Chapter Text
“It’s fine. It’s alright. They’re good people, they’ll sort this out. No blood will spill as long as Theriah’s in power. She won’t let it,” the Doctor muses as they board her ship, the TARDIS’s welcoming thrum a pleasing change to the tense atmosphere of an impending war they are absolutely unable to stop. She doesn’t know whether the words spilling past her lips are to her benefit, or her best friends’.
She doesn’t quite want to find out.
Reassured, though, the rest of them wander inside and linger at the console, chattering between themselves.
Yaz, ever the receptive one of the group, glances back to witness a flash of dread come and go over the Doctor’s features. It worries her more than it should. “You okay?”
“Mm-hm, just a headache. Stressful day, huh, gang?” the Doctor hops up to join them, reaching up to massage her temple when it protests.
A chorus of agreement echoes from her friends, who look as though they’re awaiting a storm with no shelter to cower beneath.
“Oi, Yaz. You wanna watch one of the new films in the cinema room? The ones that fell on us last time we were in there?” Ryan quips, earning what sounds like a huff from the console between them.
“I’d love to, yeah. Doctor? Graham? You in?” Yaz regards them both in question, popping her brows in anticipation.
The Doctor softens somewhat — as always when Yaz’s wide smile is sent in her direction -, but she ducks her head, shaking it regretfully. “I should get some rewiring done.” She motions to the main console and its components with a smile, but there’s no brightness to be found there.
“Didn’t you do that yesterday?” Yaz asks with a tilt of her head.
“Oh, yeah,” the Doctor admits, rolling her shoulders in a shrug. “But there’s always something to fix. She’s an old girl now.” She pats the lever next to her hip in affection, glancing up to where golden metal meets the domed expanse above.
“Grandad? You up for it?” Ryan asks when the Doctor seems adamant not to join — he can’t blame her, and if all she needs is some space, they have to respect that.
“As long as there’s no clown this time, I’m happy to oblige,” Graham warns, sending a pointed glare Ryan’s way.
Breaking into laughter, the three make their way up into endless corridors, footsteps fading into quiet echoes until a series of whispers halt them in their tracks and a returning pair resonate back over metal floors.
Yaz reappears from around the corner, the uneasy smile gracing her lips an unwelcome, foreign sight.
“Everything alright?” the Doctor takes a step forward, toying with the threads of her sleeve. She’s smiling still, but it’s a little too happy for Yaz’s liking.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, I just —” Yaz starts, pausing to close the distance between them and lean against the console at her side. “I was just wondering if you were okay? And, you know — if you want to talk, I'm right here, yeah?” she reels the words from her lips like a torrent, unwilling to give the stubborn, reserved alien a chance to interrupt and dismiss her concerns. “You just seem a bit tense.”
The Doctor, as expected, parts her lips to shrug off her best friend’s quietly worrisome nature, but Yaz seems as though she’s on a mission, so she stops herself out of respect. “Yaz, please. I’m absolutely fine. Peachy.” She shrugs off her coat, crouching to retrieve her welding mask from beneath the console and secure it over blonde locks, bunching it under the pressure of its adjustments and sending her hair into frankly adorable tufts. “Why is peachy a term? Isn’t it a bit weird to think of fruit as a type of mood?”
Yaz can’t help but laugh, “Suits you down to the ground, then.”
The mask flips over emerald eyes and delicate features, and the Doctor scoffs. “Calling me weird, Yasmin Khan? Thought you were meant to be on my side?”
Yaz can all but hear the pout in her voice, so she rolls her eyes fondly. “I’m a police officer, ma’am. I’m not meant to take sides.”
When the Doctor chuckles, the sound echoes within the mask and furthers her amusement until Yaz laughs, too. “Go back to your film, I’ve got wires to burn — I mean re-work. I’ve got wires to re-work.”
“I’m coming back at the first smell of smoke, okay? If you set fire to yourself, I’ll kill you,” Yaz warns chidingly, because one of these days, a simple experiment isn’t going to be saved by a fire extinguisher, emergency plasters and a soothing cup of tea.
“Well, I mean, statistically, if I were to set myself on fire, I'd most likely end up— ”
“ Doctor ,” Yaz interrupts on a laugh which brings a little more light to old eyes. She heads back up into the corridor with a few short hops. “Call me if you need me, okay?”
“Do smoke signals work?” the Doctor teases at her own expense, turning to duck into the alcove beneath the console, toolbox in hand.
“I meant what I said!” she hears before Yaz disappears completely, footsteps reverberating in her wake.
As quickly as she leaves, so too do the Doctor’s spirits.
The evening passes by like leaves in autumn, slowly, unnoticeably, then all at once.
By the time Yaz ventures to bed, three films later, the sounds of wires sparking and the Doctor’s mutters reassures her enough to slip between cool sheets and settle in.
Slumber spirals her thoughts into soft murmurings and returned feelings, so much so that when Yaz wakes to a crash in the night, she has to take a few moments to gain her composure and assess her surroundings.
Another, louder smash fractures through the hinges of her bedroom door and renders her disorientated but too worried not to venture.
Odd-sock-clad feet pad through the corridor, towards the source in the near darkness, until Yaz can hear more clearly. To her shock, soft cries and sniffles accompany thumps and thuds until the young police officer finds herself stood before the door to the Doctor’s room. She’d only been here once before, when the Doctor had to literally be carried to bed to catch up on her sleep after a long stint aboard a hospital ship facing disaster.
At the sound of glass shattering, Yaz reaches for the door handle and slowly, tentatively edges deep blue vinyl open. “Doctor? It’s me, Yaz. Are you o—”
Her words are cut off by the sight which falls before her. Books lay scattered across the already disorganised bedroom floor, a lamp lays, bulb smashed, at the Time Lord’s side, and the blonde herself is slumped against the frame at the foot of her bed, knees tucked up to her chest. Her head falls to rest against her knees when Yaz steps inside, clicking the door shut behind her. The Doctor’s cries are quiet and restrained, as though she’s embarrassed at being caught.
“Doctor? What’s wrong?” Yaz probes gently, stepping over the splintered glass to quietly settle at her side. She hovers there, first, giving the blonde time to rebuke her advance.
“I—” the Doctor starts, words muffled, wavering in pitch. “Maybe — maybe today did get to me a little,” she admits, raising her head a touch, chin propped atop crossed arms. “I lost control for a minute there.”
“Hey, hey, it’s alright.” Yaz shuffles closer but doesn’t dare reach out until the Doctor is comfortable enough to be on the receiving end of her touch. “Emotions are powerful sometimes, Doctor. I think you taught me that.”
“I should’ve been able to stop it, Yaz. That war should never have even been a possibility,” the Doctor states dejectedly, turning her face away when tears blur her vision once more. She fists her fingers into the material of her white sleeves to hold back a shuddering sob — rendered unsuccessful within seconds.
“Doctor, don’t you dare start on this again,” Yaz chides, using the authoritative tone she usually saves for work. She reaches out, gentle touches turning the Doctor’s head slowly, tentatively in her direction. “You know there was nothing any of us could do, so stop taking all the blame when there's none to take in the first place.”
Her words are earnest and certain and make sense, and the Doctor falls in love a little more. She blinks slowly, like a feline communicating silent affection to its human companion. The last handful of tears pool in Yaz’s palm, which remains cupped around her strong cheekbone.
“Now, are you going to let me hug you, or will I have to watch you look all teary-eyed and sad for the rest of the night?” Yaz tilts her head, her expression firm even if her eyes convey her nervousness as clear as day.
Mutedly, the Doctor nods, peeling her arms from her knees when Yaz shifts to envelope her in comfort and affection.
“Your hair smells like coconut,” the Doctor murmurs when her cheeks are dry and her hearts have calmed and her mind, for the first time in hours, is utterly clear of guilt and self-deprecation. She still hasn’t pulled away from Yaz’s hold, their forms moulded together like puzzle pieces found opposite sides of time and space, finally honing in on each other.
“And yours smells like…— burning,” Yaz laughs against the top of her head, biting back a smile she’d been holding at bay since the Doctor first nestled closer minutes earlier, seeking more.
The alien scoffs, moving to pull away until she realises she doesn’t actually want to.
When they do eventually peel apart, albeit reluctantly, the Doctor chases contact enough to boldly intertwine their fingers. The next few quiet minutes are spent studying each nailbed, each crease of skin, each slender finger before she notices Yaz’s gaze on her.
“Sometimes I think your hearts are too big for their own good, Doctor,” Yaz muses when brown levels with green in reticent communication.
“I guess — I guess you should take half the blame,” the Doctor whispers, just loud enough to be heard but quiet enough to be considered the revelation of a secret. When Yaz’s lips twist in silent confusion, she continues nervously. “ — since both of them belong to you.”
A gasp. A series of blinks. An anxious giggle.
“Is that your way of saying you like me?” Yaz teases, only half-believing her fuelled words. She’s an alien from space with hundreds, maybe thousands of years of saving civilisations under her belt. There’s no way she’s fallen for a human from Sheffield with a handful of girl guide badges and an unsatisfying job.
“Admittedly, those words weren't meant to leave my mouth, but it’s true. I was being honest,” the Doctor chuckles, the sound a little more anxious than usual. “I guess — I guess the question is —” she pauses to swallow thickly, “ — do you feel the same, Yasmin Khan?”
Oh. Oh. Yaz’s brain falls into overdrive and she looks for words, a statement as powerful as the Doctor’s own, but all she can find is the increasing urge to shift closer. Her free hand inches up to her neck, then curls around the back of it, fingertips tangling lightly through blonde strands.
She doesn’t so much hear the Doctor’s intake of breath as she feels it.
Yaz closes what little distance there is between their bodies, noses brushing while she awaits her affirming nod and soft, keening little noise before her lips press and mould and form against her own.
Breathless, flushed and re-energised, Yaz rests her forehead against the Doctor’s with a gentle flutter of a sigh against her lips two minutes and thirty seconds later. “Did that answer your question?”