Why am I not asleep?
Mar. 15th, 2013 12:59 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
regndoft- Achilleus mourning Patroclus, aka Ancient Greek Angst Burrito, is my favourite plate ever. One of the finest objects in the Mediterranean Museum in Stockholm's collection imho. :P
- Have literally done nothing of productive value today (well, technically yesterday by now...). Mostly spent the day reading and watching 70s sci-fi; slowly moving through the Key to Time arc with The Androids of Tara, and started watching season two of Blake's 7 (PET ALIEN TELEPATHIC CACTUS, I CAN'T).
- That five-sentences meme? I finally managed to gather enough presence of mind to finish it. Which is a good thing, as I really should be writing my![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
unconventionalcourtship fic and a paper on the Parthenon friese.
In the beginning, Ian used to wonder how long it would last.
Not for long and not very often, but every relationship had its ups and downs. He didn’t expect him and Barbara to be any different. And yet that change never seemed to come, the thrill of loving someone that loves you back never quite giving way to the comfortable familiarity of married couples.
When they saw Paris again for the first time since 1794, Ian decided to stop wondering.
(Because Ian and Barbara are that disgustingly happy platonic ideal of a married couple that everyone hates for being so darn perfect, so there. :P)
The Master was enjoying the view of Paris in summer while the waiter poured the wine into his glass.
He had been stranded on earth for a limited time only, but it had been long enough for the Master to discover the best wine in France and map out where the city was most vulnerable to invasion. The Doctor wouldn’t be able to resist a trail of anachronistic alien technology, especially not when it lead to the Eiffel Tower.
The Master raised the glass to his lips and smiled. He fully counted on the Doctor to be able to dismount the energy weapon at the top of the tower before the appetisers were served.
They stay up all night until the sun rises and all of London rises with it.
Gratitude is a distinctly undemonic thing that Crowley would have vehemently denied being capable of (except out of pure politeness) until the Apocalypse failed to happen, and all the things he’d tried to accept that he would miss were as surprised as he was to find that they were sticking around. It had been a week since and he was still waiting for someone to yell “SURPRISE!” and pop the metaphorical balloon of Safety in his face.
Aziraphale seems to be taking it in stride much easier; Crowley supposes he can speak of forgiveness, or mercy, or grace, or whatever else they’re calling it these days.
They argue the point as morning traffic starts up and feel a little bit less abandoned for it.
“I’m honestly very sorry Doctor.”
“Hmph. Well, yes, I suppose you are. But I hope this little misadventure taught you a lesson about going out to explore on your own on an alien planet!”
“I just wanted to pick some flowers; I didn’t know they were also the native population...”
- Have literally done nothing of productive value today (well, technically yesterday by now...). Mostly spent the day reading and watching 70s sci-fi; slowly moving through the Key to Time arc with The Androids of Tara, and started watching season two of Blake's 7 (PET ALIEN TELEPATHIC CACTUS, I CAN'T).
- That five-sentences meme? I finally managed to gather enough presence of mind to finish it. Which is a good thing, as I really should be writing my
unconventionalcourtship fic and a paper on the Parthenon friese.In the beginning, Ian used to wonder how long it would last.
Not for long and not very often, but every relationship had its ups and downs. He didn’t expect him and Barbara to be any different. And yet that change never seemed to come, the thrill of loving someone that loves you back never quite giving way to the comfortable familiarity of married couples.
When they saw Paris again for the first time since 1794, Ian decided to stop wondering.
(Because Ian and Barbara are that disgustingly happy platonic ideal of a married couple that everyone hates for being so darn perfect, so there. :P)
The Master was enjoying the view of Paris in summer while the waiter poured the wine into his glass.
He had been stranded on earth for a limited time only, but it had been long enough for the Master to discover the best wine in France and map out where the city was most vulnerable to invasion. The Doctor wouldn’t be able to resist a trail of anachronistic alien technology, especially not when it lead to the Eiffel Tower.
The Master raised the glass to his lips and smiled. He fully counted on the Doctor to be able to dismount the energy weapon at the top of the tower before the appetisers were served.
They stay up all night until the sun rises and all of London rises with it.
Gratitude is a distinctly undemonic thing that Crowley would have vehemently denied being capable of (except out of pure politeness) until the Apocalypse failed to happen, and all the things he’d tried to accept that he would miss were as surprised as he was to find that they were sticking around. It had been a week since and he was still waiting for someone to yell “SURPRISE!” and pop the metaphorical balloon of Safety in his face.
Aziraphale seems to be taking it in stride much easier; Crowley supposes he can speak of forgiveness, or mercy, or grace, or whatever else they’re calling it these days.
They argue the point as morning traffic starts up and feel a little bit less abandoned for it.
“I’m honestly very sorry Doctor.”
“Hmph. Well, yes, I suppose you are. But I hope this little misadventure taught you a lesson about going out to explore on your own on an alien planet!”
“I just wanted to pick some flowers; I didn’t know they were also the native population...”
