Chapter Text
“Thirteen-year-old me couldn’t decide whether I wanted to be Nine or kiss him,” Arthur says, congestedly, from where he’s watching “Rose” with his head pillowed on Eames’ lap.
Eames grins down at him: “ Run! ”
“Exactly.”
“Thirteen, darling? You were but a larva.”
“A very precocious larva.”
“Is that what they’re calling it these days.” Eames, carding his hand through Arthur’s hair.
He thinks about his mother’s grad student who teased him at the age of nine about having a crush on Sarah Jane. And how he hadn’t had the words, then, to explain how much he wanted the Doctor too.