Chapter Text
Lord Burner wept. It wasn’t often that he cried. In those private, unguarded moments that he did, they were tears of rage. Of indignation. Of an undying hatred of his Superiors and their meddling in the Web of Time. To shed tears of righteous anger was the privilege of magnanimity; Burner told himself as much. But his weeping today was not born of fury. In fact, it was an experience completely novel to him: they were tears of sheer, bloody boredom.
“My hair isn’t wet, okay? It’s called a perm.”
“Whatever it’s called, I don’t think they did it right. You might want to think of switching barbers.”
“I go to a hairdresser!”
Resisting the urge to slam his forehead onto the console at the velocity of a time torpedo, Burner balled his fists and continued watching the monitor. So this was his equivalent in this universe? His skin practically tingled with contempt. How could someone of the same loom-stock apparently be such a git? He had been arguing with this woman for at least twenty microspans.
“How about next time you come with me to the hairdresser to make sure she does it right?” the girl said, flicking her hair playfully.
“Depends. Does it have a little shop? I’m a big fan of little shops.”
The girl grinned, but her eyes impossibly large eyes were beseeching.
So the Oncoming Storm wasn’t just a git; he was as thick as two planks from an Outlands barn. Lord Burner tented his fingers underneath his chin and breathed heavily out through his nose. The Ex-President had warned him about the Renegade’s attachment to this chronomalous human, that he would bring hell to heaven and death to time if it ensured her safety. This would make his job a lot harder, especially since failing really might bring death to time. Typical Homeworlder, Burner mused. Pull and snag the thread until the tapestry threatened to unravel.
“So, where are we going next?”
“You should go and find yourself a towel. In the meantime, I’ll set a course fo-.”
“For the last time, its not wet!”
Now it was the other’s turn to give her a beseeching look.
“Feel it then if you don’t believe me.” The girl’s hand darted out toward his arm, but he was too quick.
“No, stay away!”
Lord Burner stared incredulously as the pair began a Cat-and-mouse chase around the room, and suddenly wished he’d never received the coordinates for the apartment. A sharp noise rent him from his disbelief. The man was now sprawled on the floor, a wayward chair strewn beside. The girl had her mouth covered with her hand and by the sound of it was attempting to stifle a laugh.
“Are you okay?” she eventually managed.
“Nothing that would require a regeneration.”
Lord Burner narrowed his eyes. He would preserve the sanctity of timeline. Even if he incurred the wrath of the Beast of Trenzalore. Even if it meant eliminating an impossible girl. As if galvanised by this thought, he rose in a whirl of monochrome robe and stalked down the corridor of his timeship.
On the screen, Clara knelt gently and laid down with her head resting on the old man’s chest. Her right hand sneaked up and with its middle finger and thumb, flicked some of her hair into his face.
“See Doctor? Told you it wasn’t wet."