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It had been ten days since the TARDIS and the Doctor had dissapeared. Ten days since they had been stranded, woefully out of time. It wasn’t that bad, really—they had the Newmans, a roof over their head, and each other, but…Well, Sara would be remiss to say that she wished they landed somewhere further in time than 1950. Really, she’d rather have not been abandoned at all, but, as she knew well, you rarely get what you want..
A light snowfall had begun while they were out sitting in the park, chatting quietly over their dinner. Eventually, both of them fell quiet, and Sara turned her attention to the falling snow. Flakes fluttered gently through the dark, illuminated in yellow by the streetlamps. They landed on piles of snow that had fallen the previous night, giving the brown-grey sludge a fresh coat of white. There wasn’t much sound, save for the faint echo of waves and the footsteps of a few passersby.
It was peaceful.
As she inhaled, her chest felt a little tighter. There was no time for this peace, not for her, not when the Daleks were out there, when so much hung in the balance. If the Daleks got their way, there’d never be a peace like this again. The Doctor might have thought it kind to leave them, but she honestly found it cruel. He could’ve at least brought her along, wasn’t this partially her fault, anyways? Wasn’t she, in some way, responsible? She should’ve been with him, making up for what she’d done, and then some. The newspaper wrapping her meal had been in, now a little greasy, crinkled as her hands balled into fists.
“Sara?” Steven asked quietly, sitting to her right.
She startled, whipping her head to face him. “What?”
He stared at her, leaning back on the bench they sat on, a softness in his eyes that she’d noticed more frequently over the past ten days. A small smile played on his lips. “Nothing. You just seemed out of it.”
She looked down at her hands, crumpling the newswrapping in her lap, and slowly unfurled them. “I’m just thinking…The Doctor, you know?”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him nod. “Yeah. I wonder what he’s up to right now?”
“Perhaps he’s already stopped the Daleks.”
Steven laughed. “Perhaps.”
“Perhaps he’ll come back for us.”
He was quiet for a moment. “You know he can’t.”
“I know ,” She turned again to look at him, “It’s just…Oh, I don’t know. I don’t know how long I can stand it here. I’ll get restless before long.”
His smile had fallen, but he still watched her with those soft eyes. Something turned in her stomach.
It stung, a little, how plainly he said, “We just have to make it work.”
“...Do you miss your own time?”
That gave him pause. “What?”
“Do you?” It was a simple question.
He blinked, glancing away at the ground. A few snowflakes had landed on his head, and hadn’t melted quite yet. It was almost serene. “...No. Not really. There was the war my whole life, and…anyone I know probably thinks I’m dead.” He shifted in his seat, sitting up a bit straighter.
That was surprising. “Really?”
He looked back at her, eyes widening. “I haven’t told you yet, have I?”
She shook her head gently, eyes never leaving him. His shoulders tensed, and he looked down again, picking at the fabric of his pants with a gloved hand. Whatever it was, it didn’t seem like he wanted to talk about it.
The snow fell around them, softly decorating their tense silence. One snowflake got in her eyelashes, and first she blinked to get it out, then scrubbed at her eye.
Abruptly, Steven said, “You know, I think I need a drink.”
A surprised laugh fell from Sara’s mouth as she brought her hand down. “What?”
He crumpled up his own newswrapping and stood, looking around, “There has to be a pub nearby, right? I think I saw one on my way back from the dock yesterday.”
“If you don’t want to tell me, you can just say that.” She all but glared up at him, though her words lacked any venom.
He turned to face her, and put his hands on his hips, as he was wont to do. He grimaced. “It’s not that, Sara. I…” He sighed. “It’s…hard. I spent two years of my life stuck in some alien prison, and now…” He lifted his arms, gesturing around them, meaning their situation, before dropping them to his sides. “I mean, it’s ridiculous! How many times can a man get stranded?”
An alien prison? Steven wasn’t the criminal type, how in the world did he get locked away? Prying now probably wouldn’t do them any good, but she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t curious. She stood, scooping her trash up and crumpling it into a ball in one swift motion. “So neither of us are happy with the way this is turning out?”
Steven nodded, a small puff of frozen air coming out of his nose. “No, I don’t think so.”
She raised her eyebrows pointedly for effect. “Good to know.” She brushed past him then, making a beeline for a rather primitive, simple iron trashbin. Dropping the newsprint in, she called back to Steven, “I’ll take you up on that drink.”
She didn’t need to see him to know he was smiling again, a sort of half-smirk reserved for moments of “I told you so.” When she turned back around, shoving her hands in her coatpockets, it was there on his face—along with those soft eyes.
It made her stomach turn again. They were good friends by now, and whatever deity might’ve been out there knew that Sara needed a good friend. But the way she caught Steven looking at her half the time...Audrey had noticed it, and hell, even the Doctor had, back when the TARDIS made a world for them. It seemed that everyone but the man himself noticed, and everyone but her thought it was a good idea.
He came towards her, and briefly, she wondered if he could read her mind. He was only going to throw his trash away, though, and much less efficiently than her. He tossed it in from about a foot away, and surprisingly, it landed. He pumped his fist. Then, he held out his arm to her. “Shall we?”
She rolled her eyes, chuckling through her nose, and linked her arm with his. “What a gentleman.”
“Just trying to get with the times.” He grinned, and they were off.
It wasn’t so bad, being loved. She just didn’t know how to tell him it stung.
☆
They didn’t end up finding that pub. The snow picked up as they walked, turning into a light flurry, and while Steven swore it was down one street, they ended up going down another in the haze. Sara had tucked a scarf Audrey lent her over the bottom half of her face, and Steven mentally kicked himself for not doing the same with his own. They ended up at the docks where he and Michael worked again and again, and on the fifth time around, Sara had stopped him by the shoulders and gone, “Is it really worth it?”
But on the trudge back to their apartment, they passed a small store, through the windows of which they spotted a few dark bottles of something-or-other. With that and the weather, it didn’t take much to get them inside. There was only one employee, an older man who squinted at the both of them when they brought more than a few bottles of that something-or-other—a nice tawny Port, it turned out—to the counter. He didn’t I.D. them, but the cost was eyebrow-raising, even for 1950. Sara took two of the bottles back to the shelf, and Steven forked over a good chunk of his wages for the remaining three, doing his best not to grumble about it. It wasn’t until they were back at the apartment, shivering and partially soaked from the snow, when Sara took a fourth bottle out of her coat. Steven was shocked into laughing, and felt his heart jump when she quietly laughed along.
It was a few hours later, when he was closer to drunk than tipsy, and she was closer to sober than buzzed, that he realized why she’d taken the fourth bottle—it was a nightmare trying to keep up with her.
“You know,” He sloppily raised a finger from where he sat on the hardwood floor, finding it more comfortable than the shoddy chairs around their tiny dining table, “This reminds me of Venice, but with better wine.”
“Venice?” Sara parroted, sitting in one of the aforementioned chairs, one leg crossed over the other.
“Venice.” He repeated, nodding. “It’s, uh,” He turned to face her, having to look up to make eye contact, “This ancient city in Italy, ended up sinking into the ocean before my time. It was one of my first trips with the Doctor. You ever heard of Galileo?”
She tilted her head in thought, a few strands of hair falling in front of her. The dim light their only lamp provided, combined with the soft moonlight pouring in through the window framed her warmly. He took a deep breath, and hoped she didn’t notice.
“It sounds a little familiar.” She answered.
“Ah, he, not it.” He raised his finger again. “Galileo was a scientist, inventor,” He waved his hand vaguely, “Argued that the sun was at the center of the galaxy instead of the Earth.”
“Why’d he have to do that ?”
“W—They didn’t know back then!” He exclaimed. “Anyways, I met him.” He looked to the glass in his other hand, half-full of wine and chipped along the rim. “Drank me under the table.”
Sara huffed a laugh, lifting her glass to her lips. “Doesn’t seem like that’s very hard to do.”
“What?!” He sat up straighter, “No, you just handle it better than me!”
Swallowing her sip, she said, “Well, that’s true. You’ve had, what, nearly two bottles?”
He furrowed his brow, “It’s been a while, is all.” It really had been, since he’d dranken at length, anyways. The last time probably was Venice, though not with Galileo.
Sudden grief stabbed through his chest, cold and stilling, briefly sobering him. He froze.
Grey eyes, scarred face, bloody hands, bloody lips…
Venice wasn’t really all the fun he was making it out to be. The constant fighting for his life, the Doctor’s disregard of him, Vicki’s disappearance—Oh, Vicki...What had she gotten into? Knowing that era of history she was in, she was likely dead somewhere in Ancient Troy. A shiver ran up his spine as his heart sank. He didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye to her, and now his little sister was lost, gone forever—And then, what about Katarina? She’d been Vicki’s friend, hadn’t she? And he’d just watched her body float by, gone in the vastness of space.
“Steven?” Sara asked, gazing down at him.
“Huh?” He blinked, looking up at her. The room swam with the quickness of his movement. He didn’t realize he’d tucked his legs to his chest, resting his arms on his knees.
“Are you alright?” It could’ve been a trick of the light, but it looked like there was an actual hint of concern in her eyes.
He swallowed, dry, and then took a swig of his wine. “I don’t want you to die.”
The bewildered look she fixed him with didn’t hurt. “I’m…not going to?”
“I mean, you will.” He didn’t look at her. “Someday.”
“Everyone does.”
“I know, but, it’s not— If the Doctor miraculously comes back, if we ever get in the TARDIS again—” He set his glass down, and looked back up at her, “—Please, don’t die.”
Sara set her glass on the table with a soft thud. Dead quiet, she stared down at him, eyebrows furrowing, jaw set, and eyes narrowing. To say it was a little intimidating would be an understatement.
The irony wasn’t lost on him. Weeks ago, he’d give anything for her to die, just to be rid of the constant target on his and the Doctor’s backs.
Weeks ago, he wasn’t in love with her.
He wasn’t dumb. He knew how she felt. Nothing would come of it. It stung, and while some part of him held out a little hope, he was okay with that. That’s just how their lives were—or, had been. Though even now in their situation, he didn’t think she’d change, and that was perfectly fine.
“I’m not going to die, Steven.” She was firm, in that cold way she often was. “You don’t have to worry about it, especially now.”
He took another deep breath, and exhaled through his nose. “I know. I know.”
Silence crept over the room as Steven turned back away from her. He picked up his glass again, draining the rest of it. He swept his other hand through his hair.
“Where’d that fourth bottle run off to?” He mumbled to himself.
The silence stretched on as he hauled himself to his feet, aided by the table. Sitting atop it, along with Sara’s glass, were the bottles they’d been through and the one they had yet to touch. As he began to reach for the full one, Sara sat up straighter.
“I don’t love you.” She said.
His hand wrapped around the neck of the bottle, and he reached for the corkscrew. “I know.”
A pause. “You do?”
“Mhm.” He stuck the cork with the corkscrew and twisted it down.
Another pause. “...And you’re…?”
“Fine with it.” He started to twist the corkscrew back up. It didn’t want to budge.
“Really?”
“Uh-huh.” Gripping the neck harder, he twisted with more force, and the cork began to rise out of the bottle.
A pop echoed through their apartment as it came free.
“Another glass, Sara?” He glanced at her, gesturing with the bottle.
She was smiling. Not the wry, guarded, closed-lipped thing he’d gotten used to over their time together, but something new, something genuine. One corner of her mouth didn’t close all the way, and he could see a little bit of her teeth. Cute.
“Sure, why not?” She pushed her glass, which was still half-full, forward, and he filled it back up. He then refilled his own, and set down the bottle. Before he could lift the glass to his lips, Sara reached hers out to his, resting her elbow on the table.
“To not dying?” She tried to toast.
He beamed at her, clinking his glass with hers. “To not dying.”
It wasn’t so bad, being friends.