Chapter Text
The reverberations and echoes of that fatal gunshot still ring through her bones hours after their initial chorus, interrupting any alternative path of thought in impromptu bursts of overwhelming sensation.
Yaz nibbles at the meal the Doctor had gladly and expertly cooked up after their most recent adventure aboard her ship, chin cupped in her palm and gaze cast downward as she swills the fried vegetables around with her fork.
Mouth full, the time lord chatters away to Ryan about a past mishap in the kitchen, but Yaz only picks up on the words ‘explosive flour’ through the haze her mind has granted upon her thoughts.
When the Doctor glances in her direction, three anecdotes later, her head tips to the side like a puppy confused over a new command, green eyes inexplicably soft.
The smile Yaz plasters over her lips is false and dismissive, and her gaze drops the minute the Doctor moves to question it.
If it’s space she needs, the Doctor can’t refuse her. She turns back, launching into the history behind cutlery, and Yaz can hear the twin sighs from Graham and Ryan before she even needs to look at their fondly rolling eyes.
Her food is cold and her insides churn while Yaz dwells and dwells and dwells on the day’s events. It takes another empathetic glance from her best friend for something inside her to splinter and fissure between her ribs. She slips from her seat, the red dust still clinging to the soles of her boots a harsh reminder of their earlier actions. “I’m just — I’m just going to fetch something from my room. I’ll be right back.”
Three sets of sympathetic eyes follow her from the TARDIS kitchen and into the adjoining corridor, and if they hear the waver to her voice, they don’t say anything.
“Should I —” the Doctor starts, a tell-tale sniffle filtering through her heightened hearing and forcing her to her feet. Her brows pinch together and her smile falls and she’s close to running right after her when Graham reaches out, touching a hand to her elbow.
“Might be best to give her a minute or so, Doc,” he proposes gently, the wisdom in his weathered eyes giving the Time Lord a run for her money.
“But she’s —” the Doctor starts, then sinks back into her seat with a despondent sigh. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” She glances at Ryan’s watch, tilting her head. “Two minutes.”
She lasts a minute and a half before she gives in to the weight on her chest and between her ribs. Her feet move on instinct towards Yaz’s room aboard the ship, each stride more determined than the last.
Her movements falter at the last turning before her room, where sensitive hearing zones in on muffled cries and the Time Lord’s weathered hearts break once more. A dull ache settles beneath her ribs as she steps forward, knuckles beating in a slow rap against her bedroom door. “Yaz? It’s just me. You reckon I could come in?”
The sound of shuffling feet echoes through the engineered gold before Yaz opens the door ajar, peering puffy eyelids and damp cheeks through the gap she makes. She sniffs, once, and averts her gaze.
“Oh, Yaz,” the Doctor sighs softly, slipping through the door when Yaz defeatedly moves aside.
Yaz settles on the edge of her bed, toying with the threads of her blanket and hanging her head when tears cloud her vision once more. She’s meant to be strong like the Doctor; to be brave and unaffected, not hidden away in her room dwelling on moments which cannot be altered, grieving for people she’s lost who she never should’ve met in the first place. But it’s so much , and she’s only now understanding what travelling with the Doctor means — the sacrifices, the guilt, the relief. She doesn’t know how her best friend manages to keep so light and hopeful throughout ceaseless storms.
“Do you want to talk about it?” the Doctor prompts a minute later, the mattress dipping at Yaz’s side when she perches next to her. “Or — you know, you could just cry? Really, properly cry. Let it all out — there’s nothing wrong with that.” She reaches out, moulding her palm over Yaz’s knee to give a reassuring squeeze. “And I’m certainly not going to judge. Crying is brilliant, especially when it’s about someone as brave as Prem.”
Yaz notices, somewhere in the muddle her mind has dissipated into, that only in quiet moments like this is the Doctor affectionate — her gentle, comforting touches the only medicine Yaz needs. So, tears falling freely now, Yaz meets her gaze through clouded vision, hoping her request filters through the space between their minds rather than tumbling from quivering lips.
Reaching out, the Doctor catches one of many tears beneath the pad of her thumb, features softening to a frankly offensive level. “Would — would you like a hug, Yaz?”
When the other woman doesn’t respond right away, the Doctor cringes, resisting the temptation to grasp ahold of time itself and retract her words.
But then Yaz turns, offering up a teary smile as she shifts to better fall into open, waiting arms. The contact is enough to leave her stomach reeling and emotions unreserved. She sinks into her chest with a shuddering sob, burying forlorn features against her best friend’s shoulder.
They sit like this, wrapped up in each other, lost to the solar systems around them until heaving sobs melt into quiet sniffs and, eventually, the hopeful coax of laughter from an off-hand comment about the history of tears.
Trust the Doctor to peel away her soul from its usually caged space, and then just as fleetingly fix it back together with the simple act of her presence.
She’s millions of miles from her flat in Sheffield, but when the pressure of soft lips mould and sear against her forehead in open comfort reserved only for her, Yasmin Khan has never felt so at home.