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

“Oh, dear, I’m so sorry. Are you all right, Borusa? Here, let me…”                           

 The Doctor twists to pick her up, wrapping strong hands around her small body and planting her gently on the bench seat alongside him. Her crystal blue gaze widens as his fingers palpate her scalp and chest for any bruising, but she doesn’t speak until he stops to take another breath. Then she reaches up and cups his cheek. 

“Stop fussing and tell me the truth, my boy. What are you up to?  You’ve hardly spared me the indecency of this bucket on my  head and as such I expect expedience from you…obedience would be too much to ask, no matter how old you are.” 

“Yes, mam.” the Doctor murmurs, leaning on the wall as he carefully sticks one arm into his robe with out raising it all the way. “This from a Prydonian with a pail on his head. Sorry- her head. Gods I uh, can’t think straight… stupid erm, hormones.”

The End

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