They don't make love. It's not their style, never has been.
The first time, sweaty and bloody and torn from fighting and running, and bathed in darkness, they hadn't needed the words. And afterwards, clinging to each other as they slid down to the ground, he'd stared at her.
"I love you," he'd said.
"I don't believe you."
Eyes fixed on hers, he'd waited. Waited for the right words to form in his mind, waited for the tangle of feelings in him to make sense, to calm slightly so that he could think straight.
"Good," he'd said. "You shouldn't trust me."
"But I do. I trust you with my life, just not with my heart."
He'd closed his eyes then, as if her words were a harsh bright light suddenly turned on him. He'd run his hands back over her body, fingers dancing over damp skin, breaking the silence with her sighs. Wordlessly.
And now, at another place in time, he's lying in her arms, and still none of it makes sense. She's stroking his shoulder gently, nearly asleep.
"Doctor," she whispers.
He doesn't answer; doesn't need to, just waits.
"You know, don't you? That it's because⦠it's just better than that."
And he says nothing, just smiles against her skin as he drifts of to sleep.
