(closed) there is a me you would not recognize

[matermali]

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?"

Comments

[thedreamer]

A question is asked of him and it sits there in the seemingly impenetrable air between them, pushing at the back of his head, poking his shoulder, tugging his hair, demanding a response that isn't flippant. Such a question is reasonable, normal, worthy of something meaningful in return. His delayed answer might almost indicate that he's giving it the due consideration it deserves, when in reality, he's avoiding it and still rummaging through her top vanity drawer. Why? Because she hasn't forced him to go away yet, because if they don't talk about what happened, she might still tolerate his company. Words, once said aloud, have the power to break bonds in an instant. One word alone could destroy a world, decimate a heart, shred a soul. He should know better than anyone. For all that he talks and talks sometimes, when it matters, he's bereft of the words he needs most to say and hear.

Lovely thing, this top drawer of her vanity. His fingers trace the barest of blemishes in the wood and take note of the nearly barren interior. Perhaps she doesn't need much, perhaps she thinks she doesn't deserve much. He would understand the reluctance to settle in here. They all want to go home, except, perhaps, for him. He doesn't have a home; he belongs with and to no one and nothing, so what he has here, this fragment of a life and this murky purpose, is its own anchor. He's a restless soul, though, a perpetual wanderer, so this is his endless fate. He's accepted that, even if it haunts him in the quiet shadows sometimes.

Leaning in, the Doctor sniffs that top drawer deeply; bergamot, cypress, aged patchouli. He dabs a bit onto his wrists, rubbing them together, closing his eyes as he breathes in the aroma.

"Orange would go well with this," he notes before picking up her hairbrush now, studying the shape of it, turning it over, narrowing his eyes, examining the bristles, running his finger over a few of them just to feel the texture against the pad of his thumb. "You really need orange, it's incomplete without it. It'll go perfectly with your scent. Every body has a scent. Not odor, though some do. Did you know that odor happens when bacteria in your body meet with the perspiration from your apocrine glands? It's all released, causes a bit of a stench. It's not sweat! Many people think that, easy to get wrong."

Right, yes, very important things. She asked a question and he's still avoiding it. How does he do this? No, things are not fine between them, not fine for her. He's so often careless with his words, bumbling about with excited ease. A clever little mask, a way to walk through the world and still survive it. She's seen past that, though, and so the real answer eludes him because it must. Will it hurt? Will it help? Will it mend? Will he be forced to leave this room and never allowed to return? Why does the thought scare him so much? He's certainly not helping his cause by ignoring her query.

So many things have frightened him in recent days. Yes, Vanessa herself. The fear for her, more than anything, on top of the fear of her in his mind, the fear that he might be judged for what she's seen there, yet he doesn't know how much she even recalls. Was she entirely aware of everything? Does she fear him in return? Did it hurt her? Did she enjoy it, deep down?

How does he do this?

By looking at her, to start. He closes her vanity drawer, stuffs his hands into his pockets, leans back, and watches her from afar.

"I want fish fingers and custard, my TARDIS, one of those little pens you can write upside down with, and a truth between us. Tell me-" He comes closer now, as close as she'll allow, and he taps the side of his head. "Did you feel me? Did you see me?"

It seems a safer way to start than by asking what she felt in her power. Perhaps there was no awareness of him at all, though he quite clearly remembers feeling her. That dark presence that was familiar, that scared him and knew him.