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Day and night were meaningless in a vehicle which traveled through time; even more so, when it was piloted by someone of a species with lifespans designed to be in excess of ten millennia. All the same, the Doctor made it a point to benefit his companions by having his TARDIS mimic the rotation of a conventional planet. Nothing fancy—business as usual during the “day”, darkness and quiet at “night”—but he’d learned that the miniscule effort paid dividends in the long run, especially when his companions were anxious (Tegan) or had zero desire to travel with him (Tegan…). Or, as was the case with Nyssa, when they needed sleep to process their grief, however little they wanted to admit it.
For the fifteenth time over the past few months, give or take Nyssa’s successful attempts, the Doctor was awakened from a pleasant trance, the Time Lordian equivalent of slumber, by a twitching and pinging in those sections of his brain connected to the TARDIS’s console. Bemoaning that South Africa had been denied their strongest shot at finally winning an ICC trophy, he panicked that the Master had hijacked the TARDIS in flight, piloting her to another random place to toy with the Doctor and his brand-new “daughter”. He only relented when he detected a telling tenderness to the manipulation. Teasing the old girl, going as slow as she felt comfortable with, as opposed to maliciously thrashing about like the nasty man clothed in Tremas’s anatomy. Nyssa must’ve been thinking of him, probably because she’d been triggered by something on their travels. Their trip to Traken’s distant past couldn’t be the sole reminder of her lost father and home.
Not bothering to don his dressing gown, the Doctor left his bedroom and commenced a voyage through the corridors, navigating the quirky yet sterile passageways by instinct alone. (Metallic bubble wrap, Tegan had scoffingly called their walls once the dust from that mess on Logopolis had settled. He hated that he found the comment charming.) He wouldn’t be in the console room long enough to necessitate an additional layer; once more, it was required that he fine-tune his psychic bond and gently remind Nyssa that rest was essential. Travelling with her sans the Adric-Tegan maelstrom, Tegan having finally arrived at Heathrow, he’d realized her to be an agreeable, if not remarkable girl. She’d get the hint and get back(?) to bed.
The Doctor was hinted as to Nyssa’s presence early, a relaxing track echoing from the console room and the walls of the nearby corridors glistening thanks to a bath from the viewscreen’s blue light. Walking inside and blinking his eyes to adjust, he found her sitting at the console, shorn of her makeup and glamorous earrings, wearing a billowy pink nightdress borrowed from the main wardrobe, and lounging on a leather chair whose upholstery was beginning to give up the ghost. He smiled as she swiveled, clicked, and sipped a cup of what was probably coffee, unaware of the non-Doctor Watcher who’d rudely intruded on her privacy. He was all but forced to buy the seat during his exile to Earth, after tinkering with the console grew too uncomfortable to bear. Upon regaining his freedom, it’d been banished to the nearby wardrobe to gather dust; little point sitting when travel was quick and the infinite playground that was the TARDIS was properly available to him and his companions. Nice to see someone remember it existed.
He suspected he’d taken a liking to Nyssa because she was the quintessential example of the azbantium fist inside a pretty glove. At first glance, the tiny, shy girl who loved elegant dresses, never raised her voice beyond a normal volume, and could even say kind things about the villains she fought seemed to be easily pushed around. When one spent time with her, however—or, as a shortcut, invoked her wrath—it became obvious that she was capable of a fervent determination. Case in point: she was sacrificing vital shuteye, her eyes sagged by noticeable bags and her curls having been brutally robbed of their floof, in the hopes of rescuing Traken from its entropic hellhole. At minimum, she’d told the Doctor when she was once caught, she wished to know that she wasn’t the last Trakenite, that one other person had been off-world when the universe was ruined by that devastating entropy wave, or, better yet, had miraculously survived. Left unsaid was the matter of the scars on her heart. He’d taken aboard orphans and those without a home, but she was the first he could think of who was both at once—that, too, because of his best friend and worst enemy. Perhaps that was the cause of his platonic attraction. (And that was all it would ever be. While she was sexy to an excessive degree, romantic relationships were as confusing to him as cricket was to her.)
Rounding the console with a spin bowler’s impish grace, he took to the only other feature which could plausibly be called a seat: the console itself. The old girl had long grown wise to accidental use, proving this by not moving in a concerning manner. He adjusted himself to minimize the pricking impact of the many switches, smiling at Nyssa as he did so. True to form, she responded with frosty condescension, harrumphing and subtly shaking her head, which melted with a giggle into a brilliant grin. Why couldn’t Tegan have been this nice? Adric, for that matter?
“Home planet got your grey matter?” asked the Doctor, stuffing his anguish over Adric before it could successfully overwhelm him. “Your dad’s killer, if I may push my luck?”
She’d admitted to being befuddled by his jocularity around sensitive matters, but credit to her, Nyssa took such teasing in stride. He’d immediately seen that he couldn’t be as comfortable with Tegan—a crying shame, because the gobby Australian was begging to get it as good as she got.
Growing impish herself, Nyssa said, “You certainly may not! Matter of fact, I wish you’d fuck off!”
She operated the one part of the console even Tegan was familiar with: the lever which opened and closed the doors. As the metal blocks swung open with that amusing, bubbling drone, she cackled and gestured for the Doctor to depart. His appreciation of her smartassery was massively outweighed by his instinct to keep himself and his companions safe, and the threat of either of them being swept into the Time Vortex was swiftly negated. A bit too confident on her part, he considered as she groaned. Whoever she ended up with, for it seemed like half of his companions left by way of marriage, was going to find her quite a handful!
Returning to her typical terseness, Nyssa said, “Correct in both respects, alas. I didn’t wanna get out of bed—” A gasp restrained in dramaticity by her ingrained propriety, that, in turn, being fertilized by her social standing as a noble, heralded her realization of the consequences of her fixation. Her eyes widened, her cheeks heated severely, and her voice gained, what, half an octave? However often they happened on account of her meek demeanour, her expressions of her embarrassment would never stop being adorable. “I woke you up, too! Forgive me, Doctor. Somehow, I forgot—”
“You’re tired,” said the Doctor, aiming to be even somewhat gentle. Though the flusterment on her face didn’t fade, Nyssa relaxed. “Things like this are gonna happen. When I ran an ultramarathon on Peladon in my last regeneration—which may sound crazy, but rest assured, there was a method to my madness—”
“That does align with what I’ve read,” Nyssa said, shutting down the Doctor with imperceptible discourtesy. In hindsight, her raised eyebrow, followed by a squint mirroring Tegan’s, should’ve been a clue fit for a show aimed at toddlers that she wasn’t interested in the latest Doctor Ramble. “Want me to give your own gray matter a break? Whatever colour Gallifreyan brains are, anyway?”
“I’d appreciate it.”
With a spirited nod, Nyssa relinquished control of the console, closed every window visible on the viewscreen, and rose, assumedly, to leave. Too late, the Doctor realized that he’d been too busy admiring her to check what she was researching—more succinctly, he was tired as well. He successfully appealed her decision to leave her seat—she deserved that much for being stopped from processing something awful—pushed her away with his foot, and assumed the position which was even more well-worn than the chair after five, maybe six centuries of travel. The memories had begun blending together near the end of his last regeneration, when he changed his outfit and gained quite a bit of dourness. Was it good or bad that he’d been away from home for so long?
“Are we going somewhere?” Nyssa asked, allowing herself to yawn. Even before she covered her mouth and blushed anew, the Doctor knew the gesture was unintentional, a product of her exhaustion. Minor blips aside, the daughter of a Consul who would’ve become Keeper for want of an execrable renegade Time Lord was the last person to flagrantly disrespect etiquette. “Can we not, please? I’m afraid I’m gonna be a more useless Tegan. I lack the strength to make one complaint, let alone yell at you!”
The Doctor told Nyssa off, less admonishing than he’d like, for insulting a departed woman, if, perhaps, one not so dear. The hapless woman would fully lose it when she learned her beloved Nyss had gained a fondness for mocking her!
“Sorry,” Nyssa said, not apologetic at all. Her resolve was only hardened by the Doctor’s scoff. “If we’re not off on an adventure—” her downward glance and mumbling pause suggested an invocation of the quasi-god she’d started worshiping after learning the truth about Kwundaar— “what do you wanna do? Did Tegan and I miss something fascinating about the data banks?”
The Doctor strained for a relevant metaphor. Bioelectronics, what humans would call biomedical engineering, was Nyssa’s fond forte. Before Traken’s demise, she was well on the way to publishing a study on artificial organs with a fellow expert; she’d spent quite a bit of time in the TARDIS’s lab since then, experimenting with this serum and that. It wouldn’t heal her grief—not even Rassilon could accomplish the feat—but having her interest acknowledged would at least lift her spirits.
“Implying my fellow Time Lords are exciting is akin to giving a Trakenite, or any similar species, six fingers or toes,” said the Doctor, inducing a squealed cheer from Nyssa. “No, it’s much more awkward than that. I’d like to know what you were looking up.”
The Doctor considered jokingly hoping that Nyssa hadn’t added unseemly items to his browser history—Rassilon knew that was true of Adric and Tegan—but thought better of it upon seeing her slowly be robbed of her joy. When making remarks of this fine variety, there was a fragile balance to be respected between putrid humour and love for others. He couldn’t possibly tip the scales towards the former and reduce Nyssa to tears, potentially pissing her off in the process. The desire to violently kill the Master still knocked about her thoughts, and coupled with her excited recitals about her psychic duels on Traken, being ejected into the Time Vortex would be the least of his punishments. As well, the least amount of effort would be expended by her; he doubted she’d so much as break a sweat!
“You’re aware of that, Doctor.” Nyssa’s voice only remained stable because she’d broken down in Tegan’s presence on a near-daily basis. Neither of them had informed the Doctor of this, but it was blindingly obvious from the soft sobs and warm whispers emanating from their room whenever it was locked. “You told me so.”
“Just that it involved Traken and slash or the Master—I’m not a hundred percent confident as to what you saw. Dare I say, if I knew, I might be able to provide assistance.” The Doctor frowned. “Before that. This could easily come off as insensitive—so feel free to leave me in the lurch—but was this prompted by anything we’ve recently seen? Random reminders of your past, to be more exact?”
“As explicit as being taken to ancient Traken?” Nyssa’s exaggerated sweetness, mouth-puckeringly sour when fully engaged with, wounded the Doctor as poor Phillip Hughes was by that bouncer. Psychic duelist. Won many fights and more than one medal. Gifted telepath, if a bit less so than him. Yet another come-hither from his lovely bed, which was in no way wrapped in a blanket run riot by red question marks. “Nothing of the sort. One doesn’t need a reason to grieve.”
The Doctor muttered rubbish about grief being easily stimulated—even inoffensive events brought on memories of Adric’s death—and about his surprise at the logical Nyssa taking a page from Tegan, someone who only ever thought with her gut. The comparison was stopped when Nyssa smiled sadly and reached for his hand. He obeyed in a way which would never happen with Tegan, yet again noticing how pretty Nyssa’s grabbers were. Little wonder that when she’d first met him and Adric, her dress was skirted by a gossamer fabric which shone a faint rainbow, its crystals glimmering whenever and wherever she moved. She was a fairy, treading lightly in the sky, always liable to fly away and hide in her hollow. Oh, he could never get his mythology right! It was pixies, specifically Tinker Bell and her friends—
He was made somewhat conscious by Nyssa’s typically weak squeeze, and he was damn well shocked into it when she kissed his hand, a teasing grin growing as she released her grip. An apter metaphor than intended, notwithstanding his embarrassing mix-up. Only sprites dared to play such mischievous mind games.
“Well, then?” he asked as he examined his hand, fighting the urge to wipe it on his pyjama pants, thereby giving Nyssa her sought-after satisfaction. This next request needed to be delivered solemnly, and so, he assumed a neutral stance and looked her in the eye. “Would you be so kind as to provide me with a share of these horrid feelings?”
It was unquestionably a struggle, involving coffee sipping, dress fidgeting, and an enthralling shaking of her legs throughout, but Nyssa acquiesced. Swallowing a sob and exhaling deeply, she said, breathier than usual, “Yeah, go ahead.” He nodded and fiddled with the requisite gizmos on the console, relaunching The Music Streaming Service of Rassilon, and with it, “rassilon’s lofi beats to study to”. More sets of directions stopped the music and opened The Browser Powered by Rassilon, the active tab being live updates for a hyperball game in some franchise league he didn’t care for. Having spent time with such brilliant minds as Einstein, Alistair Gryffen, and Brook Tune Or-Something-to-That-Effect, he truly understood that passionate academics craved base distractions. “I wasn’t gonna do something foolish, if you’re worried by what you discover.”
Mumbling in acknowledgement of this—barring incredibly rare occasions, Nyssa was of that breed which scrutinized before they leapt—the Doctor opened TARDISDataCore, the stock application he’d never bothered to modify beyond whatever was necessary to throw the High Council off his scent. To that end, he still used the last-released standalone version, updating its database as required and prolonging its degradation into a mess of .csv files and SQL code with periodic bits of jiggery-pokery. Staring him in the face, rendered in simplistic polygons with gloriously obsolete colours, was a dynamic map of some galaxy he didn’t know off the top of his head. Dynamic… that could only mean…
“Nyssa!” he cried, almost whining. Who else had a scientific bent and a pressing need to “correct” others’ “errors”? It was Rassilon’s will that the TARDIS hadn’t morphed into a whale again, and this time, for good! “I have a system, I protest to help you recollect, and it in no way involves scraping data from the web!”
“Just for this,” Nyssa said with relish which could only be matched by Zoe. The culprit wasn’t their youth compared to other companions—the 15-year old Victoria, not to be confused with the similarly aged Vicki, had found it difficult to crack a smile, while Jo, a little older and a lot funnier than Nyssa, had been a bona fide womanchild!—but the unbelievable smugness which accompanied their smarts. “When I was finished, I would’ve returned the creaky piece of shit to its former glory.”
“You needn’t have bothered,” said the Doctor firmly. His recent nightmare was an ominous warning of the absolute havoc which would’ve been unleashed by Nyssa. “Before long, the round things would’ve come to life and attempted to crush us!”
“You’ve quite the imagination, Doctor! Have you considered ameliorating your mental strain by putting words on a page?”
“Doctor Who Discovers, a series I once published,” said the Doctor, exhausted, intensifying Nyssa’s impudent snort and fit of immature giggles. “Non-fiction, admittedly, but I’d like to think it has characters, a plot, and rhythmic prose.” Her skeptical, head-cocked hum was dismissed as casually as you like, the Doctor not even taking her bait. “I could point you to its location in the library, if you wish.”
The Doctor didn’t have long to ponder how to surmount his writer’s block, thereby finally finishing Doctor Who Discovers Historical Mysteries. Without being prodded, Nyssa shoved him aside, shakily explaining as she took his place that the galaxy was commonly known as Mettula Orionsis. Just like that, it all flooded back. The vast orange emptiness, a peculiar cheese pizza, what with its clumps of white pixels blinking in and out of existence, became an unassuming backdrop to the ruination callously caused by the Master. The universe recovered—it always did from such catastrophes as these, given that it was constantly expanding—but not in the same manner, and too ploddingly to be be appreciated by more than a lucky few. And to set his attack in motion in the guise of a beloved Trakenite, someone who would’ve otherwise died with his daughter and wife… Permitting Nyssa to crush his brain into a bloody pulp, as she’d been forced to admit she wished to do via that harrowing experience inside the Psychodrome, was way beyond the Doctor’s pale, but he wasn’t opposed to having Koschei experience suffering at her hand.
“I know I can’t go back, and I have no plans to. I’ve made peace with what happened.” Nyssa really didn’t sound convinced, yet the Doctor smiled regardless. Anything to support his friend. “The next best thing, therefore…”
“Is to pretend it’s still there?”
“Not quite!” Nyssa said, sheepish and slow. “Here, I’ll show you.”
Given its proximity to Mutter’s Spiral, the impact of the entropy wave was nil on the Doctor’s ability to navigate Nyssa’s galactic neighbourhood. In the instants before she scrolled the map, well in advance of the next chunks being loaded, he was charting a course from Klanbatxan the Lesser, the first planetary remnants to catch his eye, to Traken. Nearish to the bottom-left corner, it was, meaning that if one traveled due west relative to the centre of the universe, perhaps a smidge to the south—
Oh, he’d missed something again! He figured it out right after Nyssa found what was left of Traken—a slothiness which demanded an angry snarl not at all mollified by her irritating grin. (At least it faded quickly, her eyes glistening.) Ravaged by entropy as these planets were, as physicists the universe over had separately proven, nothing could ever be completely destroyed. Traken had retained just enough of its core to attract gases and debris and what have you. The end result, a white line surrounding a nigh invisible middle, resembled the spell circles in that cartoon about magic, too cute by half, Tegan had miraculously got him to watch. He still couldn’t venerate the mouth on legs, and thus, he deemed the diminished Traken to be a hole in the stars. Quite an eerie thought.
“It’s said you can reconstruct something by what it leaves behind,” Nyssa said, in another world entirely. “I decided I’d give that a try, for once, instead of futilely rescuing what simply isn’t there.”
Extraordinary! Why hadn’t the Doctor thought of that? Oops, wrong reaction to someone sharing a trauma in confidence which had so deeply pierced their psyche, it was ridiculously easy for their eyes to leak tears. He didn’t know what he’d do if he were told he could’ve saved Adric from the crash of Biggs’s freighter. Oh, wait, he did—he punched Adric himself. The bitter old king of prehistoric scorpions, a feat only possible thanks to Block Transfer Computation and an unconscious assist from the Doctor. That grievous adventure had made the damned language even more confusing!
“I mean, c’mon!” Nyssa said, accomplishing the distinguished feat of smiling and crying simultaneously. “Have you known me to be as stubborn as Tegan?”
The Doctor’s witty retort—Yes? Why, you’re ten times worse!—was put to plaid when Nyssa collapsed onto the console and began to sob, shaking from the emotional strain. Acting quickly to save the mug from breaking, he gathered her into his arms and hugged her as tightly as one can without cracking ribs or fracturing vertebrae. While he wasn’t the best at providing such comfort, not only had he a duty of care towards any soul who stepped foot in the TARDIS, he needed to process his own grief at Tegan leaving. He yearned for her to change her mind, or at least properly say goodbye to him and Nyssa. She’d spent barely five minutes with them in the airport before rushing aboard her first flight with Air Australia, which was rather unfair given the effort expended to get her there.
As Nyssa wiped her eyes, he asked, “I assume you want neither condolences nor apologies?”
“Yeah. Please.” When Nyssa was this vulnerable, akin to Tinker Bell when drained of the belief she needed to survive, the onus was more than on him to respect her preferences. “It—it’s not—I—” She sighed and hung her head, a curly curtain disguising the finger massage she was giving her forehead. “I’m not offended by your efforts. I won’t hate you if you do say ‘I’m sorry.’ I just—”
“You’re tired.” He smiled and tapped the back of his neck, then the top of his head. “Albeit here, as opposed to here.”
Nyssa laughed and thumbed her chest, where people like Tegan assumed emotions were felt. “Pretty sure I’m feeling it around here!”
In a subtle display of pride, the Doctor smiled. While essentially every companion was transformed by their travels in the TARDIS—he struggled to think of exceptions who weren’t such because they were one-trip-wonders—Nyssa’s was up there with Zoe’s and Romana’s in impressiveness. The scientist princess who escaped Traken’s destruction by a twist of fate, betrothed to those blasted facts and logic, would barely recognize the spunky, fun-loving woman currently traveling with him. (Save for her still being alien royalty. As she loved smugly reminding him, the TU’s political systems would only die with her.)
“Whoever’s correct, I should probably go to bed. I see no further benefit to watching Traken’s rebirth. Not like this hole’s gonna fill out prior to my falling asleep here, right?”
“Rome wasn’t built in a night,” said the Doctor wistfully. From her slight smile, Nyssa had deduced what he was trying to say despite not knowing the context behind the quote—that being the French proverb collection, not the empire itself. How many ways were there to compliment her intelligence? “Would you like to see Traken when it is?”
Nyssa gave the Doctor’s proposal shockingly little thought, gripping her chin and pursing her lips for just a few seconds before laughing him off. “Thank you, but that’s all right. We’re talking billions of years of planetary formation… much too long for such a trip to be worth it.”
“But it’s Traken.”
“Not my Traken,” Nyssa said, pensive as ever. As she shut off the console entirely as opposed to closing its open windows, it clicked for the Doctor why she was so hesitant. When the Traken of three millennia ago was all but foreign to a future resident well-read in its history, it’d be utterly unrecognizable millennia hence, perhaps not even having the same name. He’d protect her sensibilities, then. “A request, if I may? I don’t accept you to expect—expect you to accept it…”
Nyssa fell into silence, staring at a random point on the opposite wall. To an impartial observer, she’d be asleep or worse. Months of travels with her, some with her alone, had taught the Doctor that her rapid mind was at its most productive when she was inactive. Running distracted her, threw her off her game; while idle, she had the brainpower to tweak existing projects or dream up extravagant theories. Would she have a eureka moment here? They’d occurred in stranger places, suffice it to say…
The shine returning to her icy blue eyes, Nyssa flashed an embarrassed smile. “Would you sleep with me, please?” she asked, surprisingly casual given what she wanted from the Doctor. The Doctor was anything but, recoiling with a boyish yelp and frantically shaking his head. Did he have to mount an army of signs on the walls saying NO HANKY PANKY IN THE TARDIS in big red letters, pointing to them whenever Tegan had bright ideas? Perhaps pipe the most annoying sound in the world through the tannoys? “For pity’s sake! Not like that!”
“Sorry, but when these words are uttered by an adult, I kinda expect that there’s gonna be—”
“Not like that.” All three of Nyssa’s words were sharp, precise stabs through the Doctor’s anxiety. She’d be quite the fencer if she ever took it up. “My intentions are anything but sexual—in fact, I find that supposition incredibly objectionable.”
“Good, good,” said the Doctor, scarcely avoiding thanking Rassilon aloud. Because it involved acknowledging a living god, a concept she found difficult to wrap her head around, this was the one habit of his which Nyssa couldn’t stand. “I’ll take Tegan’s bed, then, shall I?” Nyssa grinned wider and shook her head, triggering his internal cloister bell again. “Nyssa, when multiple people sleep in one incredibly cramped bed, whether they’re decent or in the altogether—”
Huffing hard, Nyssa skillfully dragged the Doctor to what technically remained her and Tegan’s bedroom; neither TARDIS passenger had found it in them to remove her bed, both being under the assumption that she’d someday return. Along the way, Nyssa explained the method to her madness. When she had bad days or nightmares as a child, she’d seek physical comfort from Daddy, her charming pet name for her father. Oftentimes, her requests were made when he and Kassia were sleeping or being frisky–that must’ve been as uncomfortable for the lovely couple! With Nyssa ripped at the seams by the loss of Traken, she yearned for support once more, and the Doctor was…
Chancing his luck, the Doctor asked, “I Can’t Believe He’s Not Daddy?” Whyever the Doctor was fond of Nyssa, she saw him as a father figure, though as was proved by her blush, she was loath to admit it. The same was true for him; his role had felt far weightier after his failure to save his last surrogate child.
Nyssa said, surprisingly delighted, “I was gonna say, the closest warm body, but that works appallingly well!” As she and the Doctor laughed, him more grateful and polite, she unlocked the door to the bedroom by placing her hand on an adjacent gray pad. The pad lit up a brilliant green and produced a sonorous tune, the door silently gliding into its sheath. Her half of the room was positively spotless, the only aspect out of place, her obviously unmade bed. Tegan’s half, which had spilled into Nyssa’s… a minefield of items she’d been too assed to pack, her unmentionables, new and used, the most threatening weapons. How in the world had she managed to snag a job? “Regardless, I need someone I love to be there while I sleep. Nothing more, nothing less.”
The Doctor blushed himself. The awkwardness wasn’t from his dislike of being loved—why else had he been so close to Susan?—but that someone so spectacular cared for him this deeply. Some days, he wasn’t sure he warranted such affection.
“Still rather intimate. You seriously don’t mind me doing that with you?” Speeding up and squeaking in fear, he said, “You could easily be kicked in an unpleasant area by an admirable practitioner of Venusian aikido. If Trakenite women are—were—are?—anything like female Time Lords—”
“I trust you,” Nyssa said with the casual confidence she must’ve shown around her few friends on Traken. It made his hearts ache to imagine her so lonely, trapped by her bashfulness and Tremas’s position and not even having a TARDIS which she could steal and flee in. Then, she uttered the phrase which had reeled hundreds like her into his life of adventure: “Do you trust me?”
The Doctor’s first thought was No, a product of his obsolete fear of being caught by the High Council’s goons, and it was quickly dismissed for more than that reason. After everything he’d been through with Nyssa, be it their peril on Veln, the isolated Time Reef, or the shenanigans of Viridios and its familiar minions, he could stand to hold her for more than a minute, and in circumstances which didn’t charge an emotional toll. Plus, he’d be unconscious, give or take bodily shifting and brief moments of wakefulness, minimizing the possibility of those reactions which could happen to a man when an attractive woman was that close at hand. Looms hadn’t removed the subliminal impulse, alas.
“Wholeheartsedly,” he said, prompting a heartswarming outburst of joy from Nyssa. “I trust there won’t be anything untoward from your end?”
Nyssa threw up her hands and screamed in sheer frustration—not like Tegan was around to be awoken and annoyed—heading to her resting place as she was destroyed by the Doctor’s mocking laughs. Where Tegan would’ve made a hash of navigating No Jovanka’s Land, stomping straight through and doubling down whenever she stepped in it, Nyssa avoided every hazard, her footwork exquisite and to a silent rhythm, and eased into her comfy double bed with a sneer interrupted by the placing of her retainer. She’d never mentioned learning to dance, but it would make sense if such sessions were among the many lessons she’d taken over the years. Someone highborn and of a form this petite…
“C’mon, Nyssa! Can’t it hurt to help yourself sleep better?” In a desperate attempt to pull a Javed Miandad, winning by smacking the last ball into the stands, he said, “It’s also said that laughter is the best medicine…”
“Which you’d know, on account of being a doctor.” Nyssa laughed, though solely at her joke from her low tonelessness, and patted a seat (bed?) for the Doctor to join her on. The door automatically closing behind him, he flicked the switch that controlled the ambient lighting, Nyssa perfectly taking his baton by turning on the old-fashioned lamp on her and Tegan’s bedside table. He clumsily crossed No Jovanka’s Land, suffering the ill-effects of triggering at least one knicker; adding insult to injury, as he made space for himself and slipped under the covers, Nyssa grunted and said, “That’s gonna leave a mark!” Nyssa, of all people! How would this egregious offence ever be rectified?
Unable to think of a pithy quip, the Doctor skipped to the serious bit intended to follow it. “We could do with cleaning up this horrendous mess,” he said. “Make her transition back into life with us as smooth as the skin of a Raston Warrior Robot.” Or the Watcher who’d helped him regenerate—how the hell did it keep itself so well?—but he wasn’t about to bring up that traumatic fall, especially not when Nyssa had sporadic nightmares about it.
“We could, yeah.” Downcast and sullen, Nyssa wasn’t at all willing to wipe the slate clean of Tegan—then again, he hadn’t expected her to be. Sometimes, he’d sensed a mutual crush, Tegan’s being stronger because she’d more experience with love. “Shall I presume you’ve forgotten that our efforts will be wasted posthaste?”
“Oh, sod off!” said the Doctor in a cordial drawl, earning an equally warm smile for his troubles. “It’s the thought that counts. ‘Bonzer service, or we stuff yer gullet with money,’ and all that.”
“Air Australia!” Whether Nyssa’s childish, squeaky glee was in appreciation at the Doctor’s cod Aussie accent, a further declaration of her care for Tegan, or a lingering fascination with the impudent humour which was basically the trademark of Tegan’s employer, was frustratingly unclear—the said frustration caused, one hundred percent intentional. Less frustrating, and much more endearing, was her shift into an uneasy vulnerability. She quietly sighed and mumbled, blushing furiously and not meeting the Doctor’s gaze, “Thank you, Doctor. I can’t begin to tell you how grateful I am for you.”
Happy as he was, the Doctor had to clarify what Nyssa’s timid thankfulness was for. As she’d taught him more than any other companion—save, again, Romana and Zoe—assumptions made an ass of everyone they were uttered by. Metaphorically, one understands; the majority of his companions were possessed of posteriors, whether or not they were flaunted as shamelessly as Tegan’s. That uniform was mandated by the Air Australia of the late 70s and early 80s, blessedly revamped following a corporate shakeup, and to not ditch it first thing was her choice to the core, but did she realize that the lilac monstrosity was so close-fitting, so agonizingly tight, people less courteous than him and Adric—
“For everything!” Nyssa said, straining to get the Doctor’s attention. He exhaled, too pleased to have been rescued from his Jovanka-tinged fantasy to care that Nyssa looked at him askew. “Are you seriously daydreaming about Tegan’s behind instead of listening to me? Have you not the slightest capacity for chagrin?”
“My mind drops by strange places at ‘night’, Nyssa of Traken. Surely, you knew that,” said the Doctor, smiling when Nyssa giggled nervously. He stifled his desire to skim through her passport stamps. The least he could do for her was show her some semblance of respect. “Do continue.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Nyssa said, a delicious mix of indignation and unwavering faith. “Like I said, I’m obliged to you for everything that’s happened since Traken, well…”
The silence lingering too long for his liking, the Doctor stepped in. The ignominy faced by Angelo Matthews, the very first international cricketer to be timed out, had been unbearable to him, and he was watching with Maxwell Edison in the stands!
“Saving you,” murmured the Doctor, prompting a nod from Nyssa. This deed was specifically his, since she’d been spirited to Logopolis by what was, in essence, a primordial form of himself. Nice to have something over that egotistic bohemian. “Providing you with a place to stay, showing you the most beautiful things, introducing you to the loveliest people, not least, me…”
Nyssa utilized the Doctor’s prescription with great gusto, laughing to a degree which disturbed her curls and… oh, he’d been objectifying enough! Nevertheless, this was tremendous news. Someone this wonderful deserved the most pleasant sleep and dreams imaginable.
“Obviously not you!” she cried with an excellently timed groan of disgust. Considerably more sincere, she said, “And Tegan, and…”
This time, the silence was allowed to stay put and naturally dissolve. Neither the Doctor nor Nyssa wanted to acknowledge the loss of the snotty boy from E-Space any more than they had to. In a long, long time, perhaps—the Doctor was only just becoming comfortable with his eviction of Susan during his first regeneration. Necessary for her growth, as he’d seen from afar, and he hadn’t nearly been as callous as, say, the Master, but how brutal of him to strand her like that!
Increasingly teary, Nyssa said, “Most of all, for what you’re doing right now. The devotion you’ve shown me from the minute I was taken in. I don’t think it needs repeating that I’m—”
Incredibly lonely, and more than a little broken. Had they ever discussed this, the Doctor and Nyssa! Almost always implicitly, fresh wound and all, though this was still enough for him to deem them kindred spirits. If he appreciated it when people were there for him—yes, even Tegan!—he couldn’t possibly strand someone crying out for his support. Especially when they were as stellar as Nyssa, and especially, especially, when they were literally crying, as she was now. To lull her into a comforting slumber while avoiding coming off as untoward, producing an unwanted awkwardness, he executed a rare and highly dangerous maneuver. Pulling her into a hug involving his non-dominant arm, he wriggled and rolled to and fro, managing to grasp the lamp’s nondescript black switch. It was a cinch to flip it, darkening the room; much harder was the return trip, hellish even with his muscle memory. All the same, he made it, using his regained mobility to wipe Nyssa’s eyes and cheeks, kiss her head, and embrace her more tightly until she calmed down. She certainly cherished the physical affection, grumbling and nuzzling the crook of his neck.
Feeling that the hug had run its course, the Doctor shuffled back, Nyssa quickly following. They both took a moment to compose themselves, Nyssa cleaning her face with her sleeve, and the Doctor dismantling the tent newly raised by his brain; boat floating wasn’t wholly preventable in this situation, unfortunately. Thinking of Davros did the trick quick. (Because he was a nasty son of a bitch, not because of his physical flaws. Goodness knows, The Terrible Zodin was one of the Doctor’s most alluring foes, and she earned her epithet for an excellent reason!)
“As I shouldn’t have to bloviate about it being my honour to do so,” said the Doctor. “Much as you might appreciate being put to sleep.”
A swift sequence from Nyssa answered that nicely. In short order, she snored with the exaggeration inborn to the linchpin of an award-winning play performed one Feast of Melkur, giggled her little ass off, and yawned in a manner that would’ve got her reprimanded by Kassia, hawking and all. As would he, sizing her stepdaughter’s haunches. At least Tegan, who cleared the way for this in the heat of a particularly stressful moment, would be suffering with him.
“I’ll reiterate this, though, because I consider it important.” As Nyssa hummed in curiosity, the Doctor said, “I’m your substitute father for as long as you wish—and, within good reason, however you wish.” Chiefly, he didn’t fancy capitulating and indulging her Traken-related impulses. Coming in a distant second was the irrational, nagging worry that she’d demand to call him Daddy in a compromising context. Who knew how she’d behave when she further matured? “That means, when you leave the nest…”
“I’m gonna make you proud!” Nyssa said, exasperated in that manner particular to loving children. Proving this point, she pecked the Doctor’s nose, leaving him such a scalding mess, he was given away by the searing heat he was emitting. “Don’t worry, Dad. I’ve not forgotten about that, and I don’t think I ever will. You’ll see my name in flashing lights in due course.”
“That’s my girl!” said the Doctor, inconceivably pleased. Helped in no small part by her shiny retainer, Nyssa’s chuffed grin was just about visible. “Thank you as well. I hardly ever say this, but…”
“I love you, too,” Nyssa said, shuffling uncomfortably close to the Doctor and curling up into what amounted to a hug. “Good night. Sweet dreams.”
What most powered Theta Sigma’s satisfied sigh was being released from the burden of replying in kind. Five(?) regenerations spent before their time, a veritable buffet of companions come and gone, experience accrued beyond most people’s wildest dreams, and he was still a big baby when it came to expressing his care through speech. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that, so he settled for embosoming Nyssa and wishing her dreams not sweet, but glorious. Twenty-six runs in just under overs, five wickets in hand, and India having pathetically cowered under the combined might of Klaasen and Miller! The T20 World Cup was the Doctor’s—the Proteas’ for the taking!
“Goof.” The expert chemist diluted her insult with a toasty exuberance. “I doubt mine will be nearly as delightful, but…”
The Doctor didn’t take the tantalizing bait implied by Nyssa’s playful deceleration, and from her own contented exhale, he knew he wasn’t meant to. It was easy to forget in his line of work, what with all the screaming and shooting and things going boom, but not all conversation needed to be produced by throat tissue. Speaking when she deemed it fit, Nyssa was particularly gifted at this. He’d spent much time over their solo adventures learning her language, brushing off the dust of the swaggering loudmouth who preceded him, fully embracing this regeneration’s innate desire to be soft-spoken and courteous—the gentleman to Nyssa’s prim and proper lady. A generic lady, not the Lady of the Manor; Rassilon forbid that Viridios get the chance to resurrect its temporal nonsense.
All this was to say, Nyssa felt she’d be protected, and she’d told the Doctor so in her distinctively understated way. A daunting total to chase, but one he’d mow down á la Kohli nevertheless. Parents did their best to support their children, acknowledging when they messed up, as happens when one is fallible, and being there through thick and thin. Night and day, day and night, whether they were shielding sons from grave danger or nudging daughters away from vengeance which could wreck the Web of Time or obliterating the ugly lumps of grief to blame in both cases. While this process could take ages, perhaps until the relevant hole in the stars was filled, a break could never be taken. When one brings someone young under their wing, by whatever means they choose to do so, there should ideally be an understanding that the job will last until the caretaker’s final end. Millennia, in the Doctor’s case. Crikey, that’d be a slog! Not really a slog. He, Tegan, Nyssa, and Adric had been at the crease and in the field for a longer timeless Test. Lunch and tea was provided, and the clubhouse had lovely accommodations, but nobody could go home until a result was declared—and when the pitch and field had been killed all the way dead, that meant a lengthy wait. This prison had been designed and was supervised by an evil clone of Donald Bradman, which could be interpreted as either a blessing or a—
Coming to, the Doctor comprehended that Nyssa was peacefully asleep, or at least close to it. She’d set up something of a dead man’s switch, one which would trigger if she were disturbed, so it was a good thing she was even more adorable when unconscious. As he slipped back into his trance, not even allowing himself to twitch, he added this bittersweet, cathartic night to the list of wonderful things produced by the TARDIS’s day-night cycle. There would be many more to come, be it with Nyssa or Tegan or whoever was to follow; such was the life of a nomadic space dad who attracted the outcast like a magnet does iron filings. In the interim, it was time to beat back Bumrah, pummel Pandya, and lift that shiny silverware with the team who most deserved it.