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Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who or any of its characters, although I sincerely wish I did... D:
“Rubbish…” you mumbled, obviously distraught as you gnawed at the worn eraser end of your pencil. Although the taste of rubber was unpleasant upon your lips, you found that it often managed to comfort you in times of great confusion.

“Is there something the matter?”

The Doctor, who had previously been contented to tinker with some great mechanism inside the T.A.R.D.I.S, was intrigued by your audible exasperation. He glanced up from his work and one look at you confirmed for him that his question was a rhetorical one at best. Of course there was!

In the midst of the room you are sprawled out lethargically, no longer capable of maintaining a more attentive position of tailor style sitting. A hefty textbook is cracked open in your lap and various stacks of papers are scattered nearby.

“I suppose you could say that…” you responded. Your eyes are grateful for a break from the small, overly complicated text as they greedily take in the features of your companion. You find his chocolately brown eyes to be simply dazzling, especially when magnified behind the lenses of his thick-rimmed glasses.

“Really,” he comments. To be honest, he is quite surprised by your aura of frustration. As it were, you had always made the time to complete your school work in between intergalactic and variantly temporal “Save the day with the Doctor!” trips, but never before had the Doctor witnessed you struggling with it. “Those university courses giving you trouble, are they?”

A maddened screech began to effervesce within your throat, and instead of letting it loose on the Doctor’s poor eardrums you opted to brutally hurl your book across the room. When it landed with a loud thwack against one of the T.A.R.D.I.S’ interior walls the Doctor noticably winced.

He scrunched his nose up at you in evident distaste. “Hey, now! Wait just a tick!” he ordered sharply as he eyed the pointy, rather aerodynamic pencil in your hands – the next item you planned upon making a projectile. He took quick, short strides over to you. “There’s no need to take your frustrations out on my T.A.R.D.I.S.” He ran a hand through his short, spikey locks. The Doctor, in his tenth incarnation, never yelled, but he did – occasionally – lose his temper. “Blimey…”

You, [First Name] [Last Name], were not at all used to being on the receiving end of his harsh reprimands, and found yourself utterly shamefaced at having invoked this calm wrath.

“S-Sorry,” you began as you swallowed the embarrassed lump in your throat. “It’s just that I feel as though I’ve completely botched this philosophy paper.”

The Doctor stooped in order to pick up a pile of loose-leaf paper. His eyes made quick work of perusing the words furiously scrawled across the first couple of pages. A dazzling grin suddenly became the defining feature of his handsome face as he handed the paper back to you. “[Name], you silly goose, why didn’t you tell me that you were writing about ontology, epistemology, and the like?”

It seemed as though, at once, the Doctor’s elation was contagious. “Oh, pants! I’m so stupid – why didn’t I realize—?” you rambled, feeling as though your intelligence had hit an all time low. You shook your head to dispel the “whys” and replace them with something a tad more efficient. “Right,” you pursed your lips. “You’re a bit of an expert on this, yeah? Specifically, what can you tell me about the nature of time and space?”

The Doctor brought a hand to his chin in careful contemplation. “Time and space, eh?” he questioned, suddenly appearing to be deep in thought.

You waited with baited breath for his expert response. “Go on?” you were proficiently poised, the tip of your pencil just barely brushing against your paper.

“I would say…” the Doctor continued after clearing his throat with a clipped cough. “Time, in particular, is simple really. A jumble of wibbly wobbly, timey wimey stuff, if you will.”

Your jaw practically hit the ground at his description. “Doctor!” you cried in outrage, and the only contact your pencil made from thereon out was with the apple of his right cheek. It was just your luck with that knuckle-headed doctor that you would receive a load of gibberish in place of grandiloquence.

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