She sifted through the bottles and jars on her vanity while he gave his face a good working out. It drew the eye, his contortions, and she found herself sneaking glances in the mirror as she looked for the lotion she used to soothe out her own skin. The smile just came; she didn't will it or want it -- it just happened, like breathing.
There it was.
She turned and pressed the edge of the cap to open it. "Hold out your hand," she said, extending her own, bottle tipped. When he said he wanted to start over, her eyes fell.
Of course. Of course he did. She'd all but assaulted him on that beach, and then it'd been nothing but this place, nothing but this broken world, and they'd not... She'd not really told him anything. She still wasn't telling him anything. She squeezed the lotion into his palm -- a smaller bit than what she'd have used for her legs.
"Yeh," she said, delicately pressing the cap closed again and setting it behind her without moving from the perch she'd made of the edge of the vanity. "Yeh, that would be nice. I'm..." She winced, then ran a hand through her still-damp hair. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, it's just been so weird."
Too often, in the moments between moments, she'd caught herself thinking of him as her Doctor, when she knew he wasn't. She'd been thinking about his reactions to one thing or another, supposing he'd grin at one thing or snap on his spectacles at another -- and the truth was that she didn't know anything of the sort. And yet, there were times when he was so very much like her Doctor.
And her Doctor didn't seem much like her Doctor at all. But he was. She fingered the edge of her jacket and stared blankly at his knee.