Archive of Our Own ^beta

The Doctor stares down at her controls, watching Yaz storm out of the console room from her periphery. With Dan no longer on board, neither of them have reason to keep up the facade that everything between them is fine. The fact Yaz doesn’t even want to be in the same room as her is evidence enough that things are definitely not fine between them.

Putting it all into words on the beach had been tough — it’s clear that this version of her lacks in the social skills department — but she managed the important bits that got the main message across. Even if she were better with words, the Doctor isn’t sure she could articulate everything she needed to say. There are many things that may have helped Yaz understand the situation from her point of view, but the Doctor isn’t sure those words would yield a different result.

So she watches her leave. Part of her screams to call out for her, to follow after her, to resolve things, but the courage she needs is nowhere to be found.

It might be best to give Yaz some space for a bit, anyway.

The Doctor sets the controls for Earth’s orbit and pulls the lever for takeoff. Leaning forward onto the console, she lets her eyes fall shut, and she tries to ignore the ache in her chest. It’s the sort of ache she wanted to avoid altogether, but it seems to be happening despite her efforts to prevent it. Keeping Yaz at a distance only worked for so long, and now she’s paying the price.

In a way, it’s like she’s lost her. Maybe not as permanently as everyone else, but if she can’t fix her mistake, it may as well be permanent. For all she knows, Yaz is in her room packing up her things to leave right now.

Hanging her head low, she takes a few breaths. That’s something very reliable, something she’s good at — breathing. Yet it wouldn’t surprise her if she managed to mess this one up as well. Though with her biology, it would be quite difficult to mess up breathing, wouldn’t it? Respiratory bypass and all. If only a bypass for emotions existed, something like that would be perfect for right now.

Her mind is wandering, avoiding the topic at hand. She shakes her head and inhales another deep breath, attempting to keep herself present. The smell of salt air lingering on her clothes fills her nostrils, causing her hands to move before she tells them to, unfastening the buttons on her coat. She needs to get the damned thing off before the sentiment of it all suffocates her. Beaches have already been ruined for her a few times over. Today is simply one more thing on the list of reasons to avoid them in the future.

Being coatless is something she avoids if she can. It makes her feel too open, too vulnerable, but maybe that’s what she needs to be for Yaz right now. She shrugs the garment from her shoulders and tosses it onto the console, a mess she will clean up later if the TARDIS doesn’t get to it first. Another mess needs to be sorted first.

The TARDIS presses into her mind, urging her along to the bedroom corridor. That makes sense, doesn’t it? That’s where Yaz would go, but the Doctor hesitates.

“Not yet,” she says to the ship. “I’m not ready. I don’t—”

She doesn’t know what she’s going to say when she sees Yaz. Emotional conversations never go well with her, just like Graham asking about his cancer. Even before this version, she was a fish out of water for these types of things; like Amy telling her she thought she might be pregnant all those years ago. The memories come to the surface unwanted, stirring up a wave of nausea at the thought of having a deep conversation for the third time today.

The TARDIS presses again, more urgent.

“Just give me a minute,” she snaps.

The TARDIS’s consciousness retreats, a kicked puppy under her clumsy boots. She immediately feels guilty for her outburst; her beloved ship is only trying to help, she has no right to be angry about that.

“Sorry,” she sighs. “You know I’m bad at this.”

There’s a moment where she thinks the TARDIS is going to give her the silent treatment, but she feels a sympathetic nudge in her subconscious. It’s like a metaphorical pat on her back that she would refuse from anyone physically. At least someone understands and is willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe that’s where she needs to start with Yaz and they’ll have a similar outcome — a simple apology. That’s all it will take. Then the rest might come naturally, though she could laugh at herself for thinking it would.

Where’s Clara with her cue cards when she needs them?

The answer is one that doesn’t evade her, but she doesn’t dare think about it too long. It’s where Yaz will end up too if the Doctor lets herself love her the way she did others before. Clara got too brave, the line between herself and the Doctor blurring more and more with every adventure. She took a Doctor-level risk, forgetting to calculate one very important factor — that she was human.

The lines are blurring with Yaz, too; the Doctor has noticed — smart, brave, beautiful Yaz who just wants to prove herself to the world. Nothing inherently wrong with that, but she is finding the chance to do so in someone who should never be idolised. The Doctor has tried not to notice, but the dominoes are lined up and she’s had to tiptoe through them, attempting to avoid the inevitable cascade when one of them is pushed too far.

The same pattern emerges with every new companion, of course. As they travel with the Doctor, they all pick up their own pieces of her to emulate. Some unfortunately choose the worst parts, the parts that the Doctor tries to keep to herself. It’s those companions that always seem to end up with the most tragic fates. Yaz doesn’t deserve a tragic ending like the ones who preceded her. None of them deserved it. The Doctor can just change the course of the story this time around before it’s too late.

So, as much as she doesn’t want to, she drags her feet up the stairs and towards the winding corridors of the ship. Maybe on her way, she’ll stop by one of the libraries and start a new book series. Or perhaps she can wander through one of the botanical garden wings and observe some of those bugs that look like leaves. Or perhaps one of the cinema rooms ought to have that film she’s seen 308 times in the past century. Anything to waste time. But the TARDIS is trying her hardest to make the path as direct as possible. A turn that is usually a left suddenly becomes a right. Flights of stairs appear where the Doctor has never seen before, doors that normally lead somewhere refuse to open. Hours may have passed but she wouldn’t know, doesn’t care to know. She always showed up too late for Yaz. What’s one more time going to hurt?

Despite her efforts to stay away from the bedroom corridor, she eventually finds herself incapable of avoiding it any longer. The door to Yaz’s room is still right next to her own, as it has been since the beginning. She almost wants to retreat to her own bedroom, an attempt to fall victim to sleep that she knows will never come. It might be easier to deal with this in the morning after they’ve both slept on it, but the words won’t come to her any easier.

She’s not sure she could handle her own bed, anyway. Too many nights she and Yaz found each other’s company in it — back before either of them knew their own feelings, let alone the other. The Doctor wonders how differently this all could have gone if she didn’t invite Yaz into her bed that first night. After Ryan and Graham left, she only wanted someone’s company after decades alone in prison. She didn’t intend for it to become their routine. That was when her feelings were still adolescent, and her rash decision to offer her bed was a result of that fact. She wanted to keep Yaz close at the fear of losing her, too. Looking back on it now, it all feels like a mistake. That perhaps she unintentionally strung Yaz along for her own selfish gain.

The desire to apologise grows stronger as she hesitates outside her door. Yaz needs space, but she doesn’t want to give her too much. She worries that if she does, they will never bridge that space again, that Yaz will never forgive her and leave just like everyone else. Even if she can’t work up the courage to apologise, she at least would like to bid her goodnight.

Inhaling a deep breath, she raps her knuckles on the door.

“Yaz?” The Doctor calls out.

“What do you want?”

The material of the door muffles Yaz’s voice, but the seething anger still finds its way through. The Doctor lowers her head, bracing herself.

“Can I come in?”

Either Yaz doesn’t respond or it’s too quiet to be heard through the door. Instinctively, her hand reaches for the doorknob and turns it. She doesn’t realise what she’s done until the door is already open.

“Yaz?” she calls out again, hearts racing as she steps into the room.

“Leave me alone, Doctor,” Yaz grumbles.

The Doctor’s eyes search the room for the source of her disembodied voice. She’s sitting on the floor against her bed, hidden from the view of the doorway. All she can see is the back of her head from where she stands.

“Yaz, are you alright?” She dares to step closer to her.

“I said go away,” Yaz says, her voice wavering. “I don’t want to talk to you, or see you, or think about you.”

Something isn’t right. The voice almost doesn’t sound like Yaz. She knows her voice well enough to tell. This is different, wrong. Her voice sounds broken and weak. Defeated. Cold. Obviously she’s upset, but something else lurks beneath the surface.

A few cautious steps closer and the Doctor can see. Her hearts drop to her stomach at the sight of Yaz on the floor, knees up to her chest like a child, one of her hands desperately gripping the neck of a liquor bottle.

“Oh, Yaz,” the Doctor sighs.

She crouches to meet her at her level and her eyes meet the saddest, wettest ones she’s ever seen. Yaz has changed out of her clothes from the beach and her hair falls messily over shoulders, but it doesn’t look like she bothered to comb it before putting it into a messy braid. Nor did she try to take her makeup off. Noticeable streaks of mascara run down her cheeks, appearing to have been hastily wiped away a few times.

The sight of anyone she cares about crying will always hurt, and the familiar pain swells through her chest as uncomfortably as it has many times before. It aches more, seeing that Yaz has taken it a step further and is now thoroughly inebriated, an unfamiliar situation for the Doctor to have to handle. But worst of all is realising that the Doctor is the cause for all of this, that Yaz has felt the need to resort to substances because of her.

The look of sadness in Yaz’s eyes flickers to something else, a challenging gaze against the Doctor’s as she lifts the bottle towards her lips. So now it appears she’s resorted to defiance — not a good sign. Immediately, the Doctor reaches to stop her.

“Alright, let’s put this down,” she says gently, desperate to not tip off Yaz’s anger again, despite having to wrestle the bottle from her grip.

“Why should I listen to you?” Yaz slurs. “You’re not my mother.”

“Correct. I’m not. But I’m sure she wouldn’t appreciate this behaviour from you—”

“You don’t know my mum.”

“I do, actually. Do you remember, with the spiders?”

Yaz barks out an incredulous laugh. “She asked if we were seeing each other.”

“Yes, I’m glad you remember that part.”

“You are?”

The Doctor pauses. This is going to be much more difficult than she imagined. She’s going to have to be careful with her words — Yaz’s intoxicated, heartbroken state means she will cling to any sense of affection.

“That was sarcasm, Yaz,” the Doctor sighs, her gaze falling to the bottle that is now in her possession. “Where did you even get this?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Yaz teases.

She would, actually. Only a handful of people she knows are bold enough to defy her strict rules against things like this. A piece of the blame is also on the TARDIS for allowing those people to stash them right under her nose. She makes a mental note to make sure she looks in all the panelled alcoves for any more contraband. Studying the label, she recognizes the branding on this one from a trip to the moon in the 52nd century.

“River,” she scoffs under her breath.

“Who’s River?” Yaz demands.

The Doctor promptly returns her attention to Yaz, who glares at her with the fire of every star she’s ever seen. Cautiously, she sets the bottle out of her reach.

“Is that your wife?”

The last word is spit with such venom that the Doctor’s blood runs cold. She finds herself unable to come up with the words to save herself from where this is going.

“If she’s stashing drinks around your TARDIS, that mean she’s still around, then?”

“No,” the Doctor finds her voice, but it’s so small. “She’s–”

“You said it was a long time ago,” Yaz interrupts.

“It was.”

“What happened to being a different man back then?”

“I was different,” the Doctor raises her voice, desperate to get a word in. “But–”

“You shouldn’t flirt and take people on dates if you’re still married.”

The beginning of the accusation stops the Doctor in her tracks, making her very aware of her racing hearts and the sting of tears in her eyes. She stares at Yaz in disbelief, unable to defend herself as anger and grief and betrayal simmer under the surface.

“What are you trying to make me into, Doctor?”

“It’s not like that, Yaz,” she insists.

“You want me to be your mistress? A home-wrecker?”

“Yaz, stop,” the Doctor shouts louder than she intended, her voice wavering as the emotions boil over.

She doesn’t even remember grabbing onto Yaz the way she does, but despite the surprise of the action, she doesn’t release her. Not yet.

“She’s gone, okay? She died,” the Doctor pleads. “A long time ago. She gave her life to save me and she died. I watched her die. She’s not still around and she’s never coming back. Do you get that?”

Sternly, she searches Yaz’s eyes for any sort of understanding. Her chest heaves and tears dampen the corners of her eyes, but Yaz just stares back at her with the same scowl as before. She huffs out a bitter laugh and releases her grip on Yaz’s shoulders, hopeless. Alcohol does interesting things to the human brain, doesn’t it? The Doctor knows that. And she isn’t particularly fond of anyone being under the influence of it, and certainly not one of her companions.

In a way, the accusation rings true if she stops to think about it. With her and River’s timelines being so messy, there’s bound to be an overlap with their relationship and any other either of them has been involved in. None of it was ever intentional infidelity. The rules are different for time travellers. It’s part of what the Doctor meant when she said she couldn’t fix herself to anyone — even the one person in the entire universe she’s meant to be fixed to.

She didn’t expect this sort of jealousy from Yaz, especially over her off-hand comment about having a wife. It’s not what she intended when she decided to say it. Romance and sexuality are complicated and scary for humans. It was meant to be encouraging — a way to tell Yaz that yes, she has relationships with women. She has relationships with women and Yaz holds a similar place in her hearts as the most official one she’s had.

But all of this would be too complicated to explain to a drunken Yaz and it would only dig the hole deeper.

After a moment, the Doctor settles down in a spot on the floor next to her and releases a sigh, a sign of resignation to the fact that she doesn’t want to leave Yaz to sober up alone. The choice puts her at risk for more hurtful words to be thrown at her, but she doesn’t care, she would feel worse walking away from it. Instead, she tries to tell the best of the truth she can muster, hoping to appeal to Yaz’s better nature now that both of their anger has dissipated.

“I wouldn’t do that to her,” the Doctor says quietly. “Or to you — I wouldn’t put you in that position on purpose.”

Yaz’s expression softens at that, her bleary eyes studying the Doctor’s face curiously.

“You’re pretty when you’re angry,” Yaz giggles.

The Doctor inhales a sharp breath. She’s never been called pretty before — not in earnest, not in this body, and not by someone whom she cares to hear it from. The word sounds foreign to her ears, yet she finds herself latching onto it, the compliment stirring up a flutter in her stomach. The sensation derailing her thoughts into that feeling that she has tried to ignore since she first felt it — that feeling she needs to ignore again.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” she deflects, not meeting Yaz’s gaze.

“I know exactly what I’m saying.”

“You might think you know now, but you won’t tomorrow when you don’t even remember this.”

“Better make it something to remember, then,” Yaz purrs, leaning in close.

The Doctor doesn’t even have time to react before Yaz attempts to bridge the gap between them. She bodily pushes her away just as her lips brush against her own, the smell of liquor strong on her breath.

“No. Absolutely not,” the Doctor insists. “Not when you’re like this. Because this–” she flaps a hand in Yaz’s direction. “Isn’t like you.”

“What do you know?” Yaz snaps. “Maybe this is exactly like me and you just never cared to find out.”

A small wave of hurt washes over the Doctor again, but it ebbs away before it can manifest into any sort of reaction. It would be pointless if it did, anyway. It’s what Yaz wants, in her inebriated state; she wants the Doctor to feel the same pain she feels. It’s the only reason her words would ever shoot to kill like this, and the Doctor can only try to lick the wounds left behind. Perhaps a different approach would be more effective. She takes a deep breath and allows herself to speak honestly once more, throwing her previous caution to the wind.

“I do care,” she says softly, turning towards Yaz. “And caring means that I don’t want this to be like you.”

The defiant facade slips ever so slightly from Yaz’s face and she hopes it means that she’s getting through to her despite the alcohol in her system. After the mess they’re in right now, the Doctor wants nothing more than to have Yaz back to her normal self.

“Where’s the Yaz I know?” The Doctor continues. Her hands move to either side of Yaz’s face and she holds her gaze, hazel eyes searching for the familiarity of Yaz’s brown. “I know she’s in there.”

That seems to be the breaking point, because Yaz instantly turns into a wreck of tears in front of her.

The Doctor releases a sigh, relieved that the Yaz’s anger is gone enough to make a shoddy attempt at mending what’s broken. The relief, however, is short-lived once she realises that Yaz is crying. She’s crying once again and this time she’s here to comfort her. Comforting others who are upset is another thing she isn’t good at, no matter how many times she’s had to deal with it. Tears stream down Yaz’s cheeks and she simply watches them fall, unsure of what to do, the supply of them seemingly endless.

“It’s okay,” the Doctor says.

But she knows the words are empty when she says them. It’s not okay. Yaz isn’t okay, and neither is she. The simple phrase isn’t enough; she needs to do something more to ease the heartache. Instinctively, she pulls Yaz against her chest, wrapping her arms around her body as it’s wracked with sobs.

“I’m sorry,” Yaz cries, her voice muffled in the Doctor’s t-shirt.

“It’s alright,” she reassures again. “It’s not your fault.”

Her hand reaches up to cradle Yaz’s head, another action that crosses lines she shouldn’t be crossing. They have already crossed too many lines with angry words and accusations. Actions that do the opposite, that express her care and concern, won’t hurt anything more than have already been done.

The Doctor wishes she could place the blame on someone or something, but all roads ultimately lead back to herself. This isn’t like any other battle she’s faced where someone is behind all of it; there are no Daleks or Cybermen or the Master to blame — the fault lies on her own shoulders. Yaz wouldn’t have said the things she said if the Doctor hadn’t broken her heart. If she hadn’t had to let her down gently on that beach, none of this would have happened. If the Doctor’s life wasn’t full of so much pain and loss, she wouldn’t have had to. The universe has bent its will to her far too many times, and all debts have to be repaid. She doesn’t want Yaz to be one of those debts.

And she almost made it through to the other side with this one. She repressed everything she felt, unsure if the feelings were requited but hoping that they weren’t. The walls she had put up to keep Yaz from getting too close were so shabbily put together that all it took was one Dan Lewis to tear them down.

She likes you.

Her typical deflection was not enough. He saw right through her act of obliviousness. It was that night that she felt more than just her walls crashing down, the whole world underneath her collapsed. She thought she could outrun it the same way she outruns everything.

Seeing and hearing Yaz cry only makes the Doctor remember how happy she was only a few days ago on New Year’s before the beach. She tries not to pay attention to the sound; she lets her gaze drift to the far end of the room, her mind wandering back to that night watching the fireworks with her. Seeing her smiling up at the colourful glow in the sky solidified the feelings the Doctor worried she had developed. But the moment full of victory and joy was quickly ruined by the realisation that she had made the same mistake she’s made time and time again. It sank heavy in her gut that night, but now she’s the one sinking and there’s no sign of land.

So then she had a choice: she could stay oblivious and risk Dan interfering further, or she could shut everything down before things went too far and they both get hurt worse. It’s as simple as being cruel to be kind.

It had been nice to pretend everything was okay for those few days — even going as far as allowing herself to act on those feelings. In retrospect, it was a terrible idea. But this version of herself hadn’t had the opportunity to be flirty before, and she thought herself to be quite good at it.

Not a bad date, am I?

Why — Why did she ask that? If Yaz hadn’t picked up on her forwardness before, she definitely did, then. There was even a moment where she thought that maybe one of them might do it — might bridge the gap that they both wanted to close so badly. She recoils at the memory, squeezing her eyes shut in an attempt to forget all of it. Maybe if she had just kissed her then, they wouldn’t be where they are now.

Pulling Yaz closer to her, she presses a kiss to her forehead. Perhaps it will fulfil that urge from earlier in the day. The sobs have subsided, but she can still hear Yaz sniffling in her embrace. The weight against her side is much heavier now that the exhaustion from the day is setting in.

“Do you want to lie down?” the Doctor asks.

Yaz nods her head against her chest. Gently, the Doctor guides her to lay her head in her lap and Yaz adjusts the rest of her body to be as comfortable as she can be on the floor. Once she settles in, they sit for a few beats in silence.

“I’m sorry,” Yaz says again, her voice hoarse against the quiet.

The Doctor can feel a warm, wet spot forming on the leg of her trousers where Yaz’s tears soak into the material — still crying, then. She hoped the tears had stopped, that Yaz had cried all she could cry, that now it’s just a waiting game for the alcohol to be out of her system. Instead, her tears fall silently and the Doctor can’t handle much more of it. Her fingers absentmindedly card through Yaz’s hair in her lap, but she doesn’t dare look at her. She doesn’t want to see the mess she’s created.

“I’m sorry, too,” she admits.

A pause.

“Sorry you don’t love me?” Yaz replies, her voice so small.

The Doctor inhales a sharp breath. Yaz turns over to look up at her and she dares to meet her gaze. The eyes that look back at her are red and puffy from all the crying. The sight of it makes her own eyes sting with tears. She just wants this all to stop.

She musters a smile the best she can.

“I never said that, Yaz.”

“So you do love me?”

The Doctor opens her mouth to reply, but she stops herself, the words ‘I do‘ hanging from her lips. Those words — that phrase — hold too much weight in a way she is afraid to introduce to the moment. They’re too matrimonial. The mention of her wife wrecked Yaz, and those words would only reopen the wound that had only just stopped bleeding.

With the lack of reply, Yaz turns back over onto her side. The Doctor waits for more crying or for Yaz to stab a blade into her chest with more hurtful words, but none of that comes. There’s a calm silence between them now that the altercation has seemingly come to a conclusion. Except Yaz asked a question — a question that the Doctor should answer, Yaz deserves at least that. People like them should say things to one another.

“Yeah,” the Doctor resigns quietly, her voice wavering with the lump in her throat that she held back until this moment.

Yaz doesn’t say anything. Maybe she’s fallen asleep or maybe she’s forgotten the question she asked. The Doctor doesn’t know. But she does know one thing, and she whispers it into existence whether Yaz is listening or not.

“And that’s the problem, isn’t it?”

She lets her own exhaustion take her over, leaning her head back on the edge of the bed. Her eyes fall shut and a single tear falls with them.