[ Lost too much in his own mind at her question, he's overlooked something far more important. And he sees it now, the fracture, the way something seems to break apart for her. It quietly devastates him with worry, but more than that, in the way that she ducks her head and hides her face, he has the feeling of briefly looking in a mirror, if that mirror were focused on the deeper parts of himself he always hides away.
Their lives are vastly different. What she's been through and what she's forced to carry is unknown to him for now, but he sees the effect his words have had. It's the cost of a truth that isn't a whole truth, that pretends not to be a lie. If he was honest at her question, what might it have done instead? His memories belong to him, yes, but that was the only truth in his words. She asked of his pain and he lied and now she's hidden her face and he wonders and worries at her pain more than anything.
He doesn't reach for her, doesn't want to startle her or encroach on the distance she needs, but his eyes soften and she draws something out of him with her own words. ]
The turning of the hour here, in this place, the setting of the sun, it doesn't at all mean the same thing to people on Darillium, where one night lasts twenty four years. It's not the same to anyone anywhere. Moments can be held like glass, but the measure of time itself — you're right, River, how do you measure?
[ He could spout all scientific jargon and he does enjoy it sometimes, the sound of his own voice, but her words continue to splinter his thoughts apart and he's far more interested in what she has to say. Time isn't the boss of him, he'd once said. He sees it all woven out like a tapestry, pieces fitting together or not. All in a carefully held balance, but not equal. He wears watches, more for the aesthetic than anything else, but he leans in to superfluous measurements. What need does a Time Lord have to know the time? But her words land accordingly, turning his thoughts. ]
Who gets to decide what's more important? What does belong?
no subject
Their lives are vastly different. What she's been through and what she's forced to carry is unknown to him for now, but he sees the effect his words have had. It's the cost of a truth that isn't a whole truth, that pretends not to be a lie. If he was honest at her question, what might it have done instead? His memories belong to him, yes, but that was the only truth in his words. She asked of his pain and he lied and now she's hidden her face and he wonders and worries at her pain more than anything.
He doesn't reach for her, doesn't want to startle her or encroach on the distance she needs, but his eyes soften and she draws something out of him with her own words. ]
The turning of the hour here, in this place, the setting of the sun, it doesn't at all mean the same thing to people on Darillium, where one night lasts twenty four years. It's not the same to anyone anywhere. Moments can be held like glass, but the measure of time itself — you're right, River, how do you measure?
[ He could spout all scientific jargon and he does enjoy it sometimes, the sound of his own voice, but her words continue to splinter his thoughts apart and he's far more interested in what she has to say. Time isn't the boss of him, he'd once said. He sees it all woven out like a tapestry, pieces fitting together or not. All in a carefully held balance, but not equal. He wears watches, more for the aesthetic than anything else, but he leans in to superfluous measurements. What need does a Time Lord have to know the time? But her words land accordingly, turning his thoughts. ]
Who gets to decide what's more important? What does belong?