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written in awe by a puzzled man [closed]
Feb. 7th, 2015 07:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
i_jonesIanto is on a mission. He's got a wheelchair - not because he needs one, really, the TARDIS is just really big sometimes and her libraries tend to be so disordered that hobbling around with his cane would be a really inefficient search method. He rolls down the aisles, pulling a book every so often and stacking them in his lap. He lingers in the science fiction section, or a section that just happens to have a lot of science fiction in it, noting the occasional interesting title and taking what he assumes to be an alien tabloid. He could use a little gossip.
He stacks the books on a table he finds near the center, or what feels like the center, anyway, if the hub and spoke design of the space is to be believed. He's found a new diary as well, and a new phone, and he sets these out too, trying to make sense and give order to what he's gathered. Should he use the first letters of sentences? The last letter of the book? Chapter titles? He left himself a few options. He's already done book titles, he doesn't want to repeat himself. Important decisions, here. He twists around to reach the pocket on the back of the chair and pulls out a thermos. Hot cocoa, no coffee, because he needs to ease back into caffeine slowly. It's perfectly hot, sweet, and chocolately, and somehow the little marshmallows in it have not dissolved into foam.
Leaving the drink at his elbow, he changes tacks and pulls out a different book from the pile, checking the table of contents before he flips to a particular page. He taps his pen against the edge of the page, contemplating its contents, before he starts to take down details of a certain magical Prefect bathroom in his diary.
He stacks the books on a table he finds near the center, or what feels like the center, anyway, if the hub and spoke design of the space is to be believed. He's found a new diary as well, and a new phone, and he sets these out too, trying to make sense and give order to what he's gathered. Should he use the first letters of sentences? The last letter of the book? Chapter titles? He left himself a few options. He's already done book titles, he doesn't want to repeat himself. Important decisions, here. He twists around to reach the pocket on the back of the chair and pulls out a thermos. Hot cocoa, no coffee, because he needs to ease back into caffeine slowly. It's perfectly hot, sweet, and chocolately, and somehow the little marshmallows in it have not dissolved into foam.
Leaving the drink at his elbow, he changes tacks and pulls out a different book from the pile, checking the table of contents before he flips to a particular page. He taps his pen against the edge of the page, contemplating its contents, before he starts to take down details of a certain magical Prefect bathroom in his diary.
