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Yaz finds her in the library, on a rickety-looking ladder fetching something from one of the high shelves. For a moment, she just stands there looking up at her. A sudden surge of wanting to leave before the Doctor notices her presence nearly overtakes her, but her hand clenches around the cylindrical bottle in her fist and she forces herself to stand her ground despite the small tremors wracking her body and the slick feeling of sweat collecting at the back of her neck. Though she’s wearing her thickest fuzzy jumper, she’s still shivering.
The Doctor catches sight out her out of the corner of her eye and waves enthusiastically, almost toppling off the ladder.
“Hiya, Yaz!” the Doctor says once she’s safely hopped down and removed the thin paperback she’d been fetching from between her teeth. She shoves it into place on a lower part of the bookshelf, looking at Yaz expectantly. “Reorganising. Thought you’d be in bed by now. It’s late—isn’t it?” She scratches her head. “Unless it’s the next day already…no, same clothes. Unless you’re wearing the same clothes as yesterday! Love wearing the same thing every day, me, but you lot’ve seemed prone to variety.”
Yaz shakes her head. “Same day,” she assures her. “And I was just…” She takes a deep breath. “D’you remember when you said that gas we were exposed to on Castellan Prime would interfere with a lot of Earth medications?” Yaz asks. “And you told us to tell you if we had any so you could check us?”
“‘Course I do. Was only two days ago, wasn’t it? Plus it’s not like I’d be forgetting Graham’s travel pharmacy anytime soon.” She tilts her head at Yaz, her countenance becoming serious, if still beset with her normal sort of curiosity. “You said you didn’t have any.”
“I—” Yaz averts her gaze, ashamed. “I guess I was hoping—” She holds out the bottle so the Doctor can see it, pills skittering around within. The word Cipralex is stamped on the outside, clearly visible.
“May I?” the Doctor asks, and Yaz nods. Still, it takes a second to convince her fingers to unclamp and release the bottle into the Doctor’s waiting palm. She shoves her hands in her pockets as the Doctor withdraws the sonic from hers. It lights up orange with the usual buzzing sound as she passes it over the bottle, then examines the readings. She looks back up at Yaz with large, concerned eyes.
She knows.
“It’s—okay,” Yaz says hurriedly. “I mean, I’m dealing with it—my mum thought it would be a good idea after—well, after—I don’t—”
“Yaz,” the Doctor says softly. “You don’t have to explain. I’m just so sorry that I put you in this position—”
“You didn’t.”
“—and that you were exposed at all,” the Doctor shakes her head. “Direct contraindications, these two.”
It’s not like that’s a surprise, with how she’s feeling, but it doesn’t stop her voice from cracking a little as she asks, “How long?”
“Til the gas gets out of your system? Three days.” She must see the flash of misery on Yaz’s face, because she adds, “Four, at the most, ‘promise, Yaz.”
Yaz nods, though the rushing sound in her ears is back. It’s already been two, but another two, plus the couple weeks it took for the medication to first start having effects…the hours stack impossibly long. Tears prick her eyes even though she doesn’t want to be crying, and she has the sudden urge to fling the bottle of useless, useless medication across the room and watch the little white pills dance over the floor.
“Are you experiencing symptoms?” the Doctor asks her carefully.
“Yeah. No. I mean—not bad,” Yaz says truthfully, thinking of the chills and the vague sense of fogginess in her brain that she keeps having to push through. Those are…manageable. She’s managing.
No, you’re not, a voice that sounds like Sonya says in her head. That’s why you came out here in the first place. Idiot.
“Well, let me know if they get worse, and we can see what we can do in medbay,” the Doctor tells her. Yaz nods, recognising the dismissal, but her feet stay rooted to the floor, lingering. The Doctor notices, eyebrows furrowing in concern. “Unless you want to go now?”
“Um, I just. Don’t want to be alone,” Yaz forces out, rubbing the skin of her inner arm. She stares down at her shoes, shame and embarrassment flooding her in equal measures, but she knows she has to say it. “I don’t…trust myself right now.” It’s as close as she can get to I really want to do something bad, but maybe the Doctor understands anyway, the way all of her features seem to still.
“And you came to me?” The Doctor’s voice has a strange, hushed note to it. “Not Ryan or Graham?”
“I guess I trust you,” Yaz says, while something inside her is screaming. Please let me trust you.
“I’m honoured,” the Doctor says hoarsely. She touches her arm, and it’s all Yaz can do not to flinch back at the contact, and then not to lean into it fully and completely. She tries not to think about how desperately she wants a hug. “What can I do to help?”
“Just…let me stay with you?” Yaz says, then flushes at how needy that sounds. Clingy, even. Why is she—why does she have to be like this? “I mean, not for that long, just—right now—maybe we could go to the game room? Or if you have to do more reorganising or TARDIS maintenance or something that’s totally fine—but maybe I could just stay nearby? And watch?”
“Of course we can go to the game room,” the Doctor tells her, and Yaz blinks at her gratefully, awash with relief at not being rejected. “C’mon, Yaz.” She holds out her hand to her, and for a moment Yaz can only gaze uncomprehendingly at it before taking it—when she’d asked if the Doctor would stay with her, she hadn’t meant—well, hadn’t meant it quite so literally—
The Doctor walks down the halls of the TARDIS at a comfortable pace, Yaz a half-step behind until they reach the game room. It’s Ryan’s favourite, even if it’s empty at the moment given that it’s past eleven at night Sheffield time, which is what the TARDIS seems to run on now that they’ve arrived. But the lights come on to full brightness when they enter, and the Doctor lets her hand go. Yaz immediately misses its warmth.
“So, what’re you thinking?” the Doctor asks her brightly. “Want to play a game? Video, board, card, or holo?”
“Board,” Yaz says, looking at the shelf. She’s not great at video games on the best of days, and trying to figure out one of the Doctor’s strange holographic games that’s all symbols and numbers out to the second digit in her current state sounds less than appealing. She alights on the first name she recognises. “Monopoly?”
“Oh, I am ace at Monopoly,” the Doctor tells her, grabbing the long cardboard box from the shelf. “Always buy Piccadilly, Yaz, that’s the secret. Unless you have the Andromeda Galaxy extension pack, in which case—”
True to her word, she lands on Piccadilly on her third roll and buys it up, and then somehow buys up every Tube station, both utilities, and every orange and green property too. By an hour later, Yaz has been completely bankrupted several times over, but the Doctor keeps offering her increasingly ridiculous loans with which to pay the rent of every space she lands on, until finally the interest she’s offering on them is in the high negatives and she’s giving Yaz money in exchange for staying in one of what she assures her are very nice hotels.
“Not as nice as that one your mum almost ran,” the Doctor tells her. “Though with decidedly less spiders. Oh! Park Lane!” She consults the card of the square Yaz has yet again landed on. “£35 rent, £1500 for the hotel and £500 for the two houses… I’ll loan you £2000 with negative one hundred fifteen percent interest?” She smiles happily and holds out three tan £100 notes to Yaz.
“Doctor, you can’t pay me to stay on your properties,” she tells her with a fondly exasperated sigh.
“Why not?” the Doctor demands. “I’m the only good landlord in existence! Besides, if I had all this, and you all that—” She gestures at Yaz’s very empty money pile. “—why wouldn’t I be paying you to stay at my places? It’s no fun owning a hotel or a little house if no one’s gonna stay in it, Yaz.”
She rolls her eyes but takes the money anyway, the thought that maybe the Doctor is doing this to prolong the game so she can keep playing with her not quite stirring up a feeling so strong as happiness inside but flickering something within her nonetheless.
Yaz lets it go on for another two trips around the board, during which her little dog token inevitably ends up in jail and the Doctor’s top hat of course jumps gaily over it every time, then informs her she’s definitely won and calls it quits on Monopoly. They play Snakes and Ladders next, which Yaz does beat her at, the way the Doctor’s triumphant face falls comically as one giant snake sends her from almost the end nearly back to the start almost getting a smile out of Yaz herself. It’s nearing three a.m. that Yaz can’t stifle her yawn as the Doctor snaps up the last marble in Hungry Hungry Hippos.
“You should sleep,” the Doctor tells her gently.
Yaz nods hesitantly, knowing she’s right but reluctant to let the night end and fearing what might be waiting for her when she returns to her room alone, her bed. She feels okay now, sitting here and playing children’s games with the Doctor, but it always returns worse when she’s alone. when there’s nothing to block out the thoughts that threaten to pull her under.
“Shall I put on a movie?” Yaz looks up quickly to find the Doctor still watching her. “It’s a pretty comfy sofa. Room for two!” Room for five, actually, but Yaz doesn’t mention that as she nods, feeling once again pathetically grateful. With her input, the Doctor puts on something silly and animated, and Yaz curls up next to her on the couch wrapped in a blanket, a few inches of respectful space left between them. Her eyelids are already heavy, and it won’t take her much to fall asleep, she knows, but maybe if she stays sitting up…
“C’mere,” the Doctor offers, and then to Yaz’s utter surprise she pats her thigh, gesturing for her to lay down on it like a pillow. She flushes hard and is immediately grateful the Doctor probably can’t see it with only the dim light of the movie screen illuminating them.
“O-okay,” Yaz says, and then she is scooting closer to the Doctor, shifting over onto her side and resting her head on the Doctor’s warm leg. The Doctor’s arm immediately drapes over her shoulder and Yaz can’t help the huff of air that escapes her as her fingers land on her hair.
“This is what mates do, right?” the Doctor asks, bright and conversational. “Girls who are mates? Girlfriends? Er—not that last one.” Her brow furrows. Yaz doesn’t know what to say to that, but all thoughts of response are immediately eclipsed as the Doctor starts carding her fingers through Yaz’s hair, playing with the waves and letting blunt nails brush against her scalp. The next minute of movie plays with both of them in silence, and then the Doctor adds quietly, “Even if it wasn’t what mates do, I’d do it for you, Yaz.”
She doesn’t know what to say to that either, eyes lidded and drifting closed already, but in that fuzzy, half-awake state it doesn’t seem to matter. The Doctor’s fingers continue to stroke through her hair, and Yaz slips fully into sleep, warm and safe aboard the TARDIS.