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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[andiwilldie]

The Doctor is halfway through his book when Harry suddenly wakes up. It startles him, the sudden movement, and he jumps a bit and gasps, dropping the book into his lap. He takes half a moment to calm himself down, slowing his breath intake and heartsrate back to normal paces, before looking over at Harry with a look of utmost concern and worry on his face.

"Is everything all right?" he asks, placing a hand on Harry's shoulder.

[fobwatched]

His heart's in his throat, and Harry swallows, willing it down, to slow, relax-- there's nothing to worry about, he's here in his bed, he's fine. 'Just a dream,' he manages. His voice is calm enough, but he still hasn't opened his eyes. The Doctor's hand is cool and dry against Harry's bare shoulder, and inside his mouth, his teeth press together; the muscle in his jaw tenses. It occurs to him, absently, that he's never told the Doctor about Lucy, or any of it. And the Doctor's never asked, beyond a brief conversation when they first met about Harold Saxon's astounding two days in office.

He shakes his head, eyes finally opening to turn and see the Doctor, looking consumed with concern. God, Doctor. Harry cracks a smile. 'I'd say go back to sleep, but I doubt you were ever sleeping in the first place, were you?'

[andiwilldie]

He chuckles a little, shaking his head 'no'. "I was reading, actually. Hoping to get through at least the first few Harry Potter books before you woke back up." He speed reads. "It's been a while since I last read them."

That's not important now, though, so he picks his copy of The Order of the Phoenix back up and sets it on the bedside table, mentally making a quick note of what page he was on for later. "What was it about? Your nightmare."

[fobwatched]

Of course not. Harry doesn't know all that much about Time Lord physiology, but the Doctor's explained enough times that he only needs sleep every once in a while, so he'll keep himself busy at night when Harry gets his necessary, human sleep. It was odd at first, but now it's sort of a nice constant.

The man's inquisitiveness is another constant- usually nice, but not so much at the moment. Harry stalls, his face empty of expression as he looks down at the duvet. He really ought to tell the Doctor; he deserves to know. The rest of the nation doesn't, fortunately; the incident had been expertly hushed up at the time, a story released about fanatical terrorists, and Mr. ex-Prime Minister rushed to the most private hospital possible. As for the ex-Mrs... well, to be honest, Harry isn't sure what happened to her.

Da-da-da-dum, go his fingers on the duvet, a muffled little rhythm, and he licks his lips. 'My wife,' he confesses eventually.

[andiwilldie]

"Oh," comes a quick reply, followed by an awkward pause. The Doctor has never asked about all of that business with Harry's ex-wife, despite however curious about it he may have been. He's never felt it was his place to ask about it. Surely, if Harry wanted him to know, he'd explain on his own. The Doctor can't imagine it's a conversation Harry would particularly enjoy, though. The Doctor, of all people, knows what it's like when someone you care about betrays you in such a way, and he knows how painful those things can be to recount.

But he is curious. "Do you, ah, want to talk about it?" he asks cautiously.

[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

[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

[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

[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

[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

[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.