Character, Study, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Vignette, General
She fell asleep on the sitting-room sofa. The Doctor, suspecting that she merely hadn’t wanted to be alone, draped a blanket over her and proceeded to putter aimlessly about the room, never straying too far.
A thought occurred to him, rather belatedly, after he’d lit a fire and watered some houseplants and made a pot of tea: We’re safe. We’re home. Nobody needs you to do anything right now other than be here in this room. If you’re going to keep on the way you do, you need to rest while you’ve got the chance.
With that, pent-up exhaustion hit him so hard that he swayed a bit as he crossed the room, and dropped a bit too heavily into the old wingback chair by the fireplace. You don’t have to fight it right now, he reminded himself, and sank back into the dusty velvet depths.
He was suddenly aware of many things, now that he could afford to stop ignoring them: mainly, the persistent dull ache of rapidly-healing injuries, including three cracked ribs that he hadn’t noticed before-- when did that happen?-- and the lingering memory of a more severe and cruel pain.
And for now, he realised, it was alright. His body would heal, his mind would sort itself out. For now, there was time enough for that.
Instead, he turned his attention to the radiant warmth of the fire, the soft-rough touch of the upholstery against the side of his face, the gentle sound of her breathing as she slept just beyond an arm’s reach away, and the gentle presence of his Ship in the back of his mind.
He closed his eyes and slept, and neither one of them woke until they were good and ready.
A/N: dedicated to Wildcow, who wanted a sequel to a drabble of mine that she wrote a prequel for. Posted to dwfiction on Livejournal.