The Mistress can't help sometimes but think of the past.
She tries to hold it back. Travels, explores, destroys, blows up the odd planet just for a little break of routine.
The Time Lady even made an attempt at a memoir at some point.
(She burned it.)
(You can't avoid your memories by burying yourself in them.)
Things have been quieter recently though, since the last time she saw him.
Now Missy is lying on a hotel bed somewhere, covers smelling slightly musty as she shifts, curls into herself just a little more.
The blinds are closed even though she doesn't need to sleep for the next few weeks and spears of sunlight pierce the gaps, painting columns on the floor and splintering the far too intense pattern on the worn carpet.
She hears voices pass the door. Other customers she thinks. Irrelevant. They're muffled by the walls anyway.
The Mistress lets her arm splay outwards a little, traces the pattern of her veins beneath the skin with her eyes- pale, too pale, she should go outside soon. Her fingers unfurl and she watches the shift, almost not hers in how distanced she feels from the movement.
Eventually the light circles, creates a band which crosses her fingers, her wrist and is cut off just before it reaches her elbow as the planet's single sun sets.
She moves again, fingers twitching somewhat woodenly as she misses only slightly the warmth on her skin.
The Time Lady knows that she needs to get up at some point. Genetic superiority doesn't mean that she is exempt from biological needs.
Still the motivation is just not there and she can make do for a little longer. She will be fine for a little longer.
Her thoughts drift, caught by small things like the exact name of the shade the walls are painted or the collection of spider webs she can see behind the wardrobe from her position.
Her hearts beat steadily, calmly, as she breathes in and out.
The rhythm of it acts as a background to everything, a metronome of sorts, counting the time between one thought and the next.
Missy draws her arm back in, tucks it against her chest. She feels the chill of the limb gradually fade.
Her mind starts to wander again and she thinks that perhaps it's okay to sleep even though she doesn't need to yet. Maybe it will be okay.
The Time Lady shifts again, rolling over and feeling the creaking of body as she does. She's been still for too long.
She ignores that thought, pulling the covers over herself properly. She'll get up when she wakes up.
Her eyes close and the darkness twists itself behind her eyelids, patterns at first which slip into dreams. She dreams of different faces that are all the same. They speak to her, shout at her.
There is certainly worry and irritation there but the worse things to face are the expressions of horror or betrayal.
They'd felt like success when she'd first seen them. They had meant that she had won- he- had won in whatever game they were playing.
It didn't feel like games anymore.
She didn't feel like games anymore.
The Mistress clutches tightly at the blankets in her sleep weak fists as she makes a try for control of her mind, for dreamless sleep or kinder dreams. The effort wakes her and she decides that perhaps that's enough, pulls herself from her bed and walks with more a lot more difficulty than usual to the en suite.
There's a bath, which she ignores despite the call of lying down again, and a shower head attached to the wall somewhat precariously over it. An old basin is opposite the door, coating worn through in places and to the left, and between the wall and the bathtub is a toilet with all the faded charm of the rest of the establishment.
She thinks that once she would have been bothered by this. Now she's just tired.
A thin bath mat, flat across the middle from years of people's feet, is waiting beside the bath so she strips, checking there's a towel on the back of the door as she closes it and climbs in and pulls the curtain around her.
The water is cold when she turns the dial and the shower head begins to spray. It's not entirely unwelcome as the shock pulls her from her thoughts and startles her limbs into functioning slightly better even after her very prolonged lack of movement. She shivers as she opens the tiny complimentary bottle of shampoo and works it into her hair, ignores it with a slight huff which catches in her throat anyway after being silent for so long.
The Mistress has dealt with worse than cold.
Somewhere between conditioning her hair and getting out the water heats up to an acceptable temperature. She wants to stay but doesn't, instead drying herself in the scratchy towel and dressing quickly.
She hears voices again.
She understands them this time, being closer to the hallway. They're irrelevant still but they shock her a little in the silence of the bathroom against the backdrop of her hearts, her breathing and the slow dripping of both the shower and her hair.
For a moment the Mistress leans back against the wall for support, eyes closed and the hand not clenched around the towel splayed on cool tile.
She swallows and collects herself.
Humans probably. They've managed to infest the whole universe- of course they would be here too.
She contemplates drying her hair, decides against it when she remembers how her arms protest it, and walks from the room again, more steady now, more herself.
Her brain short circuits as she stares at the woman sitting on her bed who smiles, her limbs almost giving out at the surprise and forcing her to lean upon the dresser beside her.
The blinds have been opened and the sun seems to focus on her, the gold of her hair and the softness of her smile.
"I'm sure glad it's you! I thought you were here but it would have been really awkward if it wasn't you!" She chatters and Missy can't help but gasp, knowing that voice though she doesn't and that means things are okay, doesn't it?
That means that she didn't fail him if they're both here now.
The Mistress stands for a moment longer, eyes unmoving, before she is falling towards the Doctor and she is caught up in her arms and there's laughter and it's not hers but it just makes her hold tighter.
"Did you really think that you would get rid of me that easily?" She teases in this warm new voice as Missy forces herself back, clutching at the Doctor's shoulders as she inspects her face, memorises it.
"No. Not for a moment." The Mistress lies, smiling with a broken voice as she pulls the Doctor back into her arms.