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“You call them friends.”
The woman's voice breaks the Doctor's reading, right when he was getting to the good part of his book, even. He's read it many times, but being interrupted on the best part of all things makes him wonder if Missy hasn't done it on purpose.
He moves his gaze from the pages, turning his head to look at the other Time Lord in the room, the large vault only containing sparse furniture and them, seeing her icy blue eyes staring back at him. She's… changing. Slowly, yes, but she is, he can see it— and yet he can't figure out if the fact that she looks like she's about to pounce on him is just his mind playing tricks on him or if she's actually ready to go for his throat.
“What?” He asks, because her words don't really make any sense. Her lips purse, like she's annoyed with his lack of understanding, as if it's his fault.
“The little people you run around with,” she says again, her voice taking on that tone that means she's not happy with something, although it sounds cheery. “You call them friends. Is it really that deep with them?”
Ah, of course, he thinks. He understands what she's talking about now.
“Like, for example, that time when everyone in the world was me,” she continues, leaning forward to get her teacup, looking so nonchalant to an untrained eye that, had he been anyone else, they wouldn't see the anger simmering just underneath those eyes. “You called that little lady who just wouldn't turn your best friend. Quite frankly, I don't think I've ever been this offended.”
“You do know that Earth has a very different notion of friendship than we do, don't you?” He asks, trying to keep his voice calm. She's changing, but he's not stupid enough to think she's any less murderous.
“Ah, so you're becoming native, then?” She asks after taking a sip of her tea, putting the teacup away and fixing her hair.
He can't help but follow the movement of her hands, knowing her hair is not out of place, but she fixes it anyway in what looks like an out of habit thing. He doesn't believe she's ever had this amount of hair before in her life, so it must be a little off putting.
“Why don't you go straight to the point?” He asks, his voice still quiet, still observing her as she almost pouts her annoyance.
“I am your friend,” she says, a little more forward now, her eyes on him. “These little… things do not know you like I do. They do not deserve to be called friends.”
He looks at her for a moment, seeing how she looks back, daring him to say something to contradict her, but he doesn't. She's right, in a way. By the standards of friendship in Gallifrey, Missy is the only friend he has, the only one that has the right to that title, but he has stopped using the Time Lord notion of friendship a long time ago, when he left his people behind, when he took Earth as his new home.
“Frankly, it's quite disturbing,” she says, and the way she shrugs makes him sure she just wants to upset him so she's not the only one upset anymore. “They're young. The age gap, Doctor, eesh…”
“You're jealous,” he says, and he knows it's a dangerous word to say, but he says it anyway, seeing how she freezes for a moment before slowly turning to him like she's trying to guess the best way to tear his hearts from his chest. “Missy, there's no need-”
“You should shut it,” she interrupts, her voice a little louder now as she gets up from her chair, fixing her skirts before walking towards her piano. “Seriously, old man, you think you're so clever…”
He watches her for a while, seeing her sit by the piano before her hands play a few angry notes, his smile appearing as he hears the song. There's always noise around her, and he wonders if she's just not searching for the drums now that they're gone, if the familiar sound doesn't come back to her mind once in a while, if she doesn't need the noise when she's angry to focus on something else.
He watches her play, the way her hands move on the keys, the ease in which she finds the notes to play her angry song, the exposed skin at the back of her neck, her hair up and “messier” than it was before being imprisoned…
He moves before he can think about it, sitting down on the bench with her as she continues playing, facing the other way, before he leans close and presses his face to her hair. She smells of fire, somehow, like the heat of a fireplace— he remembers a time when she had smelled like burning flesh, although that was long ago.
“We won't talk about how native I am,” he mutters, hearing when she stops playing and just stays there, letting him lean close. “We both know I don't like to talk about my mother.”
She huffs. He only smiles a little.
“But to them, I am their friend, and by their definition, I am,” he explains, his voice calm and quiet. He doesn't understand why his voice always gets quiet in moments like this with her. It always has. “I live among them. It's not like I can really apply what a Time Lord friendship is with them with how short their life span is, or with how they can't see what we see…”
There's silence for a moment, before she mutters, “Are you trying to comfort me?”
“I'm trying to tell you that, when I call them my friends, I don't mean the same as when I talk about you,” he says, moving back a bit to look at her face, seeing as she looks back.
“You better not,” she mutters again, an eyebrow raised. “I still have a claim over your life.”
“And I over yours,” he hums.
She smiles then, almost satisfied, and he moves his hand finally to touch the back of her neck like he had wanted to, seeing the way she almost melts a little at the touch. Her hand moves to grab his chin, her grip soft, and he feels it, that old connection that has never really gone away, doesn't matter how much time has passed, doesn't matter how many lives she's taken— there's a bond that can't be broken.
He supposes Earth would call it love, but it's more than that. Bill doesn't understand it when he tries to explain to her, only looks at him like he has a problem, and he guesses that, although she's brilliant, her mind can only understand so much about how a Time Lord works. Feelings are not always universal, and labels are stupid for a race that lives so long.
Friend, for them, is a word to not take lightly.
He sighs, taking her hand with his to press a kiss to her palm as she watches, taking in how his hands are bigger than hers in these bodies, leaning forward to press his forehead to hers right after. The telepathic link is there, tentative and weak, none of them daring to go further, both of them terrified of what they could find in each other's minds. There are horrors in Missy's mind that he'll never be ready to see, and there are horrors in his that even her steers away from.
“You're being soft,” she accuses, her voice almost a whisper.
“You're allowing me,” he retorts, hearing her huff.
“I guess I've been- I think I've been-” She tries, apparently not able to finish her words, before she sighs. The Doctor just waits. “Nostalgia is a hell of a drug.”
He smiles, because he knows what she means. He feels it too.
“All those nights in the Academy, when we would stay just like this,” she continues, her voice so quiet he's sure only he would be able to hear if there was someone else in the room. “Two stupid boys, dreaming of the stars.”
“Do you still dream with them?”
The question seems to make her pause, her eyes studying his face for a moment as she pulls back a bit, before she looks away, at the keys of the piano. When her hands move to the keys again, the song she plays is slower, sadder.
“You ask such silly questions,” she mutters, her voice dismissive. He knows the answer without her even saying. “Anyway, I'm glad to know your friends are not really friends. Pets, almost. Really, Doctor, calling them friends is just depraved on your part.”
He watches her play, how her eyes won't meet his own anymore, the quiet sadness in those icy blue eyes that he's rarely seen in the centuries past. He wonders if she'll be able to weather that change, if it'll break her to learn to be more than just a hateful being, playing around with life for fun and to get back at the universe who always dealt her the worst cards.
With a quiet sigh, he leans forward again, pressing a kiss to the exposed skin of her neck, hearing how her playing falters for a moment as his lips make contact with the cold skin before the touch is gone.
“You just want me to call you my friend again,” he mutters, hearing as she huffs, amused. “Desperate for it.”
“You want me to cut that tongue out, love?” She asks, and he hurriedly moves away. “There you go! Good lad. Don't come here again if you don't have anything interesting for me.”
“I'll be back tomorrow.”
“Can't wait for it…”