And you don't really comprehend what she said at first. You think you hear yourself talk, but she doesn't answer. Then you realise what she just said and you can't really believe it, can you? Doesn't she know? Of course she knows. She must know. There's no way she can't. But then why...

 

It doesn't matter now, because you've already turned your hand and struck her. You're so far away as you watch her head snap to the side. You don't register her shaky breath inwards, but you must have heard it because it egged you on. Your hand finds itself curled in her hair and suddenly you're walking away, dragging her with you. She's yelling something at you.

Not that it matters.

 

And now all you can think as she thrashes is [why do they always thrash fight snarl don't they know they can't get away don't they know who you are] that this would be so much easier if you still heard the Drums. Wouldn't it? It would. 'Course it would. They would let you think or not think or think more or something like that. You don't really know anymore. All you know is rage [and something else what is that it's so familiar what -is- it] right now, but it tastes so different. 

 

Her old room. How fitting. How interesting. Did you think of that, or did the TARDIS? Doesn't matter, doesn't matter. 

 

Your hand comes free but you didn't let go, what - oh. As you pull the strands of hair from your fingers you notice that there's blood on your ring. That'll stain, that's not right. And you're just about to tell her about how terrible this is, but when you look at her, her lip is already healing. That's not right either. You'll have to do something about that, won't you?

 

The crack that rings out from the blow to her face is sweet, but then there's a scream and you can hear that alright, can't you? Even with them gone you imagine you can feel the Drums ease and sooth themselves. And it almost feels the same. When you stand back you can clearly see her cough and spit and there's more blood and that's a bit better. Her nose could stand to be a little more broken though. Your fist had already done its job before you finished the thought. And it doesn't stop.

 

You're talking. She's talking, listen. Listen. You can hear the blind panic in her voice: "What are you doing? What do you think you're doing?"

What did you say? You're still saying it, what are you saying?

 

"Say it again." 

 

But she's stopped.

 

"Say it again." The next smack takes away her ability to see through her right eye. "I warned you about playing nice. Didn't you like playing nice, Andrea?"

 

She nods. She shouldn't be able to. She's healing quicker than before. That's different. That's interesting. That's, oh, that's so good.

 

"You know it's worth it to play nice, don't you?" Tone rises here, hiss in the right places, dip your voice there. 

 

Let her know, with just your voice, exactly who you are and exactly what she is. Remind her. She's forgotten, she's broken. And you can't have that, can you?

 

* * * * * * * * * *

 

"She's back."

 

Don't look up from your work. It's only the Doctor and his ill informed opinions about you and maybe her. "How perceptive of you."

 

"When did this happen?" His voice is impartial, uninterested. What a clever thing he is.

 

"Oh, about two hours ago." It's okay to look up now, since you have to see his reaction. "Are you questioning my judgement, Doctor?"

 

His jaw clenches, a trait that's more telltale than annoying. "No, my Master."

 

"Good! Now hold this down, would you?"

* * * * * * * *

 

When you return to her room she's still lying [is she still dead is she sleeping does it matter] in the same place you left her. Then you pick her up and she's still broken and the blood hasn't fully clotted so she must still be dead. It's taking such a long time. You wonder briefly if you can make it last even longer, this death. 

 

Then you realise that it would be a kindness. 

 

So you take her, dripping still, back to your [our their we her his no your always your] room and lay her down on the bed. And you wait. You watch the bones knit back together. You watch the bruises fade and the welts fall back down into her flesh. You watch the blood dry and sometimes go right back in. Like nature in reverse. Unnature, unnatural. And one thing you definitely don't do is shiver, but you think about how appropriate one would be right now. 

She does that little gasping thing and comes to. When she looks at you first her eyes cloud over with fear [and little bit of something else what was that was that - no] but she hides it quickly. You feel your face shift into a smile. Fixing herself again so quickly. Such a quick learner. Such a pity.

 

"Get a shower," your fingers run through her hair only to find it clumped with dried blood, so much blood. "And then rest."

 

She nods.

 

You wait.

 

She blanches. "Yeah, I will. Thank you, my Lord and Master."

 

"Good girl."