mardi 20 août 2019

Clockwork

by

The Doctor has tried, of course, to forget. Every few decades she thinks maybe she'll succeed; maybe she can leave everything that happened behind in the ruins of Gallifrey.

Or perhaps she can bury it where it truly belongs, in that dead or dying city that they stumbled across that came to be so like them, so hauntingly, achingly familiar that the Doctor could've sworn she could hear their hearts beating along with the rattle of its rusted and worn out plumbing. So familiar that the name was only whispered and they were both thrown right back to that moment in the eternal dark, with nothing to cling to but violent hands.

Maybe deep down, she's just mad at herself. Because, really, on a cosmic scale? This is a speck of dust. A teenage squabble, a slammed door, an angry message, a night spent crying into a pillow.

She keeps trying to convince herself of that.

And every time, just like clockwork, she fails.

Words: 1645, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

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