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A slight girl sat at the back of the cafe, a smudge against the white linoleum. She was examining a guide book intently, hair falling over her face as she bent over the table, a black apostrophe on a white page. Commander Graham Gore had been sat across the street, on the fading bench, for over ten minutes, watching her. Muscles tensing to stand, (to - what? Enter the cafe, or go home?), before they relaxed, and he continued to watch, letting the roach burn out between his scarred fingers before he tucked another cigarette between his teeth. She was poring over the old travel-book, with a photograph tucked between her fingers, her attention sliding between the two. The waitress had approached twice with the jug of filter coffee, before withdrawing, scowling at the lack of response.

He couldn’t tell what he felt exactly regarding the ferocity at which she was clearly trying to identify his whereabouts - that blasted photo, sent at a moment of weakness, or a moment of courage. She was a picture of everything that he adored and hated in her, a ferocious, calculating, clever little alley cat, who would find a way to track their exact footprints through the wilderness once she decided she would. She was also a woman who was, ultimately, ruled by her devotion, which meant that if she had followed him all the way to the small town they had chosen for its links to Anchorage and the fact that its people all seemed to be living in the past, then he was included within that small bubble of devotion. All her love and devotion, he still hadn’t decided what to make of it.

On Erebus, and before, at Navarino, even on the Beagle, he believed the decisions he made were a product of pure logic, boiled and skimmed of any foolish fear or apprehension. These last few months, however…He had begun to see the traces of feeling, of his heart, in every decision he made now. If he didn’t stop to listen to what that peculiar, disembodied voice advised him, he would never have left the safe house in London. It used to be that logic saved his life. Now, he wasn’t sure if it was working for or against him. Like now. The muscles of his legs pulled taut, again, as he considered his options. He could be back at the cabin, bags packed, Maggie roused from her appalling nap schedule, and into the wild of this sparse state before she had even taken the first sip of her cold coffee.

It was this image that made him stand. And all questions of logic and devotion drained away as he stepped into the cafe, moving towards the table at the far end of the window. Unlike the waitress, his presence made her shoulders come up to her ears, and she raised her head slowly, already knowing.

Their gazes caught on a live wire. His arms were crossed, his face void of emotion - it was his last defence. Her expression was the opposite, so many thoughts passing over the ghostly little face that he had equally no clue what she was imagining. She swallowed, and tucked the photograph into the Alaska: Lost Steps guide, folding her hands primly over them both. For a second, the roles were switched - she was the mouse pinned under his feline claw.

“Hello, little cat.”

[a/n: I am devastated at finishing ministry of time and I need something anything to fill this void. it was just perfect]

#the ministry of time #graham gore #kaliane bradley #tmot #the ministry of time fanfiction #writing