i feel like you people send the most straight-ahead trope prompts just to see how badly i can fuck them up
Twelve/Clara, ~1.9k words, angsty fluff: Language is a map of our failures.
“Santa was mine, I suppose.” Clara’s curled up on an armchair, wrapped up in blankets, cradling a cup of tea.
“Not necessarily,” the Doctor says. In his own armchair, fewer blankets, holding a glass of apple juice.
Above them, all of time and space, or at least a reasonable facsimile thereof. Nebulae, dust swarming. The inexorable expansion of everything, the pulling-apart.
“But you don’t. I mean, I’m not self-centered enough to think the rest of the universe follows the same religion as me. I can’t imagine you celebrate Christmas. So why would you dream about Santa Claus?”