Bitter.
She sweeps her hand across the display table, sending shiny baubles and priceless trinkets clattering to the floor, the cacophony of their impact like a strange symphony.
His resulting scandalized exclamation of her name falls on deaf ears. These are ancient things, precious things. But she can't pretend anymore. She's done with alien museums on planets with names of so many syllables she can't possibly remember them all. She's done with his sodding 'little shop' and his manic grins and limitless energy and his behaving as though everything is normal.
"I don't care," she states, her voice so quiet, so dead, so defeated she hardly recognizes it as her own.
He's saying something, probably placating, but it's just a buzz, white noise, as she turns away from him and starts back toward the TARDIS.
With a few long strides he is beside her, catching her wrist between his thumb and forefinger. Gentle. Always.
She rips away from him savagely, words at once ice and fire. "I want to go home."
A/N: Thanks for reading. I know it was short, but I hope you enjoyed it and would love to hear your thoughts.
And of course, Doctor Who is not mine. The writing, however, is.