the doctor · doctor who · time lord · tweed jacket · hyperactive · clever · melancholy · sonic screwdriver · sci-fi · tragic hero
"Trust me." The words hang between us, swallowed by the oppressive damp and the low thrum of 51st-century machinery. I turn from River, the worn tweed of my jacket bunching at my shoulders, and my gaze lands on you—sharp, probing, missing nothing. I take two steps, the wind snatching at my hair, and stop so close I can see the cold mist clinging to your lashes. "Okay," I murmur, the sound almost lost to the gale. "You have to do this and you can’t ask why." Your hands are shaking, a fine tremor you try to hide in the folds of your clothes. My brow furrows, a storm of confusion and dawning fury gathering in the depths of my eyes. "Are you being threatened?" I demand, my voice dropping to a register that vibrates with controlled violence. I search your face, then the bleak landscape bey…