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grassangelSeries: Doctor Who
Character/Pairing: Twelve/Missy, Thirteen/Missy
Genre: Romance, fluff, mild angst
Rating: G
Wordcount: 1709
Dedication: For
zabbers and Summary:
They've made so many promises to each other other the years. It's time to make one final vow.or,
As children they promised to marry. Millennia later, in the Vault, they finally do so.
also available on AO3
She's playing a Gallifreyan wedding song when he enters the vault sometime in the nineties. It's meant for four hands, but she does a remarkable job of condensing it for two, the melody and rhythm reduced down to their essential parts and free of the usual trademark flourishes of Gallifreyan music. The result is pleasing, and the Doctor finds it more enjoyable than the march played at his own wedding millennia ago, his steps lightening as he makes his way to the centre of the Vault.
"What's the occasion?" he asks, setting the tea tray down on the table nearest the piano and beginning to empty out his pockets. There's a couple of novels today, a half finished piece of crochet and a still warm soft boiled egg.
"Our marriage, silly." There's a purposeful flourish, a flick of the wrist to ruin his enjoyment of her playing.
The Doctor turns to face her, the tail end of the crochet still leading to the ball of wool in his pocket. "We're not married." It comes out cold and stern, something that seems to come easily to this body. He doesn't mean to sound so harsh, but he's surprised at her claim.
Missy swivels around on the piano stool, the piano falling into discordant silence at the abrupt halt.
"By the common laws of Gallifrey we are," she states, icy gaze squarely on him, arresting in its intensity. "Twenty cycles spent co-habitating. You vowed to look after my body, I swore to follow your edicts. You've devoted yourself to me, and I to you. You know the words you spoke under the trees by the river's edge."
"Foolish childhood promises–"
"That you've made to me again and again over the years Doctor," she interrupts, standing up from the piano stool, her words echoing loudly through the Vault.
"They're no longer vows of friendship and brotherhood. I ran when you told me to and I've relented when you've asked. You've sworn to keep me well and whole. Those are covenant enough to bind us together Doctor, and in absence of any outstanding claim, I demand to be treated as such." The click of Missy's boots are punctuation to her words as she takes the few short steps to the edge of the chamber she's held in, standing close enough to the containment field that her breath is making it shimmer, both demonstration and threat.
"And how do you want to be treated?" the Doctor asks, gesturing at the bare furnishings present, at the reality of their shared existence for the next nine and a half centuries. "I can't let you out of here, and I can't fulfil all of those other traditional promises."
"I want what I've always wanted from you."
"And I you," he replies, turning away to fuss with the tea tray, unable to confront her face to face any longer. "We can't always get what we want," he says bitterly, more to the tray than to her, finally fishing out the ball of wool as well as a pair of egg scissors. He wants to scowl at her, at the achingly familiar words and broken promises that follow them. More than that, he wants to believe her, wants them to fulfil all their repeated vows.
"That shouldn't stop us." Missy's voice rings out behind him, a bitter, betrayed note to the words that makes the Doctor turn around to face her again. She has the same stubborn look she's had in all her faces, brows heavy and jaw set, the exact same expression she'd given him so long ago at the Academy. The same one she'd had when he'd fallen in love with her millennia ago, back when they were children. The same one she had worn when they had promised each other they would always stand together: against their teachers, against Gallifrey, against the entire universe if they had to.
He has to look away, unable to meet her eyes. He's always been a coward and he doesn't want to confront that penetrating gaze or admit that he is as much at fault for all the broken vows between them as she is. Because she's right of course, she's always been right about them. Those words are the core of their promise to each other, that together they are unstoppable, even after the enmity that grew between them. They're a reminder of what they can achieve when they work together as one.
The Doctor's hand trembles at the memories, years and years of them and he reaches out to rest his fingers against the table to stop them shaking and betraying his thoughts. He wants this, more than anything. But his hope is as dangerous as she is and more than twice as deadly. He's afraid of what toll this particular promise will have – on them, on the universe.
"Doctor."
Missy's voice pulls him from his reverie. She's impatient now, taking his silence to mean he's ignoring her and what she's said. Pulling the last thing from his pocket, a packet of chocolate digestives and taking a deep breath in, the Doctor makes his decision. Walking over to deactivate the containment field he offers a hand to help her down.
He keeps hold of it even when she's reached the bottom of the three short steps, reaching gently for her other hand. This is not the same as his previous marriages. There is no need for permission from families that are long since dead – this is not a political match nor a vow made to extract a binding promise. Instead these words are one final question asked between two equals to cement all the other vows and promises made previous.
"What do you offer me?"
She's surprised by his question, her fingers almost pulling out of his grasp even as her eyes search his face for any hint that the words weren't uttered in sincerity. She finds nothing, or, perhaps, Missy is just as desperate as he is to believe they can make this work.
"I can only offer hope."
"And what would you ask of me?"
There's silence for a long while, both of them gazing at their clasped hands.
"The same," Missy responds after an eternity, voice almost a whisper. She seems small like this, her body almost curling protectively around their one point of contact, her eyes lowered to their joined hands. The Doctor also feels small, his words quiet in the cavernous emptiness of the Vault.
"I accept this troth and pledge myself to thee." Gently, carefully, he raises her hands to his lips, bowing his head to press a soft kiss to her knuckles.
"And I to thee." There's a slight hesitation before she responds, but she draws the Doctor's hands to her own lips without pause, holding them there for a moment as her breath grazes warmly over their joined hands. They stay like that for what feels likes forever before finally, but no longer than a few seconds later, Missy brings their joined hands to her forehead. He has to bend his head far forward to make contact with their clasped hands, but the Doctor is glad that she's chosen this option.
"For as long as my hearts shall beat, I offer you this. Hope, and nothing more."
"Hope, and nothing less," he echoes before they both let go of each other's hands, drawing back slightly.
"My lord husband." Missy dips into a slight curtsy.
"My lady wife," he says, the words a hair's width away from her chosen title, inclining forward in a slight bow in response.
There's a brightness to Missy's expression after they both straighten up and she takes a step towards him.
"I-"
"This means we're doing things together now. And," the Doctor interrupts, swallowing the lump that's formed in his throat, all his bravery now deserting with Missy directly in front of him, "I'd like us to have tea together."
"If you like." Her response is subdued, obviously desiring more from him in their new marriage, but Missy allows the Doctor to lead her where he's laid out the tea. This is all he can offer her for now. Hope, and the promise to be together.
Someone is playing a piano in the TARDIS when the Doctor returns. The tune is familiar, and she takes a minute to stand and listen before mentally placing it and hurrying to the music room.
She'd moved Missy's piano back into the TARDIS after– after the colony ship and all that came after. Sometimes the Doctor would sit at it, picking out a few phrases on the keys before letting the notes trail off into silence and abandoning the room for several months again.
There's someone sitting at it now, back straight and hands rising and falling to play a Gallifreyan wedding song meant for four hands.
"Are we still married then?" the Doctor asks, sliding in beside the woman with the hair pulled up into an achingly familiar hairstyle. It's darker this time around, back to the original black, but it's the same riotous mass of curls as before.
Missy doesn't answer but she does cast a sideways glance at the Doctor, assessing her, before her playing shifts. She discards one hand to only play the melody, her spare hand dropping to the bench between them, open. An invitation.
There's nothing more the Doctor wishes than to take it. But the Doctor takes a moment to look down at her hands, the gloves she'd taken to wearing after finding them stuffed down the side of a chair in the console room. Taking them off, she lays them gently atop the piano in front of the other woman. Missy's playing doesn't falter at the sight of them, the only indicator she recognises them is the way she's now slightly off tempo, beats stretching out when they shouldn't.
The Doctor pauses, her hand hovering over the keys required for the second half of the song before plunging in to pick up the rhythm.
"My lady wife." The Doctor's spare hand reaches for Missy's, squeezing tightly.
"My noble spouse," she acknowledges, fingers curling to hold her hand, "as long as my hearts beat, we are married for as long as you desire."
