[ clara thinks he's dead. actually, she knows he's dead because she'd watched it with her very own eyes, her glance having happened to have watched the drunken man stumble onto the street, her voice to call out to him too late by the time the car slams into his body, tossing him nearly twenty some feet across the road.
by the time she runs over to him, there's a number of people gathering, but despite her petite frame, she's quick on her feet, sliding on her knees along his side to check for a pulse β nothing, of course. the scraps of his skin from the gravel spread across his face too, blisters that indicate the harshness of his landing, and she wonders if he'd died instantly from the blunt impact of the car or if he suffered as he landed.
biting her lip, she swallows hard. of course, there's nothing she could have done here. for all she's tried to save the world a number of times, she can't save eveybody. even if it hurts every damn time.
but then he breathes, a gasp coming from his mouth that forces her to widen her eyes as she peers back down at him, watching as the injuries upon his face heal on their own, blood stains cleaning themselves as if they hadn't been there at all.
and the first thing that comes to her mind is β alien.
whatever the reason for there being an alien in twenty-first century france, she'll find out later, knowing the best thing to do right now is get him away from the crowd that'll be bound to have a thousand questions on their mind, made even worse if the police or ambulances arrive.
trying to scope him up, despite his size being larger than her own, she tosses his arm across her shoulder, grunting as she attempts lifting him to his feet on her own. ] Don't worry! I'll get him to a hospital! [ she shouts it in english, but her tardis should be close enough to translate the words into french for her, more concerned with getting him away from the street before even waiting to see if he's properly woken up yet. ]
[ It starts with a grunt, and then a deep, hollow cough as his insides begin β slowly, agonizingly β to stitch themselves back together. He can almost hear the muscle and sinew, each of the bones on his fractured rib cage clicking back into place. He sure as hell can feel it, and Jesusfuck it hurts.
It's a cruel joke, each death followed by consciousness again and the teasing echo of a voice murmuring to him: welcome back, asshole. Ah, yes. Still on this godforsaken planet, still in one piece, still hurt, and j'en ai marre, he could really use a drink.
But this time his feet seem to move on their own accord and there's the firm press of a body against his urging him forward. In the back of his mind, maybe he's grateful that they're getting away from onlookers. He'd done enough without risking exposure (again) of what he can do, of what his family (wherever they are) can do. Better to stay out of sight. Besides, finding a new apartment in this financial climate was a bitch.
He winces rather violently when the last of his ribs comes together, stumbling like he's twelve drinks in (as opposed to the five he'd been at before he blacked out). He has to stop, just for a second, to catch his breath and inspect his rescuer β or kidnapper? ] β I'm fine, I'm fine.
[ It's been a while since he'd spoken anything other than his native tongue, and maybe his accent's gone a little thicker. ]
[ she thinks alien, but nothing comes immediate to mind in regards to a regenerating species, nothing but time lord, but β well, he wouldn't be. in the corner of her eye, she can still see him bearing the same face he'd worn when he'd gotten hint, suggesting that, as much as she grows anxious at the idea of finding another gallifreyan, she doubts he's one.
the important thing is getting him out of sight for now, that much she knows, and her first thought is to carry him to the tardis. except hers has proven a bit trickier to set up in cities without looking incredibly inconspicuous. logic had told her it was probably best not to plant a tardis trapped in the form of an american diner right in the heart of paris, but now that she was in a hurry, she realizes it would have been much more convenient if she'd parked it closer.
(for the first time, she actually realizes that a police phone box isn't the worst idea.)
when he suddenly speaks, she's so startled by it that she almost drops him, still circling the idea that he was very much dead just a few minutes ago. ]
You have a very funny definition of fine. [ she honestly doesn't think they're far enough yet, but the diner is still a few blocks away, so she instead settles on guiding him onto the nearest bench, lowering him carefully. ] You should lay down at least. That was a nasty hit you took.
[ 'Tis but a scratch. See how he doesn't protest against her leading him towards a spot to sit and rest while the last of his cracks and bruises heals, however.
The older he gets and the more impact he sustains, the more time it takes to heal. He'd warned Nile of that not so long ago, and the wound then β a grenade launched in the Guards' direction β had been much larger. But it always heals β and he's still not sure whether that knowledge is a comfort or a curse.
The clarity from the booze wearing off is also less than charming.
He breathes out. ]
Might I ask where you were taking me?
[ The hospital is in the other direction, and no, he won't be going there anyway β clearly. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
β¨ hopefully this is okay!!
by the time she runs over to him, there's a number of people gathering, but despite her petite frame, she's quick on her feet, sliding on her knees along his side to check for a pulse β nothing, of course. the scraps of his skin from the gravel spread across his face too, blisters that indicate the harshness of his landing, and she wonders if he'd died instantly from the blunt impact of the car or if he suffered as he landed.
biting her lip, she swallows hard. of course, there's nothing she could have done here. for all she's tried to save the world a number of times, she can't save eveybody. even if it hurts every damn time.
but then he breathes, a gasp coming from his mouth that forces her to widen her eyes as she peers back down at him, watching as the injuries upon his face heal on their own, blood stains cleaning themselves as if they hadn't been there at all.
and the first thing that comes to her mind is β alien.
whatever the reason for there being an alien in twenty-first century france, she'll find out later, knowing the best thing to do right now is get him away from the crowd that'll be bound to have a thousand questions on their mind, made even worse if the police or ambulances arrive.
trying to scope him up, despite his size being larger than her own, she tosses his arm across her shoulder, grunting as she attempts lifting him to his feet on her own. ] Don't worry! I'll get him to a hospital! [ she shouts it in english, but her tardis should be close enough to translate the words into french for her, more concerned with getting him away from the street before even waiting to see if he's properly woken up yet. ]
it's beautiful
It's a cruel joke, each death followed by consciousness again and the teasing echo of a voice murmuring to him: welcome back, asshole. Ah, yes. Still on this godforsaken planet, still in one piece, still hurt, and j'en ai marre, he could really use a drink.
But this time his feet seem to move on their own accord and there's the firm press of a body against his urging him forward. In the back of his mind, maybe he's grateful that they're getting away from onlookers. He'd done enough without risking exposure (again) of what he can do, of what his family (wherever they are) can do. Better to stay out of sight. Besides, finding a new apartment in this financial climate was a bitch.
He winces rather violently when the last of his ribs comes together, stumbling like he's twelve drinks in (as opposed to the five he'd been at before he blacked out). He has to stop, just for a second, to catch his breath and inspect his rescuer β or kidnapper? ] β I'm fine, I'm fine.
[ It's been a while since he'd spoken anything other than his native tongue, and maybe his accent's gone a little thicker. ]
Here will do.
β‘β‘β‘
the important thing is getting him out of sight for now, that much she knows, and her first thought is to carry him to the tardis. except hers has proven a bit trickier to set up in cities without looking incredibly inconspicuous. logic had told her it was probably best not to plant a tardis trapped in the form of an american diner right in the heart of paris, but now that she was in a hurry, she realizes it would have been much more convenient if she'd parked it closer.
(for the first time, she actually realizes that a police phone box isn't the worst idea.)
when he suddenly speaks, she's so startled by it that she almost drops him, still circling the idea that he was very much dead just a few minutes ago. ]
You have a very funny definition of fine. [ she honestly doesn't think they're far enough yet, but the diner is still a few blocks away, so she instead settles on guiding him onto the nearest bench, lowering him carefully. ] You should lay down at least. That was a nasty hit you took.
smooch
[ 'Tis but a scratch. See how he doesn't protest against her leading him towards a spot to sit and rest while the last of his cracks and bruises heals, however.
The older he gets and the more impact he sustains, the more time it takes to heal. He'd warned Nile of that not so long ago, and the wound then β a grenade launched in the Guards' direction β had been much larger. But it always heals β and he's still not sure whether that knowledge is a comfort or a curse.
The clarity from the booze wearing off is also less than charming.
He breathes out. ]
Might I ask where you were taking me?
[ The hospital is in the other direction, and no, he won't be going there anyway β clearly. ]