He'll ask her sometimes: why don't you get a hobby, or a boyfriend. Clara almost laughs at him because she remembers all the times she would go out and then the Doctor would appear. He'd vworp-vworp into her yard, or the street, and she'd grab her things, maybe put money on the table if he was outside a restaurant, and leave. She'd toss her hair over her shoulder as she ran, saying thanks very much but I've really got to go.
So it's not like she hasn't tried.
She's got human habits he doesn't understand. Once, when they were in London, she ran into a shop to buy lotion. She rubbed it over her hands in even, rhythmic motions: up past her wrist to her fingertips and back again. He asks her why and she says that the smell reminds her of home. He doesn't know what "home" is - he's never really had one. He's had nothing but this box and the drifting universe for years longer than she's even been alive. Distant memories of Gallifrey will flicker over him sometimes, memories that make it hard for him to move forward. He'll be programming the TARDIS, or fighting aliens with Clara, and then they'll hit him: bright, bright orange light and waves of dust, rocks, chaos. Like he's living in two places at once.
It's Clara's human presence that grounds him. She's so tiny and fragile and a bit strange: she's got endless pairs of stockings, and wears those ridiculous shoes. Oxfords, she called them. They've got a bit of a heel. He always wonders if she can run in them, and she always surprises him.
He gives her a room on the TARDIS. When she asks him why, he shrugs. "Just because I don't necessarily sleep much doesn't mean that you don't need to." Clara finds herself sleeping there more than at home. It's easier, she tells herself. Easier than another night spent coiled, waiting, bags ready just in case. When she is home, she's tense. She snaps at her students and fumbles through dates. Her mind is always halfway through the universe, wondering what adventures she's missing.
It's not just the adventures, though. The Doctor is a presence that intrigues her. She daydreams about what's going on in his head. He's quiet, serious, withdrawn: like one of her favorite novels that's just begging to be opened and explored.
He'll ask her sometimes: why don't you get a hobby, or a boyfriend. Clara almost laughs at him because she remembers all the times she would go out and then the Doctor would appear. He'd vworp-vworp into her yard, or the street, and she'd grab her things, maybe put money on the table if he was outside a restaurant, and leave. She'd toss her hair over her shoulder as she ran, saying thanks very much but I've really got to go.So it's not like she hasn't tried.She's got human habits he doesn't understand. Once, when they were in London, she ran into a shop to buy lotion. She rubbed it over her hands in even, rhythmic motions: up past her wrist to her fingertips and back again. He asks her why and she says that the smell reminds her of home. He doesn't know what "home" is - he's never really had one. He's had nothing but this box and the drifting universe for years longer than she's even been alive. Distant memories of Gallifrey will flicker over him sometimes, memories that make it hard for him to move forward. He'll be programming the TARDIS, or fighting aliens with Clara, and then they'll hit him: bright, bright orange light and waves of dust, rocks, chaos. Like he's living in two places at once.It's Clara's human presence that grounds him. She's so tiny and fragile and a bit strange: she's got endless pairs of stockings, and wears those ridiculous shoes. Oxfords, she called them. They've got a bit of a heel. He always wonders if she can run in them, and she always surprises him.他给了她一个房间的 tardis。当她问他为什么时,他耸了耸肩。"只是因为我不是一定睡眠多并不意味着你不需要到"。克拉拉发现自己那里更多在家里睡觉。它是容易的她告诉自己。比另一个的夜晚更容易的盘绕,等待,袋准备以防万一。当她是回家了,她是紧张。她拍着她的学生和摸索通过日期。她的心灵就总是中途宇宙,不知道什么冒险,她失踪。它不是只是探险者,虽然。医生是激起她的存在。她幻想能在他的脑海里想的什么。他是安静、 严肃,撤回: 喜欢只乞讨打开和探索她最喜爱的小说之一。
正在翻譯中..
