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majestyrising · 7 years ago

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@sparkledeerfr

A response to this! Rho wishes everyone would just think before they say things.

Faraday only coos more, holding the tiny ceramic like it’s made of glass before he tucks it into his pocket. He flashes a thousand-watt grin, already pleased as punch. There’s no way he’s going to get more than five steps without breaking it, but he hasn’t remembered his innate klutz tendencies yet. He likely won’t until the broken pieces stab him through his pocket.

Koschei cocks his head at the urn- “My,” he drawls, voice low, “That is my style.” He reaches out with gloved fingers- (Father.) His eyes flick to the right in a measure of annoyance, and he still takes the urn. He wonders if it may be cursed. Even if it was, it would be unforgivably rude to reject a gift, so he instead inclines his head in thanks. He pulls a square cigarette case from the side pocket of his coat and puts the tiny urn inside. “Thank you very much,” Koschei says, “You are too kind.” Bastion, however, looks ahead warily. He plants one foot back, eye narrowed at the women running right for them. A hand on his back, however, stops him before he pulls his naginata free. He looks at Rho in curiosity and confusion, and Rho shakes his head. Koschei’s ears do perk up at the mention of illicit goods- docked as though they may be, his pointed ears still have enough flexibility to them to show interest. Fortunately, or unfortunately, he has no chance to quiz this strange merchant any further. Faraday reacts a little late, taking a step to turn himself further to Koschei and yanking a knife from his pocket. It’s a thin, silver thing, and wicked looking. He mostly just looks confused, however, and subtly Koschei pushes his hand back into his pocket. The spymaster still waves back though, with a slight chuckle. None of this has bothered him, of course. Perhaps his casual demeanour is born of how freeing it is not to the king in this scenario; he’s far more able to enjoy the ride. Rho exhales, and the three other men take a small step back to allow Rho to stand ahead.

(Greetings, Adeline.) Whilst for a solid moment he does look serious- both hands folded behind the small of his back, he stands straight, tall, and critical- but then it breaks and he just looks a little guilty. They definitely missed the mark. This is what he gets for trusting Faraday, of all people, with directions. He itches the back of his neck, swallowing thickly. (Ah. Yes.) He turns slightly to Faraday, eyes narrowed. (I have an inclination that our guide sent us the wrong way.) “What?” Faraday protests, bemused; he looks back at Rho imploringly, “No, I’m sure this is how I got in.” “Well that’s it then,” Bastion snorts, shoulders now relaxing, “Have you ever gotten through the front gates, Faraday? Anywhere?” “I did to Thanatos,” he says, stubbornly. His eyes flick to Adeline and Jesse like he thinks he can get their support, and then back to Rho. “In chains,” Koschei notes, dryly. He smiles ruefully. “Dragged, in chains, for execution.” “Still counts,” Faraday says, pouting. Koschei affectionately rubs his shoulder. (Ahem.) They all shut up again.

Rho turns back to Adeline and bows his head. (Regardless of the ill-venture, it is a pleasure to meet you in person.) He thinks Eden would like her. Perhaps he will bring him, next time, and she certainly makes him less anxious personally. Though the aura stays as sharp always, this is not a dour queen ready to throw him to the wolves for a misstep. Not that he ever got that feeling from their letters- but one can never be sure. Koschei looks from Adeline- up and down before he looks to Jesse instead. A small smirk quirks his lips. That parasol is a nice touch. (I would be honoured to talk with you- that would be with Bastion.) Bastion bows properly, one hand crossed over his chest and one behind his back, one leg crossed across the other as he lowers with a flourish before standing up straight. “An honour,” he says, and his demeanour snapped back to serious and professional. He and Rho are the true professionals here, both born and bred princes. Bastion’s skin itches in a place like this; but then again, he knows that any sort of real corruption in a situation like this would be in that castle, not here. Maybe he’s just developed a complex. That’s a depressing thought.

Koschei has the itch to take this Jesse’s hand to kiss the back of it; but he can’t make her let go of the parasol. Tsk. She has style. “Jesse,” Koschei says, warmly, “Adeline. A pleasure.” He pauses, and Rho shoots him a look. (Are you waiting for me to introduce you?) “I was,” Koschei replies, neutrally, “And that you ask tells me you aren’t going to. That hurts my feelings.” Rho tries to suppress the smile, but it doesn’t entirely work. (Introduce yourself, father.) Koschei sighs dramatically, pulling another cigarette from a different pocket. “My name is Koschei,” he announces, lighting the cigarette, “Former king, current spymaster, constant playboy.” Bastion chokes with laughter. “Oh my god you cannot say that,” he says, “How-“ “I would love a tour,” Koschei continues, regardless. “As would Faraday, as I’m sure he remembers nothing.” “Oh, I remember a lot,” Faraday interjects, “But, yes. I would. Oh. Right.” He smiles and he too offers a handshake before he remembers that’s not quite right and instead tries to play it off. “I’m Faraday,” he says, like it isn’t obvious, “We didn’t meet before, did we? I spent a lot of time running away from guards.” (Not something you mention immediately.) Rho pinches the bridge of his nose and shoots Adeline another apologetic look. (Forget it. Let’s go, please. Before the ground swallows me up.)

#clan lore #my lore #thanatos syndicate #rho urusov #chiyotairyu tenkubashi #koschei urusov #faraday mac thame #rho is doing his best to be professional here you gUYS #WHY ARE U MAKIN THIS DIFFICULT #lore replies

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chocolatequeennk · 7 years ago

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Under Cover of Darkness, 6/8

AKA the Pirates AU for rudennotgingr Ten x Rose

Pirates roam the waters surrounding the islands of the Kasterborous Constellation, but not all of them are what they seem. When Lady Rose Tyler rejoins her parents in the Gallifreyan colony, she meets two men: James McCrimmon, the first nobleman who doesn’t bore her to tears, and the Doctor, a pirate who promises to keep her safe… from the pirates. What is going on in the Constellation, and how is it connected to the nefarious doings of the Master?

*cough* So. It’s been... a while. Like, closer to 2 years than I care to admit. But I’m finally back, with firm plans to finish this up by October 9!

This chapter was betaed by @lastbluetardis. It fills the pirate AU prompt from @doctorroseprompts

Rating: Teen

AO3 | ff.net | Teaspoon | Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3 | Ch 4 | Ch 5

Rose’s legs felt like lead as she walked back to her room after learning James had been taken. Taken! By the Daleks!

She heard the soft whisper of servants’ voices around the corner and hid her shaking hands in the folds of her skirt. Even now, she was aware that she could not appear to be affected by the capture of the Doctor without giving away James’ secret identity. She managed a faint smile as she passed the maids, then she was thankfully to the sanctuary of her own room.

Rose closed the door carefully, then leaned against it and covered her face with her hands as the first tears slipped down her cheeks. James might still be alive, but if he was with the Daleks… She shuddered. Everyone knew it was better to be killed by the Daleks than taken as their prisoner.

She wiped her eyes and took a few short breaths. Then she pulled out the writing desk where she kept James’ letters. Reading his words always made her feel like he was right beside her, whispering all those romantic thoughts in her ear. Today, more than ever, she needed to feel him close.

His very first letter made her throat close up. James was in the Constellation still, but if he was in a Dalek prison camp, could he even see the stars? She swallowed hard and kept reading.

The banter she imagined taking place between James and the mischievous Jack brought the first smile to her face. She was glad he had such a good friend. She bit her lip as she folded that letter back up.

Is there a way to get in touch with Jack and the Tardis? she wondered. Maybe they know something about what happened to James…

James’ final letter was in her hands, and she tapped it against her fingers, considering if she really wanted to read it. The melancholy tone might be too much to stand, now that she knew she would likely never see him again. But in the end, it was still a piece of James, and she couldn’t deny herself any connection with him.

The light-hearted opening took her by surprise, but then she remembered that it was only the last page or so of the letter that had seemed to echo with a different kind of desperation. A suspicion grew in the back of Rose’s mind, and she sped up, skimming the later until she was on the last page.

The paper shook in her fingers when she saw the cramped writing and how he’d turned the page to get as many words on it as possible. She read his words slowly, looking for any hint that she was right.

The tone was completely different from the first two pages. In place of his typical breeziness and playful flirtation, he was serious, brooding, and worried. His determination to make sure she knew he loved her jumped off the page at her, and when he begged her to promise that she would be safe, her heart rate sped up.

Something had happened in the middle of this letter, something that had left him heavy burdened with worry and loneliness. The way he talked about missing her… It was almost as if he knew it would be a very long time before he saw her again, if ever.

It could have been a coincidence, she knew. It could have been a premonition, even. But she couldn’t shake the idea that he had known something would happen. And if he had known, then maybe his current fate was not bad luck, but part of a plan. And if that was true…

Rose took a shaky breath. If that was true, maybe he hadn’t been captured after all.

oOoOoOoOo

Deep in Dalek territory, the Doctor shook his head once again at the lunacy of Jack’s plan. The fact that it seemed to be working didn’t make it any less ridiculous.

It had never occurred to the Doctor, but in his years of running the blockade, he had developed a network of loyal friends who needed only a skilled leader to become a powerful resistance against the Daleks. He had spent the last two weeks going from island to island visiting as many of them as possible, and they were all eager to do something more proactive against the occupying force.

He guided his small dinghy carefully through a narrow channel. The temporary base Harriet Jones had found for them was in a hidden lagoon at the heart of Flydale North. “I’ve lived here my whole life and I have never once seen a Dalek outside of the main port,” she’d told him when he asked about safety.

And when he’d explored the cove, he’d understood why. The channel from the sea was so narrow and rocky, only the most skilled sailor could navigate it. The Daleks had likely dismissed the lagoon as an enclosed lake.

Tonight, two dozen old friends were waiting for him at the base—Martha, Amy, Rory, Ace… and of course, Harriet, as well as many others.

And beyond that, Jake had taken Zach, Danny, and Jefferson to the Dalek repair yard to steal a ship. If they were successful, the Doctor and his new crew would meet them on the leeward side of the island before they all sailed for a different, larger hidden cove. Steering a full-sized warship through this channel would be impossible.

The channel suddenly opened, pushing the dinghy into the lagoon. Stars were reflected in the clear water, and James was unable to resist tipping his head back to stare at the sky.

God, he missed Rose. He missed the way she’d felt in his arms as they danced beneath these stars at the Chesterton’s party. He missed her teasing smile and the way her eyes sparked at him when she teased him.

He just… missed her. He missed how he didn’t feel lonely when he was with her, how she made him want a normal life when he’d been resigned to the course he’d set in a life of piracy. Rose made everything better, and it hurt to think that he might not see her again for months.

James clamped down on his thoughts before the mocking if ever could take root. He would see Rose again. Jack’s plan would work.

He sighed; surely by now she’d heard about his capture. His heart ached at the pain he’d caused her, but it was his best chance of keeping her safe. Koschei was clever enough—suspicious enough—to suspect his rumoured capture was a ruse. He would be watching the reactions of those who knew him best, studying their displays of grief for any hint of falseness. Rose needed to believe he would never come home, for her own safety.

He took a shuddering breath as he directed his boat towards the shore lights. This plan hurt right now, but if it worked, he could hand the Gallifreyan Navy a major victory over both the Daleks and the Master in one day. And if he could do that, he was almost guaranteed a letter of marque. Then he would be free to have the life he dreamed of—a life with Rose.

oOoOoOoOo

On Monday morning, Rose tucked the later she’d been writing to James into her reticule and walked he now-familiar path to the Wolf and the Storm. Miss Evangelista, the afternoon server, waved at her as she walked into the tavern, and Rose made sure to smile in return, just like always.

Her smile disappeared once she was in the staircase that led to Donna and Wilf’s private residence. Safe from the scrutiny of others, Rose picked up her skirts and ran up the stairs.

The door swung open as soon as she pounded on it, and she knew her friends had been waiting for her. “Tell me it isn’t true,” she begged as Donna closed the for behind her.

Wilf sighed and waved her over to the settee. “Sit down first, darling. Donna, pour some tea for Rose, won’t you? There, that’ll make you feel better,” he said as she sat down by the fire.

Rose accepted the cup from Donna and took a sip before setting it down and clasping her hands in her lap. “Please,” she said, her voice low and hoarse from emotion. “I have suspicions, but nothing to base them on but my instinct. If you know anything…”

Donna and Wilf exchanged a long glance, then Donna sat on the settee with her. “We think he’s all right.”

Rose sagged back against the furniture, but Wilf waved his hands. “We don’t have any guarantees, though,” he warned her. “But there’s a letter James always said he would have Jack bring to me if he was killed or captured, so I would know not to expect him back.”

“And it hasn’t come?” Rose asked.

Wilf shook his head. “So that made us doubt. Plus, the last time he was here, he seemed…” He hesitated, then shrugged and said, “He seemed like he had a plan—a terribly dangerous one, but a plan nonetheless.”

Rose fidgeted. It seemed like Wilf and Donna had come to the same conclusion she had, but she needed them to say it. “So you think…”

“We think,” Donna said, “that he’s come up with a stupidly dangerous plan to do major damage to the Daleks. My guess is that he’s doing something behind enemy lines, working to build a resistance of some kind.”

“But why let me think he was captured?” Rose asked, voicing her one quibble. “He could carry his plan out without that…”

“Maybe he was counting on us to remember about the letter,” Wilf offered. “It doesn’t make sense otherwise. I mean… there’s no need for you to appear broken hearted over the Doctor’s loss. You can’t, actually, given that the whole island knows James is courting you.”

Rose pursed her lips. She had a feeling they were missing something, but she couldn’t pin down what it was.

Eventually, she shrugged and got to her feet. “I should go home. I just wanted to bring this by, though, in case…” She pulled the letter out.

Wilf shook his head and pushed it back to her. “You hold onto it, darling. He’ll come for you first, when he comes back, so you keep it and give it to him yourself.”

He didn’t say, “If he comes back,” but the words lingered in the air anyway.

oOoOoOoOo

The Doctor stood at the wheel of the Dalek ship as it cut through the water. He carefully guided the vessel into a small natural harbour just out of sight of the armoury they were raiding tonight.

It had taken two weeks for his new crew to gather, but when Jake had arrived this evening with the ship, they were ready. Instead of hiding away, the unanimous decision had been to jump into the raid they had spent the last week planning.

Attacking an armoury was the logical choice. It would do serious damage to the Dalek war effort, while also giving the Doctor and his crew supplies they desperately needed.

Two hours later, the Doctor marvelled at the logistics skills his small group of friends possessed. During the years of occupation, Sarah Jane Smith had built up an underground communications network to keep everyone in the Occupied Territory informed about the Daleks’ movements. Tonight, she’d used that network to arrange for mule carts carts to be waiting for them when they reached shore.

Once they had used tranquilliser darts to knock out the small guard detail watching over the armoury, it had been a simple matter to load as much of the store into the carts as possible. As soon as a cart was loaded, it went back down the trail to the ship, where it would be unloaded by the sailors waiting on the other end. One by one, his crew had ridden back to the ship in the carts, until only he and Martha Jones remained with the last, half-full cart, driven by young Tim Latimer.

“Doctor!” Martha hissed. “We need to go—the sedative I dosed the darts with will only last for maybe another ten minutes, and we have got to be gone by then!”

The Doctor spotted a figure running towards them, and he grinned. “Trust me, Martha, they’re going to far too busy to bother chasing after us.” He hopped up into the cart beside her.

Ace reached them before Martha could ask what he meant by that. “Go!” she ordered as she leapt into the cart, and Tim nudged the mule into a fast trot.

As they rolled away, the ground beneath them rumbled, and then the entire armoury exploded. Martha’s jaw dropped, and she looked from the Doctor to Ace and back again.

“Well, that’s one way to keep the Daleks busy,” she muttered. “What did you use to start the explosion?”

“Nitro-9,” Ace declared proudly as she brushed the dirt off her hands. “It’s the most effective explosive out there. I should know. I made it myself.”

The Doctor patted her on the shoulder, then looked at Martha as the beach came into view. “A clean getaway!”

Martha laughed. “This is absolutely bonkers,” she said. “But I love it!”

oOoOoOoOo

When Rose heard about the successful raid on the Dalek armoury, she knew it had to be James. Her father urged her not to get her hopes up, but it was simply too convenient. There had been no Gallifreyan military victories on the Dalek side of the blockade in years. Then suddenly, James was in enemy territory and they suffered a huge blow within a month? No, it had to be him.

That afternoon she watched a storm come in as she sat at her desk and wrote to him. The clouds were building on her left while the sun still shone on her right, and the way the light diffused through the clouds and waves finally provided the inspiration she’d been looking for.

For the next three months, every second she wasn’t pouring over military bulletins in her father’s office, she was working on her painting. She spent a week doing nothing but a series of sketches, remembering what the sea had looked like as the light shone through it, and the way the shadows had danced over the waves.

And then she’d started painting, spending so much time bent over the easel that her back protested. She started bottom right corner, where everything was still light and the water was the same pretty turquoise it was on any summer afternoon. As she moved slowly across the canvas, the water turned grey and choppy, matching the skies above.

As she painted, she thought about the victories James and his new crew achieved. Just like the storm in her painting was ready to cleanse the stale, muggy air, the Doctor and his crew were clearing the islands of the Daleks.

The Oncoming Storm, she thought as she added dappled light to the right side of the painting.

She dropped her brush in the water and stepped back to study the effect of the newest layer of colour. Before she could make up her mind, a knock on the door interrupted her.

She sighed and wiped her hands on her protective frock. “Come in.”

A maid pushed the door open and curtsied. “Beg your pardon, miss, but the Governor would like a word. As soon as possible, he said.”

Rose pursed her lips, then nodded quickly. “Thank you.” The maid curtsied again, then backed out of the room.

Rose’s fingers shook as she untied her paint frock. He must have heard something more about James, but she couldn’t tell if it was bad news or good.

Five minutes later, she pushed open the door to his study. “I am answering your summons, Papa,” she said cheekily as she closed the door behind her.

He was standing by the map, and when Rose joined him, she sucked in a breath. The island of Cadon—one of the first lost to the Daleks—now had a Gallifreyan flag pinned to it.

“Papa?” she whispered.

He spun around and grabbed her by the elbows. “Your James has accomplished in three months what the Gallifreyan Navy has not managed to do in ten years.” His blue eyes glowed. “He has finally wrenched an island back from Skaro.”

Rose tipped her head back and laughed—she was too happy to just smile. “So you finally believe it’s James?” she teased.

Pete grinned. “I think the fact that he liberated Cadon first would be enough to eliminate doubt in anyone’s mind.”

oOoOoOoOo

The Master tapped the intelligence report he’d just received against his table, a smile spreading across his face. So you’ve gone home, James. You always were a sentimental fool.

He’d been following the activities of the newest pirate in the Constellation for months, trying to guess his identity. Oh, he’d had his suspicions from the start—James’ capture immediately after their last encounter had been very conveniently timed.

But this confirmed it. Militarily speaking, Cadon was worthless. It was deep in Occupied Territory, which meant the Gallifreyan Navy would find it difficult to use it as a base for further operations. No, sentimental attachment was the only reason to liberate Cadon, and he and James were all that remained of the island’s original population.

And so… The Master tapped his fingers against his jaw before standing up and striding out of his cabin. The crew all jumped when they heard the sound of his door banging open, and he let a small smile tease the corners of his mouth.

“Set course for Arcadia,” he ordered the helmsman. “I think it’s time I paid a visit to Lady Rose Tyler.”

#ficandchips #ten x rose #fic by Nancy #rudennotgingr #doctorroseprompts #cq's fic: under cover of darkness #pirates au #the master #lots of pirate action in this chapter #oh hey!#you finally get to find out what Jack's crazy plan was #since I've left you wondering about that for nearly two years

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whifferdills · 8 years ago

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Hey so what about a Twelvedole scenario where one reason why Nardole is so fed up with Twelve going in the vault all the time is that Nardole is left with picking up the pieces when Twelve reemerges hearts-broken, troubled and worn out by Koschei?

Twelvedole, background Twelve/???, h/c and flangst, ~1.5k words

[also on the AO3]

It’s one of those nights where the sky’s weirdly clear. Despite light pollution and regular pollution and the omnipresent cloud cover, there’s still stars out. Or satellites, close enough. The out-there, the away-from-here, visible from campus grounds.

The Doctor’s sitting on a bench, neck craned up at the sky, all the satellites and suns and all the space in between. On the bench in full view from their office windows; this is the first step. Nardole in the office by the windows watching the Doctor on the bench watching the sky. The Doctor knows Nardole is watching - this isn’t where they go when they want to hide - and the satellites do too, probably, considering the unsubtle monitoring UNIT’s been doing. Nardole worries at a pen he’d grabbed from the jar of pens and screwdrivers on the Doctor’s desk. Click-top clicked in and out and in and out.

The Doctor leans forward, hands on their face in a familiar gesture. Step two. They stand up and wander across the grass, past the ‘Keep Off The Grass’ sign. Step three. Clicking in and out and in and out and in and out. The Doctor doesn’t look up, to the window where Nardole is watching, and Nardole does not make any move to stop them, does not even entertain the thought.

(He’d tried, once; the attempt had ended poorly.)

Around the corner of the building, to where the door to the vault is. Nardole steps away from the window, closes the curtains, sits down on the couch. Hands clenched into fists, listening to himself tick. One second, two seconds, three seconds, step four. There’s dust on the lamps and papers in disarray and, somehow, a stray sock under the desk; he whirrs up and busies himself putting things back into place, a paper towel folded halfwise then lengthwise carefully wiped over every recently-neglected surface. Bookcase back into alphabetical order.

Brecht after Asimov and before Butler. The faces of spines aligned, a smooth, flat front.

“Won’t be able to find a damn thing, now,” the Doctor says, from the doorway where they inevitably reappear, nights like these.

Nardole slowly, carefully, finishes reshelving a fantasy quarterly from 2072, then stills. “You know no one else understands your ‘organizational system’. Bill comes by, she’s not expecting things to be in order of when you met the author.”

The Doctor huffs out a laugh, in a way that implies that nothing is actually funny, just that they couldn’t come up with a better reaction. “Good night, Nardole.”

“Sleep tight,” Nardole responds automatically, staring at the bookshelf.

Parts one through four of the young adult trilogy that’ll take the world by storm next year, Z in a parallel-universe edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica, a manual for a lawn mower, poetry from the early days of Earth’s colonizing of space. Or later days, one of those.

The sun is shining, bizarrely, and the grounds are filled with bright young things, all too loud and too carefree or too focused on the wrong things. Nardole pushes through them, the boy with a guitar and the girl drinking wine out of a thermos and the study group cross-legged around a stack of practice tests. Motors at max speed still equates to a quite slow average velocity: an eternity, then, under the hot sun before he makes the dark, damp cool of the basement. And the vault door, still in place, still locked. Double-locked, triple-locked.

Nardole goes to bang on the door, and then stops. And then starts again, and then stops. And then places his hand flat against it, and then withdraws, and then finally makes a fist and pounds on it. The sound landing flatly, unimpressively. His hand hurts anyway.

“It’s cruel, what you’re doing,” he says. “I s'pose you know that, and that’s probably the fun, isn’t it.”

Chopsticks, played haltingly.

The Doctor on the bench with their neck craned up at the sky. Nardole at the window swallowing his heart back down his throat. Everything in the office is spotless. Books in linear chronological order, Bill’s latest essay centered on the desk. Something about momentum, about movement. The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Runner: The Lorentz Transformation and Time Dilation.

Nardole on the couch with his hands in fists and the clock ticking, and the other clock ticking at just slightly, annoyingly, the wrong speed. Lagging just a touch behind. The door opens softly, and closes equally softly, and since he’s staring at the carpet his barometer of the situation here is just how the Doctor sighs, and the quiet scritch of whatever movement they’re making, cloth against cloth.

Step five, the Doctor leaves and Nardole heads off to bed. Except the Doctor’s not moving, this time. The clock is ticking and the clock is ticking and Nardole’s digging his nails into his palms. Could do with a manicure, been a while.

“Alright?” he asks, flicking his eyes up at the Doctor and then back down at the audiovisual device in his lap paused in the middle of a video about kittens.

The Doctor laughs, not-laughs, that noise they make when nothing is actually funny. “No,” they say.

Nardole turns his telephone off and tucks it into his waistcoat pocket. Movements careful, telegraphed. And he looks up.

“I’m not fine,” the Doctor says, smiling. All wide wild eyes, red-rimmed and exhausted. “Par for the course, really. Nothing to worry about.”

There are a hundred things he could say here but all of them feel wrong, or too risky, so he just pats the couch cushion next to him and says, “C'mon, I found this video of a bird doing a funny dance, you need to watch it. Looks just like you when you think you’re being impressive.”

The vault door is quintuple-locked. Physical, digital, quantum, your mother’s maiden name and what you had for tea yesterday, thumbprint and retinal scan and a pass/fail on whether you mean well. The air cold and damp and still, puddles on the floor and something dripping rhythmically somewhere.

Nardole presses his hand flat to the door and scrunches his eyes closed and just thinks. Maybe if you could find it in yourself to stop encouraging this. Maybe if you could, for once, be kind.

There’s no answer.

It’s been drizzling all day and all night, grey-overcast, a blank isolated nothing of a rotation around a sun no one in this city can see. Sunset is just an abrupt dimming, the darkness drawing close and heavy. This morning’s lecture was about the various deaths of Russian cosmonauts, and it was downhill from there.

One pen going clicky-clicky-click and two windows with a view of the bench and three books he’s not sure should be classified under editor or topic and four steps from the window to the desk, four from the desk to the back-room door, four from the door to the sofa. Step five.

Six AM, the door roughly opened and left ajar. “Morning,” Nardole says.

The Doctor leans on the doorframe, smiling crookedly at the nothing at all that is funny here.

“You’re a mess, you know that?”

“How is this news?” The Doctor slumps slightly, catches themselves, wincing.

If a given action leads to a certain outcome, every time. If a choice is wrong and you keep making that choice. If all of this goes to the same place and that place isn’t where you should be. If all of this leads here. What’s that say, then, about you?

The Doctor looks like they’re about to fall over. They look like something hurts. If Nardole didn’t know better, he’d think they look like they’re about to start crying.

The clock and the clock ticking, ticking. He stands up. Clunks across the carpet, motors whirring. Hovers a hand above the Doctor’s shoulder, and then thinks better of it, and then changes his mind. The Doctor closes their eyes at the touch, swaying. Nardole screws up his courage and goes in for the hug. Risky maneuver, this, like petting a feral cat.

“Is this okay?” he asks, arms wrapped firmly around the Doctor. No answer. “I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

He shuffles them towards the sofa and sets the both of them down awkwardly, trying not to squish the Doctor, who now seems impossibly small and fragile. This skinny shivering arsehole flinching at specific points of contact, like some things in particular hurt for reasons Nardole doesn’t need to know. They wind up in a half-comfortable tangle, the Doctor’s head on his chest and bony elbow digging into his gut, hair in his mouth whenever he opens it to say something and then think better of it.

They sit there for a while.

“Have you considered learning from your mistakes and not doing this so much,” Nardole says, delicately spitting out a stray curl of the Doctor’s hair.

“All the time,” the Doctor says. They shift, turn in, arm out of attack-elbow mode and sent sprawling across him. “I know, okay? I know.”

“First step to recovery is admitting you have a problem,” Nardole says, patting the Doctor on the back.

“Fuck off.”

“Shut up.” He breathes in and breathes out, and listens to the Doctor breathing in and out, and how they’re both tapping a foot against the floor, and how the clocks are ticking.

The sky’s lightening, dark grey to a slightly less dark grey. Sunrise, presumably, though who knows these days. Could be an alien invasion or something. The Doctor’s hand curls into Nardole’s side, pulling at the cloth. They breath in, and out, just slightly out of sync. Step six.

#twelvedole #promptapalooza #Anonymous

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