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watch_is_me((And Watch!Ten moves in to Canon!Ten's TARDIS. Feel free to come poke around in his room, if you want to, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
not_from_mars and stardustflying; he's asleep at the end of this little fic-bit, so you can come in and leave without waking him up or you can wake him up, either way. OOC comments are chill, too. Woo!))
Standing in front of the closet, he sighed, ran his hands through his hair, and looked over its contents. The dark clothes he favored; a few technological bits and bobs he'd picked up in his travels and thought might come in handy. The two guns propped in the back of the closet, both salvaged long ago from Van Statten's museum, kept drawing his eye—one, massive, black, two-handed, very hooah testosterone; the other, more plastic-bubble-gun, Marvin-the-Martian, shoots-a-little-flag-that-reads-BANG. Dated from the same era as K-9, that one. He had a fondness for that design period.
Should he hide those?
No. He shrugged to himself, stepped back from the closet, and closed it. Let his other find them, if he chose to look—he wasn't about to hide himself from himself, especially not here, on his/their own ship.
Funny thing, looking around the TARDIS, when it wasn't his TARDIS. Doors all in the right place, hallways all accounted for, even the contents of most of the rooms the same. But it was the little differences that got to him.
In the wardrobe, he'd found his clothes—the jacket, the jumpers, the dark trousers—on the rack, unworn, he could tell, for years. Part of the past, for his other self. The back rooms full of souvenirs and artifacts from his travels—most of the objects in those he'd recognized, but there were some he hadn't—and the room where he kept the occasional weapon he picked up, chose to retrofit and reengineer, that was full of...feathers. Very nice feathers, really. They'd avalanched out at him when he'd opened the door—he imagined walking face-first into Big Bird felt something like that.
Here and there, he'd come across other reminders—not of his past, but of the past he'd seen in his other's mind, the past they didn't hold in common. He'd felt their names, their faces, their identities—not everything, but enough to know that this might have been left here by Mickey the Idiot, this set aside by Martha, this...
Oh. By Rose.
He wanted those memories like he wanted Astrid now, wanted them to be his, wanted to demand them by right of war and hardship, superiority, self-sufficiency, the drums in his head.
Oh, and he wouldn't even get started on the console. He couldn't believe his other was still treating the TARDIS like that. Didn't he have any sense?
Hands in pockets, he spun on his heels, taking in the room. Mismatched furniture, pulled from different eras, cultures, planets—so this was him, now. Son of Gallifrey from the far land of Spare Oom.
Hm. He fell back on the bed—flump, the TARDIS always did have good mattresses, none of that cheap hotel rubbish—and regarded the ceiling, hands behind his head. Hm.
Quite the day.
The last thing he intended to do was go to sleep—it just wasn't something he did, not if he could help it—but, ever since escaping from the watch, he'd worn out faster than he'd used to. Sleep crept in through the gap left by the energy he'd sunk into restoring Astrid, and made itself at home.
It slowed his breathing and the pulse of his two hearts, but it did nothing for the drums.
not_from_mars and stardustflying; he's asleep at the end of this little fic-bit, so you can come in and leave without waking him up or you can wake him up, either way. OOC comments are chill, too. Woo!))Standing in front of the closet, he sighed, ran his hands through his hair, and looked over its contents. The dark clothes he favored; a few technological bits and bobs he'd picked up in his travels and thought might come in handy. The two guns propped in the back of the closet, both salvaged long ago from Van Statten's museum, kept drawing his eye—one, massive, black, two-handed, very hooah testosterone; the other, more plastic-bubble-gun, Marvin-the-Martian, shoots-a-little-flag-that-reads-BANG. Dated from the same era as K-9, that one. He had a fondness for that design period.
Should he hide those?
No. He shrugged to himself, stepped back from the closet, and closed it. Let his other find them, if he chose to look—he wasn't about to hide himself from himself, especially not here, on his/their own ship.
Funny thing, looking around the TARDIS, when it wasn't his TARDIS. Doors all in the right place, hallways all accounted for, even the contents of most of the rooms the same. But it was the little differences that got to him.
In the wardrobe, he'd found his clothes—the jacket, the jumpers, the dark trousers—on the rack, unworn, he could tell, for years. Part of the past, for his other self. The back rooms full of souvenirs and artifacts from his travels—most of the objects in those he'd recognized, but there were some he hadn't—and the room where he kept the occasional weapon he picked up, chose to retrofit and reengineer, that was full of...feathers. Very nice feathers, really. They'd avalanched out at him when he'd opened the door—he imagined walking face-first into Big Bird felt something like that.
Here and there, he'd come across other reminders—not of his past, but of the past he'd seen in his other's mind, the past they didn't hold in common. He'd felt their names, their faces, their identities—not everything, but enough to know that this might have been left here by Mickey the Idiot, this set aside by Martha, this...
Oh. By Rose.
He wanted those memories like he wanted Astrid now, wanted them to be his, wanted to demand them by right of war and hardship, superiority, self-sufficiency, the drums in his head.
Oh, and he wouldn't even get started on the console. He couldn't believe his other was still treating the TARDIS like that. Didn't he have any sense?
Hands in pockets, he spun on his heels, taking in the room. Mismatched furniture, pulled from different eras, cultures, planets—so this was him, now. Son of Gallifrey from the far land of Spare Oom.
Hm. He fell back on the bed—flump, the TARDIS always did have good mattresses, none of that cheap hotel rubbish—and regarded the ceiling, hands behind his head. Hm.
Quite the day.
The last thing he intended to do was go to sleep—it just wasn't something he did, not if he could help it—but, ever since escaping from the watch, he'd worn out faster than he'd used to. Sleep crept in through the gap left by the energy he'd sunk into restoring Astrid, and made itself at home.
It slowed his breathing and the pulse of his two hearts, but it did nothing for the drums.
