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It always happens around this time. It’s as though the Doctor can tell the exact instant Yaz sets her laptop; sometimes a book, or her phone aside and settles into her plush, otherworldly mattress with a satisfied sigh.
She can hear her soft footfalls along the corridor first, like a timid fawn curiously approaching civilisation. Then comes the stuttering pause before her bedroom door, followed by a light tap of firm knuckles — muted as though she’s not keen to wake her from her rest if she’s got her times mixed up.
“Yaz?” a shy voice whispers from the other side of the door, handle dipping with the pressure of a requesting hand. “Yaz, are you still up?”
“Just about.” Sharing a secret smile with the room and sending Allah a quiet thank you , Yaz sits up and waits until the door edges open before lifting the corner of the duvet up. “C’mon.”
The Doctor’s expression is lax with exhaustion and faintly relieved as she closes the door behind her and jogs towards Yaz’s bed. “Thanks, Yaz. Brilliant, you are. The TARDIS must’ve moved my room again.”
She’s an awful liar, but Yaz is too tired to call her out. Besides, why risk a warm body at her side through the night?
The blonde is clad in a pair of cropped black pyjama bottoms dotted with green aliens (the irony!) and a matching t-shirt decorated with two green fingers performing a peace sign and the words we come in peace .
Yaz rolls her eyes at the pun, but before she can say anything a cold hand brushes against her arm and she starts. “Doctor, you’re freezing.”
“I run colder than you lot,” the Doctor answers, shifting onto her side to seek Yaz out in the low light. “Plus the TARDIS had me fetch a part from the ice room. There’s a metal which bends to fit perfectly to any joins, but to keep it in one piece it has to be frozen when out of use. Very delicate stuff, Yaz.”
Acknowledging the way she attempts to hide her shivers, Yaz tucks the covers closer around the Doctor’s form and shuffles up. “Come closer. Let me warm you up.”
But the Doctor doesn’t shift straight away, and Yaz can feel the heat emanating from her flushed cheeks.
Oh .
“I didn’t — um — I didn’t mean it like that.” Yes, you did , a devilish voice crows. Yaz extends an arm, catching the Doctor’s waist. “I meant we could — we could—”
The Doctor saves her with a shy smile and a giggle, body already moving to accommodate her. “Cuddle?”
“Yeah. Does that sound okay?”
She can feel the Doctor nod against the pillow beside her before a cold but gentle hand winds around her waist. Her head comes to rest against her shoulder and, emboldened by each touch, a slim thigh hitches over Yaz’s hip. “Like this?”
“Comfy?”
“Really comfy.”
“Then yes,” Yaz hums, turning to let her nose rest against the crown of the Doctor’s head. She breathes her in; engine oil, coffee beans and fresh air. “Just like this.”
Breathing a sigh through her nose, the Doctor’s fingertips find the hem of Yaz’s old university tee and settle beneath — for extra warmth or simply to feel her up, Yaz isn’t sure.
Either way, the touch isn’t exactly unwelcome and Yaz is reluctant to scare her off, so she winds an arm around the Doctor’s waist and settles with a hum.
“This is nice,” the Doctor whispers thirteen circles of her fingertips against Yaz’s hip later. “Never used to be like this in my last body. This one wants so much more.”
It must be the Doctor’s fatigue that leaves her tongue so loose and her words on a platter.
Tentatively, Yaz probes. “Yeah?”
“Or maybe it’s just you,” the Doctor muffles against her neck, cheeks warm.
Yaz’s chest blossoms with heat and she swallows thickly, taking a dive. “You don’t have to make up excuses to come for a cuddle when you need some sleep, y’know?”
“I haven’t been making excuses—” the Doctor mumbles like a grumbling child who knows full well that they’re lying. “Okay, maybe I’ve been making excuses.”
“Thought so.”
“Shut up.”
“Make me.”
Yaz barely takes a breath before cold lips find hers and mould together with ease.