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She takes her coffee with heavy cream and sugar. He thinks he should be surprised by that, but he isn’t—a sweet tongue for a sweet heart, with a tang of bitterness that makes her active, jumpy, dark and rich in flavour.
Most days they don’t have time, don’t make time, to sit in coffee shops and sip drinks and spread cream on scones. Most days they’re running, hand in hand, and he finds that when they stop he misses that sense of gravity. The weight of her hand and body as they tug each other along.
So he moves his chair, subtle at first, then abandons the pretext. He eats his scones with one hand, the other on her thigh under the table. He never sits across from her; he can’t tolerate the distance. Instead, he moves his chair perpendicular—he says it’s because he likes to stare directly out the window, but she knows better.
She likes Paris in the 1930s, so he takes her often, to a cafe and bookshop she adores. He likes the way she speaks French instead of letting the TARDIS translate; how she swallows her Rs and leans forward over the counter with a bashful smile, hat perched on her curls like a bird.
He doesn’t like the way the waiters stare, slack-jawed, but he keeps that to himself, mostly.
Over the lip of his cup he watches the lines of her throat as she swallows, lipstick stains on the white porcelain to match the red of her fingernails against her pale skin.
She likes the frothy drinks, with a touch of hazelnut, and he watches the swipe of her tongue as she licks foam from the corners of her mouth.
Sometimes, most times, he can’t help himself. He loves the sight of her, his poisoned warrior, with a milk moustache. He lets it linger there until she notices, then licks his thumb and smudges it away.
He likes it when she smiles, and turns her face to press a kiss into his palm.