|"Everything screams in my dreams tonight."|
“Whoops!” A young girl, no older than fourteen, hurriedly exclaims, twisting a strawberry blond lock nervously around her finger. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!”
“Oh…” you belatedly fight against yourself to shout the foul oath on the tip of your tongue. Your sparkling eyes glaze over the humongous stack of reports handed to you by your colleagues, half of it drenched to the tips with sticky tan coffee that’s pouring out of your simple mug.
Pages upon pages of neatly typed words, and now some of them are wiped off the mark. You mentally chide yourself not to scream at the girl—as she hasn’t done anything wrong—but no doubt you’ll pay the price for it later on.
“It’s all right, it’s fine, I didn’t really need that stack of papers anyway.” You force out the last genuine smile in your body, while mentally swallowing down obscenities.
“You sure?” she anxiously asks, clasping her hands together. No doubt she wouldn’t want to anger the girl that might as well balance S.H.I.E.L.D on top of her head. Oh, and come to think of it, you might be so angry that you might refuse to work any longer!
One curt nod from you is all the reassurance she needs, and she guiltlessly skips to her tiny workplace, already typing shamelessly to her friends via chat, on her paper thin laptop.
You exhale in relief, and forcefully turn towards the dripping stack of work now increasingly growing, as worker upon worker goes by and stacks a manuscript on your desk. You’ve got a lot of work to do. With a quick twist of your right hand, you snatch a handful of towels that’s innocently sitting on the side of your file cabinet, and begin to sop up the mess with agonizingly slow pace. (Due to the fact that you have to be extremely careful not to knock over the skyscraper piles growing like beanstalks on your desk).
When the mess is cleared away—for the moment—you throw yourself into your squeaky desk chair, blowing a straggly strand of hair out of your face.
It’s not as if I have a choice, you think to yourself resentfully, as you take the tip top manuscript off the countless sheaves of paper lining your desks. In bold, yet neatly inked font, is a requirement for a new laptop, slim as a wood leaf, but must be evergreen in all corners. Keyboard symbols drawn in rusted gold ink, touchscreen sensitive, of course.
As you begin your tedious work cycle again, you try and block out the mental scream that’s been building up in your head for years. You had snagged a job at S.H.I.E.L.D by pure chance-due to someone slipping that you had a work of a prodigy in the arts.
And everyone always knows that prodigies are picked quite quickly by the elite.
You were sent by streaming underwater jet (yes, underwater jet) to S.H.I.E.L.D’s main headquarters in the middle of nowhere, and ordered to start designing contraptions and such for the program.
At first, you were an equal to everyone in the office, a girl who had equal talents to everyone around her. But your advanced skills preceded you, and propelled you into a reputation that you didn’t know you had, until it was too late.
To your unfortunate luck, your coworkers were such lazy procrastinators, they would just kick up their heels and relax while sipping a cup of coffee, plopping the day’s work onto your desk. You, on the other hand, can’t afford to rest.
Being the sharpest tack in the glass headquarters takes its tolls; and unfortunately, that toll is as high as the Taipei 101. All your colleagues took your innovative mind for granted, stating that they couldn’t possibly dream up of genius designs, and put their work directly on your hands.
And if your boss finds out…well, you think sarcastically to yourself as you refill your mug with coffee. Would he want to change this unfair system?
Your boss wasn’t one for the resting type-in fact, he would proudly declare to anyone who’s about, that his designing office was the first in all of S.H.I.E.L.D’s networks.
He’s one to talk.
The reason that his branch of design was number one is because of you. Almost every single piece of technology that S.H.I.E.L.D had ever created was in your designs. You are the one to first sketch, then make a prototype drawing, and sent them back to their workers. They then ship the drawings to the engineering department. If they approve of the design, the department would then make a miniscule prototype-not to scale, of course-and if it’s sufficient enough for you-after your coworkers give you the prototype-, S.H.I.E.L.D immediately patents it.
Now this isn’t to say that there aren’t other artists that make the government program itself. Nukes, explosives, and guns…no, those you left to the pyromaniacs that are miles away from you-thankfully. But where simplicity, artistic skill, and efficiency is involved, almost all the time you created it.
The infamous Helicarrier, with its camouflaging glass surfaces, gigantic whirring blades, and complex inner system that nearly went haywire after the Avengers’ recent battle? Your idea.
The nearly indestructible Tesseract holder, that firmly and cautiously contained the cube in midair, so it wouldn’t detonate? Courtesy of yours truly.
The inescapable circular cage that the troublesome Loki Laufeyson, Norse God of Mischief, was once imprisoned in? Not capable without your quick thinking.
Over half of S.H.I.E.L.D’s crisp outfits, furniture, and secretive underground interiors? Check, check, check; all of them are of your mind and creative spurring.
Unfortunately, those ideas are your colleagues officially. The back and forth exchange of work from the people in the office is all the communication you ever have with them.
All they can find out in their idiotic minds are that you are the girl who does everyone’s work as a service; why do all the difficult jobs designing while you can just send them over to the girl next door? Exactly.
As much as you want and desire to break free of your titanium locked prison in S.H.I.E.L.D, you know you cannot. Almost every designed and technologically innovative machine or substance comes from you now.
If you leave, every worker in the office would be startled into submission in real attempt at their job, and it wouldn’t be pretty after a few years’ rest. S.H.I.E.L.D wouldn’t exactly be advanced for the next couple of decades, not in a long time.
If you drop out of the program now, S.H.I.E.L.D may as well be knocking stones together without your help. Heck, if you stretched your surprising large influence to its maximum limit, not even the Avengers would be grouped if you left.
You allow your frame to be rocked by a single shiver; without your art, to quite literally put the quote, the earth would just be ‘eh’. Or it could also be thrown into a chaotic tumult where no one could stop evil forces from coming.
Is it any wonder that you’re obliged to choose the former option?
In S.H.I.E.L.D’s book, nothing is what it seems to be. ‘Obliged’ isn’t a sense of obedience. Obliged is equal to deciding whether or not there be near-apocalyptic equations.
And even that’s wildly not to scale for, say, if another crazy person decides to rule the Earth and crush it to bits, instead of making it their possessive domain.
The fate of humanity and the world resting in one’s palms, and you’re thinking of quitting your job, and losing the hope of millions?
But for such a crucial job, you’d think you should be treated with some respect. Nada. S.H.I.E.L.D’s got respect for field agents, the highest branches of helpers-the nervy Agent Coulson, for example-and of course, the best of the best for the Avengers. But most probably because the Avengers together would have enough power to blow S.H.I.E.L.D up in a second’s passing.
Why should an overruling government care about one single employer that’s working for them?
That’s fueling all their technology and needs?
And who’s frustrated to her wit’s end?
With the destiny of the earth’s future on her shoulders?
That’s right. Nothing.
Exactly what you get a second after you resentfully think this thought to yourself. A fierce slamming of hard skin meeting tabletop nearly upends your freshly filled mug of coffee, jerking your legs against the desk so that the sheaves of papers tremble.
You immediately snap your attention to the person in front of you, the one and only, grand title of Designing and Engineering. In other words, your boss. And he certainly doesn’t seem happy now.
“Miss ______________________,” he barks out harshly, waving a hand over the stacks of paper patiently lining your wobbling desk. “What on earth is all this rubbish?”
His grey slush eyes find the now yellowing stack of coffee stained papers off the corner of your desk. In that instant, you know you’re dead before you can open your mouth in defense.
So you give the truth as best as you can, even though you know you’re in for it.
“I spilled coffee over a part of my work-a mistake, a grave one, I know now. As for the extra sheets of paper, that’s a silly little misunderstanding.” You fib and lace your fingers together delicately, folding them on the top of your desk.
“I’ve rather overslept today and didn’t keep track of my records, so I have yesterday night’s and today’s work to finish on.” You cleanly announce, straightening your posture so you sit absolutely upright. Even while he’s about to blow, your boss can still spot slumping shoulders.
Your superior doesn’t blink. He doesn’t even ask of your welfare and being, which to anyone else, would be necessary, since you were awake to three o’clock in the morning, working furiously to complete all your coworkers’ orders on time.
And he knows you’ve been relentlessly giving your all to your work, since he spotted you in the exact same position in the office night and day. But he doesn’t give a care in the world.
“I don’t have time for your petty excuses, Miss ___________________.” And in one sweep of his hand, he shoves off nearly a fourth of your hard won drawings near the coffee stained spot on your desk. Immediately, some of them soak up parchment color splotches, ruining the meticulous details on every contraption, others curdle up at the edges, and still others turn to sludge in the now cold liquid.
Your boss smiles viciously. “There, don’t you feel better? You’ve gotten a load of work off your hands-I’ve relieved you from some of your duty. I believe a thank you is in motion.”
“Thank you,” you automatically reply, eyes fixated on the stack of drawings that you spent almost the whole night on. You bow slightly towards the heartless man, showing your bland respects. His smirk only becomes more pronounced as he looks upon your helpless state.
“That’s right. I see you’re attempting to learn your manners-it was about time you started,” he calls out behind his back as he turns around.
In his eyes, he has only kindly reprimanded a stupid girl to keep her in check. But in reality, he has no earthly idea what he has started.
As soon as he walks out of the office, several flames spark up like firecrackers in your pupils, as if someone’s struck a flint-and-steel in your eyes. It’s as if a phoenix died in blood instead of fire; the rage in your eyes can’t be contained.
But the instant they appear in your eyes, your cool head calms them down. You can’t go about like this, you can’t afford to lose your temper.
And so mechanically, like an obedient automaton, you set out straight for sketching.
However, inside the silence of your head, your overly stressed brain sends out little electronic waves of tension and anger, violently slashed with ruby red and eye-watering purple, as if your thoughts themselves are bruised as much as your heart.
About a couple hundred miles away, another person is stressing out and is trying desperately to control his temper, but under completely different circumstances.
That is not to say that the task is any less difficult, considering the unbelievably stupid actions that his comrades are participating in now.
“Come on, come on! You can do it!” a cocky—if not a touch sarcastic—voice declares from one of the Tower’s many rooms. Turning around the whitewashed corner, one can find the source of the voice in a matter of seconds.
He’s an average height man with scraggly dark beard stubble dotting all over his lower face and the edge of his chin. What’s unusual about this man is not his casual outfit (faded jeans, sneakers, and simple patterned T-shirt), nor his lack of manners despite his rich surroundings, but that at the center of his shirt, at his chest, a glowing blue core pulses from evergreen to iceberg blue from time to time. The more strange fact is, no one seems to really notice.
“Stark, don’t you think this has gone a touch too stupid-” a female’s voice chips in, only the slightest edge of Russian judging by her statement. This one is a lithe young woman in a tightly fitted black jumpsuit, with fiery red curls tumbling down her head as she crosses her arms.
Deadpan pours from her eyes, most obviously trying to get her colleagues out of another mess. From the looks of things, this isn’t her first time trying.
“Nat, Thor hasn’t gone on this many Poptarts since he raided the supermarkets two months ago due to major sales. Besides, you never know when this sort of thing might happen again.” The man next to her chuckles to himself.
He has a kindly face, marked delicately with healed battle scars and supports a tousled brown, slightly cropped buzzcut, with a black quiver and bow—that would make Katniss Everdeen’s Mockingjay gear look like a child’s daydreams—to match his fitted midnight dark tunic and pants.
“Your sense of humor never fails to amaze me, Agent Barton.” Natasha cuts through, turning her kill-me-now-with-this-idiocy look on the male partner sitting near her.
“Why are we doing this again?” The wide chested, yet tall male sitting across from the inseparable duo curiously asks. On first glance, he seems as if he is an average muscled man in his early twenties, but on second glance, he’s much more.
His blue eyes are the eyes of a naïve child, ironically while going along with a stocky build that would make girls salivate over him until they dehydrated themselves. His dirty blonde hair, a bit wavy at the crest of his head, shakes from side to side as Steve Rogers/Captain America looks on at the eccentric sight.
“I’ll tell you why, Steve.” The green-eyed, dark-haired older man next to him replies, looking over the rim of his silver glasses. Strangely, everyone in the room seems to edge away from him as he says these words, although he seems like a well-educated middle aged professor. “It’s because Tony bribes us with stuff we love, hacks it all up on his credit cards, and makes us drool all over it. The aftermath he orders J.A.R.V.I.S to record as future blackmail.”
Tony Stark, the infamous billionaire, playboy, philatropenrist—aka Iron Man himself—raises his hands in mocking surrender.
“Guilty as charged, Banner.” He snickers approvingly.
“Oof msthre…” a rumbling voice announces, with an unusual muffling noise in the back of his throat. Tony’s eyes light up in anticipation as he watches a blond haired, large chested man with a titanium armor not of this world.
Thor, Norse God of Thunder, would most definitely look intimidating—if not for the shockingly large number of Poptarts stuffed in his mouth.
Why Poptarts? Better not to ask.
“Doesn’t anyone besides Agent Romanoff think that this idea is the essence of pure idiocy?” a slick, oily voice declares, and everyone swivels around in their seats to glare at a raven haired man in impressive dark forest green and gold gilded armor, who has a look of complete disdain on his pale stretched face.
His eyes are Arctic blue, so strikingly bold that one narrow would pierce any glare to pieces, and his midnight ash cape trails behind him silently.
In other words: Loki Laufeyson, Norse God of Mischief, adoptive brother of Thor, and basically an impossibly arrogant prick.
“I’m surprised my brother even agreed to this lunatic deal in the first place.” He quietly announces, his disdainfully lidded eyes only gaining repulse when everyone begins to stare at him.
“Nothing doing, Reindeer Games.” Stark scoffs, waving a dismissive hand. “Thor’s amazingly close to beating his record for how many Poptarts he can stuff in his mouth. I’d think you’d like to get a try at that, won’t you?”
“Ydo bueslurrised.” Thor puts in, which no one pays any attention to.
“If you think I’m stupid enough to attempt at such foolish behavior, I’m surprised you can even walk around this Tower and find your way to the main hall.” Loki, God of Mischief shoots Tony with one of his signature death glares.
“That’s probably because the bar’s exceedingly and coincidentally close to the elevator.” Hawkeye smirks, fingering the handle of his simple, yet elegant bow.
“Hmm, wonder how that happened?” Natasha Romanoff, alias Black Widow, groans, and slams her head down on the tabletop frustratingly. Her red curls shake like crisp autumn leaves.
“Hey!” Tony complains. “Pepper made me put the bar there, because she didn’t approve of me putting it only in my room!”
“Your room?” Steve’s eyes widen at this. “You were planning to put the bar in your room?”
“Dear Lord…that wouldn’t have been pretty. Imagine Stark drunk and raving every single day.” Banner guffaws.
“And add to the fact that he’s a wisecracking git.” Romanoff murmurs underneath her breath, earning a proper flipping off from Tony.
“Actually, it wouldn’t be that different.” Loki muses to himself, dodging the vodka bottle that Tony chucks at him with graceful ease.
“You, shut up. You, lighten up. You, keep going.” The billionaire orders, pointing an accusatory finger at Loki, Natasha, and at Thor, who amazingly seems to hold the enormous amount of poptarts in his mouth. And the impossible fact that he's still stuffing himself? So mindblowing it seems next to a wonder.
“What’s the number at again?” Steve asks, his baby blue eyes sparking an innocent curiosity of a child’s that’s extremely disproportionate to his burly size.
“I lost track at fifty-four.” Clint supplies, eyeing the poptart box with interest, as if he’s calculating how fast he can nail the box to the wall with one of his arrows.
“Nah, it was more than eighty-five.” Tony shakes his head in disagreement.
“Couldn’t have been more than a hundred though…” Dr. Banner runs a tired hand through his dark locks.
“You’d be surprised at what my brother can do.” Murmurs the God of Mischief, eyeing Thor’s bulging mouth with disgust written all over his face.
“Well, let’s say the number is at least over ninety. Now, if he can just get to…” Iron Man muses, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
“AGENTS!” A thundering voice booms out over the Tower, that makes all the Avengers jump in unison, and Thor’s eyes widen and he chokes.
He’s so surprised, in fact, he spews out every single Poptart in his mouth with the speed of a machine gun.
Now, it might seem like a pretty hilarious moment by reading it, but the event itself is as deadly as homicidal maniac opening fire without warning.
“Duck and cover!” Hawkeye shouts, tumbling to the ground in a flash, as each Poptart sails out of the God of Thunder’s mouth like a missile from a sub.
“I told you this was a bad idea!” Natasha yells, jumping out of harm’s way as a lone Poptart sails past her cheek, leaving a scratch mark as thin as a sewing string in its path.
“It wasn’t my idea!” Barton insists as he snaps his bow back, arrow ready to fly, but his face changes from courageous to distraught as he realizes his high-tech quiver is empty.
“It might as well be!” Tony hollers as he ducks under the countertop to avoid any speeding snacks. “And your stupid arrows won’t be much use here, Mockingjay!”
“Hark who’s talking, I distinctly remember you were the one who rounded us all up!” Captain America barks out, sheltering the back of his head protectively. “And at least he’s not the one who’s gotten us into this whole mess!”
And the constant shouting and accusation go on. And on. And ON. Loki rolls his startling blue eyes exasperatedly, so much that one could hear them from a hundred leagues away. The Avengers may be Earth’s mightiest heroes, but they have an outstandingly large lack of logic.
For the son of Odin, how do these people work together? The devilish rouge thinks to himself while safely taking shelter behind a large sofa. Even I cannot figure out how they get along, and that may be saying something, since I know quite a lot.
When the barrage is over—hopefully—the Avengers cautiously creep out of their hiding places, wary to do so. Their eyes scan the room, and dilate widely in mixed emotions when they see the last person they would want to meet in this state.
“How the hell did he get in here without permission?” Tony coughs out, spitting a random Poptart out of his mouth and hacking up a considerable amount of phlegm.
“I believe he just walked towards the elevator and found his way up here judging from all the noise, sir.” J.A.R.V.I.S, Tony Stark’s obedient, faithful—and at times extremely sarcastic—home system/AI announces in his sophisticated and monotone British accent.
“Remind me to suspend all admittance to S.H.I.E.L.D agents,” Stark groans, slowly getting to his feet and cricking his neck painfully. “Or anyone else that I just happen to know and are at the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“That would be mostly everyone you meet, sir.”
“Avengers.” Nick Fury, feared leader of S.H.I.E.L.D in his frightening robes and gloves growls, fixing a steely glare with his one good eye. The moody eye patch and scar marked across his serious face does nothing to lighten the mood. “This is what you do to spend your free time?”
“I would like you to note that I am not involved in this situation at all, thank you very much.” Loki helpfully adds in, shuffling away from the leader of S.H.I.E.L.D lazily, but is caught at the scruff of the neck at the last minute.
“Not so fast, Loki. You think that just because you thought this was idiotic you’re getting out of this one? Not likely.”
“Hmm, and since when did I ever say I was in the Avengers?” he asks coolly, cockily raising a thinly branching eyebrow. “I specifically heard you naming the earth’s mightiest heroes, not one benevolent prince that’s in no ways involved with the stupidity of his colleagues.”
Fury releases the Norse God forcefully, choosing instead to vent his anger on the unlucky group that are the Avengers. Besides, he would rather make a choice to blow his top than to negotiate the slimeball’s cunning loopholes.
Barton swears underneath his breath as Nick Fury turns on the group of superheroes, while Natasha gazes up at the Director with no kind of emotion at all. Steve doesn’t blink, nor does Banner or Thor, but Tony seems the most eager to get out of the place.
Loki strolls out of the room, humming to himself as the force of Fury’s shout vibrates the walls of Stark Tower, making the dust shake from the pristine ceiling. His disturbing smile, in nanoseconds, turns into a bored scowl. In all retrospect, he really should not be in the building at all, as the last time he had been here was when he caused a Chitauri invasion on Manhattan.
Dull. That’s the word for his life now. What had he done through the past few years? Made millions of people scream and run for his lives from his actions. Struck a deal with Chitauri and caused chaos everywhere he went.
And where is this feared being now? Cooped up in a tiny tower like hens, accompanied with the people that tried to kill him. Though it was in fact quite amusing to watch the pathetic group known as ‘The Avengers’ bicker and shout amongst themselves.
Not to mention the fact that he enjoyed ticking them off with pranks—which is just an elaborate way of saying that Loki tricks them all the time.
But it’s quite boring to be shut up in a skyscraper tower for more than five months straight. He can’t do anything about it, of course. If he ever so much tries to step over the entrance hall, S.H.I.E.L.D. will knock him down flat with sixty bullets.
Or that irritating AI J.A.R.V.I.S. might alert the puny Midguardians and his one imbecile of a brother. Or if worse comes to worse, they’ll send in the Hulk.
The God of Mischief winces at the thought, and rubs his shoulder tentatively. The pain in his ribs—courtesy of being thrown around on the cement like a paper doll—still hasn’t ebbed out fully.
Yes, nothing has changed from that event.
Well…nothing much has changed….yet.
|Complying with a certain God of Mischief is not an easy task.|
Artistic Differences: Snow WhiteArtistic Differences: Snow White by katnisseverdeen4life
Your signature stilettos click and march around the floor in a dizzying spiral pattern. The inside of your head is no different. Though the ornate clock on your mantelpiece shows that it’s well past midnight, you have no intention of sleeping at the moment. Thoughts struggle for comprehension, fighting for dominance in the small cramped corner of your mind.
As if your nightmares weren’t bad enough.
What in the world was Loki playing at, getting you that piano? True, it’s the instrument that you love and despise the most, but did you mention it so many times that he gave you it out of irritation? Or was he just a keen listener.
Preferably the former. The God of Mischief was always annoyed by some tiny little thing, and you couldn’t have be
Artistic Differences: Nightingale LamentArtistic Differences: Nightingale Lament by katnisseverdeen4life
The ruffle of piano sheets and the occasional rattle of china clinking are near the only sounds heard. Whilst you play – Beethoven’s Waldstein - you resist the itching temptation to run away from the horror of this graphic nightmare.
Mrs. Vargas’s grin grows in length and obvious delight, as she clearly sees the conflict raging inside your eyes.
“Good, good, you’re controlling yourself immensely. I see my teachings haven’t all been in vain.”
(fear pain agony)
That sleekly cut voice sends the instant urge to vomit all over the ivory keys, but you gnaw on the inside of your lip to distract you from doing so. The horrid creature takes a
Timekeepers (Twelfth Doctor x Reader)Timekeepers (Twelfth Doctor x Reader) by katnisseverdeen4life
“How about this one?” he points to a steampunk styled one, the hands of an automaton acting as moving minute trackers. The problem is it’s twice as large as the door to fit through.
“No, that one’s too big.” You walk around the charmingly old antique shop, eyes roving over the metallic hands that tick time away. “Think simple, Doctor. We’re not going to jam a clock the size of Big Ben inside the TARDIS.”
“Actually-” the wizened Time Lord concurs, but you flap your hands at him in exasperation.
“We are not getting a large one. Case closed.”
“Picky, picky,” murmurs the Doctor with a touch of resentment, his attack eyebrows bobbing up and down a
Artistic Differences: Defy DeafnessArtistic Differences: Defy Deafness by katnisseverdeen4life
The finest of all fine afternoons throws a hazy veil across Manhattan’s glorious skyline. The air seems fresher, the people more poignant and well detailed. Every little detail focused to a magnified vision. Not like in Stark Tower, where everything was so incredibly small and vaguely disillusioned. Down here, on the ground, everything becomes important, everything is seen.
The back of your neck prickles slightly as a biting wind nips at your skin. You gnaw the inside corner of your mouth to stop the shiver from revealing itself. A keening whine seems to grow in your ears. Shrugging the trench coat’s collar higher, you attempt not to think.
|Enjoy the randomosity of my mind.|
“Jackson Overland Frost, when I get my hands on you, you’re going to wish you’ve never been born.” You glare at a gleaming pair of confidently cocky sapphire pupils.
“What did I do now?” the playful spirit defensively asks, mussing his iceberg diamond locks.
“Everything.” You chatter out violently, moving your arms up and down whilst hugging yourself desperately to keep your body temperature in. Your companion only smirks with a glacial touch at your frantic self. Jack glances sideways towards you, as you and him sit side by side on a wooden bench in the park.
It’s supposed to be Easter in a few months in your town. Spring is already in full bloom, and summer time is approaching rapidly. Warm weather with cotton candy spun clouds, plinking rain drops on the rooftops tiles musically, flowering May roses and daffodils come to mind when visualizing this time of year.
Not an inch of biting snow dusting the weathered shingle rooftops and brushing lightly across the newly grown grass stalks.
You are openly welcome to the prospect of spring, because as much as you loved sledding down the hilltop, steaming hot chocolate, and having snowball fights that are equal to massacres with the world’s best winter trickster, even you had to admit there is a limit to how many snow days you can have. Spring break was half canceled to make up for the lost days of school. But would Jack listen to anyone but himself?
Bitter frost on the front windows whenever he flies past your neighborhood, crunching ice particles in your new red buckle shoes, breathing down your back with his arctic breath that would freeze your spine to tick you off. Now, any normal person would have just locked him up in the boiler room with thermal heaters turned on full blast until the champagne dripped leaves start to flutter to the dead grounds in crisp autumn.
However, you just cope with him as well as any other of your friends. Besides, if anyone thought this was insanity, they never saw how he ‘gave you a present’ and froze you down in your house just for a passing visit. It’s odd, though, how the mischievous hellion cannot stop bringing winter wrapped in a bowtie on your doorstep. Lately, he’s been concentrating on more and more of your town, which irks you to no end.
Everywhere else is heaven’s delight or so they claim; flourishing cherry blossoms with hints of roseate and flattering blush, grass as green as the glorious emeralds of Oz, a sky painted with strokes of kingfisher blue and dips of Mediterranean. Robins chirping lovely melodies of warmth, the birds coming back from migration, the shy sun finally peering out of its hiding hole to the world. You love spring, want it to come so badly. You can sustain well enough in the wintertime, however, spring is like the new world waking up from the slumber of the snow.
But oh no. That’s no place for your neighborhood. It’s as if Jack Frost’s intent on giving on giving the world a new ice age that’s grander than ever before.
No wonder Bunny is set to strangle the immortal teenager into an icy pulp.
That and the fact that the temperature is making his delicately painted eggs break apart into a million shell pieces.
You can’t really blame him, because you feel exactly the same way.
“Aren’t you afraid of being caught by Bunny? He seems pretty fired up about how you’re messing with the weather.” You worriedly ask him, flicking off a fleck of dust that has landed on his shoulder with one deft finger.
“Ah, I’ll be fine. Bunny never catches me, he’s just cranky that I accidentally froze his eggs twice this week.” Jack waves the looming threat off with a nonchalant flick of his hand and wizened staff. Then a self-satisfied smile unfurls on his colorless lips, the look he gives you simply unbearable. “But thanks for worrying about me, though, sweet.”
“Don’t get your hopes up, Frost, it’s only to save you from the damage you’ve caused.” You grit out in mounting frustration. Honestly, this friend is like a bomb; you need only say one word and he’s off like a bang.
“Damage? I thought you liked mischief?” he questions playfully
“Before it turns out of control.” You note frigidly.
“You’re no fun.” Jack pouts.
A minute of utter and awkward silence passes in between the both of you. You resist the urge to shiver like a cat without fur.
“The daffodils are dying.” You point out, attempting to make conversation to avoid hypothermia, your cheeks turning rosy red from the harsh sting of the winter wind. The Guardian of Fun turns his head around to see that, indeed, the cheerful butter blossoms are wilting to the ground like a group of brightly dressed funeral goers.
“Who cares about a few flowers? Didn’t you say you loved winter before?” Jack winks at you before a misbehaving breeze flutters the collar of your thin coat like a pined butterfly.
“I did—before the snow days’ numbers reached triple digits.” You snap sassily, pulling down the corner of your dress to discreetly hide your knocking knees. Jack lays an ivory hand on his heart, mocking offense.
“You hurt me, ________________________! It’s my job to keep winter alive, isn’t it?” he pouts, pretending hurtfulness, his strikingly blue pupils enlarging to the size of magnifying glasses, trembling in their alabaster eye sockets. Normally, any girl would have fallen straight for this trick, but knowing you, who has put up with this behavior for over three years, know better than that.
“Give it up, Frost, your Bambi eyes won’t work on me.” You retort icily, and your sly friend only chuckles lightly.
“I can’t think of anyone who can resist my charm but you, ____________________. You have such a frozen heart.”
“What can I say? Maybe I inherited it because someone apparently doesn’t want to let it go.”
At this, the hectic master of pranks lets out a crooked smile as long as the curved slice of the harvest moon.
“Let it go, you say?”
You narrow your eyes like a hawk. Oh, you know what’s going to happen. Yes, you know exactly what’s brewing up in that oh-so-clever mind of his.
“Don’t...you…even…think about it!” you articulate, spitting out each word as if they’re phlegm attacking your weakened vocal cords. A misty cloud of breath accumulates in front of you. But it’s already too late.
“Let it go, let it go~” Jack singsongs in a tingling voice that could freeze a summer sun. “Can’t hold it back any more~!”
“Arrgh!” you throw your hands up in the air in total frustration, and immediately wish you hadn’t. A whisk of wind nips at your exposed arms, and wraps them in their enveloping grip.
“Now you seem lightened up.” The sneaky spirit laughs, only to be yanked by the collar of his Pacific blue hoodie, forced to look straight into your stony face.
“Listen here, Snowman. I didn’t sign up to undergo your own torture facility and I certainly didn’t sign up to be your experiment on patience.” You snarl poisonously into his flawless face, but the polar Guardian doesn’t seem to flinch. Maybe because you’ve both known each other so well.
“Well, it’s not my fault you had to wear such springy outfits today.” He shoots back, smiling at you annoyingly with his pearly whites, looking down at your milky white dress, fluttering aquamarine scarf, and light beige trench coat with muddy amber buttons.
“It was supposed to be warm! But no, you just happened to come along and make things worse for me!”
“Why would I ever want to make things worse for you?” he asks, furrowing his brow. A look of genuine confusion crosses his face. You resist the urge to slap yourself in the forehead. Sometimes your winter companion can be so dense.
“Jack,” you slowly clip out monotonously, making absolutely sure he heard every word you said. “It’s nearing the end of April. If I remember correctly, this was the time when you helped the Guardians out with Easter, didn’t you?”
“And in supporting all of them, did you happen to bother them so much that they eventually got tired of your presence around them?” you say softly, choosing your words carefully.
Dead silence greets this answer. You can’t be too sure, but a pained look flashes across his face.
“No.” he finally gets out after what seems like an eternity. His usually friendly face has become cold and shut out like an endless blizzard. “Fine. I get it. You don’t need me. You want spring back, I understand.”
“Wait,” You stumble over your own words. What is going on? “I didn’t mean--”
“Of course you meant. You always meant. You’ve been waiting for winter to end all this time, haven’t you? I mean,” he bitterly rambles. “You can’t live all your life with cold weather bumping into your life style, can you?”
“Jack, I only meant that I want spring for a short while. It doesn’t mean that I’m going to reject winter forever.” You weakly say, stuttering to an unsteady halt when the glacial Guardian gives you a look of chilling contempt, one that he has inherited from you.
“Really? Because I most definitely heard ‘tired of your presence’, don’t you? You’re the one who said those words. Think on that, I’m sure you’ll find out, clever girl.”
He jumps up into the air with a spiral of twirling frost flakes, and though you have the sudden urge to call him back, you don’t think you have the strength to do so, in your confusion.
Easter finally arrives one dainty Sunday, the sun mercifully shining through the evergreen boughs, delightfully delicious scents of fragrant ylang-ylang and innocent lily-of-the-valley weave through the freshly budding blossoms of hawthorn. The sounds of children shouting joyfully is heard on all corners, and you make your way across the forest, dressed with a white lily bow in your hair, accompanied with a frock of pale Alice blue and rose stem emerald flats, tottering a woven Easter basket in your wake.
As you hunt carefully for the hiding eggs, a sudden gust of wind rustles through the branches of the Warren, not a welcoming spring breeze, but a hard built one that’s usually the norm of the winter.
A small smile plays on your lips, and you resume your hunt for the eggs.
“I knew you wouldn’t resist playing a game along with me.” You smirk.
“How’d you guess?” Jack smiles back, but a flash of recognition snakes across his thought process, and he once again becomes closed off and distant, the smile waning off quickly like a murky crescent moon on the summer solstice. Your own smile slips down a few notches of brightness.
“What are you all playing, leaving me out?” he asks.
“It’s the Easter egg hunt, Jack. Everyone’s here—Jamie, Tooth, North, everyone. You were invited, you know, all Guardians of childhood were.”
“And you don’t think I don’t know that?” the mischievous teenager replies, flicking out a gold gilded invitation, curvy calligraphic letters spelling out his name on cream stationary. He flicks it open with a careless finger.
“You are invited to the Official Easter Egg Hunt, blah blah blah, hunt as many eggs as you can, more blah, winner is the one with the most eggs, however a token…” Here he raises an intrigued eyebrow and reads off the card. “‘Whoever takes the Golden Egg home will be winner of the competition, regardless of the amount of eggs.’”
“Wonder where Bunny found a Golden Egg.” You question offhandedly.
“Probably from the Golden Goose.” Jack dismissively comments, throwing the card over the treetops. “But in any case, if there’s anything I’m ever good at, it’s winning games. I am the Guardian of Fun, after all.”
The sight of him rubbing his hands together as if he’s expecting to win automatically only makes you laugh.
“Fat chance, Frost. I’m going to get that egg if it’s the last thing I do.” You goad him, playfulness crackling out of yourself like a loose firework. Just like old times.
To your surprise, he leans in a little bit too much to your comfort zone and whispers chillingly in your ear, making your ear tickle from the cold.
“Well then, we’ll see who’ll win soon enough, won’t we?” And with a flash of snowflakes, he disappears on the spot.
After the lapse of one hour, you totter around a nearly full basket, trying carefully not to smash any of them. And they are lovely—in differentiating hues of robin’s egg, leaf vein, hazelnut, and macaroon rose petal. Somehow, Jack now knows you’re a good finder, and has stuck to you like glue.
Not that you don’t mind. It’s awfully lonely working for oneself. Working in a pair does balance amounts.
Though the both of you put the golden egg as a top notch priority.
“How many eggs did you get?” he politely asks as you search through the branches of a nearby tree, and you nearly cringe at his mannerly self. It seems so strange that he’s acting this way.
“Twenty. You?” you cordially reply.
“Forty six. Not including the extra ten that I found in Bunny’s secret stash in the pine tree hollow.” Your companion smugly boasts. “Though I fully plan on getting that golden egg.”
You choke on your own breath. “FOURTY SI-”
You suddenly have the sensation of biting down on snow as Jack’s utterly freezing hand clamps down on your lips, cutting off any sort of articulation.
“Shh! Are you crazy? Do you want the game to be over so soon?” he hisses, looking around the Warren for passerby Guardians. You rapidly shake your head, and motion for him to uncover your mouth. It feels like you’re stuck to a frozen lamppost. To top that off, the hellion’s breath is trickling down the back of your neck, making the hairs there stand up on end.
“All right. I’m going to let you talk now. Don’t tell anyone I found the extra eggs, though.” He readily warns you, and you roll your eyes in complete exasperation. It’s like he’s treating you like a disobedient child that can’t listen.
The mischievous immortal uncovers your mouth, and you rattle in a wheezing breath of fresh air, before doubling over and panting.
“Haven’t you forgotten I’m human and I need to breath for my own life?” you sarcastically comment, trying to get your breath back and chastising the champion prankster at the same time.
“Hmm. No, not exactly. I just needed you to stop acting on instinct so that I would win this thing.”
“Psh, as if I’m going to ever let you win!” you snort disbelievingly, pushing away his hand. “You are such a…”
But whatever Jack is, you don’t speak it, for your statement is cut short as your eyes fall on a telltale gleam of gold. Without moving an inch, your eyes involuntarily flick downwards to the third bush, the one you haven’t checked. And there, sitting patiently for an egg hunter to find it, was the golden egg, painted in buttercup jonquil and decorated with intricately cut beryls.
You look up at your companion’s face, and before you see the knowing look in his eyes, you know that he knows, and you spring into action before you even realize it.
The grass crunches beneath your heels as both of you dive for the egg, and your hands accidentally intertwine as both of your hands nab at the egg. You utter an exclamation as you frantically try to extract your hand from his, but Jack’s fingers are like an iron grip.
“All right,” he shortly starts, when you give him a death glare, a sly smirk starting to form on his face. “Why don’t we settle this outside instead of crawling under a bush like maniacs?”
“Suits me.” You answer readily, drawing yourself up properly into the light. When you finally sit up straight, you ask, “Jack, what in the world is wrong? You’ve been acting so distant these days. I know you’re avoiding me. I know you, you haven’t gone this long without a snow day in years. What happened to being intent on bringing winter every single day to my town?”
The king of all tricks only bites down on his lip uneasily. “Well…” he starts out. “It did seem like you didn’t want me to be around since you said you were ‘tired of my presence.’”
“And you think that I hate the cold just because of that little statement? You think I hate you?” you incredulously ask. “Are you out of your mind?”
“I thought you didn’t like winter in general,” he dryly replies, eyeballing you warily. “So I went away because I wasn’t wanted.”
“What! Think about what you’re saying! Jack, it’s not that I don’t like you. It’s just that you’ve been…a little odd somehow. I don’t know. Snow days and snowball fights, sure, I like them once in a while, but every day until the last months of spring? I’m not so sure…” You trail off, at a loss of words to say.
Jack chuckles to himself here, running a pale hand through his mussed crystal colored hair, and a vision of his old self reappears in front of you.
“Oh, ______________________. And you call me dense when it comes to situations like this.”
“Excuse me?” you answer in an offended tone, drawing your hand back, quite miffed. “Who are you calling dense?”
“Dense as in the utter idiocy that you can’t see I like you, ____________________.” The Guardian of Fun smirks.
Before you can even react, the hectic hellion pecks a quick kiss straight on your cheek, and your face immediately flames up like it’s been tossed in a wildfire. Though the rapid stomp on his foot isn’t of the unusual behavior.
“Aww, you’re blushing!” Jack observes, taking no note of your fancy shoe heels crushing his barefoot toes.
“I am not!” you protest heatedly, your cheeks a balmy apple varnish.
“Who said I was complaining, sweetheart? You look adorable when you do that.” He graciously compliments, pinching your cheeks with two of his thin fingers.
“All right, all right, enough with the cuddling, you’re going to make me sick.” You laugh, slapping away his hands, though two radish red spots, clear as fire, remain on your cheeks like ink splotches. Then you blink—the winter spirit has vanished. You’re on your own. Was it all an illusion?
“Jack?” you call out hesitatingly, peering around the bushes.
Suddenly a pair of zero degree arms wrap around your waist, hugging you from behind, making you gasp and flush a blood red. That wonderfully naughty little trickster.
“You called?” Jack playfully answers, and you can just visualize the smirk on his face as he burrows his face into your hair.
“Yes, er…can you please stop hugging me?” you stammer out, trying everything you can to release his titanium grip.
“What if I don’t want to?” he speaks mischievously, weaving his fingers through your hair, his breath leaving frost particles melting across your scalp.
The resounding whistle blows across the field answers for himself, signaling that time has run out, and the winter spirit lets go of your waist reluctantly.
“That should answer your question for you.” You reply, dusting off your dress for any grass stains.
“Ready to go?” he asks you hesitatingly, still holding the golden egg in his hand, though he can hardly care less about the competition. He did quite surprise you there, after all.
To his own shock, you’re perfectly fine with it.
“Only when you are.” You smile shyly, still a bit heated.
“Crikey, it’s about time!” Bunny chuckles, emerging out of the greenery with a rustle. “Finally got the nerve to tell her about it, haven’t ya, ya ganger?”
Your cheeks turn into such a violent shade of scarlet, they would shame the red rose to no end.
“Shut up, Bunny, I don’t exactly see you with the winning Easter Egg.” Jack shoots, but already a sneaking trance of cardinal has splashed itself across his face as well. “And watch what you say, or I’ll freeze your eggs again.”
“Aren’t you two so cute!” Tooth squeals, in a flouncing dress of Norway heath and lavender. Her little fairies, in robes of clean celeste, nod furiously in her wake. “Oh, you both make the perfect couple!”
“We’re not a couple!” you and Jack simultaneously protest at once, and the both of you stare at each other. “Stop doing that!”
“Uh huh. I can definitely see a relationship going on here.” Bunny nods his head. “But even I’ve got to admit you’ve got a good catch now.”
“Bunny, if you even think that I’m going to stay quiet and listen to this…” you threaten menacingly.
“We need the flowers for later dates! Oh, I know! Maybe glowing plum blossoms? Or maybe roses…”
“Tooth!” Jack yells. “We’re not going to that level yet!”
“You will, soon enough! And before you know it, you may even make preparations for the wedding!”
“Oh, don’t look so surprised, the two of you.” Tooth giggles graciously behind her perfectly manicured nails. “Don’t you think I’d thought up of this beforehand? You’re a couple before you even knew it!”
“Of course you are!” a booming Russian voice laughs, cuffing you both on the shoulders so hard they might sustain injuries. “You know what they say, in spring, a young man’s fancy turns to love!”
“Not helping, North!” Jack glances at him frustratingly, his hand growing warmer and warmer by the second.
“No we’re not!” you defensively say, trying to control the heat flaming in your cheeks. “We just need a little time, we’re still just friends!”
Bunny chuckles. “If you’re still just friends, Shelia, why are you two holding hands like a lovey dovey couple?”
The Guardians all collectively draw in one breath, knowing he instantly went too far. You glance at Jack.
“Let’s kill him.”
Needless to say, this Easter Bunny sustained some serious injuries that he’s still trying to heal from to this day.
|Spring from Winter.|
Fashion Is Our Life Leather, Pleather, Ostrich FeathersFashion Is Our Life by cjrogers1993
Hemp and Muslin, we know better!
Silk Chiffon is overused
Rounded pumps, No! Stilleto Shoes!
Jaquard and prints, Paisleys too
Young and flirty, never demure.
A-line, bubble, fit and tiered
boat neck, v, cowl, and turtle
lavender, pea green, electric blue, and myrtle.
Sewing and quilting heming (not just for the wife)
It may just be fashion, but for us it's our life.
MirandaYou take your coffee extra hot,Miranda by SabbathLiterature
While you make me lose the plot.
You never tell me what you want,
I hate your stupid blonde bouffant,
I loathe those white scarves you love,
The thousand pairs of leather gloves.
I hate the way you drop your coat,
The way you never seem to bloat.
I hate all that bleach in your hair,
And your apathetic, superior stare.
I hate that soft, sarcastic tone,
That I can't piss, mind the phone.
I hate that you can't remember my name,
I know you don't deserve your stupid fame.
They told me it was the job a thousand girls would die for,
You know what I say to that?
Take your job and shove it,
Devil Wears GleeBlaine waited outside the classroom awkwardly, rocking from one foot to another. His eyes drifted to the door every few moments, then his watch. He sighed and leaned up against the wall.Devil Wears Glee by PhantomOfARose
"Blaine, dear, please straighten up."
He jumped and suddenly his mother was there, rushing through the door, her silver hair in its place despite her brisk pace. Blaine reached up and touched his own hair self-consciously. He had been gelling it since he started Dalton he hoped it was ok.
"Where is your father?" asked his mother looking down the hall. "I swear, is it so hard to come to a parent teacher conference on time?"
"Hi mom," said Blaine quietly.
"Hi, sweetie," she said, leaning down to kiss his cheeks. She was already pulling out her phone and hitting speed dial 2. "Emily. Where is my ex-husband? He was suppose to be at Dalton ten minutes ago. He does not have the excuse I have for being late. I had to run out of a meeting with Calvin of all people and fly from New York, I swear, the incom
|Flawless, breathtaking, inspiring, peculiar, funny, curious, these artworks are one of a kind.|
“How about this one?” he points to a steampunk styled one, the hands of an automaton acting as moving minute trackers. The problem is it’s twice as large as the door to fit through.
“No, that one’s too big.” You walk around the charmingly old antique shop, eyes roving over the metallic hands that tick time away. “Think simple, Doctor. We’re not going to jam a clock the size of Big Ben inside the TARDIS.”
“Actually-” the wizened Time Lord concurs, but you flap your hands at him in exasperation.
“We are not getting a large one. Case closed.”
“Picky, picky,” murmurs the Doctor with a touch of resentment, his attack eyebrows bobbing up and down above the chiming clocks – never mind what kind they are. Hourglass, turret, pendulum; no end to the possibilities of the mechanical time keepers. One hand trails across the smoothened surfaces lightly, as if the machines are delicate creatures. “We’re never going to get anywhere with this, are we?”
Unfortunately, the elderly receptionist at the checkout counter hears his remark. She looks up from her novella, glaring over her tortoiseshell glasses as if he’s just proclaimed he’s going to break every one of her china cabinets.
“Sorry!” you apologize, and then in hushed tones, answer your time traveling friend. “I think it’s best if we keep our voices down.”
“Says the companion who’s gotten kicked out of a restaurant for loudly proclaiming the shrimp was raw?”
“Well, it was.”
But after that, the both of you seem somewhat subdued and look over at the endless possibilities for the proper time keeper.
“You know, it seems horrifically ironic that you don’t have a clock in your time machine.” You comment nonchalantly after some time, somewhat focused by a melted umber one showing the interior workings. If one looked close enough, they would see the well-oiled gears revolving round inked roman numerals.
“Do you think I’d have the time to actually go to a clock shop and buy one of these?” the time traveler retorts, then seems to think on it a while. Maybe realizing the irony in that sentence as well. “Actually, don’t answer that.”
“All the time in the world and you couldn’t just happen to stop by an antique shop and pick up a good old clock?”
The Doctor looks up from a rather large cartel clock, fashioned from fire-gilt bronze, pulling a twisted expression of annoyance. The wrinkles on his face seem only to emphasize his irritation. Not to mention his shortened grey hairs on his head seem to rise up in complaint along with him.
“It’s too long! What with parking the TARDIS for a good empty spot, and choosing all these different styles and whatnot.”
“All right, all right. I do see your point.” You surrender, holding your hands above your head in defeat. “Trouble is, what kind of clock are you going to buy?”
The receptionist shoots another searing glare in your general direction, which you acknowledge with dying down your voice.
“I don’t know. There’s just too much to choose…you know, this is exactly why I hate shopping.” On the other hand, your companion makes no move to lower down his carrying voice for even one decibel.
“Doctor, it’s just a clock. Nothing more, nothing less. One purchase, and we’ll be out saving the galaxy again in no time.”
“But look at the lot of them! They’ve got heaps – the TARDIS could probably split open with the amount of clocks they’ve acquired!” he exclaims, waving his hands excitedly over the vast amount of ticking ornaments.
“It is a little overwhelming.” You admit, craning your neck above a tall lighthouse one. “But you do need one, there’s no denying it. After all those beautiful ones smashed in the TARDIS, or so you say.”
“It’s not my fault that she got huffy and decided to topple over.”
“And who exactly was piloting her at the time?”
“Do Time Lords even have clocks?” you muse to yourself wonderingly, half-amused. “I wonder if the clocks in the TARDIS were even real – I hardly remember even spotting one.”
“Of course we have clocks. Remember my watch?” the Doctor reminds you, looking thoughtfully at an austere clock that’s patterned in a black-and-white neoclassical design. You smile at the thought.
“I do remember you sold it for a drab coat, if my memory serves me well.”
“It was cold. I was in a bloody nightgown. Oh, look at this one – it’s nice and modern. What do you think?”
“No,” you reply at once, looking at the white round object. “It’s too small. We’d lose it in no time. How about this one?” Cue pointing to a lantern clock made of matte-grey brass.
“Maybe.” The Doctor hesitates, then shakes his head. “No, it won’t do. It’ll camouflage too well with the interior walls.”
It seems like hours pass by in the shop. You and the Doctor continued your examinations, observing each and every clock like a collaborating clockmaker pair. One by one, the both of you talk over each kind only to reject it. Cuckoo clocks were annoying. Grandfathers could barely fit through the TARDIS doors – never mind upright or sideways. French Empire ones merely were too ornamental, “all bunch and fuss” as the Doctor puts it. You both consider and consider.
“Have you ever seen the Astronmical Clock in Prague? Beautiful girl. Made of fine cut glass and colored steel. Rotates round wonderfully and nearly as large as Big Ben itself.” The Doctor muses, peeking over the top of some dusty old mantelpiece hourglasses.
“I haven’t. I’ll have to remind you to go there someday.”
Suddenly, out of the corner of your eye, you catch a glimpse of a rotating golden hand amidst the countless black ones, and shift a few clocks over to get a good look at it.
It’s a lovely thing, almost stunning. Instead of roman numerals marking the outer face, a number of twinkling constellations accommodate as numbers. The face itself is something entirely; a complex spiraling loop of silver and robin’s egg, transparent so you could see the gears inside turning. At least four navy needles point out in different directions, while a single brass one points in the turning direction of the sun. The outer edge is royal blue with strange markings – looking somewhat like zodiac symbols - written to accompany the minute stars.
“Doctor,” you call out to the Time Lord, who stops in mid-examination of a whimsical clock that looks suspiciously inspired by Salvador Dali. “What kind of clock is this one?”
The Doctor takes the clock in hand, studying it carefully with his analytical eyes. Then he focuses onto you. “This is a nice one. Where’d you find it?”
“Over there somewhere.” You wave vaguely over the shelf to your right. He snorts.
“It’s nice to see how you’re so specific.”
His signature eyebrows shoot up in interest as he looks closely inside the mechanisms. “Well, it’s not your average clock.”
“What type is it? I don’t think I’ve ever seen one like that before.” You ask curiously.
“If I had to bet, I’d say it’s a cross between a skeleton and an astronomical.” He concludes, though he seems transfixed by the revolving designs circling round the face.
“One that intentionally exposes the gears for showcasing?”
“I think this one’s the lucky winner.” The Doctor concludes, pressing his ear to the face of the mechanisms. “Do you hear that? It’s ticking away like mad. It’s excited to have some new owners.”
You play along with him, bending closer to hear the steady ticks of the gears revolving. “Best not give it a heart attack before it even goes to its new home.”
“Have you got any money?”
After the whole fiasco of buying the clock – including one very angry receptionist – you and the Doctor finally return to the big blue police box with the new timekeeper (with a few choice words not to be mentioned here). The newly bought clock now hangs on the silver interior wall, quietly measuring away the seconds and existence.
The Doctor busily flicks a number of controls on the console, while you sit on the edge of the TARDIS’s entrance perilously, hanging your legs out with carelessness, tilting your face to the illuminating stars above.
“The look on that lady’s face as we left the shop.” You talk to yourself as you swing your legs out of boredom. “She would have melted our faces right then and there if we stayed a second longer.”
“Would it have been a bad moment to say that I was considering buying another one?” the Doctor chuckles good-humoredly, sitting down next to you.
“Oh, you didn’t.”
“Yes I did.”
You snort into your hand, trying to stifle some of the laughs bursting up in your mouth. Then something troubling hits your mind.
“Aren’t you supposed to be flying the TARDIS?”
“I’ve set her to stop for a moment. We’re currently going nowhere.” The Doctor seems to enjoy your momentary alarm, smiling at you in amusement. “You’d think I’d just let her go and make us fall to our deaths?”
“Considering what journeys the old girl’s gone through, I don’t necessarily trust your judgment in piloting.”
Your companion rolls his eyes. “Always the positive beam of energy you are.”
After another good minute of star gazing, you begin to talk again. The silence seems too deafening for your ears, and the sight of all those stars makes you feel awfully insignificant.
“You know, I don’t understand why you hated shopping for the clock. You seemed to enjoy yourself in that shop – though, I really don’t know why, you’ve got all the time in the world.”
“But that’s just it. Time really doesn’t exist. Clocks do. Sad, really.” The Time Lord shrugs his shoulders, looking melancholy. “If time doesn’t exist, then what do I have in this universe except for a blue box that’s bigger on the inside? Just because I’m a Time Lord doesn’t mean I can fully control time itself.”
“You can change it.”
“There are certain points in time that can’t be rewritten, how many times do I have to say this? I can’t control time.”
“Is that why you like clocks?” you cut him off before he starts rambling once more, looking at him dead in the eye carefully. “Because you can control them? And if there’s a mistake in there, you can fix it easily?”
The Doctor opens his mouth to let out an indignant answer, but at the last possible minute, closes it once more. You can see that he’s struggling with himself to reply, those old eyes in a chaotic wind of emotion.
“I…yes. That’s one way to look at it.” He finally answers, the tone in his voice somewhat uncertain. “If time was so easily rewound like the hands of a clock…”
A prickly silence passes between the two of you, and you stare down at your hands, feeling guilty. You and your stupid-
“Do you know why there aren’t any clocks on the TARDIS, __________________?” the madman in the box speaks up suddenly, pulled out of his trance of thoughts. You blink, startled, at the abrupt change in subject.
“No, but I’ve got a feeling you’re going to tell me why.”
“It’s because I hate looking at them. Oh, I like their time keeping skills and whatnot. But they’re basically the ones who measure time and control it to their whims. They use it for their own and even if they make a mistake, someone could fix it eventually.” The Doctor almost spits out these words as if he’s choking on venom. “I can’t do that. I can’t ever erase my mistakes. To see clocks ticking away time – it’s like they’re laughing in my face and taunting me with their hands, doing things I can’t ever do.”
The only noise in the vicinity is the clock’s monotone whirring and clicking of gears.
“Well, maybe this clock’s going to be different.”
“There are stars on the edges of the clock.” You say, more to his benefit than yours. “Not numbers. It’s like they’re going around the number of stars in the universe.”
“And how’s that supposed to console me?” your companion almost contemptuously retorts.
“Well,” you hesitate a little before plunging into your explanation. “You do the same, don’t you? You travel across the stars and you never stop in your journey. Even if you do make mistakes once in a while, you keep traveling onwards.”
The Doctor stays unusually quiet, staring at you as if you’re spouting information but can’t quite understand it.
“And the clocks can’t do the one thing that you can do.” You brightly chirp, gazing abstractedly at the glimmering constellations outside. “They can’t look at a person, stop right in their tracks, and greet them with a friendly gesture. Clocks don’t stop for anything – which is rather sad, if you think about it.”
“What’s so significant about the ability to meet a person?”
“Because you stop all of your time and space just to greet that person. Like you did to me. And clocks can’t do a thing about their time, whether they like it or not. And I think that’s sad.”
The Time Lord says nothing, but you swear the traces of the barest smile are forming on the corner of his lips as he turns his head slightly to the right. You lean your head against his shoulder comfortably, smiling a little wistfully to yourself as well.
“Maybe I’ll get another clock for the library inside.” He murmurs to himself, making you laugh.
“I’m sure you will, Doctor. It’ll do you some good to help clocks in need.”
You and the Doctor both sit on the edge of the TARDIS, watching the stars shine out one by one, not caring about how much time would have passed.
The astronomical clock on the wall suddenly stops for one minute, seemingly pausing for nothing. Then the needle pushes forward and starts again in an endless loop of measurement.
|You and the Twelfth Doctor go clock shopping.|