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Illness
A Time Lord shouldn't be separated from his TARDIS. He knew this, it was a fairly simple, fairly straightforward rule that every Time Tot was taught back in the nursery. Time Lord and TARDIS were connected, part of a whole, part of a sum and all that. There were horror stories that Ushas used to tell over nightcom about Time Lords who had been without their ship for long periods of time and went insane, or worse. The "worse" was, of course, described in accurate, gruesome details, much to the 'ooooh'ing and 'aaaahhh'ing of those listening in.
The Doctor just never believed he'd be on the end of that sort of experience.
His ship was a lifetime away. More than that, lifetimes away, and he could feel it. He could feel the lack of a ship in his mind and it ached. More than ached, it was as if a large part of him was missing and he'd only just lost the anesthetics keeping the sensation of missing away.
He had meant to do a good deal today, most of which involved bothering the cook into frying chips and rewriting Reinette's library. These were his main plans, and they were good ones.
As it was, he was curled up on the floor of his bedroom, the shakes and stomachache from the night before having finally decided that his lack of response on the matter was unacceptable. He cried out sharply, a noise that only vaguely sounded human, and may have been a name.
"Reinette!"
A Time Lord shouldn't be separated from his TARDIS. He knew this, it was a fairly simple, fairly straightforward rule that every Time Tot was taught back in the nursery. Time Lord and TARDIS were connected, part of a whole, part of a sum and all that. There were horror stories that Ushas used to tell over nightcom about Time Lords who had been without their ship for long periods of time and went insane, or worse. The "worse" was, of course, described in accurate, gruesome details, much to the 'ooooh'ing and 'aaaahhh'ing of those listening in.
The Doctor just never believed he'd be on the end of that sort of experience.
His ship was a lifetime away. More than that, lifetimes away, and he could feel it. He could feel the lack of a ship in his mind and it ached. More than ached, it was as if a large part of him was missing and he'd only just lost the anesthetics keeping the sensation of missing away.
He had meant to do a good deal today, most of which involved bothering the cook into frying chips and rewriting Reinette's library. These were his main plans, and they were good ones.
As it was, he was curled up on the floor of his bedroom, the shakes and stomachache from the night before having finally decided that his lack of response on the matter was unacceptable. He cried out sharply, a noise that only vaguely sounded human, and may have been a name.
"Reinette!"
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"Yeah, I did, didn't I?" he said, "I'm very glad I did. Would've been alone there if I didn't."
That wasn't the only reason, of course. Saving her had been the right thing to do. He couldn't have left her to that kind of fate. Not Reinette.
He felt his hand move up to cup her cheek, his thumb tracing her cheekbone. The way she had so long ago, when she saw him first as a woman, examining him for the first time. In a way, it was as if he was looking at her for the first time, seeing a woman who was strong (and stubborn, his mind added), who was willing to give everything for him.
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But this all suggested something darker. Thick and heavy it seemed to connect them even now. Reinette was thankful to be alive. That would always be true. But she could still not accept the Doctor was less alive because of it.
And it was certainly not a situation she wished to be complimented for.
"You would have found someone," she assured him, attempting to push past that moment. He always did find someone -- eventually. She had seen that, in his mind. "They just might not have had my way with knots."
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He did have companions come and leave often. He was used to it, tried to make the idea seem routine in his mind, even though each and every change always hurt, always affected him. Grace and Bernie and Fitz and...all of them. When they arrived, it changed him. When they left, it changed him.
"Still," he added, "I'm very glad it was you."
It was probably far from the right time for another intimate gesture, but he was never very good at doing the right thing at the right time. He leaned forward, and pressed a kiss next to her mouth. As chaste as possible (she was Reinette, after all), and as softly as possible (he was still rather uncoordinated).
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Reinette, ruled by her head.
But those that knew her, knew how often she was swayed by her heart. That group numbered two men, exactly. One of when stood next to her even now.
"I am very glad it is you."
Standing here. A survivor. And in the present tense.
The smallest turn of her head gave him full access to her mouth.
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What was it he had said in his Third incarnation? Where there's life, there's hope? Hope. He had to keep that,in order to keep moving.
She tilted her head slightly, and he kissed her again, more properly this time. Slowly, deeply, every ounce of his emotional and weakened state at her mercy. He trusted her, loved her, and, really, this was only a very short fall from where he'd already tumbled. His free hand slipped down to her waist, and he held her close. No binds to tie them, but they weren't apart.
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It became difficult, she knew, to have what you wanted most so close, and not to reach for it. But he was still learned, and often still confused by her time. Reinette refused to burden him with more.
With a soft breath, she finally lifted her mouth mere inches from his own.
"You must be exhausted."
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"Yeah," he admitted, "Weak, mostly. But I'm not dead, at least."
His thumb slid along her cheekbone, then traced along her jaw. She was so fragile, he knew, and yet she could hold him up. Him. A 900-year-old Timelord who had brought down empires.
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His skin was warm, but it lo longer burned. Or if it did, Reinette just allowed herself to imagine it was a different sort of heat. She was rather fond of her imaginings.
"No Doctor," she agreed. "You are everything that is alive."
Reinette had been ill prepared what it would be like to have him sleeping in the next room night, after night, after night. When Louis left her, it had always been to return to her chambers, a full wing away.
It seemed that it was less frustrating when all of the sky stood between them, instead of a few walls.
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He traced down her face with the back of his palm, sliding his skin across hers. Down her jaw, tracing her throat and collarbone.
How wrong was it, to want her after taking so much already? It had to have been the connection, the need to feel.
"I get that trait from you," he said, "I borrowed it when I needed it most."
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The mere fact that the Doctor sought to extend her touch was already enough to threaten her resolve. For eight months now she had kept much of her nature at bay. The young girl that had trapped him against a fireplace, and the woman that had sought a king with dedicated purpose. Both those set aside in favor of friend, and companion -- what Reinette was sure he needed far more. She would not be the cause of more confusion. Not when she knew the Doctor already viewed her world as muddled, and oddly shaped.
And yet knew also knew that all it might take would be a single word, or touch. Some indication that yes he might want her as well.
Though no, that was not it at all.
Reinette was accustomed to men wanting her. They dressed themselves in their desire for her to openly read, and she knew on some levels the Doctor was attracted to her. What she was waiting for, she decided then?
Was to know for sure that he wanted his own desire.
But now his hand was tracing over her skin, traveling across already-sensative flesh. Was it gratitude the Doctor was reaching to touch, or was it her?
Reinette met his eyes, and tried to decide.
"You may have anything from me you might wish," she assured him, truthfully. "You only have to ask."
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She was more than just a courtesan, after all. Especially to him. Would expressing or taking what he did wish reduce her to that? Could she be a woman and not a mistress, to him? How could he tell her she was?
"My grip is off," he said, swallowing, "Weak arms, I'm rather terrified I'll drop what I want and ruin it."
Terrible metaphor, his mind scolded him. He could've done so much better.
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His words made enough sense to Reinette, and a brief smile flared at their sound. He might have struggled with the words, but they spoke to her all the same.
She might have pointed out that she already was ruined. Rather helplessly so. But Reinette knew that Doctor well enough to expect his argument there.
"That suggests I need to be carried," Reinette said plainly, for it was what she knew. She cut through his metaphor. "I do not need to be carried, and nor do you. We both walked away from this morning, remember?"
Her features softened, as both of Reinette's hands moved to trace down the Doctor's shoulders, and rest on his arms.
"And if anything needs mending after? Well, you have seen my knots. I make quite a neat stitch as well."
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Most, of course.
The hand that traced her collarbone slid down further, grazing the boning of her corset before his hand finally rested against her hipbone. It was a bit like a dance. She placed her hands on his shoulders, he slid his hand along her skin, and they repeat, move forward, step apart.
He wished he knew all the steps beforehand. Then again, that would've made the dance less thrilling, knowing every step in it.
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And she knew that both of them looked far from their best, battered and bruised. Clothing stained and torn. And the Doctor, of course, shoeless. And yet Reinette could think of no other tome when she had found him more attractive, than in this moment. Not even the night of the Yew Tree ball.
He looked? Like a survivor. And that was something she understood, and appreciated. Reinette took a step closer. She did not belittle herself by pretending that she needed reassurance he was all right. Or that she was exhausted from their encounter and needed his support.
She moved closer because she wanted to.
It was not lost on her that the bed was close as well.
"And what fared worse," she teased lightly. "My garden, or your clothing?"
One never knew what the Doctor was up to.
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This was so intimate. So comfortable, and yet so charged. They had slept in the same bed before, they had even been lovers before, but that was so very long ago for them. And so much had changed since then.
Forget about the dance.
He, too, moved closer, his hands sliding from her hips to circle around her back.
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She could feel his breath through her hair, feel the way it moved and reacted to him, even as she tried to control such things within herself.
To prove her point Reinette's hands deftly moved to undo the top button of his finely crafted shift, and slipped her fingers just beneath so that they touched skin.
"Not even a tremble."
Though, perhaps there was. Just not one born of fear. No it was -- a shiver. Slight, but there.
She could not not kiss him then, Reinette decided.
Had she once initiated a kiss since the Doctor's arrival in her home? She did not think so. Perhaps that was were the urgency of this one was born.
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And for all that his mind couldn't figure out when to move or stay, he did know that now was the time that she should be kissed. She moved towards him, and he caught her kiss easily. Deeply. Unlike their every kiss before, to him at least, this was the first that was borne out of a long period of waiting. Out of longing. Reinette lived her life with it, he only just learned.
He held her close as they kissed, memorized the feel of her, even with the bruises and the sweat and the pain between them, she was still so wonderful. So warm and perfect and loving and Reinette and he didn't want anything else.
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She smiled beneath his kiss, even as she was reminded that the Doctor kissed as he spoke. Quickly, with a command of both the language, and herself, he was utterly unique.
And she was far from the wonderful his thoughts proclaimed.
Gently, her teeth caught his lower lip to remind him as much.
Reinette knew she was being selfish allowing things to progress so. Even this far. He was exhausted -- bruised. But she could not bring herself to point as much out.
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He pulled back, enough to look down at her, too see her as he felt her. Completely and as real as he could see her. She was still so beautiful, despite the small lines of age that took up residence beneath her eyes. Clear hair with a few lines of grey just starting to show, but still so young.
He leaned forward, pressing his lips to the crease beside her right eye, then the small tuft of grey hair beside her left ear. He allowed his kisses to linger. She was human in every way, even the things they despised in themselves, but that, that was what made her fit him so well. She could age when he did not, she could understand life when he felt as though he missed out. If that was not something to celebrate, then he did not know what was.
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But it also meant, Reinette decided, that the Doctor knew. Knew her in a way only -- no, perhaps no other had. Knew her flaws and her weaknesses, and yet also did not use them against her. His was no an attack on her being, instead it was an assault on her senses.
She softened slightly in his arms, yielding to that idea.
Dipping her head slightly Reinette moved to place a kiss precisely between his two hearts, not minding the shirt in between.
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All the same, when she kissed between them, he wanted to tell her they were hers. Romantic notion, borne out of imprisonment on Earth, he decided. He was becoming far too like them for his own good. If he learned to be human, he would know the pains that they knew, too.
He dipped his head again and kissed her, more firmly, more confidently.
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Yet with the Doctor came this sense of -- almost. She had almost brushed up against something else besides skin. He had almost returned home. He had almost ---
Well, he might have died today, she knew.
It was exhilerating and terrifying, yet also amazingly beautiful.
For all his complexities, it occured to her then that the Doctor was the art she encouraged it others. Not the artist, the work of art itself. Every adventure and person met, all his travels writted in his eyes, and in the taste of his mouth.
Her own mouth explored deeper, with new understanding.
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He took another step closer, which brought them that much closer to the bed. He felt an odd sense of anticipation run through his veins. For all the time in the universe he knew he had, he felt oddly...rushed, nervous.
Something had just ended for him moments earlier. Now, something was beginning.
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She was a woman accustomed to control, to command, and to decision. She worked devotedly to gain the power she had over her own life, and there was little that might cause her to release it. She knew her world must seem rather small to to the man whose touch was causing disruptions against her skin. But to her? It was a challenge met.
Yet is was often the challenge met. Her marriage was arranged, but a step Reinette understood. Louis? Yet again, Reinette initiated their involvement. Even the lovers that counted the days after her relationship with Louis concluded, and the Doctor arrived? Agaian, at Reinette's decision.
In the Doctor's arms, Reinette felt the singular sensation of being chosen herself. He came once on accident, yes. But she told herself, he did not have to come back.
And yet, he did.
Her gaze lifted from his mouth to the whole of his features, assuring herself this is what he wanted.
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"Courting for Time Lords takes centuries," he said, his voice low, "And I'm very, very inexperienced in it, in general. Expressing...anything, really."
He didn't pull away, instead, leaned forward, pressing a small kiss to her eyebrow.
"We have so much time---well, I have so much time, it's hard to simply do what I want, or ask or say something. It's easier to think there'll be another day."
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