— dear (past/future) self

[twelfthsong]

 

Comments

[makemeasong]

you realize you don't give me actual money? you get what you pay for.

[twelfthsong]

Don't I? How do you afford any of the paint for your face then?

[makemeasong]

[ Clara rolls her eyes so hard they very nearly fall out of her head. ]

I'm a teacher, remember?

[twelfthsong]

[ Better keep those in, Clara! He only has spare glass ones lying around and that would look silly. ]

Of course I remember. [ He forgot for about 0.5 seconds. ] They let you use your salary for that? I thought they'd have you use it for the pudding brains of the future.

[makemeasong]

It's my money, I get to do whatever I like with it.

Do you want to come get me so I can help you look?

[twelfthsong]

We can add finder to your occupation list. Where are you?

[makemeasong]

school, after hours. allegedly grading papers.

[ the prospect of seeing him outside of their normal Wednesdays admittedly perks her up. ]

[twelfthsong]

You aren't on the TARDIS?

[ There's a beat before another text follows quickly after it. ]

Kidding. I know I dropped you off five minutes ago. Those papers can wait the TARDIS' time rotors are more important. She's been throwing a bit of a fit all morning.

[ Annnd he's definitely wooshing away to the console room to deposit himself right back into broom closet of Coal Hill. ]