She looks out the window, wondering if angels are real.
She thinks they are.
She thinks she's seen one; met one, even.
It's late; the clock's ticks mark the fact. But she feels no desire to sleep. Not tonight. Not any night, it seems.
It's been ten months, almost to the day, and she hasn't been able to stop thinking about the man that came from her fireplace since.
She still has many questions.
So she waits by her window every night, hoping that he'll come.
Sometimes she wonders if she's being a fool, and sometimes she doesn't care if she is. She decides that's what love does to a person.
She's still not exactly sure, but she thinks she is—in love.
It's silly. It's almost childish, really. She's only seen him a total of three times in her life thus far, each time seeming to last shorter than the previous one.
And yet, she thinks she is.
And she likes to think he might feel the same way. She can't help but think, maybe, especially after the—
There's a noise. She jumps from the place where she stands by the window and whirls around.
The fireplace…the wall…
They're moving.
Her breath catches.
And then—
He's there, and she rushes over to him, on impulse.
"Reinette," he says. His tone is surprised, as though he doesn't even know why he's there.
She smiles. "I still don't know your name," she replies.
"That makes two of us." He returns the smile.
He doesn't say anything more and she decides not to question him further on the subject.
"Why is it," she asks instead, but then reconsiders and stops herself.
She stares at him, hard. "You're not from here, are you?"
She can tell that he understands what she's asking. "No."
She nods and looks down. That's all she really wanted to know.
Staring at the floor, she wonders what he'd say, if he would feel the same way.
It seems like, after their last meeting, that he might. She hopes.
"I think I have fallen in love with you," she tells him, quietly, still staring at the ground.
She knows he can't stay long—there's no telling when he'll leave. It could be in a moment, or two, or three—and she doesn't know when—if—he'll come back. She had decided she didn't want him to leave without her saying it. No matter how he responded. She had just wanted him to know.
Now she looks up to watch him, to gauge his reaction to her words.
He doesn't say anything, but she doesn't take this as a bad sign. Moving closer, she leans towards him, cradles his chin with one hand while the other settles on his shoulder, and places a soft kiss on his lips.
He returns the kiss, deeply, after which they stay like that for a while, merely standing together, her head leaning against his shoulder, and his chin resting atop it.
She wonders if he'll ever say anything, but he doesn't. At least not then. And she's okay with it. She likes just standing there with him. She feels safe. And happy.
The next morning she wakes alone. He's not there.
Of course he's not there.
She wonders if it was all a dream. But she doesn't think about it much.
She thinks she understands. She thinks she knows him.
And she doesn't worry because she believes she'll see him again.
So she waits.
A/N: Recently got into Doctor Who and literally right after I finished "The Girl in the Fireplace," this just kinda...popped into my head. So I wrote it down. It's quite short, but I'm fond of it. :)