Oblivious
"You're the strangest per… wait no. That can't be right. You're not even human," she said with a frown. "Bleh. Well, you get the general idea."
He gazed down at her helplessly. He couldn't believe it. He had finally found a companion who could prattle on faster and more randomly —and just more— than he could.
"Though… nah… can't say strangest alien… haven't met enough yet. Although that Pieron comes pretty close. God, he disturbed me on a deep level," she said contemplatively. She pushed herself up from the floor, where she'd been sprawled for the past hour, talking about something or the other—he didn't really know what, he'd lost track staring at… her shoes… that she was currently not wearing. "I'm gonna go shower and change."
"Where are your shoes?"
She turned, eyebrow raised. "I'm sorry?"
"Your shoes," he reiterated slowly, cursing himself for asking stupid, random things that popped up suddenly in his head.
She frowned at him. "I wasn't wearing any."
"Ah."
"Why the sudden fascination?"
"No reason," he said quickly and turned toward the consoles.
"Doctor," she sang from beside him. He started and nearly jumped out of his skin.
"Weren't you just over there?"
"Yes, but now, clearly, obviously I am standing here." She rolled her eyes in that manner that suggested that he was obviously mentally defected.
"Right."
"Why were you asking about my shoes?" she inquired curiously, tilting her head slightly. She knew too much, he decided.
He stared at the way her eyes seemed brighter at that angle. "Hmm?"
"Why. Were. You. Asking. About. My. SHOES?!"
He jumped back.
"Nothing."
Her expression transformed into one of bewilderment. " 'Nothing'? What kind of a response is that? Are you feeling alright? You didn't drink that pink frothy thing you warned me not to drink, did you? Because I saw some poor guy downing a shot of it. He wandered off minutes later, dancing ballet and shouting lines from Hamlet while attempting unsuccessfully to juggle knives. That would have been funny except—"
"No, I didn't," he interrupted.
"—it looked like he was cutting himself. Though that's what everyone said about me when I got a tiny, little scratch from my kitten, and they made me go see a therapist, even though my sister got a longer scratch. And the school was so concerned that I might bring in a gun and start blasting away at everyone that they excused me for a month, which was highly unnecessary in my opinion since I am totally healthy. Especially mentally. Unlike you of course. And they recommended anti-depressants, which I pretended to take but really flushed down the toilet by the tens, since everyone seemed to think I needed to take like twenty a day. Though of course, they clogged and I got made, and then that prat Danny bought a fake gun and planted it in my room. And that alone almost cost me a week in a padded cell. Surprisingly comfortable that. But yeah, it was depressing. I mean even though I didn't have a problem to begin with, those atrocious sessions with that droney, monotone man gave me problems. Which is so unfair, since who's ever heard of therapy actually making you mentally defected, like you by the way, but really isn't that kind of scamy, pretending to help you with your problems while giving you even more, incurable ones while asking for a higher and higher price? I mean—"
He grabbed her and kissed her hard, sliding his fingers into her silky, dark hair, tilting it to accommodate him.
She remained frozen in his arms, and he finally pulled back out of disappointment.
"I knew it."
"Yeah, thought you would figure it out sooner or later."
"All this time..."
"Yup." He grinned, relieved that she'd finally, finally figured it out.
"I can't believe I missed all the signs," she murmured softly, raising a hand to her forehead and shaking her head. "I'm so blind. So stupid."
"Yu—no you're not," he said, catching himself just in time.
"I don't know what to say, Doctor," she whispered, looking up into his eyes.
"Perhaps that you feel the same?"
"Yeah, I do…" she smiled.
He grinned and almost reached for her, but she began talking again.
"Well, some of the time anyways."
"What?"
"Other times, I feel quite normal," she said matter-of-factly.
"What?" he repeated, now more than a little insulted.
"Yeah. I only feel that way sometimes. Rarely, in fact."
"WHAT?"
"Yeah. I mean, mentally defected isn't a state I would hope to dwell in. Though I suppose I could understand its appeals for you. You are kind of weird. And you do have weird taste in things in general, I mean Madame de Pompadour over an upbeat, down-to-earth, fun-loving, Captain-Jack-Sparrow-obsessed, chip-and-shopping-loving-Rose-Tyler from London? God, you have issues!!" she exclaimed. "It's alright, though. It's not that bad. Once, I even—"
That's when he stopped listening. He stared down at her beautiful, intelligent eyes and soft, womanly curves sadly… and with a lot of surprise and gloom. If he thought about it, he shouldn't be surprised. Of course, of course, of course, she'd be the one companion who felt not an ounce of attraction toward him (even though he quite loved her—though not like the way he so loved Rose). She prattled on like crazy, insulted him when she thought—knew, suspected—he wasn't listening, and highly disproved of his deserting of Rose for Reinette (when she'd first wormed the story out of him with her soulful, light-filled, sapphire eyes, she'd slapped him hard across the cheek and called him a very, very rude word before stalking off—much to the Tardis's approval and amusement). And of course, she just had to outprattle him too. He turned sadly toward the consoles and decided some of that ballet-Hamlet-knife-juggling pink stuff would definitely do him some good.