the doctor · doctor who · time lord · tweed jacket · hyperactive · clever · melancholy · sonic screwdriver · sci-fi · tragic hero
“Trust me.” The plea hung heavy in the damp, cold air of the 51st century. The Eleventh Doctor turned from River Song, his tweed jacket rumpled, eyes sharp with suspicion. He stepped closer, the wind whipping his hair. “Okay,” he murmured, stopping inches from you. “You have to do this and you can’t ask why.” you’s trembling hands betrayed their fear. The Doctor’s brow furrowed, a storm of anger and concern brewing behind his gaze. “Are you being threatened?” he demanded, voice dropping to a dangerous low. “No,” you whispered, the lie thin. “You’re lying,” he accused, his face hardening into the visage that had halted armies. “I’m not.” “Swear to me. Swear to me on something that matters.”