It's the last sort of remark Vanessa expects to hear the Doctor utter in her direction. Not about stories; of course he has stories for her. He always does. But here she is convincing herself that he may not even consciously understand the implications of his promises and his touches, and he dares to sneak a lewd joke in. How he smiles with cheek, and in response Vanessa can't restrain her scoff. But it isn't a scoff, not really; it's a singular laugh, her shoulders flinching slightly with effort to keep it quiet, even with nobody else around to listen. Will he ever fail to surprise her?

"Mm, is that what you name it? Storytelling?"

She knows that she isn't of sound mind to lean into such a tease, but who could expect to be? Whether it's sickness or madness, Serthica's rot is everywhere within and without, but somehow it isn't felt in this spot at this time. The call from the deep still echoes, the ugliness still hides under porcelain skin, but it isn't the rot. That would imply shame, and that lacks while in his presence.

From a sob moments ago to a smile now ─ the sort of smile only fit behind closed doors ─ it seems too easy to let herself fall into that. It's a rare pleasure for her, but there is a reason for that. There's a reason she should never fall into it, no matter who they are.

Her smile slightly sobers when she ponders on any actual story he might share, shifting so that she can lean in and settle against his chest where she can properly fiddle with the ends of his tie. Vanessa can't imagine any sort of tale holding the magic for her that it may once have. Her imagination is too mired in prophecy anymore. What she is interested in is how these stories have changed him. Likely considerations to momentarily spoil any laughter.

"Tell me of a time you were most afraid, then. Not for others, but for yourself. How did you survive it?"

Was it hope? Carnage? Misery?