Somewhere along the line, somehow, she found herself out in the hallway. She wasn't sure how she got there, but she was pretty sure where she was heading. She stopped. Turned around. Walked back. Stopped. Turned around. Continued on. Stopped. Turned around.
This process continued itself for almost a full half-hour before she was in front of his door, and even then she couldn't bring herself to knock. Hands on either side of his door, fingernails digging into the doorjamb to assure herself that she isn't dreaming this. She panted for breath, heart beating so fast she couldn't think.
She needed him.
You need him.
She doesn't remember knocking, but his voice is calling out sharp and gruff and ... him.
'This isn't him. This isn't the same Doc. Oh, God, this isn't him.' She swallows down her fear, she swallows down her nerves, she closes her eyes against the sickness in her head, and tells
( ... )
Doc lifts his eyes from the floor when he hears the quiet murmur from the other side of the closed door, and it only takes a moment for him to stand.
"One second," he replies.
His steps are uneven as he carefully makes his way across the room, ignoring the twinge in his ribs. Even with the advanced medical technologies of Milliways, there will still be soreness and a need for healing for weeks.
The locks on the door (deadbolt and knob) come undone with quiet click click sounds and then he slowly pulls the door open, glancing over her head, first, before he looks at her face.
A bare hint of a smile lights his eyes, and tries to make its way to his mouth, almost managing.
"Hey."
He steps back, opening the door wider, nodding for her to come in. He doesn't want to stand exposed to the hallway for any longer than he has to.
She steps back on instinct when the door opens, wrapping her arms around her middle.
For strength.
She stands there watching him, her brow furrowed deeply, her lips slightly parted as she trembles to take in air.
His face is cleaner, but he still looks like hell. She can see bruises and cuts, he's still wearing that bloodied shirt, though it's left open to show his undershirt, which is vaguely stained with sweat.
She's so preoccupied -- looking at a ghost -- that it takes a minute for her to realize that he's stepped back and wants her to come in, out of the hallway.
Out of the line of attack.
She moves inside as if her feet are made of cinder blocks, picking her feet up with effort and setting them down again with caution.
Click click.
When the door is closed and locked and they're facing each other again, she takes a moment, shivering, searching for her voice.
For the first few moments, he busies himself with closing and locking the door -- but once they've faced each other again, there isn't anything he can do to distract himself from the reality.
She buried you.
He works his throat to try and ward off the tightness that threatens to steal his voice away completely, before slowly lifting one hand, and extending it to her. Palm facing upwards, pale scar tissue marring the tanned skin's rough surface.
"I swear t'God," his voice cracks, and he has to swallow before continuing. "S'really me."
Comments 135
She wasn't okay.
She couldn't sleep.
She couldn't stop pacing.
(She couldn't stop crying.)
Somewhere along the line, somehow, she found herself out in the hallway. She wasn't sure how she got there, but she was pretty sure where she was heading. She stopped. Turned around. Walked back. Stopped. Turned around. Continued on. Stopped. Turned around.
This process continued itself for almost a full half-hour before she was in front of his door, and even then she couldn't bring herself to knock. Hands on either side of his door, fingernails digging into the doorjamb to assure herself that she isn't dreaming this. She panted for breath, heart beating so fast she couldn't think.
She needed him.
You need him.
She doesn't remember knocking, but his voice is calling out sharp and gruff and ... him.
'This isn't him. This isn't the same Doc. Oh, God, this isn't him.'
She swallows down her fear, she swallows down her nerves, she closes her eyes against the sickness in her head, and tells ( ... )
Reply
Doc lifts his eyes from the floor when he hears the quiet murmur from the other side of the closed door, and it only takes a moment for him to stand.
"One second," he replies.
His steps are uneven as he carefully makes his way across the room, ignoring the twinge in his ribs. Even with the advanced medical technologies of Milliways, there will still be soreness and a need for healing for weeks.
The locks on the door (deadbolt and knob) come undone with quiet click click sounds and then he slowly pulls the door open, glancing over her head, first, before he looks at her face.
A bare hint of a smile lights his eyes, and tries to make its way to his mouth, almost managing.
"Hey."
He steps back, opening the door wider, nodding for her to come in. He doesn't want to stand exposed to the hallway for any longer than he has to.
Reply
For strength.
She stands there watching him, her brow furrowed deeply, her lips slightly parted as she trembles to take in air.
His face is cleaner, but he still looks like hell. She can see bruises and cuts, he's still wearing that bloodied shirt, though it's left open to show his undershirt, which is vaguely stained with sweat.
She's so preoccupied -- looking at a ghost -- that it takes a minute for her to realize that he's stepped back and wants her to come in, out of the hallway.
Out of the line of attack.
She moves inside as if her feet are made of cinder blocks, picking her feet up with effort and setting them down again with caution.
Click click.
When the door is closed and locked and they're facing each other again, she takes a moment, shivering, searching for her voice.
Reply
For the first few moments, he busies himself with closing and locking the door -- but once they've faced each other again, there isn't anything he can do to distract himself from the reality.
She buried you.
He works his throat to try and ward off the tightness that threatens to steal his voice away completely, before slowly lifting one hand, and extending it to her. Palm facing upwards, pale scar tissue marring the tanned skin's rough surface.
"I swear t'God," his voice cracks, and he has to swallow before continuing. "S'really me."
No ghost.
Reply
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