“I wonder what happens to them.” She says one day, sounding entire unlike the woman that he knows her to be.
“They fall apart. They decompose.” He kisses the words into her neck, the curve of her shoulder, and along the edge of her shoulder blade. She knows this from experience (they have fingers in their freezer, an experiment, he says), and he knows that that isn’t what she means.
Their victim is still alive on a chair in front of them; a failed business cliche, ropes and all. Her knife is warm from being sheathed on her thigh and she thinks that maybe it’ll need to be stashed next to the fingers later. That could be fun.
She leans forward to get close to the waiting-to-be corpse. The Doctor’s hands are a delightful distraction on her hips, as the scent of copper fills the air and warmth slides down her arm. “You know that isn’t what I meant.”