[ There's the sound of banging, crashing, a shatter, and something bouncing off of a wall or some sort of flat, hard surface. It sounds as though there's a whole chaotic storm happening behind the closed door, and after a moment, after Eleven knocks on that door, the commotion halts.
It's quiet.
And then, the doors slide open and a slightly ruffled Doctor pokes his head through, glancing in Eleven's direction in confusion. It really only lasts for a breath of a moment before his expression brightens significantly. ]
Oh! Hello! D'you need something?
[ A hand? An ear? Maybe one of the many knick-knacks he's currently got hanging out somewhere on his side of the room?
And the room does, somehow, look larger than it might have used to. When he steps aside to let her in (if she'd like), she might notice that two of the beds here are empty now. The Doctor has slowly migrated more of his belongings onto the other side; they take over like an ooze of fabric and colour and mess. Marie Kondo would have an absolute fit. ]
[ She leans to the side to glance past him into the room at first, expression more than just skeptical. It softens when her eyes rise back up to his face though, and then she moves past him and into the room. It's messy, and somehow that doesn't surprise her.
She thinks of Hopper. Thinks... maybe sad men just make rooms messy. She doesn't feel like cleaning her room either when she's not in a good mood.
But Eleven's eyes fall to the two beds. And she lives alone, too, but...
Well.
Well.
She reaches up, slips her small hand into his, and squeezes. Looks up at him again. Patient and gentle in ways beyond her years and circumstances. ]
[ How is it that she'd been able to see right through him like that? In fact, her earnestness, and her knowing reminds him so much of a certain Pond and it aches something dull and sore in his hearts.
The Doctor's expression softens and winds up somewhere between determinedly peppy and just a little tired from the pretending. Really, if he were in his own TARDIS he would probably do a fair amount of brooding. He gets like that sometimes. It isn't his favourite thing about him.
But Eleven's hand is small and warm in his and when she squeezes, he squeezes back. ]
I think I rather miss my — [ What would you call an older, crosser version of yourself? And what about your previously-dead-but-not-dead-here wife? Well: ] — friends.
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no subject
It's quiet.
And then, the doors slide open and a slightly ruffled Doctor pokes his head through, glancing in Eleven's direction in confusion. It really only lasts for a breath of a moment before his expression brightens significantly. ]
Oh! Hello! D'you need something?
[ A hand? An ear? Maybe one of the many knick-knacks he's currently got hanging out somewhere on his side of the room?
And the room does, somehow, look larger than it might have used to. When he steps aside to let her in (if she'd like), she might notice that two of the beds here are empty now. The Doctor has slowly migrated more of his belongings onto the other side; they take over like an ooze of fabric and colour and mess. Marie Kondo would have an absolute fit. ]
no subject
She thinks of Hopper. Thinks... maybe sad men just make rooms messy. She doesn't feel like cleaning her room either when she's not in a good mood.
But Eleven's eyes fall to the two beds. And she lives alone, too, but...
Well.
Well.
She reaches up, slips her small hand into his, and squeezes. Looks up at him again. Patient and gentle in ways beyond her years and circumstances. ]
Do you?
no subject
[ How is it that she'd been able to see right through him like that? In fact, her earnestness, and her knowing reminds him so much of a certain Pond and it aches something dull and sore in his hearts.
The Doctor's expression softens and winds up somewhere between determinedly peppy and just a little tired from the pretending. Really, if he were in his own TARDIS he would probably do a fair amount of brooding. He gets like that sometimes. It isn't his favourite thing about him.
But Eleven's hand is small and warm in his and when she squeezes, he squeezes back. ]
I think I rather miss my — [ What would you call an older, crosser version of yourself? And what about your previously-dead-but-not-dead-here wife? Well: ] — friends.