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For a being with two hearts syncronised in a constant drumbeat at the back of their mind, it’s strange to find a solo thud so close to their ears.
Yaz fell asleep precisely ten minutes and thirty two seconds ago.
The Doctor knows, because it’s been ten minutes and thirty seconds since she’d had to consciously regulate her breathing and the rise and fall of her chest against Yaz’s soft cheek so not to jostle her.
Or to betray how much her proximity; her warmth; her grounding pressure — seeps between their ribs and makes itself at home within the vessels of their hearts.
She’d started to comb her fingers through Yaz’s hair before she’d given in to slumber. When she slows to a stop, Yaz’s lips twitch into such a crestfallen pull south that the Doctor continues her ministrations before she can think.
A thigh coils tighter around the Doctor’s bare leg — bar a pair of black boxer shorts littered with lightning bolts — and Yaz tucks her face under her chin with a soft exhale. The purple sofa (a Christmas present from Yaz) creaks with the movement and the Doctor’s fingers shift to follow her dark tresses.
In her free hand sits a book, held open by a plastered thumb.
The next section details the culture of the peoples of Raxicon-Four and, worrying her bottom lip, the Doctor halts the excitable twitch of her foot against purple fabric before it can even begin. It’s a constant struggle to keep still, but each time she diverts her gaze to Yaz’s lax expression and closed eyes, it seems all the more worth it.
Until the book goes forgotten in favour of the slope of Yaz’s nose and the length of her eyelashes; each one counted and filed away. She starts dividing her locks between her fingers until she realises she needs her other hand in order to entwine them into a plait.
The book meets the side table with a muted thump and the Doctor sits back against the arm of the sofa to better pursue her newest task.
Three sections wind and coil into a basic but perfectly even plait. With nothing to hold it in place, though, the Doctor is forced to let it fall loose around her shoulders again upon completion. Still, it also means she can try a variety of approaches to the hairstyle, from waterfall braids to fishtail plaits to their French equivalent.
The latter is what coaxes long lashes to blink open and sleep-ridden eyes to take her in some time later.
As usual, the Doctor’s hearts trip over themselves in a rush to appreciate the view.
The corners of Yaz’s lips curl up in pleased acknowledgement.
The Doctor’s cheeks flush.
“Hi,” Yaz croaks, lifting her head with sleep-dishevelled features. The creases of the Doctor’s navy rainbow t-shirt are imprinted in lines against her left cheek and they make her look all the more precious.
“Hiya, Yaz,” the Doctor grins, fingers moving from dark locks to the curve of her cheekbone. She smooths down the lines and bumps with her thumb and swallows back a confession when Yaz leans into her palm with a satisfied hum. “Didn’t wake you, did I? Sorry.”
Yaz wets her lips and shifts, wriggling her arms beneath the Doctor’s shoulders and sinking into her again. “No, it was nice,” she mumbles into her chest, failing to quell a yawn. “You’re warm. And y’were reading aloud again. Somethin’ about Lexicon —”
“Raxicon.”
“Raxicon-Four,” Yaz corrects. “Weren’t that the place we went to a couple of weeks ago? Where everyone had three heads? And they thought —”
“We were royalty because we only had one. Yeah,” the Doctor finishes for her, moving her hand to the back of Yaz’s neck. She scratches at the base of her hairline, earning a sigh. “I was reading up on their culture — making sure we didn’t break any rules by letting them believe we were.”
“You? Checking we didn’t break any rules?” Yaz’s head lifts and she seeks out hazel green in faux concern. “Are you feeling alright?”
“Shut up.” The alien pouts until Yaz softens with a chuckle.
A butterfly kiss melts against her jutting bottom lip and, seeking another, the Doctor closes her eyes.
When nothing comes, she peeks one eye open. Hovering just shy of her mouth, Yaz smirks.
“ Yaz ,” the Doctor huffs.
Yaz squeezes closer, sleep-softened eyes lacking in mirth. “What?”
“Another one,” the Doctor sighs, “You always give me two. S’the rules.”
Yaz maneuvres atop her once more. She’s always been fidgety in her sleep, so the Doctor barely notices.
When two fingers find her chin, though, the Doctor’s hearts soar to the back of her throat and she praises Yaz’s gentle kiss for halting the stuttering, desperate jumble of confessions on her tongue.
Tender and languid, she responds to Yaz’s embrace. She winds an arm around her waist, resting her palm at her lower back, and smiles into her kiss.
The ensuing few minutes are fuelled by self-indulgence. The Doctor’s blood sugar heightens to dangerous levels with every sweet sigh and hum she coaxes from her counterpart until all that’s left is strawberry laces for blood vessels and jelly for bones.
Before the faint throb in her gut can capitulate or her hearts give way, the Doctor parts their mouths with a quiet smack.
Yaz’s nose slots alongside her own and blushing cheek meets blushing cheek.
“I really like kissing you,” the Doctor blurts, tongue loose and brain hazy. Yaz’s laughter filters out against her ear and she gives into a shiver. “I’m not usually so — I don’t usually need this much. My last body would’ve rather set themself on fire over doing anything like this. It’s new.”
Yaz settles back, tilting her head. “ Good new, though? Yeah?”
“Definitely good,” the Doctor hums, swiping her tongue across her bottom lip in a quick flit of motion. She watches Yaz track the movement. “Thanks for letting me take this slow.”
Brown eyes warm, kind and dusted with sleep, Yaz smiles. “‘Course.”
The Doctor doesn’t miss her barely restrained yawn to follow. “Think it’s time for bed, Yaz. S’been a long day.”
Regretfully, Yaz hums her agreement. She lets the Doctor help her to her feet with little effort, their movements slow as though every minute counts.
In Yaz’s case, it rings true.
Now’s not the time , the Doctor chides herself. She drapes an arm over Yaz’s shoulders in further dispute.
And if that wasn’t enough for the niggling voice at the back of her head, she brushes her lips against Yaz’s temple and theorises that some extra sleep wouldn’t be such a bad thing. “Mind if I join you? Haven’t had a kip in a while.”
“I was really hoping you’d say that,” Yaz divulges, leaning into her side. She winds an arm around her waist, thumb hooked into the band of her boxer shorts.
Their bare feet are light on the metal floors as they exit the library. The Doctor turns her head and smirks. “‘Cause I’m such perfect company?”
Yaz’s rolling eyes are audible. “Yeah, sure, babe.”
If the Doctor were holding back a grin, she’d never last long at this rate. “ Babe ?”
“What do you think?” Yaz poses, squeezing her hip.
Nudging the door to Yaz’s bedroom open, the Doctor releases her hold in favour of allowing her entrance first. “I think I like it. Say it again?”
Yaz backs up towards the sprawling queensize and peels the sheets back. “Come to bed, babe?”
“Oh,” she breathes, biting into her bottom lip. The term of endearment clings to the parts of her she hasn’t yet ventured to so far and awakens them like an abandonned home restored; like blowing dust off a forgotten ornement. “Yeah. Definitely like that.”
Yaz can read her like a book. Shaking her head, she settles between the covers and watches the Doctor cross the plush carpet to the other side. “I can see your pulse racing from here, Doctor.”
“Shut up.”
As soon as she climbs into bed beside her, Yaz shuffles up to her side without hesitation. Her palm finds the expanse of the Doctor’s stomach beneath her top while the Doctor’s settles modestly at Yaz’s waist. A warm thigh sits between her own and Yaz sighs in contentment.
“Comfy enough?” the Doctor asks.
“One more thing,” Yaz mumbles, nestling her head down to the Doctor’s chest once she’s found her usual spot; right atop her double heartbeat. “Perfect.”
Taming her runaway hearts once again, the Doctor settles in.
The TARDIS offers its assistance, dimming the lights above until they’re bathed in slow falling darkness.
“Cheers, mate,” she whispers into the crown of Yaz’s head.
And as Yaz’s breathing evens out and their shared hearts fall in tandem, she sends out a silent, more pleading thanks to the universe itself; for Yasmin Khan and her unknown healing powers.