”I don’t know. My nude body is considered very fit.
Michelangelo even used me as a model for a scultpure, once.
Unfortunately, the final statue was destroyed when I used it as
a decoy against some Cybermen.”
Don’tlaughdon’tlaughdon’tlaugh. “Well—” A pause to compose herself. “As impressive as that is, Doctor, I’m not sure it’s the sort of thing my dad will really— ah, appreciate.”
”—Well, I thought that, perhaps, I should attempt to make a
better impression on your dad than I did at Christmas dinner.”
”You know, call it a hunch, but I don’t think that will be difficult.”
”’Ooh, Clara if we do this thing we could die,' 'I never have a plan we’re just gonna wing it and hope things work out!’” It was her turn to give him a look. “How’s that for a bit of payback?”
She reached to grab one of the handles on the side of the monitor and walked around the console to where the Doctor was. “I did well, didn’t I? Despite your fussing.”
"Oh, payback. That’s very mature. Next time, just give me some ice cream.” But he’s smiling, and he inclines her head towards her. “You did fine. Now come on, let’s go see what our thing is this go around.”
”…I don’t think so.”
Though for the life of him, he can’t
remember where he’s heard it before.
She leans over, perhaps looking
to see what colour his socks are.
"And do you sing this when you avoid washing
your own socks? —Is that what I’ve been smelling?”
”Ah, yeah. Course. How can I help?”
The Doctor considered Clara’s request briefly, tapping his fingers against the edge of the console before blurting out—
“Blaaack socks, they never get dirty,
the longer you wear them the blacker they get!
Soooomeday I think that I’ll wash them,
but something keeps telling me don’t do it yet!”
”Did you just make that up?”
It’s something different at least. And not
one she’d heard of. Still— she gave it a
couple more times before this song
got on her nerves as well.
ooc: more of a semi-hiatus. IDK. I’m gonna try not to disappear completely. But Fringe has taken over. So if I’m not here, and not on any of my other blogs, I’m off somewhere crying about the Bishops.
”Shall I try to reign it in for your sanity?”
”Please. Please. If you have a heart— or two— you will sing something else. Anything else.” She’d probably regret those words. In fact, she already did. But what could be worse than “The Ballad of Bilbo Baggins”?