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You fussed with your phone screen, toggling airplane mode. You tried turning the whole thing on and off. Nothing. “Ugh,” a low growl built in your throat, “I hate it when a planet destroys my Wi-Fi.”
The Doctor—useless, skinny lump that he was, sprawled out on the cot with his elbows propped up behind his head—gave a noncommittal humming noise. Your shoulders tensed, practically up to your ears, in response.
You looked up from your phone with a tired glare. “Could you… and I know this is a wild thought, so just bear with me for a sec, do something to get us out of here?”
“I am,” the Doctor shot back, a little affronted, before he closed his eyes and settled back into the paper-thin mattress. “This is me doing what I do best.”
“Lying around?” you asked, sweetly.
He tapped his temple. “Thinking.”
“I don’t want to say that’s what got us into this mess…” you said under your breath, not sure if you wanted to go from banter session to bickering under the circumstances. But this was the third time you’d found yourself held captive this month, and it was getting old fast. You were officially sick of being stuck, especially in a rough, vaguely medieval cell.
The Doctor heard you. He shook his head, eyes still closed “Ah, no, that’s not how I remember it.”
“Not how you remember what happened ten minutes ago?”
“No, no, no. What I remember from fifteen minutes ago,” the Doctor corrected, in that Know-It-All-Seen-It-All voice that made you feel every frustration under whatever-sun-you-were-under, “is somebody wandered off when they weren’t supposed to and made a big mess of a Gragorean ritual. Wonder who did that, now.”
You leaned back into the concrete wall, arms crossed and mouth forming a pout in spite of yourself. “Well whoever it was, they were probably having a really reasonable response to getting sidelined for some pink-haired damsel-type all day.”
The Doctor grinned, one corner of his lip dipping into smirk territory. “Sounds like whoever it was might have been a bit, dunno, dare I say jeal—”
“You don’t dare.”
“Mm-kay.”
Smug jerk.
You stood up from your little seat in the corner of the cell, shaking your stiff legs. You waved your phone at the Doctor’s lounging form. “Come on, scoot.”
“What? No,” the Doctor’s nose scrunched up. “Thinking’s better done comfy. Currently: very comfy. Well, the bed’s a bit spring-y, but definitely been in worse. Cells, I mean. Beds in cells. Not exactly known for being accommodating,” his voice dropped, “bit like someone I know—”
You ignored his rapid stream of complaints and, nudging his legs to the side, climbed up onto the cot so that you were standing on it. You wobbled a bit, but you threw out an arm to brace yourself against the wall.
The Doctor watched you hold up the phone and wave it around. “What on earth are you doing up there?”
You pursed your lips. Still nothing. You lifted the phone higher. “I’m looking for a signal. Or bars, or something.”
“What’re you trying to do with that, anyway?”
“I don’t know. Signal the TARDIS. Text Donna to see if she’s had any luck getting out of her cell. Shop summer sales online.”
He looked up at you for a moment, eyebrows raised while you flailed about above him. “You know, if you just remembered to carry the phone I gave you—”
“It’s a flip-phone, you gave me a flip-phone,” you interrupted him, creaking forward on the rickety mattress. “All of time and space, and your phone’s stuck in, what, 2005? It doesn’t fit in my jean pockets.”
“Ouch! Oi, watch it!”
“Sorry,” you stilled, the bed shaking beneath you and an indignant Doctor. It was an awfully tiny cot. His feet dangled over the side. It was hard to figure out where to put your feet without stepping on him.
At that moment, it seemed the Doctor’s pensive silence had progressed into his usual “Aren’t I Clever?” monologue. You ignored him as he began breaking down part one of the great escape, which felt more aimed at the empty room than you anyway. Plus, it started with “Now, the sonic doesn’t work on wood,” which was a bit anticlimactic after ten minutes of brainstorming.
Your Wi-Fi symbol flickered, and you fought the urge to triumphantly bounce. Getting somewhere. You stretched up onto your toes, trying to press the phone further toward the top corner of the room.
“—But I’ve seen the type before, your general run-of-the-dungeon grate and lumber combo. Bound to be a weak spot near the bottom, old as it is. If we could just make a lever—"
You let go of the wall, switching hands to crane forward an extra inch. Just a little further—
The Doctor stirred. “Y/N, don’t—"
You rocked suddenly, and your weight pitched forward as your center of gravity promptly gave up. You tumbled downward, landing with a yelp. Right onto a very squashed, equally yelp-ing Doctor, who tried his best to cushion your fall by grabbing your torso mid-air. You just barely avoided slamming your head against his.
“Right, that went well,” the Doctor half-grumbled, half-whined, “Great work, there, Y/N.”
“Sorry, sorry. Really didn’t mean to do that,” you apologized with a wince. You both caught your breath for a second, registering your new position. Your face flushed, and you tried to wiggle backwards, but the Doctor’s grip was firm about your waist and your—“Doctor. Your, uh, hand. Could you…”
“Did you even hear anything I just said?” he cut in, brow furrowed. “I was half a tick to getting us out, and there you are, imitating a cell tower when we just need a lev—"
You squirmed. “Doctor, your hand’s on my chest.”
He froze. Sure enough, one hand propping you up off his chest was on the small of your waist, the other accidentally cupping your—
His Adam’s apple bobbed.
With a crack, the bed beneath you collapsed. You yelped again, the air knocked out of your lungs as you, the Doctor, and the mattress crashed to the floor in a heap of metal bars and bolts. He groaned pitifully as the dust settled.
“Oh my god,” you whispered, “Doctor, are you okay?”
“Oh, yeah,” he huffed, voice very airy. His grip had tightened on you, and you knew he’d taken the brunt of the fall. “Never better.”
“Think anyone heard that?”
“What, the enormous thudding sound of a metal bed collapsing?” he asked. “Nah. Probably just thought it was an all-monk alt-rock band.”
You lifted your head up, not seeing the sudden fondness in his brown eyes at the sight of your hair all ruffled up and dusty, not noticing the way that his breathing had picked up, not registering the way his body had managed to relax—in spite of the massive bruise forming on his back—against yours. You picked up a broken piece of the bed frame, a thick metal bar about the length of your arm. “Did you say we needed a lever?”
The Doctor blinked. “That’ll do it, yeah. Should be able to prop it under a weak spot and jimmy the cell door up enough to slide under.”
“That,” you tilted your head to the side to look down at him, “is brilliant.”
The Doctor beamed up a big, goofy grin. His voice rocketed upward. “I know. Told you it’s what I do best. That and tiddlywinks. Nobody ever asks me about tiddlywinks, but I’ve dabbled. Absolutely slaughtered Prince Philip at it.”
“Doctor?”
“Yeah?”
“Hand’s still on my boob.”
“Uh, yep,” he swallowed. “Right.” You rolled off him, not making eye contact. Metal bars scattered and rolled noisily about the floor of the cell as he tugged you to your feet. He was also very firmly avoiding your eyes. Your body was still running a few degrees warmer than usual, and you were worried he’d notice.
You cleared your throat and held up the makeshift letter. “We don’t mention this to Donna.”
The Doctor took it, hearts still beating quickly. Surely you couldn’t tell, he hoped. “Best not to,” he agreed. “Right,” he repeated. “That’s enough confinement for today, I’d say.”
And the jailbreak commenced.
Neither of you noticed your cell phone light up, connected to the Wi-Fi from where it had topped on the floor.