Doctor Who: The Bright Asylum

Over Dinner

The Flesh Valeyard’s bare feet scuttle over a kitchen floor well-steeped in flour.

He leans, carefully propping himself in the cherry doorframe, to amuse himself and steady his nerves against the strange life wiggling inside him.

He leans, too, because within the kitchen, near some upper level cupboards, strong fingers are wrangling a packet of dry herbs and minding a large pot, out of which the thin, porous length of a sizeable avian bone is dangling by a bit of tough gristle.

He watches.

Still taken by that idle sense of fascination, he scratches his stomach, then smiles at the other Time Lord in his element, who doesn’t look up from the sizeable steam emanating from the big pot as he states, “... what’s eating you?”

“... funny. That smells good.” the Flesh Valeyard murmurs, slipping into the kitchen proper and bending slightly over the pot to catch a proper whiff. “... I still remember the first time I saw you make that stew... we were...”

His wrapped and fractured hand seems out of place against his shirt. He raises it, feeling that it may fly away if he doesn’t keep his eyes just so, just there, right on the... ball of his wrist.

There seem to be so many of his hand, all at once, echoing across his vision like an installation of modern art.

Rassilon takes a step closer, his hand out, reaching.

The Flesh Valeyard raises his hand farther up in front of his face.

His fingers flutter in tandem, flapping like butterfly beats against the abrupt weight of the air evacuating his lungs.

So heavy... that air.

It’s getting hard to...

“GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! This has to STOP NOW!” the Flesh Valeyard screams in a throat-scraping blood-hoarse tenor; his fist smacks into the frame of the door, bending the wood until little cracks and splinters shoot out across it, from it, cornering the side of his palm with sharply peppered bites of once-pithy shard.

He blinks and takes his hand away, lowering his fingers until Rassilon is at the soup again, and the odd buzzing in his ears has ceased to an ignorable whisper.

“Did you... did you say something just now, Dallyrasse?” he murmurs to the man, who is humming to himself and swinging strong hips slightly to the musical scent of his handiwork.

“Hrm?” Rassilon asks, holding up a ladle dripping hot stock the color of pale heaven precariously back into the pot. “... the TARDIS might have mentioned something about you owing some lascivious lothario a chicken... shall we invite him too? I daresay this is an improvement on my previous recipe.”

“Huh? Oh, oh yes, of course, Dallyrasse; do what you like.” The Flesh Valeyard waves the offending hand at the cook, then ambles into the sudden and inviting breakfast nook magickally inherent in a previously unoccupied corner, complete with an old diner-style pop-out table and a champagne flute chair, his widening eyes watering for the soup as he adds, “... but we get Jack after breakfast.”

Rassilon nods, then sets a bowl of the soup down in front of him. The word is unnecessary, but the ancient Time Lord speaks it anyway.


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