What's Still Unsaid
She finishes his sentences, which is something he never expected from her. It's nothing against her, really, it's just that none of his companions have ever been like that. Usually they interrupt him, and less usually they let him finish before they speak. But it's rare to find someone whose mind mirrors his own enough that it's like they share one thought.
At night, while she sleeps, he wonders if it has something to do with the link forged between them when she first saw into his mind in her past and his future. Or maybe, he thinks, it's the time they've spent together, rubbing off on her in a way it has on so few others. Maybe it's the long conversations they often have, stretching so long that they're only broken when she finally needs rest.
Or maybe it's just her. Maybe she's just special.
His special little queen.
Whatever it is, he finds himself continually amused and impressed by how quickly she learns. So far, she's had the last word in conversations with philosophers, poets, and... physicists. The look on Marie Curie's face had been priceless but, unlike the Doctor, Reinette had known enough to soften the blow by thanking her for her contribution to France's legacy in the world.
The look on the Doctor's face had been as priceless as the one on Madame Curie's. Later that night they talk of feminism, science, and death. "I wish I could have told her that inside her pocket was the cause of her death," she said. She looked at him as though he understood, because of course he did. "But she still has much to do, does she not?"
"She likes the colors it gives off in the dark," was all he said at first. They were speaking of Madame Curie, but he was thinking of Madame de Pompadour. By now she had learned of her own death, the natural consequence of a library full of books on the history of Earth, but they had never spoken of it. He took her hand in his, and she offered him a warm smile. "She'll always have work to do, and she'll always have done it. Every death of every person we meet can be prevented, but that doesn't mean it should be."
His special little queen.
At night, while she sleeps, he thinks of the day he'll have to say goodbye to her. He knows that a time will come soon, by his counting at least, when her health will begin to falter and she'll whither before him. He can extend her life, keep her healthy until he returns her to France in time to fade away and die. But should he?
"No," she whispers from behind him, arms sliding around his waist. She presses her face to his back and finishes his thought for him, even if it's in a way he could never finish himself. "You should not."
"You're always finishing my sentences, you know." His chest feels tight. This time, for the first time, he wishes she hadn't.
He stares into the monitor on the console and says nothing.
[ ambitious_woman appears with permission of her writer. ]