#3 x reader

He held you. Everything that was were the two of you. You could breathe, you could find your feet again. You knew where you stood, and you didn't stand alone.

He held you. You saw him, you'd let him come closer than you had ever allowed anyone to be. The trust you had in him was bigger than you, and you were safe.

The awe of this place never left you. You felt the Doctor like cool raindrops on your skin, the mountain wind in your lungs. Something wild, rebellious, rushing, velvet to the touch. You were allowed to hold him.

You could have sung from the joy of looking at this person who meant the world to you.

He was different. Ten was a colossal storm, a swirling galaxy, so vast compared to you. Three was a giant too, but smaller. You could just see the beginnings, which branches of his personality would grow and what he would grow into. His underlying edge would sharpen, temper shorten, ego grow; kindness would spread out into a world of its own, permeating his every part...

You wanted to know him now. You needed to know him now. God, you could just glimpse where his thoughts wove themselves in the distance, where his memories compiled, where his dreams hid far, far away...

But you couldn't look that deeply. You didn't have his permission and there wasn't time for that. You had too much to do, too much to find out, too much you didn't know about the place you'd found yourself in.

A breath. Gentle and careful, you started to pull back, untangling your thoughts from his.

He loosened his hold on you in turn.

You had dropped your shields when you'd clung to him in your panic. Now was the time to put them back up, so you brought the firm layers forward one by one, shutting the Doctor out with a stab of regret.

You hoped you would come back to this place. You hoped you would be allowed to hold him like this again.

When you opened your eyes, you had a moment to appreciate just how beautiful this version of him was, in private and up close. (He wasn't Ten and you'd deal with that train of thought later. But.)

Another wave of awe crashed over you. He was the Doctor, new, teasing, breathtaking and you wanted to look forever. Inside and out. Trace the lines on his face, cup his cheeks, how did his lips feel? Was his white hair as soft as it looked? Just how deep was that blue in his eyes?

There was so much to discover it made you greedy. Your hands itched to reach out, hold, explore. You thought about the rest of his body for two seconds max and there was that familiar heat already. Just looking at him made your nerves spark.

It's you, it's you, it's you... How could you resist this?

Then his eyes opened too and he smiled softly.

It snapped you back into your body. Reminded you that you were exhausted like a wrung out cloth, dirty along with greasy hair, aching all over besides your throbbing temple, and a stranger to him.

Alive, you were alive.

You couldn't help but smile back.

When he pulled away, the Doctor let go of your cheek and your hand, leaving the cold behind. You felt a pang in your chest at the loss.

Still, what he'd given you was enough to go on.

"Thank you," you murmured from your beating human heart.

He shook his head with gentle eyes. "There's nothing to thank me for." His eyebrows pinched together just a little, but you didn't notice it when you looked down at your lap.

His new face was distracting and you had to get a hold of yourself if you wanted to carry a coherent conversation.

"I think there is," you quietly countered.

For a moment, you saw your stinging wrists wrapped in gauze. Tired, aching hands. Blood and dirt under your broken nails. They reminded you of what you were capable of, and your sore shoulders relaxed.

You raised your eyes again and began with a tentative smile, shrugging. "Where do we start?" Your hands leaned on the edge of the bed so your scabs smarted, but you were glad and brave and open.

You saw stubble, a glint in his eyes and his lapel had a muted red edge. You'd missed looking at him. There was so much you wanted.

The Doctor loved the sound of we when it meant the two of you. Cocking his head, he gave you a warm smile. "Well, perhaps you could tell me your name?"

Oh, that hurt.

But it was kind of ironic too.

When you told him, he repeated it to taste it in his mouth. There were so many questions left there. When did we meet? Where? How much sugar do you take in your tea? Do you even like tea?  Where did you grow up? What date is your birthday? Who the hell caused those bruises? May l hold you?

You let the way he said your name reverberate through your bones. You loved how it sounded in his voice.

Wait, does he know...? It wasn't like your marriage bond was a blinking ad sign, you had to be completely sure. "You-- You do know who l am to you, right?"

The Doctor grinned so wide it reached his dazzling eyes, and nodded. "I do."

That made you smile truly, you let out a relieved breath with a soft, "Okay."

Your curiousity woke. "How did you find out?"

"Ah..." His forefinger came to rub his jaw when he pressed his lips together, sheepish. "I accidentally brushed your hand when l came to see you. With that activation energy, our marriage bond was strong enough to circumvent all the temporal interference that stood in the way, and l knew," he shrugged.

Marriage bond. Our marriage bond. His awestruck joy lit him up like a sun. He wanted to cup your cheek again, but only his eyes stayed on you.

"Good," you nodded, certain. "I don't know what l would've done if l'd woken up in this..." Remembering you were in a room, you looked around despite your pulsing temple.

Curtain dividers on both your sides, around the edge you could just see neat beds parallel to yours, a writing desk with a chair by the wall... Was this a hospital?

"Where even are we?" You looked up at the Doctor again, eyebrows raised. "When are we?"

Your choice of words made him shake his head with a quirk of a smile. "These are UNIT headquarters, 1982, and--"

"UNIT." You grinned, incredulous. "I landed at UNIT of all places in the universe. Seriously, UNIT?!"

The room you saw was much more interesting now. You'd gone from a level 8 industrial planet to the 80's take on UNIT.

With all that looking around, you didn't notice the Doctor hadn't glanced away from you from the moment he'd pulled back. He knew this very much counted as staring and he didn't want to be found out.

It was just...

There was an expanse in your eyes, a vastness deeper than any sea and freer than any sky he'd ever seen. He didn't want to stop looking. He considered how to tell you, he thought of what he would give only to have the freedom to look at you. Just look at you for however long he wished.

Cocking his head, he managed a kind, "I'm as surprised as you are, my dear."

Your heart skipped a beat at the pet name. You knew this regeneration of him had spent most of his time in the 70's and 80's, mostly involuntarily, and you could see how their way of speaking had rubbed off on him. Proper British accent and everything. You couldn't wait to hear more.

"I mean..." You tried to focus back on the topic and amended with a slight smile, "It's as good a place as any, l'm just..."

A sigh escaped you as the situation fully sank in.

UNIT.

1982.

Paradox.

"I don't know how l got here." Eyes closed, you rubbed your face with your palm while careful of your scabs. "Didn't mean to," you mumbled and dragged your hand down your face, drained.

The Doctor frowned as he cocked his head, imploring you to go on.

Your hands swung out in an 'l don't know' gesture. "l was locked on the TARDIS, the future one, but l was so tired."

Looking down at your lap, you remembered the stitches on your smarting temple and laughed. "And bleeding. And, like, the command centre was on fire, so," you shrugged, shoulders protesting, "I probably didn't check the landing fix again, l just jumped."

The refinery switch boards had flamed so hot you'd feared your face would be burned.

"But after that..." Your brows furrowed when you tried to look at the hazy past.

A cracked helmet. Monstrous fire. Noise.

That's it.

"l don't even remember leaving, or materializing..."

"No?" The Doctor looked you over, inquisitive.

Your gaze was back on him when you shook your head. "No."

A corner of his mouth pulled up as he tucked his hand in his pocket. "That's odd, since you landed in my laboratory, recognized me, and only then passed out."

A smile overtook your face at that, wide and warm as your cheeks heated up. Well, of course l did.

"Makes sense to me," you shrugged. "l'd know you anywhere."

You didn't need a bond to recognize him. You'd spent weeks, months, years drawing closer to him and bringing him close to you. Years in which the two of you had made a home in each other, secret by secret, shame by shame. Your bond was just its door.

And that was the crux of it. He was your Doctor, but younger than you'd ever seen him, new and tantalizing, there for you to come to know him all over again. You wanted to look at him forever, to ask him a million questions, laugh with him, run with him, fight him, hold him, you wanted time.

You wanted to kiss every wrinkle on his face.

The Doctor felt how your look reached for him, open, content and impossibly soft. It made him falter because everything he was turned forward to run to you.

There was something he'd been starving for. It made him feel the air around him, inside him, it enveloped him like the walls of a home and he was understood.

More. Only more of this. Please. He'd just discovered that he could breathe.

Oh god, you were staring--You're a stranger, a familiar stranger, even if he knows about your bond!

You snapped out of the reverie, grasping for straws, "And-- And, my manipulator was broken too! So..."

You went on with an awkward smile, "It's not all my fault..."

The Doctor blinked a bit dazedly, nodding with a frown, "Right," but you realized that your salvation wasn't on your wrist.

"Wait... Um, where is it?" You looked yourself over, then focused on him, "Do you know...?"

You had subconsciously reached for your neck.

Empty neck.

"Key-- !" Your ears rang. Horror rose like bile in your throat.

"Doctor, they TOOK MY KEY!" Your eyes stung with tears, you'd lost it, you'd lost it no matter how hard you'd tried to hold onto it, your thread leading home was gone because you'd been careless--

"No, no-no-no, l have it!"

He hurriedly pulled your glinting key from his pocket to show it in his palm. "I have it, look!"

You snatched it from his hand, lightning-fast, and gripped it as tightly as you could because you needed the pain from the cut in your palm to believe it was really there.

Your eyes shut against the swell of tears. You clutched your necklace like a lifeline in a seastorm, taking measured breaths.

It had been a mess of an uprising, and you'd kept your key hidden. From that market place to the stale shafts, the cells, the bright and sterile meeting room and the command centre of hell, you had guarded it. Never spoken of it, but had checked again and again if it was still there, as if it would have vanished like a wonderful dream. Your key was home and promise and love and the mere thought of losing it made you sick.

He'd kept it safe.

Your stinging eyes opened. "Thank you." Your murmur was more fervent than you'd meant it to be. You were so thankful it almost hurt.

The Doctor shook his head with a crease in his brow, lost. His answer was a soft murmur, "Again, there's nothing to thank me for."

He couldn't understand why you'd be grateful for so little. Worry was born like a cobweb in the corner of his mind at your repeated thanks for his care.

You pressed your lips together, attention still on your clasped hands. "I'd beg to differ." A quiet opposition.

Your eyes were watery but you raised them to his. Strained, fierce, your voice betrayed your pain, "If they'd taken it, or if l'd left it there, l'd never forgi-- !"

"Where is 'there'?" the Doctor demanded as he stepped towards you. The sight of tears in your eyes had snapped something in him. "Where did you run from?"

He wanted to hold you in his arms, make sure that you were with him, safe and whole.

Your mouth opened, but you faltered.

Your blurry gaze dropped down to your aching hands again and you rubbed your eyes. "No. No, it's not important," you shook your head with vigor, "I'm not--"

You wouldn't drag that burning wreck into this blue day. Not now. Not yet.

It wasn't that you were sorry for it. It had hurt, sure. Volonel IV had pounded you with its fists and its loneliness. But when you turned your feelings over like cards on the table and looked at them before you, you just couldn't find regret there.

You knew you would've done it again. Differently, perhaps, but...

Those people had needed help, and anything was worth the way Sava's mechanical pupils had widened when she'd realized that there was hope.

You just knew him. The Doctor always took responsibility for what he did and often also for things that weren't his fault. He put his needs aside to help others and he always thought he should have done better. You didn't want to explain what had gone wrong, the complexity of it all, if he'd just blame himself on principle.

And his resentment of his other regenerations would come up one way or another. He'd met himself, just once since you'd started travelling with him, and it had taken the two of them exactly three minutes and a half to start verbally tearing each other to bits. You'd managed to stop them; but now your body weighed you down, your head throbbed and you thought you'd just cry if you had to counter him.

You would have to remember everything for that.

You couldn't do it now, not when the two of you were still at the start (and why did he leave me, why the hell did he have to wander off and leave me-- running, can't breathe, cold, the cuffs slice your wrists, they are BEATING you, please, l can't, please NO, stop, STOP, STOP--  rushing, smoke sears your throat, your eyes burn, get out, run NOW, you're going to die-- )

"Please," the Doctor pulled you out of it. Of course he did.

How rare it was for him to say that word.

When you looked up at his face again, his wrinkled frown and his sky-blue eyes made your chest tight. You'd managed to stop your tears from falling but your nose was full now.

It was all you could do to look back. Not budging, but not unmoved either.

He tapped his thigh with his knuckles. Something rolled in his face, stepped back but magnified.

He spoke in a murmur. "I-- l won't insist that you tell me," he nodded, "but l'd very much like to know who did this to you."

Who did this to you. You heard a familiar anger in his words, like magma under thin ground that was writhing for the surface to crack.

It was so much like him, it soothed you. You were tied to this place with that mooring line.

Looking down at the key in your hand, you turned it in your grip as you swallowed. "I got out of there, there's no point getting into it now." Ask me again later, and you'll have it. Soon.

His shoulders gave in. He sighed, then nodded. "Alright."

You didn't know how to read him yet, you tried to look for signs that he'd heard what you'd implied. You opened your mouth--

A throat clearing behind you, "l hate to interrupt--"

Your whole body flinched and your head whipped around to stare at the stranger. In the same half-second, the Doctor turned so he was in front of you, partially hiding you behind him.

Neither of you noticed.

It’s 1971, America. Still quite early in the New Year, as well, only February 3rd. It’s cold, especially for someone sleeping on the streets. You’re just thankful that the Angels didn’t banish you further North. (And you’re glad, so glad, that the Soul Words {what an odd turn of phrase} on your wrist haven’t faded to deathly silver, but you try not to think about that too much.)

Every night that the moon is visible, you crawl out of your hiding place and look up at the bright orb in the sky. It’s the same moon you have always looked at, if not a few decades younger, anyway. But it’s special right now, at this moment, simply because Apollo 14 is somewhere in the inky sky, plunging perilously through the vast space between you and the moon. You strain to recall if anything bad will happen to the ship or its crew, but your lessons from school fade too quickly to remember such unimportant details. It was the Apollo 13 that had a bad rep, but you can’t remember anything about 14. You had watched the launch on the TV in a musty, smoky, sawdust-and-wood-oil-saturated bar, and there had been difficulties with take-off, but other than that… well. It’s in the past, you suppose, even if it feels like it’s happening now. It doesn’t really matter. What happens will happen. From a certain perspective, it already has.

But you watch and worry anyway. This is something defined and loud and real that you remember from your history book, and from that one science class. This is something that feels less dreamy than disco dancing and bell bottom jeans (neither of which have achieved the height of their popularity yet, but you can see them slowly, inevitably creeping into reality).

“Walk the moon, boys,” you whisper to the sky, the cold turning your voice hoarse. You can’t recall where that particular string of words comes from. A song or a poem or, no, a band. It’s the name of a band. Or it will be. Well, that’s not quite as poetic as you would like, but it suffices.

“What an odd turn of phrase.”

The words on your wrist burn.

You clench your fist and turn to see the man who spoke your Soul Words, and, curse it all, but he is old. Not ancient or decrepit at all, but old. His hair, softly curling, is grey and white. His face is creased with wrinkles and his skin is pale. He is old, compared to you. He’s very handsome and his face is naturally kind-looking, but that doesn’t change the gaping black hole of an age difference.

He’s your soulmate, though. Soulmates are always perfect matches, no matter if appearances might suggest otherwise. You can love this man. In five seconds, instinctual affection has already welled up in you, even through your panic. So, yes, you can choose to love this man, and then learn to really feel it, or the other way around. But, can he? Will your youth entice or disturb him? Are you a child in his eyes? You hope not, because you can't partner yourself to someone who sees you like that.

The questions and stinging uncertainties muddle your brain. You say nothing to him. You only stare, hoping you don’t look as much like a deer in the headlights as you feel.

“‘Walk the moon.’ Rather odd, wouldn’t you say? I can’t say I’ve ever heard it before.” He smiles at you then. It’s an amazingly kind, soft smile, charming without effort and handsomely shaped. Your heart thumps against your ribcage (less like a chest-burster, this time). The smile holds, even as he looks away from you to gaze up at the moon. “But the sentiment stands. They shall walk the moon. Only for four hours, but that’s miraculously impressive, with your present technology.”

You nod, with no words to offer him. What can you possibly say? What words are on this old man’s wrist? Are there any? Should you stay silent and let him continue through his life without knowing that his soulmate was less than half his age? Is it crueler for him to be ignorant or to know the truth?

He must have seen your nod from the corner of his eye, because he turns his attention back to you. “Believe me so readily, do you?”

You nod again.

“How nice. Most people think I’m mad when I say such things.” The cultured English accent that shapes his words is soothing, as is the depth of his voice. His smile curls a bit more at the edges into a nearly-but-not-quite smirk. More like a quirk. “It’s a lovely night, but it is rather late. Do you live near here? Would you like for me to walk you home?”

You can’t do this. But you can’t not do this, either.

The tendons in your throat strain painfully until you feel like you can speak. You wet your lips and easily offer him the only words you can think to say: “I don’t have a home.”

The smile drops off his face and he uses his right hand to grip his left wrist. There’s a terrible sadness in his eyes, tempered by painfully soft sympathy. He slowly releases his wrist and lets his arms fall to his sides as he looks you over. You know what he sees. Ratty, filthy, frumpy layers of ill-fitted clothes. Grimy, sweat-shined skin. Greasy, stringy, dandruff-ridden hair. Chewed nails. Chapped, split lips. Red-rimmed eyes. Unbrushed teeth. A cut on your temple that still has dried blood on it.

“I had always hoped you would be saying that less than literally,” he says, and he says it so gently, like you might spook and bolt into the night if he speaks too loudly. His hand flutters at his side but doesn’t reach towards you.

“You don’t mind…?” You gesture to yourself, indicating both your disgusting state of being and your comparative youth. You’re a bit unsure about both.

“Mind?” His grey eyebrows furrow even as those sad eyes brighten a bit. A hint of a smile graces his lips. “Dear girl, I’ve been waiting ages for you! I don't mind at all!”

It's overwhelmingly too good to be true. You turn your face away from him when you feel the sting of tears behind your eyes, but suddenly, he is there, close to you, his palm on your cheek turning your face back to him. He smiles at you encouragingly, and, oh, he’s tall. Quite a bit taller than average. You hadn’t realized that from how far away he stood before.

“Come along,” he says, removing his soft palm from your cheek only to tentatively grab your hand. “We’ll get you cleaned up and you can sleep in a real bed tonight.”

“Praise be,” you deadpan, Soul Words tingling on your skin, and he laughs as he leads you into something better.

Later, that very night, you are clean, and you have never been so grateful. You’ve showered, been given the full range of toiletries that exist in the early 70s, and have made yourself comfortable in a borrowed cardigan that’s about five sizes too big for you.

The Doctor, for that is his name, helps you brush the tangles from your hair, and then massages the hard knots from your back (sleeping on the ground for a month had done you ill). Your body is so frighteningly thin and so sore. A month of homelessness, hardly eating, with not even a handkerchief to your name has left you broken, and the Doctor so determinedly begins trying to mend all the little hurts. He asks for permission to touch you each time, even when it's only to wrap a bandage. You wonder if he's simply a gentleman or if he thinks that you're even more damaged than you look. You're modest with yourself, as much as possible, but he's your soulmate and a doctor and he's helping you, so you allow it when his touch lingers over the infected scratches and protuberance of bones under taut skin in your gaunt frame. At some point, although you're not sure, you think he might be close to tears.

You don't want him to be sad for you, especially not now that it's over, so you offer him encouragement. Not in the typical way, but you tell him when what he does makes something hurt less, and that, yes, your whole head feels better now that your hair's properly taken care of, and that even your mother never took such good care of you.

A silly thought comes to you - that he has stars in his fingertips. That's what some poetic, ridiculously unrealistic part of your mind knows this feels like. He's pressing stars into your flesh and the light of them going into supernova heals you. Ridiculous.

"Much better," the Doctor says to you when your shoulders finally relax without shrieking twinges of pain. "Yes?"

"Yeah, you did a good job," you say. You reach back and rub the curve of one shoulder blade, then the other, until the Doctor's soft, firm hands replace yours and he begins rubbing stars into you again. "I'm really ready to sleep in that real bed, now."

So you do sleep on the bed, knowing that tomorrow will be even better than today (even if you have to discuss unpleasant things like age differences). It's glorious, especially because the Doctor is sitting on a cushioned rocking chair by the bed, fast asleep, under the glow of moonlight seeping through the curtains.

~

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Warm.

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Soft.

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.

Good.

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Don't want to leave.

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Still tired. Falling.

.

A shift, dull pain at once. A sharp inhale, pleasant air. Inhaling again and soft sheets under your cheek.

Fingers, twitching, throbbing. Soft sheets. There weren't soft sheets there.

There. Dark-cold-pain-DANGER!

A gasp, aching all over but bolting upright and eyes flying open, searing white light, bracing for hurt.

"It's alright," a soft, calm voice assured you and something good came with it. "You're safe."

You were blinking with a hand rubbing your eyes, everything was blurry. Oh, your temple was throbbing in time with your heartbeat and you could feel every inch of your body ache as burning and tugging and dull pain mixed together in a pallete of oh shit that hurts but pleasant air! You were breathing very pleasant air with a hint of disinfectant, and then grey hair and crow's feet and a glossy black jacket gradually sharpened out before you.

You blinked again in disbelief, frowning a little, and were surprised to feel something like a smile tug at your lips. "You."

Your voice had barely been a whisper but the Doctor, the third Doctor was smiling so wide it reached his eyes. Crystal blue eyes like the sky. Very, very nice eyes.

"Yes, well..." he cocked his head with a careful smile as he rubbed his bottom lip. His rich, deep voice soothed something in you. "I imagine it must be quite a surprise.

"Doctor," his name tore out of you like a weight falling off your shoulders because The Doctor, here! but your voice sounded like gravel. Harsh, rough, achy gravel. Apparently your mouth was as dry as the sun, sticky and unpleasant, but the Doctor was now standing by the nightstand next to your bed, you were sitting on a bed! With white-clean-soft-perfect sheets under you, good!

Then he was by your side again, with a glass of water in his hand. "Here," he gave you a kind smile and you recognized curiosity in his eyes, but the tall glass full of water claimed your full attention.

There was blood and dirt still under your fingernails and the cold from the glass shocked the scratch on your palm but you managed to rasp, "Thank you,"  before tipping it back. That water tasted like liquid heaven, liquid heaven l tell you and the smooth feeling of it in your mouth, cooling your throat, washed everything away. All was quiet when you drank, all of creation was simply the polished glass in your hand and gorgeus water filling your mind.

And then there was no more water. Hm.

"Thank you," your voice was much better when you passed the thing back to the Doctor and he hummed as he set it back on the nightstand.

His eyes were warm when he turned to you, "You've already thanked me," and you blinked.

"Oh. Right." With a shadow of an embarassed smile, you looked behind him, looked around the room for the first time and- Foreign, foreign, fear rushing in like a tidal wave, swallowing you whole-

I don't know where l am, l don't know what year this is, everything hurts, there was so much blood, l escaped, l'm OUT, THE DOCTOR, here, paradox, what do l do, is he alright, where is he, l'm LOST l'm TIRED it HURTS WHAT IF THEY COME AFTER M-

Hush now, the soft whisper of the Doctor's soothing voice caressed your mind and you stilled, eyes falling shut. There was a cool, gentle hand cupping your cheek and you leaned into it with a sigh while your trembling palm came to press it firmer to you. Another hand carefully took hold of yours on the bed.

You are safe, he promised and you almost sobbed from the relief it brought, then his mind enveloped yours. I'm here. You aren't alone.

Doctor, you whimpered as breath left you along with tension, with fear, and you let him in without a second thought, holding onto him for dear life.

The Doctor turns back to offer you a hand when you stand up and you're reaching to take it, but your treacherous legs just buckle beneath you before you can take a step.

"Whoa-" His arms are around your waist, immediately holding you up against him and steadying you before you can fall.

"Oh." You stare down at your trembling legs, holding onto your Time Lord for stability. "I can't..."

"Let me." He smiles a little as he bends down with one arm already around you, the other letting go to slip under your knees and scoop you up into his hold.

You try to question him, a hand on his chest, "Are you sure-" but,

"Of course l am," he's way ahead of you. A cheeky smile overtakes his face when he carefully steps out of your room and goes on, "Especially considering this is entirely my fault."

"Doctor," slips out of your mouth, you're all flustered as you try to chastise him a little.

"What?"

You can hear his grin in his voice when you hide your face in his neck, it's not your fault the butterflies in your stomack are impersonating a sandstorm and your face is all heated up because this man knows exactly what he does to you, exactly what he did with you last night and oh god this is the best day of your life.

"I love you," you murmur softly to his skin, the most natural thing in the world, as easy as breathing, and he falters in his step.

You pick your head up to look at him as he does the same and when your gazes meet...

"l love you too," he whispers so softly, a truth taken from somewhere so deep in him you're surprised it doesn't echo. He's looking at you like you're the most important thing in the universe, like he's yours, like he could fly with what you've given him. The vastness of his old eyes is filled with the all-ecompassing love that ties him to you, the corners of his mouth turned up just a little.

You two stand there and feel the force that binds you together, safe in the knowledge. Then he smiles outright, something so warm it lights you up inside, and presses his lips to your forehead.

The Doctor awoke with a muted cry, gasping for breath, and heard something metal fall to the floor. He desparately looked around, wide-eyed and disoriented, as he clung to his seat with trembling hands but when he caught a sight of you, everything stopped.

It hadn't been his nightmare.

You were trashing in the bed, head turning left and right while you clutched the tangled sheets in your grip. "No-" you muttered under your breath, "st'p-" Your sleeping face contorted in pain and your hair was everywhere, "st'p-"

The Doctor was on his feet in a flash and his hand took hold of yours. "It's alright-" he began softly but felt your dread reach his mind like an awesome wave crashing onto the shore.

A whimper escaped you and you cried, "No!" in full voice. You were writhing, lost in whatever hell you had gone through.

The Doctor recovered and reached for you, telling you, "Wake up, sweet girl," but you just sobbed, "Please-" as your voice broke and gasped for breath. A tear slid across your temple as your head turned and he took hold of your shoulder, shaking you, "Wake up, wake-"

"No," you whimpered again before your body spasmed and a scream tore out of you, "no, STOP!"  You surged up from the bed in mindless terror, but the Doctor was right there. His palm was cupping your cheek and you stopped just enough for him to murmur, "You're safe,"  as he held your sleep-clouded eyes with his. "lt's me, it's the Doctor."

Your shoulders sagged and you leaned into his touch as tension leeked out of you at once. You had recognized him, despite the half-conscious chaos of your mind and he silently thanked the stars.

While his other hand came up to rub your arm, he felt a slight, clumsy brush through your bond. "Doct'r?" your lips moved in barely a whisper, you were still afraid as you peered at him with half-lidded eyes.

He smiled and reached out in a gentle reply while his thumb caressed your cheek. "Yes," he murmured to you close, "It's me. I have you."

That was all it took. Your eyes fell shut again with a sigh and you pressed yourself to his chest while your exhausted mind slipped back into sleep. The Doctor held you against him for a moment, eyes closed, then gradually eased you back down onto the bed and pulled the covers over you. When he brushed the strands of your hair from your sleeping face, he let the tender touch of his fingers linger.

After caressing your mind for the last time, he pulled away and noticed the metal parts he'd let fall to the floor when he awoke. Bending down, he started gathering them on your locker but heard someone clear their throat behind him.

He whipped around as he stood up and recognized nurse Carter standing by the curtain.

Oh. Heat rose in his cheeks.

Somehow she didn't look scandalised, her eyes were kinder than they'd been before and she peered at him with catious curiosity. "She does know you," was all she murmured.

He nodded for lack of a better thing to do. "I'm glad we've established that now."

Pressing her lips together, she offered him a conceding nod, "I'll see you in the morning then." As she turned around to leave, he could swear she almost smiled.

It was a slow day at UNIT headquarters. The laboratory was in the state of orderly disorder the Doctor preferred when conducting research and the TARDIS stood in its usual corner, silently waiting for another getaway. The Doctor was glad Sarah had come around to see if there was anything to write about and had kindly accepted his invitation to stay for the afternoon. Even if the occasional experiment went up in flames, it was alright with her around because she laughed at it, then helped him try again.

"Very well, you'll get it all as soon as possible," the Brigadier replied with a hint of a smile.

"Doctor, what exactly are you trying to build?" Sarah pointedly looked at the pile of half-assembled machinery on the counter they were all gathered around.

"Well, it's supposed to be a polarizing-"

A blinding flash of white light illuminated the room. All three of them whipped around to stare in shock at the woman who had appeared out of thin air less than three steps in front of them.

The Doctor's eyes immediately focused on the horrific wound on your temple, on the mass of glistening blood which had run down the side of your face to coat your shoulder with crimson. Your hands were pressed to your chest in a soothing embrace, the right one clutching something on the other wrist with a quivering grip, and your whole body trembled with exhaustion. When he looked up, he saw your sweaty face was expressionless and your half-lidded eyes didn't note any of the people in front of you, lost in the shock of what had happened. Loose strands of hair swirled around your head while you swayed on the spot.

"Are you alright?" Sarah gasped and you blinked, your clouded gaze snapping to her as your arms slowly let go of each other.

At the same time, the Doctor gradually moved forward, careful not to frighten you. "How can we help you?" he asked in worry.

Eyes narrowing, you parted your chapped lips to say something and tried to shakily step towards them, but your balance betrayed you. Your body veered too much to the right, your knees gave out and you started falling, but the Doctor was right there, catching you in his arms. He lowered both of you to the ground with you carefully held in his lap and your head on his shoulder.

"What happened to you?" he demanded in a half-whisper. "What can we do?"

You simply blinked up at the Doctor with the same lost look, but in a single moment, your eyes went wide and your whole face lit up in elated recognition. Your brows furrowed in disbelief but a smile bloomed on your lips, warm and bright and sparking something soft deep inside him, She knows me, she knows me to the core, your brilliant eyes tender and oh so fond. This was for him, this was his and he was left to watch in awe, lost and quite impossibly, found.

The Brigadier suddenly felt sorry for watching because whatever this was, it was obviously meant only for the Doctor, and no one else.

The air between you was charged. As your trembling hand slowly rose towards his face, there was an emotion, a truth so great your eyes couldn't contain it, so you sighed one simple, blissfully soft word. "Doctor."

(Later, Sarah realized it had sounded a lot like 'home'.)

The Doctor gasped for breath but before he could say anything, before your hand reached his cheek, your bright eyes fell shut, your arm fell to your stomack and you laid still. He immmediately sobered up.