Until We Burn | Dr Who

Chapter Seventy-Nine: A Song of Captivity

TW// Themes around slavery, panic attack

—

Wide alleys separate the industrial buildings, dusted with snow. We take a flight of stairs to a platform overlooking the complex just as a legion of Ood are marched out to their work stations by armed guards.

One of them seems to be struggling more than the others. Sure enough, his legs give way from under him and he falls. The others do nothing to help him up. They don't seem to see him, but I notice the tell-tale tension in their posture when it happens. They are too scared to move.

"Get up," a guard orders. When the order does nothing, he takes the whip from his belt. "I said, get up!" I flinch at the sharp cracking of its impact. Donna gasps and grabs my hand. It takes three more lashes before the Ood forces himself back to his feet. "March!"

The Doctor holds himself tall, a look of disgust evident on his face. "Last time I met the Ood, I never thought. I never asked."

"That's not like you," she mumbles.

"I was busy — so busy I couldn't save them, I had to let the Ood die. I reckon I owe them one."

A set of doors open below and a balding man in a black suit emerges, standing out stark against the white ground. He is followed closely by a human in a lab coat, an Ood and two armed guards. She juts her chin in his direction. "That looks like the boss."

He grimaces in agreement. "Let's keep out of his way. Come on."

We head back down the stairs to continue our search. Walking in line with me as he often does, the Doctor glances up from the map every now and then, watching me over his glasses. He thinks I don't notice. I catch him out by the fourth look and meet his gaze. My lips pull into a soft smile and I take his hand in mine.

The movement disturbs my injured wrist. He frowns down at the slope of my bound arm beneath the poncho. There's no use asking if I am all right or if it's still hurting. Instead, he says, "Is there anything I can do?"

The obvious solution still hangs between us. It has ever since he treated my injuries in the Tardis medbay — he can heal me just like he did after our run-in with that living sun. All he has to do is give me a fraction of the energy that keeps him alive, and I'll be fine in a matter of seconds. If he asks, he will hear just as firm a refusal as he did the other night. I won't have him give himself away just for me. I know exactly how he feels, I don't want him to prove it. He still thinks that he has to.

But I don't say any of that. I tighten my hold on him for just a moment, my thumb tracing over his skin. I paint a declaration of my own on its smooth canvas. "Just be here."

His head dips, his eyes closing for a moment. A soft smile warms his own face against the cold for just a moment. "Of course," he replies.

Our exchange is quiet but it rings in my ears. Every whisper turns into a shout around him. That's how we live, in a world where little things are big and big things are earth-shaking. We amplify each other to drown out everything else. We think, if I love them loud enough, things might be better.

Maybe they will. I like to think so. And until then, I exist in the whispers.

A piercing whistle startles us out of this one. Flinching, we look to Donna and she, in turn, looks to the door she stands beside. He rifles through his pockets for his sonic as he mutters, "Where'd you learn to whistle?"

"West Ham, every Saturday."

The door opens for us and closes behind. The warehouse within is vast enough that its edges disappear in the darkness. Just a few overhead lights illuminate our concrete path. Shipping containers rise on either side of us and stack up in the far corners of the space like building blocks. Just the sight of them chills me.