*is poked with a stick*
What even is happening?
Enter your cut contents here.
Title: Where the thoughts did wander
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing/characters: Twelve, Missy, hovering presence of River Song if you squint and know me well
Word count: 424 words.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
Summary: One moment within decades. The Doctor thinks and Missy observes.
Author's note: Written for who-contest.
“Missing your little pets?”, she asks, archly.
He doesn’t grace that with an answer, at first. The question hangs in the air between them. It hovers there—she spoke it—but fails to coalesce into communication.
(She mocks, he shrugs. She complains. He smiles, softly, until she quietens with an exasperated sigh.)
Today he is not quite looking into her face; there are days he can and days he can’t. She notices that, he knows, but never comments. He wonders, sometimes: of the infinity of things her intellect perceives, how much is she capable of comprehending, truly?
He wants to hope. He longs to hope, clings to hope, holds on to it with white fingers and breathless hearts. It is something, it is there. Possibilities, he and she, and the universe unfolding around them as for once they stand still.
(London through the decades. Rain on his coat, whose smell never enters this chamber. Tea and biscuits and magazines and silence. Hope, enduring.)
He can feel her eyes on his face, piercing through the skin and running deep. If he turns and catches that gaze with his, will she be able to tell what he is thinking? He doesn’t, shouldn’t want her to—just a second ago his thoughts were of this private quality he so carefully shields from her, knowing her jeers would cut like blades. (My condolences might have been worse.) But that connection, there and not there, fleeting and maddening, is the only thing he has left now.
(He could tell her he misses the stars. It is also true, though not the truth of that specific instant, when he mourns a much closer loss. And it could build a bridge between them. Couldn’t it?)
No. Her cold, clear blue eyes tell him clearly. She would not do him the courtesy of buying half-lies. She demands more, strips him bare of any and all protection with a tut and a raised eyebrow. She may not understand, but she understands enough and the amount of that knowledge can be turned against him in a moment. He must not forget he leaves her no other toys to play with.
“Well, aren’t you full of interesting conversation today,” she huffs, demanding his attention.
This time he can smile, tasting the more playful tonality. There is something here, like an offer of conciliation, and he can tell.
“Very boring,” he murmurs.
“Exceedingly boring. And centuries of this yet. Oh Doctor, Doctor, whatever shall I do with you?”
(There are days when he wonders exactly that.)
“And vice versa.”