Alex

The vast expanse of space stretches before you — endless and wide, the deepest darkness and the brightest stars. You think if you scoot right to the edge of the TARDIS doors, where your legs hang out, the blackness might envelop you. The thought doesn't scare you as much as it should.

You lean forward, letting the strange cool air of nothingness kiss your cheeks. Your grip tightens on the lip of the TARDIS. The oxygen-gravity bubble extends just past the doors, but it would still be foolish to fall. As much as the abyss calls to you, using the TARDIS as your method would just be cruel. The old girl didn't deserve that.

"Up for a trip?"

You let out a startled gasp at the voice of the Doctor behind you. When you half-turn to face him, he's already smiling. Always smiling. You manage a partial grin. Not quite there, but just enough to appease him. "Sure. Where are we going this time?"

The Doctor spins on his heel and snaps his fingers as he heads for the console. "Waters of Willian. Completely uninhabited and completely covered in oceans. Apart from the sandbars and beaches, of course." He leans against the interface and pats it gently. "Thought we could do with some relaxation."

You roll your eyes and stand, dusting off your jeans. The doors of the TARDIS swing shut behind you. "You promise nothing will try to kill us? We won't have to run from anything?"

The Doctor frowns, looking offended. "I said relaxation. Running is not relaxation."

Your hand glides along the interface as you circle it. "I'm just making sure. Your idea of relaxation usually ends in explosions or gunshots or…" You trail off, your mind racing.

It's been a little over a month since your encounter with the Thrastrals. A vicious warrior race, intent on assimilating all creatures to their twisted religion. They used various methods to convince outsiders to join, ranging from emotional manipulation to physical torture.

Things had gone wrong, as they usually did where the Doctor was involved. You'd been held captive for nearly eight hours by their chieftain. It had been a less-than-pleasant experience. You had heard the screams from the neighboring cells for the entire time, imagined all the horrible things happening to those poor people. The chieftain had been convinced you would be easy to turn, and had thus started light. Mostly vague threats, gaslighting, and the like. Your basic emotional manipulation. But when five hours had passed without you budging, he set his sights on the macabre tools lining the walls. And the pain had started.

The Doctor saved you, of course; he always did. But it was still eight hours alone, eight hours in agony and torment.

Your physical wounds healed, barely even scarred thanks to the Doctor's advanced medical tech aboard the TARDIS. But you still dream every night of glinting blades, tortured screams, and bloody floors. For the first week, you didn't sleep. Until exhaustion took you and the Doctor noticed (of course he noticed), forcing you to rest. He stayed at your side until you fell asleep. He was still there when you woke an hour later, screaming for the chieftain's mercy.

Another week passed and the Doctor refused to let you sleep alone. He was always perched in the chair beside you, reading or tinkering with his screwdriver. He woke you from the nightmares and held you when you asked. And it was nice. But you knew he couldn't do it forever.

So you lied.

One night, you told him you didn't want him there. The sound of his tinkering was intrusive; you wanted some quiet. It had hurt to see the wounded look on his face, but you knew this was for the best. He'd offered to just sit there — no tinkering, no reading. That would be very quiet. But you'd refused and he'd left, looking all too similar to a kicked puppy. The next morning, he asked how you slept. No nightmares, you promised. Which wasn't really a lie. You hadn't had any nightmares. You hadn't had any sleep, either.

It's been two weeks since he last sat by you. You've asked the TARDIS to place your bedroom far from the console room. It's better if he doesn't hear you scream, on the rare occasion you do manage to sleep. Better if he believes that you're alright.

He says your name now and you startle again. You've been doing that a lot lately — jumping, being caught by surprise.

"Hmm?" You meet his eyes. There's that same old look on his face — I know you're not alright. I'm the Doctor and I know things. You hate that look.

"I was talking," he frowns. "You weren't listening."

"Sorry."

"Are you okay?" He takes a step toward you. The most illogical part of you thinks he can see into your mind with just his eyes. You certainly feel like you're being dissected by his stare.

You nod quickly. "Yep. Fine. So, Waters of William then?"

"Willian," he corrects, side-eyeing you as he flips a lever. The TARDIS shudders as it lands. "Perfectly safe, and with the most stunning views." He bounds over to the doors, concern seemingly forgotten. He opens them with a flourish.

Stunning doesn't even begin to describe it. A sandy stretch of beach lies before you, disappearing into endless ocean waves. The sky above is a haze of colors, the galaxies and nebulas swirling over the alien planet. It is the most brilliant night you have ever seen. The water reflects each vibrant shade. At the horizon, the sky and waters mix — it almost seems as if neither ever ends.

The Doctor guides you out of the doors with his hands on your shoulders. "The upper atmosphere is incredibly thin. Any light from the nearby galaxies — of which there are many — passes easily to the planet. Willian also orbits no sun, which means no natural light apart from the distant stars." He comes to stand beside you on the sandy shores. "Do you like it?"

You stare out at the expanse of water — so similar to that floating blackness of space which enveloped you only moments before. To fall here, to give in, would be a privilege. Tears well in your eyes. "Yes," you whisper, your voice cracking.

The Doctor doesn't seem to notice the emotion choking you, or if he does, he doesn't care. He claps his hands together. "Well! Can't be at the beach in this old getup." He gestures back inside the TARDIS. "Corridor on the right, three doors down."

You follow his directions to find a large wardrobe of only swimming suits. You pick something suited to your tastes and emerge once more onto the shores of Willian. The Doctor has already set up two beach chairs and a small table. Two pale yellow drinks with little umbrellas rest atop it. He's donned a pair of swim trunks — some horrendous blue monstrosity with bowties printed all over. He has his back to you, his bare skin shining in the multicolored light of the cosmos overhead.

You fold your arms over your chest and dip a toe into the water. It's pleasantly warm. The reflected colors of the universe bend with each swell of the gently lapping waves. You wonder what it will look like under the water. Perhaps even more beautiful.

"Ah, going for a swim already?" The Doctor calls from behind you. He rubs his hands together. "Race you to the next sandbar?"

You squint out at the horizon and can faintly make out a little bump of land rising out of the waves. "Sure." Without looking back, you dive into the water.

When you bring your head above the surface, you can hear him calling indignantly that you've cheated, no headstarts, etc. Then a series of raucous splashes as he gets closer. Despite the heaviness that weighs you down, you smile and begin to stroke over to the sandy islet. He manages to catch you and stays beside you for a short distance. Anytime his head pops out of the water, he makes a new silly face in your direction. If you weren't so focused on swimming, you'd roll your eyes.

He manages to make it to the sandbar a few seconds before you do. As you climb up onto the beach, he shakes his hair out like a dog. "Eugh," you groan, shielding your face with your hands. The Doctor just grins.

You sigh and plop down, sand sticking to your damp skin. When you lick your lips, you taste the tang of saltwater. It tastes like living.

The Doctor drops down beside you, hair dripping and flopped over his forehead. You resist the urge to comb it back with your fingers. "See?" he says. "Relaxation."

Your heart is still racing from the impromptu water sprint. But he is right — this is the most tranquil you've felt in weeks. You let out a sigh and close your eyes, letting your head fall back to bask in the light of the stars.

He speaks again, voice suddenly low and serious, "Still no nightmares?" It's been a couple days since he last asked.

"Nope," you reply. It's a bit scary how easy lying to him has become. Even scarier that it makes you feel almost nothing.

He hums. "Good." But he doesn't sound convinced.

With no sun to dry you, your skin remains wet far longer than usual. You stare at the little droplets, each reflecting a tiny portion of brilliant sky. If you shift just so, it almost seems like a million diamonds glinting on your arms. You trace a finger down your forearm, mesmerized by the simplicity of it, the beauty. It's been harder to recognize beauty when you see it lately. It has been harder to feel anything.

You clear your throat and stand. The sudden movement kicks up a bit of sand and the Doctor coughs lightly. "I'm going to swim out. Float a bit," you say, facing the opposite direction you came from.

"Don't go too far," the Doctor calls out. You're already waist-deep in the water. "Not many landmarks to find your way back."

You nod absentmindedly. The water's up to your neck now. If you kept walking, what would you find? Does the planet have a complete surface beneath the waves? Or is it some sort of impossible sphere of liquid?

Before you know it, you've swum so far that you can't see the bottom, if there is one. You don't turn to see your distance from the Doctor, from the TARDIS. You keep your eyes fixed on the horizon, arms and legs moving precisely but slowly. No need to rush. It's so beautiful here. It would be a shame to miss it all before…

Well, it would just be a shame.

You flip to float on your back, staring up at the stars above. The constellations here are all strange. Of course they are. This is not your home, not your Earth, not your Milky Way. It's all unfamiliar, and yet this is the most alive you've felt in weeks.

One more minute, you promise yourself. One more minute to look at the stars.

You've been thinking about it. Not actively, not with a plan really. But sometimes, lately, when you're out with the Doctor, facing down a hostile alien or a dangerous planet, you waver. You let the bullets and laser beams graze a little closer than usual. You hesitate before running with him.

He hasn't noticed; you're sure of it. He's perceptive, but he's more preoccupied by your nightmares than anything. If he sees how you are all too eager to face down danger, he hasn't mentioned it. As far as he's concerned, running toward the danger is just another Tuesday.

But the truth is, ever since the Thrastrals, you can't think about your own future. You can't see past this day, this hour, this second. It is so exhausting to have to live every single second of it all.

And the more you think about it, as you stare up at the cosmos, you realize it was always going to end this way. Away from him, alone in the abyss. You could never let yourself die if he was watching. You'd never let him believe for a moment that it was his fault, or that he could've done something more to save you. You wouldn't put him through that.

You let yourself sink, just a bit. Head still above water, breaths still easy.

Perhaps you will find out if the planet has a surface beneath all these waves.

If you dove deep enough, would you come out the other side?

You watch the stars blinking above for another second. Another one. And another. How many seconds can you steal?

One more.

A wave crashes over your head. You let it take you down.

As you descend, the galaxies above grow even more beautiful. The colors are muted by the dark water, but they have a blurriness to them. Undefined and indistinguishable. The blues bleed into the pinks and purples and merge and swirl until they are one stain of color across the sky.

The water grows colder the deeper you go. Still you sink, lungs beginning to burn. You fight the instinct to swim for the surface.

I'm sorry, Doctor.

The thought comes unbidden, unwarranted. If you weren't underwater, you'd be crying. The salt stings at your eyes as the sky begins to darken — so far away now that even its brilliance is dimmed.

You are sorry, really. Sorry that you couldn't be good enough for him. Strong enough. Sorry that you couldn't save yourself.

Your body convulses, just once. The oxygen in your lungs has run out. It's uncomfortable, you realize. Dying usually is. Against your volition, your mouth opens to draw in air, but finds only water. You choke on it and suddenly every thought flees, replaced only by sheer instinct and fear.

Gods, what are you doing? This was so stupid, so silly.

You thrash in the water, trying to swim back up to the surface, but without oxygen it's nearly impossible. Your vision begins to vignette, darkness encroaching from the sides.

I'm sorry, Doctor.

But this time, you're just sorry that you didn't say goodbye.

…

The Doctor had watched you go under, the wave crashing over your head. He's on his feet in a second, worry coursing through him. But you're a good swimmer, and the waves aren't too bad. Still, when you don't surface immediately, he starts for the water's edge. He hesitates just a moment. Perhaps you were diving. It is quite beautiful to see the sky beneath the water. Heaven forbid you want a moment's peace. Stars know you need it.

But then more time passes, and you still don't emerge. His hearts thrum in his chest rapidly. He jumps in.

You've gone far, almost leaving his line of sight. It will take him a moment to get to you. He swims hard, arms cutting through the water with speed.

You've sunken so deep. Far deeper than he expected. He takes in a gulp of air and dives.

As he gets closer, he sees how limp you are and for a moment he fears the worst. Then your body jerks. Your eyes are closed, but you're still alive — barely. He grabs you under the arms and kicks. It's grueling work, but he drags you to the surface. His own lungs burn with the exertion. But getting above the water is only the first step. You're far from the shore and he still has to bring you all that way.

Of course he will do it. He will do anything to save you.

He keeps one arm secure around your chest and uses the other to move through the water. The islet is close now; his feet find sand below him and he stands, dragging your limp body up to the shore. He's on his knees beside you in a moment, ear pressed to your chest. "Come on," he mutters, but there's nothing.

His lips are on yours before he can even think about it. Human CPR, so primitive. But you're far from the TARDIS. He has no choice. Two breaths, then his hands are clasped over your sternum. He grimaces when he hears a sharp snap. He knows it means he's doing it right, but it's no less gruesome. As he pushes down with each compression, his eyes find your face. Your lips are a morbid shade of blue, face bloodless and skin wet. Your hair splays across the sand. The Doctor looks away. He can't see you like that — lifeless.

He repeats the cycle — 2 breaths, 30 compressions, 2 breaths, 30 compressions. It takes four rounds before your body finally spasms with a self-attempted breath. He's quick to roll you onto your side as you cough up lungfuls of saltwater. He runs a hand over your hair, soothing. "Shh, shh. You're alright." He can hear the residual panic in his own voice. You go limp once more, but this time, you're breathing. He presses a kiss to your temple and closes his eyes, trying to calm his racing hearts.

In one of her rare moments of helpful sentience, the TARDIS whirrs and fades into view nearby. The Doctor hefts you up into his arms, your body cold against his bare chest, and takes you inside. He's down the corridor and into the medbay in moments. Then it's a bit of a mad scramble — setting you down on the bed, gathering blankets and warming packs, preparing monitoring equipment. He should be embarrassed to cut off your swimsuit, but it's necessary. You're absolutely sopping wet and it's only making you colder. Besides, he covers you with a blanket almost immediately. No dignity lost, he assures himself.

A quick scan with his screwdriver shows residual water in your lungs. A problem to be dealt with later. Your temp isn't too low, so the blankets and warming packs should do for now. He's cracked two of your ribs from the resuscitation, but a once-over with an Istrian Osteogenerator takes care of that. Once you're settled, nestled under nearly every blanket aboard the TARDIS, the Doctor finally sinks into the chair at your bedside — back in his normal clothing now. He rubs his face with his hands, taking deep, cleansing breaths.

You're a good swimmer. There'd been that one time, on the planet Kenov, when a less-than-friendly diplomat had shoved you into a lake. The Doctor had panicked, thinking you were a goner. But you were up at the surface moments later, a grin on your face and treading water with ease. And he had raced you today. You'd nearly beaten him. You're a good swimmer.

Of course, an unexpected swell could take anyone by surprise. Perhaps you'd been mid-breath and had inhaled more water than anticipated. Maybe you'd had some sort of medical episode and had been unable to surface.

Every excuse the Doctor comes up with fails to push against the lingering thought — what if it was on purpose? You've been lying to him for weeks now, claiming the nightmares had stopped. But he sees the bags under your eyes, hears how hoarse your voice was each morning from screaming. It doesn't help that the TARDIS is rebelling against him, placing your room out of his reach so that he can't soothe your restless nights.

And beyond that — he's been watching you. There's no light, no spark in your eyes anymore. You jump at adventure, like usual, but it's far too eager. When he says "A Dalek armada is invading a planet" or "This sentient meteor wants to devour your soul, literally," there's no fear. Only a strange desperation. And you're skittish. Even when he announces his presence, it startles you. Every noise and unexpected word sets you on edge.

He knows you think he doesn't know. That he doesn't notice. Of course he notices. The Doctor notices everything about you.

So how could he not notice this? How could he not see just how far you'd fallen? He's failed you. He won't do it again.

…

Your eyes fly open with a gasp, your hands immediately grabbing at your throat in panic. You're still under the water, still drowning, you can't breathe—

But the Doctor is before you, face hazy and swimming in your vision. His hands are on your wrists, prying them down, away from your neck. His lips are moving but your ears are full of water, ringing and ringing and you can't hear, can't see, can't breathe.

His fingers are warm against your skin. It is the only part of you that's not dreadfully cold. You focus on that warmth. Your pulse thrums rapidly under his hold. He keeps his eyes locked with yours, gaze intense but soothing. The ringing fades and you can hear what he's saying: "Hush, hush. You're okay. Just breathe. You're safe."

The words guide you out of the panic. And you realize you're dry and there's warmth seeping through you, burning out the cold. There are bright lights; no more swirling galaxies or rolling waves surround you. Back on the TARDIS, then. Alive.

Relief rolls through you. In that split second before your vision blacked out completely, you regretted it. You had been so sure, so desperate for rest, for peace. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. But now you can recall the pain of it, the agony of reaching for oxygen and not finding it, the overwhelming desire to surface but being unable. The nightmares are hell, sure. The film reel of terrible memories that plays through your mind is no walk in the park. But tasting the edge of nothingness? Nearly falling off that cliff which seemed to call so fiercely? That was worse than any night terror.

No, killing yourself had not been a good idea.

You begin to sob in earnest now, breaths catching in your sore throat. The Doctor is still before you, concern morphing into something close to dread. He leans in, breath ghosting across your face, and whispers your name.

Before you can really think about it, you throw your arms around him. He remains frozen for only half a second before reciprocating, rubbing soothing circles across your shoulder blades. "I'm sorry," you babble through tears. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"Shh," he soothes. "It's okay now. I have you."

He holds you until you have no more tears to shed. Your breathing evens and you feel so exhausted. But you can't sleep. Not when he's looking at you like you're something fragile, something infinitely precious. You pull back to meet his gaze, hard as it is to maintain. Your voice is shaky as you confess, "I did it on purpose." You sniffle and look down at your hands. "I… I didn't want to be here anymore."

The Doctor sighs softly. Then he uses two fingers to lift your chin. There's a sad smile on his face. Ancient, discerning, and so, so sad. "I know," he murmurs. He searches your face. "You could've come to me. I would've helped."

Guilt courses through you and you shiver. You pull one of the blankets up to wrap around your shoulders, biting at your lip. "I felt like… like a burden. I didn't want to bother you with it."

He lets his fingers stroke along your jawline, touch soft and reassuring. "You're never a bother. Especially not for this." His hand falls and he exhales. The expression on his face sharpens into something serious. You stiffen instinctually, prepared for a scolding. "You can't just do things like this. It's my job to watch over you. I have a duty of care. If you don't let me help you…" He trails off, fidgeting with his hands.

You reach for them and squeeze tightly. "I know. I know I scared you. I… I scared myself." The TARDIS hums around you, a bit louder than usual. She was scared, too. "I understand if… if you don't want to travel with me anymore." Tears gather in your eyes as you speak the words. He's the only thing you have left to lose. And it would only be fair if he asked you to leave.

The Doctor ducks his head to meet your downcast gaze. "I will never want that." He squeezes your hands back. "But there needs to be rules. Safeguards. For your protection."

It's a bit humiliating. You're not 100% sure what he's suggesting, but you expect some level of babysitting. Perhaps even suicide-proofing the TARDIS. But you know it's for the best. And you brought this on yourself. You nod in agreement.

He pulls you in for another tight hug and presses a kiss to the top of your head. "Oh, my dear companion. What are we going to do with you?"

Giving Krypto a bath. Cleaning the apartment. Wanting to turn in early.

“It looks like you got drunk and hooked up on a planet with a yellow sun! Fully powered, Kara!” Clark admonishes. And yes, okay. From his perspective this is all entirely reasonable and completely appropriate to be worried about. But Kara has just been pulled from her bed at eight in the morning after a very late night, and she can think of nothing else besides climbing back onto the mattress besides you.

“You and Lois—”

“Lois knows!”

“And—that’s—whatever!” Kara flings her arms up and sighs. “Look, Clark, I appreciate the concern. But really, it’s not necessary. Everything is fine.”

“Kara, I know you’re used to doing these things off-planet,” Clark tries. He sets his hands on her biceps, gripping softly. “But here on Earth…things are different. People talk. Superpowered beings are—”

“Kara?” The bedroom door creaks and you step out, wearing only Kara’s Blondie t-shirt. Just seeing you makes her blood pressure drop.

“Hi, baby,” she murmurs, pulling away from Clark and moving towards you. “You sleep okay?”

She cups your cheek in one hand, smiling softly as you lean into the touch.

“Mhm. You run so hot, the bed’s cold without you.”

“I’ll be right back, promise.” She leans down and kisses your forehead, letting her lips press longer than necessary. You hum happily.

“Don’t be too long. You can kick Clark out, right?”

Kara snorts and rests her chin against your head. “For you, yes. If you need incentive to be patient, I can offer a reward.”

“You’d give it to me no matter what,” you tease. 

“Go wait,” Kara says, shooing you back into her room. “I’ll kick him out.”

When the door closes, she takes a moment to rest against it. Deep breaths, in through the nose and out through the mouth. It’s just Clark. She can do this. She’s fought literal monsters. This is nothing.

(But truthfully—monsters are the easy part. A direct, violent target that needs to be taken down. Heartfelt talks are harder, tangled, always a mess. There’s no defeating the enemy hurting you, there is only the hitching breaths in the silence and the burn of unwanted tears.)

Kara turns around, and is surprised to find Clark watching. He looks—odd. Off. Face softened with slow understanding.

“She knows,” he says softly. “Doesn’t she?”

Kara exhales noisily. “Yeah. She knows.”

“How much?”

“I…” Kara looks around uselessly. How does she even begin to describe it all? The gentle tugging of your love on her soul. Giggles and sloppy kisses on the way home from a bar she can barely get tipsy at. Your hands combing through her hair as she whispers about Krypton, lips brushing your chest. 

I love you whispered for the first time by you, in Kryptonian, pressed against Kara’s ear. 

“She knows everything,” Kara says. 

“You love her?” 

And he’s—Clark’s looking at her like he knows. Something in Kara’s chest twinges. Months, she’s been hiding this from him. It was ‘just friends’ in the beginning, Kara unstable and volatile and off-center. She didn’t know she could love like this. That she could have someone to come home to every day, to smile at her or hold her and tell her that everything would be okay. 

She was so unsure that she’d be able to keep it. That something wouldn’t drive you away. Kara doesn’t have people. She has herself, Clark. And now: you. And you’ve shown that you’re staying. That you want to be here.

“More than anything,” Kara replies. Her eyes sting.

Clark leaves soon after, and Kara comes back into her bedroom, Krypto darting past her to throw himself onto the bed with you.

“Oh, hi,” you coo as Krypto throws himself wildly back and forth across the bed. “C’mere. You missed us, huh?” 

Kara collapses onto the mattress beside you. “Hey, what about me?”

You laugh and reach out a hand to stroke Kara’s hair. “Are you feeling neglected?”

“Yes,” Kara moans. She rolls over on top of you, resting her head on your chest. “Give me attention.”

You lean down and kiss the top of her head. “Anything for you.”