Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There’s no one explanation for how he ended up estranged. Lots of little things that added up overtime, effectively sequestering him from the rest of his family. 

He supposes there is one more potent than the rest:

The disappearance of his granddaughter Susan Foreman and her husband. 

They’re location not even known to their children, and certainly not their singular grandchild. 

Every police station held their information, and he still silently paid for billboards and missing posters to remain in circulation even as the provided photos moved further and further out of date.

One would imagine a family would grow closer after such calamity but he knew better than most how easily it could tear things apart.  

(The ring on his finger stings as he twists it for every small anxiety that quickens his heart and exacerbates his already high blood pressure.)

The loss of his beloved granddaughter crippled him. 

He’d been more than attentive to his work and studies before, her absence and the subsequent - according to his therapist - misplaced guilt drowned him further in the pit of academia.

He knows he should have reached out to her progeny. In fact he had, but not in spades. 

Not in the way he should have, because now his great granddaughter, an astoundingly beautiful woman he’d once used as a muse for a brief stint in photography, and her husband were gone too.

Leaving behind a daughter. His great-great granddaughter. A title he loathed as it made him feel older than he had any right to this day in age. 

They nearly hadn’t called him because of it, and he wasn’t even that old! Still he is Bill Pott’s only living relative now. 

A little girl he hadn’t seen since the day she was born. 

He’s her family, yet a stranger, and even still as the social worker takes him down the hall to meet her for what feels like the first time; Bill Potts smiles.

The five year old runs into his legs with a triumphant cry of, “Granddad!” The word muffled as it reverberated against his thigh.

To his left the social worker Moira makes a quirk of agreement, obviously against his sixty-four years of age. 

Something he takes offense to as he furrows his brow in the lady’s direction.

“I could pass for a father at least,” he grumbles, hand moving to pat the back of his great-great granddaughters head.

Her hair is not properly brushed from what he could tell after River’s never ending explanations about curl patterns and the intricacies of caring for each and every one of them.

(He’d rectify that when he got home, or as soon as he possibly could should they give him a comb. And they thought he would be an unfit guardian when they couldn’t even brush her hair! )

Bill looks up at him at that, inquiring with an adorable tilt of her head: “Grandfather?”

He doesn’t have the heart to correct her. It’d be a losing battle to even start. 

So he nods, getting down on a knee to really get a closer look while thumbing a nose at the agent, proving to her he was still capable of such a thing.

Bill gives him the space to do so, standing as tall as her little body could, swaying on her feet making her rainbow striped dress swish. 

In her arms was a stuffed animal of a robot, a smiling one at that, John wonders what it has to smile about.

He also wonders, more so than he wonders about the robot, what Bill has to smile about. 

She’d lost her whole world, and was now in the process of coming into his care, and his own self-deprecating tendencies he and his psychiatrist Nardole were working on slowly, told him he was no prize.

For a moment he fears she was too young to even understand, to even know mommy and daddy weren’t ever coming home. 

But there’s a sparkling curiosity (something to him that equated to vast intelligence) in her eyes, and a smile and cheekbones that belonged to Susan.

His heart burns and mentally he grips it tight knowing this little girl felt the same loss as he or likely would come to understand it just as well when her mind grasped the loss she was facing. 

Moira, disinterestedly, had noted Bill would need court-ordered therapy.

John wondered if he could set her up with Nardole rather than the random court-ordered therapist he didn’t have the hopes of being any more competent or caring as the woman beside him.

With the arm not cradling the robot, she tentatively reaches out and grabs the outer cropping of his coat, moving the fabric so she could get a better look at the red interior.

“Are you a magician?” 

John can’t hold back the fond laughter that bubbles out of his throat at the question, idly shaking his head, “No, I’m a teacher.” 

Professor really but that was semantics, and the girl seemed intrigued by his scottish burr.

The way his tongue clacks on the T in teacher and rolls on the R has the desired effect of making the little girl giggle and sway further.

Adding to the mysticism, the wonder, loving to keep the world guessing, he pulls a quarter out from behind her ear.

If Bill has a problem with him saying he wasn’t a magician and then performing a magic trick, she doesn’t say, only laughs before taking him off guard by situating herself in his arms.

His mind hesitates but his arms do not, he’d been a father before and the instincts ingrained never left him.

It’d been quite some time since he’d been held, since he’d held another. Especially one so small, something in him missed it.

Missed cherishing something endlessly important. John gets back to his feet and takes Bill with him.

The girl sat comfortably in the crook of his arm, holding onto the opposite side of his coat so her arm was stretched across his chest.

Small fingers running along the inside on the shiny red fabric beneath. The smiling robot tucked between their bodies, smushed a bit so when he looked down its smile had turned into a frown.

Not that the stuffed robot's apparent feelings mattered, what mattered was Bill’s comfort in his presence that not even Moira could ignore.

His house had always been cluttered with odds and ends. Meaning it takes time to be child-proofed to the government’s specifications, but John would do anything for the little girl.

His little girl.

The only family he had left. 

It’s worth it, she’s worth it as she comes in. This time the smiling, sometimes frowning, robot plush is gone.

There’s an action figure sticking from her denim jacket’s pocket, a little wooden woman (a dryad or wood nymph possibly) carved with impressive ringlets of hair. 

Speaking of hair, whoever had done Bill’s was a step up from the last attempt, his concerns (having been voiced after their first meeting) listened to and abided by. 

They even included the yellow fabric hair band he’d dropped off with a few other things he thought she deserved. 

All things that would be moving into this very house and the room, what was once a second library part cheese-making room, was now an apt bedroom for a growing girl.

Private bath, a walk-in closet, shelves built into the wall so there was no danger of them falling, and even a window seat with a skylight.

He’d bought the basics, maybe a bit more but it was otherwise undecorated. Bill would be able to cultivate her dream space herself.

Hell he’d even let her paint the walls, draw all over them, and paint them all again. 

Moira had already done her walkthrough, begrudgingly impressed, maybe even a little jealous of the old money the mansion screamed.

On the other end, Bill reacts like most little girls when excited with a little shriek as she looks upon her new room.

Even still, she has manners or more gratitude in her little body than a majority of the people in this day in age, toddling back into his legs in appreciation.

Hugging him so tight she could cut off his circulation, Bill shouts:

“Thank you!”

“You,” he pauses to really look her in the eye, “Are very welcome.”

Susan smiles .

No, Bill smiles, taking out her wooden doll to put in his hands before she went and flopped on the full sized mattress fitted with astronaut themed sheets.

Something she’d mentioned in their last visit as an interest, along with Roman soldiers, the culinary arts, and pyramids.

She’d even introduced him to a figure she had, likely supposed to be a Roman soldier by the red tufted helmet but was too vaguely inscribed to be anything concrete, she’d named Rory.

It’s why he bought the hefty toy chest in the corner, and even the net across the corner of the ceiling. 

So if she got any more toys or stuffed animals (robots?) - which he’d be helpless not to buy her - they’d have a place to sit while not in use.

And there’d be no cybermen, a toy brand of robot dolls (both figures and stuffed monstrosities now ironically owned by Harold Saxon after they endorsed his stint as prime minister) that held no emotions, and frightened the extraordinary Bill Potts so much that they never failed to make her cry.

After finding the bed to her satisfaction (and the brown bear stuffed animal sitting on it that he’d picked up on a whim), the girl beelined it to the near bare shelves with the bear in her arms, the shelves stocked with a scant few fairy tales he thought she’d enjoy.

If there were also the Brothers Grimm editions there, well he wasn’t about censorship.

“This is great!”

The house may be old but the kitchen had long since been remodeled. 

His old friend Sarah-Jane who’d come by in his youth to this very house would begrudge him for changing such antiques, but River had demanded a proper modern century kitchen so it didn’t take ten hours for water to boil.

Not to mention he appreciated the pot filler. Bill is entranced with it all, even if her measly height didn’t allow her to see over the countertops.

She was too small to cook any real meals, and he had enough sense thank you very much to know better than to let her use the stove, oven, or microwave without supervision.

(Again not that she could even reach those things yet.) 

He figured she’d make a fine sous-chef whenever he prepared them something.

A fake kitchenette would have to do if she wanted to play out her culinary fantasies when she couldn’t yet properly utilize the real thing.

Bill tugged gently at his hand then, “Can we make chips?”

“Yeah, we can make chips.”

He’d had an ongoing rivalry with his neighbors across the way for years. Thankfully he only ever came across them when going down the long driveway.

Seventy three yards out from the front entrance, the property bordered by large trees that might as well sequester them from all time and space.

John hadn’t wanted Bill to meet Missy or the Harold Saxon. If it wasn’t for Harold’s sometimes raunchy comments to Missy, he’d think the two were related.

That or they were the same person. Then again Missy never returned Harold’s advances, so maybe not.

John thinks that only because the both of them were more than self-obsessed. 

He lucks(?) out that as he pulls the bins out for accessibility it’s only Missy who whistles from across the drive.

Bill looked up immediately from where she’d been skipping behind him, having been avoiding the bugs she did not find any fascination with, and playing on the chalk markings they’d drawn out a day ago.

The woman narrows her eyes in a mixture of intrigue and scrutiny at his newfound companion, immediately making the girl shrink behind his taller form.

John could deal with Missy’s pestering, Bill on the other hand could not, not that he’d make her.

Departing from the bin now that it was in place, the Doctor sweeps Bill up into his arms where she buries her face in the crook of his neck to hide away from the wicked woman who he imagined to Bill looked very much like a witch.

“Got a wee friend now do-we Doctor?” 

“Go home Missy,” he calls out, turning back and beginning his trek towards the house. 

Halfway down the drive Bill peaks up over his shoulder to take one last gander at the Mistress of all Evil.

The woman doesn’t answer verbally, and makes a chomp with her teeth towards the five-year-old, effectively scaring her back into her great-great grandfather's jugular.

John doesn’t need to see the action to know it’s what Missy had done as Bill’s trembling fingers latched onto the now blue interior of his coat.

Not when the woman had clacked her teeth hard enough he’d still heard it all those paces away, and decides as he holds Bill a bit tighter in apology she could go with an extra helping of Frost Fair ice cream after they finished their dinner.

He might even put the sweet treat on the top of some pie.

Chapter Text

John lets out the breath he’d been holding and finally manages to reign in the incessant tapping of his leg when the door to Nardole’s office opens and out toddles Bill with Nardole not a step behind.

All but jumping to his feet, he watches fondly as Nardole gets down on a knee as Bill moves to hug the man. 

His steps are slow on approach to give them a small sense of privacy, yet he’s not deaf to Nardole’s hum of “Cuddle,” which he’d noticed the man did with every embrace, as he’d seen the man had more than a few younger clientele in need of a hug after sessions.

Not that he could blame them, not that he’d ask or maybe even accept without some prodding but he often felt the need for one after some of his own. 

He’d lived a long, turbulent life, and more often than not what was covered in a given session could leave him feeling raw.

It’d been a learning curve in coming to terms with that not necessarily being a bad thing, something he’s still not fully convinced of, but the improvements he’d made had to have come from somewhere so he continues on and  trusts what therapy could do for Bill as well.

Like a Disney Princess Nardole waits for Bill to relinquish his hold before he does, Bill giving the man a smile before turning and making herself one with his leg. 

John hadn’t realized she’d noticed he was coming up behind them.

Placing an assuring hand on her head he hears as she copies Nardole’s hummed, “Cuddle,” before she's smiling up at him with Susan’s signature smile.

Of course neither he or Nardole discuss much of anything, especially not in front of Bill. Nardole would contact him if there was anything pertinent to Bill’s health in an email later along with a receipt and a reminder for his and her next appointment.

He shakes the bald man’s hand and sweeps Bill up into his free arm, feeling her soft yawn against his collar as they make their way out to their car Bessie. 

Of course The Bridigier after finding out about Bill, was more than happy to come on by and help him put on the doors to make it an appropriately safe vehicle for a child to ride around in.

It’d been good to see him and recount their time at war. The man had even gotten down on a knee and played with Bill and her figures as John had boiled them all some tea, the man more than used to what came along with raising a daughter.

With Kate all grown up now, John was sure the man missed caring for one so young and innocent with the creativity to make up monsters like Zygons to play around with. 

“Are you alright?” He questions as he buckled the girl in her carseat, already having informed her on the way over if she wanted to discuss her session he’d be more than willing to lend an ear, and if not; he’d be there however she needed him to be.

Bill nods, “Nardole’s funny.”

Goodnaturedly he scoffs, “Well don’t let him hear that, we’ll give him a complex.”

He’s not sure Bill understands what that means by that but she laughs along with him anyway. All in all, he felt a lot better about scheduling both his and Bill’s next appointment.

“Mommy didn’t like taking pictures,” Bill tells him in response when he broaches the question as she added some decorations to her room, if she wanted to put something of her parents up on the walls or on her nightstand.

The girl wasn’t wrong, he’d basically begged the woman to be his muse because she’d been too bashful to do such a thing without encouragement. 

He wouldn’t call himself an expert at measuring beauty in humans, in other things yes, but Bill Pott’s Mother had nothing to be self-conscious about; hence why he’d been so eager for her to model.

That and he enjoyed the small moments of bonding with his relatives that he could manage.

Now as Bill follows him to his study to sift through his many boxes of odds and ends in search of the right one, he’s grateful he followed through; because now as he pulls out the green box and unearths the lid, these are the only photos Bill has of her mother at all.

The five-year old is frozen, her little body bundled up with her breaths. His comforting hand on her back is what gets her to breathe, a hitching sob as her tiny fingers pick up the pieces of paper with all the reverence of something holy.

“You’re,” she hiccups, little finger pointing, “In this one.”

John knows exactly which one she’s referring to as he tugs her into his lap, pointing at his captured reflection in the mirror to assure her he sees it.

“I am. When I showed her all of these when I was done, she said this one was her favorite.”

“Is that because you’re in it too?”

“I don’t know." He sincerely doubted it.

“I think it is. Let’s put this’a one on the wall,” she lets him know, looking up at him over her shoulder.

“We can do that, and what shall we do with the others?”

“The nightstand? That way I can 'member them before I go to sleep.”

“A very good idea. Pictures always help with that.”

Admittedly he has a certain level of trepidation with anyone taking an interest in his “Black Sparkle,” Yamaha SGV guitar. Let alone his five-year old granddaughter, but Bill is perfectly respectable - if a bit curious.

Hands perched behind her back as she leans forward to really inspect the instrument. It’s endearing. Enough so he can’t fight the urge to connect it to the adjacent amp, the noise of it startling her up.

Bill now sheepishly looks up at him then, moving a few paces away from the guitar to show she hadn’t done anything.

Picking up the guitar by the neck, John settles it into an embrace, and takes a seat, “Any requests?”

Bill purses her lips and really thinks, “Do you have a favorite?” she asks instead of offering something up of her own. He has just the thing.

However he’d ended up on a three person cul de sac with two neighboring psychopaths, he didn’t know, but he’d had some luck in Bill only having come into contact with one of them until now: Halloween.

Although there had been a close call a few weeks ago when he’d been watching Bill and her best-friend Heather jump around in puddles. 

Now Harold Saxon was at the door, adorned in a life size costume of the toy robot’s he owned. 

Normally the Doctor didn’t want to say anyone was too old for anything, especially trick or treating, but they could have done without this particular house call.

Earlier in the night he and Bill had joined Heather’s family for trick or treating, leaving Bill now sorting her candy out on the carpet, directly in view of the door. 

Of the horrid cybermen that haunted her dreams.

She screams and runs and the bastard that Harold is, laughs. John doesn’t bother in being nice by how hard he forces a handful of candy at the man’s plated chest (hard enough to knock the wind out of him) before slamming the door in the former prime minister’s face.

(He’d voted for Harriet Jones that term, thank you very much.)

It takes no time at all to find Bill, tucked underneath her bed with an army of stuffed animals and a rainbow blanket covering them all.

“Is it gone?” She blubbers, peaking out at him.

John wipes her tears away, pulling her out from under the bed and into his arms, assuring with a kiss to her hair, “It’s gone.”