Smile and Nod, Darling

A/N: I don't actually know where I'm going with this, if anywhere... and I'm quite aware that it's cliché as faaaaaack. I'm laughing at myself, because the best I could come up with was 'The Doctor' #pathetic :)

You look up at him angrily, watching his relentless pacing back and forth over the pristine white rug. He's lost in his own thoughts, blue eyes clouded to grey, a dark shadow across his face. You wiggle your wrists against the biting plastic of your restraints, in another futile effort to somehow escape your less than favourable predicament. The sharp bite of the razor-edged plastic cuffs against the raw skin of your wrists elicits an involuntary groan of frustration. How had you gotten yourself into this mess anyways? Weren't you supposed to be one of the most competent female assassins in this business?

He stops his pacing, and you can hear and feel the vibrations of his steady stride towards you. You put your head down, not wanting to look. He stops, and you can barely make out his sock clad feet inches away from your lowered gaze.

"Neither of us are going to come out of this alive if you don't start talking." His voice is soft, yet commanding and stern. You feel a hand slide under your stomach, and he effortlessly flips you over onto your back. Your wrists scream in pain, as the weight of your torso pushes them into the yielding white rug, your shoulders chiming in with the deep ache of being held in such a restricted position. He's standing over you, looking down at you with those icy blue eyes. Gorgeous, yet filled with the chilly indifference that only those who killed for money possessed. You knew that desolate stare all too well, having had it mirrored back to you for most of your adult life. The eyes of a professional killer.

He's playing with a surgical scalpel, twirling it from hand to hand, a deft and skillful dance of the metal between his nimble fingers. Your eyes follow the teasing glint of metal, and the scabbed over gash in your abdomen pulses in pain, remembering the sharp slice of metal through your skin.

"Ainsley," he states softly, the scalpel coming to a stop in his hands. You raise your gaze in response, looking once again into those chilling blue eyes. He kneels, his knees cradling your head and that icy stare filling your vision. The cold edge of the scalpel rests precariously on the edge of your hairline, and the first small inkling of fear rises into your consciousness. He's going to cut off your scalp…

You shut your eyes instinctively as the blade digs deeper into your skin, the cold edge turning to the sharp sting of a blade breaking skin. So this is how it ends for you, getting scalped by none other than The Doctor.

The Doctor. Nameless aside from the feared moniker given to him years ago. A ruthless and emotionless killer, willing to make a death quick and efficient, or slow and tortuous. He was an urban legend, spoken of with great fear and a reserved if not terrified terror. Exorbitant sums of money alone could not buy you his services, no, you had to hold much more power than that. No one had ever seen his face; no one wanted to either, as it was a guarantee that you'd be dead soon after.

"Lucky me, granted the lovely privilege of being face to face with The Doctor!" your thoughts snide and dripping with sarcasm. One of your many defensive mechanisms kicking into high gear. You knew you should have said no;  no to ever having agreed to look at that sparse file your handler at the CIA had handed you, adorned by a single yellow post it reading "The Doctor"; no to agreeing to do surveillance on the man the CIA suspected to be the killer (he wasn't even close to being the right person), and finally a resolute NO to ever agreeing to track down and kill the The Doctor.

Too late for all those no's though now. Too late.

You're so immersed in your own thoughts, fear coursing through your veins, you hardly notice the tears streaming down your face, the tremble of your body as you whimper quietly.

"Ainsley," he growls, the blade dragging painfully across your hairline, "just tell me what I want to know."

"I DON'T FUCKING KNOW ANYTHING!" you scream back at him, the fear rising in your stomach, threatening to overwhelm you as your vision clouds with the red tinge of your blood. You can't help it, you start sobbing, chest heaving and voice breaking.

His knees tighten their grip around your twitching head, holding you still under the blade of the scalpel. You wonder wildly if you should just lie, tell him anything he wants to hear, maybe it'll buy you some time. Some time to do what though? Bleed out on his lovely white rug with your hands and ankles tied? Sure, much better than getting scalped alive you suppose...

The searing pain stops. The blade is lifted from your skin, the pressure of his knees holding your head in place is gone. You barely make out his lean, muscular form rising and striding away. Your eyes close, and your hysterical sobs reside to heaving hiccups. You can feel the vibrations of the floor underneath his strong strides as he returns beside you. Two strong arms slide under your back and legs, lifting you easily. He cradles you gently in his arms, the soft cotton of his shirt pressing into the side of your face.

He's going to throw me over the balcony… he's going to throw me over the balcony! Your thoughts run widely rampant as a shrill cry of realization is ripped from your throat, you try to thrash against him, struggle, anything, but you can barely move. Your body refuses to respond, your movements slow and sluggish. Blood loss. You're going into hypovolemic shock.

He's saying something, you can hear words, you can hear his voice. You're slipping in and out of consciousness, his voice and rumbling of his chest oddly soothing. The last thing you can make out is him calling your name. It sounds wondrously musical to your ears, and small smile graces your lips before you go limp in his arms, darkness enveloping your vision as you go unconscious.