Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who.
Spoilers: for 6x04.
Here's a place you've never ever been, here's Auntie and here's Uncle, here's Idris's body, and there you are, in there. Your thief ran away (will be back again in twenty-three seconds).
He has a face. It's different seeing it with eyes. The others have faces as well (you once made them a bed with a ladder, but you never really thought about their faces). You'd like to see more faces; six don't seem like very many. You haven't even seen your own (prodding at it with the fingers wasn't as enlightening as you'd assumed it would be).
His hands don't look like what you'd expected them to, either, and he has all kinds of other parts, as well; long, bendy ones, and ones that stick out, and ones that can rotate (and yes, you know their names, you just didn't expect them to look like that in motion), and so much hair, and his eyes have a colour that you can't name, and that makes you purse your lips. (Usually, you would have taken all that new information about him and added it to the index file (not the one under 'doctor, the': the other one, the nicer one, the one he doesn't know, wouldn't care about), but you can't access it here. You have saved so many things, tucked them away: what he says in his sleep; the language he thinks in; any scrap of excess regeneration energy he could spare (seven times and then some), and not only his.)
You'd stolen him. You need to keep him safe.
The things you know, will know, has known, mustn't know. Things about him. Things about the orangey one and the pretty one. Things about those he hasn't met yet.
You sit, bending your fingers, bunching your skirts. So much fabric. You decide that shoes are uncomfortable, that fingernails are remarkable.
Fingers. Five of them. Five of them on each hand; two. Ten.
You already know that you will get a chance to explore the fingers, and you also know that when that chance comes, your Doctor will grasp five of your fingers with five of his, for exactly six point seven seconds. That's all he thinks he has time for (and that makes you want to giggle and sniffle at the same time). (Safe is relative), will be relative.
Running. Searching. Yes, searching. Still. He. And you.
You ponder that funny way in which a part of you gets bigger with every inhale and smaller with every exhale, and then you're momentarily distracted by hair.
Things that never will be (some were possible, up to seven minutes ago, but no longer; things you will never know, though you could have, in the future, once): the taste of fish and chips; that the stripes down his front are remarkably springy; that the orangey one's clothes not really fit you; that the pretty one has soft hair; that the only water in the forest is the river.
He's returning, your beautiful thief; yes, turning the corner.
Things that will be, you think, probably, yes, no, yes: (Finish him off, girl) (So very dark) (Could we lose the bunk beds) (Eye of Orion).
You still haven't found your word.