A/N: Sorry. Folks in town last week. Fell behind! But I'm here now. Thanks for staying fabulous kids!
-1933-
-The Dust Bowl-
Calypso shuddered beneath the wood. The night air was still heavy with a chill that reached past her clothes and sank deep into her bones. Her whole body ached with cold, but it was more than just that. Despite laying on the ground for a full minute trying to catch her breath, her heart was still fluttering in her chest like a caged bird. Her arm burned where the creature had gripped her, a dull throbbing pain that had spread through her body. Despite never having been sick in her life, she knew that's what this must be. It occurred to her that perhaps she should have stayed at Alona's and hoped Jack might make a miraculous escape.
The wind piled up sand around her, threatening to bury her beneath her shelter. It had started to block her view of the storm, but there was little to see anyway. There was no sign of the Doctor or the house he had been heading toward. There was nothing at all. She needed rest, but she knew if she waited here much longer, she would be unable to get back up.
Despite her body giving her several compelling reasons to stay down, she knew she had to go. If she gave up and simply let herself be buried out in the storm, the Doctor might never be himself again. Jack would be trapped with the creatures on their ship, doomed to a short life. And all those people Alona had lost would likely never return home.
She pushed the wooden gate aside and tried to get her bearings once more. The fallen fence was still within reach. If she could keep the line perpendicular to herself, she might still be able to follow the direction the Doctor had been headed. It wasn't much to go on, but it would have to be enough.
Staggering to her feet, she tightened the scarf around her face. Another cough tickled at the back of her throat, but she ignored it. If she started coughing again, she might not get moving at all.
With the fence at her back, she set off determinedly through the storm. Her legs were so weak and wobbling it was difficult to make any real progress. The sand sank beneath her boots with every step, robbing her of most of her momentum, but as the fence disappeared behind her, she knew she was succeeding.
The wind picked up sharply, buffeting against her like a wall. It caught at her clothes and dragged her backward a step. Sand blew into her scarf and pelted at her throat as she rasped for breath. The first cough burst from her lips and then she could hold it back no longer. Dropping to her knees, she gasped for air, coughing until she felt as though her lungs were ready to come up. Her chest and throat ached when she finally stopped and she tasted warm coppery blood on her lips as she tried to wipe it away with her scarf. Her thoughts drifted to Akondo, laying there skeletally thin, listless and unable to do anything but sleep. At this rate it might not be the storm or the creatures that killed her, but the sickness itself.
A sob rose in her throat but she choked it down. She wasn't going to waste the last of her energy throwing a fit and feeling sorry for herself. She pushed herself to her feet, wobbling with the effort, and then took one step forward. She followed that with another step, and then another. She clutched her arms around herself, trying to contain what little of her own warmth she could and continued forward. Her only thoughts were moving forward at all costs, heading toward the Doctor and hopefully, safety.
It might have been a trick of the murky half-light in the storm, but as she moved forward, she thought she saw something up ahead. A large and dark shape, big enough to alter the path of the windblown sands. A building.
And then she heard a piercing cry directly above her.
She dove to the side, more reflex than decision. An inky shroud slammed into the ground where she had been standing only a moment before and vanished into the sand. She scuttled backward, chased by the unnerving sense that it wasn't really gone. Her eyes flew to the dark shape ahead, once again struggling to get upright, she headed forward, trying to put urgency into her steps.
"Incoming!" She heard his voice before she saw him. He suddenly appeared at her side, stooping down to grip her waist and then hoisting her up over his shoulder. He hardly broke stride as he changed directions, half jogging toward the dark shape ahead. Relief flooded through her as her whole body cried out in pain bouncing along in his grip. A black shadow streaked past them, but they were moving too erratically to present much of a target.
The Doctor's boots struck wood and the world around her stilled as they burst through a doorway. He dropped her in a heap and she hit the floor hard enough to knock the wind from her lungs. Her relief somewhat soured as she realized it wasn't her Doctor who had found her, but her thoughts were erased by another series of violent coughs. Through bleary eyes she watched the Doctor slam the door shut and wedge a small chair against it. He pressed his cheek against the door, listening for something on the far side.
She didn't want to know if they were coming, she still lacked the energy to pick herself up off the floor and she knew there was no way she could run again. Besides, they had found the only port in the storm. If there was no safety here, then there was none to be found.
The house itself was small and stark. She raised herself on her shoulder, investigating if there were any other open doors or windows she should point out. It was dark, but she could still make out most of it in the shadows. She lay in the kitchen, a cramped room that was connected with the main living area. The small hallway leading from the door ended in another doorway, presumably to a bedroom.
"Can they follow us?" Her voice was creaky as she spoke and she could feel the grit thick on her tongue. She pulled the scarf down so she could breathe clean air once again. "I thought the wood protects us."
He shook his head as he stepped away from the door. "It's a dampener. It's dead organic material that we can't see beyond, so it appears as an empty space. That doesn't mean they won't figure it out. It's how I found you." He turned away from the door, his scowl visible in the shadows. "And just what the hell do you think you were doing out there?"
"I tripped," she was too tired to put up an argument. "I'm surprised you came back at all."
"Of course I came back. The plan isn't especially effective if you're not able to get me into this ship of yours." He stepped closer to where she huddled. "What are you doing on the floor?"
"Tired."
He grumbled and she watched his shadowy figure march into the kitchen, opening drawers and cupboards. "No bloody electricity," he muttered as he struck something and a faint yellow glow grew behind her. "Barbaric is what it is." He returned to her side with the familiar scowl and set down the lantern he'd found nearby, systematically lighting other lamps throughout the house so the darkest shadows fell away and revealed the dusty interior more clearly.
His eyes narrowed and the irritation fell from his face. "You're bleeding."
"Just a cough," her breaths were still labored, but she was relieved to just be laying on the floor.
"Come on," he gripped her shoulders and she winced as he pulled her upright, leaning her against the wall so she was in a sitting position. "Are you ill?"
"I'm fine," her pained face was anything but. She wasn't about to tell him though.
The scowl returned and he grabbed the pack from his shoulder, opening one of the canteens and holding it out to her. She took it with shaking hands and raised it to her lips, spilling just as much down her chin as into her mouth until he helped steady her grip. She gulped gratefully, the stale water helping cool the irritation in her throat.
"You might have said something about this," he gripped her wrist with his free hand and she gasped in pain, nearly dropping the canteen from her fingers. Her shirt sleeve had slipped back from her arm and exposed the red mark where the creature had touched her. The mark was still raw and angry looking, and the surrounding skin now had a deep purple bruise that expanded across her forearm. He clicked his tongue sharply and took the canteen from her grip, twisting her arm down so he could inspect it closer.
"That hurts." She tried to pull her arm away but the attempt was laughable.
"That's what it's designed to do. Which is why you should have mentioned it earlier." He pulled a handkerchief out of his jacket and flicked it to shake the worst of the dust from it. Then he took a swig from the canteen and swirled the water around in his mouth, his cheeks puffed out comically before he spit the contents onto the cloth. "Hold still."
He took the soaked fabric and pressed it against her raised puffy flesh, despite her efforts to squirm away. It stung as he pressed against her arm, sending an echoing pulse of pain through her body as he worked. But gradually, where the wet handkerchief touched her skin, there was a gentle warmth that followed. Subduing the throbbing pain enough that her arm hardly hurt more than the rest of her.
"How did you do that?" She stared at her arm as he finished, the dark bruise remained, but the blotchy mark was fading.
"You didn't think we'd develop a way to protect ourselves?"
"I thought-" she paused. She hadn't really given it much thought. She'd just assumed it was another unusual trait of the creatures, along with dissipating through sandstorms and screeching like demons. "Well I suppose I thought it was a bit like snakes."
He gave her a mild look, but shook his head. "It's not venom, we don't naturally produce it. It's a manufactured virus." He stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket. "The early stuff was so potent it killed within hours. We had to vaccinate ourselves to avoid accidents. Course that was ages ago. It's part of our genes now, and the virus is much milder." He frowned at the last part as he helped her sip from the canteen again. "I'm confused as to why you've taken so badly to it."
"Guess I'm just special." She grumbled.
"You should eat." He said as he eyed the kitchen.
"I'm not hungry." All she really wanted to do was lay down and sleep. With the safety of the walls around them, she was finding it harder to argue with the urge.
"You're weak, and if you don't get some calories into your body, your immune system isn't going to have anything to fight the virus with." He stood up, taking the lamp with him to investigate the kitchen once more.
"What do you know about my immune system?" She scoffed, letting her head roll back on her shoulders and rest against the wall.
"Nothing," he said as he rifled through the kitchen shelves. "But the Doctor seems to think he knows quite a bit. And he says you should eat."
That got her attention. "You- you can speak to him?" The thought had renewed her and she sat upright again, watching the Doctor carefully.
"Of course I can. He never really shuts up. But, he made a good point about the wood, so I suppose he might be right about this. Feeding in general seems like a messy process." He had pulled a package from one of the shelves and a bowl from another. He went to the sink and pumped the handle until water splashed from the faucet. He poured the contents of the package into the water filled bowl and stirred it around before digging into his pocket and producing the sonic screwdriver.
He seemed unaware of Calypso's sudden attention and shook the screwdriver curiously. He shrugged and aimed the device at the bowl, pressing the button on its side so it whirred to life.
"Can I speak with him?" She tried to restrain her desperation as he walked back toward her.
"Doesn't work like that, sort of an inner dialog thing. I can hear him, he can hear my thoughts." He sniffed at the now steaming contents of the bowl warily. "Apparently, it's soup."
"You can't have just made soup," she sighed, but as he knelt down next to her, she saw the liquid in the bowl looked and smelled remarkably like vegetable soup. "How did you make soup?"
"It doesn't seem that complicated. Now eat." He offered the bowl out to her and she reached for it, but the weight was too much and her shaking arms sank to her lap to avoid spilling it. Despite her arm no longer throbbing, she was far from being well. Eating seemed like too much effort and also a waste of time. She could eat a hundred bowls of soup and still be no closer to recovering. She suspected he knew that as well.
"It's alright, I don't need it."
The Doctor frowned at her for a moment, and then lifted the bowl himself. "You can eat willingly," he scooped the spoon into the broth and held it out to her lips. "Or I can cut off your respiratory system until you need to breathe and shove it into your mouth."
She had no doubt that that was exactly what he would do. "Yes, all right." She sighed. She raised her hands to take the spoon, but he rolled his eyes at her.
"If I wanted you to spill it all over the floor, I'd just pour it down the sink."
She was taken aback, she had no desire to be fed by this strange creature, but she didn't see how she had any other choice. She gave a short nod, and when he brought the spoon to her lips, she accepted it.
The vegetables were quite dry despite the broth, but she couldn't really taste much so it just made for a slower meal. The soup warmed her throat as she swallowed, but it spread no further and she shivered in the dark house.
The Doctor put down the bowl with a sigh and pulled off his jacket, wrapping it around her shoulders. "You should get some rest." He finally conceded, in the wake of her struggle to eat any more.
"Thank you," she offered as he stood and put the soup back in the kitchen. He seemed unmoved by the words as he returned to her side and scooped her off the floor, both of them knowing full well she could not stand on her own. He carried her through the hallway to the small bedroom.
The light from the hallway just illuminated the bed, a thick layer of dust covering it and everything else in the room. The Doctor awkwardly pulled it aside before lowering her onto the bed.
"I'll just air this out a bit." He gathered up the cloth and disappeared through the doorway.
Calypso felt a lump in her throat, she'd escaped the storm and found the Doctor, but she was a fool if she thought she would wake again. Perhaps there would be some residual alertness, but she doubted she would be able to stand. Even trying the small feat of lifting her arm from the bed proved too challenging and she felt a tear trickle down the side of her face as exhaustion began to crumble away at her.
The Doctor returned with the sheet freshly shaken out, and an additional thick wool blanket which he covered her with. His face twisted as though he might say something when he finished, but then he turned on his heel to leave.
"Please," she managed to choke out. "Could you tell him something for me?"
He paused in the doorway, she thought he might pretend to have not heard her, but he finally turned back. His face mostly shadowed but clearly wary. "What."
"Could you tell him-" she wanted to say something that conveyed everything she felt, everything he had meant to her. But she was at a loss for words, and she doubted this creature would bother to share any such message. Her eyes were already fluttering shut as she struggled to stay awake. "Tell him Merry Christmas." She remembered the heat of the fireplace and the Doctor's warm brown eyes as he spoke to her that night. It would have to be enough because it was all she managed before she slipped into a restless sleep.
