He looked up from the pint of lager that he had no intention of drinking with a face full of confusion. A Time Lord enjoyed Earth music, of course, but never did the Doctor think he would hear a companion sing...and sing well. She was keeping tempo with the toe of a ballet flat, gripping the mic for dear life, belting "Valerie". He'd heard her hum it before in the console room. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and he could see that her eyeliner wasn't quite symmetrical.
He couldn't have cared less.
Her voice was something completely new in this life. It sang low, but shimmered like moondust….actually, exactly like the moondust from Valyria 12.
Most of his kind would have laughed at him for choosing to run with someone so overweight. Most of his kind would have snickered for his choice of jacket. Hell, most of his kind would have doubled over at these eyebrows, but it just did not matter one speck.
He was proud of the way the lining of his jacket shone against the black of his holey jumper. He liked how frowning scared the heart out of people now….and he loved that she kept up with him regardless of her size (he didn't know how). Now she was showing him another of the myriad reasons he had picked her. She was showing him just why his brain had said "Her, you daft twat…..she's the one."
He picked up the glass and sipped because he needed to move his body in some way. Otherwise he'd be likely to run up to the stage and blow her a kiss like some pudding-brained teenager. Running a hand through his staggering gray curls and hitting his shades with it, he pulled the sunglasses off his head and put them in his pocket. His fingers shook.
She had told him that she was meeting a musician friend tonight, and that he may call her up on stage to sing; he had chuckled, never thinking it would actually come to be. Why would Catherine ever go join a band? She was just an overweight, very intelligent human; no surprising talents there.
Her singing voice told him otherwise, and he was "almost" embarrassed.
The song ended and she popped off the small bandstand, winding her way back to the table at which he sat.
"Whoo! That was fun...a bit silly, but fun."
"Cath, why didn't I know you could sing like that?!"
"Oh, Doctor, with all you've seen and done, what would it matter?"
It mattered. Oh it mattered.
It meant the world... perhaps even a system of them. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and put the glass down. If he were his pin-striped, Converse-wearing self, he probably would have jumped up and hugged her tightly as she had come back to the table. But that wasn't him now.
Warring within him was a wave of ridiculous emotion, emotion that he pushed against with all his might. He couldn't do this again; couldn't be hurt again. He needed time and space, ironically enough, from his own loving soul. He was so sick of losing people, of loving them and having to mourn them. He was tired of having to go back to the TARDIS and go through another set of belongings. He had wept over Susan's school books, carefully hung up Ace's bomber jacket, and closed his eyes in agony as he pulled long red hairs off the shoulder of Chin-Boy's tweed jacket. He really couldn't stand clothes now. He hated that he still remembered the way leather felt against a small blonde's denim jacket. He hated that he could smell another doctor's hair pomade on his trench coat. He despised that his bow ties were constant reminders of eggs and milk, and badly-timed soufflés.
The war in his brain kept him sharp. It kept him honest, hard as nails, cold as ice. He didn't know how long he'd need to be like this, but keeping Catherine around wouldn't help him at all. Maybe he should bring her home, wipe her memory a bit. He'd done it before, and now Donna was living an easy life in Cheswick without the weight of the Universe on her shoulders.
Then he looked over at her, his companion. Another never-say-die human who had him in the palm of her hand. Before he could stop himself, he reached a finger over to her face and flicked at her makeup. Now the eyeliner was the same on both eyes. She looked at him in surprise; he hadn't touched her before. Oh sure, he'd thrown her out of the way of an attacking Auton, or grabbed her hand to run down an exploding corridor, but this was the first time he touched her because he wanted to, not because he had to.
He liked it.
It was domestic.
He Fuckity hated domestic.
"What was that for?"
"Hmm? Oh, nothing…. You still doing your makeup in the dark? It was crooked. Throws your whole face off."
"Good thing I've a face for radio, then."
"Didn't say that. Just said your makeup's crooked." His R practically rolled right onto the floor; how could she think she was ugly?
"Well, anyway, I think that tune deserves a martini. How 'bout it, Doctor? A bit of a medicinal tonic to keep one festive for the holiday?"
"Nah, got a pint. Don't need anything else." When had his sentences gotten so short? So gruff? Rassilon, this Scot version of himself was in deep now. He couldn't keep his thoughts in order.
"Alright, then. Just one for me, if you please. Bombay Sapphire, dirty and dry, bleu cheese olives." A waiter nodded and the Doctor stared again.
"Am I materializing the TARDIS inside this pub for you? You never drink like that."
"No I don't, but then I also don't nail an Amy Winehouse tune in front of a nay-saying Gallifreyan either. I figure wild circumstances call for a wild cocktail."
"Nay-saying? Who's nay-saying?"
"You, my very dear Doctor. Your mouth said naught, but your eyebrows spoke volumes."
"Yes, well… perhaps it's time I trimmed them then."
Catherine laughed, and it was like a Christmas bell. "Yes, perhaps it is."
"Do you have Christmas plans?"
"Not as such. My parents are going to see my sister in Madrid, and I can't stand the sun. My idea of a sunny holiday is the shoe department at Harrod's. Do you have plans?"
"Well, now that you mention it, I wondered whether we'd ever been to Valyria 12."
END