Of Figs and Angels
Love was a topic the Doctor seldom touched.
He had ideas of what it should be like. Knew what it could be like.
Gentle touches on warm days and impassioned gestured on cool nights.
Sweet whispered nothings during the gaps in-between.
Difficult truths. Trying secrets.
Responsibility. Acceptance. Resolution.
Loss.
Repeat.
(Was it something he could still have? Was it something he should?)
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First, it started with a hand placed on his chest.
(Really, it started long before that. Sinking into the mud with one arm less. Waking in a stiff cot, covered with only a thin sheet. The smell of clean cotton and sulfur, her first civil welcome to Eridia.)
He had said something silly, something daring. He was seated on his stool, a head shorter than her for once, and she so she too decided to try something silly, something daring.
With a hand on his chest, the smell of clean cotton and sulfuric on her, she leaned forward, whispering something silly that could make the most flirtatious flush.
But mid-sentence, he placed a hand over hers.
She looked down at their hands. His warm and gentle hand over hers, wrapped in ratty already discolored bandages.
Touch was something he was fond of yet gave sparingly to a select few.
Touch was something she craved yet feared.
Their faces inches apart.
She tried something daring.
A peck. A brush of the lips really.
The hand on her lower back, that urged her closer, told her it was ok.
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The second time, really there were many times before this, but this was the first on here.
It happened on the same stiff cot. A tangle of limbs. When the teasing was too much a choked ‘fuck you’ was answered with a humored ‘soon’.
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The third time, busy as they were, less times in-between than preferred, it was a rare occasion for her to stand by his side in that cotton smelling room with that stiff cot.
Rarer for her to have helped him. This wasn’t her trade. Hers was the more raucous, the visceral kind, but more time was wanted, and this is what was offered.
Dull was the work, but it was better than no time together.
Then he did something silly, something daring. It was small but it was enough.
She grabbed him by the collar and pulled him down.
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The fourth time they were in his bed. This wasn’t the first nor even the second time but it was more than an in-between.
His bicep was her pillow. His elbow bent upwards; his fingers dangled above her face like a babe’s toy mobile. She pawed at them with her uncovered fingers. With her index and thumb, grabbing hold of a few she rolled them between hers. In deep thought, she squeezed them harder than expected.
He shifted beside her and asked “Are you alright?”
“Sorry, I just-“ She noticed the open book in his other hand. “Are you busy? You shouldn’t stay if-“
He closed it, revealing its cover. He was reading a trashy mystery novel, of course. Always silly when she needed him to be.
His warm gentle fingers squeezed her too tight ones. “What’s on your mind?” He asked.
“I think I love you.” She said, without warning.
He saw shock, regret, then resolution in her eyes.
She saw surprise, hesitation, but he smiled warmly.
He pulled his fingers from her grasp and brushed stray hairs from her eyes. “You are one of the most charming people I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.”
She wrapped herself around him, his hand pet her hair.
But there something wavered in his eyes. The corners of his lips did not meet them.
The bed is cooling.
(Could she kindle something to keep it from freezing?)
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The last time, they were in bed again. There were more times between. They weren’t as busy, but the times were growing sparser.
He was reading another mystery novel and she was gripping too tightly to his fingers again.
“Do you love me?”
It was tersely silent. She can count on her fingers the number of times she’s stunned doctor’s to silence, but it was the first time his bed has ever felt frigid.
She sat up. “I’ll head out.”
He followed after her in bed, a lukewarm, firm hand on her waist. It stopped her, but she barely reacted. “You don’t have to… but if that’s what you prefer, where will you go?”
Her shoulders raised then slumped. “A room at the Wick, maybe?” The grip on her waist tightens. Warmth seeped past fabric touching skin.
“Maybe Vere or Ais have some suggestions.” His jaw tenses, fingers dig into her hip. It was a crawling heat, slow and spreading, but searing where finger press into flesh.
“Mhin might-“ The crackling sound of bending cardstock and crinkling paper echo bounce against the walls of the room. He sighs. From her side, she eyes hardcover bent inwards, divots developing in the cardstock from the mere pressure of his fingertips.
“I can arrange- recommend accommodations.” He amended. His broken book lays forgotten beside him. His freed hand brushed stray hair behind her ear. It ghosted her cheek. Perhaps to avoid trailing heat blisters on her face. “It’s storming out. You should stay.” He says.
For the first time that night, she hears thunder.
They laid down once more.
She, on her side, faced away from him. His bicep is no longer her pillow. His arm wrapped under her, his open palm almost greedily splayed and pressed against her stomach. His touch is almost scalding.
He, looked through loose patient documents, the broken mystery novel hidden from sight.
She played with his hair.
It was too warm, but she preferred it to the cold.
(She’d rather burn it all and roll in heat of the ashes.)
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