He catches her, looking at his scars. Doesn't matter. They are shocking, and she - worries about him, so of course she'd-
What is she doing, what is she doing.
This is not any kind of hug he is accustomed to receiving. He accepts hugs from the people he sleeps with, or friends when he's drunk, or from the TARDIS, who - well that's complicated, he respects her, cares about her intensely even though he can't very often see her and can't possibly understand her, and there's something maternal in it too, maybe, like when she's protected him from-
That. That's what this is. Greta - not because she looks like her, sounds, acts or treats him like she did, but simply by an intangible, intrinsic element, by her very nature and attitude - reminds him of his mother.
He jerks away from her sharply, backing up against the wall, bracing there like he expects her to hurt him.
She isn't going to hurt him.
And she never meant to hurt him.
Part of him still believes that.
"I - I'm sorry," he says shakily. "I - you just-" What the fuck can he say here? She can't be much older than him, she might even be younger than him, fuck if he knows. But she's so insanely maternal, the touches and the offers of comfort and the questions after him, god, fuck, he doesn't know what to do with that, or how to even address it.
But he has to address it, he can't just leave her hanging, spurned after she's just trying to help him.
"You just," he starts again, quietly, avoiding her eyes. "I'm sorry, it's weird. You just reminded me of my mom."
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What is she doing, what is she doing.
This is not any kind of hug he is accustomed to receiving. He accepts hugs from the people he sleeps with, or friends when he's drunk, or from the TARDIS, who - well that's complicated, he respects her, cares about her intensely even though he can't very often see her and can't possibly understand her, and there's something maternal in it too, maybe, like when she's protected him from-
That. That's what this is. Greta - not because she looks like her, sounds, acts or treats him like she did, but simply by an intangible, intrinsic element, by her very nature and attitude - reminds him of his mother.
He jerks away from her sharply, backing up against the wall, bracing there like he expects her to hurt him.
She isn't going to hurt him.
And she never meant to hurt him.
Part of him still believes that.
"I - I'm sorry," he says shakily. "I - you just-" What the fuck can he say here? She can't be much older than him, she might even be younger than him, fuck if he knows. But she's so insanely maternal, the touches and the offers of comfort and the questions after him, god, fuck, he doesn't know what to do with that, or how to even address it.
But he has to address it, he can't just leave her hanging, spurned after she's just trying to help him.
"You just," he starts again, quietly, avoiding her eyes. "I'm sorry, it's weird. You just reminded me of my mom."