Chapter Text
The knock on Narvin’s door is entirely inappropriate for a peace conference: rough and loud and urgent, nothing tactful or diplomatic about it. Especially not at this particular hour, in the middle of a designated rest period. How is he supposed to have enough energy to argue with the Monan ambassador at their next meeting, with interruptions like this?
He considers ignoring the person entirely, but the persistent knock only grows louder. Grumbling as he pulls his white robe over his head, he decides to let the universe know how he feels about this state of affairs by flinging his pillow against the wall, where it hits with a satisfying thump and plops down onto the bed.
The door retracts more slowly than usual, because Leela has propped herself against the outside and slid partially to the floor, like a marionette with broken strings.
“Narvin,” she gasps, and he gasps along with her. Red welts cover her cheeks, swollen flesh has almost closed one eye completely, and blood drips from her nose. She half-rolls off of the door and into Narvin’s arms, so unexpectedly and smearing so much blood and sweat along the way, that his first instinct is to drop her.
She falls with an unsettling squelch, elbows akimbo as she curls in on herself in pain. “I cannot trust – we cannot trust anyone here, I did not know where else to go,” she rasps from the floor. “Help me!”
Glancing at the empty corridor outside, Narvin bends down to seize hold of her boots and drag them inside, so he can close the door. Once his quarters are secured, he squats beside her with a frown, his hands flapping once in confusion, as if he has any idea what to do with an injured, distressingly messy human. A shooing motion feels like the only appropriate reaction.
“Rassilon’s ghost, what happened?”
“The servitors and – cough – and Baano,” she says, as though this word is supposed to mean something to him. Blood dribbles from the corner of her mouth.
He tuts in exasperation – he can’t just leave Leela bleeding on the metal floor, can he? Probably not? That seems like something that would upset Romana, if she finds out later. Not that he minds upsetting Romana; in fact, it’s something of a hobby. But it’s one thing to intentionally drag his feet in completing one of his President’s ridiculous assignments, and another to let her alien pet bleed out on his floor.
“You’re making a mess,” he chides, leaning down with the intent of dragging her to her feet, and putting her on any nearby elevated surface. His hands flutter again, still helpless as he tries to decide the best way to move her without getting more red blood on his robe or touching any unpleasant part of her body. Which, frankly, is her entire body, but certain parts would be slightly more unpleasant to touch than others, he decides.
He takes one of her hands, pulling her up and draping her arm across his shoulders so he can haul her upright. She doesn’t weigh as much as he assumed; she’s not particularly tall, but seems to be entirely made of muscle and, given the surveillance recordings he’s seen of her fighting skills, she has an impressive size-to-strength ratio. Even so, she’s surprisingly warm and soft, her whole body sagging against him and her head lolling into his chest.
As he half-carries, half-limps with her over to his bed, she makes a noise that he belatedly recognizes as “Thank you.”
“I’m not familiar with human anatomy, but you do seem to be quite badly damaged. It would be very embarrassing to Gallifrey if you died during this peace conference, and I’m sure Romana would be annoyed at the inconvenience, so please do try to hold yourself together until I can summon help. I’m sure some of the servitors have medic – or veterinarian - programming.”
She reaches out, seizing the front of his robe with a shockingly strong grip, smearing red fingerprints across the white fabric. He’s yanked downward, almost toppling into bed with her, and only barely catches himself on the edge of the mattress.
Her one open blue eye fixes him with a firm gaze, even as her words slur across her split lip: “No servitors. They are – they are traitors. They killed K-9 and did this to me, with Baano.”
“You’re delirious,” he tuts, taking hold of her wrist and gently but persistently trying to pry himself out of her grip. “Your inferi – ahem – your human biology probably isn’t equipped to deal with these sorts of injuries, I really must get help. Romana will be rather put out if I let you die.”
“I feel so tired, Narvin. We will deal with this together, when I have rested. But we cannot trust anyone else at this conference, only each other.”
“You’re bleeding on my duvet.”
“Your duvet is very scratchy, and you are the last creature in the universe whose bed I wish to be in,” she mumbles, red drool dribbling from the corner of her mouth onto his pillow. Her one good eye closes, and her shallow breathing evens out, and Narvin has no idea if she’s asleep or unconscious.
He certainly ought to summon the servitors. But then again, Leela is many irritating things, but she is not a liar. Whatever assaulted her was certainly real enough, and if she identifies her attackers as a Baano and some of the mechanical servitors, Narvin has no real justification for doubting her account. The servitors serve as the only security force on the planetoid – they were supposed to be unbreachable, impervious to outside influence. He could call Romana for help … which would mean admitting that he’s incapable of handling this crisis on his own. Admitting weakness isn’t on his to-do list for today, and he doesn’t plan to add it as a write-in line item.
He could step out of his locked quarters to search for her disabled K-9 unit, to sort out exactly what happened. But he hasn’t got a staser, because in the interest of diplomatic expediency he’d decided to abide by Hossack’s requirement that delegates not bring firearms or their own security measures – her planetary shielding and servitor programming had seemed sound enough, when he’d reviewed the plans she sent for approval.
It occurs to him that, practically speaking, the only weapon at his disposal is currently bleeding and snoring on his bed. Even without her knife, he has no doubt that Leela could make handy work of anyone on this planetoid in a fair fight, including himself.
Staying locked in his quarters seems prudent. He washes his hands twice, then spends a few microspans accessing the planetoid’s databases, hacking into the encrypted levels with the precision of a gardener sculpting a topiary, to research exactly what a Baano is.
Behind his back, Leela occasionally makes soft noises on his bed. He ignores them for as long as possible, but finally stands from the data terminal with an irritated sigh and fetches a damp cloth from his lavatory. Standing more than an arm’s length away, he leans over just far enough to drop the cloth on her head.
She groans from beneath it, like a soggy ghost, and reaches up with one hand to drag it off of her face.
“Wake up, Leela. Tell me what this dancer Baano has to do with anything; she’s just the Nekkistani ambassador’s trollop. What did you do to provoke her, so she put you in this state?”
Still in a daze, Leela’s eyelids flutter and she reaches out with startling speed, managing to seize hold of his hand even though he’s standing (what he thought was) a safe distance away. With a strong grip, fingernails digging into his palm, she murmurs, “Andred? Is that truly you?”
“Rassilon save me,” Narvin snaps, yanking out of her reach. The warmth of Leela's skin has shocked him, both times they've touched. He’s used to seeing her upright, dangerous, bristling with primitive weapons and homicidal tendencies. But now she looks so soft and helpless, he feels a bizarre, fleeting impulse to use the damp cloth and dab the blood from her face.
He clears his throat and shakes his head, crossing his arms so she can’t touch him again. “I don’t imagine you’re embarrassed by your own behavior, since you don’t seem to have any shame, but really. I have far higher standards and better judgment than Andred. Snap out of it, Leela!”
Her eyes flutter shut again. He’s contemplating more drastic measures to wake her up, like perhaps shaking her shoulder or pouring a cup of water on her face, when the first wave of dizziness hits him. Subtle, like a tremor in the floor plating, growing stronger as the room around him shifts and settles and his time senses scream at him that somewhere, someone is fiddling.
He’s caught up in a time eddy.
Moving fast, he reaches for the communication button to contact the CIA on Gallifrey before this timeline shifts too far, and he doesn’t remember. “This is Coordinator Narvin, there has been an intervent—”
He blinks.
“Delegate Narvin, here are your quarters,” drones the servitor, gesturing stiffly at the open door. Standing in the corridor, Narvin blinks again and peers inside. He's inexplicably certain someone is already occupying the room; if he looks hard enough, he’ll find them lying on his bed.
Ridiculous.
With a shake of his head and a sharp inhale, he says, “Very good, leave my luggage inside. I should get to the delegate mixer, before the inaugural negotiations begin.”