I think... [She should leave. Just let him be mad at her and let him have his soup.]
What does it matter what I think? I think I should go, and you should get better because Doctors are leaving left and right lately, and Clementine needs you. [She stood up, putting the soup on the nightstand. Her eyes burning and blurring.]
You can't go too, so eat your soup and stop asking stupid, silly questions about whether I'm better about having died. [She scowled herself, not a pleasant look. She didn't want to talk about this. She didn't want to talk about any of this because she had seen how others handled dying, as if it were nothing, and it still bothered her. The Doctor asking if she were better was just another sign that this was supposed to be insignificant, apparently. She's supposed to get over it. She's supposed to just smile and move on because it's only death. A misunderstanding but still she hated it. She didn't understand why it was so easy for so many.
So why couldn't she get over it when everyone else clearly expected her too.
She was angry, upset, and so many other emotions she couldn't really place. Her father was gone, her mother was in a coma, this Doctor was sick. Her frustration wanted an outlet and targeted on the Doctor's stupid question, on him. But she knew he was sick, this wasn't the time and she was wicked and foolish too. So she wanted to go before she said something even more wicked. Angry, frustrated tears were spilling because she felt stupid. Why couldn't she get over this when everyone seemed to? Why did her Doctor have to leave? Why did Eight have to get sick?]
no subject
You should be resting.
[Why did he even bring this up?]
I think... [She should leave. Just let him be mad at her and let him have his soup.]
What does it matter what I think? I think I should go, and you should get better because Doctors are leaving left and right lately, and Clementine needs you. [She stood up, putting the soup on the nightstand. Her eyes burning and blurring.]
You can't go too, so eat your soup and stop asking stupid, silly questions about whether I'm better about having died. [She scowled herself, not a pleasant look. She didn't want to talk about this. She didn't want to talk about any of this because she had seen how others handled dying, as if it were nothing, and it still bothered her. The Doctor asking if she were better was just another sign that this was supposed to be insignificant, apparently. She's supposed to get over it. She's supposed to just smile and move on because it's only death. A misunderstanding but still she hated it. She didn't understand why it was so easy for so many.
So why couldn't she get over it when everyone else clearly expected her too.
She was angry, upset, and so many other emotions she couldn't really place. Her father was gone, her mother was in a coma, this Doctor was sick. Her frustration wanted an outlet and targeted on the Doctor's stupid question, on him. But she knew he was sick, this wasn't the time and she was wicked and foolish too. So she wanted to go before she said something even more wicked. Angry, frustrated tears were spilling because she felt stupid. Why couldn't she get over this when everyone seemed to? Why did her Doctor have to leave? Why did Eight have to get sick?]