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The Doctor is dreaming. Nightmaring, actually, a state she’d thought she’d left behind with her twelfth self. Her nightmares are usually indistinguishable from reality until she wakes up, but this one is jarring enough in its incongruity that her surprise and confusion override the fear.
“This is old,” she tells her brain, a little disappointed. “There’s reuse, reduce, and recycle and then there’s beating a dead horse.” Her voice echoes weirdly off the walls of the massive hall, and if she listens closely she can hear the faint shuffling of a crowd of people trying to stay quiet and the chatter of apes. There’s a shadow coming toward her, and even though she knows what she’ll see she still tries to sit up to get a better look. She can’t, of course.
“Boring!” she announces. “I’d like to wake up now.”
The shadow gets closer. She glares up at it. “Come on then, you big lug, tear it out. Let’s get this over with.” When the heart comes out of her chest there’s no pain. Lazy on her mind’s part, she’s quite certain when this actually happened there was rather a lot of pain.
Her blackened heart drips blood onto her chest. Except there’s something wrong with the hand holding it over her-- the fingers too small, the sleeve over the arm a green cardigan, and as The Doctor lets her gaze slide up the arm to the shoulder she’s met with bright ginger hair.
“Right,” says Donna. “I’ve just got to put this in my chest and then I’ll be part Doctor and I can figure out how to save the day.”
“No!” The Doctor tries to sit up again and fails. Donna presses the heart against her chest and it starts to sink in through the fabric of her shirt. “No don’t! You can’t handle it! You’re only human,” The Doctor says, frantic. “You can’t do this. You’ll have to forget it all. You’ll have to forget, I’m sorry, I’ve got no other choice.”
“Memories make us who we are,” Clara says, because of course it’s Clara, not Donna at all, always Clara in every possible timeline.
“It’s better,” The Doctor says, helplessly. “You need to forget.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Clara says, and when she leans in close over The Doctor she realizes Clara’s face isn’t a face at all, it’s a mask, all white bone.
“What do you want?!” The Doctor demands, trying to pull away.
“You have to forget,” Clara says, and The Doctor wakes up.
“Ok, fine,” she grumbles out loud. “I suppose you get points for creativity.”
Her brain, thankfully, doesn’t answer. Neither does anyone else. The Doctor rests a hand against the wall of her bedroom, the warm humming life of the TARDIS reassuring in the silence.
*
Given all the adventures The Doctor’s taken them on, all the weird and fantastic and terrifyingly alien things she’s shown them, Ryan is frankly a little irritated at how utterly confounded she is when confronted with an ordinary human being shoved into their prison cell on the evil alien spaceship of the day.
There’s not even anything particularly remarkable about this human-- tall, a little scruffy, thin in that awkward way that makes it look like somebody’s wrapped a leather jacket and torn jeans around a handful of pipe-cleaners and called it a day. He’s got a butterfly bandage across the back of one hand, and what looks suspiciously like a tiny coffee stain on the unusually high collar of his turtleneck. He’d stumbled gracelessly into the cell with a guard’s energy gun at his back, sworn under his breath when he hit his elbow on the door, then turned to face Ryan and the others with an expression so confidently reassuring and charming that Ryan had taken an instinctive step back.
“Alright,” he’d said. “Good, at least I’ll have company while I wait for my doubtlessly fair and proper trial. Fitz Kreiner, at your service.” And then he’d winked at Yaz, and she’d rolled her eyes so hard Ryan had been a little worried for her eyeballs. Fitz had shrugged, turned to look at The Doctor, and The Doctor had shoved him backwards against the wall, looking angry and frightened and a lot wary.
“I don’t know who or what you are,” she’d said, soft and dangerous, “but you’d better stop using that face and that name right now.”
“Oy,” Fitz had objected, even as he’d slumped against the wall. “There’s only one other bloke might be out there using this face and name, and quite frankly I think I’ve got more of a right to them at this point any-- Thet-- Doctor?”
The Doctor had dropped her hand from where she’d been unconsciously tugging at her hair, and stared at Fitz, fear fading away to leave only the anger and the caution. “You died,” she’d said.
“You’re a woman!” Fitz had said, eyes gone comically wide. “And if you want to get technical about this, you died as well. And clearly did a better job of it, given the--” he’d raised one hand towards his chest, obviously thought better of it, and wound up just pointing at The Doctor and waving his other hand around in a few half-hearted motions.
That had been an hour ago, by Ryan’s reckoning. And, aside from The Doctor casually mentioning that she could probably disable the ship’s security system and get them out of the cell, the conversation really hasn’t progressed any further.
“You’re dead,” The Doctor announces, jabbing a finger into Fitz’s chest.
Ryan sighs loudly. Fitz very carefully removes the finger, folding The Doctor’s hand up into a loose fist and pushing it back down to her side. “And you’re a woman. One of these things is a bit more of a surprise than the other.”
“Oy! Don’t be sexist. Or... speciest. Whichever one you’re thinking.”
“I wasn’t thinking either, I’ll have you know. This is... what, your twelfth regeneration? It’s a bit of a break in the pattern, I’m allowed to be startled.”
“Thirteenth,” she says. “And there’s nothing wrong with a little break in the monotony.”
“Of course not,” Fitz says quickly. “I mean. It’s a very nice.... uhh. That is, you’re quite-- it suits you. You’re very... fetching.” He looks like he wants the floor to open up and swallow him whole.
“Am I?” The Doctor asks, grinning like she’s just discovered a new Easter egg in a game.
“Doctor,” Yaz says, patiently. “You were rerouting the power for the security system? Before the aliens feed us to their overlord?”
“Evil Father Christmas,” Ryan corrects her, helpfully. Graham gives him a Look.
“Oh good,” says Fitz. “I’m so glad this life-threatening adventure is seasonally appropriate.”
“He’s been masquerading as father Christmas,” The Doctor explains, crouching down by the panel for the security system and starting to pull tools out of her pockets. “At a shopping mall, of all things. But he’s secretly--”
“Sabbath,” Fitz says, like it’s automatic, and then covers his mouth. “Fuck, I’m sorry, it’s less funny now that he’s nobly dead and all.”
“It was never funny,” The Doctor grumbles. “Just because he managed a decent disguise once in a while suddenly you and Anji thought every mysterious man in a big coat was sabbath.”
“Listen, can we just--”
“No,” The Doctor says, indignant and with some sort of vaguely spanner-shaped tool clenched between her teeth. She looks like she wants to keep yelling, so Ryan helpfully reaches over and grabs it. “No, we cannot *just* anything, because you’re supposed to be dead! And yet here you are, alive and kicking and wearing a jacket that I definitely don’t still have in my bedroom wardrobe, because that would be just embarrassing for someone of my age and maturity.”
She yanks a fistful of multi-coloured wires from the wall, falling backwards onto her arse when there’s not as much resistance as she’d clearly expected.
“Oh, you’re mature now, are you?” Fitz asks, amused, and then he scrunches his face a little and jerkily raises one eyebrow. Ryan wonders how long he had to practice to do that and if he thinks it looks suave or natural or whatever people are trying to accomplish when they raise one eyebrow.
“I am,” The Doctor says, a bit too defensively.
“Christ, you’re not going to let this go are you?” Fitz snaps, more sharply than Ryan can imagine ever speaking to The Doctor.
“Nah, probably not. I’m very driven this time around.”
“I did die,” Fitz says, flatly. “We all did. When you-- did whatever it is you did. You know that, second verse same as the first but with PTSD and a new body instead of amnesia and heart failure. I’ve met your wife, she told me all about it. She’s also terrifying, so exactly your type. Probably never tell Benny.”
“Wife?” Graham says, voice going alarmingly high-pitched. Yaz looks like her birthday’s come early and then she’d realized that just means she’s closer to death. Ryan figures there’s no way aliens have the exact same construction of monogamous marriage as early 21st century Sheffield. He gives Yaz what he hopes is a bolstering smile. She doesn’t notice.
“You came back,” The Doctor says slowly. “I-- we-- I brought Gallifrey back and you were still on Gallifrey.”
“Yeah,” says Fitz. “Cheers.”
The Doctor takes the spanner back from Ryan and uses it to give the panel beside her a good thwack. It’s to their credit, Ryan thinks, that none of them find this at all unusual.
“Right,” The Doctor says. “That’s the security system dealt with. Come on you lot.”
“You gonna introduce me, doctor?” Fitz asks as they exit the cell and start off down the eerily silent corridor. Ryan can’t even feel the ship’s engines beneath his feet. He still can’t decide if he loves space or hates it.
“Ooo, yes,” The Doctor says. “Graham, Ryan, Yaz, this is Fitz Kreiner, my... well. This is Fitz. Fitz, Graham O’Brien, Ryan Sinclair, and Yasmin Khan. They’re my fam.”
Fitz gives her a perplexed look.
“My friends,” The Doctor says. “They're my friends.” She sounds proud in the exact same way that an eight-year-old Ryan had sounded introducing schoolmates to his mum after he’d got a glimpse of one of the goals on his IPP: “age-appropriate social connections and play”. It’s viscerally uncomfortable, and Ryan focuses very hard on the bland walls of the corridor.
The Doctor puts a hand on Yaz's shoulder, like she wants to prove that they really are friends. Fitz rolls his eyes.
“Has she kissed you yet?”
“Excuse me?” Graham says, indignant, even as The Doctor leaves Yaz and elbows Fitz hard in the side. It's almost slapstick the way she does it, but Fitz is clearly too busy sniggering to care.
“I’m far less tactile now, thank you,” she says. “Well, so far. It’s a bit weird, actually, I’d gotten used to all the hugging and licking and shut up, it isn’t like I was running around kissing everyone I met. Besides, you never complained.”
Yaz's eyebrows rocket up like they’re going to attempt escape through the metallic ceiling. Today has definitely been a lot for her.
“So what's the plan then, Doctor?” Yaz asks loudly, voice remarkably even.
“Find the mass-teleport device and/or the mind-control system,” Fitz says. “Break it. Yell at evil Father Christmas a lot until he goes away. She’s really good at that last,” (with a nod toward The Doctor.)
Yaz looks to The Doctor, frowning. “It's true,” The Doctor says. “I mean, it was always friendly yelling. Helpful yelling. For their own good, really. And a better solution than just running off and leaving them to muddle their way through. Or kicking them into a pit of fire.”
“What,” says Fitz. Yaz’s gaze flickers frantically around to all of them, uncertain.
“Kidding,” says The Doctor. “Sorry, very stressed, not my best work, little bit distracted.”
“Ha ha,” Ryan says flatly, once it becomes clear nobody else is going to.
“Thank you, Ryan,” The Doctor says, beaming at him over her shoulder. “Fitz, do you have your vortex manipulator with you, or did they take it?”
“I haven’t got one,” Fitz says.
“Hmm,” says The Doctor. “What are you using then? Time ring?”
“Nope,” Fitz says.
“I was afraid you’d say that,” The Doctor says.
“Be nice.”
“I’m always nice.”
“That’s a lie,” Fitz says, glancing over his shoulder at Yaz and Ryan and graham. “Everyone take note, that is an absolute lie.”
“Yeah,” Ryan says. “We know.”
“Do we?” Graham says, frowning.
Ryan hunches his shoulders, instantly wishing he’d never said anything.
“Thank you, Ryan,” The Doctor says, again. “Fitz, how long has it been in your personal timeline since we last saw each other?”
“Uhh,” says Fitz, obviously surprised by the non-sequitur. “Four years, maybe? The time loop makes everything a little questionable. Besides, I figure after 35 it’s better to stop keeping count. 40 is closer than I’m at all comfortable with.”
“And yet you haven’t changed a bit.”
“Thanks, that’s just what I want to hear.”
“No, no, not what I meant, I’m sure you’ve grown as a person and got new boots, at least. But physically, you look exactly as I remember you. (Do not make an amnesia joke, they weren’t funny then and they’re not even contextually accurate now).”
“I was trying not to think about that, but sure, let’s just smash straight through the denial wall while we’re busy running for our lives, bring on the existential crisis, I can multitask.”
“Technically we’re not running for our lives at this exact moment,” Yaz offers.
“That’s not an answer,” The Doctor says.
“For fuck’s sake. The answer is ‘cloning is horrifying, I’m not kidding about that existential crisis, Faction Paradox doesn’t exist’.”
The Doctor doesn’t say anything for a long minute, during which they all clamber down a series of shallow indentations in the wall that is probably supposed to be a ladder. Ryan makes the mistake of looking down the lift shaft while he’s still only halfway down and his entire body starts shaking. Fitz offers him a hand to scramble out of the shaft on the lower level. His hands are calloused, nails bitten, and he smells like cigarette smoke. Ryan wants to tell him he’ll never get the scent out of his nice leather jacket, but that feels kind of condescending.
They’re almost back to where they’d left the TARDIS before The Doctor says, “I’m not sorry. The TARDIS isn’t, either.”
“I’m not complaining,” Fitz says, sort of contemplative. “I’m a fan of living. Besides, it’s hardly the worst thing either of you have done, is it?”
Yaz looks like she wants to throw him out an airlock.
The Doctor exhales a long breath. “I still don’t remember a lot of what happened, the first time. The War in Heaven. That’s what they called it, you know? Suppose there’s only room in my brain for one universe-ending time war.”
Yaz and Ryan exchange a horrified glance.
“Understandable,” Fitz says. “Memory does start to go in someone of your ...advanced age.”
“I take it back,” The Doctor says. “You’ve gone entirely grey. White, even. I can hear your bones creaking from here.”
Finally, someone must notice they’re gone, and an obnoxiously loud and discordant alarm blares out from speakers overhead. The sound of running footsteps and shouted orders comes faintly from off to their right. The Doctor perks up like a puppy seeing the leash.
“Time to go!” she announces, and swings both arms out, neatly snatching Fitz’s hand in her right hand and Yaz’s in her left. She takes off running, but the other two are clearly prepared, because there’s no stumbling first steps, just all three of them legging it toward the TARDIS at a pace that Ryan and Graham quite honestly have no hope of matching. Fitz, with his longer legs, reaches the TARDIS a second before The Doctor and Yaz, and Ryan’s watching very closely so he notices how the TARDIS swings open her doors as soon as Fitz presses his fingertips against her.
Ryan and Graham make it into the TARDIS a few seconds after the others, which is apparently long enough for The Doctor to have picked a fight with the stranger sitting by the main consul. Fitz is staring around the TARDIS like he’s never seen it before, which surprises Ryan.
“I think I know how to fly my own TARDIS, thank you,” The Doctor says. The red-haired woman by the consul just looks bored.
“She’s just fine without you poking and yanking things about.”
“You don’t even know where we’re going.”
“I assume to where the leader has set up the mass-teleport system. I can’t imagine you passing up the opportunity to swoop in and save the day for all the helpless inferior lifeforms.”
“I’m offended,” Graham says, mildly, and Ryan says
“We’re calling him Evil Father Christmas.”
“We is a strong word,” Graham says.
“I don’t have time to indulge your petty vendetta against me,” The Doctor says, impatiently, and Yaz frowns at her.
“Oh wow,” the stranger says. “My “petty vendetta”. Glad to see nothing’s changed. See, Fitz, I told you it’s a good thing the rest of the Time Lords are trapped in a time loop. Imagine how much faster the universe would have to expand to contain all those egos.”
“Compassion,” Fitz says, a little pleadingly. “It’s already been a long day.”
“He’s right,” The Doctor says. “We’re all a bit on edge, yeah? Alright, I understand you’re upset and that seeing me might stir up some bad memories.”
Graham puts a careful hand on The Doctor’s arm. “I don’t think you’re helping, Doc.”
Fitz sends him a grateful look and Ryan bristles on The Doctor’s behalf.
“It’s irrelevant,” Compassion says. “We’ve already moved.”
“We can’t have,” Graham objects. “Nothing happened.”
“Obviously not,” Compassion says, sounding bored. “The Doctor’s just incompetent, so you’ve never experienced proper TARDIS travel.”
“And you’re an expert in it, I suppose?” Yaz asks, a little sharply.
“I’ve had a bit of experience, yeah. You could say the TARDIS and I have a special bond. You could also say the fundamental elements of my physical and temporal being were altered without my permission and against my will because The Doctor is a product of her paternalistic colonialist society. Both are accurate.”
“Oy!” The Doctor says, holding up a hand.
“Maybe don’t, Doctor,” Yaz says. “I get the impression this isn’t a story we’ll be able to understand from a thirty-second argument.”
Ryan’s glad Yaz said it. His curiosity would have probably kept him quiet until The Doctor had dug herself a hole so deep they’d need a rope to her out. And compassion certainly doesn’t seem the friendly or forgiving sort. Graham looks confused and Ryan feels an unreasonable spike of annoyance.
“So,” says Fitz. “Evil father Christmas.”
*
Later, once the day has been saved etc. etc., Ryan leaves The Doctor and Yaz sharing lingering looks over ice packs and painkillers to get a cup of tea and maybe a snack. Fitz is already in the kitchen when he gets there. The older man is slouched on the sofa, a glass of something amber dripping condensation onto the leg of his jeans.
“So you knew The Doctor pretty well,” Ryan says, because he’s worried Fitz will be happy to sit in awkward silence until the kettle has boiled.
“Yeah,” Fitz says. “A few years of traveling together, then a while during the War.”
“She never mentioned she’d been in a war.”
“It’s not really something you can just drop into casual conversation,” Fitz points out. “Besides, as far as most of the universe is concerned, the War never happened.”
Ryan is pretty sure the reasons are far more complicated than that, but he’s not going to push when The Doctor’s not around to give permission. “So you knew her when she was Scottish?”
Fitz coughs on his drink. “No! Was he? She, I mean. That’s actually easier in Gallifreyan, I take back at least 25% of my complaining about temporal pronouns. Did they wear a kilt? I need to know this immediately.”
“I’m not sure,” Ryan says. “I don’t think so. We didn’t know her then. But she’s said she changes faces sometimes, is that what you meant when you asked about regeneration?”
“Yeah,” Fitz says. “My Doctor-- that is, when I knew them, they were… different. Than they are now. I think they're kinder now. Less emotional over all, probably. And far more restless. God, you must get so much stress baking.”
Ryan frowns. “Absolutely not. Graham has banned The Doctor and I from making anything more complicated than tea when he’s around. Even at home, The Doctor tried to take apart our toaster and now she’s not allowed in the kitchen.”
Fitz takes a long sip of his drink. “Home,” he says. “I think I stopped thinking of England as home as soon as I left it. Didn’t take much longer to stop even thinking of Earth as home. But you lot just, what, pop out with them like a quick holiday at the weekend?”
“It’s not like that,’ Ryan objects, even though it is a bit like that. “But it’s not an exchange. The Doctor never asked us to give up our lives on Earth to travel with her. We’re all friends. That’s not the sort of thing friends ask of each other. Though sometimes her driving leaves a bit to be desired.”
“I suppose that’s fair,” Fitz says. “Probably healthier. It just seems very… lonely, I guess. Everybody going their own way after the adventure of the week.”
“The Doctor goes home with Yaz sometimes,” Ryan says. “And graham and I live together.”
“I’m sorry,” says Fitz. “I didn’t mean to be an arsehole. Today has just been… a lot. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t go looking for The Doctor after Compassion got me away from Gallifrey, and now here they are. And it all feels different. They're a different person. I’m different. The TARDIS is different. It’s just not how I imagined this going.”
Ryan tears the packet for his teabag open, carefully untangles the little string, and wraps it around the handle of his mug. “Just because it’s different doesn’t mean it’s bad,” he says. “If this were a film, I know now would be the time for you and The Doctor to decide you’ve both moved on and go your separate ways. But I think maybe the universe knew what it was doing when it brought you back together.”
“That’s very new-age,” Fitz says, amused. Ryan huffs.
“I just meant that you’re right. Graham and I go home together. Yaz goes home to her family. I never really thought about The Doctor being here when we aren’t. Figured she had important alien business to take care of.”
Fitz snorts. “I bet all they do is tinker with the TARDIS or practice an obscure and embarrassing musical instrument.”
The kettle flips off and Ryan pours his tea. “That’s all,” he says. “Just something to think about.”
Fitz sets his glass down on the arm of the sofa and stands, patting Ryan’s shoulder. “Cheers,” he says. “Three hours after we’ve met again might be a bit early to ask to move back in, but you never know. God knows somebody’s got to be around to watch out for them, and maybe The TARDIS would like someone to share some of the work.” His gaze drops briefly to the floor, almost guilty, and Ryan gets the impression his next words aren’t meant for him. “We’ve certainly had some practice.”
Ryan leaves Fitz to his emotional baggage and goes to find Compassion. He has. So many. Questions.
*
The Doctor picks them all up on Christmas Eve, because Yaz has been talking about wanting to try downhill skiing for the past week, and Graham and Ryan have come to an unspoken agreement that trying to do Christmas without Grace isn’t worth the heartache or the ruined turkey. The Doctor meets them at the Starbucks, because it’s the only coffee shop open. She’s wearing a bright red wooly hat and clutching a massive paper coffee cup between her hands. Fitz is leaned up against the outside wall, shivering in his leather jacket and smoking.
They both perk up as soon as Ryan and the others cross the street from the bus stop. Yaz is clearly delighted by The Doctor’s hat, and The Doctor ducks her head so Yaz can tug playfully at the pompom on top of it.
“It’s his fault,” The Doctor says, grabbing Yaz’s hand and dragging her over to Fitz.
“It’s festive, isn’t it?” Fitz says, smirking.
“And warm,” Yaz says. “Which is more than I can say for your coat, Fitz.”
Fitz opens his mouth, then shuts it quickly. Ryan is watching The Doctor bouncing from foot to foot and he wants to take the coffee away from her almost as much as he wants to shove Fitz and Yaz into a closet together until they’re friends. The Doctor has been very good about letting them feel each other out on their own terms, like introducing unfamiliar cats, but Ryan doesn’t like the anxious hopeful energy that clings to The Doctor whenever they’re both around at the same time.
“Yeah,” Fitz says. “I didn’t even know it could get this cold up North.”
Yaz laughs. “Adventures all across time and space and you never bothered to hop on a train and see your own country. I’m ashamed.”
The Doctor's bouncing increases. Graham clears his throat. “Anyone want a drink before we go, or were we just meeting here to fuel The Doctor’s newfound caffeine habit?”
The Doctor grins at them all from behind her cup. “Let’s go in and get you lot some hot chocolate before we go,” she says. “We’ve got time.”