like the sun we will live to rise

She does ask one question, though, and it's a good one. It's one he can't exactly figure an answer to. He has never been able to stand not having the answers, and he's had less than ever since Hugh died.

It's hard, particularly within her own brain, not to make reference to her own experiences, her own grief. Airiam had moved forward to new experiences with barely a glance back, but then, she hadn't had much choice in that. She doesn't think voicing such a comparison aloud would be helpful to Paul, particularly as it wouldn't actually answer his question.

she can't help it: alice laughs, and immediately it turns into a hiccuping sob. she would probably bawl her stupid eyes out, and who knows if she would ever stop, if her self-conscious dislike of crying in front of people didn't get the better of her.

"yeah, a little," she finally says, wiping her face with both hands. "sorry."

sorry about the crying, sorry about the crash-landing, sorry for the crater and i hope that wasn't where you kept anything important.

but it's the kindness of the vast understatement that gets her. no panic, no frustration, just a quiet (pessimistic?) determination to make it through this, whatever 'this' is. he doesn't owe her anything; they're still practically strangers. that's kind. you'll never convince her otherwise.

"i, um. yes. i hope so," he says, his words getting thoroughly tangled as he tries to process the compliment. "thanks."

"you don't have to apologise," he adds, more firmly. "it's not like you handpicked our place and thought, oh, that looks like a good place to crash. which, i mean, it kinda is a good place to crash. apparently."

❛  i got distracted calibrating the oscillating function drive . . . all good now though !   ❜ was she expecting some kind of praise from yaz ? absolutely . she snatches her coat that had been thrown over the bannister on the stairs . ❛  right , let's explore then . . . i hope we don't bump into voltaire , i owe him twenty quid from a game of scrabble . i'm convinced he cheated .   ❜

"you what?" yaz isn't sure why she's so surprised. ever since they she first started travelling with the doctor, they've been landing places they're not supposed to.

Death straightens slowly, then makes a broad, encompassing gesture with one hand skeletal hand and then the other. He would have thought that much was obvious, since he's here, but people do often need little reassurances. Processing time, now that the neurons have stopped firing.

The statement is enigmatic and confusing and meaningless to the man just shot by a silurian. It's also very much the sort of thing the Doctor would say. His face screws up as he stares at the cloaked skeleton, trying to figure it out and failing.

"Not my time? How can you not mean that philosophically? If I am actually dead."

there  was  a  rhythm  to  captivity—  an  itch  under  the  skin,  a  pressure  in  the  chest—  that  demanded  motion.  a  pacing  time  lord  was  a  thinking  time  lord,  &  thinking  was  survival.  fingers  skim  the  bars,  coat  tugged  straight,  shoulder  rolls  experimentally  as  if  the  sharp  protest  from  torn  flesh  were  merely  a  suggestion  rather  than  a  warning.  the  wound  was  inconvenient.  untidy.  blood  had  an  irritating  habit  of  making  everything  seem  more  serious  than  it  was.

“ it’s  only  a  scratch— ”   ( automatic,  really. )   a  reflex  honed  over  centuries  of  surviving  things  that  should  have  ended  him.  only  a  scratch  belonged  in  the  same  mental  drawer  as  i’ve  had  worse  &  this’ll  be  fine,  all  useful  lies.  the  sentence  cut  off  on  a  sharp  inhale,  &  he  presses  his  palm  harder  against  the  wound,  as  though  sheer  indignation  might  convince  the  pain  to  behave.  it  did  not.

of  course  it  did  not. 

there  had  to  be  a  latch,  a  fault,  a  weakness  in  the  stone,  a  wire  tucked  behind  a  panel,  a  dozen  things  invisible  to  anyone  else  &  obvious  to  him  if  he  could  just  get  his  head  clear  enough  to  see  past  the  throb  in  his  shoulder. 

another  glance  down  at  the  wound,  at  the  way  red  had  soaked  into  tweed.  it  stung  now,  properly.  annoying.  usually  bodies  listened  better  than  this.  usually  damage  was  theoretical  until  later,  something  to  be  dealt  with  between  explosions  &  escapes.  “ fine— ”

still, blood is soaking into the doctor's jacket as rory watches. it's somewhat unsettling. he's known that the doctor isn't as unfallible as he pretends to be for a while now, but still. to see him bleed is another thing entirely. it itches at rory's well-practised patience, makes it feel so much more urgent than it probably is.

but the doctor sits, eventually. rory breathes out. eyebrows raise, just slightly, but he does work in A&E. the doctor's attitude is nothing compared to some of the belligerent arseholes he has to deal with on a friday night.

"i'm gonna take your jacket off so i can see it better," he says, even tone of voice. at least he knows the best way to get a jacket off someone without causing too much damage---- or pain. his hands are gentle on the doctor's shoulder.

normally this would be the moment for some light conversation, asking his patient how they injured themselves, or what plan they'd interrupted to divert to the hospital. but he knows the answers to both those questions. hmm.

"i've never asked, but i suppose it's relevant now. do time lords heal faster?"

… and I’ll respond with  3  (or more)  interesting  plots / relationships / connections  I can think of for our muses!   There is  no pressure  for us to write any of them,   but it’s a great starting point for you to get a sense of how I think our muses might interact and what sorts of plots I’m most interested in happening between them  -  so don’t be shy!

Something... odd is happening here. Not odd like vanishing gods, or job hunting, or that time that three souls came to him from the same accident involving a natural history museum and a faux-taxidermy sabre-tooth tiger reconstruction. This is different. Something temporal, and temporary.

Death leans down in his pooling black robes, one hand still gripping his scythe. He leans very far down.

ARE YOU QUITE CERTAIN YOU'RE IN THE RIGHT PLACE?

Something of an intimidating query, from a grinning skeleton head-and-bony-shoulders taller than oneself.

"Um…"

After aliens and time travel and hallucinogenic pollen, the grim reaper existing isn't such a weird concept to get his head around. "Am I not? I thought----"

His eyes are wet and he wipes at them distractedly. Swallows hard. Amy's pleas are still ringing in his ears. "Am I not dead? I was definitely just dying. Or is this another weird dream thing? I thought we escaped that, but I suppose we could have just been dreaming that we escaped, again…"

He has not had word from his father in months; Sarek had long been whisked away into dark holes and caverns of secrets and treachery. The Empire would pay a hefty price for an ambassador turned commander within the rebellion. But Spock’s loyalty extends far beyond the Empire’s control.

It brings him a sense of victory, triumph that pours the stiffness out of his back ever so slightly.

If his father survived, then the former captain of the Buran will not betray that knowledge. And what Lorca does not yet understand, is how that information saves him from present death.

“ My father is a wanted Vulcan. ” He explains then, slow and careful, eyes pinned for every twitch and tweak of Lorca’s face.

There are ears in this room, open channels that leave danger in the corners, waiting to spring and destroy them both. Captain Kirk would be eager to learn the truth of which he has long suspected: Spock is a traitor — a usurper, a fiend — a monster, merely biding time until Spock can sink his teeth into the Empire’s golden palate and break it apart.

“ He abandoned his obligation to my mother. As Governor of Vulcan, you can understand this insult. ”

Amanda Grayson is a feared and terrifyingly dangerous human of cutting wit and merciless power. Spock has never been ignorant that she is partly responsible for his lasting life among these creatures — humans that would flay him at first opportunity — dirty blooded and half Vulcan.

Like the other children would tell him, Vulcan and Human alike: he has no place in this universe.                            “ My mission is to locate him, ” capture and subject his own father to torture and imprisonment, the promise of death. The latter would be an improvement in the Empire’s plans by comparison. However, Spock has no intention of allowing Sarek to be captured alive. With one sentence, Lorca has confirmed that he can at least be trusted with the rebellion. But the human cannot know they are on similar sides. Not yet. Not here.

All Spock can do is proceed until he can.

It's clever. It also means that Gabriel is still probably projecting his own biases into this conversation, and therefore could still very well be walking into a trap.

As if he's not already in a trap.

Gabriel's already dropped most of his act. He's already said things he shouldn't have. He's not sure if he regrets the decision he's already made but he needs to stop having doubts about it. After all, Commander Spock's dubious loyalties are his only hope for survival. Co-operating with him is the only hope he has of keeping his universe safe from incursion.

Gabriel wonders at the Terrans who have trusted this Commander with a mission to find his own father? Were they blind to the potential crossed loyalties fucking up the mission? Or was this just another exercise in Terran cruelty, forcing Spock to prove his loyalty? Or was dangling the son as bait the best way to trap the father?

Probably all of the above at once. Terrans do seem to have a tendency to overcomplicate. And Gabriel figures it probably doesn't matter to him. If the mission is doomed---- well, it's not like his life can really get any more doomed.

He hasn't moved an inch, using the tension in his body to ground himself. They're dancing carefully around half-truths now, he and this Commander, and it requires all of his focus. Makes it easier to calm his racing heartbeat, to let the fear settle. For now.

( It's never far gone in this universe. )

Gabriel doesn't bother raising an objection---- they both know that if he refuses to help, he's a dead man. Instead he looks up at Spock steadily, only a slight furrow to his brow. A hint of stubborn rebellion, as Gabriel refuses to give in too easily. "How?"

She looks at him, and his gaze drops pointedly. He's growing warmer towards her, but there's the unspoken topic of Hugh that makes him start to get skittish. He's afraid she'll try to talk to him about it, afraid she'll try to help. Afraid she'll offer her pity. But she doesn't. And when she doesn't, it comes to him that he doesn't think she will. He doesn't give her his, and she doesn't give him hers.

"I don't think that's weird," she replies, head tilted towards him. "When you say 'anywhere' do you mean anywhere on the ship? Or anywhere anywhere?"