Pretending to be absorbed in a page of biochemistry notes, Nyssa stole a surreptitious glance across the console room at the Doctor. No doubt about it, he was was extremely unnerved. He hadn't once looked her in the eye, instead focusing on a spot just beside her head or managing to speak to her with his back turned.
Nyssa, having expected as much, was not unduly concerned. He simply needed some time to come around to the idea of them as a couple. She truly thought she could have waited a full century without saying anything and it never would have occurred him to do so on his own. They would have travelled on indefinitely, in exactly the same manner as before, until an external force ended their acquaintanceship. It wasn't what she wanted at all.
So, when presented with a prime opportunity in the form of numerous bottles of ginger beer and a drunken Doctor, she had manipulated the situation internally. (The fact that she'd been a bit tipsy at the time had helped, too.) True, her gentle nudge had manifested itself as more of an enthusiastic shove, but he had been the one to bring up the subject of marriage. With his guard down, he had been expressing his innermost feelings without inhibitions. Now, in the light of day, he was panicking, probably inventing all manner of obstacles. But he had liked the idea well enough last night. The situation was not without hope. Yes, Nyssa decided, she would work on the matter. If the Doctor did not eventually warm up to it, she promised herself, she would gracefully let him off the hook.
A few minutes later, she allowed him to make up a transparent excuse so he could escape down the corridor. It wouldn't do her any good to press too hard, too soon. She would corner him later on and introduce talk of their engagement on her own terms.
Alone in a distant corridor, the Doctor breathed a sigh of relief. He had never before felt uncomfortable in Nyssa's presence but that single torturous hour spent with her this morning had already made up for all the other peaceful days, in spades. Every time she opened her mouth he had tensed, expecting her to chatter on about wedding plans. Fortunately, she had mentioned the dreaded issue only once, stating that they could talk about it "later". And, the Doctor optimistically thought, "later" could mean decades from now. Centuries, even.
Or it could mean later today. On the heels of this disheartening thought, the Doctor wandered into the kitchen and promptly wandered back out. Even looking at the setting of last night's folly was too much to bear.
Lunch, which arrived much too soon for his comfort, was a thoroughly depressing affair. Gone was the old camaraderie; absent were the easy, casual discussions. They had been replaced by long, leaden silences, interspersed with the occasional excruciatingly polite "please pass the butter" and "thank you".
Attempting to break the tension, the Doctor cleared his throat. Nyssa looked at him expectantly, appearing completely willing to hang on his every syllable. He could think of nothing to say, cleared his throat again, and gave up the idea of conversation as a bad job. They finished their meal without exchanging a meaningful word.
Afterwards, while hiding (there was no better word for it) in the library, the Doctor realised that he didn't know how many more days like this that he could bear. Then a truly chilling thought struck him: How long could he expect Nyssa to be around, anyway? If she'd been from Earth, he could have relaxed. Barring any unfortunate accidents, maybe 60 years longer and the typical human of Tegan's generation would expire. But he expected that with his recent run of luck, Trakenites were bound to be substantially hardier than humans. The problem was, he wasn't sure how substantially. And of course it would be rather rude, under the circumstances, to enquire of Nyssa how long she might be expected to live. He imagined that cringeworthy conversation.
"Nyssa, please overlook the fact that this question is most insensitive, considering that your homeworld was destroyed, but I was wondering what the average Trakenite lifespan is." "Why do you ask?" "Because I want to know how soon you'll die like all the rest of your people and free me from your onerous presence." "It's about 5,000 years. You'll have to wait a while."
No, it would never do. Besides, he didn't really want Nyssa to die. He just wanted her to develop a convenient case of amnesia or the like.
A tap on the door interrupted these sorry thoughts. Nyssa had tracked him down.
She sidled into the room and with the inevitability of doom, the Doctor immediately sensed that she wanted to talk about the engagement. He, on the other hand, wanted to pretend it didn't exist.
Nyssa won, by the entirely unfair tactic of engaging in speech. "I've been thinking about our engagement." The Doctor's hearts leapt; had she changed her mind? "And I decided it would be best if we remain engaged indefinitely, until we find the right place to get married." The Doctor's hearts dropped back into their usual positions. "Unless you want to return to Gallifrey for the wedding?" Nyssa added.
"Definitely not!" the Doctor said with fervour. The longer he could delay matters, the better, and an engagement of undetermined length was about the best he could expect under the circumstances. It would give him breathing space to do damage control. Naturally, he couldn't play the villain and break the engagement, but he fully intended to persuade Nyssa that it was in her best interests to do so. As evidence, perhaps he should develop some extremely annoying habits, such as failing to go where and when he had promised, or attempting to reason with long-toothed beasts long past the time that they had earnestly endeavoured to devour his friends.
He instantly launched his first plan, saying, "We shouldn't rush into anything. Circumstances can change unexpectedly. For instance, there's always the possibility at any point that I might suffer grievous injuries and be forced to regenerate again."
Nyssa shrugged, appearing surprisingly unmoved by this argument. "I've seen it once already. If it happens again, I'm sure it will come as much less of a shock than this time did."
"But I could regenerate into an egotistical maniac with bad dress sense who attempts to strangle the first person he sees," the Doctor said desperately.
Nyssa smiled indulgently. "That's hardly likely, is it?"
The Doctor sighed, compelled by his damned innate decency to be honest. "No, I suppose it isn't likely at all."
Nyssa's face lit up, as if she had just experienced a pleasant thought. "And if you regenerated, you probably wouldn't care for cricket anymore, would you?"
"Probably not nearly as much," the Doctor admitted.
"Oh, good!" Nyssa exclaimed. "Then I needn't bother to learn the rules. I find them a bit boring, I'm afraid." She paused, then went on, "And when you regenerate, it's possible you might like those little jelly babies again and carry them around like you used to, isn't it?"
"Yes," the Doctor grudgingly acknowledged.
"That would be nice," Nyssa declared. "I do miss the jelly babies."
"Wouldn't you miss me?" the Doctor demanded, suddenly feeling piqued for some reason and wishing he had never brought up the topic of regeneration.
Nyssa looked at him pityingly. "But I wouldn't have to miss you, would I. When you regenerate, you'll still be yourself, won't you? Only, possibly, a you who likes sweets?"
"Oh, yes. Certainly." The Doctor dropped the subject, having been thoroughly routed. But the war was not yet over. His brain, working frantically to find an escape route, had just come up with a brilliant idea. It was such an obvious solution, he wondered why he hadn't thought of it sooner. If their unchaperoned status was such an issue for Nyssa, he would fix that problem. All he had to do was pick up another companion to act as chaperone. It shouldn't be at all difficult. Strangers wandered in; they stowed away; they begged to tag along.
Yes, what he needed to find was a nice, lonely orphan. Orphans were usually good.
The only problem was, when you wanted to find one they were nowhere in sight. They badly needed to land somewhere--anywhere--conducive to picking up a suitable orphan, but the TARDIS was not cooperating.
Three planets, two averted revolutions, and one near beheading later, matters on that front finally began to look up.