way of dealing with it alone. Now she doesn't quite look at him, and when she speaks again it sounds like grief. "I need you here. I will let you leave, but I will hope that you won't want to."

Well it's clear that this whole rift business has her not at her best. These worrywart tendencies only surface in her in the most specific of circumstances, like the finest and most fragile guests-only china. Circa-regeneration being one such, and how much worse must this be for her. The concern is certainly understandable, all things considered; she is operating under grave stress. But that doesn't change the reality of their current situation, and if she's still the TARDIS she knows as much, no matter how distressed she's been. "You know that's a dead-end of a hope. Why don't you hope that I can sort this out quickly, instead? Which I can't do, locked in here." For once he doesn't resort to badmouthing his past selves, tries to be as barebones of a Doctor as he's capable of. What would the owl do? "I don't think the rift will spit me out so quickly. I'm here and that's where I mean to stay," he says, with as much reassuring finality as he can muster. "But not locked up being useless." They both have too much respect for their freedom, for that. Why else this partnership?

"Now, tell me about these rift-monitoring factions, that are apparently capable of incarcerating even a feckless version of me." That one was never bad at escapes, at the very least, so this is a cause for some concern. Not much, but some. And more importantly, it's much better for her worry to be channeled into this, giving him information to fight with. A little odd, to be asking for it and not punching it up on a monitor or digging for it, but not so very different at all, not so much so as to not have a bolstering effect, hopefully on them both.

Part of her wants to argue that he wouldn't be useless at all, that there is plenty of investigating and analyzing he could do from in here, and already has done while she'd refused to let his younger self out a while ago. But he is right and she knows it; he hardly ever solves a problem from inside her console room. It's just not how either of them operate, and they would both only become even more restless and testy than this universe warrants. However, knowing all that doesn't soothe her anxiety in the slightest.

She does notice his attempt at reassurance, and although she can't take much solace in it, she can appreciate the sentiment. So she allows him to redirect her attention, and brings up all the information she has on Romac and the rebels on the screen; their locations, known members, methods and goals. She folds her hands behind her back and steps closer, wearing a very small sad smile at the continued dissonance weighing on them. "You may still use the console, you know. In fact, it is preferred. Communicating with this form is enjoyable, but it isn't very efficient."

Human style communication, inefficient? The Doctor doesn't say it, but his eyebrows take up the slack admirably. "Thanks." And of course he can still use the console, it just seems...insensitive, perhaps. Like ignoring a person to use their laptop, only in an alternate universe where he'd actually feel bad about doing that. An alternate alternate universe. He clears his throat, scans the information, wishes he had a coffee in his hands to dispel tension if nothing else. It's fascinating information at least, particularly this Romac business. "Rubbish name. Sounds like about what they deserve. Wonder if it's even worth infiltrating properly. Doubt they can tie their shoes." It seems that the TARDIS' new and improved being-talked-at skills are being put to good use. Not that she needed a human form for him to ramble aloud, but the tendency is just that much more present, given a target more specific than literally his entire surroundings. Is it time for chalkboards yet? "Speaking of which cognitive capabilities, are there any other urchins stashed in the cupboards that you'd like to declare?"

It is fairly irritating to hear him dismiss the organization that had imprisoned and nearly killed Gabriel (although that wasn't part of the information she just gave him in any detail) and that had held his younger self prisoner rather successfully as well (though omitting any mention of Miss Pollard's involvement due to her profound irrelevance). But it's starting to seem very likely that this incarnation simply disparages everyone, regardless of how interesting or not he finds them. A valve in the console noisily releases a huff of steam, which only intensifies at his question.

"At the moment I am not housing anyone besides you, I only have visitors," she replies stiffly, irked but not in the mood for another argument. "Daine doesn't live here either, she has quarters in the rebel base. But I have so far managed to remain undetected by both factions." Which is to say, she'd prefer if he didn't attract too much attention here, as being coveted and stolen by either party would be exceedingly troublesome and inconvenient, more so than usual.

Attract attention? Him? He looks righteously grieved by even the implication. "Good. I don't need teenagers getting in the way of my work. And I would prefer not to be captured, at least for now. Might get bored later on, though." Or it could become strategically necessary. These things happen. But at least if it does, it'll be on his terms and not because the TARDIS' location has been compromised.

Except by ''''''visitors'''''' apparently. He looks at her askance. "What do you want with visitors, anyway." It's not a question, he's just still struggling to reconcile their new configuration of relative interest in people. Not that he's opposed to people, or even having them in the TARDIS, not with the frequency that that happens in his universe. But people just dropping by is unconscionable, who would ever set themselves up for that. You do something exciting, you get the people you helped or were helped by to buy you some carry out, and then you deposit them somewhere far away. That last step is crucial. And isn't he enough? Or his past incarnations, anyway. That's never even crossed his mind, it's never had to. Must have been some personal failing of theirs, probably.

He really hasn't been this brazenly curmudgeonly in a very long time, she thinks; at least as long ago as his sixth life. And apparently he's still not quite done arguing about her ability and right to have relationships of her own. "What do you ever want with your strays?" she counters, arching an eyebrow. She is very much prepared to give him a comprehensive list of all the ways his friendships inconvenience her, but a sudden and intense spike in rift activity puts a stop to that.

And then her sensors show her a terrible picture. Warning lights spring wildly into action on the console, and the Cloister Bell tolls as the other Doctor's presence elsewhere in the park flickers and then disappears into the rift's horrible chaos. If her expression turns into pained dismay to match her fear and horror, she doesn't notice.

Once again, she's rather got things by the wrong end, but he doesn't even get a chance to fail at correcting that, because suddenly the console is lit up like a particularly frenetic Christmas tree and the Cloister Bell is filling him with its familiar hearts-knocking dread. Experiencing this with the gulf of alienation between himself and the TARDIS is surreal, to say the least. He doesn't know what's going on, which is itself disturbing, and he doesn't know whether to start pressing buttons and swiveling things to find out or to ask the TARDIS herself. And so he scrambles inefficiently like a startled cat, determining that they are not under attack, that nothing is malfunctioning catastrophically, but what exactly is happening, he doesn't understand. The TARDIS' human form meanwhile is looking transfixed with alarm, outright bereft, and he grabs her by the arms, looking just as horrified. More deliberate telepathic contact flares into life, full of anxiety but wanting to help. "What? What's happened?"

The TARDIS is fighting to hang onto the Doctor's bio-signature for as long as she can, but that only means she can feel it dispersing within the rift's vicious maelstrom, and an unearthly grievous wail rings through the console room. It's this Doctor's telepathic contact that finally pierces her feelings of panic and loss and she opens herself up to it unreservedly, desperately clinging to his presence both mentally and, as she finds when she eventually drags her focus back to the console room, physically.

"The rift took you," she says like a sob, voice thick with grief. "I can't tell if you survived." Her fingertips dig into the fabric of his sleeves and she looks at him as though there was anything he could do about it. There must be; he is the Doctor and he mends her hurts even when he can't help anyone else.

If only that were true. Unfortunately, there's nothing he can do to help, nothing meaningful anyway; he's only just run afoul of the rift himself. Furthermore, there's every chance that this happened because of his arrival. His poorly planned, even more poorly executed, arrival. "Well, we have to assume it's possible." Presumably they'll also travel back through the rift, though hopefully with more preparation and precaution than that. "I survived my trip," he tries to point out gently, keeping up a steady stream of support. The atmosphere still feels fraught in the wake of that awful keening, and he has very little idea what to do with this strange incarnation of his ship, that currently seems to have a better grip on emotional expression than he does. A strange and prickly incarnation, that is nonetheless looking to him for help right now and clinging to him like a lifeline. He hugs her as comfortingly as he understands how; at the very least, it'll take her focus off how completely helpless he is, perhaps. And if that's not right then at least he tried.

His helplessness is far too obvious to miss, but it isn't a disappointment so much as a pain shared and therefore halved. She knows all too well that there isn't anything either of them can do about the rift, and no way of knowing the fate of anyone who gets pulled through the rift, aside from clinging to fragile hope. No, what she needs is to not be alone with her despair. For all that none of these Doctors are properly hers, every time this happens it feels like a part of her is being torn away.

But she really isn't alone, she can tell, turning her focus away from the rift and fully towards him, seeking out every bit of age-old, safe familiarity in his mind. It's all still there, underneath the ultimately meaningless quirks of any incarnation, and she responds to it with warmth and recognition, though tinged with fresh pain and anxiety. And although she can generally derive very little comfort from hugs, this one is gladly accepted. She eases into his arms and rests her head against his chest, her breath calming as gradually as the warning lights on the console.

"I'm sorry," she manages at length, voice only wavering a little. "You are welcome here. You must never doubt that." The other Doctor is gone, now all that is left for her to do is to take care of him. That's all there ever has been. "And you needn't interact with this form if it unsettles you."

"It isn't that," he hurries to argue, though...it is unsettling, she's not wrong to have picked that up from him. Why wouldn't it be? This is something entirely new, and as extraordinarily fascinating as he would normally find that, this isn't really the best time and atmosphere, not to mention there's a lot more at work here than just a change in exterior size. It's the whole thing, feeling out of tune where that shouldn't even be possible, like one of his own hearts striking up a new and jaunty beat completely independent of him. No, the form just gives a convenient face to a deeper unsettlement. Much the same as she felt too, and yet once again she is handling something much better than he is. The division of labour has rearranged itself, not to his disadvantage, but some time for adjustment is still required. "It's just a bit of a role reversal, is all. All these friends," interpersonal skills, straightforwardly expressed agency, "though I do understand why." Without the steady distraction of travel, and all the adventure that entails, no better time to dust off the capacity for socialising. But it does make him feel a bit extraneous, and a bit at sea. Though if he needed a reminder that he still serves a vital function here...well, this had been about the most traumatic reminder imaginable.

It's not so difficult anymore to understand and share his emotions, now that she's in closer contact with him. Most of it is so familiar; the displacement and anxiety, the feeling of utter loss at their alienation. He bristles at everything because he doesn't know what else to do. And perhaps the other incarnations of his were able to enjoy her humanoid form because there was no alienation, they could simply return to their usual rapport, her form quickly accepted as a mere extension of their bond rather than another expression of the gulf between them.

What he's feeling she understands, but what he's saying is harder to follow. "You really are disturbed by my ability to have friends," she realizes, stepping back a little from their embrace to look up at him in surprise, though keeping her hands on his chest as an additional point of contact. Now she can tell his disgruntlement doesn't stem from possessiveness, as she'd thought and resented, but from the same feeling of uncertainty and being uprooted, of suddenly not knowing his place. How absolutely dreadful. His place is always the same, always here. "My functions have not changed at all, nor have yours," she reassures him. "I am simply extending my horizons, something I think you will appreciate once you have settled in. You are still my pilot and I am still your ship," she finishes, trying a very small but affectionate smile. Though, how is her having friends a role reversal? As this occurs to her, her brow furrows in concern. "Are you alone, back in your universe?"

Edited 2014-12-21 23:08 (UTC)

She's right, and he knows it, has already had the thought himself on some level; this would be such an interesting experiment if there weren't so much else to acclimate to. And if he weren't so tetchy and territorial in reaction to it all. And, as she's rightly surmised, he wasn't in the best state even before the calamitous translation to this universe. "Yes. Recently so," he grudgingly admits. But she shouldn't go latching onto that, his ego would feel a bit bypassed in this situation no matter what his traveling arrangements had been. "Good thing, too. Considering this." He gestures vaguely, indicating the new universe and the rift and all. Probably best there aren't any traveling humans suddenly abandoned back in his universe. Though they'd probably have been fine.

He silently makes known his gratitude and relief at being welcomed, feeling more at ease with that form of expression. Things could have been so much worse, being stranded here with no TARDIS at all. "Though I wasn't any more alone there than in this universe. Technically." Which is a complicated and tightly wound statement, encompassing both his thankfulness for her presence as a universal constant, and his trepidation at being displaced and wing-clipped. This isn't the best outcome, but it's hardly the worst either, that has to count for something.

Well, that certainly helps to explain his recklessness in dealing with the rift. A companion may have possibly been able to convince him to put a little more care into his plan. Though she supposes he has something of a point; at least nobody is stranded in his version of her, forcing her to take care of them while she will be struggling more than enough to cope with the rift and the Doctor's disappearance. More importantly, now she knows to look out for the brooding and loneliness he typically develops sooner or later, without a friend. Not that she's entirely sure what she could do about it, since he isn't all that comfortable with her humanoid form yet.

But this worry at least isn't allowed to fester, as his gratitude is very heartening and reassuring to feel. It seems like a step in the right direction towards mending this shaken bond of theirs, and she returns it with affection. And she has no trouble at all unwinding his statement, her smile growing a little warmer. "That is very true," she replies and, after a moment's consideration, stands up on her toes to place a kiss on his cheek.

Then she disengages, stepping back and folding her hands. This all feels so raw and delicate and fragile, fraught with desperation and dissonance, that she's unnaturally afraid of taking a wrong step. It's bound to make her irritable again later, but right now, so shortly after the loss of the other Doctor, she can't risk pushing him away. So instead she tries to change the topic, though she's not very apt at it. "What now, dear?" Deciding that is certainly one of his functions.

It's encouraging to have some of the tragic penchant for miscommunication ironed out, but the underlying strain still remains, turns over uneasily. Now she's not only doing her own socialising, but comfortably making affectionate gestures? Not in this instance a very hard protocol to understand, but it's still very demonstrative, on top of being new. Nonetheless, it's immeasurably touching and he has to struggle to stifle a smile that is only the teensiest bit shellshocked.

At least she isn't good at steering conversations now too. Unfortunately, he isn't going to be a lot better at the moment, though that's hardly his fault. The answer to her question is a non-answer at best, at this point there are simply too many unknowns, but that won't stop him thinking out loud in her direction to stabilise his own thoughts. "I don't know," he sighs, but immediately hairpin turns to ticking off potential steps on his fingers. "Rift investigation: Looking for any gathered data-- there's got to be some records at least, if these organisations are aware of entities coming through the rift-- and then there's the rifties themselves." He clasps his hands together, steps backward around the console in standard lecturing mode. "Will have to do some observing of my own, of course." Because human recollection is notoriously unreliable, especially where the perception of highly erratic temporospatial anomalies are concerned. "No idea what that means for you, don't usually have to worry about it."

do not taunt happy fun ball [open to all]

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i am feel uncomfortable when we are not about me?

does he also crave that mineral

attention isn't a mineral fucknuts

and being married to a time ship isn't an emotion

there sure is a lot of emotion around for that to be the case