Archive of Our Own

"It's okay to be sad," Yaz's voice cuts through the silence that had built up around her and the Doctor.

Seeing Ryan and Graham shut the TARDIS door behind them shouldn't have made her as sad as it did, but she can't help feeling as though a piece of her is gone – and only just after a piece of her had returned. The Doctor has only been back for a bit more than the equivalent of a day, having dropped the fam off at home to recuperate after their long night battling the Daleks. It was nice to be together again, thinking that everything would return to normal. But apparently 'normal’ means something different for all of them. For Ryan and Graham, normal meant their old lives before the Doctor – for Yaz, normal meant the Doctor.

Everyone’s allowed a choice. Yaz just can't imagine a life without the Doctor for herself. She didn't realise she was the only one who would choose this life over the ones they had before — clearly the Doctor thought the same.

So she says it for the both of them — it's okay that Ryan and Graham chose to leave, and it's okay that they're both sad about it. They accept it and move on. But neither of them wants to move on right this minute. They simply stand in silence next to each other at the console, watching the doors.

They are alone now.

Cool fingers slip against her own into a gentle hold and her breath catches in her throat. She doesn't dare look at the Doctor, she only glances at her in her periphery. The Doctor's gaze stays trained on the doors. No doubt she’s wearing that thousand-yard stare she seems to have developed after her time away. Perhaps she’s waiting for them to open and for their fam to be whole again. Yaz has stopped thinking about Ryan and Graham, focusing instead on controlling her breathing and trying to act as normal as she can.

The Doctor squeezes her hand tighter, holding on like she thinks she’s going to float away if she lets go. Yaz is worried that might be true, that she would be taken away again if she didn’t have this proof of contact that she’s here with her now. The Doctor turns to look at her. It feels expectant, but Yaz doesn't know what exactly is expected of her.

"What do we do now?" Yaz asks, only half meeting her gaze. There are so many other questions looming between them, but those conversations are too big when they've only just been reunited.

The Doctor sighs, but doesn’t give an answer. Yaz turns to look at her now, properly, for the first time since she came back. She half expects to see her normal, cheerful smile that she had put on the whole day before — the one she uses to hide her actual emotions — but she doesn't. The facade is gone, a rare sight for Yaz to be allowed to see. Except, not only that, the face that looks back at her is different. She eyes her up and down quickly, trying to gauge what exactly it is about her that has changed. Their eyes meet for a moment before The Doctor releases her hold on Yaz's hand and turns to walk to the other side of the console.

Yaz feels the absence immediately but doesn't push, the air between them too fragile to try her luck with any further comforting gestures. She should be happier seeing the Doctor again, but all of her emotions are muddled together and happiness isn’t the one at the forefront of her mind. But she can’t decipher what all of her feelings are, and she certainly is too afraid to face what they might mean.

With the centre column now put between them, the Doctor avoids her scrutinising gaze as she pulls the lever for takeoff.

“Doctor,” Yaz says, following her around the console. “Did you sleep? Or is this right after the Daleks for you?”

“What does it matter?” The Doctor snaps.

"Because–" Yaz starts to snap back, but she stops herself. She doesn't want a repeat of yesterday when they ended up angry with each other, empty promises and accusations.

I'm not gonna disappear again.

Yeah, you will. One day, you will.

The Doctor challenges her gaze, putting the facade back on. Yaz inhales a deep breath before continuing.

"Because I'm worried about you," she says gently. "I haven't seen you in nearly a year, I thought you were dead–"

"Yaz," the Doctor interrupts. "I'm fine. Promise."

"You don’t look fine, you’re not acting fine. It was ten months for me, but how long has it been for you?"

That question makes the Doctor pause, the defensive anger dropping ever so slightly. "Not important."

"Except it is. I can see it in your eyes. You're older."

"How would you know? How could anybody possibly know how old I am?"

"Doctor, I think you need some rest. Some real, proper rest, not whatever you did or didn't get while you were… away."

Yaz skirts around the words in prison. She can’t say them out loud. It makes it too real, and she hates to think about it. She's sure the Doctor would prefer to not think about it either, especially with the way she is acting towards her. It would just be salt in the wound. It's as if nothing has changed since the last time they were together. After seeing her with her defences down only moments ago, it hurts that she still feels the need to put them up.

"You don't have to tell me about it…" she starts again. "I just want to know that you're okay. And don't lie to me."

The Doctor fails to meet her gaze, and she doesn't respond. That's enough of an answer for Yaz. She studies the Doctor’s face more, now that she's closer to her again. It’s hard not to see that she does look older. There are extra lines around her eyes and the crease between her eyebrows has deepened. The lines probably wouldn't stand out as much if it weren't for the dark bags that accompany them — the first indication that she hasn't been sleeping. Her hair has grown nearly down to her shoulders. Yaz wasn't even sure if it grew before. It’s stayed the same length since they met; but now she has evidence that it does, just perhaps very slowly. The round cheeks that her shorter hair used to frame are more sunken in, less full of life.

That prompts Yaz to study the rest of the Doctor’s body as she steps away from her again. Her clothes aren't fitting right. Sure, they were a bit baggy before, but this is different. Her coat hides most of it, if someone didn't know what to look for, but Yaz knows. Yaz spent more time than she’d like to admit looking at her when she’d walk around without her coat, or even stealing glances of her when they were getting ready in the TARDIS wardrobe together to know what her body used to look like. It's that and the way her hands are shaking at the controls, and the way she grips onto the console longer than necessary when they hit a bit of turbulence that begs the next question.

"Have you eaten?" Yaz asks.

The Doctor looks up from her controls, but doesnt bother glancing in her direction. When she stands to protest, she sways and nearly stumbles backward. Yaz grabs her shoulder to steady her and she can't help but notice the way the Doctor flinches under her touch — a reflex from the action yesterday that Yaz regretted as soon as she did it. She wants to apologise, wants to right her wrong, but other damage needs to be repaired first.

“Doctor,” she tries again, more gently. “You look absolutely shattered.”

“Thanks,” the sarcasm rolls off the Doctor’s tongue. She shrugs Yaz’s hand from her shoulder.

“I don’t mean that in an insulting way, I mean it in the most genuine way possible because I care about you. You need some rest — and a good meal.”

Yaz searches the Doctor’s eyes for any indication that she's going to back down, that she’s going to bend to her will. There’s a brief second where she thinks she may have done it, where the Doctor falters ever so slightly against her gaze, but she hasn’t won yet. The eyes that look at her are all too familiar — the memory of her own sixteen-year-old reflection in the mirror. In her eyes, Yaz can see someone who is silently crying for help, yet who wants to shut the world out. She sees someone who doesn't want to show the worst, most vulnerable parts of themselves to the people they care about. And she knows this kind of spiral means that the self-destructive tendencies will continue on if someone doesn't put a stop to it.

What would have helped her when she was feeling this way?

Yaz steps forward and pulls the Doctor into a hug, her body stiff against her advances. Knowing the Doctor isn’t fond of physical touch, she waits to be pushed away, but it doesn’t happen. A few awkward beats pass where the embrace isn’t reciprocated, but eventually she feels arms hesitantly wrap around her torso.

“It’s okay to ask for help, you know,” Yaz says.

“Never been good at it,” the Doctor replies.

“Me neither.”

The Doctor inhales a shaky breath against her as she buries her face in her shoulder — she exhales it, some of the tension she was holding onto going with it. Yaz wants to hold her tighter, rub circles on her back, stroke her hair, anything to ease whatever mess she’s dealing with in her mind; but she’s not sure if that would cross any lines that she shouldn’t be crossing. All she wants to do is comfort her friend, but they are worlds apart right now. It feels impossible.

Yaz doesn’t want to be the one to let go first. She will hold on to the Doctor until she is ready to part.

“Sorry,” the Doctor mumbles, pulling away from Yaz. She nonchalantly wipes at her cheeks and huffs out a small laugh. “I didn’t mean to make things awkward.”

“You didn’t. It’s okay.”

“I uh… suppose you’re right, though. Could use a good nap. I’m knackered.”

“See? I knew you’d come around eventually,” Yaz teases.

“Yeah.” The Doctor smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

It’s nice to see her socially awkward demeanour rather than the angry and defensive one from only moments ago, even if this one seems equally as forced to mask her genuine emotions. At least she’s trying.

Regarding Yaz for a moment, the Doctor clasps her hands behind her back. “Are you going to sleep as well?” She asks shyly. “Not sure where the TARDIS is at in the day-night cycle — or where you're at in yours… if you're even ready for a proper night's rest."

“It’s alright,” Yaz assures. “I’m a bit worn out myself. Sleeping in a sleeping bag on a TARDIS floor for ten months was rough."

She sees the Doctor’s gaze fall to the floor at that, guilty. Immediately, she regrets saying it. It feels like she’s blaming her for something that wasn’t her fault. Yaz doesn’t know the extent of what the Doctor saw during her brief time in that spare TARDIS, if she saw the sticky notes and diagrams or her sleeping bag. Or if she stopped long enough to think about what all of it meant, how poorly Yaz coped with her being gone.

"Even being in my bed at home last night didn't help," she tries to soften the blow, shrugging her shoulders. “Maybe I just got used to sleeping in here.”

“You still remember where the bedrooms are?” The Doctor asks tentatively.

“‘Course,” she smiles reassuringly. “As long as mine’s in the same spot next to yours.”

“Should be. The TARDIS wouldn’t have moved it unless I asked.”

Warmth spreads through Yaz's chest at what the Doctor has just implied, that she’s the reason their rooms are next to each other; and that she still wants them to be after everything.

“Come on, then,” the Doctor waves her along up the stairs. “Time for some well-needed sleep for the both of us.”

Yaz obliges, following the Doctor along through the twists and turns that lead to the bedroom corridor. Oh, how she missed the TARDIS and its complicated, ever-changing paths. The one she stayed in while the Doctor was gone never let her explore anything but the console room; perhaps without a Time Lord’s presence, a TARDIS doesn’t generate any other spaces; she thinks she read that in a manual once. Or maybe it’s just that particular one didn’t like her.

She runs her hands along the walls as she walks, feeling the warm glow of the hexagons on the pads of her fingers. The light pulses around her in tandem with her breathing — but it’s ever so slightly out of sync, so maybe it’s syncing with the Doctor’s instead. She doesn’t know, but she doesn’t care. The TARDIS just feels so alive. It feels like home.

Smiling to herself, she nearly bumps into the Doctor when she stops in front of her bedroom door. Her own is only a few steps further down the corridor, but she hesitates to take them, an expectant air between them as there had been before. They stand together in silence for a moment that lasts longer than it needs to.

“Yaz,” the Doctor says, gaze trained on her hand where it rests on the doorknob. “You asked me if I had eaten…”

Yaz hums in response.

“Could you maybe make me a cup of tea? I think it would do me the world of good.”

“Sure,” she replies. “Your usual?”

The Doctor looks up at Yaz, eyes shining at the fact that she remembers her tea preferences. “Yeah, thanks.”

“Of course.”

With that, the Doctor opens the door and slips through, shutting it quietly behind her. Yaz watches her go, waiting a moment after to see if she comes right back out, but she doesn’t. It seems she is so far successful in making sure the Doctor takes care of herself.

She stops by her bedroom on the way, wanting to get ready for bed before making tea so she can get cosy with it once it’s done. Her room looks exactly as she remembered, except it appears as though the TARDIS may have cleared up a bit for her. She quickly braids her hair and rifles through the drawers of her dresser, looking for pyjamas to change into. A quick swipe of a makeup wipe across her skin should be sufficient, as well. She doesn’t want to leave the Doctor waiting long.

The walk to the kitchen feels closer than normal, but she doesn’t complain; it's always nice when the TARDIS is feeling generous and changes the pathways for her benefit. She fills the electric kettle with water and switches it on, collecting the rest of the supplies while she waits for it to boil. Everything appears to be stored away the exact way she remembers it; mugs in the cupboard above the toaster, tea bags in the one next to it, sugar in the canister next to the kettle.

Custard creams on the third shelf in the pantry — the Doctor’s favourite.

The Doctor should have some solid food, not just tea. What she should really have is a proper warm meal, but Yaz knows that’s a big ask right now. Anything is better than nothing. She grabs a packet of the biscuits.

All in time for the kettle to have boiled. She pours the steaming water over the tea bag she has placed in the Doctor’s favourite mug — the one with the frogs on it, but no, not the one on the second shelf, the one on the first. That one’s the best. Yaz takes the matching one from the second shelf of the cupboard for herself.

Of course she remembers how the Doctor likes her tea, how could she forget? Seven spoonfuls of sugar and a splash of milk. She could recite it for the rest of her life.

She fixes her own cup with her much more normal preference. The Doctor is like a kid when it comes to tea. Yaz doesn’t know how she drinks it the way she does, but she supposes it’s not her place to judge her alien taste buds.

Carefully, Yaz makes her way back through the winding corridors. The TARDIS was kind enough to provide her a tray to make the trip less messy, thank goodness, but it still is never easy to walk long distances while trying to carry beverages. She makes it to the Doctor’s bedroom door without spilling a drop.

Balancing the tray in one hand, she knocks with the other. The door clicks open.

“You can come in,” the Doctor calls out from inside the room.

Yaz pushes the door open the rest of the way. Her heart is racing. She’s never really been in the Doctor’s room before. She had just seen it through the doorway a few times in passing. It’s a lot neater than she was expecting, though still pretty messy at first glance, but perhaps the TARDIS had cleared up for her too while she was gone. It’s also a lot less imposing than she had imagined, not much different from her own in terms of size and level of grandeur.

“You didn’t have to knock,” the Doctor says, looking up at Yaz as she walks in.

“Felt rude to just barge in,” Yaz laughs nervously.

The Doctor sits on the edge of her bed with her legs crossed underneath her; her figure illuminated by the bedside lamp. The rest of the room is shrouded in the TARDIS’s dim nighttime lighting, the hexagonal panels pulsing the same as they had done in the corridors. The Doctor hasn’t changed her clothes. She simply took her coat and boots off and her yellow braces hang loose at her waist.

Yaz walks over to the side table with the cups of tea, the Doctor’s gaze boring into her with every movement. She places the tray down and grabs her own mug off of it, drawing the Doctor’s attention away from her as she pushes her sleeves up her forearms, hesitating before taking her tea.

“Is it–”

“It’s the right mug, I promise,” Yaz reassures. “And I brought you a snack to go with it.”

“Brilliant,” she says, flashing her a smile. “Thanks, Yaz.”

The Doctor turns and slides back against her mountain of pillows, pulling the duvet around her. She grabs the packet of biscuits and ravenously tears it open. A smile spreads across Yaz’s lips and she huffs out a laugh at the sight of her ripping the packaging open like a wild animal. As much as her nerves are urging her to leave, she needs to stay and make sure the Doctor actually eats something before she conveniently forgets to do so once she leaves. She watches her bite into a biscuit and let out a satisfied groan as the flavour hits her tongue.

"It’s been so long since I’ve had one of these,” the Doctor says. “Prison food was rubbish.”

Yaz doesn’t want to think about just how long that might have been, or how long the Doctor had to survive off of God knows what was provided to her; especially considering it didn’t seem she had eaten as much of it as she should have.

“Would you like one?" The Doctor offers a custard cream to her with her mouth full.

"Sure," Yaz smiles, taking the biscuit. "Thanks."

They eat and drink in silence for a few minutes, Yaz standing awkwardly at the Doctor’s bedside. She grabs her mug from the tray and sips at her tea, watching the Doctor practically shovel the biscuits into her mouth, stopping to dip one into her tea every so often. The packet is nearly empty by the time either of them speaks again.

“Absolutely perfect, Yaz. Thank you.”

The Doctor takes one last drink from her mug and places it back down next to her along with the remaining biscuits. She settles into the bedding a bit more, curling up on her side.

“Right, then,” Yaz sighs, satisfied that the Doctor has now consumed some calories. “Think it’s time for you to get some sleep. Goodnight, Doctor.”

A pause. The Doctor presses her lips together into a thin line.

“‘Night, Yaz,” she says with a small nod.

Yaz turns to leave, bringing her mug with her. Taking the few agonising steps towards the door, she feels the Doctor’s eyes on her back. Her heartbeat never slowed from before and she wouldn’t be surprised if she had held her breath the entire time. As she reaches for the doorknob, the Doctor’s voice rings out against the silence, startling her.

“Yaz, wait.”

She turns back towards the room, eyes catching the Doctor where she lay in her bed, so small and lonely against the pillows and blankets.

“Can you stay?” The Doctor asks, her sleepy hazel eyes pleading from across the room.

If Yaz didn’t hold her breath before, she definitely did now. She’s half certain she imagined what was just said to her, but the Doctor continues to maintain her gaze with the same desperation.

“Stay? In here?” She wants to clarify that she’s correctly interpreting the request, hoping that the Doctor can’t hear the shakiness in her voice.

“If you want to.”

A universe doesn’t exist where she doesn’t want to, but she can’t sound too eager. There’s a flutter in her chest and a twitch at the corners of her mouth that she tries her hardest to suppress.

“If you’ll have me,” Yaz says shyly.

“Wouldn’t have asked if I wouldn’t.”

Yaz nods in agreement, too afraid to say anything. She smiles to herself, walking to the empty side of the bed and setting her mug on the bedside table.

It’s been a while since she had a sleepover, if that is what this is. Ever since she started to question things about herself, she found it hard to share a bed with any of her female friends without feeling like she was doing something wrong. That was, while she still had friends — they all conveniently stopped talking to her once the rumours began.

That uncomfortable feeling hasn’t gone away, it seems. And it’s grown tenfold because of the conflicted emotions she has for this specific friend. The anxiety eats away at her stomach, but she doesn't want it to consume her. She should be allowed to do these kinds of things and not feel guilty. So she adjusts pillows and blankets cautiously to claim her spot on the bed. The Doctor turns to switch off the lamp at her bedside as Yaz climbs under the duvet. Once they both settle in, they lay to face each other.

And oh, does it feel like a mistake the second their eyes meet in the dim light. Time could have stopped and she wouldn't have noticed; the whole universe having been reduced to this space, this moment. Yaz tries to steady her breathing, but it's hard with the way the Doctor studies her face for a few moments before speaking.

“I missed you," the Doctor says.

Yaz swallows hard. "Missed you, too."

"Thanks for sticking around."

"Of course," Yaz smiles. "I told you I wasn't ready to let you go yet, wouldn't have said it if I didn't mean it."

"I just…" The Doctor pauses, coming up with the right words. "Wish I didn't come back so late. I hate that I missed my time with Ryan and Graham."

"But you got plenty of time with them before," Yaz tries to be reassuring, but it sounds patronising. She tries again. “It’s like you said, back when we first met — you carry them with you.”

The memory makes the corners of the Doctor’s mouth quirk up into a smile.

“And hey,” Yaz adds. ”At least we don’t have to worry about them getting in our way now.”

As soon as it comes out of her mouth, she realises what she’s implied. It wasn’t her intention to suggest that there should be any sort of progression between them now that Ryan and Graham are gone. It was meant to be a joke, but it’s one she didn’t think about very well before saying. She’s not even sure what she wants this to progress into — just that she wants something more than what they had before. Maybe it’s simply her desire for the Doctor to let her in that makes her feel these conflicting emotions.

The Doctor holds her gaze for a long moment; the smile leaving as soon as it appeared. Yaz freezes. This is it. She’s said something wrong, and she’s ruined all of this. She waits for words of rejection — to be kicked out back to her own room — but she doesn’t hear any. The Doctor just looks at her with that sombre, ancient look in her eyes, the one that she tries to not let her see, but Yaz has seen it too many times.

“You okay?” Yaz asks, partially to herself. Anything to alleviate some of the tension.

“No,” the Doctor responds. “But I will be in the end."

"That's what you always say."

“Because it's true — or it has to be. That's just how my life is,” she says, her gaze falling to where she traces shapes in the sheets in front of her. “I’m just glad to have you back."

"Glad to be back."

"Also glad to have a comfy bed again,” the Doctor laughs dryly. “No more stone slab for me.”

“No more TARDIS floor for me,” Yaz jokes.

Their traumatic experiences from their time apart shouldn’t be something to laugh at, but exhaustion mixed with the elation of being together again could make anything funny. They erupt into a fit of giggles, and it really does remind Yaz of the sleepovers she used to have. Maybe this is the only thing she wants, a real, human friendship with her, nothing more. It's nice to hear the Doctor’s laugh after not hearing it for ten months — and even more considering how shut off she was for the few months before that. If this is all she gets from this, she won’t complain.

The laughter subsides and Yaz’s mind unfortunately drifts to the severity of the topic at hand. Her experience sleeping on the floor is without a doubt incomparable to whatever the Doctor had to deal with, but it doesn’t mean it didn’t affect her. Her obsession with trying to figure out how to fly the TARDIS to find the Doctor was a bit damaging, she must admit. Because she has to face it, that's what it was — an obsession. She had avoided her family and Ryan and Graham, not even knowing the new year had passed until they told her. It was too similar to those few years ago, and she never wants to go back there again if she can help it.

Yaz doesn’t know what she would have done if she couldn’t have figured out the TARDIS, if Jack never broke the Doctor out and she had stayed locked away for God knows how long. She doesn’t want to think about her sleeping alone in a cold prison cell for years upon years, never knowing if anyone was coming to get her. Yaz would have gotten to her if it killed her.

And she can only guess that the Doctor is regressing back to those places as well with the way her smile fades. She wears the same blank expression she has when she goes quiet — when she's thinking about all the things she doesn't want to share, when her mind is light years away despite her being right here.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Yaz dares to ask.

There's a moment where Yaz is worried she didn't hear, that she's too far away to be brought back. But she can see the instant her voice drags the Doctor back to reality.

“No,” she replies shakily. “Do you?”

“No,” Yaz admits.

As much as she wishes to know everything that happened so she can offer help, she's not sure she can handle hearing all the atrocities the Doctor had to go through. And she's not even sure she's willing to expose her soft spots either. Perhaps in a way she understands why the Doctor keeps everything to herself.

"Not right now, anyway," she adds with a yawn. "Too tired."

“Maybe it’s time we finally went to sleep.”

“Maybe.”

The Doctor offers her a sleepy smile, her eyes sparkling under half-shut lids despite the lack of light. It's as if the stars themselves were in them, and Yaz could stare at them all night. They gaze at each other a moment longer. Neither of them wanting to be the first to break away. The Doctor looks at her, lips parted with uncertain words she can’t seem to bring into existence.

"Goodnight, Yaz,” she settles on.

"Goodnight, Doctor."

The Doctor turns over, facing away from her and Yaz can't help but feel disappointed. With her aversion to physical touch and fear of letting people in, she shouldn’t have hoped for anything else, even after their hug from earlier. She has to remind herself that she’s merely here for company, that the Doctor just needs the presence of someone else to sleep soundly, nothing more. After being alone in prison, anybody would do the same.

She lets her own tired eyes fall shut, finally feeling content enough with the Doctor by her side to let sleep take her over.

—

Yaz awakens in the middle of the night from the sudden weight she feels on different parts of her body. Blinking away sleep, she lifts her head to find the source. She had rolled onto her back at some point, and it seems that the Doctor has found her company in her sleep.

During the ten months the Doctor was away, Yaz had become quite the light sleeper — always extra alert, listening for the sound of the TARDIS materialising — so it’s no surprise for her to be woken up so easily. But despite the aggressive roll-over onto Yaz, the Doctor appears to still be asleep based on the gentle rhythm of her breathing at her side.

Yaz smiles to herself, indulging in the intimacy she had never gotten with the Doctor before. It would be so easy to cuddle her back and brush the stray hair from her face, but she shouldn’t. It would only add fuel to the fire of her complicated feelings. The tangle of their legs under the covers and the arm draped across her abdomen are enough to stir up the specific ones she doesn’t want to name. She shouldn’t entertain the wandering thoughts against the Doctor’s wishes, anyway.

So Yaz just observes, watching the rise and fall of her chest as she breathes, the way the rosy light reflects off of her skin and hair, the cool touch of her bare forearm against her own. It’s the little things she hardly gets to pay attention to when the Doctor is awake. She doesn’t allow herself to be observed too closely normally, always fidgeting too much and pacing around, talking a million miles a minute.

Yaz hopes this isn’t the only time she gets this.

—

Morning comes far sooner than Yaz would have liked. Blearily, she opens her eyes, her head pounding the second the light enters them. With this headache and the way her mouth feels like glue, she can tell she didn’t get near enough sleep than she actually needed. She groans and stretches, but quickly curls back up, surrendering fully to the warmth of the covers. Her eyes catch her abandoned mug of tea on the bedside table.

Tea with the Doctor, sleeping with the Doctor — no, not like that. Her half-asleep brain thinks it faster than she is able to stop it. It was just a friendly sleepover, totally platonic bed-sharing. There’s no reason to imagine anything more than that.

Part of her is convinced she dreamt all of it up — that the Doctor didn't invite her to sleep in her bed. But she's obviously not in her own bedroom right now, and she remembers being woken up by her embrace in the middle of the night. She turns over, expecting to see the other woman sleeping next to her, but her heart sinks at the sight of the empty imprint that was left behind.

Honestly, she shouldn’t have foreseen anything different from the Doctor; she always avoids emotional vulnerability if she can. Waking up together would have definitely been too awkward for her. And after their hug and their late-night talking, Yaz is sure she’s not getting anything close to that again for a while.

She makes the most of this lazy morning by herself, though. The pounding in her head hasn’t gone, but the Doctor’s bed is quite comfy. Her room feels so much like her that Yaz never wants to leave. She didn’t properly take it in last night, afraid to come across as too intrusive, having only just been invited in. The Doctor has left a bunch of her little projects half-completed strewn about the place and there’s a mess of clothes in the corner that didn’t quite make it to the hamper. There are a few books lying around as well, with those weird circular symbols that the TARDIS doesn’t translate.

Yaz settles into the bedding some more, inhaling a deep breath. The sheets and the blankets and the pillows all smell like her, a smell that she didn’t realise she had been missing for so long. A blend of citrus and honey and, of course, the unmistakable aromas of engine oil and sparks that always lingered even when the Doctor was fresh from a shower.

She smiles, her mind wandering back to only a few hours ago when they laid here in this exact spot staring into each other’s eyes. It was probably sleep deprivation making the Doctor act so openly towards her, and sleep deprivation that made Yaz interpret it in a way she really shouldn’t. But the way she held onto her in her sleep gives Yaz a glimmer of hope that maybe she isn’t misinterpreting any of it at all. Her skin buzzes where the Doctor’s touch lingers on her arms like a whisper on a summer breeze, a whisper of a memory that she dreamed about last night –

What happened to the Child? — Haven't you worked this out yet?

The sounds of indistinct voices that she heard in her dreams replay in her head and the imagery doesn't go away. A child looks up at a purple sky, a monolith before them. Alone. Afraid. It's as if she is experiencing the feeling of it all firsthand. It was terrible when she dreamt it and it still is now. Perhaps this is why she didn't sleep well.

The return of her strange dreams sours the delight of being invited into this previously forbidden space. As much as she wants to stay, she needs to get out of this bed before she overstays her welcome — and before being surrounded by all things Doctor ruins her altogether. Stretching one last time, she sits up and swings her legs over the edge of the bed, pausing to take a deep breath when her head pounds and black spots dance across her vision from the motion.

Stopping by the medbay for some painkillers, Yaz makes her way through the corridors in search of the Doctor. She checks the bathroom wing first, thinking she might be in there if she didn’t wake up too much sooner than herself, but that area of the ship is as quiet as ever. Console room. A suggestion in the back of her mind makes her divert her course.

Sure enough, as she nears the console room, she can hear the Doctor's voice talking to herself amongst the sounds of her tinkering. Yaz approaches slowly, and she stops in the archway, observing. The Doctor is sat cross-legged and crouched under the console with her goggles on, her hands deep into the inner workings of the ship. There are a myriad of tools sitting to the side of her, half of which Yaz has never seen before in her life.

"Come on, now," the Doctor says to the TARDIS. "There’s no reason for your fluid links to need a refill. I only left you sitting for a little bit.”

The TARDIS chirps back, indignant. Sparks fly out from the panel where the Doctor is working.

"Oi! It wasn't even my fault I was gone–"

"Good morning," Yaz interrupts, descending the stairs.

The Doctor moves to sit up, the back of her head banging against the underside of the console on the way, making her let out a yelp. Yaz can’t help but laugh as she watches the Doctor stop and try again, moving much more carefully to come out from under the console the second time.

"Morning, Yaz," she says cheerfully, pulling her goggles onto her forehead.

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you."

"It's alright. I didn't know how long you'd be before you got up, you humans and your obnoxiously long sleep cycles." The Doctor flaps a dismissive hand and pushes herself up from her spot on the floor.

"How are you feeling?" Yaz asks. "Better?"

"Oh, yeah. Worlds better, actually."

"That's good."

The Doctor stands in front of her now, close. Too close. Yaz inhales sharply and takes the smallest step back from her.

"How about you?" She asks, her eyes searching Yaz's face. "You look…"

"Rough, I know," Yaz laughs.

"I wasn't going to say it, but yes."

"Well, thanks,” she replies with heavy sarcasm, but quickly drops the feigned offence. “I don't know. Didn't sleep all that well. I had some really weird dreams."

The Doctor hums. "Anything worth sharing?"

"Nah, I don't think so. It was all very…" She searches the air in front of her for the right word. "Abstract? None of it really made sense."

"Ah, well, maybe it's one of those things that will make sense to you later." She shrugs, letting it go.

"Maybe."

Yaz settles for that, but she can't help but notice the way the Doctor eyes her for a moment. The mention of her dreams had evoked a reaction, albeit a very small one, but Yaz noticed. She knows the Doctor too well to not have seen it, but it fades away as quickly as it came up.

"Well, I was thinking," the Doctor starts, pulling her goggles off of her head and setting them on the console. "We could have a nice breakfast this morning, you and I. I'm absolutely starving… and I'm sure you are, too."

That comment, plus the raise of an eyebrow in her direction, makes Yaz acknowledge her empty stomach for the first time since yesterday. Perhaps she’s not the only one who can notice a friend in need. Her efforts in making sure the Doctor took care of herself seem hypocritical now — that she’s too busy helping others to help herself.

“There’s this place I’ve been wanting to try if you don’t mind getting dressed and going,” the Doctor rambles, gesticulating wildly with her hands as she speaks. “43rd century France, little place in the countryside. I’m honestly surprised France is still France this far along, but supposedly they have excellent scones — or whatever the equivalent of scones is in the 43rd century. The definitions of food get messy across the different centuries. You get the idea. Thought it might be a relaxing first trip by ourselves.”

"That sounds nice," Yaz laughs.

"Also, I uh…" The Doctor pauses her rambling to take a step closer to Yaz, reaching for her arm awkwardly. "Wanted to thank you for yesterday."

Yaz tries not to combust from the intimate gesture, as clumsy as it is. That, plus the mention of a trip just for them, gives her butterflies in her stomach. Her head nods without her telling it to, making up for the lack of a verbal response that she can’t muster.

"It's easy to get in my own head, and that can be a scary place. It's nice to have someone to drag me out."

Yaz smiles. "Any time."

The grip on her arm releases, and the Doctor smiles shyly back at her. She watches as she settles instead for clasping her hands in front of her as she rocks back and forth in place. Unspoken words float between them, but there are too many topics to be discussed to be covered over a simple breakfast. Getting the Doctor to open up is going to take a lot more work than Yaz anticipated, but it seems she’s already made some progress after yesterday.

“Right then,” the Doctor says, exhaling a breath. “Breakfast?”

Quickly, she turns back towards the console with a flourish and Yaz follows in her wake, excited for a new adventure and happy that it seems she has the old Doctor back. She flashes Yaz a wild grin as she places her hand on the lever for takeoff.

“Ready?”

Yaz smiles back, grabbing onto the console. Oh, how she missed this.

“Ready.”