Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who or the Stevie Nicks song this was inspired by. You should listen to it, it's fantastic. =)
You Can Talk to Me
"There's no sense, in dancin' 'round the subject.
A wound gets worse when it's treated with neglect.
Well, don't turn now.
There's nothin' here to fear.
You can talk to me."
Talk to me by Stevie Nicks
"… and then I finally convinced Mum that there was no way in hell that I was wearin' that hideous tent of a dress." He likes to watch her when she talks. She twirls her hand through the air, stirring space and making his eyes follow her random patterns. She leans forward before she gets to the good part, as if making sure she gets to tell you before you figure it out for yourself. She talks to him about what happened at work that day, what she's planning on cooking him for supper, and her hair. Yet, she talks to him about nothing.
How can she not when she's afraid that what she really wants to say will hurt him?
He wants to tell her about what happened to him at work, what he's planning on cooking for her as soon as he gets the hang of kitchen appliances, and that he's nervous about getting his first grey hair. Yet, he talks to her about nothing.
How can he not when all he really wants to hear is what she won't tell him?
At night, he'll wake up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and he'll hear her from down the hall. Mumbling and talking in her sleep, she calls out to him. Not him, he amends himself, but the man that left the both of them behind. Sometimes he catches snatches of one-sided conversations, her mumbling this and that, things she'd never tell him. Other times, she cries out, images and thoughts disturbing her mind and distorting her face. Usually, he can stop himself from going to her, thinking it will only make it worse.
Tonight is different. She'd been distant all day, eating breakfast at his side in silence, leaving for work without her usual peck on the cheek and he knew that her dreams the night before had been bad. He suspected they'd be worse tonight, and he was right. He waited until she was fast asleep before sneaking into her room and kneeling beside her bed. The dreams come fast and she's clenching her hands in her covers, thrashing her legs as if she was running. He runs a hand across her forehead whispering words that mean nothing and do about as much to calm her. She calls out, over and over, words that he remembers but shouldn't. Words she hasn't yet said to him. "I love you! I love you!" She cries silently in between outbursts.
He can't take it anymore, so he shakes her gently awake. Pushing aside her shaky assurances that it was nothing, just a bad dream, he leans his head forward, brushing his nose against hers before kissing her softly.
He pulls back. "You can talk to me."
She tells him everything.
