Stuff of Legend
The air is charged, the scowls are fixed, and the stand-off has begun.
He is one side of the control room, sonic screwdriver in hand, smug grin carefully hidden behind the mask of annoyance; she is the other, engine oil smeared across her face, arms folded, jaw thrust forward in a more than passable imitation of her grandmother. From somewhere under the grating a wisp of smoke floats up between them. The lighting is a worrying shade of mauve.
I know what I'm doing.
The thought is thrust into his mind, her irritation with his interference evident even through their bond, and he has to try very hard to keep hi expression steady. She's just so incongruous, stood knee-deep in something unmentionable, live wires dancing across the floor in front of her, and some ridiculous glittery unicorns prancing on the front of her t-shirt. She's both utterly out of place and totally at home. She's the universe's future saviour and a grumpy little girl. She's fixing the TARDIS and she's doing it completely wrong.
"Of course you do," he says, instead of pointing out the smoke, the mauve alert and the alarmed shouts coming from deeper within the ship as brother and mother both discover that the unmentionable leak is spreading, "you're brilliant."
Her scowl deepens as she waits for the 'but' that she's expecting. The 'but', if he's honest, that is desperate to break free from the tip of his tongue. He holds it in though, offering up an encouraging sort of smile in its place, and her expression lightens slightly.
"I just don't know where it's coming from yet." she tells him, out loud this time, possibly in an attempt to comfort her increasingly alarmed sounding family down the corridor.
"Yet," she adds again for emphasis, "I will though."
"'Course." he dangles the Screwdriver from his fingers and tries not too make it too obvious, "Really, wouldn't expect anything less of you. You know that."
The subtle offering seemed to be working; she looks at the Screwdriver, at him, and then back into the murky, rising unmentionable. She doesn't speak, but holds out her hand. He throws it to her and she catches it without looking him in the eye. It buzzes to life in her hand.
"Mind you this could help, use it like a torch, you know?"
He makes a sound that might be taken as an affirmative.
One megawatt grin later, and she's dived in – Screwdriver in hand – saving the day.
It's not the first time, and it won't be the last.
Every time he's frightened she needs him a little less.