"Missy?"
The Doctor calls out for her, peeking into her room, knocks. He looks in, and she's not there reading like she often is. There's an open book on the desk, old and worn, however, and he glances at it, wondering what she's currently into. Pauses at the sight of her handwriting.
He knows he really, really shouldn't. But he's curious. The Doctor double-takes the hallway to check she's not there, steps in. His gaze sweeps down the page. It's her diary, it would seem - details of the last days fill the pages in neat, thin cursive, annotated in Gallifreyan script and various other languages. The Doctor blinks, looks closer and squints. It looks like every time his name is mentioned, the O's are...replaced with hearts.
He feels a little ill, hearts fluttering, flustered. He makes a note of the page it's open to, flips back over two years, little dates etched in each corner of the page in black pen. This is private. He shouldn't be here. But her writing piques his interest, and he catches sight of one of the earlier pages blotted by water. Looks closer.
The Doctor reads the words written there. It's late 2014, at the time.
Post-Cyberman invasion. Still alone. I miss him already, it's only been hours. I'm weak. I'm scared. It's pathetic. I need a drink.
There's more after that. The Doctor skims it, stares down at the pages, brushes his fingers on the blurred words. Blurred, he realizes, by tears.
This is so wrong.
He caused this. He had no idea how much leaving her had affected her. To make her cry like this - weathering the page, smearing the ink - he can't imagine.
The Doctor can't look at it anymore, flips to a point later. Around a year later - Skaro.
He's sent me his confession dial.
Below is a systematic search, her notes of his favorite places, a terrifyingly logical search of said locations, checking his number, attempting to network his friends to contact him.
There's a break in the timestamp, marked as a few days later in her relative time. She describes her escape from Skaro, how she is afraid to see him. She's angry, upset that he'd abandon her, dismissed and ignored when she'd saved his life. That's why she'd attempted to kill Clara (he still doesn't remember, so he studies this passage thoroughly).
Missy's never told him any of this, excepting how she'd escaped. They'd just glossed over it as a terrible, terrible day.
The Doctor blinks, sifts through more recent things, little doodles she's done of him, the selfies she's insisted they take printed and pressed inbetween the pages, smiling. Her mood's lighter, more positive in her writing, and -
"Doctor?" Missy's voice rings from the doorway. The Doctor jolts, slams the diary closed and stares at her.
She's leaning on the doorway, wiping her hands on an oil stained cloth, wearing her casual leggings, tank top revealing lithe but powerful pale arms. She crosses the room quickly, tossing the cloth aside, picking up the diary from the desk. She narrows her eyes, then looks up at him, anger sparking. "You looked through it."
The Doctor steps back. "I'm - I'm sorry -"
Missy blinks, throws the diary in a drawer, shuts it with a slam. She swallows, looks up at him, searches his gaze. "I cannot believe you," she declares, voice tight, clenching her fists after a moment that stretches for centuries. "I am so - so - how could you do that? For all your talk of righteousness, and morals, you had no right to - that's my private -"
She slams his chest with the heels of her palms, enough to hurt, but nowhere near what she's capable of, he knows. Her eyes shimmering, she turns away and covers her face with her hands.
The Doctor's eyes widen. "Oh my god - Missy -"
Missy stares up at the ceiling, slides her hands down her nose so it looks as though she's praying. She faces him again. "Why the hell -"
"It was wrong, I - I was curious, and I - I never realized how you felt -"
"Because you weren't supposed to know," Missy snaps. "What the hell did you see? What did you read?"
The Doctor shifts his weight back and forth on his feet. "Your - after the Cybermen. After Skaro. And the last couple of days."
Missy sits down on the bed with a shaky sigh. She anxiously unties her hair, a loose ponytail, reties it again. Stares at the floor, scuffs a rough spot in the hardwood with the toe of her sock.
The Doctor just waits. He knows if he tries to speak, she'll only become more angry.
She exhales, controlling herself, closing her eyes. "How can I even - what the hell do I do with you? I'm so angry, furious, even, but I'm just - I just -"
The Doctor runs his hand down his face.
Missy looks up at him. "Tell me, tell me you're sorry. Just do that -"
"I am so, so sorry," the Doctor says, without hesitation. "I violated your privacy. I looked. I shouldn't have - I shouldn't have even come into your room."
Missy reaches her hand out, and the Doctor takes it, drops to his knees to softly press his lips against her knuckles.
"Okay," she mumbles, hair loose, tousled, touches the side of his face. "I believe you. I know. But I'm still angry."
"Yeah." The Doctor says.
"C'mere."
The Doctor lifts himself up onto the bed beside her, reaches his hand up to caress her cheek. She leans to his shoulder, and he wraps his arm around her.
"I'm - I had no idea," he says. "I wish you would talk to me - tell me. What I did read - I found out things about you I didn't have the slightest idea of. I'm so sorry. I didn't know how much I hurt you, before."
Missy bites her lip. "You had no right -"
"I love you, Missy," the Doctor says sharply, and that shuts her up. "I love you, and I had no idea how much I hurt you. Reading that, it - it scared me, Missy."
"I'm better now," Missy tells him. "That was then. I'm okay. I feel fine -"
"I know," he says. "I saw that too. But -"
"Don't tell me to tell you when there's something wrong," she snaps, sitting straight. "Don't you dare." Her voice trembles. "If I tell you, it's because you need to know. I don't need you to hover constantly over my emotional state. I can take care of myself." She bares her teeth in a grim smile. "I've been doing it all my life."
"And you're a mass murderer who -"
"And whose fault is that?!" she snarls. "That's what happens when you get all close to me. Or anyone, really. Isn't it."
The Doctor is silenced as she stands, snatches her diary from the drawer. He can only watch.
"I should go," she says coldly, not facing him, reaching for the backpack she has, on a hook.
His hearts break, and he stands, reaches to catch her wrist. "Missy -"
She strides out, leaving, just like that, breaks into a run down the hallway, and he's left with his hand still extended, hanging in the air towards where she had just been.
He doesn't see her for weeks, sending him straight into a routine of eating, sleeping, and binge-watching Earth shows. He doesn't have much to do - reads, tries to exercise, slowly loses motivation. His own diary becomes more dismal, boring. He misses her, deeply.
[10:47 A.M.] Can I take you out to dinner?
[11:33 A.M.] 1763-54-89-01. 11.008997766 by -54.87435002. 7:30 local time
The Doctor dresses well in an actual suit, lands the TARDIS near the coordinates he's sent her, sits. He doesn't order yet, fingers tapping the tablecloth.
To his eternal relief, he sees Missy enters the doors at precisely 7:31, and all goes as plan when she is escorted to his table.
"You look amazing," the Doctor says, standing with an uneasy smile. And she does, in a beautiful navy blue dress, open in the back and brushing over the floor. She wears a gold and December topaz brooch on her shoulder, in the shape of a group of flowers.
"I know," she says simply, and he smiles, pulls out her chair for her. Missy takes it, and he follows. A menu is placed before each of them.
"Before I forget," the Doctor says, lifting a small package from his pocket. "Do you mind?" Holds it up. She studies it, eyes flickering, smiles a little.
"You really did go all out." She nods approval, and he stands again, steps over to her, drops to one knee to fix the corsage flower, a small orchid-like specimen, around her pin.
Missy gives him a smile for his efforts, thoughtful and pleased. A little flattered, even, as he sits again.
They don't speak again until they dictate their orders to a robot, a problem arising with the autocorrect that Missy gets frustrated with. It doesn't understand her.
"Reiloun b'aris," she says.
"Ray lun bee Aries," it prints. "Bavarian beers," when she tries again.
"Cancel. Reiloun b'aris. Re - not ree lawn! Cancel. Can-cel. Cane cell - isn't even on the menu! It doesn't exist! Cancel."
The Doctor covers his mouth with his hand, chuckling. He shakes his head. "You're too Scottish," he says. Presses a button on the robot and a keyboard comes out, lets him type her order while she watches, crosses her arms. He sends it trundling off, turns back to her with a daring smile.
"How have you been?"
"Okay," she says. Her fingers clench, knuckles white. "No. Not okay, of course I'm not okay. It's been weeks, I'm still angry."
He nods, smile dropping from his face. "Okay."
She holds his gaze until their drinks are brought, and then she avoids it.
"So," she says, stirring her drink, a brightly-colored burgundy on-the-rocks cocktail. The ice clinks. "What...exactly did you think?"
"Of -"
"My diary."
He lets out a shaky sigh. "I think I should have helped you more."
"Like I said," she says, eyes flicking up for just a moment, "I can handle myself."
"I don't doubt that," he says, in a serious tone. "Though your means of handling things aren't the healthiest methods, that's a different argument. I only meant I'm the cause of most of the things you're upset over."
She sips her drink, shifting to lean her cheek on the heel of her hand. "That's definitely true, my dear."
His hearts clench, ache sharply, and their food is brought to the table. Missy's steams, rice with vegetables drizzled in dark red sauce, while the Doctor's is closer to carrot soup, a tiny garnish floating on the surface.
The Doctor swirls his spoon through the liquid. "You know," he says in a low voice, "you know why I have to, though. Do these things. I have to stop you from tearing my world apart."
Missy clears her throat, sits up and stirs her drink again so the ice sounds like chimes. "'Course," she says, feigning a smile and casual voice. "Since my habits of dealing with the last incident aren't so healthy, as you say."
He studies her. "Have you done anything rash?"
She takes a mouthful of rice, holds up her fork as she takes an obnoxiously long time to chew. "Of course not."
"Missy?"
She blinks, drops the silverware on the table. "No."
"I mean -" he gestures at her drink. "That's vodka."
Missy picks up her knife experimentally, twirls it between to fingers. "I haven't. Killed. Anybody," she hisses through clenched teeth. "I wanted to, of course I did."
"T - thank you," the Doctor stutters, surprised. "That's -"
"I didn't do it for you," she snaps. "Like I said. I wanted to. But then it would lose its meaning, wouldn't it? Not enough, some day. And then I really will destroy the universe."
The Doctor remains silent, watching as she forces herself to relax, stabs a piece of broccoli on her fork, nibbles it. She still flips the knife in her right hand, absently.
She glances at him from the corner of her eyes, exhales and closes them. "I drank. A little." Voice trembles. "A lot. Always do. Put myself to sleep a few times, as well, in the first days since I left. So I wouldn't hurt. Myself. Or maybe it was already hurting. I don't remember." She blinks rapidly, downs the rest of her drink. "You scared me, like that. Thought you didn't trust me; I didn't trust you. Shook me up a lot more than what you saw."
"Okay," the Doctor murmurs, leaning forward. They stare at their food, eat slowly.
"I missed you like hell," the Doctor says, after a while, and she pauses, fork at her lips, looks up. He crosses his arms.
She swallows without having taken the food on her utensil, sets it down.
"I didn't really know what to do, when you'd gone. I didn't account for that. It was terrible."
Missy nods, accepting that, starts eating again. The Doctor doesn't continue speaking for a long time, only eats with her, like they do this every day.
"I'm not going to stop," he says, between metal tinkling against porcelain. "trying to help. That's never been part of the deal, our friendship. But I know I can't help if you don't let me, so." He points his fork at her. "Do you want to come with me?"
She hesitates, having finished her meal, narrows her eyes thoughtfully. "Alright," she consents, though he gets the feeling that from the moment she walked in she had made this decision already.
The Doctor smiles at her, and the check is brought conveniently as he finishes. He pays it, tosses a mint to Missy, stands. She links her arm with his, and they stroll out of the establishment to the cobblestone streets. It's raining, a little.
"Do you want to collect your stuff?"
"I have it," she replies, pulls a small purse from nowhere to show him, slips it back into the apparently pocket in her dress.
The night is dark, calm, lanterns lighting the streets and making small puddles of water glitter orange. A few stars peek out through the dark clouds, and the light of a blue-tinted moon scatters through as well.
The TARDIS is tucked in a small alleyway a few blocks away, and they remain silent, falling in step with each other as they walk. The Doctor fumbles for his key, unlocks the door, pushes it open.
At the doorway, he stops, leans to kiss her, but she pulls away, keeps walking. He nods a little, follows her in and shuts the door.
"I'm exhausted," Missy announces. "I'm going off to sleep."
The Doctor pauses. "May I -"
"Yes. Yes," she says absently, heading off to a bedroom, followed closely by her Time Lord companion. As she goes, she slips pins out of her hair, and when they arrive at the Doctor's own room a short way down a corridor, the Doctor shuts the door behind them. He slips off his coat, hangs it on a hook nearby.
Missy sits at the desk before a mirror, dabs at her face with make-up removal wipes. When she's done, she carefully removes the brooch, fingers hesitating at the corsage, brushing over it. She takes it off, sets it on the edge of the desk.
The Doctor quickly undresses, ignoring Missy's intense sapphire eyes in the mirror at his unbuttoning of his shirt, changes into a t-shirt and trousers. She stands abruptly as he makes for the bed, pulls off her dress and bends to roll down her stockings, steps out of her shoes. She's wearing a white underdress, and she pauses, keeps it on, then manages to trip on her shoes, sprawls to the floor. Missy swears, flaps off the Doctor's hand reaching for her. She teeters and stands.
"Are you drunk?" the Doctor asks, relenting as she clearly doesn't want his help. He slips under the covers, watches her stretch and climb in beside him.
"Hell if I know." Missy drags the duvet mostly over her, rolls away from him. He waits for a beat, then turns to face her, rests a hand on her arm.
"Do you feel better?"
"No. I feel awful. And I think that drink had hypervodka in it."
He rubs her forearm, gives her a rueful smile behind her back. Wraps his arm over her waist, drags her towards him. She gives a muffled grumble of protest, then settles.
"Don't get sick in my bed," he says out loud.
"I have no intention of doing so, but 's not my fault if I do."
He sighs. "Go to sleep."
"Shut up," she growls. "Turn off the light. Hurts."
He reaches over to snap the lamp off. "Better?" he asks, as they're plunged in darkness.
She shifts a little. "It's been a long day," she mumbles, and then promptly falls asleep.
The Doctor strokes her hair, takes her hand in his other as he does. Eventually closes his eyes, head resting at the base of her neck, falls to sleep as well.
Missy blinks her eyes open lazily, groans at the pounding in her head. Definitely hypervodka. The light from the day lamp in the corner offends her eyes, and she shuts them again, shifts against the Doctors slumbering form. His lanky arm drapes around her, and he breathes against her shoulder, little hairs there raising on end.
Missy rolls, wrapping her arms around him so they're embracing. The Doctor makes a low sound, then suddenly tightens his arms around her. Missy squeaks, and he rolls, smiling, pulls her to the other side of him. Her feet tangle in the covers and Missy laughs, breathless, legs on one side of him, torso on the other, curled in his arms. He chuckles too, nuzzles his face against hers. She gazes at him for a moment, ice blue eyes to tea green, peeking beneath his eyelashes above a coy grin. She smiles and presses a kiss to his lips, for just a moment.
They lie for a little bit like this, Missy trailing circles in the air with her toe, before Missy frowns, wriggles and sits up.
"Head hurts," she says, at his quizzical look. "And 'm still angry with you."
He nods, scoots to sit against the headboard. Watches her. "Sleep alright?"
"Better than the past two weeks," she assures him. "Still not too well, though."
"Yeah," he says, as she moves back beside him. He lifts his hand, brushes away tangled hair from her ear, skims her cheek lightly with relaxed knuckles. "I can brush your hair out, if you like."
"Go for it. I don't feel like moving for a while. Also, get my purse."
He gropes for a brush in a drawer on the bedside, picks up her purse and hands it to her. Beckons her over, lets her settle bracketed by his legs on either side. He starts at the ends of her hair, slowly working through each snarl while Missy rifles through her bag. She pulls out a sketch pad and pencil, flips through to a new sheet, twirls her pencil and starts doodling. Her marks are clean, focused, and it's quickly clear she's drawing a cat, long-furred and elegant. She's making it clear to him, allowing him to watch over her shoulder.
"Can I kiss you," he asks.
"Would that help?"
"With what?"
She shrugs, so the Doctor rearranges her hair over her shoulder to her back, reaches around to press his hand over her left heart. She covers it with her own, holding her pencil between two fingers, turns her face towards him. He kisses her, lingering for just a moment against her lips.
"Will you forgive me for what I did," he asks softly, and she faces away from him again. "For betraying your trust?"
"Which time?"
He exhales. "The diary thing, but I'll keep working towards the others too."
Missy considers, leans back against him again. He lifts his other arm around her waist. "Forgiving, for me," she begins quietly, accent so Scottish. He loves it, her voice, and they really do match this time around. "It isn't easy. I can't just, just say 'all is forgiven' and have my feelings disappear. I have to, I really have to feel better. And I won't lie to you about when that is. 'Kay? With me so far?" He nods behind her back, and she continues. "I've forgiven you for leaving me to burn on Gallifrey. I forgive you for hating me. I don't forgive you having other people. I don't forgive you for not making any sacrifices for all of mine. I offered you myself, back in that graveyard, and you turned it down on the whim of a human. I haven't forgiven that, or you leaving me on Skaro, or ignoring me, or reading something that was personal without my express permission."
She turns to him, puts a hand to his cheek. "But," she says, "I am trying to understand why you do all these things, and you are trying, you're doing your best. And I appreciate that. Capisce?"
The Doctor blinks. "...Capisce," he replies. "You've been spending time in America?"
Missy chuckles. "That I have."
"You're a disgrace," he says, as she turns, presses her forehead roughly against his for a moment, goes back to drawing. He picks up the hairbrush again, gets back to running it through her frizzy hair.
Time, he hopes, will heal.