dragoncharmed

The old man still looked up at the sky. Every night, when he had the chance, he would wrap up warm and take a flask of hot tea out to the seat beside his telescope. It was an act of tribute now. He had long since let go of the idle fancy that he would ever see that man, that most wonderful man again. Sometimes it was a truly bitter memory, another friend lost to war, and how he hoped that the poor creature, that ancient blazing angel had been wrong. Perhaps he was out there somewhere, fully recovered, too embarrassed to return. Too afraid? Wilfred knew it was still dangerous. His granddaughter visited often, particularly when his bungalow wa

There was a typewriter on the console now--a typewriter--and at first he tried to type in his destination: E-A-(pecking with his two long index fingers at the flat little keys, marveling at the new knobbiness of his knuckles, at the new, inexplicable urge he felt to nibble at the cuticles)-R-T-H-(the 'H' was sticking slightly already; he made a little joke about how even the best cosmetic surgery cannot hide a woman's true age and then had to leap backwards with a yelp from a lever which suddenly and mysteriously fell of its own accord and rapped him smartly across his nice new knuckles)-M-O-O-N. As it turned out, however, the typewriter had

He is dying, which isn't something all that new. He's died before. But this time it's permanent. (he can't help but feel a vicious stab of glee at the thought) Dying, lying on those stairs. Standing in the TARDIS, crying. Crash landing to Earth. Suicide. Murder. Tripping over his own two feet (that one had been embarrassing). Dying. Coming back. Each man a different face—here's a secret, the face doesn't matter—each man dying. Some new man goes sauntering away. And I'm dead. Everything I am dies. It is strange. And you look back, just for a moment, and you see, and he sees, walking into the new face. Like salt, pouring from an

"Oh, you are beautiful!" The title "Time Lord" implies a certain noble solemnity; on Earth, it would suggest fancy wine, musty libraries, marble statuary and long, echoing hallways. The being who would, later in his personal timeline, come to be known as the Doctor danced around the antique console with all the dignity and gravitas of a small child at Christmas. "You like her?" asked his companion, stepping out of the way with a wary expression; when the not-yet-Doctor gets excited, he has a tendency to forget about everything but the object of his fixation, including anything that might get in his way. "I never cared for the Type 40 myself