Ten Five Times You've Laughed
It is the first time they've stepped on alien soil together, and she is jubilant.
She crouches down, running her tiny hands through azure grass, basking in silver suns, and he watches, leaning against their ship; she is a great, twisting tree with glimmering leaves.
Now she runs a circle around it, dancing to soundless music, lost in wonder.
Then she stops, and takes his hands, eyes and smile vibrant with youthful joy.
She reminds him so very much of her mother. For a moment, he wants both to laugh and cry.
He chuckles, and pulls her into his arms.
It is very easy, now, to forget who he is. To shrug away the burdens, to dismiss the past and embrace the present.
To merely enjoy the universe, despite everything.
They're in a vast meadow, he and his friends, his piper and his prodigy. She is entranced by the lustrous flowers; he is climbing a massive tree covered in crimson vines.
They are both so young, and have so much to see, and he's going to show them everything.
Then Jamie falters, and the Doctor can only soften his raucous fall.
Zoe's laugh, as she runs to them, is infectious.
They're locked in a cell again. The Doctor is pacing, and muttering, and scheming; the companion is fiddling with her hair.
It isn't long before he snaps at her. Jo only smiles, triumphantly holds up a hair pin, and strides towards the door he'd been cursing.
With much aplomb, she picks the lock, and his laugh is one of joyous pride as he embraces her.
His voice is apologetic. "I don't think there's anyone else I'd like to be locked in a cell with."
Her own is indulgent. "Me either, Doctor."
Shots ring out; they entwine their hands and run.
They're discussing Academy.
It's a rare thing; for him the memories are distant and shaded with bitterness, for her they are too close for comfort. She did, after all, shed that life to embrace something new.
It's a precious thing; so few know what he left behind. So few would understand her choice.
They speak of hidden pathways and ancient trees and secret corners. They speak of lost friends and obstinate professors and tedious peers. He tells her of devious tricks and broken traditions; she tells him of every furtive divergence.
They remember. They laugh. They accept.
They are content.
He complains about Earth, until balmy beach air floods the TARDIS.
"You said you wanted something warmer. I'd change out of that uniform, were I you. In fact I think I'll leave my coat here."
"You can do that? I was beginning to suspect it was glued on."
The smirk is customary, but his voice is light and playful, his eyes glinting with amusement and gratitude. He's confident, cheerful, comfortable.
A laugh escapes the Doctor's lips, soft and warm as the gentle breeze.
They've come so very far. It will be nice, for once, to take time to enjoy it.
She crouches down, running her tiny hands through azure grass, basking in silver suns, and he watches, leaning against their ship; she is a great, twisting tree with glimmering leaves.
Now she runs a circle around it, dancing to soundless music, lost in wonder.
Then she stops, and takes his hands, eyes and smile vibrant with youthful joy.
She reminds him so very much of her mother. For a moment, he wants both to laugh and cry.
He chuckles, and pulls her into his arms.
It is very easy, now, to forget who he is. To shrug away the burdens, to dismiss the past and embrace the present.
To merely enjoy the universe, despite everything.
They're in a vast meadow, he and his friends, his piper and his prodigy. She is entranced by the lustrous flowers; he is climbing a massive tree covered in crimson vines.
They are both so young, and have so much to see, and he's going to show them everything.
Then Jamie falters, and the Doctor can only soften his raucous fall.
Zoe's laugh, as she runs to them, is infectious.
They're locked in a cell again. The Doctor is pacing, and muttering, and scheming; the companion is fiddling with her hair.
It isn't long before he snaps at her. Jo only smiles, triumphantly holds up a hair pin, and strides towards the door he'd been cursing.
With much aplomb, she picks the lock, and his laugh is one of joyous pride as he embraces her.
His voice is apologetic. "I don't think there's anyone else I'd like to be locked in a cell with."
Her own is indulgent. "Me either, Doctor."
Shots ring out; they entwine their hands and run.
They're discussing Academy.
It's a rare thing; for him the memories are distant and shaded with bitterness, for her they are too close for comfort. She did, after all, shed that life to embrace something new.
It's a precious thing; so few know what he left behind. So few would understand her choice.
They speak of hidden pathways and ancient trees and secret corners. They speak of lost friends and obstinate professors and tedious peers. He tells her of devious tricks and broken traditions; she tells him of every furtive divergence.
They remember. They laugh. They accept.
They are content.
He complains about Earth, until balmy beach air floods the TARDIS.
"You said you wanted something warmer. I'd change out of that uniform, were I you. In fact I think I'll leave my coat here."
"You can do that? I was beginning to suspect it was glued on."
The smirk is customary, but his voice is light and playful, his eyes glinting with amusement and gratitude. He's confident, cheerful, comfortable.
A laugh escapes the Doctor's lips, soft and warm as the gentle breeze.
They've come so very far. It will be nice, for once, to take time to enjoy it.