The Doctor’s memory, part one.
“..but his Eyes were the molten Cores of Suns,” quotes the tall, thin, smudge-covered man in the grey and white blouson and red trousers. In one hand is a dark stylus- in the other, a tumbler of deep, ordinary Laxis brand machine oil. Ah, yes, an abysmal rich radiant swallowing black, with just a hint of sparkly bits in, to suit his mood. Swirling the liquid for a flourish or two, the man sets the stylus down and stares over the top of the circle of the glass at another, shorter person in glasses, who had been in the room with him for quite some time. He continues the reading from behind the cup, casting blue-green eyes like furnace flames across a space like any other he’s just redecorated with papers and plans and false leads, lighting that other pair of eyes with them as he parts his lips, as though sipping at something, “... and his cloaths were the cloaths of the Moon, for they had little … wait. Are you… climbing over that nice Queen Anne…?”
“Well of course I am!” warbles the dark-haired child he’s been staring at. She smiles and props a foot onto the seat of the high-back Meeks Stanton Hall and tips it with her toe, farther, deeper, ‘til it shivers on one leg and sinks back under her weight like a swooning woman in a thick bloom of dust and red brocade. She herself sails upright over the chair as it falls, a handsome instance of youth cascading over the carpeting by way of two gangly young legs in yellow suede ankle-boots that are slightly overlarge.
“You look incongruous in those spectacles,” the tall man says softly, still clandestinely riveted behind his goblet as the girl runs to him.