Toledo Lounge

[Sprolf]

The Doctor was still leaning over the counter, like some tree whose base had rotted and fell, braced against some other tree in the forest. His eyes were closed, or just staring downward at his elbows, at the aged black sleeves of his coat. A glass in his hand, clear and crystal, with an amber liquid in it, contrasted against the worn and faded rest of his figure. It was clear, clean, bright, pure. The Doctor shrugged and tipped his head back, swallowing the last of the whiskey with a deft toss of his hand.

He placed it back on the counter, watching a few drops cling to the side of the glass before disappearing down the side in a streak of gold.


The Doctor stared at this for several more minutes, reflecting on the fact that if one thing had been constant in his entire life, it was the drop of whiskey on the side of the glass. Not the full glass, as there was never a full glass. But there was always the almost-but-not-quite-empty glass with that last drop to yield, somewhere. No matter where he was or where he'd been, or what his situation was in life, he'd always been able to drink, to set that almost-empty glass down.


The Doctor reached for the bottle of whiskey again, but his hand stopped as the neck of the bottle tapped the shot glass with a clear little clink. The Doctor stared at Freisener as he walked into the bar - more like floated, ghostly, incorporeal. The man looked as haggard and drawn as usual, burdened down by whatever thoughts and memories were his and his alone. They were kindred spirits almost, he knew, old monoliths worn and weathered by the ages and the weather and crumbling, but still standing.

Now was not the time to talk to him, the Doctor knew.
He also realized that now was not the time for himself to be talking to anyone. He was in this bar for likely the same reason Freisener was, and that was to get drunk without talking to anyone much. This decided, the Doctor and he turned back to leaning on the bar, pouring that little golden trickle of whiskey into his glass, and thinking those thoughts that were foreign to any man but himself.

Or perhaps himself and Freisener.

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