Work Text:
“Here we are!” The Doctor opens the TARDIS doors with a flourish, her smile bright and nearly completely fake.
Yaz forces her own smile, and steps out into the alley where they've parked. The noise from the main road just a few metres away swirls around her as the Doctor steps out too. A blast of music, shouting, laughter.
“The TARDIS says there's somethin’ wrong here?” she asks.
“Yeah, but not what it is. This is the 802nd Smeetherix Carnival, renowned throughout this part of the galaxy as a good time.” The Doctor frowns, the line between her eyebrows crinkling in the way that calls for Yaz's fingers to smooth them.
She sticks her hands in her pockets. “Let's check it out.”
The Doctor passes her a comdot. “Just in case we get separated. Try to stick together, though.”
“Always do.”
The Doctor's body seems to sag in on itself. “I know you do.”
To her surprise, the Doctor holds out her hand, and Yaz takes it, weaving their fingers together.
“Let's go,” Yaz says, taking the lead.
The music is too loud, the crowd too close, the weather too hot, but it's the Doctor's hand in hers which is torture.
The Doctor can't seem to keep her fingers still, and they're constantly stroking hers, her thumb sliding across Yaz's palm, and she didn't even know it was possible to be this turned on by holding hands.
She tries her best to block it out and focus on the sounds and sights of the carnival. Finally, as they stand at the edge of a Clastreen drumming circle, the Doctor pulls her hand free to clap along to the rhythm, and Yaz feels like she can breathe again. She claps too, her eyes darting around the circle.
The Clastreen remind her of large grasshoppers, drumming on their own legs, and apart from the Doctor, nobody is smiling as they clap along.
She bites her lip, trying to tune out the drumming and listening to the sound of the crowd. There's less laughing now, though the music and voices continue.
“Doctor,” she whispers. “Listen.”
“I am listening,” the blonde replies. “They're very good.”
“Not to them. To everythin’ else.”
The Doctor tilts her head, her eyes dropping closed.
Yaz studies her, drinking her in like she always wants to but doesn't dare. The crows feet at the corners of her eyes, the long lashes, the shape of her neck…
Her eyes snap open and Yaz tries to pretend that she wasn't ogling.
“Nicely spotted,” the Doctor says. “Let's get up somewhere high, see what we can see. There's a tall building over there we can go up in.”
Yaz holds out her hand, but to her surprise and hurt, the Doctor flinches away.
“I can't. I just… can't.”
The Doctor strides off towards the building, and Yaz stares after her for a moment before swiping the tears from her eyes and following.
You're an idiot, she tells herself. It doesn't mean anything.
She's still fighting back tears as the Doctor sonics open the building's front door and they climb nine flights of stairs.
“Not a fan of lifts, the Smeetherix,” the Doctor mutters as they pass the fifth floor.
“Mmhmm.”
Up on the roof, they lie on the edge and look down at the carnival.
The colours are still rioting but the pitch of the crowd has changed. There's no laughter to be heard, but if they focus, they can hear crying and arguing. Then they hear the first scream.
“There,” Yaz says, pointing to an alien of a species she doesn't recognise. “They're the one who screamed.”
“A Grerth,” the Doctor says. “Mildly empathic species. I wonder…”
She rolls away from the edge and sits up, hugging her knees. “It could be… but if I'm wrong… so many lives.”
Yaz sits up and looks at her. “What's wrong?”
“I'm fine, Yaz.”
“You're blatantly not.” She reaches out a hand, but to her astonishment the Doctor skitters away like a scared animal.
“Whoa,” Yaz says. She raises both her hands, slowly. “It's alright, Doctor. It's just me. I'm not going to hurt you.”
“You always hurt me,” the Doctor says, pressing her back against some kind of generator. Her hair drops around her face and she peers at Yaz through it. “Everything about you hurts me.”
The words strike Yaz like arrows in the heart, and she has to force her voice to stay low and calm.
“I'm sorry about that, Doctor. Can you tell me what you think is happening here? You can just say it, we don't have to do anythin’ about it yet.”
“But what if I'm too slow?” the Doctor says in a harsh whisper.
“Well, I'm gonna do my best to help, okay?”
“You do always help,” the Doctor admits. “That's what hurts.”
Yaz blinks. “How can helping hurt?”
The Doctor sighs. “I'm scared to tell you. So scared of everything.”
But why is it coming out now? Yaz wonders. She's seen her friend's fear simmering close to the surface in the last few weeks; it's not news to her. But the Doctor would usually rather die than make an emotional admission.
“You can tell me anything,” she says. “And then we'll work through it. Like we always do.”
The Doctor gives a shuddering sigh. “It hurts that you help because you're so… you. Brilliant. Kind. Beautiful. An’ all I can see is the time when I lose you.” The last words come out in a sob.
“Oh, Doctor.” Yaz shuffles closer, aware of screams coming from the carnival below. “We can absolutely talk about that later - and we will, because we need to - but for now, I need to go back to what you thought might be going on.”
“Fear,” the Doctor whispers. “Somebody has released fear.”
“Why am I not feeling it?” Yaz asks. “Because I'm… normal. For me.”
“For you! Exactly! Yasmin Khan, you have an anxiety disorder.”
Yaz blinks. “Well, yeah.”
“So you're always in a heightened state of worry,” the Doctor explains, releasing her death grip on her knees so she can talk with her hands. “You're used to controlling it. You're brilliant, Yaz, because you deal with this every day an’ you're still out here, saving the universe. Although your anxiety is partly controlled by beta blockers and an SSRI, either of which could be countering whatever this is. So…”
“Can the sonic pick anythin’ up?” Yaz asks past the lump in her throat.
The Doctor digs through her pockets, producing a custard cream (which she shoves in her mouth) and then her sonic. She waves it around in the air, though not as dramatically as usual.
“Huh,” she says. “I was right.”
“What is it?”
“Askietyl thylethamine. It's a psychic treatment to reduce lethargy and complacency, developed in the 83rd century to combat the Couch Potato Epidemic.”
Yaz rolls her eyes. “I'm sure you make this stuff up sometimes.”
“It's coming from that building over there,” the Doctor says, ignoring her in favour of pointing to a skyscraper a few hundred metres to her right.
“Alright, let's go look into it,” Yaz says, clambering to her feet.
The Doctor pulls her knees in close again and peers at Yaz over the top, giving a small head shake.
“I'll keep you safe,” Yaz promises, shuffling closer. “I know it's scary, but I promise you'll be back in the TARDIS safe and sound in no time.”
The Doctor shakes her head again, but this time she makes a grab for Yaz's arm, cuddling it into her chest. “I'm not scared for me, I'm scared for you.”
“Oh, babe,” Yaz whispers. She leans forward, giving the Doctor lots of time to move away, and cups her cheek. “We'll keep each other safe. Just like we always do.”
The Doctor nods, her eyes fixed on Yaz's face, and they pull each other up. Yaz brushes down the seat of her jeans, then takes the Doctor's hand.
The blonde stops moving and stares at their joined hands, then looks up at Yaz. “This is terrifying.”
“Sometimes the best things are the scariest,” Yaz tells her. “Come on. Let's fix this.”
It takes them about 20 minutes to navigate the sobbing, screaming, squabbling crowds and make it to the building the Doctor had identified.
“Huh,” the Doctor says, reading the sign above the door. “BiPED. That's a hospital chain.”
There are no guards in the large atrium, just a receptionist hiding behind the desk. They pretend not to see him, and follow the sonic's readings up to the 18th floor.
“They're here to kill us!” someone shouts as Yaz pushes her way through some double doors.
A scattered burst of laser fire follows, and the Doctor screams and pulls Yaz to the floor. They shuffle until they're behind a desk.
“We just wanna help!” Yaz calls. “We're not armed!”
“That's exactly what armed people would say!” the voice retorts.
“Look, there's been some kind of… psychic chemical leak from this floor,” Yaz calls. “We need to stop it so everyone can calm down a bit.”
“We can't fix it without an engineer! We've tried.”
“Yeah? Well, I've got basically the best engineer in the universe right here; I bet she can take care of it for you.”
The Doctor shakes her head, eyes wide with terror.
Yaz squeezes her hand. “I believe in you,” she says gently. “Come on. Up we get.”
“Fear… fear serves a function,” the Doctor says half to herself as they emerge from behind the desk.
A Smeetherix, presumably the one they'd been talking to, points through a laboratory door with a shaking appendage.
"Fear keeps us alive,” the Doctor continues. “It tells us to avoid things that can kill us. That creature with big teeth. The bright colours on a snake. The thorn on a plant. A gun. Fear reminds us of what we have to do to stay alive.”
She approaches a device in the corner, some kind of lab equipment Yaz can't begin to identify, with an emissions screen dialled all the way up to mauve.
She presses the sonic up against it, her tongue poking out for a moment as she concentrates, then pulls off a metal panel and begins playing with wires.
“The thing about fear though, Yaz, is that it's a tool. A useful tool, sure, but if we let it start to control us? We lose everything. We stay at home, we shut ourselves away. We never see what the universe has to offer us.”
The machine makes a happy bleeping sound, and the Doctor grins as she puts the panel back on and the indicator returns to green.
The Doctor looks at Yaz, her expression fierce. “I don't want fear to control me anymore.”
“I'm sure you'll feel better soon,” Yaz tells her. “Do you wanna go back to the TARDIS to - oh.”
The Doctor crosses the room in three strides and takes Yaz's face in her hands. “Fear isn't in charge,” she whispers, searching Yaz's face. “I am.”
Yaz clutches the Doctor's coat as she kisses her, both her fists knotting in the soft material as the Doctor's tongue slips between her lips.
“Excuse me,” says the voice of the Smeetherix. “Thank you for your help, but could you leave my office now? I have a report due.”
Laughing, they leave the laboratory and go to face the universe.