It takes all of your focus to comprehend what he's saying.
The pressure on your esophagus is borderline unbearable. Your body convulses with the breathes it cannot take. "Alright, different tactic." He takes your hands, and you notice his are actually warm. Warm, as if they were human hands. His brow furrows slightly at the temperature he clearly noticed as well, but he continues. "Everything the weapons dealer recalled within your head is not you anymore. It preys on the demons you've already conquered. It's not real, not anymore." You begin to collapse sideways but he steadies you and pulls you close. His long arms wrap around your back, and your head falls against his black jumper. It's softer than you remember, and it smells of the TARDIS, of him, of chalk dust, of old books…and the tea he spilled onto himself earlier that day. The pair of you had laughed, laughed in the golden sunlight of the cozy café as he dabbed the napkin into the black jacket in futility. Scent…
He holds you close, more in support than affection. He's still not a hugging person, and he knows you aren't either. The face he'd seen, an unmoving mask of uncomprehensive madness…it was a kind of terror that hypnotizes and fascinates you rather than frightens you. It held you fast. Fear was far different than disbelief. He feels your body fighting for oxygen, and he resists the urge to send you to sleep. It would grant physical relief, but right now, trapping his companion in a tormented mind was the last thing his friend needed. Imprisonment in blackness was far worse than a prison enabling the registry of color and scent and touch.
You freeze suddenly within his embrace.
He nods his head down and speaks softly into your hair. "That's it. Breathe."
You're able to lift the ton of invisible weight that had been crushing your chest, and your throat feels as though it could burst. A deep breath pounds its way into your esophagus, expanding everything that had been so constricted for that small malicious eternity. There is relief, but there is also pain. Finding you can stand on your own, you break away from his embrace and grasp the railing, coughing as though you had bronchitis and feeling streaks of pain skitter their way up your core. You finish shortly, with a raw throat and slight lightheadedness. Raising your head from the rail, you hear the Doctor's voice sound from the console. "Let's try again, shall we?"
You look at him patiently, albeit exhaustedly.
"Are you alright?"
A small smile graces your lips. "Yes, I believe I am."
"I had just been explaining that you might experience a sudden rush of every bad thing that's ever happened to you psychologically as an effect of our friend's cheap mind games." He took a breath, clearly venturing past the lines he'd carefully drawn. Don't get emotional.
"Over the course of our experiences we naturally put up barriers to repel that which caused us pain. If we didn't our minds would be so flooded with despondent things we'd drown any light or hope in our lives, and then nothing would get done. We'd never move on."
Silence.
"How rubbish would that be?"
You make your way over to the console in silence, still smiling tiredly. It had been a long day. He respects your silences, and never thinks less of you for them. You wonder why he travels with the damaged ones, even if they're so good at hiding it. He knows I'm not perfect—that I'm far from it—that I am stained. What will he do…? No. He doesn't know, doesn't need too…but he can guess. Until today, the pair of you had never had an experience as intimate as this.
Now that he knows you're a little broken, does he still want you around?
What if he asks…?
His voice penetrates your thoughts, drawing you back to the present. Maybe he can tell when I get too far out—too far off. Somehow he always begins his babblings at the times when I need them most. "You might be a tad depressed until the effects wear off. After all, you've just re-felt everything bad you've experienced all at once."
Further silence. You've slipped back into your head without noticing.
A tad depressed? It's not an introduction, it's a reinstatement. Throw out the welcome mat; my house is your house. Take all my memories, extract my spirit…everything I ever was is now at your disposal. More of a "hello darkness my old friend" moment than a surprise. More of the uncertainty. More of the teetering on the edge. More of not knowing if you've gone mad—I don't know if I can make it a second time around—
You feel his eyes on you and snap out of it, meeting his…those light blue/gray that remind you of a winter's morning, crisp and fresh and cold enough to tingle your spine. But you see patience and calm where you usually see judgement and amusement from other members of your race. When you usually see mocking.
"Sorry. Processing."
He bows his head and goes back to making the odd adjustment. "Processing what? All and everything? The fabric of reality? The formation of the universe? I can show you, if you like." He smiles up at you, receiving your fond grin. "Processing…floods and barricades and drowning in sorrows untold." In his speech, he draws out the "l" and softly enunciates the "d".
"What d'you make of it?"
You lean your elbows onto the console, and he sees the sparkle that usually is the harbinger of a joke or terrible pun you'd thought up not milliseconds before. It's good to have you back. God, he couldn't bear it if he lost you too—lost your spirit to the abundance of bad and hate and evil and greed that life seems intent on pairing with any form of good and light and compassion…and purity.
"It's not the best option, but, Dam."
