Two Birds in a Cage, 6/?

[daystarsearcher]

Title: Two Birds in a Cage
Characters: alt!Sarah Jane, alt!Three, Section Leader Shaw, Brigade Leader Lethbridge-Stewart, references alt!Jo
Summary: Miles below the earth, in the most secret and heavily guarded of all their prisons, they keep a man who builds them weapons that are decades and sometimes centuries ahead of their time. Reports come back of the things they bring him: books, chemicals, lab equipment. Young girls.
Notes: An AU for the Inferno-verse, which I guess makes it an AU of an AU. Basically, the Doctor we know never popped in from our universe, but their version of the Doctor has been their prisoner for as long as he has been in exile. Oh, and the world never burned up, obviously.
Warnings: Descriptions of torture (including allusions to sexual assault). A friendship with occasional Stockholm Syndrome overtones. Stockholm Syndrome.

A.N. for this chapter: A.N. As ever, Doctor Who is not my property, and neither is the first story SJ reads in this chapter, “Azathoth” by H.P. Lovecraft.



They are both more careful for the rest of that day, the folder with Josie’s pictures lying closed on the counter and the book under SJ’s pillow both tangible presences burning bright at the back of their minds. They take care not to crowd each other: SJ stands a step back when taking notation, the Doctor circles her a little more widely when in search of a mislaid tool.

They are also more daring: when the rations arrive the Doctor places her share of bread directly into SJ’s hand instead of putting it onto the plate, and she takes it from his hand instead of shying away, and they both think nothing of it. Until a few seconds later, when they glance swiftly at each other, and then look away and pretend that nothing has happened, nothing has changed.

Everything has changed.

It’s a busywork day, nothing new or strenuous, but even so the Doctor tires quickly. He does his best to disguise it by creating tasks for which he needs to sit still for some time, watching a chemical reaction or waiting for results. But even so, SJ sees. He is betrayed by small things: a flinch, a twist of his mouth, an intake of breath sharper than it should be.

Startling, to realize how well she can read him. As though she’s learned another language in her sleep.

He does attempt to resume work on one of the larger projects, but when she sees him deliberately toggle the firing pin so that it doesn’t slot in properly, she lays a hand on his arm to stop him. Shakes her head.
Not today.

He looks startled, and then curious, and then almost pleased-and she lets go and walks swiftly to the other side of the room, even though she doesn’t have a good reason for doing so. If they realize what he’s doing they’ll take him away again and she doesn’t know if he can survive that, not so soon. And his survival is tied to hers, so there.

That’s all.

xxxxx

When the last of the busywork is done, the Doctor starts teaching her to sign.

At first he wants to teach her Morse code, but when she raps out a perfect I was a newsrunner, remember? with her knuckles, he laughs and switches tracks seamlessly. They go through simple phrases, and the alphabet, and start touching on the grammar.

“Not entirely modern,” he says, somewhat shamefaced. “I’m afraid I’m only really familiar with the version that was around in the sixteenth century.”

As if she’s ever likely to be embarrassed by not knowing proper British Sign Language. As if she’s likely to speak it to anyone besides him, for the rest of her life.

But she appreciates the gesture, this sharing and this-what, exactly? Apology, for the way he grabbed her hands before, and gagged her? Another attempt at repayment, for taking care of him? A bargain: let him have these moments, close to her, correcting the shapes of her hands, adjusting shapes to compensate for her missing fingers, and in return he lengthens the leash, teaches her how to talk to him without having to come close?

She knows one thing: it’s not a trick. She’s known that for a long time now, about a lot of the things he does. But there’s knowing and then there’s believing, and belief is a commitment and a risk and utterly terrifying.

Because if she’s wrong to believe him, if it is a trick (it might be, it might be) in spite of all the evidence piling up in his favor (it doesn’t matter how much evidence there is if it all turns out to be wrong), if she trusts one more wrong person-

“More of a sweeping motion,” the Doctor says, guiding her. His hands suggest; they do not dictate. “Try again?”

He will not hurt her the way the guards did, for pleasure or to prove their superiority or out of mindless habit. She knows that now. He is not that kind of man.

He hurts her when he is afraid that she will leave.

All right, then. She can see that uneven ring of punctures on his palm, red brown scabs angry against blanched white skin. Teeth marks.

She has hurt him when she is afraid too.

He will treat her well. At least as long as she seems content.

As long as he does not think she will go away.

Is that enough? Can she make it more?

SJ can feel herself hovering on the edge of something; she has been hovering there all day. Another choice, another turning point. She doesn’t have to make it, she tells herself. Last night could be an anomaly; she could make herself forget it.

“Crook the thumb a bit more, here,” the Doctor says. He makes the shape with his hands for her to mirror. A smile stealing over his face like a dawning sun. “Yes, just like that.”

She tries on the shape of days ahead in her mind. Growing into this space, this cell, becoming part of it. With the Doctor. Sabotage, and lessons, and talking-slowly with pen and paper, or quickly with hands or knuckles against stone.

Or the way last night, when he- She glances swiftly at him, but he is intent on her hands, on the sentences she is repeating. He does not seem to hear her thoughts.

She would still be doing the work she had done as part of the resistance, only sideways, slantwise, hidden-sabotage every fifth, fourth, third machine so that it blows up in a soldier’s face, so that material resources and time are wasted, so that the government is slowed, crippled, gradually broken.

They will be discovered, now and again-the Doctor will be disciplined, she will be left behind to patch him up when he returns. Last night, the impossibility of it (the tears, the helplessness, the safety) will recur over and over again until she can feel the rhythm of it in her blood, until it is just one more piece of the pattern of her existence.

One bed, one armchair, countless machines. Two walls of stone, two walls of metal bars. Two boxes of books, more if Section Leader Shaw feels like being flattered.

Always wondering what he could do inside her mind if he felt like it. Always wondering if he is already doing it.

Can she live like this? One year, two years, ten, twenty-five, fifty? The seconds will fall like snow and bury her alive (again; she is already buried alive in earth and stone) and how long will what air she has last, how long will she be able to breathe?

“Exam time, then,” he says. “Go on, ask me a question.”

She looks at him sharply; he nods. “Any question.” He knows what he is giving her.

What does she want to know most of all?

She signs, What are you? An experiment, or… She stops. She doesn’t know the word for alien, falters at spelling it out. Her hands repeat: Or…

Can you hear me? she thinks before she can lose her courage. Doctor, can you hear me?

He smiles, a little sadly. “Or.”

He can’t hear her anymore.

She shouldn’t be disappointed, she should be relieved, why can’t she-and she doesn’t want to think about it, so she blurts another question, even though he hadn’t agreed to two:

Why do you do it? The-- and she remembers the camera and steps closer, spells out on the hidden surface of his palm: sabotage. Why not just refuse to work at all?

Something closes in his face, and for a second she thinks he is angry. She almost takes a step back.

Then the tension leaches from his face, and he only looks… He gives her an echo of a smile, bleak. “A clever girl like you, you haven’t figured it out?” His fingers trail along her jawline and then drop. He sighs.
“The carrot and the stick, Miss Smith. The carrot and the stick.”

He turns away with an air of finality, and this time she cannot bring herself to ask him anything more.

xxxxx

SJ makes herself not open the book right away. She lies in bed, counting as slowly as she can to ten, twenty, thirty. She peels back the foil of the candy bar, takes a nibble. Barely tastes it.

Her hands are shaking as she takes out the book. She makes herself just hold it for a moment. Red binding. The dust jacket was torn off long ago and there is no title or author on the front, but the publisher’s name glitters in gold cursive on the back. She traces the indented loops and swirls with her fingers, heart pounding. It is small but solid in her hands, and she wonders how many years it has gone unread. As soon as she opens it, it will become one thing, one text put together by one person at just one point in time. But for now, for this moment before she cracks the cover, it holds the possibilities of all things and could be any of them at all.

Just one chapter, she promises herself. She has to savor it, make it last. One chapter if it’s a novel, one story if it’s a collection, ten poems if it’s poetry. And if it’s a bloody textbook… Well, she’ll read it anyway. Beggars can’t be choosers.

She takes a deep breath, and opens the cover. Turns to the first page, the paper crackling.

When age fell upon the world, and wonder went out of the minds of men; when grey cities reared to smoky skies tall towers grim and ugly, in whose shadows none might dream of the sun or of Spring’s flowering meads; when learning stripped Earth of her mantle of beauty, and poets sang no more save of twisted phantoms seen with bleared and inward-looking eyes; when these things had come to pass, and childish hopes had gone away for ever, there was a man who traveled out of life on a quest whither the world’s dreams had fled…

xxxxx

She turns the page, and there are no more pages.

Done.

For the moment time holds utterly still, refusing to accept this fact: she cannot be done. She cannot have read the entire thing; she only read one extra page, and then another, and another… Journeys do not end so abruptly; you cannot arrive at destinations before you see them. She has been spent dozens of lives within these pages and yet no time has passed at all; she was prepared to spend dozens more. She turns the book over in her hands, flips its pages, as though she could have somehow skipped a story, fumbled and turned from page seventy-three to ninety-eight. Just one more…

Done.

And time, grudgingly, filters back into the world with the beat of her heart and the ticking of the clock outside her bed-curtain, and the world filters back into her senses: the rough fabric of the pillow pressed against her cheek, still smelling faintly of soap and the Doctor; the warmth trapped by the blanket around her legs and the chill air on her face and hands, the weight of all the earth above her and the weight of her regret at having been so greedy, at not being able to stop herself from devouring this fragile, precious thing all at once…

She can read this book again, of course. But she can never read it again for the first time.

SJ bites her lip and tells herself not to be so melodramatic. There are other books. She will have more self-control with them. It is a wonder she has any books at all.

She never actually thanked the Doctor for that, did she?

It is the least she can do.

Still holding the book, she slips out of bed. But where…oh.

It takes only a second to locate the Doctor, all six feet plus of him curled in the green armchair, his neck crooked at an angle that promises stiffness and pain when he awakes. The cell is strangely still and empty without his active presence: tinkering, humming, striding to and fro.

It is only the second time she has ever seen him sleeping.

She would have given him the bed if he’d asked, he didn’t have to-why did he keep-he could have ordered her to the chair, he’d done it before-

If she were a better person she could hate him now, still. For the things he has done and the things he has not done, for his coldness, his cowardice, his complicity. Andrea and Fitzoliver would have been able to hate him no matter what sops he threw them, a pure focused hatred like ice or searing flame. And Sully…not hate, no, but pity so cutting and deep that it would have been worse than contempt. If she were better, if she were stronger…

But look at him. The lines on his face, etched by exhaustion. His shoulders bent, his head tucked, trying to fit his long frame into a chair that isn’t even comfortable for her to sleep in. His legs stretching out along the floor, the trousers looking whiter than before and more neatly creased-he waited all day to do the laundry again, waited until she was asleep so it wouldn’t look like he was criticizing her.

His mouth hangs slightly open, soft and vulnerable. And she cannot hate him.

He is all alone, and she is all alone, and she needs him so very, very much.

Her vision blurs.

“Sarah.” His voice groggy, just waking. He sits up in the chair. “Sarah, what’s wrong?”

Nothing, she signs, clumsy with the book still in her hands, the tears sliding down her face hot and strange and helpless. She clutches the book tight to her chest.

He motions towards the tome. “Was it so very bad?” he asks softly.

SJ shakes her head vehemently. It was- she makes the sign for good but it’s not enough so she makes it again, larger, more sweeping, and then it’s still not enough so she spells out the word she doesn’t know yet: w-o-n-d-e-r-f-u-l. Thank you..

“I’m pleased,” he says. Still looking up at her, watching her for a sign or clue, he hooks a stool with his right foot and pulls it in front of him, its metal legs rattling and scraping over the cement. Holds out his hand.

And just like that, it hits her, why he didn’t hear her before.

Touch telepathy.

In the bed with the dreams, and in the shower when he nearly drowned her in himself, and that time after the acid when he sent her away from herself and turned her into a sleepwalker, a living doll-he was always touching he when he got inside her head.

SJ takes a deep breath, crosses the room, takes his hand. Sits on the stool before he can tug gently down, because she knows even a suggestion of coercion now will make her flee.

And this time, she’s not going to.

His hand is easy in hers; her grip is too tight. She bites her lip so hard it hurts and makes herself look him in the eyes.

Can you hear me? Doctor?

His eyes widen, his fingers flex around hers (but she can’t pull away now, not now). Miss Smith? Are you doing that on--

--purpose, yes. And more tears spill out, she can’t help it, one fear gone and only a few more to go. You can hear me. Oh God, you can hear me.

Humans shouldn’t be able-how long have you known you could do this? His voice bounces in silent echoes off the insides of her skull, impossibly solid and real. His eyes bore into hers, blue, blue, blue.

Last night. And it’s too hard to explain in words, so she just pushes a snapshot towards him, one moment of terror and drowning and self-erosion as his voice thundered in her mind and his hands were tight around her arms, that constriction and pain the only way she knew she still existed in the roar and the deluge-

He flinches back from her.

“You said-“ He clears his throat, glances quickly over her shoulder. The camera. They have to make this look natural. You said I didn’t make you do anything.

You didn’t. You just… Another snapshot, this time not quite meaning to; it just pops out towards him. His apology, and his explanation: all the lights were connected, and they sparked blue…

His free hand comes up to fiddle with the shirt fabric over his chest, and she knows he is remembering (is it her best guess, or is she reading his mind?) her nails catching on his skin, scraping I WON’T into his flesh in desperation and futility.

She needs to distract him, or he is going to panic. She can feel it in the tenseness of his hands and the grip of his gaze and the taste of his thoughts, electric and bitter.

Bad things happen when he panics.

SJ takes his hand, and brings it up to her cheek. She leans into his palm, lets his long fingers brush her temple. Her eyes are still watering, but she keeps her gaze locked with his.

Miss Smith, what are you doing?

Trusting you.

His fingers twitch, just touching the curve of her ear. And still crying, I notice.

SJ blinks fiercely. You try holding still while you wait to see if someone’s going to make you into a wind-up toy again.

I see. His mental voice is colder. So when you said ‘trusting,’ you really meant-

Dammit, I’m trying!

He flinches. “All right, all right.” He switches back to verbal when he’s startled; he’ll have to get better at avoiding that if they’re to keep this secret. He’s still wincing, just a little. It seems he’s not the only one who can make this hurt if they overreact. But he’s not hurting her back. I apologize. I deserved that.

Yes, she agrees. But she pushes her face a little harder into his palm, tries to even out her breathing. He has not done anything yet. He might not do anything at all. SJ knows that.

She just has to keep telling herself that until she believes.

She can feel his presence at the edges of her mind, a tentative peering.

“This is all very sudden,” he says out loud, a careful soft sound like gravel shifting, and then, I was startled, and I…do not act at my best when I am startled. As you know. As you saw when I… He hesitates; she can almost hear the sound of words being un-chosen. Please tell me what it is you would have me do.

Just…nothing. His hand is warming against her face. It is not so different from a human hand. She doesn’t know if she feels good or bad about the fact that his hand is not so different from a human hand. I need to know that I can do this, and make it easy for you, and you still won’t…just do nothing. Please.

He nods, and swallows, the sound oddly large in the silent room. She closes her eyes, lets her world become small sounds: her breathing, his breathing, their pulses-hers pounding in her ears, his faint and doubled at his wrist. The slight rustle of upholstery as he shifts, just barely, in his chair; the thin scratch of her stool’s leg as she settles her weight, leaning forward.

His thumb strokes her skin, a small, fragile motion, butterfly light and swift. A twitch more than a conscious touch.

She would like to fit the whole world into that small space where the pad of his thumb meets her cheek, into that movement of less than a centimeter across her skin, into that moment where comfort is simple and she might be safe.

I don’t want to fight anymore, she says, opening her eyes.

Now if I believed that, I would truly be worried. His fingers brush against her hair where it falls over her ear, this touch quick, furtive. He clears his throat. “Your hair’s growing out.” He winds a lock loosely around his index finger. “It’s starting to curl.”

I can’t be your pet, she says before she can lose her courage. Your kept thing. I’m not some stray cat you can leave a saucer of cream out for until she lets down her guard and comes close enough for you to scratch her under the chin. I can’t do that, be that, and-and stay. She swallows, and pushes on. So I want a deal.

You’re taking yourself hostage. The tension is back, in his voice and in his hand against her face-he had almost jerked it away at her first sentence, but it was trapped under hers. Under other circumstances, I might be impressed.

I hate that you own me, she says. The words rush out. I hate that they gave me to you, that they made me into a thing to be given. I hate that I can’t think about you or anything you do without taking into consideration that I’m supposed to be your bribe, or your blackmail, or your-

--carrot and stick, he finishes.

She nods, and he must think for a moment that the motion means she’s trying to break away now, because his grip tightens and his other hand comes up to rest on the book in her lap, not quite touching her other hand.

You know that I could make you forget to hate it, he says. His eyes are measuring. I could make you want to stay.

And she knew that this move was coming but still her pulse skyrockets and her lungs squeeze tight and her foot kicks, once, against the concrete floor, as if it is trying to propel her away-she has to run, to hide, to disappear-

And she makes herself stop, and stay in place, and stare him down.

I know. And I know you don’t want to do that if you don’t have to. She touches his hand on top of her book. I’m not asking for so very much. Will it harm anything to listen to my proposal?

One second. Two. Three. Four. Five.

This was a mistake. It was all a mistake.

Six. Seven. Eight.

Should have kept her mouth shut, should have kept her cards close to her chest, shouldn’t have trusted him for one second, any second now it was going to be all over. Nine. T-

He nods.

She remembers to breathe again.

What exactly are your conditions, then, Miss Smith?

She taps the top of his hand once. The sabotage. We step it up, as partners. You let me in on your plans, for the individual projects and for the sabotage as a whole. You give me details, and you listen to my input, and you consider my suggestions.

Done. And…?

Two taps. She bites her lip, hard; steels her jaw. And you don’t ever go inside my head-you don’t ever do anything to my mind, calm me down, put me to sleep, give me good feelings, I don’t care what-without my permission.

He glances at her sharply, then takes his right hand away from her face, slides his left hand from between hers and the book; holds them up as if to show that he is unarmed. He leans forward, slowly, not breaking eye contact until she can feel his breath puff warm against her ear-

(until her head is blocking his lips from the camera’s view-)

--and whispers, “Is speaking permissible?”

He leans back into his chair almost immediately, lets the space flow back between them, a buffer.

She rallies and reaches for his hand again. Of course talking’s fine. Just… She hesitates; she wasn’t planning on tacking on an addendum. Acceptable risk? Just don’t startle me? Let me initiate it.

Of course. His thumb traces a circle. This is…not unpleasant. You have my word, I will not endanger it.

The talking or the handholding?

“Both. Either.” He shrugs, avoiding her gaze for the first time tonight. And the rest of your conditions?

That’s it.

He’s startled into looking back at her. Nothing else? At all? Surely-

Those are the things that matter. And now she’s the one who can’t look at him. If you keep your promises, I can resign myself to anything else you might-that might happen. And if you don’t…well, then it won’t really make any difference, will it?

A deep breath, his whole frame shifting with it. Another feather-light circle across her skin. “You know, Miss Smith-it is true that they gave you to me, and that I hold many advantages over you. I am larger, and stronger, and more integral to our captors’ schemes. But there is one arena in which you have the edge: you are far, far braver.”

His voice is a low rumble, soft and soothing, but it’s the kind of soothing that reminds her of lullabies and deep blue eyes and losing herself, and that combined with the unwarranted flattery is only making her tense up even more.

What do you want?

He’s startled; his hand stutters against her skin. He blinks rapidly, two, three times. “Who said I wanted anything?”

Don’t answer out loud! she snaps. And of course you bloody want something, you’re buttering me up, aren’t you?

And you said you didn’t want to fight. He almost smiles. It’s sad to see cynicism in one so young. Not a thing gets past you, does it, Miss Smith? Watching and watching with those lovely bright eyes.

She grips his hand over the book so tight she can feel his bones. Are you going to tell me or not?

“It’s-” He catches himself. It’s not important. It’ll keep a night.

Partner or pet? she insists. Tell me.

Very well, he says. But you’re not going to like it. He sighs, interlaces his fingers with hers, takes her other hand from her cheek to lay it on top of their joined hands. I need to ask…permission.

A second to understand what he is saying, and then ice in her mind and blaring white. NO.

Please, Sarah, listen. Last night-anything I did in your mind would be like a surgeon operating drunk. There’s no knowing the damage I might have caused, the things I might have left behind-

She shakes her head. No!

You might feel fine just now, you might be fine just now, but if I left something behind that your brain eventually can’t work around, that’s too alien or incompatible-Sarah- The tenor of his mental voice is rising, desperate. You could go mad. You could die.

And I’m choosing to take that chance.She jabs him in the chest with her index finger. I. Me. Because it’s my head, and I don’t want you rooting around in there. Got it?

She watches him struggle for several long moments. It all happens behind his eyes, his face still as stone. His hands still gripping hers tightly, so that she cannot move. Her breath stays caught in her throat.

At last he huffs, angrily, and nods his head. Got it.

She’s alert for the slightest hint of encroachment on the borders of her mind, the most tentative exploratory touch. But she doesn’t feel anything. The exact opposite, in fact-it’s as if he’s raised walls all around his mind, smooth marble with no doors. And she doesn’t feel any differently than she did a few moments ago-she definitely doesn’t want him in there. That’s it?

As you expressed so eloquently, Miss Smith, it is your own mind. I’m sure you know it better than I do.

He looks far from happy about it, though, his shoulders strung tight and his mouth a thin hard line. His hand gone stiff and uncommunicative in hers, his foot tapping an insistent drumbeat against the floor as if he can’t wait to withdraw.

There are walls in his eyes, too, but they are not as well built as the ones around his mind, and she can see anger and worry and anguish spilling around the edges.

Oh, decisions. They never do get easier.

He moves as if to stand.

SJ grabs at his hand, tugs him back down. Glares, at him and at the small shrieking voices still inside her, telling her to stop. All right, go ahead.

The Doctor gapes. “What?”

She shrugs, carefully nonchalant. Can he hear her heart hammering? I just needed to know you’d back off if I said so.

There is a spring wound tight in her chest, and she holds it still, holds it firm and careful, holds it and keeps it from winding tighter like it wants to, because if it winds any tighter then it and she will snap.

I see. He’s too stunned for a moment to say anything else. “We should-“ We should remove ourselves to a more private location. The only surveillance device should be that hall camera, and that without sound, but this would be no time to discover that Beth has been experimenting with overcoming my short-range jamming signals.

He leads her to the bed, the side facing away from the camera, and parts the curtain. She sits on the edge of the bed and makes herself stay in her body as she sits on the bed (because nothing bad is going to happen, it isn’t, stop it, it isn’t) and watches as he kneels beside her to fumble with a piece of burnt out junk underneath. A hidden compartment pops open, and he brings out two small disks, gives each of their sides a cursory check, and slides them back in. He takes a seat next to her on the bed, and takes her hand.

Everything’s in place. He gives her hand a light squeeze. “You’re certain, now? Because once we start, if you change your mind, it may take several moments to safely disengage.”

She closes her eyes, braces herself. You take it slow, she demands. And you tell me what you’re doing every step of the way.

“Your wish is my command.” He cups her face with both hands, his fingers on her temples.

What are you-

“Nothing, yet.” He leans his forehead against hers. “Will you open your eyes, please?”

No.

“I’m not going to hypnotize you, Miss Smith. It will just make this easier if I can maintain eye contact.”

I said no.

“I suppose this is another test?” His voice is carefully stripped of emotion or judgment. Just noting, theorizing. “Very well, we’ll do it the difficult way then. I’m going to touch you now.”

It’s so light she might be imagining it, fingertips trailing over water in her thoughts.

“I’m just barely skimming the surface of your mind right now.” He is speaking out loud but so soft she might think it was in her mind if she didn’t feel his breath against her cheek with each word. “Feeling for any rents or tears. If I punched my way through last night-” he hesitates-“but I’m not sensing any damage at this stage. What an extraordinarily plastic mind you must have.” His voice goes musing. “I wonder if it’s a result of the sustained interrogation, or a natural anomaly…”

You mean you can’t just stroll into everybody’s brain like that?

“I’m hardly strolling,” he says, almost offended. It would be funny if she weren’t so scared. “This takes a great deal of concentration, you know. Especially without eye contact or previous conditioning with a rhyme or similar mnemonic device. I’m not, ah…” He huffs, this time a small, rather embarrassed sound. “I’m not actually particularly good at it.”

It’s either kind or devious of him to downplay his abilities, and SJ is concentrating too hard on not panicking to decide.

Well, you could have fooled me.

A pause, then, “You have a strong will, Miss Smith. If I’d kept you under hypnosis much longer than a week, I’m sure you would have broken out on your own.”

No no no, why did he have to bring that up now, doesn’t he know how hard this already is without reminding her, doesn’t he know how terrified she already is that she’s just signed on the line for her own lobotomy, can’t he feel her heartbeat stopping-

I don’t want to talk about that right now, she says. Keeps tight hold of the words, lets them out one by one. Just get it over with.

“This will be just a moment,” he says. “I’ll be going a little deeper now. Listening to the hum of your brain hard at work. All those frantic little neurons and synapses, with their electrical and chemical signals dashing to and fro like workers on a factory floor.”

He’s there, he’s in her, she can feel him, poking and prodding behind her eyes-her fingernails bite into the mattress and she tries to hold still, still as she can, and not run.

“Seems normal enough. A little deeper, now… An overactive amygdala, but that’s not really surprising, given present circumstances… I’m going to touch a few places as I check, don’t be alarmed if some random images flit through your mind-”

(A sound like pages rustling, smell of fresh cut grass, tobacco smoke-

Cold blue eyes

The scalpel coming down

Sully’s smile-)

A tear, a straggler behind all the others she has shed this night, slides down her cheek. She can feel herself trembling in his hands.

“Sarah? Are you all right?”

Fine. Did you see what I…

“No. I didn’t want to pry. I know this is…we’re almost done.” His voice is gruff, contained. “It doesn’t look as though I left anything behind. There’s a bit of-well, I suppose ‘bruising’ is the nearest analogy, I could ease that if you-”

Is it going to kill me or drive me mad if you don’t?

“Well…no. But it’ll give you a nasty headache later this week.”

Leave it alone.

“It’ll only take-”

Leave. It. ALONE.

And maybe he finally feels her shaking, or maybe a note of hysteria manages to worm its way out of her control and into her voice, because the Doctor doesn’t argue any further. He just breathes in deep, and slow as melting frost, pulls back from her. Lets go.

“All done.”

SJ opens her eyes, manages to release her death-grip on the mattress. The world filters back in, normal sights and sounds. He’s gone from her mind. Alone in her head, nothing there, blessedly, blessedly alone.

Alone.

A word big enough to drown out the universe and not even notice her.

Her hands are a little shaky as she signs, Thank you. She means for not doing what he could have done.

“You’re welcome.” He stands, fidgets for a moment before turning away, and then turning back. “If I may confess…I still don’t understand why you let me. When I know there’s nothing that frightens you more than what I did-why you trusted me.”

Because if she does not trust anybody, she will go mad. Because she is afraid that when he was gone, she already started. Because she knows she will wither and die without trust, and even after everything, she is so afraid of dying, of disappearing and ceasing to be. Because she cannot hate him as much as she knows she should. Because he gave her a book and for a few hours, she was not a prisoner.

Because she saw him naked and he had scars all over too.

Because he did not hit her when the soap got into the cuts.

She touches the tips of her fingers to his wrist. Because I want to trust you.

His eyes are bright.

“Humans,” he says with a laugh. It is only a little choked. “So given to rash action.”

xxxxxx

Only a few hours before she’s supposed to get up, and already she’s considering another rash action.

SJ can’t hear him puttering around and that means he’s gone back to sleep in the armchair. Or tried to go back to sleep.

He’s not going to recover like that. Even with busywork days, even if they can keep the busywork days going without incurring further punishment.

She’s not considering what she’s considering because she’s lonely.

Lonely’s not the word for what she is.

Alone.

But she doesn’t have to be.

SJ gets up under the pretense of getting another book out of the boxes, and sure enough, there he sits, curled awkwardly against the chair cushions, eyes open but unfocused, one step away from sleep but awake all the same. His eyes snap up at her as she moves towards him.

She taps his shoulder, right where his skin meets the seam of his shirt. You’re not well yet. You should have the bed again. She indicates the bed with her other hand and makes a beckoning gesture so the camera will have nothing suspicious to note in their interaction, no odd gaps in their communication.

The Doctor is already shaking his head before her sentence is finished. “You stayed up all night tonight reading, and all night yesterday nursing me back to health. If you don’t get any sleep soon you’re going to faint face-first onto a Bunsen burner.”

He’s got a point. All right. So we’ll share.

The Doctor’s eyes widen and he opens his mouth, to protest or agree, SJ doesn’t know, because she cuts him off first.

Just for tonight, and just for sleeping.

“Well, of course-I mean, it’s a very generous offer, but-”

She squeezes his shoulder to cut off the flow of words, to remind him that they’re being watched.

I let you grub around in my brain, didn’t I? And it turned out all right. I’m not fussed about sleeping arrangements.

Her bravado’s only a little more than half false.

He reaches up to take her hand. Ghosts the pads of his fingertips over her knuckles, watches her face as he does so.

He watches her face as though it’s a puzzle with all the edge pieces missing and he doesn’t know what the final picture is supposed to be.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you,” he asks softly, “that you don’t have to climb a mountain all in one go?”

It’s not a mountain. It’s an abyss. You can’t inch across an abyss. You have to leap, all at once.

Is this another test?

She compresses her lips. Maybe.

And if he recovers a little quicker because of it, that’s fine too.

And if she has an anchor to hold her in place, to remind her where reality is, to give her moments that are not terrible…

Is it a test of how long I’ll keep saying no? Or a test of my conduct if I say yes?

You’re going to say yes. Because it’s my bed, isn’t it? You said so. I’m your partner, not your pet, right? So I can have things. And I can offer them to other people. Because they’re mine.

Specious argument, he says, but his shoulders have relaxed. His eyes are dancing now, a little. I propose a trade.

She’s half wary, half intrigued. What sort of trade?

Whatever sort you like. Since you are so determined to have me disturb your slumber for a second night, allow me to offer some recompense.

You’re giving me a blank cheque? She can’t quite believe this sudden generosity. People don’t work like this. Life doesn’t work like this. You ask for as little as possible so you’re not disappointed when what you want is too much; gifts always come with strings attached.

Perhaps one of the items that didn’t make the final cut for the contract you proposed.

The enormity of the offer blinds her for a moment, overwhelms her with possibilities. But only for a moment.

She is a newsrunner, first and always, and there is only one thing a newsrunner can never have too much of: information.

If they’re going to be allies, there are some blanks she’ll need filled in.

I want you to tell me a story, she says. About you. You know so much about me, and I still don’t even know your real name. I don’t know really anything about you at all.

“Once I was a lord in a far away kingdom,” the Doctor orates grandly, “but I fell under a terrible curse and was forced to travel as a wandering bard…” Really, Miss Smith, I must maintain some mystery. How am I to entertain you after you’ve sniffed out all my secrets?

If you tell it right, I’ll have more questions when you’re done than when you started.

“I do believe I detect a challenge,” the Doctor says. He is sitting up all the way now. Very well. I accept my role as your Scheherazade.”

He smiles, and SJ almost smiles back before she bites it down. They’re only allies. Not friends. Allies, out of necessity.

The first move is hers.

(The first move is always hers. He waits for her, makes her make the move.)

SJ takes his hand and leads him to the bed.

She slides back under the covers, her warmth almost faded from the sheets. Scoots to the far side of the bed and huddles under the blanket, watching the Doctor over the fabric’s edge. She feels like a tortoise, peering out of its shell at a hovering eagle.

He sits on the edge of the bed, and swings his long legs up. Shuts the curtain. The bed is not large enough to allow for distance, so he lies down barely a hand-span from her, on top of the blanket rather than under it.

“I’d only leach away your body heat,” he says by way of explanation. “At least this way I may provide some insulation.”

She’s not about to thank him for something she may regret later, so she flips around so that her back’s to him, curls into herself. Watches the play of light and shadow on her side of the curtain. He may not be radiating much warmth, but she can feel his presence behind her like a wall or a mountain. Casting his shadow over the warp and weft of this small pocket of space, looming up to their concrete sky.

“So, your story. Well. Let’s see. In the center of the Universe there is a well from which the gods draw the waters of Time-”

SJ twists her head around to look at him; pokes his arm. I wanted a true story.

“It’s perfectly true, Miss Smith,” he says. “You just have to listen in the right way.”

SJ rolls her eyes and turns back. Well, she did challenge him to ‘tell it right.’

“Now, where was I?” The Doctor clears his throat. “In the center of the Universe, there is a well from which the gods draw the waters of Time. In the cold and murky waters writhe vermin, crawling centipedes and scuttling spiders and secret sliming things. And above, secreted in the chinks of crumbling stone, there live lizards who watch the bucket being pulled, and drink from its spilled waters. They are beautiful and cold and proud, and call themselves dragons.

“Once upon a time, there was a dragon who was not very good at being a dragon. He could not kill the vermin that slithered their way up to the dragon’s stone wall citadel, his treasures were nothing to look upon, and all but one of the eggs he fathered had shells too fragile to hatch. All but one, and that one, when hatched, proved even weaker than he.

“Had he been a proper dragon, he would have killed it, and preserved what family honor he had not already destroyed. But he was not a proper dragon, and it was his only hatchling, and he could not.

“So he stole a boat of autumn leaves and scraps of paper, and he and the hatchling left behind the kingdom of dragons and plunged down into the terrible darkness…”

xxxxx

The clang of metal on stone snaps her eyes open, and the first thing she sees is the Doctor levering himself out of bed, his brow creased. “They don’t usually deliver rations this early…”

And then he’s through the curtain and gone.

SJ takes a moment to shift under the covers, checking herself for any soreness. There’s none. Not that she expected there to be any, or she wouldn’t have done what she did. But.

Don’t take anything for granted. Not yet.

She’s not sure what to look for in her mind, but at least she’s still thinking to check. At some point she will have gone far enough down this path she’s chosen that she can’t turn back, and then she will have to stop second-guessing herself or the whole exercise will have been pointless. But she’s not quite there yet.

She follows the Doctor.

“Brace yourself,” he says as she emerges. “It seems Section Leader Shaw wants something.”

He’s uncovered the rations tray, and…

Three oranges. Two limes. A grapefruit. Tea and bread, which is usual, but a pitcher of milk for the tea, condensation beading on the glass, and honey, and a pat of butter just beginning to melt.

That’s it. She’s gone mad.

What she starts to sign.

“Decoding the Section Leader’s munificence is really quite simple,” the Doctor says. He begins to divide the food into two separate piles. “Books are ‘thank you’ and citrus is ‘please.’ It saves her the trouble of having to learn the actual words, you see.”

What if it’s--dammit, still so many words she doesn’t have signs for, she taps this one out in Morse: trick?

“Always a possibility,” the Doctor agrees. “That’s why a core sample of each of these is going through analysis over there.” He nods to the counter. “Assuming none of this is drugged or poisoned, would you like to trade?”

SJ focuses back on the impossible bounty; he’s offering one of his oranges for half her bread. It’s more than fair. She nods.

He makes the switch just as the timer on the counter goes off. He strides over, peers at the samples.

“Perfectly safe,” he rules at last. “Thank goodness. Much longer without Vitamin C, and you’d be coming down with scurvy. And calcium can never go amiss in a growing human body.”

She hesitates, and for once he reads it right.

“Beth will make her demands whether or not you eat it,” he says softly. “It will not bind you to follow them more than we are already bound.”

They sit down to their meal-she’ll have to eat it all, this time; the fruit is already wizened and the dairy will not keep the day, even with the cell as cold as it is. The milk and the butter with her bread are too rich for her mouth after months of starvation rations; she almost spits it out before her taste buds remember the joy of it. The citrus bursts when she bites in and stickies her lips, sour juice and sweet dribbling down her chin in turn, until she catches the drops with her fingers. She scrapes the peels down to the pith, and then-daring the Doctor with her eyes to comment-consumes the bitter peel as well. She cannot forget how little they usually have; she cannot waste a thing.

And the peel is not so bad, really, though it sticks in her throat a bit, as she wonders how much time they will have to consider this a blessing, how long before Section Leader Shaw sweeps in, and presents them with the bill.

xxxxx

They don’t have long to wait. They’re just setting up the first experiment of the day when the door at the end of the hall opens, and Beth Shaw makes her entrance, and tells the Doctor what she wants.

She wants SJ.