|"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.|
Sherlock x Reader: DragonslayersBored.Sherlock x Reader: Dragonslayers by katnisseverdeen4life
Have you ever tried something other than shooting the poor wall?
If London participated to my expectations, then yes.
Go out with John.
He’s gone on to Edinburgh for the holidays.
Update your blog.
Why bother? No one remotely intelligent reads it anymore.
Read a book.
Books are time travel portals that you can get sucked into and never leave. Please tell me how any of that is considered dull.
You’re a hopeless romantic, (y/n). Next thing you’ll be saying is that characters come to life next to you.
Scratch that. Time travel portals doesn’t seem right. How about a window to the past?
Like I said, hopeless romantic.
At your service.
I doubt you’ll find a book to catch my interest. The world is so lacking of stimulating literature nowadays, everyone’s so dim.
Artistic Differences Chapter 30: Beethoven VirusArtistic Differences Chapter 30: Beethoven Virus by katnisseverdeen4life
He tastes odd. That’s the only way to explain it. A mixture of grimed ice and richly made champagne, topped by a poignant sense of foie gras on his mouth - dinner from the gala, no doubt. Yes, certainly very strange.
It’s chilling how much you like it.
Could moonlight be loud? It certainly seems so, as a dagger of watery pale light slices through the curtains, illuminating the piano keys so they seem to glow. All the while, your head whirls like a dervish. A cool hand to the waist pulls you forward, a slight touch to the cheek tilts your head accordingly. How do these actions make you comply so much like a puppet.
What a curious sensation. The mouth simply tingles with the kiss. You breathe in sharply when the gentleman grazes y
Artistic Differences Chptr 29: Raven and SongbirdArtistic Differences Chptr 29: Raven and Songbird by katnisseverdeen4life
“Are you absolutely sure about this?”
“Yes. It would be quite marvelous if you stopped questioning me.” Loki snaps at his stepbrother, settling into the chair as Bruce prepares the syringe with serum. “I am perfectly alright, so do stop asking.”
Thor smiles, albeit a little sadly. “For being the god of lies brother, you are terrible at hiding the truth.”
“I don’t need your pity today, brother. There is a life at stake.”
“And only a year ago you were saying that she was nothing.” The god of thunder leans in, studying the younger prince carefully. The raven-haired immortal fidgets under the unnerving gaze sent his way. “Do you not realize that she ha
Loki x Reader: Cold Weather Winter has finally arrived.Loki x Reader: Cold Weather by katnisseverdeen4life
Most people know this by the sight of decorative frost on the window, or possibly the fact that snow blankets the shriveled blades of grass dying on the lawn.
You, however, have a more unusual yearly occurrence that signals the coming of winter.
The sensation of freezing your toes off and not being able to wake up properly, because you’re frozen to the bed.
“For God’s sake!” you exclaim in shocked anger on the morning this happens, whispering hissed curses that form a foul stream of language. A wickedly triumphant laugh breezes in through the open air at your reaction.
|Enjoy the randomosity of my mind.|
“Violin.” The word escapes his mouth, barely a turn of the head to acknowledge you.
You purse your lips. “Schubert.”
“Will you two keep quiet! You’ve been going on for this for a whole week!” One extremely irritated army doctor snaps, bent over his laptop, no doubt blogging about the second mishap with the great Sherlock Holmes.
Who is currently sitting in the armchair across from you, face completely hidden behind the morning’s paper. He couldn’t send more obvious signals of ignorance.
It’s not like you annoy him all the time. Ever since you’ve been chased away by a psychopathic murderer, and saved by the unstoppable duo of crime-solving – one tall detective in a black trench coat and blue scarf and one army doctor with a dark leather jacket – you’ve been sticking around to John’s insistence, living in the flat above them, 221C. Of course, the downstairs flat is all the more exciting, and you’ve never had a bored day in your life, what with all the gunshots and foul scents coming from the latest experiments.
The doctor seems to like you well enough, but not so the consulting detective. Every single move you make seems to morph into a trail of disgust for the man. Your tendency to make tea? Laughable. Your love of books? More like what a childish romantic would act as. And music? Forget about it.
Well, he didn’t persist to leave you out on the street. That’s a start.
You sigh against your palms, rubbing your temples with a touch of exasperation. This is the third time this week you asked, and he still won’t let you have a piano. No less a recorder.
“I don’t know why you’re asking this repeatedly, ____________________.” Sherlock announces, still reading over the headlines with a bored air. “The answer to your question is no, and you really know better than to say that I can change my answers.”
“You’re skimming the newspaper.” You point out a little to irk him and to steer the question away. For now. “No new murders?”
“None.” The highly functioning sociopath abruptly throws the newspaper to the left, eyes wild with frustration. “Why is it that this city can’t function properly when it needs to?”
“In other cases, when you’re bored?”
“Well, you could always play your violin…” you slyly advise him, trying to keep a growing smirk from your lips.
The younger Holmes shakes his head firmly, his chiseled features growing more prominent in the sunlight. “I know what you’re doing. And it’s not going to work.”
Your voice sounds defensive now, on the rise to transforming into a yell. “Don’t you think that it’s a tiny bit unfair that you have an instrument to play on, and I don’t?”
“Mrs. Hudson always complains about the noise I make with my violin when I’m practicing. I don’t think that adding a piano into the mix would be recommended for her heart.” The stoic man taps his fingers against the armrest impatiently. “Not to mention that you don’t seem the type to play.”
You’re about to stand up from the chair, and tell the consulting detective that he wasn’t excused from his chainsaw sounding practice sessions with his violin, when John comes to the rescue. With an added glare to both of you.
“What he means is, that we might not have enough room in the flat.” You consider this a wise comment, taking in the amount of clutter Sherlock’s gathered in for his cases. A necessity, he insists. Everything from the skull on the mantelpiece to the letters held in place by a kitchen knife is for a case, or otherwise, a distraction to pass the time. Now if only he can explain the alarming content in his bookshelves...
The man with no heart looks up from his thinking stance, hands still taut together in their usual praying motion. “What do you need a piano for, anyway? I didn’t know you could play.”
You start a little bit. Since you’ve moved in, the detective’s hardly asked a question about yourself, nothing about what you prefer, or dislike. No curiosity at all about your hobbies or what you do for a living. The sudden change of pace is startling, not mention uncharacteristic.
“Would you have cared if I told you?” The sarcasm in your voice drips and oozes in bucket-sized amounts. “You’d have probably erased it from your bloody mind palace, Sherlock.”
A flicker of hurt spasms the neutralized face in front of you, and you wonder if you’ve miscalculated into thinking the man’s heartless.
“I need it for a new piece I’m composing.”
Sherlock’s instantly on his feet, standing up so swiftly that he towers over you. You blink, resisting the urge to take a few unsteady steps backward.
“So you compose.”
“Yes.” You nod, wonder what the highly functioning sociopath is up to now.
He’s already reaching for his signature black trench coat, tying the blue scarf round his neck. “That’s a different story from playing as a hobby. I’ll make an exception for you only once.”
And with a blink of an eye, he’s gone.
You stand stock still for a moment, then nearly jump for a second time when the dark-haired man pops back in, looking at you with mild amusement. “Coming?”
A cup of lukewarm tea in your hands, a charcoal pencil behind your left ear, and a towering pile of blank sheet music for your necessities. All the components of your composing environment. Debussy’s Arabesque Nº1 plays softly in the background, a nice soundtrack for your own music making. You pick out random chords nonchalantly on your new piano, taking care to stroke the keys tenderly. It wasn’t new, granted, and the men who carried it up to the flat nearly broke their backs by climbing two flights of stairs, but it was still a functioning instrument.
One hand touches your shoulder, and you barely glance up from the sheet you’re scrutinizing carefully. “If you’re thinking of trying to warn me because Sherlock wants to return this thing, you may as well put it off your mind. I’ve already cleaned it and stacked sheet music on it. It’s already functioning as my instrument.”
“You could just tell me yourself, you know.” A familiar voice answers back. The violinist draws up a chair to sit beside you, a fairly uncharacteristic move that makes you raise your eyebrows. Since when did Sherlock Holmes converse regularly with others besides John Watson and a rare few others?
He takes no notice of your bemused expression, merely stating as his eyes graze over your work. “I hadn’t known you played before.”
“I thought you were John.”
“Hardly. He was still working on that Sudoku puzzle of his on the morning’s paper. Child’s play.”
You can’t help but give a small smirk. “And I assume you snitched it and filled it out for him?”
“So that’s why John’s sulking up somewhere?”
“Oh, you know me so well.” The satisfied expression slips from his face. “Though I can’t say the other way round.”
You shrug your shoulders. What the man thinks of you can hardly be called important in your book. “I prefer to work in mystery.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
At least five minutes have passed, with no noise interrupting the utter silence except the scratching of your pencil tip against paper, and the occasional passing of a car down the street. As another three minutes pass, you wonder if something is wrong. Sherlock’s never gone two minutes with another person without talking. Least of all a person whom he dislikes. You attempt to make little conversation, while you get the sensation in your stomach that something’s quite clearly off.
“Who are your favorite composers?”
“Mozart.” The answer comes without hesitation.
The temptation to smile comes in full force. Bending over to dot a particularly important staccato note, you expertly hide your expression. “Birds of a feather, hmm?”
“Don’t be so fresh, I do enjoy Stravinsky and Verdi once in a while.”
“I like Chopin and Debussy. Much more peace at mind.”
Now it’s the consulting detective’s turn to raise his eyebrows. “Never thought you being a hopeless romantic.”
“What’s wrong with liking quiet pieces? Isn’t the definition of tranquility in that massively egotistical mind of yours?” you quip, leaning over the keys to play out a simple little melody – plain, but resounding.
“If you mean absolute boredom, then yes.”
John comes up to Sherlock at that moment, informing him that they have a case to work on. Apparently a series of kidnappings concerning technology. Whenever people had clicked onto a certain Wi-Fi link, they’d instantly be gone without a trace.
You’re still at it when they troop into the flat in the late afternoon, penciling in a couple of eighth notes as they arrive, amidst Lizst’s Liebestraum. Mrs. Hudson had kindly laid you out a tray of biscuits and a cup of tea while you were working, which you haven’t touched.
“Hello, boys.” You say without looking up, as they hang up their coats. “Solved another big one?”
“Apparently the disappearances weren’t kidnappings at all. The people would just be abducted to some other random place, having no idea where they were.” John sighs. “I’ve got no idea why some people treat others like nothing.”
“Mmm.” You mutter absentmindedly, tapping your pencil’s graphite point, already half-absorbed in your work. The consulting detective looks up from untying his scarf, struck by the sight of the girl sitting at his desk. If he hadn’t known, he could have sworn it’s him, with the same concentrated expression and complete obliviousness to others he used on a difficult case.
Dinner is ignored. You now have two meals going stone cold in front of you, despite both John and Mrs. Hudson’s urgings for you to eat. But you refuse. You’ve gone through nights like this before, you can handle a skipped meal or two. Hours pass, and the pile of crumpled music sheets grows higher until it overflows the wastebasket. Sherlock pretends to browse for criminal activity on his laptop, but keeps sneaking glances at you. The both of you don’t respond when John retires to bed, and keep the growing silence for at least an hour and a half.
You spend another fifteen minutes drawing up ties and whole notes before abandoning your work, throwing it to the ground in defeat. “I give up. This is hopeless. Besides, it’s past midnight, and I’m practically sleep deprived.”
“Now that’s no way for a composer to act.” Concern rises in the detective’s eyes as you stumble to your feet, bleary eyed. He notes the bags underneath her eyes, and small spasms in her wrists. Hasn’t eaten since breakfast this morning. “You haven’t eaten in hours.”
“A necessity.” You mumble out, rubbing your eyes. “Besides, you’re not one to talk.”
The detective doesn’t say anything, knowing all too well that she’s right. He hardly consumed anything while on a case, determined to find out the solution, whether hell comes to pay. As ____________________ goes to bed, he waits a few minutes before he can hear the lock clicking in place, then springs up from the couch, abandoning his laptop. Careful not to leave anything out place, he rifles through the pianist’s compositions and symphonies.
In the morning, you stumble to breakfast, only to be greeted with a certain consulting detective, who shoves your music sheets in your face, now marked up with his own annotations.
“Here. I figured out your problem. You spend too much time on the quiet classical era, just as I suspected. It takes a toll on your personality, too, but that’s hardly relevant right now. You need some spontaneous composers, like Brahms or Bartok.”
You’re still reeling from the comment about your personality, not to mention that he’s figured out your musical dilemma much quicker than you would have in a month’s time. Perhaps he and Mozart weren’t that divided in musical talent after all. The thought makes you seem small and insignificant, and a mere child trying to compose under the eye of one prodigious musician who’s put together dozens of wonderful songs.
“Oh.” You say in a quiet whisper, sorting through the sheets with the manner of a maestro who’s just had his prime composition filched on the eve of his debuting grand concerto. “Surprise me, then.”
You slap down the sheets, color flushing into your face a little too quickly. And it’s not because of embarrassment. “Why don’t you play a piece, if you want to me to have inspiration? Everyone in a hundred meter radius from 221B must know that spontaneity is your strong suit. I suspect that’s also a contributing factor of John calling you a drama queen.”
Sherlock frowns a little. Here he had thought he’d done the girl a favor, and she’s responding back in hostility. “No thank you, I’m not in the mood for playing today.”
“Play me a song, or I’ll throw your violin out the window.”
This alarming threat finally makes him snap to focus, and he stares at you with wide eyes. Sure enough, you already have one hand on the curved scroll handle, holding the instrument out the flat window so that it dangles precariously. You needn’t be the world’s only consulting detective to know the facts. One drop, and the instrument would smash horribly against the pavement, wood splintering beyond repair.
“You wouldn’t.” he calmly states, but he meets your coolly drawn pupils, and knows that she has no hesitation about dropping his precious violin. She may be withdrawn and completely opposite of him, but when it comes to music, the both of you are scarily alike. Diligent, composing pieces whenever they can, and not afraid to sacrifice certain aspects for their own inspirations.
“You know better than to say that.” Your hand begins to loosen their grip, which is already slack to begin with. It almost causes him to have a panic attack.
“What are you suggesting?”
“First, don’t ever try to change my preferences in music. To each their own, and every musician has different tastes in style.”
Sherlock curses himself for this. He should have known that ____________________________ had a certain attachment for a particular type of music. And he had prodded in and called it boring, like an obnoxious boor.
“I’m assuming there’s more to this agreement?”
“I want you to play with me.”
For a moment, he thinks he might have hearing problems. “Sorry?”
“I said it once, I’m not repeating myself.”
The question forming in his mind escapes his mouth before he can stop it; “Why?”
A wry smirk is made in his direction. “You said you wanted spontaneity.”
For the next three months, all of Baker Street hears the protesting screeches of a violin and the pounding of a piano every morning, from dawn to dusk, even stretching into the early hours after midnight. There’s the occasional grace period where Sherlock has to dash off to an urgent case, but most of his free time – or when he’s bored – he spends time composing with you. John now spends more time over at Mary’s than usual, but you can’t complain. The less people bother you when you’re in a music session, the better.
The work you two get done could hardly be called amateur work. Both of you had clear experience in the area, and had clear-set minds about how to finish pieces or make them perfect.
The problem is that both your musical viewpoints clash against each other. Often.
“What do you mean, that’s not the right chord?” you say in frustration, smashing the keys down angrily to face one calmly faced consulting detective. “That’s in the best chord there is. No other.”
The highly functioning sociopath lowers his precious Stradivarius, taking his sharp chin off the chin rest. “It doesn’t balance well with the melody of the violin.”
“I can’t help it if your instrument tries to hog the song.”
“What is so troublesome about trying to make harmony?” Sherlock questions, frowning down at you like a reprimanding teacher. “You need it for crucial tunes. If the melody was just there, then it would sound bare-boned.”
“It’s…” you struggle to get the words out. “Never mind. It’s silly.”
“I don’t think something would be silly if it’s bothering you so much that you’re scraping your nails against the keys.”
You glance down at your own hands in bewilderment, and sure enough, they seem intent on clawing off the keys entirely. Gingerly, you remove them from the piano, massaging them into your palm. You don’t make eye contact with your fellow musician, staring at the piano instead while you talk.
“I don’t mind harmony. It’s just that I feel a little insignificant playing it with you. You’re fantastic with the violin, and clearly a capable musician. It’s childish of me, but you always seem like the center of attention, even without music, and I don’t really think I can keep up. You’ve got the observance of a hawk, and a nearly photographic memory, with heightened logistics beyond average functioning. How am I to compare?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m hardly the center of attention. People despise me.”
“But they see you.” You smile a little sadly. “No one sees me. I’m the background pianist.”
Silence cracks between the two of you for a while. Then Sherlock speaks up, a little hesitant, “I can see you.”
“You don’t count. You don’t think I’m something that can attract attention.”
For one moment, you can swear that the man starts, and then, as if you’d said nothing of importance, continues on in the monotone voice he always possesses. “Why don’t we make the harmony the center of the song, rather than the melody?”
You tilt your head to the side, a little startled at the change of music tactics, then consider the option. “It would be rather unique. But I haven’t ever tried that area of planning before.”
“Well, you’ll hardly get a better chance at breaking tradition.”
The plan for harmony being the main focus of the piece works out more smoothly than you thought. The whole composition wraps up in about the timespan of two days, and the both of you even make a second one. John and Mary heard both works, when you finally announced that you were finished with making the music, for now. Much to John’s relief. Oh, and Mrs. Hudson, too, of course. She did say it was lovely that Sherlock had you for a musical companion, and maybe could help him deter some his darker habits now that he’d found someone after all this time.
At which point Sherlock ushered her out of the room and made you cough a little discreetly.
But you have no idea how many people would listen to your piece, until one fateful night, when you listen to classical music on the radio to pass the time, and Sherlock’s shut down in deduction mode, eyes faintly closed as he lies on the couch, in his massive mind palace. The next song on the station makes you bolt straight up, hardly believing the sounds coming through your ears.
“Did you…” you turn up the volume on the radio, staring at the consulting detective, who now has a self-satisfied smirk on his face. “No.”
“You issued this out to the national radio? I’m afraid to ask how.”
Sherlock’s smirk turns into more of a smile now. “My brother’s got a lot of high connections in miscellaneous businesses. They arranged to have our piece playing on their stations.”
The theme now turns to the other piece that the two of you have arranged together, a sad, melancholy tone that the detective insisted on playing. It has a slow waltz-like tone to it, deep and throbbing, and vaguely familiar. Without any indication or warning sign, the highly functioning sociopath gets up from his seat and offers you a hand to dance. You look at it dubiously.
“Since when do you dance?”
“On the contrary. I tend to love dancing. And what’s the use of playing music if someone isn’t dancing to it?”
“That sounds a lot like a line from a certain vendetta film.”
“It’s hardly the fifth of November, ___________________________. But there doesn’t need to be a revolution for dances.”
To this, you have no other argument. So you comply, taking Sherlock’s outstretched hand in yours, allowing him to pull you up so that your head barely reaches the top of his chin. Soon the two of you are waltzing around the room, in tune to the music that the both of you have created. The violin and the piano add together in a harmonic session, each one playing in where awkward time gaps should be. You lean your head against Sherlock’s shoulder despite your wariness, wondering why he’s acting so bizarrely. Putting your pieces on public radio and offering you to dance? Why is he suddenly so generous? Your companion stiffens at your action, but relaxes a moment later.
You snap to attention at the music, recognizing the melody for the first time. “Isn’t this the theme you dedicated for the Woman?”
“Yes and no.”
Something uncomfortable begins to squirm in your throat. “I believe an explanation is in order.”
“This is a piece that I took roots from the original piece. The first one had no piano. This version is different, and it’s dedicated to someone else entirely.”
You glance out the window, trying not to look conflicted. Night’s falling fast upon London. “Got yourself a new woman, then?”
“You could say that.” The softness in his voice is so faint that you’re afraid that he’s dropping off to sleep. You raise your head, wondering what has gotten into him, when you’re met with his lips crashing down on yours. You make a small exclamation of surprise, but soon tiptoe up on your heels to lengthen the kiss.
“Oh, god, I didn’t need to see that.”
The both of you break away to see John standing in front of the doorway, slightly openmouthed. You smile a little embarrassingly while Sherlock demands to know where he was all this time.
Sherlock Holmes in love. Wonder what the papers will say about that.
When you finish playing, yet again, the composition that the whole country’s now salivating over, you find that the consulting detective’s leaning over you, studying your messily inked notes across the grand staff. His face is unfathomable.
“God, your handwriting’s a hopeless case. And now that I hear it again, why so many chords? I hardly think there’ll be a lacking of noise, considering the din this one already makes.”
“Shut up, you like it.”
“I do. Draw up an extra violin one for me, will you?”
“Way ahead of you.”
|Trying to compose a piece with London's highly functioning sociopath isn't easy.|
Forever and Always -Sherlock X Reader- Part ThreeForever and Always -Sherlock X Reader- Part Three by alannahm619
A few days had come and gone since you had learned that Sherlock was still living and breathing, and whom had even paid you a visit that very night and terrified the holy hell out of you. You could still feel the anger welded up inside of you whenever you thought of his stupid face or his stupid smile or stupid trench coat, or those stupidly intelligent green-blue eyes of his. The whole situation was just ridiculous! Of course, he had his reasons as to why he did what he did, but even now you still didn’t care to know.
But through out these past few days you hadn’t heard nor seen from the Consulting Detective. And mostly, you were glad of this. You were actually glad for once that he wasn’t around. Knowing that he was actually alive and not dead, it brought a sort of closure to you that you so desperately needed, you could finally move on with your life and forget everything about Sherlock Holmes.
And very steadily you were getting your life back together, the life th
|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.|