Zoe used to dream of data, of graphs and formulae. Her sleeping mind dutifully echoed her daily life.
But now her dreams are strange. Cyborgs, robots, planet-devouring fungi. She's strange, dreaming; she ruins a computer with a mathematical paradox, and then she laughs. Even the friends she dreams are bizarre. The boy in the skirt, the shabby, clever little man who saves worlds and runs away.
She's not mad; at least, the psychiatric databank has no match for her symptoms.
She works efficiently; she socializes appropriately.
She goes eagerly to bed, to her dreams full of wonders, full of freedom.
The cell is bitter cold. When Jamie asks for a blanket, the guard laughs and says he'll be warm enough working the cane fields in Jamaica.
Slavery. Better to have died with his kinsmen.
He sleeps as much as he can. Dreaming, he sees the earth from some impossibly high place, blue-white and small as a pebble, too small for all the troubles it holds.
Dreaming, he leaves it behind to follow a man who's neither laird nor king, but the David to his Jonathan. A foreigner with an English voice. The friend of his soul.
Dreaming, Jamie is warm.
He tries until he nearly blows the TARDIS's new dematerialization circuit, but he can't get within twenty years of Jamie or Zoe. The TARDIS simply won't land. One final slap from the Time Lords, to underline the lesson.
Gloomy, he sleeps more than normal. He dreams of the green mountains of Kyriken, where he always meant to take Jamie. Of the mathematicians' duels on Telpas IV, which Zoe would have loved. Zoe's smile when she's thinking. Jamie's strong shoulder, brushing his.
Time shouldn't work this way for him. He's not used to barriers, to impossibilities. He's not used to dreaming.