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The Doctor is talking. The Doctor is saying something to Yaz and Graham. The Doctor is talking, and Ryan is simultaneously taking in nothing and everything. Everything feels like a lot right now. It’s all very much. He feels like he can’t say anything, can’t draw attention to himself, can’t bother them. But still, he really wishes they’d notice that he’s not okay right now. He should tell them he’s not feeling okay, otherwise how will they know? But he can’t. Because if he did, then he might just scream, and that wouldn’t be normal. He’s trying so hard to be normal enough. People don’t like it when he’s not normal enough. He’d really like someone to ask him if he’s okay. He wants them to notice. But they won’t, because people don’t because they’re normal and he’s not, and so they don’t notice when he wants them to notice.
“Hey,” says Yaz, “Ryan, are you… alright?”
“No, not really.” Ryan twists his hands into shapes, contorting his fingers in a way that’s just shy of painful, but feels necessary, like it’ll help how he’s feeling. “I think I’m having a bit of a dyspraxic moment. We’ve been going to so many places, and we don’t know anything about them, and meeting new people, who I don’t know, and there’s the running, and the danger, and, and and…” He’s gesticulating now, hands still squeezing the imaginary lemons that a SEN staff member once told him to imagine when he gets stressed. “And I feel like I can sense everything right now, like the light from the TARDIS console and the weird little mechanical noises, and all of the seams and all of the tags in my clothes and it feels like my sleeves are too tight on my arms, like they shouldn’t be there, and my collar is too tight around my neck and my socks scratch and I don’t know, I just feel like I’m on like the precipice. I just never know what I’m doing, and it’s just too much sometimes, and I want to go home but I don’t want to go home, and I don’t want to ruin everyone else’s trip but I just can’t-”
He’s scared them off now. Graham looks distinctly uncomfortable, because he doesn’t know what to do; he’s never known what to do. Yaz keeps opening her mouth like she’s about to say something and then closing it because she doesn’t actually know what to say; he’s never been like this in front of her before.
“Do you like butterflies?”
Everyone turned to stare at the Doctor. Graham and Yaz must be wondering what relevance this question has, and how it’s supposed to help, but Ryan isn’t. Ryan quite likes non-sequiturs. He thinks that they lead to really fun and interesting conversations.
“Yeah,” he says, “But I’m not, like, an expert, or like a butterfly biologist, or anything, I just think they’re pretty.”
“Do you want to see some?” the Doctor asks.
“What, like right now?”
“Yeah!” The Doctor gestures to the back of the console room. “They’re just through here, if you want.”
Ryan shrugs. “Sure, I guess.”
The Doctor grins and sets off, gesturing for him to follow. He’s really intrigued now, since when does the Doctor keep butterflies in her time machine? His curiosity is really distracting him from how overwhelmed he’s feeling. Butterflies, in the TARDIS?
The Doctor leads him through the corridors with great confidence, considering she’s told them the TARDIS remodels itself every so often, and that there’s no way to tell when that will happen until she reaches a specific door, and swings it open.
“Ta da!” she exclaims, clearly quite proud, “The Butterfly Room!”
Ryan thinks that calling it a room is a bit of an understatement. It’s a field is what it is, with a nice grassy hill, covered in wildflowers. And the butterflies. The place is filled with what looks like every species of butterfly that has ever existed on any planet the Doctor has visited. Ryan is mesmerised. He can’t judge quite how far the meadow goes back, because he can’t judge any distance well, but it must be massive, because it seems to stretch on for ages. Just as he takes a step forwards to get a better view of the butterflies sunning on the grass, a large brown thing flaps directly in front of his face, startling him and sending him stumbling backwards.
“Atlas moth,” says the Doctor, “Sorry about that, should probably have warned you that it’s best to sit still and be quiet in here.” She gestures for him to follow her, as she goes to sit in the sun on the hill.
Ryan joins her, and they sit in a comfortable silence, watching a Monarch beating its wings from where it rests on the ground nearby.
“I used to come here a lot about five faces ago,” the Doctor volunteers, “I find it quite calming.” She pulls up a blade of grass, gives it a quick sniff, and begins to shred it into tiny pieces. “Do you want to hear some butterfly facts?”
“No thanks,” says Ryan, “I think that would be a bit much for me right now.”
“If you change your mind, just let me know, because there’s some really cool butterflies in here.”
Silence falls again, and Ryan feels himself beginning to relax, staring up at the clouds crossing the sky (ceiling? He had no idea how to explain what was going on in here).
“Ryan,” says the Doctor, voice low and very quiet, “Without making any sudden movements, carefully turn to look at your sleeve.”
Confused, yet curious, Ryan does as she says, and is rewarded by the sight of an iridescent blue butterfly sitting quite still on his forearm. He’s entranced. It shines brightly in the sun of the Butterfly Room, and if he looks closely he can make out smaller patterns in its wings. “It’s stunning,” he breathes.
“You know, Ryan,” the Doctor begins, “I do get it.” She has her eyes trained on a large rainbow coloured butterfly with two sets of wings, almost pointedly not looking at Ryan. He feels sure that if he were to ask her about it she’d tell him exactly which alien planet it came from, but at this point in time he wasn’t certain he was mentally prepared for all the information that would inevitably be contained in that description.
“It’s a lot, it’s an awful lot, and I can see why you’d get overwhelmed,” continues the Doctor, “I do too, sometimes. Normally I just have to get on with it, but still. It’s not always easy when you process things differently than the people around you. It’s just the way that your brain is wired, but everyone you hang out with will never understand the way you see the world.” Here the Doctor plucks a dandelion, and pulls off the seeds one by one, letting them drift in the light breeze. She still doesn’t look at Ryan. “It’s valuable, of course. I spend so much time with humans because I like the perspective you lot have on everything. I like that you don’t, can’t, think the same way I do. But I sometimes wonder….”
“Doctor, I mean this in like the most no offence way possible but are you… you know, neurodivergent at all?”
The Doctor just gapes at him while a cabbage white settles in her hair. “You know what, Ryan? I honestly don’t know.”
“You kind of give me autistic vibes, you know, like you just have a bit of an air about you. Reminds me of some of my best friends.” He gestures with his hands as he talks, as a way to outwardly process what he’s trying to convey.
“Huh,” the Doctor says, “It’s possible, I suppose, but I don’t know, I never really thought to look into it or anything. It’s not a concept that exists on Gallifrey, and you’re not exactly going to walk into a doctor’s office and say ‘I’m a several thousand year old space alien and I’d like to book one of your autism assessments please’. Plus I always just assumed social and communication differences with you guys was because I’m, you know, not human.”
“Maybe give it a good Google sometime? I don’t know. You don’t have to, like, do anything, but it can be nice to know.” Ryan contemplates further for a moment before adding, “Sometimes when I’m feeling down, I go to the Dyspraxic Adults Forum and I find someone else complaining about having weak wrists, and it just makes me feel so seen. Maybe you might be able to find something a little like that.”
A long, very slightly awkward pause passes between them, until the Doctor asks “Can I tell you my butterfly facts now?”
Ryan smiles. “Yeah. I’d like that.”