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"Are you sure you'll be alright on your own?"
That's the fourth - no, fifth time the Doctor has asked you that in the past thirty minutes. That's not counting the other times she's asked that question, or something adjacent to that - so far, you've counted ten "are you okay"s , three "you alright"s , and maybe seven "how you doing"s .
"I'll be okay," you tell her with a smile. "I'm just going to sleep."
The smile clearly doesn't help. The Doctor's worried expression doesn't budge, instead staying firmly planted on her face in the form of a furrowed brow and a tiny frown. "Yes, I know but - on your own. Which, I might add, you haven't done in a while. Do forgive me if I'm a tad worried about you."
Judging from the Doctor's face, however, she isn't just a tad bit worried - she's probably properly worried. She's doing that thing where she's hovering, sitting close to you but not nearly close enough, reaching out but never touching, eyes raking over your form over and over again, like she's afraid to touch you or you'll break underneath her hands.
A lump forms in your throat. Not like you already haven't, anyway.
You swallow. "Doctor," you say, trying to keep your voice light, "quit fussing."
The Doctor scrunches up her face and shuffles closer to your spot on your bed. "I'll have you know I won a contest for that. Well, I didn't win. Well, I won second place, so that must count for something."
"There's competitions for that?"
"'Course there are! There's competitions for everything," the Doctor says. Her voice settles into that familiar register - bright, excited - and something in your chest warms at the sound. "Typing, eating, listening, even flicking light switches on and off. I could never get those."
"I didn't think you were the eating competition type," you say.
The Doctor shuffles closer to you, your shoulders now just centimeters apart. "Don't think I've found the one for me yet. I think I'd absolutely smash a custard cream eating competition, though - what d'you think?"
The warmth in your chest bubbles up and out of your throat in the form of a quiet giggle. The Doctor jumps at the sound, quickly looking up and away from your bandaged arms.
And it's almost like magic, the way the storm behind her eyes recedes at just the sound of your laugh.
"What?" the Doctor continues, holding a hand to her chest in mock offense - but she looks so happy, so hopeful. "You don't think I could do it?"
"No, I totally believe in you," you reply, still trying to hold in another laugh at the cutely indignant frown that she has on her face. "I just think, I don't know, that there might be another custard cream destroyer that you don't know about."
You decide at that moment that hope looks good on the Doctor. Joyful, bright, shining hope radiating from every part of her smile, from the way her eyes crinkle to the curve of her lips.
"Well," the Doctor says, quieter this time, "I suppose I'll have to start looking."
You hum in response. Your shoulders are touching now - which is something that absolutely shouldn't fluster you given literally everything else that you've done with her, and yet you can still feel the heat starting to rise on your cheeks. She's kissed you, for heaven's sake, and you've hugged her so many times that you can barely count, but every single touch feels so rare and special.
"You'll be okay?" the Doctor asks. Her voice is small and timid, so unlike her large personality. "Please tell me you'll be okay on your own."
"I-"
The truth is, you aren't sure. But then you see the hope - the sheer hope on the Doctor's face - and you think that maybe you don't want to give her the truth.
"I want to try," you manage. "I've been okay, the past few nights. I think I can finally just - do it on my own, you know."
The Doctor nods. She leans down slightly to peer straight into your eyes, searching. Whatever she's looking for, she doesn't find it. "Can't exactly stop you. Alright. Off you pop."
You slide down from your sitting position and under the blankets. The Doctor immediately gets up and begins to tuck you in, practiced motions of smoothing out your very soft, very warm woolen blanket up to your chin ("a gift from the nobles of Andoria, woven from their own fur and blessed in special rituals meant to keep the wearer warm from anything," she'd said when she tucked you in the first time). You watch her eyes flick over every spot on your body - your hair, your face, and then the blanket - and then she leans back, pulling herself a little straighter.
"Alright," she says, pushing her hands into her coat pockets, "goodnight."
The ending pitch of the word rises up - it's a question, not a greeting. Like she's asking for permission to leave.
And damn it, you want to be selfish. You want to tell her to stay and you want to tell her to hold you in her arms, and to keep you safe from the things still living in your mind. The Doctor hovers by your bedside, purses her lips, and you can tell by the way her comforting smile slips off her face for just a moment, that she wants to be selfish too.
But you want to be brave, to keep that hope in her eyes alive, to prove to her that you're finally, finally , doing alright.
"Goodnight, Doctor," you say.
She doesn't leave right away, though. She moves near the bed and leans down, closer and closer until you can smell her distinct scent of honey and lavender, and until you can feel every gentle puff of her breath against your skin.
"Sweet dreams," she whispers, and ever so gently presses her lips against your forehead. "Call me if you need me."
"I always need you," you whisper back.
The Doctor smiles again in response. "Quite right. And I, you."
The warmth of the room leaves as soon as she does.
The Doctor's given you her warmest blanket, and maybe three more, but for the life of you, you cannot get warm. As the minutes pass by, the chill creeps through your skin and into your blood, freezing you solid from the inside.
You curl up. It's so cold, so terribly cold. The warmth bleeds from you, trickling slowly out until you're left shivering and wondering why it's so cold -
"Wake up, little human."
Your eyes shoot open.
The sight before you is alien, at first. Dark, jagged hallways stretch out for miles and miles before you. Twisting, bending shapes of glass and metal, folding onto one another like some kind of twisted fractal, every single curve dripping with a dark, unknown liquid.
You shift in your bonds. Your bonds. You can't move your arms - they're tied tightly behind your back, and you can feel the cold metal against your elbows and back. Your heart drops to your stomach, because there's no way, you can't -
"I got out," you rasp, and your voice - God, your voice is ghastly. "No, no, no , I got out."
"Dreaming again, pretty?" The alien's voice sends a chill down your spine. Sharp fingers curl around your chin and yank upward, forcing you to meet its eyes. They glitter like freshly fallen snow. "You should know better."
"I got out," you repeat uselessly, because you can't be back here. "I got home, back to the TARDIS -"
Then there's something cold and sharp pressed against your neck, and all that you can manage is a pathetic little whimper. The blade presses ever so gently against your skin. You raise your head a little higher. "Speaking of the TARDIS - you still have not told us where it is."
"Like hell -" you cough. The sound rattles in your chest. "Like hell I'll ever tell you that."
"You've said that before," the alien sneers, and the blade digs deeper into your throat. "Minutes ago, in fact."
I was there, you repeat in your mind. I was there, I was home, I was with her, I was rescued and it was real.
When was I rescued?
Was I ever rescued?
What did their smiles look like?
What did her heartbeat sound like?
A stab of fear lances through your heart, carving deeper than any blade ever could. You squeeze your eyes shut - this can't be real, you were home with her in your bed and then you feel the pain, burning cold, searing through skin and muscle and bone as something comes down on your leg. The pain feels more real than any gentle touch you've ever felt in your life.
"What a sweet, soft, thing you are," it croons. "Look at me. Hush your screaming."
You swallow the strangled noise that threatens to spill from your lips.
"Very good. Very good." The blade trails up your neck and onto your cheek, the tip coming to a stop just between your eyes. "Obedient. Perfect. Tell us where the ship is."
You don't respond. Your teeth press down and soft flesh gives way to blood - you bare your mouth, for a moment no longer a scared little human but an animal poised to attack, and you can feel the red dripping from your gums and over your lips. There is a flicker of fire there - not enough to keep you warm, but enough to ward off the darkness.
"You'll never know," erupts from your throat as you lunge forward.
Never again will anyone touch you, hurt you. Blindly, you grab at the approaching pair of hands and dig your nails into cloth covered sleeves. You dig your fingers in further and faintly hear a small noise of pain; good , says your racing heart, pumping a rhythm so loud you can barely hear the sounds of your own ragged breaths, you will never be scared again.
Groaning, you push against the body. It's smaller and softer than you thought, but you pay it no mind - it's easier then, to push against them further and send them to the ground. A loud bang resounds around the darkened room as they hit the floor with a yell.
Never again , your heart screams as you scramble on top of them. There's a strangled gasp as you dig your elbow into your captor's throat.
Never again. The body against you strains, and gasps.
Never again.
You close your quivering fingers into a fist, nails digging into your own palm, and then -
"What are you doing?!"
Your vision explodes into white. It burns, and you shut your eyes tight - the voices around you start to sharpen, a cacophony of protests and confusion that only gets louder as you blink the tears out of your eyes. The throat against your elbow moves, and you look down.
"It's me," the Doctor chokes out, hands above her head and blonde hair splayed out on the floor beneath her. "It's me ."
Oh God - you didn't - you never meant to -
"Hey, hey, look at me, it's alright," the Doctor soothes, but the waves and the storm in your head are so damn loud. "No. No, not at them. Yaz, Ryan, back off -"
Your fist is still pulled back, still poised to strike. You were ready - you were so ready, willing even, to let it go - you hadn't even stopped to think, to wonder if what you were doing was right or not -
The Doctor's hand closes around your fist. Lowers it. “You’re safe.”
That’s impossible, you think. You try to meet the Doctor’s eyes, but they’re a mirror, and you look crazed. You look like a monster.
Your head snaps up, your elbow still threatening to crush the windpipe of the person you love.
You are a monster.
“No, no - love - don’t move - wait!”
You take off running.
Time blurs, shifts and distorts in all the wrong places. An eternity passes when you blink. Seconds pass when it must be hours. You have no idea where you’ve gone, or how long you’ve been gone, but you’ve been gone nonetheless.
It has to be better that way, you think. You, gone. Maybe you still are dreaming, and the comforting walls and floors of the TARDIS are just some delusion that you’ve dreamt up to keep yourself warm in the cold of that ship.
Your delusions must suck, then. They aren’t enough. You stumble through the halls of the TARDIS(?), arms wrapped around yourself, the biting cold coming from inside of you. Your feet are blocks of ice as you walk, walk where?
“There’s nowhere to go, and nowhere to hide,” comes a voice, right next to your ear. “That’s right, sweet human. Come home .”
Home is both everywhere and nowhere right now. The cold floor beneath your bare feet doesn’t even feel real anymore, because it’s just too cold, and you want to be home and warm so badly.
You should have been selfish.
No chance now - your knees give way underneath you. You close your eyes, ready for the metal floor to meet you, ready for more pain and more loneliness and more of that freezing, biting cold -
“I knew I’d find you here.”
“Huh?” You blink languidly at the form that comes into view. Messy, short blonde hair, dazzling eyes, and a smile so bright you want to squint and look away.
“Took us forever to find you,” the Doctor says. She shifts, and adjusts your shivering form in her arms. “You bolted, you know. We lost track of you pretty quickly.”
You want to believe that this is real, that the strong arms holding you are real, that the sweet scent of honey and lavender wafting through the air is real. You want to believe that the faint feeling of warmth crawling over your skin is real.
The Doctor seems to read your mind. “I’m as real as can be, you know. I’m not leaving you. Not again. Not ever.”
“Probably should,” you mumble. There’s a pressure just behind your eyes, threatening to release, and you’re far too tired and far too cold to keep it all held in. “I hurt you.”
“You didn’t mean it.” The Doctor’s touch is burning, her thumbs rubbing against your cheek burning fire onto your skin. “You were scared - scared makes us do powerful things.”
Scary things, monstrous things. “I did it, that’s what counts.”
A myriad of emotions pass over the Doctor’s face. You can’t name all of them as they pass by - guilt, sadness, anger, recollection - but hope is missing, and that’s when the dam cracks and breaks open. The tears trailing down your face feel like ice.
“I just - I just wanted to be brave,” you sob out. “I wanted to be strong.”
"Hush," the Doctor chides, and her tone is so sharp that you nearly stop crying then and there. "I won't be having that. You are so strong, and so brave. You never have to prove that to me, love."
The word is enough to stoke the small fire in your chest. Love, love, love.
“I was doing good,” is all you can muster. Again, the Doctor shakes her head.
“You’re still doing good, and you’re gonna keep doing good.” She leans down and presses her lips to your forehead, featherlight and yet enough to send a shiver down your spine. The warmth in your heart spreads to your arms, to your fingers and toes, thawing you out completely. “C’mon. Up you get.”
Strong arms hold you by the shoulders as you stagger to your feet. “Steady, now. Hang on, I’ve got -”
With a swift and practiced motion, the Doctor drapes something warm and woolen around your shoulders. “Perfect,” she says proudly.
“Competition-worthy?” you ask with a small laugh, and despite how cracked and rough your voice sounds, it still has the same magic effect - the storm in the Doctor’s eyes fades away, and then there’s nothing left but hope, and pride, and -
The Doctor sighs, but not in disappointment - rather, it’s a release. It even sounds fond. “Oh, you,” she says, and the sound of her voice is maybe the sweetest thing you’ve ever heard, “You amaze me, you know that.”
You shake your head at her, almost by force of habit, and she scrunches in your general direction.
“No take-backsies,” the Doctor continues, “Not after everything you’ve been through. And that applies to me, too.” She grimaces; takes a deep breath in. She straightens herself, still holding you by the shoulders and by the heart, and looks you deep in the eyes, no longer searching for anything. “I love you.”
You’re set alight now, and you could never, ever, be cold again. “And I, you.”
“Come on. Back to bed with you.”
“Will you stay?”
“Always.”