for better or for worse- open to andiwilldie

[fobwatched]

It's not unusual for Harry to have dreams about it.  After it happened, they were fairly frequent- all entirely normal, the relevant people had assured him- but they've been less so since the Doctor moved in with him.  Which makes sense, if he were to think about it; dreams are supposed to be the unconscious mind's way of processing the events of

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[fobwatched]

No, not really.

'I suppose...' he says slowly, fingers still distractedly tap-tap-tap-tapping out that rhythm, 'you ought to know. Especially if we're going to be doing this.'

A significant glance encompasses their bare chests and the fact that they're sitting in bed together, and Harry actually chuckles as a thought hits him. 'God, this is is awful pillow talk, I promise I'm usually better than this.'

The wry mirth doesn't persist for long, though, and the corners of his mouth fall and thin into something pensive and unhappy. Harry doesn't like thinking about Lucy, much less dwelling on what happened that day. Mostly because he still doesn't understand it, really; if he'd known why, if she'd had some reason... but all Harry has in the way of explanation is his own imagination. He draws his knees up to his chest in an unconsciously childish posture, head tipping back to stare up at the ceiling.

'She shot me,' he says dully. A breath. 'Lucy. I... I don't know why. Don't suppose I ever will, either; I don't know where she is now, some high security prison, I expect. That's what happens to people who shoot Prime Ministers, after all.'

The attempt at levity falls rather flat, and Harry doesn't look at the Doctor to gauge his reaction.

[andiwilldie]

The story is far from what the Doctor had been expecting to hear. Oh, he'd known that she had done something bad to Harry, but shooting him? It wasn't anything that he had thought of before. Why would she have shot him, anyway? From what he's read (curiosity does get the better of him from time to time), there doesn't seem to have been great amounts of opposition to most of the things Harry had stood for. Of course, there were always people who disagreed with politicians, but marrying somebody just so you could be his assassin later seemed a convoluted plan at best.

"Where?" he asks simply, eyes scanning what he can see of Harry's exposed torso, settling on a small, inconspicuous scar on his tummy. "There?" Without waiting for an answer, he leans over and wraps his arms around his flatmate-boyfriend-friend in a hug.

[fobwatched]

'There,' he starts to say, fingers going to touch at the edge of the scar, but then the Doctor's arms are around him, his cool chest pressing against Harry's shoulder. He's hugging him, and Harry stiffens at first, instinctively, before slumping back into the touch with a little exhalation that doesn't quite manage to be a release of tension.

'Yeah, right there,' he finishes. He doesn't say anything about how deadly stomach wounds usually are, about how, when the stomach is punctured, it bleeds hydrochloric acid out into the rest of the body, poisoning it from the gut outward. How it sometimes takes up to an hour to bleed out, but it's near impossible to staunch that bleeding once it's started. Harry's lucky, he really is. By rights, he probably ought to be dead; Lucy, as it transpired, was a good shot.

There's a tightness at the back of his throat that ought to signal the approach of tears, but doesn't quite. Harry's... never really told anybody about what happened. Somehow, he ended up without counselling, even though he probably should have been treated for PTSD or... some such. He's hardly an expert. But it's strange talking about it now, and even stranger to have the Doctor here to hug him when he does.

Harry's thankful, and he ducks his head briefly to press an abstracted kiss against the Doctor's curls. 'Hell of a way to break up with someone,' he murmurs roughly.

[andiwilldie]

The Doctor squeezes the hug a bit tighter for a brief moment before letting go, in that way people sometimes do when they're not quite ready to stop hugging but feel it would probably be awkward to cling on any longer. His gaze drifts back down to the scar, staring at it so intently it almost seems like he could be studying it, and he reaches to touch it, ever so gently, with his fingertips.

But a moment later, he snaps out of his pseudo-trance, and his face snaps back up to meet Harry's eyes, blinking a few times. "Ahh, sorry, that didn't tickle did it?" Because if he wanted to tickle you, Harry, he'd just outright tickle you.

"Where were you?" he asks. "When it happened. Er, if you want to tell me, that is.

[fobwatched]

'Mmm? Oh, no, it's fine.' Harry's not particularly ticklish, and he's distracted by memories at the moment anyway.

'On the Valiant. It was- you remember I told you about the Toclafane?' The first time he'd met the Doctor- or, well, this Doctor- he'd mentioned the Toclafane, which had turned out to be some figure in Gallifreyan myth. Harry nods, drawing a deep breath. 'That morning, just after eight. The... Toclafane materialised, and killed the American president, and then after that-'

He breaks off with a frown. He knows what happened, of course; chaos, after the president had been shot. Any cameras that had been there for the media were blown to pieces, but there weren't any other casualties but the president, and then... but, no, that's not right, surely. A line carves itself into his forehead as the drums behind his eyes speed up, thumping like blood in his ears. How had- Lucy had been beside him the whole time, but then, in his memory, she's across the room, with a gun in her hand, and it doesn't match up. It's a stupid thing to get hung up on; he knows what happened, obviously, but somehow the memory's like a piece of film that's been edited weirdly.

It strikes him suddenly that he's been silent for several moments longer than is easily explained away, and he shakes his head slightly, blinking as if to throw off a mantle of sleep. 'Sorry,' he says, frowning. 'It's, well, it's not all entirely clear, still. I don't know how, or why-- but she had a gun, and...'

Past that, there's not much more to say.

[andiwilldie]

"I wouldn't expect it to be clear," he replies softly. "Traumatic things like that seldom are. Human memories are so..." he begins to explain, but instead lets his voice fade to silence. That's not helping, going on like that, not really.

The Doctor fiddles with the edge of the sheets, rolling and unrolling a small bit of it between his finger tips. "I'm sorry, that's probably not what you want to hear right now, is it?"

[fobwatched]

Absently, Harry reaches to touch the Doctor's hand; not holding it, just tracing the lines of veins and tendons with his fingertips. It's a distraction as well as a comfort, and a little sigh gusts over his lips.

'Not really,' he admits hollowly. He doesn't really properly know how to quantify what he's dealing with here, and he wishes he did. Harry likes to be able to understand things, to label them and see how they fit together and react to other things. This... thing defies him; he feels like he ought to be angry, ought to hate Lucy for it, but he can't manage it. It just hurts, a confused, nebulous pain in his chest above where the bullet struck. How does one even begin to get over something like that?

The fingers limning trails on the back of the Doctor's hand move up, and Harry finds himself gripping hard at his wrist, like he needs something to ground him. 'I just... I know it's unrealistic to expect myself to be over it, but-' Tight heat creeps up his neck and cheeks, and he blinks hard, twice. 'I loved her. I never-- I just don't understand. I suppose that's why it won't seem to go away.'

He will not cry, he absolutely will not. 'You don't want to hear any of this, I'm sorry..'

[andiwilldie]

Largely unsure of what to do, the Doctor leans over and embraces Harry again. It's a little frustrating to say the least. He knows he's had regenerations before that would have known exactly what to say in moments like this, how to handle it, to cheer him up. But like so many things this go around, it seems, he just can't quite manage it. It's a very limiting feeling, and if there's anything he hates, it's feeling limited.

So, instead, he simply hugs Harry. "No, no, it's fine, I don't mind." And he doesn't, because even apart from his curiosity, if Harry needs to get it off his chest, then the Doctor will always listen.

"She never gave a reason though?"

[fobwatched]

The Doctor hugs him, and Harry hugs back. And not just a casual, comforting embrace, but a proper clinch, turning on the bed to really clutch the Doctor to him. Or maybe he's letting the Doctor hold him, not the other way 'round; it doesn't matter. It might be a little too hard; the fingers of the hand splayed over the Doctor's back are digging in, pressing white marks against the skin, but it has to be hard, right now. Everything about Harry is set and tense; his hands, the line of his back; his jaw, clenched as he bows his head briefly into the Doctor's shoulder. He shakes his head, and his voice, for a moment, is muffled against the skin.

'No.'

He exhales heavily, letting his forehead rest where it is for a moment before pulling back. And if his eyes are a little brighter than usual, well, that doesn't mean he's close to tears at all. 'No,' Harry repeats himself. 'I haven't seen her since then. Or had any contact whatever. I suppose, on reflection, that isn't precisely orthodox, but... well, it all happened so quickly. And-- I'm not sure what I'd do, if I saw her, after-- I'd rather not.'

It certainly wouldn't help with attaining any kind of closure, Harry knows that much. Maybe it isn't healthy to avoid it, but it's sure as hell better than dragging it out.

[andiwilldie]

The Doctor nods at Harry's words. He knows what that's like. Not wanting to see someone who's hurt you that much. "I can certainly understand that," he says quietly, but doesn't elaborate. There may have been a time in his life where he almost looked forward to meeting the Master, despite whatever evil and fiendish plots the Time Lord would no doubt have been trying to pull off, but that was... before this. Before their silly little games had gone just a bit too far and he'd been left here, like this. Maybe he should have seen it coming, but hindsight is 20/20, or whatever that silly little phrase was, and now he's much better off without his 'best enemy', thank you very much.

Suddenly aware that he's been quiet for far too long, and afraid Harry might start expecting him to explain things he'd much rather not go in to, he smiles. "At least you're okay now. Might want to have a Doctor look at that, though."

[fobwatched]

Harry is too deep in his own thoughts just at the moment to worry at any unaccustomed silence on the Doctor's part. It's nice, if he's honest. As reliable and comforting as the man's chatter is, there's something about an embrace in silence, without the expectation of explanation or analysis. He takes the opportunity to compose himself, shaking his head minutely and drawing an only faintly unsteady breath.

The bad pun comes with perfect timing, and he cracks in a slightly hysterical giggle. 'At "that", Doctor? And what, pray, is that? Unless you can fix my ex-marital woes with the judicial application of a plaster and a bit of hydrocortisone.'

He latches onto the opportunity for a joke with alacrity. As much as some part of him, the rational, lawyer side, knows that airing these things out and discussing them is good for him, the rest of him wants to run far, far away from that particular topic of conversation and return to the status quo.

[andiwilldie]

"Don't be silly, Harry," the Doctor says, just as completely straight-faced as he can manage. "You know I'm not that sort of doctor."

He is very proud of himself for getting through that without laughing, but a moment later he can't handle it anymore, and bursts into a fit of giggles. It's nice, being able to joke like this with Harry. He doesn't have that with anybody else, not really. Things with Ianto are different, in a way, and he's almost certain that any attempt to joke with the Brigadier would result in nothing but rolled eyes.

[fobwatched]

If Harry was a more sentimental man than he is (and fair deuce, he's not exactly a cold-hearted bastard), he might have called the Doctor's giggling adorable. As it is... well, as it is, he merely thinks it, and that doesn't count, really. He smiles tiredly, feeling hollow despite the warmth and fondness the Doctor's managed to provoke in him.

'Tch, really. Nobody wants a Doctor who can't even manage a bit of doctoring. You're lucky you found me; don't know what the hell you'd be doing with yourself otherwise.'

Of course, he knows perfectly well that while the Doctor might not have an MD attached to the end of his name, he's more capable than anyone need ever be at a myriad of other things. If anything, Harry's the lucky one. But, like his thoughts about the Doctor's giggling, that also goes unsaid. With a great release of breath, he flops back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling.

'I'm never going to get to sleep again, I can tell. What time is it?'

[andiwilldie]

"A quarter 'til four," the Doctor replies without looking at a clock. He actually doesn't look at anything, instead is simply staring straight off at nothing in particular.

Something about what Harry had said struck a nerve with him. 'You're lucky you found me'. He knows Harry wasn't being overly serious with it, but he still can't help but realize how true it is. "You're right," he says simply and without any warning. "I am lucky. I suppose. Most things considered." Not even just with Harry. He's lucky he has access to the Multiverse. He's lucky to have Ianto. He's lucky that his job is normally somewhat bearable. He's lucky the Brigadier was so accommodating for so long. He's lucky he was able to get to the Brigadier in the first place. He's lucky no more than seven lives were lost that New Year's Eve.

For as completely unlucky as he's been, he has a few things to cling to, and that's good, he supposes.

So, he leans over and gives Harry a kiss.

[fobwatched]

A quarter to four. Bollocks, he'd only managed about four hours' sleep before his subconscious decided that a traumatic wakeup call was just what it needed. It wasn't as if he wouldn't be able to function the next day, but he preferred to get a full night's rest when he could; now, though, any hint of tiredness was long gone.

His eyes narrow when the Doctor speaks abruptly, and it takes a moment for Harry to place the nonsequiter. When he does, his immediate instinct is to dismiss it; he'd been joking, after all, and the Doctor knows it, but he bites his tongue, and instead simply watches the other man. There are thoughts behind his eyes, and Harry ponders for a moment on how much easier some things would be if he could read minds.

Whatever the Doctor's reflecting on, it leads him into a kiss, and Harry exhales a surprised little laugh before leaning up into it. He lifts a hand to slide over his cheek, pulling him close by the back of the neck, extending the kiss for a lazy moment before falling back onto the pillows, scooting to curl himself over onto his side, propping his head up on one hand. 'What was that?'

[andiwilldie]

The Doctor giggles a little again before snuggling down under the sheets, laying on his side and facing Harry. It doesn't seem likely that he's going to be able to get back to his book any time soon, so he might as well make the most of being in a comfortable bed and be comfortable.

He smiles a bit lopsidedly at Harry's question. "A kiss. Oh, now don't tell me our universes are so different you don't know what one of those is." He pauses, pretending to be deep in thought. "Or maybe that's what you all refer to thimbles as. I'll have to make a note to stock up on thimbles next time I'm out shopping."