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isis-astarte-diana · 4 years

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Milk and Honey: Day 1

Day 1 ‖ Day 2 ‖ Day 3

Summary: “I can’t keep a houseplant alive, never mind a Time Lord.” You aren’t thrilled when the Doctor asks you to observe a wounded Missy while she heals, but in close quarters you see a side of her you’d never expected.

Warnings: Mentions of injury, blood and gore, but nothing too graphic. Sexual tension and a teeny tiny bit of non-sexual nudity. Missy is her own warning (I’m going to start using an acronym for this because it comes up far too much). SFW. Very, very soft.

Word Count: 2820

NB: This ran away from me so badly, so it will be continued! I read the whole Wiki page on Gallifreyan physiology for this. They really do have orange blood, and they really can’t take aspirin. I also took the liberty of throwing in the “only one bed” trope and making it gay.

“I don’t even know first aid.”

The Doctor scoffs, dismissing you with a wave of his hand. “Wouldn’t help much anyway. Very different anatomy.”

“Doctor, I’m serious. My Nintendogs all ran away from neglect. Every Tamagotchi I’ve ever had has starved to death. I can’t keep a houseplant alive, never mind a Time Lord.”

“Time Lords are easier. They tell you when they need feeding. Look,” he reaches out to touch your arm, his voice lowering. “I wouldn’t ask you to do this if I didn’t need to. I can’t monitor the vault all day while I’m working, and somebody has to keep watch while she recovers. Bill doesn’t have her own place and Nardole is... Nardole. She doesn’t need medical care; she’ll heal on her own in a few days. She just needs observation.”

You cross your arms tightly and throw a glance at the closed bathroom door. “Observation while she rips my throat out?”

“Don’t be like that. Missy gets on with you. Besides which, she’s in no condition to cause trouble.”

“Okay, see, that?” You point an accusatory finger at his chest, close to yours where you stand in the narrow hallway of your flat. “That sounds far too much like tempting fate.” He takes your hand in both of his. The pleading look on his face makes you soften. “What happened to her, anyway?”

“Ah. Silurians, apparently. Stabbed in the back. They fight dirty.” He chuckles. “So does she.”

“Are you sure she doesn’t need stitches, or anything?”

“No need; it’ll take care of itself. Temporal platelets. Ad-hoc regeneration.” Sensing your confusion, he explains, “surface wounds heal quickly. It’s probably already scabbed over. It’s the internal damage that takes time.”

“I just don’t know if I’m the right person to do this.”

“You are.” It’s heavy with sincerity. “There’s nobody else in the universe that I would trust.”

You scoff. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere.”

“Of course it will.” He grins and gives your hand one final squeeze before dropping it. “I’ll come and check in on you both tomorrow, alright? I’ll drop some things off for her.”

“Yeah, alright.”

He’s halfway out the door when he pauses and looks back over his shoulder. “Oh, don’t give her any aspirin. Incompatible with Gallifreyan physiology. It works like rat poison.”

“Duly noted.”

+++++

You’ve been standing outside the bathroom door for the best part of two minutes now, trying to decide whether or not to make your presence known.

Inside, over the sound of the bath running, you can hear Missy swearing. She’s always had a more colourful taste in language than the Doctor, but this is something new. There are choice words that you recognise and strange sounds you can only assume to be Gallifreyan expletives, all strung together in a near-constant stream of profanity.

You jump back when there’s a loud thud against the door. It sounds like she’s slammed her hand into it. Already wincing in anticipation, you reach out and knock tentatively.

“Missy?” Your voice is apologetic. “You okay?”

Silence. The door cracks open just enough for you to see her face, still stained with dry blood. Her eyes are red and puffy.

“Could you give me a hand?” She winces like it pains her to ask. “Please.”

You think it might be the first time you’ve heard her say that.

“Yeah, yeah, of course. What- what do you need?”

“I can’t- I’m having trouble with my laces.” A half-smile as she tries to claw back the power she’s unused to handing over. “On account of the whopping great stab wound, and whatnot.”

“Yeah, those can be inconvenient.”

She pushes the door wider and lets you into the bathroom. Your eyes are drawn to the pile of white and violet on the floor, her discarded skirt and blouse. Her cameo brooch is balanced on the sink. Its ivory face is obscured with smears of orange.

“I just need somebody to loosen them,” she continues, turning to show you her back, mercifully ignoring the way your gaze flits about the room and tries to avoid settling on her. “Unfortunately I’m very good at tying knots.”

For some reason, that makes your mouth go dry.

“I’ll do my best.”

She’s facing away from you, towards the mirror. Her hair falls down over one shoulder, already brushed conveniently out of your way. The chemise she wears is thin, pale linen, stiff and brown in places with dried blood, pinned in place beneath the corset she can’t remove herself. It curves under her bust and across her back.

From here, you can see how the knife must have entered between the laces in the small of her back, caking them with blood. The tight bow is undamaged. You begin to pick it apart, trying not to touch her, as much in modesty as for fear of aggravating the injury.

“Let me know if I hurt you.”

“Hmm.” She grips the sink, angling her body to give you better access. Drawing your bottom lip between your teeth, you focus on the knots slowly giving beneath your fingers, trying in vain to ignore her closeness and the way her hips are just barely touching your own.

You’re glad of the cacophony of rushing water from the tap. The pressure of your pulse in your throat is almost painful. Sweat beads at your temples. Steam. It’s a hot room. That’s all.

“Okay.” The laces fall slack in your hands, the bow finally coming apart. “Just- loosen them?”

“Please.” There it is again.

“This might- you know-”

“I know.”

Her hands tighten on the sink when you hook one finger beneath the first row of laces above her waist and tug, drawing slack from the loose ends, releasing some of the tension. When she doesn’t make any sound of protest, you move higher up and repeat the motion. It’s not until the entire top half of the corset is loosened that she lets out a slow, shallow breath you hadn’t realised she was holding, shifting her position.

“Okay?”

“Fine.” It comes out short. She makes an effort to soften her voice. “It’s fine.”

“I’ll carry on.”

You know that the other side will be worse. The wound is just lower than where the bow had been, and the stiff garment has probably held it closed quite effectively. Removing it is unlikely to help the pain.

Sure enough, when you pull on the first lace Missy makes a low noise behind her teeth. She’s white-knuckled on the edge of the sink, threatening to crack the cheap porcelain. You imagine explaining that to the landlord and try to hide an inappropriate smile.

“Keep going,” she prompts tightly.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

You work as gently as you can, but it’s clear that even the smallest motion is painful. By the time you reach the bottom of the corset, her breathing is ragged and her eyes are screwed shut. You feel profoundly guilty.

“Can you- take it off, or should I?”

“Could you?” She gestures to her stomach and quickly steadies herself again. “Clasps are at the front.”

“Sure.”

Swallowing thickly, you move closer to reach around her waist. The backs of her thighs press against you from the position. When your hands land on her stomach, gripping the starched material at the bottom, you can feel her four-beat pulse through the panels. Your fingers are trembling.

The hooks and eyes slide apart with a chorus of metallic clicks, leaving just the top fastenings still holding. She grunts, twitching, pushing back against you. She’s warm.

“Almost done.” It’s as much for your benefit as hers. You follow the material upwards, drawing back as if burned when the fabric of her chemise brushes your fingers, and release the final two clasps. She lets out a heavy exhale in relief, glancing up from the sink, and for a long moment she catches your eye in the mirror. Her features are strained from the ordeal, messy hair in her face, lips parted as she catches her breath. You look awestruck.

“Thank you,” she murmurs into the reflection.

You pull back too quickly, dropping the corset to the floor with her other clothes and reaching over awkwardly to turn the tap off. The bath is full.

“I’ll put you some clothes ready,” you say hurriedly, nearly tripping on the pile of laundry in your haste to leave the room. “Just shout if you need anything else.”

Back in the kitchen, you wash the orange-brown stains of Missy’s blood from your hands. When you drag them harshly down your face, trying to steady yourself with a splash of cold water, they smell like pennies.

+++++

“Don’t laugh.”

“Jesus!” You nearly jump out of your skin, dropping the butter knife you’re holding and throwing a hand up to your pounding heart. “Don’t you make any noise when you walk?”

“Not if I can help it. Which I can.” Missy pauses. “What are you doing?”

“Making toast. Pretty standard human stuff. Breakfast? Toast. Flu? Toast. Tonsils out? Toast. Mortally wounded?” You shrug. “Toast.”

“I’m not mortally wounded,” she snaps. “You have to be mortal for that. I’m temporarily, slightly incapacitated.”

“Oh, of course,” you concede, looking back at her over your shoulder. “Luckily, there’s toast for-”

Your voice catches in your throat.

She’s obviously found the clothes you set out for her; an oversized tee shirt that swamps her frame and a pair of pyjama trousers. Her dark hair falls in a thick, wet braid. With her face clean you can see for the first time where she’s injured.

There’s a graze on her cheek, spanning across her nose, pink and sore-looking. Her bottom lip is swollen and split on the same side. A long, dark scab bisects the patch of rough skin, reaching from her jaw up towards her eye. It looks like her face has been slammed into the ground repeatedly.

You’ve never really seen her without her trademark boots and careful tailoring. She’s shorter than you imagined. There’s a soft, feminine curve to her stomach that’s usually concealed by the corset, and a faint musculature to her biceps.

“You look-”

“Don’t,” she cuts you off sharply. “Don’t say it. Let’s not add insult to injury.”

“I was going to say that you look nice.”

“Oh.” Her face softens. Some of the tightness leaves her brow. “Nice is fine. You can say that.”

It’s true, but the unsaid hangs heavily between you. She looks human. Hurt and freshly showered, standing in your kitchen in a pair of your pyjamas and with fuzzy striped socks on her feet, she looks so... soft. Touchable. Loveable.

Wait, what? Where did that come from?

The toaster pops and you turn to it, infinitely grateful for the distraction. You can feel her eyes on the back of your neck.

“Anything I can do?”

“No, I’m good.” The words come out too quickly. You throw her a weak smile. “I’ve got this. Thank you. You sit down.”

“Matron knows best.”

Her fingers brush over your elbow as she turns to leave. It could be a thank you. It’s hard to say.

+++++

You’ve been to other planets. You’ve travelled in time. You’ve seen cyborgs, and dinosaurs, and aliens of every description; but nothing has ever felt more bizarre than sitting on your sofa beside Missy, having tea and toast, watching a soap opera on a Thursday evening.

She’s leaning against an armrest, two pillows propped behind her back, keeping her weight off the healing wound. Her bright eyes are fixed on the television. She’d actually requested this programme, finding the endless human conflicts relentlessly amusing.

“He’s buried under the allotment.”

"Who is? The brother?”

“Definitely.” She sips from one of your prized novelty mugs. It’s purple and shaped like a cartoon octopus. “It was his wife. She poisoned him.”

“It’s always poison when it’s a woman.” You munch at your toast. “You know, most poisoners are men.”

“Most murderers are men, love.” The endearment nearly makes you choke. “You’re privileged enough to be sitting next to one of the minority.”

“Girl power,” you mutter around a mouthful of crumbs. She laughs. There’s something warm and genuine about it that makes your heart clench. You finish eating in companionable silence, watching as Missy’s prediction is revealed to be true just before the credits roll.

“Told you.” She leans in to set her empty plate down on the coffee table on top of yours. As she moves, she winces and lets out a soft sound of discomfort. One hand reaches back to press against the injury. You frown.

“How’s it feeling?”

“Quite a lot like I was stabbed, actually.” She rubs her forehead. “I think I need to do that thing. What’s it called? Like a healing coma, but less.” Glancing sideways at your furrowed brow, she prompts, “you know. You do it all the time. Eight hours a week, or something.”

"Sleep?”

“Sleep! That’s the one. Clever girl.” You can’t supress a shiver at the way she rolls the ‘r’. “Been a while since I’ve done that.”

“That would explain a lot.” You move the dishes, leaving them for the morning. “Just let me get changed and grab a blanket. You can take the bed.”

“Oh, no need.” She waves you away. “I’m perfectly fine here. Think I was in the desert, last time, so this is a step up.”

“There’s no way I’m leaving you to sleep on a sofa when you’re recovering from a stab wound, Missy, Gallifreyan constitution or not. Besides which, this is a particularly bad one to spend the night on. Believe me, I speak from experience. The desert may actually be preferable.”

“I’m not throwing you out of your own bed,” she snaps, so harshly that it makes you flinch. “I’m enough of a nuisance as it is.”

Here we go.

Wounded pride is something you’ve dealt with from the Doctor time innumerable, but you’ve never had to address it with Missy before. You realise how difficult it must have been for her to ask for your help with the corset and wonder how much pain she’d put herself through trying to do it alone. For the first time, you imagine the conversation she must have had with the Doctor before he brought her here. How long did she fight him on it? How long did she insist that she could cope on her own in the vault? You’d assumed that he wanted to keep her supervised in case the injury didn’t heal well, but maybe there was more to it than that. Maybe he just didn’t want her to be alone.

“We could share.”

She lifts her head, setting those ancient eyes on you. “Share?”

“Share the bed. It’s big enough. No point in one of us being uncomfortable if we don’t have to be. Bill and I share when she comes over.” You feel like you’re babbling. This may be the worst idea you’ve ever had.

“Do you?”

“Course we do. Friends do that.”

Friends. She blinks a few times.

“Well then. When in Rome, as they say.” She rises unsteadily to her feet, one hand braced on the arm of the sofa. “Although apparently, that doesn’t mean that you can crucify someone for stealing a mule. The Doctor was so cross with me that weekend.”

+++++

“You’re going to fall off the bed.”

Missy’s voice is muffled by the pillow jammed awkwardly under her cheek. She’s lying on her stomach, arms under her head, her face twisted towards you so that she isn’t leaning on the injured side.

You wince at having been caught out. You’re as close to the edge as it’s possible to be, balanced uncomfortably on your side with your back to her. Even so, you can feel her behind you; she has no such qualms about taking up space.

“I’m not contagious, you know.” In her exhausted state - she’s been half-asleep since her head hit the pillow - she actually sounds insulted. “There’s no epidemic of knife wounds.”

“Please don’t jinx it.”

She snorts. Suitably chagrined, you squirm back towards the middle of the bed, settling into your usual sleeping position. You still make sure to keep your face turned away. There’s an odd feeling of dread in the pit of your stomach. You can’t shake the idea that if you roll over and look at her face, the cuts and grazes there cast in sharp relief by the thin light of the bedside lamp, something terrible will happen.

You reach for the switch. “Light off?”

Her leg brushes against yours, warm even through the pyjamas, and your heart skips a beat. “Leave it on?” She sounds so small in the dark. You pause for a second before tucking your arm back under the duvet.

“Of course.” It sounds rough. You clear your throat. “Goodnight, Missy.”

“Night,” she murmurs back, already thick and drowsy.

Sleep comes easy to you both.

#missy x reader #the master x reader #mine #request #doctor who fic #whump #doctor who whump #reader insert #doctor who reader insert

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