uhhhh Narvin/Leela with prompt 17 sounds good and soft (We always need more Gallifrey content and you’re doing god’s work)
17 - your bed after travelling. This ended up a lil bit angstier than intended lmao but hope you enjoy! Set after season 6.
“It does not smell right anymore.”
Leela’s hushed voice rouses him from his thoughts, and he opens his eyes slowly, unobtrusively; after so much of the opposite he’s loath to disturb the delicate quietude they’ve found, even cold and barren as it may feel. She’s already watching him---has been for a while, he figures. He can just pick out her features, silhouetted as she is by the rusty light, pouring in from the window at her back. Though she retains the look of subtle vigilance that he’s come to expect from her, she looks as dead-tired as he feels.
“You’ve grown unaccustomed to it,” he says, low and quiet. It seems wrong to speak, even dangerous, as though all of Gallifrey is waiting on tenterhooks and only by remaining still and silent can he avoid tipping the balance back into chaos. “It’s been a long time.”
Leela’s eyes flick around his room, as much of it as she can see without moving. Her body is tense, the fingers of one hand curled into the blankets; he’s never been a natural when it comes to instinct, but he’s certain that for once she shares his awareness of the cosmic knife’s edge they stand on. He wonders what would happen, if one of them were to take the leap and shatter the silence. Would the mechanical screeches stop echoing in his mind? Or would he only feel guilty for absolving himself of his vigil?
“The air is stale,” she murmurs. “I did not notice, at the time, but the false Capitol did not smell stale. It smelled of the dust blown in from the ruins, and the mountains beyond, and... and energy.”
“Ozone,” he supplies. “Formed with the energy thrown off by the conflicting temporal elements.”
A tiny smile tugs at the corner of her lips, the look she gets when he starts off on a tangent that’s a bit too technical for her to follow. He still hasn’t decided whether it’s mocking or fond. Somewhat to his disappointment, it fades quickly, and she glances around his quarters again.
It pains him. After all the time and effort they’ve poured into this, all the sacrifices they’ve made to get back here and to cure their world of the Free Time virus, they should be celebrating their return. Leela should be dragging them out into the plains, making him and Romana stand in the long grass and wince away from the buzzing insects as she runs through the fields, whooping and laughing with glee. He should be thrilled as well, albeit in a quieter way; this is the world he’s fought for, the one place in all the universes he’s seen that he could possibly call home, but it evokes none of the feelings of rightness and belonging he always thought it would. Instead they’re huddled in his bed like they’re waiting for the universe to come crashing down on top of them. He doesn’t trust fate to do him any favours, but the unfairness of it still stings.
“Narvin,” Leela says softly. She’s watching him again---watching, not just looking, her face full of quiet intent---and it strikes him that he would very much like to be in her place, to see the sinking suns paint her skin umber and light her eyes up gold. The thought comforts him; it’s more familiar to him than anything else on Gallifrey, at the moment.
“Leela,” he says, by way of a reply.
She regards him for a moment longer, her expression flickering subtly as if she’s debating something with herself. Then, ever so slowly, only just daring to break their prey-like stillness, she rises up on her elbows and pulls herself closer to him. Hovering over him, she rests a hand on his arm and presses a gentle, lingering kiss to his temple. His eyes flutter closed, his breath catching in his throat as she kisses his cheek, and the tip of his nose, and finally his lips, just once, before she settles down beside him with her head on his pillow. She brushes her fingers through his hair, her hand coming to cup the back of his neck, her thumb stroking his cheek.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
At that, he opens his eyes. He draws a sharp breath at the look on her face, open and honest and, funnily enough, afraid.
“I didn’t do anything,” he says. “I- I shouldn’t-”
She shushes him, a hint of an amused smile on her face. “You were brave, Narvin. You saved me. You did what you thought had to be done to save Romana. And I am glad.”
He opens his mouth, desperate to tell her that she has no idea what he’s done, and nor does he, or anyone else in the universe. That he might’ve signed her death warrant, for all he knows, that he might yet break the Web of Time itself, and that bravery had never once factored into the equation. But the words won’t quite form themselves, and before he can muster a protest she’s tugging his arm over her and shifting closer still, her head tucked against his chest, and he’s clinging to her---and there, he realizes with a short, incredulous laugh, is the rightness he’s been looking for. And then he’s fighting to breathe against the lump in his throat, and wondering how he’ll ever bear it if this reclaimed world of his crumbles around him.
At least, he supposes, as he breathes in the scent of rock dust still clinging to her and watches the sunsets turn her auburn hair to bronze, at least he can be sure now: he won’t let it go without a fight.
