Chapter Text
As soon as you wake up, you feel the tension. Theta notices it, too; you catch the way eir brown eyes flash over to you, watch your tapping fingers for just a second. Ey goes back to eir tea.
Should you be grateful?
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It grates at your brainstem. You can't carry on a conversation like this: Theta's words, or anyone's words, dissolve into a gray murk. Theta worries. Ey is frustrated. Ey gets your attention as politely as ey can, but you don't overlook the tautness of eir shoulders or the thin-lipped line of eir mouth. Theta smiles when you startle; ey knows ey's gotten your attention, and here comes that haggard grin.
"Don't panic.
It's only
me."
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You wouldn't admit it, but you guard the drums. On days like these you guard them and fawn over them like a favorite child. Places that foster dull roars-- bars, supermarkets, non-TARDIS places-- become taboo. You find an empty corner of the TARDIS, sit against the wall, and listen to your drums.
They speak only to you, after all.
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—What would you do if I died?—