Chapter Eighteen, Part One: We Bake a Likely Lussebulle, For Saint Lucia’s DayMature

The Doctor adjusts himself. There’s a mirror in the corner, handily arranged. They’ve had to makeshift everything, since the clean-up started. But it’s going slow. 

His hands fumble at the cufflinks. They’ve always been rubbish, but he wears them now. He wants to shine himself up, and how better then his new usual of white and black? 

The cufflinks go undone in favour of defiance and the last button on his nice crisp shirt. He thinks perhaps he’s got a craving for the thing- the shirt that is, not the button. He’s grown to fancy them, since taking on Flamina as a… ward. 

As he reaches down to pat her where she’s growing, he smiles somewhat, hovering his hand halfway between his stomach’s blunted apex and the undone two-button drop front on his near-black trousers, and thinks of Paris and the Louvre. 

His knuckles turn flat. He presses them to his chin, considering the Mona Lisa as he remembers her. Or him, depending on the season. Nice bloke, she was. 

With the wrong hand, the hand with the Ring, absently he reaches down to touch his guest again. 

Metal meets pale skin, and roots of ice penetrate hard muscle beneath the protective fat, and he bawls soundlessly with an open mouth, biting his lip as pain flays open nerves rendered temporally raw by her presence inside him. 

“Wrong… hand… idiot,” he grits through grinding teeth. Vibrations rattle his personal timestream, past, present, future, and the ring whisks him away, into a swirling storm.  “…so much for the failsafe.”

 ***



The End

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