“Respira” mi dici. E io respiro, ma sembra difficile. Mi fissi, io invece guardo le mie mani e mi chiedo se ho sempre avuto le vene così evidenti. Non ricordo.
Come sono arrivata a questo punto? Perché è successo? “Non chiederti perché, è meglio” e se mi hai risposto, vuol dire che l'ho chiesto ad alta voce. Come posso non chiedermi perché? È fisiologico! Sono confusa, vorrei andare a casa. Posso andare a casa?
Mi guardi ancora, ma non parli stavolta. Riprovo: posso andare a casa?
“Non da sola, almeno per oggi dovresti stare con qualcuno.”
Qualcuno… È folle, chiamerei S. che non risponderebbe neanche, ma capirebbe e vorrei solo questo. Banale!
Chiama L., è tra i preferiti.
Ti passo il telefono, ma sembri perplesso. “Non è meglio un parente?”
A modo suo, lo è. Chiama lei. Non capirà, ma saprà rispettare il mio silenzio.
L. arriva, mi guarda, sospira e si rivolge a te che sei lì in piedi da almeno un'ora ad osservare i miei pochi movimenti. Di norma mi avresti infastidito, oggi lascio correre.
“How did you get in my bed?” you asked, because it was the most reasonable question you could think of in you moment of shock.
The Doctor was on your bed. Or, more accurately, in your bed, comfortably buried in a deliberately shaped nest of pillows and blankets that were arranged in a just so way that could only be described as methodic chaos. And it was annoyingly adorable.
It might have been more reasonable to ask something like, “How did you get in my room?” or “What are you doing in here?” or even “What the frick-frack-paddy-whack-snick-snack do you think you’re doing?” But the question you should have asked, the most useful and to-the-point inquiry, would have been, “Why are you in my bed?” Because, really, that was all that mattered, wasn’t it?
But there was the Doctor, curled up in a nest of blankets on your bed, and you were a little too blindsided by the sight of him to think about what the best question would be.
“Shhh,” the Doctor hissed softly, burrowing further into his next with shuddering half-gasp-half-yawn. “M'tired.”
“You’re tired in the wrong room,” you informed him.
The Doctor huffed. “M'not. M'home.”
You pressed your hand to your forehead and began to rub at the headache that you knew would form if the Doctor kept this up. You could already feel (or, you imagined that you could) the annoying little twinge of pain in your grey matter that flared whenever the Doctor was being incredibly stupid for no reason. When he had a reason, that was fine! You could work with that! If he had a reason, then you could negotiate the terms of his surrender (or yours, depending on how cranky he was, and you were good with compromises). But if he was doing this just because… there would be no living with him until the phase was over.
Although… you had to admit that this was… really kind of cute.
“You’re not a cat,” you told the Doctor, although you spoke in a softer tone generally reserved for sleepy children, “and just because the TARDIS is yours doesn’t mean everything in it is meant to be napped on.”
The Doctor opened one green eye to observe you sleepily. He immediately shut it, scrunching his whole face as he yawned again.
“Home,” he said, pressing closer to you to make a point. What that point was, you weren’t sure.
You were sure that the Doctor was just confused, or that going two weeks without sleep had made him loopy. Saying ‘home’ didn’t make sense. The whole TARDIS was his home, not your bedroom or… or…
Well. The whole TARDIS was his home and that was all, because he couldn’t mean… what it seemed like he meant.. So… if he really wanted to sleep in here, then…
“Yeah, sure,” you said, giving him a share of your blanket and resting an arm over his chest. He squirmed happily. “You’re home.”
Sans is actually an excellent babysitter. He gets nervous around babies he doesn’t know, anyway, because babies cry a lot and are hella fragile and he’s scared of dropping them or something. But once he gets to know them, he’s real good at it.
However, Flowey isn’t exactly a cute baby, so because of that and other minor reasons, he’s just choosing to be a little shit towards him.