westwhere | (closed) there is a me you would not recognize

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(closed) there is a me you would not recognize

WHO: Vanessa Ives and The Doctor
WHEN: After the Clocktower
WHERE: Serthica (Vanessa's place to start)
WHAT: Clocktower drama aftermath.
WARNINGS: Topics on mental illness, religion/Hell, curses, murder, self-harm (scratching), and suicidal thoughts may come up. Will edit as needed.

Though she hasn't exactly turned him away and left him in the cold, Vanessa hasn't the energy that she once did to entertain company even with the world falling apart. Her unending suitors have been turned away at the door, and it doesn't help that the Doctor continues to be let in, despite not even living in Minaras. She doesn't care if people talk. Most of them aren't even real, or they're dead already. Let them talk and talk. She has nothing to say.

There's no small-talk from her, no pleasantries. No tea or snacks are offered, and the droid is threatened away any time it attempts to linger for too long in her company. It's role as her 'chaperone' seems to have come at an end. She exists in the in-between, letting the Doctor ramble about this or that and only responding when such a response requires no heart, no yearning. Her distance is quiet, but tolerant. He isn't made to leave, but eye-contact does not carry on. She knows he only wants to bring her cheer, and that makes it all the worse. It's through her guilt that she doesn't banish him for being such a fool.

She sits at the writing desk in her room, inking what must be the thousandth letter by now. It's a private, rather barren space. With her bare toes touching the floor and dark hair loose around her shoulders, Vanessa should be alone in such a state. Most wouldn't be so careless as to follow her right into her room, but he certainly is, and so she is also careless on the matter. As she feels with anything anymore. She would not so easily let others see her in such an unwelcome and casual capacity, but he has already seen her at her worst. What matter is a satin house robe or bare ankles, once another old soul has witnessed some of the ugliness of hers?

He rummages through Vanessa's vanity now, which seems to finally be enough to garner a sharp glance over her shoulder. His restless behavior has been tolerated, but she cannot understand how he can try to act as if anything is fine between them.

"What, precisely, do you want?"

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The simplicity of such a profound statement might almost draw out a smile, but it would only wilt. She'd like to believe that he could be capable of following through on such proclamations. Is it possible for a Time Lord to be too late?

Her tears have stopped, likely from the bewilderment at such heartfelt words coming from a strange and beautiful creature like him. Any turmoil that still lives within isn't because she doubts his intent. She's seen into his eyes, through his eyes, and Vanessa knows the force with which he can give himself to something when he feels he has to. Why he feels he has to with her...still isn't completely clear, though some understanding forms through his talk of the end of days.

If the Devil were kind.

"How could I doubt you?"

Even when they had still been a mystery to one another, he had shielded her from danger, not knowing what that bullet would carry. He had done it again in the labyrinth, and Vanessa is loathe to think of him dying for her sake. She doesn't doubt his resolve.

Is it God that she doubts, then? Not Him, never Him, but it's easy to believe that He couldn't allow her to have any sort of a chance that a Time Lord might try to offer. Perhaps it, too, is blasphemy. It seems that all fantasies are doomed to be such. She vastly prefers reality to fantasy, no matter the pain involved.

But as she closes her eyes at the tender kiss, Vanessa wishes she could be one to give in to that sort of trust. To dream once more. It's remarkable how he can make anything sound nearly possible. She curls her fingers again, this time to grip his hands in turn. No matter how possible any of it is, there's no denying how touched she is by such loyalty. She wants to be deserving of it. It would mean something to be deserving of him.

"You already speak with a dangerous sweetness."

For the Doctor, his devotion to her at this profound level is something new and he doesn't entirely understand it, either. While he's charged himself with the care of everyone here (whether they know it or not), there is something wholly different about his commitment and attachment to Vanessa. Truthfully, he wasn't entirely aware until this moment, until speaking the words felt not only necessary, but also like the only truth that's made any sense at all in many long weeks. It means, however, that he's had no time to even think on it, why he felt compelled to say such a thing, and why he would break all of his own rules for her, specifically. Everyone is important, yes, but Vanessa is important to him in a way that he's still trying to sort out.

As often happens for him, though, his own lack of understanding of himself at this moment doesn't preclude him from caring for her in whatever way she'll allow.

"Dangerous is sort of my thing. I know all about danger, I don't hide from it, I run towards it. Well, sometimes, admittedly, it's a bit of a slow jog," he tries for a brief moment of levity, a little softness in his eyes.

"What's dangerous about my sweetness, though?" He asks gently, stroking his thumb across her knuckles. "You're safe with me. Or, I hope you feel that way, in any case. If you asked me to leave, though, I would. If you asked me to stay, I would."

If you asked anything at all of me...

Would he? Anything?

Another question to ruminate over when he's alone. How far would he go for her, truly? And why?

It's such an unsuitable time to jest, how can she not actually smile because of it? It still wilts, but not utterly. He isn't the only one to always seek out danger, but Vanessa still struggles to do so for the joy of anything. Normality is worse, still. Anything in-between has been transitory.

How to explain that she feels safe with him, even when he frightens her? He frightens her now, speaking with such intimacy that she wonders if he's aware of the power he can hold. The thought of him leaving just now draws her forward, pulling a hand free to touch his cheek, fingertips brushing the stubble. She hadn't thought before about a Time Lord needing to shave, though she shouldn't be too surprised. His form is deceptively human. His current state is a reminder that she isn't the only one that Serthica is leaving with frayed edges.

"Stay, then. For tonight."

His pulse is more deviant than usual, where her touch lingers just under his jawline. She knows the usual cadence of the Doctor's hearts by now, and the intermittent flutter just under her fingertips is yet another testimony to his matchless way of being. Not human, not demonic, but not completely ethereal, either. That, there, is one of the sweet dangers. It's better for him not to realize.

Having stayed her hand where his undone bowtie rests unevenly, she absently flicks at one end, tilting her head to peer up at him. His gaze has set upon more of the universe than she can even imagine, yet he looks at her now as if he hasn't seen such a thing before. She's caught in that look, and she wonders if he notices a similar appreciation in her eyes. Vanessa has never gazed upon someone with his fascinations or his capacity. Entrancing.

"We will whisper of the shadows in the mirrors, safe from their reach. Together."

He would have left if she’d asked, if she’d truly wanted, but he’d suspected the opposite to be true. It was true for him, too, selfishly. He wouldn’t have been alone in Eidris, but he wouldn’t have been able to wrench himself away from Vanessa, either. If she’d wanted him gone from her space, though, he would have consented and simply stood guard outside, daring anyone to force him away.

What a strange thought, he realizes. To keep vigil outside her residence, to insist that he need to, all the while knowing that in the loosest definition of the word, she’s safe, though not from the insidious shadows that linger in the soul. Is that what would have driven him to stand guard? Or is it something else, something more? He’s stood vigil for others before; for Clara, when she’d been so recently attacked, for Red only a few days ago, when she hadn't been ready for his company. Yet, his commitment to doing the same for Vanessa strikes him as coming from a different place deep within, different from the way he’s stood guard for friends before. He’s reminded of chiding dear Rory once for being so human as to insist on guarding the Pandorica to keep Amy safe, when she was safe in there regardless. He couldn’t fully understand it at the time, what would have compelled his friend to watch over an impenetrable box, to behave beyond all logic and reasoning. Is it similar to what he feels now? What is it? Is that the danger Vanessa speaks of?

Dwelling on such thoughts feels too burdensome and almost frightening, for reasons he can’t understand just now. A different kind of fear, though; one that’s more deeply felt, yet almost thrilling. It also pulls him away from this moment, and this…this is a very nice moment, and he doesn’t want to be pulled away from it at all.

The Doctor doesn’t miss the look in her eyes as she touches him and then his tie, nor does he miss the quickening beat of her heart, which he can feel just from holding one of her hands still. That look that lingers, it’s different. A fondness, an understanding? Something that he could enjoy seeing again. His mind, working so differently than others, analyzes everything about this, the way her touch startles, yet soothes, the way she unravels and yet anchors him. In her eyes, he feels adrift and scattered, yet whole. Contradictions, feelings that make no sense. Is that love, he wonders? A different sort of madness? He should know, he’s not unfamiliar with love at all because he’s loved so many. But no, that’s another lie. He does love so many, but this isn’t like that. It’s terrifying and dangerous and…and…?

The thought lingers. What else, what else could it be? Too much. Too much, pulling him away from her when she’s right here. Vanessa, with her smiles rising and falling too quickly, like a shadow passing over the sun, making him long for a glimpse again.

"Well," he says, with a briefly cheeky smile. "Who better than the pair of us?"

Yet again, not understanding why nor wanting to at the moment, the Doctor feels the urge to be more indulgent with her, to fuss and offer as much tenderness as she’ll allow. Guilt over not being able to protect her better in the labyrinth? A surge of that feeling he doesn’t understand that’s sitting wedged between his hearts? Whatever it is, he follows his instinct, leaning in a bit, enough to kiss her wrist briefly.

"A sleepover! I do love those. I think I do, anyway. What’s not to love? You’re here, I’m here, and if luck is with us tonight, there will be cake. Unless you’re too tired. Suppose you must be. Have you slept? Have you been able to? I could make a bit of cake while you sleep, we’ll have it in the morning for breakfast," he rambles, nervous excitement, anchoring himself by kissing her wrist again.

He still hasn't asked about the scratch marks that zig and zag across her hands and arms; he only responds with touch and kiss so far, as if each caress might erase another mark. It's almost enough to replace her shame with yearning, and her breath catches when he kisses her wrist. He's abusing his power, and she's inviting it, even smiling with a bite to her lip when he dares it a second time.

It might be too easy to excuse such intimate behavior as more innocent because he isn't human. Maybe that's a safety net, not that she would easily recognize one, but she can imagine what one must be like. His otherness is something she can seek solace in, while still wondering at what other mysteries he habits.

No doubt if he tries such affection over breakfast, then the droid will try to step in. If it wasn't so apt at cleaning, and average at cooking, then she would be eager to be rid of it. Too, it's been her only consistent company since Finn left.

There is no arguing that the Doctor's company is vastly superior to a droid's. It will be nice to have breakfast with someone alive again (more alive than anyone's ever been), even if her appetite is lesser than ever. As is her sleep. She hates to be dishonest, but there's no use worrying him over things he certainly can't change.

"...Sleep is not such a simple thing to find; it never has been. You may have to suffer my company until the late hours." Until he retires to the spare room, that is. She wonders if he even sleeps. Does he tinker and invent all night? "As for cake, there is dessert left from earlier. I often save it for the mornings, but you are free to it. My home is as yours."

Though he hasn’t asked directly about the scratch marks, context clues tell him much of the story; the way she’d fidgeted earlier, bundling herself up when she hasn’t before, to hide away how she’s marked herself. He tends to notice more than he often lets on and though he’s never been one to shy away from asking questions, this is different.

A kiss to her skin erases nothing physically, but he sees how it seems to soften her and he thinks perhaps if he can leave better marks in his wake, it might be enough to stop her harming herself again, without needing to confront her directly or draw undue attention to it. He’s been amongst humans enough now to understand that there are…intangible things which can be wielded for comfort and healing, things which at times elude his scientifically-oriented mind, yet which have proven themselves to be true. Time will tell, but now he’s started down this path and she’s receptive, he feels committed to this, to her.

“You save cake for breakfast?” He grins brightly, latching onto that, of all things. Of course he would. “After my hearts, you are.”

Sleep, of course, is a separate challenge all its own. The Doctor does need sleep, though he’s had far less lately than he should, so on some level, he understands her. Slowing down enough to sleep is often his biggest challenge, but here in Serthica, it’s far more than that. The things that haunt him have free reign in sleep and he imagines the same to be true for her.

“So we won’t sleep. There’s plenty of fun to be had at night, oh the best sort of fun, especially the pair of us,” he grins, biting at his lip a little. Though oblivious to flirting at times, he does enjoy it, even if he fumbles and gets it wrong sometimes. “I have stories I can tell you, so many, in fact.”

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?

The Doctor enfolds her easily, shifting carefully just a bit so it's more comfortable for both of them. He reflects, not for the first time, that he's hardly sat still quite like this in a very long time. Is this what he does now? The weight of Vanessa against his chest feels strangely...not unpleasant. Though, her question immediately sobers him.

His instinct is to be flippant or ignore the query outright. Deeper questions like that, digging down to the root of him, well, he doesn't like those at all. To answer it truthfully would be like exposing an open wound to the elements, to invite pain and suffering. In the hands of nearly anyone else, such secrets could be wielded against him. To know what frightens the Doctor? How could any revelations in that regard be held in kindness? Yet, this isn't just anyone, this is Vanessa Ives, who has seen so much of his soul already.

He'd been terribly afraid at the summit, his greatest fear being that of himself, of hurting her and everyone else around him. But she knows that already and that isn't why she asked the question.

"Keep that up, I like that," he notes distractedly, as she fiddles with his tie. Not answering her question, not yet. He's working himself up to it.

"What a question! Not, what's your favorite color, Doctor or tell me about that time you sat and watched a supernova while eating a bowl full of Jelly Babies. No, no, we're skipping right to the harder stuff. Well, frightening moments - a few of those knocking about over the years. Had to eat a salami sandwich without bread once - now, you may think, well, how could it have been a sandwich at all then? That answers the question. Frightening, to say the least."

He pauses, fidgeting a little, suddenly busying himself with stroking his fingers through her hair. "Where was I...right, yes, most afraid." He's rambling because he doesn't do this. "I don't talk about these things, you know. Only with myself and that's terrifying enough."

But this is Vanessa, and so much of what happened in that labyrinth changed things irreparably for him. He's connected to her in ways he both can't explain and yet can't deny.

"Most afraid. Well. That moment when you're completely yourself and then you're not. When something you don't completely know or understand comes into your mind and takes hold of you. But the thing is, it wasn't there only a second ago. I was me, perfectly me, and then I wasn't. I wasn't alone. There was something just...there, with me, with my voice but not my voice, my words but not my words. The shape of me, and I was trapped in my mind. A long time ago now."

He hasn't finished answering her question, but he stops there for now because again, he doesn't do this sort of thing. It took him long enough to even work up to saying the words. Now they're out there and he remembers that moment, sitting inside of it again, he feels so far removed from how he survived it at all.

The embrace warms her more than the tangled throw or her weak satin robe could ever manage, and she curls into his arms with an ease that she hasn't let herself feel in some time. Or, really, has she ever? Even with Ethan, their embraces were brief in their sweetness...or their conflict. The thought of him is still painful. Suspecting what Vanessa is to return to, she doesn't know if she'll see him again, either. She had gone into the Devil's pit without any plans for a life that came after.

Since then, she's been tested again and again and she doesn't know if she could still be standing through it if not for the Doctor's unyielding support. More than that, though. His attentions have always felt so specific. Pinpointed. It's unsettled her before, and she made no secret of that when they met, but his attentiveness has been persistent, and now it's only further heartache to imagine living without such a driven presence influencing her life for the better.

She presses the humble fabric of the tie between her fingers, rubbing, tugging, then gently lifting so that it can slide back to rest evenly over the nape of his neck. She pauses only at the mention of jelly babies, but context and logic leads to understand that it wouldn't be a literal term. His continued attempt at a jest is received with a gentle gaze, knowing how he deflects. His attempt to explain his discomfort squeezes at her heart, and understanding draws her further in to nuzzle against the crook of his neck. Vanessa wouldn't wish to force him to speak on it if he wouldn't want to.

When he does share, everything in her seems to seize, to tighten and hold, and her eyes squeeze shut at him confessing to a suffering she knows all too well. She stays silent, afraid of her own voice in that moment, and needing to hear of the kind of creature that might take hold of the Doctor in such a fashion. How terrified he must have been.

He has the sense, as he walks the rugged and uncertain path of his own words, that if he would have stopped himself because he couldn't manage to speak of his greatest terror at any length, Vanessa would have allowed him. The certainty of that, more than anything, makes him feel like he's safe with her. The Doctor doesn't talk about how he feels, generally, not without some prompting, a level of trust, and trying to deflect before he can land on the truth. Even then, it's not always a given. When he can speak of deeper and more emotionally challenging topics as it pertains to himself, he finds it easier talking around it, when he can convey the facts as they are in a situation, while not necessarily enumerating every emotion he felt in particular.

She could have stopped him at some point, tried to interject, to prod him along faster. He rambles so quickly, there was scarcely a moment to pause, yet she could have insisted he get to the point. Instead, he's met with unspoken and tender understanding as she presses closer. It's a new sensation for him, as so much has been recently. It's not unwanted, only...unfamiliar, something to try and understand better, though he reasons that if he enjoys it when she nuzzles closer to his neck, she must surely enjoy it reciprocated? An experiment, then, a chance to know her better. What does she like? In the midst of dredging up terrible memories, he finds himself distracted with the promise of her smiling again at him.

He turns a little, allowing his cheek to rest against the top of her head. At least a full minute must pass like this, nothing else said, only the Doctor taking note of every detail. How many seconds between each of her breaths and her heartbeats? The way her fingers curl against his tie. He thinks of the scratch marks on her skin again; punishing herself, trying to forget, trying to make it all go away, substituting one kind of pain for another? Maybe in holding each other like this, they can't beat back the dark, but they can be their own sort of light.

"A very brave woman saved me from it," he confesses at last. "I didn't even know her, but she sacrificed herself to help me. A hand reaching out in the dark."

He'd like to believe he could have saved himself. Perhaps he could have, if it was only him and the entity. Unfortunately, there were others trapped with him and they'd been certain he should be the one tossed out.

"I don't know what that thing was. Perhaps as old as time," he notes, his voice briefly a million miles away.

Older than time. Like a calling card, it agitates her insides, and Vanessa's cheek presses firm to his collarbone with fingers fanned and still just beside, locked over his hearts. Her throat feels dry as she swallows against the rising, familiar unease. It couldn't be, could it? There's no way to really know. The very possibility leaves her chilled, though. Could it have been a different creature? Just as old, just as dangerous? It could be, couldn't it? Can't she believe in anything after coming to Serthica?

"Did you think it should have been your sacrifice?"

It isn't her right to ask, it's unlike her, and Vanessa doesn't have the power to name what compels her to ask with a whisper that's somehow loud despite it's hush. Just as he does, Vanessa must acknowledge that a boundary has been crossed since the labyrinth. Her face is hidden, but her eyes are wide as she lifts a fingertip to idly stare at it.

"Or were you relieved that it wasn't?"

She's chipping away at him, slowly, in undeniable ways. He doesn't have to allow it, he could stop her and simply refuse to answer. He's still operating under the assumption that withholding the most intimate of details wouldn't cause her to suddenly stand in judgment of him, yet it would inhibit a greater intimacy between them. He's so rarely breached this line with anyone and part of him remains ever curious, ever more alarmed at the power she holds with her mere words and touch. He's not entirely sure how it happened and it's caught him off guard. Was he so desperate to be known that he's now latched on? What does he owe her?

Part of his willingness to answer, admittedly, is an almost scientific inquiry as well. How far will this go? What awaits them at the end of it? If he gives her what she asks of him, what might he gain in return? He can't begin to guess and he's unsure what he would hope to receive.

"No one should ever die for me," the Doctor's voice is firm, leaving no room for doubt in this.

But her second question gives him pause. He's not alarmed by it, given that he's asked equally intrusive questions of others in his time. It takes consideration to answer, not because it troubles him, but he's genuinely curious why she might like to know. Perhaps the why will reveal itself when he answers.

Covering her hand, he answers her with a truth that has a twist to it. Not a direct answer, but an answer all the same, and one that allows him more control over the way he wields his words and his perspective on what happened.

"This moment between us, it's a good one, I think, as moments go. Certainly, could do with a few improvements but...I'm glad to be here for it."

He's glad he didn't die and he's sad that someone else did. Like so many things with the Doctor, the two truths live together quite well in his head.

She knows that he wouldn't want someone else to die for him, but that hadn't been what she meant, and there's an appreciation for the way he attempts to answer such a delicate query. It isn't a simple one, and it will always be sad for someone with an understanding of the fragility of life. The woman who died for him is worth remembering.

Strange for him to relate any goodness to an exchange that's been mired in talk of loneliness and fear, but stranger still for her to take any concern with him rating it as anything less than perfect. Offense isn't taken, of course not; here she is asking him to dredge up his worst memories, so it shouldn't be a moment with rosy hue. It's a reminder that she is made for poor conversation, for poor company, and again it makes her wonder what he gains from staying near her.

No doubt the moment would also be improved if she did not look so disheveled, and there's a slight twitch as if she might try to pull her hand out from underneath his, to tuck and hide it back into her sleeves with her other hand, but she pauses and her shoulders decompress again. Selfishly, she stays still.

"I am glad for your being here."

Alive. Here.

"Despite my lamentable disposition of late. I wish that I did not..." She strains to find the words without losing the reins on her spiraling anxiety. Perhaps it's the most she can do to apologize for the moment being less than. She suspects they always will be with her. "I wish that I could ever peer out from beneath the shroud that hangs 'round me, yet all I seem to manage is to draw you back beneath it."

Their thoughts run astray, apart from each other briefly. This moment could be improved upon, in his mind, by grander things far beyond any shortcomings she may perceive in herself. Had he the ability and resources, they would be together in his TARDIS, journeying across the universe, dancing through the stars, watching a galaxy spark to life. He wants to show her the big, beautiful things she can't possibly fathom, and the small things even he forgets to pay attention to. Because she is worth all of that, and far more than he could ever hope to say aloud. Maybe one day he'll try.

That twitch in her hand, slight and almost imperceptible though it is, cannot be missed. He's too aware of her now, she's too close, and so the slight movement only compels his hand to tighten. She belongs here; here, with him, and he would be very against the notion if she tried to move.

"Lamentable disposition? Shroud?" He repeats her words back, something disagreeable in his tone. "No, no, no, you've got it all wrong. Lamentable - lamentable for whom exactly? Not for my sake. For yours, yes, but that's only because I like your smile. Very much, actually. Bit greedy for it, if we're being honest. I know there hasn't been reason enough for it lately, but we'll get there. It's what I meant by improving the moment. If I had my way - we'd be having that dance by now, at the very least," he smiles a little, in spite of anything. He doesn't know if it's real or not, but it's real enough for her sake.

"And your shroud, well, look at me." He speaks softly, though a bit insistent. "I mean it, really. Look at me. Would I rather be anywhere else? So we're beneath your shroud, so what? Both of us huddled under there together, keeping out the rain. Not so bad at the moment. We'll just shrug it off when we're ready to come up for air. And cake," he grins a little, stroking his thumb across her cheek.

There are moments where it seems so easy for him to take her concerns and send them away. Not dismissively, but gently, as if sending precious cargo down the stream to be tended to at another posting, later on. Not now. Now he only wants her to smile, and that makes her want to smile, so much that it hurts her cheeks even as tears threaten to sting behind her eyes. Only just behind, though.

With his unwavering presence, there's color beneath the shroud.

Vanessa does look for long while he talks, and then long after. She commits to memory the tremble of his lips when he speaks with conviction and tenderness. When he quiets, she lifts her other hand to press her thumbnail just below that lip, her fingertips gently grazing beneath his jawline. Ssshh. There he goes again with his dangerous sweetness.

Her thumb caresses beneath his lower lip, tracing the indent so softly it could be the tickle of air, and she'll indulge herself just enough by leaning up to brush her lips to his cheek in another soft, lingering touch.

"Cake, then. Why wait?"

Immediately, she's pulling away, which will also mean trying to tug that one hand free, so that she can show him where the cake in the kitchen is. That's twice he's brought it up, and that seems a more sensible indulgence than anything else.

Edited 2022-12-03 07:52 (UTC)

If he were paying enough attention to his own self at the moment, the Doctor might question why it is that he's suddenly holding his breath far longer than is necessary, while Vanessa caresses perilously close to his lips.

Of course, he can hold his breath a remarkably long time, far longer than humans, but for the moment, he seems to be held in stasis by the promise of her touch alone. To take a breath now, even just the slightest movement, might cause her to pull away, or - dangerously - to draw closer. No, no, best not to move then. Better not to risk it either way. The kiss to his cheek is pleasantly soft and sweet, but then he's already moving on to the promise of cake, the safest and easiest treat to consider partaking in at the moment.

Though he does allow her to pull away now, simply for the sake of this promised sweet, his hand only parts from hers with a final kiss. There, now he's sated so he'll drop her hand and move to follow her.

"Always my motto of course! Why put off anything good when you can have it now," he grins. Truly, he's only speaking of the cake, though perhaps if thought at with any length, his words could have a double meaning he remains unaware of for now.

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(closed) there is a me you would not recognize

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