#misha writes

Joseph never takes a loss well, he often gets drunk after losing a match, wallowing with glass after glass of his favorite wine. As if the humiliation of losing wasn't bad enough, he breaks free from a drunken haze to find you inches from his face… worrying about him like he's some soaking wet cat left out in the rain. Your pity irks him and he attempts to swat you away. You linger for a bit, and your hovering makes him snap at you, startling you, so the next time he tells you to go away… you do. You hesitate for a moment, before turning to walk off. Instantly Joseph regrets it, his expression shifting, a sick feeling in his gut. How dare you? Just… just walk away from him? So you really were just pretending to care? You can't leave- Suddenly he is standing, too tight grip on your wrist, backing you against a wall. He reeks of wine, expression angered, cutting your meager apologies off with his mouth on yours. He moans against your lips when you struggle fearfully, his free hand wrapping around your throat, a threat. He's passionate, but oh so possessive. 

Xie thinks survivors are pathetic in a cute way, Fan thinks they are pathetic in an amusing way. You may try to hide from their advances, one hunter is scary enough. But two? When you hear them return you find yourself cowering away, but they'll always find you. It bemuses Xie, he finds it adorable, cooing at you when he catches you tucked away somewhere dark you think they wouldn't think to check. Fan knows better, recognizes your genuine fear for them and relishes in it. Being kissed by them is overwhelming, both in their own ways. Fan is too domineering, gripping your cheeks and claiming you with his mouth, leaving you breathless and squirming. Xie likes to take his time with you, get you flustered, he enjoys how hot your skin gets when you get embarrassed from him gently coercing your mouth open, slipping his tongue inside as you pant and shiver. It's dehumanizing how they treat you, but you can never seem to escape them nor their condescending treatment.  

While Philippe is a romantic at heart, he's also a delusional man and his attachment is suffocating, leaving him prone to jealousy. He tries so hard to be patient and understanding, having to watch you interact with other men, but you're being naive. He sits and watches as people “take advantage” of you, of your kindness… he'll show you how dangerous men can be, and he'll show you he's the only one who can protect you. His kisses drown you, he practically consumes you, keeping your body pressed firmly against his with one hand splayed across your lower back, the other holding your face. He doesn't want to hurt you, but he has to hold you tighter when you try to squirm away, tight enough to bruise, to mark you. He doesn't let you pull away, not even when you feel lightheaded. You should need him more than you need air.

You're always polite with Alva, but never seem to pick up on his attempts at courting you… he's been trying to express his interest to you, yet you seem to remain oblivious, always straying away from his advances, finding opportunities to escape him. He needs to show you he's serious about pursuing you romantically… maybe you're just confused, he isn't being forward enough. So, he lurks, watching and waiting for a perfect moment, before cornering you while you're alone. Everyone else had either made it out or been sent back to the manor via rocket chair, and you were struggling for dungeon with Alva in close pursuit. It was just in reach when your body seized with an electric current, stunning you in place. He circled in front of you, the stun was over but you were still frozen in place, staring at him wide eyed, such a darling expression on you. His thoughts wandered back to seeing that cowboy flirting with you at the cipher as you both decoded and his eyes narrowed. He leaned in, hesitating a moment when you recoiled, before steeling himself and showing you how serious he was. His kiss is practiced and passionate, but not over the top… It's almost a threat in itself, him telling you he wouldn't let you escape again.

The journey back to the TARDIS is a slow, grumbling one.

Well, actually, the journey was slow and she was grumbling — but, you know, same difference. It’d usually take her half an hour to get there under ordinary circumstances. But you’re not ordinary (and the Doctor can’t decide if that thought was affectionate or just part of the grumbling. Probably both), so it actually takes two hours.

“Here you go,” she announces, opening the TARDIS doors for you with a smile that’s clinging on for dear life to ‘patient’ so it doesn’t fall on ‘ironic’. You never really like it when she gives you one of those. “Try not to trip on the steps, I’m looking forward to not having to carry you around.”

You give her a thumbs up. She’s pretty sure you haven’t listened to a single word that came out of her mouth.

It’s only when she sees you crouching under the console, hugging your legs to protect your eyes from the lights, that the Doctor allows herself to admit what she’s been feeling since you coughed the first time — she’s worried. Big time.

She sits down next to you, placing her hand on your forehead. Still warm.

“I’m fine,” you say, but with the way you pronounced your consonants, she knows you’re at least a station, two buses and a cab away from ‘fine’. “I just need to sleep a little. You can—” here she waits for you to stop coughing for a few long seconds, “— just leave me in my room, if you still want to go out there. Explore and stuff.”

Exploring and stuff would be a good name for an autobiography, if she ever decided to write one. The idea always drifts from her mind when she remembers it would probably be too big — never-ending — and full of forbidden knowledge. A younger version of her attempted to start — and of course, it had to be the most self-serving one of them all.

Yes, that one.

And maybe, if she still were that incarnation, hundreds and hundreds of years ago, your offer would’ve been tempting. He wouldn’t go through with it, but he’d stop for a second to wish he would.

But she’s so much older now. And she hopes she’s a lot wiser, too.

So, she gets up to her feet and pulls you up as well.

“Not a chance,” she finally replies. “Medbay. Go slowly, walking is good for your joints.”

You attempt a laugh, but the coughing doesn’t let you finish it. The important thing is: you’re walking to the medbay.

And that gives her time to fetch something she’s just remembered the TARDIS can help her with.

When the Doctor gets there, you’re staring at the ceiling. The TARDIS has kindly dimmed the white lights, but your attention has latched on a spiral of light reflecting on some kind of surface.

You’re looking at it like it’s your entire world, and that makes her a) think you’re the cutest being in the universe and b) also feel slightly jealous of a beam of light.

She gets your attention back by placing her hand on your brow again. You flutter your eyes closed. And you’re still way too warm.

She removes her hand and waits for your eyes to open. And when they do, she shows you the best-est thing her ship can make.

Medicine.

Not the twenty-first century kind — an actually effective one.

It looks like marshmallow candy, and the colours glow when it rolls back and forth on the Doctor’s palm. It tastes like cloud and honey, with just a hint of ibuprofen — nothing’s perfect — but it works!

You look from her palm, to her face, to her palm again.

She shakes the pill like she’s summoning a cat. “Go on. TARDIS made it for ya.”

“Did she?” you ask with a subtle smile.

The Doctor feels that tug of jealousy again and wrinkles her nose. “After I told her to.”

That makes you immediately take the pill from her hand. She’s decided to ignore — for now, anyway — the undercurrent of this subtle-almost-not-there jealousy taking hold of her and the fact that you trust her without batting an eye.

After you’ve swallowed it, you ask, “What does it do?”

“Cures every known type of every known flu in the known universe,” she replies, proudly. “Not approved on Earth, though. Can’t quite remember why.”

You simply nod, so she points to the bed, nicely tidied up for use in its place next to a drawer full of medical equipment, “Have a kip. It’ll make you feel heavy for a little while.”

You do as you’re told, familiar with the dance by now: the Doctor fusses over you in the console room. She gets you to the medbay. You get in the bed. She fusses some more. You’re free to go.

It’s a silent dance by now, one both of you already know by heart.

So while she’s connecting a few electrodes to your head, it comes as a surprise when you suddenly blurt out, sluggish and with a grin she can hear, “You are the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen in my life.”

She freezes. Then slowly, very slowly, turns to look at you.

You’re still grinning. Your pupils dilated and your gaze completely focused on her.

She moves closer to you to fix one of the looser pads — your eyes follow her.

She moves a few inches to the side — your eyes follow her.

She ducks as if she’s picking something from the floor — you look down.

“No, hold on,” you begin again, eyes still glued on her as she comes back up. “The most beautiful thing. Like, more beautiful than that planet where everyday is New Year’s Eve and there’s always a sunrise, remember?”

The Doctor nods.

“Yeah. More beautiful than anything in the known universe,” you finish, giggling.

The Doctor swallows.

Give her Daleks. Cybermen. Weeping Angels. An identity crisis. The bloody Master, if you will.

What on Earth — and she’s not even on Earth — does she do with this?

Could this be the flu? Yeah, but those symptoms aren't listed for regular space flu.

Could this be the medicine? Nah, but it should've knocked you out in a minute!

“Erm…” she winces, moving to turn on the monitor she meant to use to examine you. “Feeling that sleep kicking in?”

“And I love your voice, too,” you reply, ignoring her question. “Not just your voice — your accent. It’s so beautiful, I think it’s just as beautiful as you. The way you speak, it’s like—”

“See this?” she points to the screen, on and active, tracking your sinapses. “That’s your brain. I’m trying to make sure it’s working.”

Your mouth drops open. “Oh, and you’re so clever.”

The Doctor claps once, feigning excitement, as she steps closer to your bed. “How about this? How about… you tell me what you remember from the marathon? You know, the one we lost?”

“I couldn’t keep up with you,” you start replying, and she feels a surge of actual hope that she got you to change the subject.

She exhales, shaking her head. “Nope. Not doing this.”

She starts peeling the electrodes off your brow, convinced she’s making a clean exit before anything else slips out.

Except for a Time Lord, she’s surprisingly time-blind. Because the next thing you do is sigh, and say, in the softest voice she’s ever heard from you: “If you were human, I’d propose to you.”

She freezes once more, but this time she's sure one of her hearts has stopped working. Her hands stop mid-air, suddenly too cold to move.

She's not looking at you. She can't. And she's not thinking about it. Absolutely not.

“Not here, of course,” you say. “On our anniversary.”

Reluctantly, she looks down at you, focusing somewhere between your eyes, in the rib of your nose.

You beam at her. “I still keep track of it, the first day you kissed me. I've got a calendar in my room and it runs like a day on Earth, even if we leave for a few days. TARDIS keeps it running for me, I bet you haven’t even noticed!”

The Doctor blinks. A few times. She tries to think of something to say, but no words come.

Then, she notices her hands are still frozen in their place next to your brow, and recoils them like you zapped her.

She moves away to turn off the screen, feeling your gaze following her — and that's when it hits her.

“Oh!” she mutters under her breath. “Of course!”

“Kissiversary,” you say, giggling. “Our kissiversary, Doctor.”

“That's why it got banned on Earth,” she turns to you again, explaining it to you because she needs to explain it to someone who'll listen or she'll burst into flames.

And that could actually happen. She's just trying to be careful.

“The pill! It's slightly psychic, blurs thoughts and freezes memories — like a super-powered truth serum. When I was holding it I must've felt—”

Jealous.

Of a photon. And of the TARDIS.

But she's not saying that out loud.

“— whatever I felt,” she rushes to scramble back, “must've gotten imprinted on the pill. So when you took it, you absorbed that and you're now reacting to it. Saying everything you think about it. You're not even going to remember it in a few hours.”

She leans against the bed, avoiding your eyes, feeling particularly sorry for herself. “I'm sorry.”

When nothing comes, she chances a glance at you.

You're pouting, brows creased like you're about to coo.

And you nearly do. “Aww, baby. Are you sad?”

The Doctor throws out her arms, brows arched in disbelief. “Did none of that make any sense to you?”

You shake your head. “No. Half of the things you say don't. But I still love listening to you — I’m actually pretty sure I could listen to you for all eternity. And I don’t even know what that means,” you laugh. “You tell me.”

She tilts her head to the side, smiling what you call her trademark tight-lipped smile. At least that is something she can answer. “It means forever.”

It doesn't actually, and she could write an encyclopedia about all the differences between them, time wise.

But to you, it makes perfect sense. You grin, like she just shared a secret with you.

Then, you whisper back, “That’s what you look like.”

Something cracks inside her. She looks at you — at your eyes, and all the light they’re carrying even now — and her soul hurts.

“Yeah,” she says, smiling sadly. “Maybe just not the way you mean.”

Because yes, she does look like forever. Like a thing that goes on and on even after it should’ve stopped.

And maybe you’re right and she does look like Quantifer, where everyday is New Year’s Eve — a world not all here yet not quite there, where forever is both in constant flux and extremely predictable.

What its settlers understand as forever, right there on the edge of the universe, is a bit like her life.

What you understand as forever, is a New Year’s Eve.

Sometimes, she just wished she didn’t look like forever.

The Doctor notices you’ve gone quiet. Part of her hopes you’ve finally dozed off.

You haven’t. You’re just crying, trying to keep it as quiet as possible.

“Oh,” she mumbles, feeling slightly out of her depth. “What is it?”

“I just realised,” you say through tears, “I don’t know what I’d do without you. In my life.”

“Oh,” she replies.

Completely out of her depth.

“What would I do in a life where I can’t look at your eyes?” you ask, then crack a teary smile. “The prettiest eyes in the known universe.”

“Yeah, you can stop using that phrase now,” the Doctor blurts, because it’s the only thing she can think of. “Also, I’m not going anywhere.”

It breaks her hearts that you start sobbing again at this, but she can’t blame you. She’s said that before to so many people.

So, she decides to show you the only way she can right now: by pulling up a chair — one she’s quite sure wasn’t even here when she entered the room just a few minutes ago.

She’ll check with the TARDIS later.

Still, she drags it next to your bed and sits with a triumphant little smile. “See? Not going anywhere.”

You take in a shaky breath. After a beat, you mumble, “I can’t move my arms.”

Not the response she was hoping for, but at least that is something she can deal with.

“Oh. Right! That’s the pill working,” she says. “Soon you’ll be sleeping your flu away.”

“No, but I still have so much I want to say,” you whine softly, tears still running.

She gently brushes them away with her thumb. And, despite everything in her that says don’t, she asks, “Like what?”

“Like how I keep track of every single one of our firsts,” you smile.

“Uh, maybe skip that one, will ya?” she quickly interrupts.

“Like how I think you wouldn’t even like a ring. You’re not a ring person,” you continue, your words getting slower, your eyes almost closing — but still focused on her. Only on her.

She chuckles. “And why's that?”

“You never use anything on your fingers. I know, I look at them a lot.”

She lets out a nervous laugh, and you go on. “I’d give you an earring. One that matches that one you always use. And we could— oh, I think I’m blacking-out.”

“It’s okay,” the Doctor says, softly stroking your hair. “You have all the time you need to tell me the rest.”

“Like forever?” you ask, smiling softly.

She sighs, smiling back. “Yeah. Forever.”

And just as you close your eyes, you still manage to mutter, “I’ll take that as an ‘I do’.”

You’re now sleeping peacefully, breathing heavy, motionless — as expected.

Part of her is upset your rambling got interrupted by the medicine’s effect actually kicking in. What a great timing, that was!

Some other part of her is relieved she doesn’t have to face any of your unfiltered truths any time soon.

But another part of her… This one has just concluded forever can mean many different things. Today — however long that is — she wouldn’t mind being your forever.

And that gives her a new idea…

******************************************

You wake up feeling simultaneously renewed and extremely emotionally fatigued.

You shift your position, meaning to stretch, when you realise your head is leaning against something warm and hard.

A shoulder.

The Doctor’s shoulder.

You let your eyes wander around you and you come to realise you’re laying on a bed. The Doctor’s bed.

In the Doctor’s bedroom.

You make a questioning sound, involuntarily, which makes her turn to look at you.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” she chirps.

You chuckle, sitting up. “Morning to you too, I suppose.”

“I mean, it’s not actually morning. This planet has a five-hour day-cycle so it’s currently, erm…” she squints for a second. “Afternoon. Ish.”

You smile, fondly. You love it when she starts explaining the laws that govern strange worlds you’re not either going to remember nor visit again — and yet, it’s always wonderful to hear her explaining them to you.

But when you stop to pay attention to her eyes, they seem distant.

That can be normal, you remind yourself. It happens every now and then, you think it comes with being 2000-years-old.

But this time, it feels different. Like something is weighing heavily on her mind and she’s trying really hard to pretend it’s not.

So you try to think back to the last things that happened— and you realise you don’t even know how you ended up here.

“Doctor?”

She gives you her ‘yes?’ hum.

“Why are we here?”

She gives you her ‘it’s complicated’ hum.

“What is the last thing you remember?” she asks, sitting up as well.

“The race.”

“Marathon,” she corrects, pointing a finger at you.

“Same thing,” you shrug.

“Completely different things,” she shakes her head. “I could make a TED Talk on how different they actually are.”

“You could make a TED Talk on anything, Doctor,” you reply with a soft laugh, but then you notice… she’s stalling.

So you press. “And after the marathon?”

She scrunches up her face. “It’s been nearly three days on this planet, my memory’s wonky.”

You squint at her, so she sighs. “You got the flu. I gave you medicine. You feel asleep. You woke up. You asked ‘why are we here?’—”

“You can stop there, I think I remember the rest,” you laugh.

You really don’t recall getting sick. You do remember coughing sometimes by the end of the ra— marathon. You remember the Doctor being a sore loser for getting bronze.

Which makes you think…

“Oh!” you exclaim just as she’s getting up from the bed. “Are you upset about the bronze? Third place is great, too. You’re the Doctor, it’s not like you need a medal from some random planet to prove your worth.”

She throws you a puzzled look. “No. I’m not upset about that. Why would I be?”

“Well, you did seem upset back there,” you reply.

“That was three days ago,” she says, hands inside her pockets like she’s just casually chilling.

And yet… Something is wrong.

“What?” she asks, making you realise you’re staring.

You don’t stop.

You try to make a few connections: five-hour days. Three days. That would be…

“Hold on, how long have I been asleep for?”

“Erm… Hard to say, really,” she shrugs.

“You’re a Time Lord!” you exclaim.

“A little over twelve hours?” she replies.

It sounds more like a question than a statement, but it tracks.

“My God, what kind of medicine did you give me?”

“One that fixed you,” she shoots back, hands on her waist like she’s feeling indignant you’d even ask. “Do I hear any coughing? No? Yeah, that’s what I thought. Shall we?”

And with that, she’s inviting you out of her bedroom.

You laugh. She really does hate standing still.

Which makes you think—

“Oh!” you exclaim again (try living with an alien who says that 6,461,153 times a day and not picking it up). “Did you stay here with me for all twelve hours?”

She gives you a look you don’t understand. “Yeah.”

“Oh no. I’m so sorry,” you say, frantic now as you climb out of bed and cross to where she’s standing by the door. “I didn’t mean— I mean, I don’t even remember falling asleep. But you didn’t have to stay. You could’ve gone off and done something else if you wanted.”

She wrinkles her nose, looking away.

You breathe out a frustrated something.

Sometimes you wish the TARDIS could translate emotions as well — because right now the Doctor is speaking a language you’ve given up on trying to understand.

“Okay… Let’s go somewhere nice?” you try. “To make it up.”

That brightens her up. “Yeah! Any ideas?”

“Anywhere you’d like!”

She presses her lips into a line, squinting, like she’s plotting something.

You love it when she gets that look.

“I was thinking… Quantifer?”

The planet — settlement, but you always get it wrong — where everyday is New Year’s Eve, and every single one of them is both unique and extremely beautiful.

The last time you visited, the Doctor was radiant. The most beautiful everything you’ve ever seen in your life.

So you grin. “Cool! But erm— Maybe I should shower first?”

“Yeah,” she nods, with a toothy grin. “You should.”

You burst out laughing. “Blimey, I’m ever so thankful for your unfiltered truths.”

So, you leave her room, focusing on having the quickest shower of your life to not keep her waiting for so long.

But before you walk further away, you notice she’s just… standing there. At the door. Looking pointedly ahead.

“Doctor, baby,” you say, softer this time. “What is it?”

She blinks a few times. Then throws you a grin that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Nothing! Was just trying to… remember the coordinates. Got it now. I’ll go get us there. See ya!”

And she walks away.

You blink.

You glance up at the TARDIS ceiling, letting your hand trail along one of the walls. “You should really start working on that translator,” you whisper.

But you decide not to dwell on it. You’ve got a place to go.

******************************************

After that day, a few things change.

You don't notice it at first. It's only when it happens that you piece together the puzzle — much like a frog inside boiling water.

The first change comes with a Spring Cleaning.

It's not Spring, and there's barely any traditional cleaning, but the Doctor asks for your help so… Who are you to say no?

You start with the pool — and here the cleaning consists of the Doctor staring at the water, hands planted on her hips, for several minutes.

She suddenly announces it's clean enough and tells you to follow her.

And, so, you do.

The next room is the library. She remembers at the last minute it's literally infinite and ever-changing, and immediately closes the door after having just opened it.

So, you follow her to the next one.

Which, to no one's surprise, is the console room.

Under the console itself she keeps a small, wooden box, full of other boxes of varying sizes.

Bigger on the inside, of course. You begin to think accepting this plan of hers wasn't a very clever idea.

She sets aside some of the boxes and explains the plan:

“So, we have five categories: 1) Why is this here?, 2) Definitely throwing away, 3) Will decide later, 4) I need to actually clean this, 5) Definitely keeping it, 6) I don't know what to do with this.”

“That's six categories,” you say.

“You can start with that box on your right, I'll take this one,” she says, and immediately throws herself into organising her items.

She doesn’t give you any directives on how to go about deciding which item goes on which pile, so you just go with your instinct.

Agatha Christie’s book published in the year five billion? Why is this here (and not in the library)?

Red question-mark shaped handle? I don’t know what to do with this.

A single, surprisingly not withered, celery? Will decide later.

And despite having to erase five new categories the Doctor tries to invent for every item she picks up, the rest of the cleaning goes surprisingly peacefully.

Until you find a frame.

It’s the picture of a woman — beautiful curly hair, very loving eyes.

She’s stunning.

You feel a weird sort of tug as you hold it in your hands, like it's speaking to your heart. You stare at it for some time.

“Oh,” comes the Doctor’s voice from your side, seemingly surprised. “So that was there?”

You don’t look away from the frame. “Who is she?”

“Erm… My wife.”

You gasp, like someone just announced you won the space lottery. “You have a wife?!”

She erms again. “Used to, lots of years ago. I was a different man back then.”

She’s not looking at you as she says that, eyes fixed downwards, hands busy with her box of things.

And just like that, you think you understand what happened.

“I’m sorry,” you offer.

“... Yeah,” she replies.

But despite the sadness, your heart is beating wildly inside your chest. Because if she has been married before… could she be open to the idea of marrying again?

It’s selfish to wonder that now, you know that.

But the woman in the picture doesn’t seem the type to mind.

So you clean the frame, delicately and carefully, before setting it on a new pile.

When the Doctor notices, she huffs. “Oi! You didn’t let me create new categories!”

“Yeah, but mine makes sense,” you reply.

“And what is it?”

“Things you should stop hiding from,” you say, giving her a side eye look.

She doesn’t say another word for the rest of the cleaning.

Good for you, because your mind is already busy with a few — marriage related — plans…

******************************************

You’d thought about it, of course.

Several and several and several times. But there was always the interspecies barrier holding you back.

You thought Time Lords just didn’t get married. That maybe they didn’t even need relationships at all — not with the way the Doctor (never) talks about them.

Since that day, however… You’re dreaming up so many ways it could go.

Would she be surprised? Would she shut down? Would she say yes? Should you write down your proposal and send it to her when you’re not around? Should you kneel like everybody else?

But most importantly… What could you even propose with?

You’ve studied her for all this time you’ve been together and she just… doesn’t really like jewelry.

There’s her earring, granted, which she never takes off — not even to shower. But her current earring is perfect for her — not too flashy, not too large, easily hidden under her hair.

So you’ve been imagining: a ring for an earring. Something that matches the one she already has and that you could use as well.

But if you get it wrong… You don’t want to be alive for the casual grimace of discomfort she’d try to give you while pretending you’ve given her this galaxy’s eighth wonder.

It’s on one of those days where the Doctor is tinkering with some quantum something for the millionth time this month, and you’re wandering around the ship with your head literally in the clouds, that you nearly trip in the kitchen.

You’d only meant to fetch some tea for the both of you when a piece of paper skids across the floor — you slip on it, then smack right into the counter.

After apologising to it (you’re pretty sure the counter’s sentient too), you pick up the culprit.

It’s an advertisement for — and nothing could’ve prepared you for this — an intergalactic wedding ring designer.

And not just any ring designer — a non-humanoid one. Specialised in unconventional rings.

And there’s even a PS in all caps at the end: “bring a picture of your lover and I’ll help you find the perfect ring”.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” you mutter to yourself.

Too good to be true or not, you start to, very gently, convince the Doctor to get you to the hidden moon of Woozillers.

“Woozillers?! What for?” she asks, quite shocked, from under the console. The goggles don’t help much with the whole annoyed look she’s trying to give you, but you get the gist.

“Just seemed like a nice place, really. Somewhere I could explore on my own. I read there’s this big market, like Westfield?”

She only stares back at you. The goggles make you feel distressed.

After a beat, she exhales through her nose, getting up from her place under the console.

“First they’re all ‘it’s bigger on the inside!’. I blink for a second,” she pauses to remove the goggles, press a few buttons and pull a few switches, “and then they’re telling me which planet to go next! Can you believe that?”

You think she’s talking more to the TARDIS than to you.

You grimace. “Are we going there right now?”

The TARDIS makes a loud thump.

The Doctor shoots you a grin. “There already. Coincidentally we had been drifting near its galaxy.” Then, she hands you a rectangular shape. “Infinite money. Try not to get lost, her tracker’s not working cause someone interrupted me.”

You beam, feeling positively delighted.

You give her a quick hug and leave the ship in search of the place.

Infinite credit on your hand, flyer in your pocket, photo on your phone — there’s just no way you can miss it.

A few hours later, when you look at your arms full of alien bags with alien stuff you bought with your alien girlfriend’s alien money — and still no ring — you admit to yourself that you may have overestimated your geographical abilities.

Every time you see a blonde back head of one of the locals, your heart threatens to leave your ribcage, thinking you might have been caught red-handed. You don’t even remember the path you’ve made to get wherever it is you are right now, and you can’t — under any circumstances — call her to find you.

Just when you think you might start hyperventilating, a hand touches your shoulder.

You turn and see someone who looks like a cheetah. But walking. Their tail sways lazily behind them, and for a moment you’re thrown back to Earth, to your own cat, waiting impatiently by the food bowl.

But you recognise them from the advertisement: it’s the ring-maker.

“Looking for me?” they ask, voice low and resonant — it feels like they’re speaking directly into your mind.

You nod, dumbfounded. “How did you know?”

“Many people here do.” They gesture for you to follow, already turning to walk away.

You glance over your shoulder — just to make sure the Doctor’s not behind you.

And then, you follow the jeweller.

Nothing could’ve prepared for what their shop looks like. On the outside, it looks like a silver ring — like the ones you’d see back on Earth. On the inside, the walls curve on each other to create a staggering effect of colours and shapes.

“Dimensional engineering?” you ask, eyes glued to the spectacle unfolding in front of you.

“Mirrors,” they reply, matter-of-fact. You hear the scrape of a chair. When you glance over, they’re extending a paw toward it.

“How did you hear about my work?” they ask, slipping on a pair of glasses and resting their chin on their paws, studying you like an equation they’re halfway through solving.

“I got this flyer in my…” You pause. Ship? House? TARDIS? “...mail,” you settle on. “It said unconventional rings are your specialty.”

The jeweller smiles. It feels more like a laugh — like they already know something you don’t.

“Do you need an unconventional ring?”

Clearly, they haven’t met the Doctor.

“Show me her,” they say, extending a paw again.

You widen your eyes slightly, but pass them your phone anyway.

It’s a lovely picture, the one you’ve chosen. It’s from the same day you visited Quantifer a second time, and the Doctor had spent half an hour searching for a supposed perfect spot. In the end, you had to watch the balloons and fireworks from inside a pod the settlers use as a building, since she got both of you lost and just couldn’t admit it.

She was pouting, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the skies.

The fireworks reflected on the window, which reflected back on her. Her eyes looked like two flames — so intense, so warm.

You just had to take a picture.

“Hmmm,” the jeweller hums (and purrs?), holding your phone close to their eyes. “I see. Knowing eyes.”

“That’s her,” you laugh awkwardly.

“And what an old, old soul,” they add.

“She’s, uh… lived a lot.”

A few more minutes of staring, then they say, “Definitely not the jewelry kind.”

You nod, relieved that your intuition was right after all. “Definitely not. Actually, I was thinking—”

“Follow me,” they cut in.

And so, for the second time in a row, you follow them.

They take you to a room on the back of the shop. There are hundreds of shelves stacked upon each other, and inside them you manage to make out countless rings.

The jeweller opens a hidden door, behind a wall of shelves.

You clear your throat. “So like I said, I thought that maybe she'd want something like—”

They interrupt you again, extending you a paw — and resting on it, the most amazing ring you could've asked for.

It's a helix earring. Small, round and designed to clip on so it doesn't go through her skin. The painting is navy blue like her trousers and her favourite shirt. And outside, it's decorated with circular patterns.

Gallifreyan.

You gasp in surprise. “How can you— I can't even read that. The TARDIS doesn't translate it.”

“You don't need to be able to read it. This is an important word — for both of you,” they explain.

And maybe it's the way their voice hums inside your head, or how their eyes seem to know everything they need about you two.

Either way, you grin, teary-eyed. “It's so much more than I've ever dreamed of.”

The jeweller purrs softly.

Done deal.

The way back to the TARDIS is a lot smoother than you'd expected. You take a few turns and buy a few more somethings, and when you look down the road — there she is.

Outside the ship's door, you take a deep breath in. Then out. You make a point of hiding your happiness, you don't want to look suspicious. You just went on a shopping spree, nothing more.

You let out a puff of air.

And the TARDIS opens the door for you.

The Doctor is currently lying on the floor next to the console, goggles back on — and now protective gloves, too — trying to hold together two different wires.

When she sees you — and the very small amount of bags you’re carrying — they explode. There’s a lot of noise, a lot of smoke and you hope the burning smell is only oil and not her flesh.

(Yes, that’s happened before.)

“Whoa! Are you opening a shop of your own?” she asks, and you can faintly make her figure standing up behind the smoke.

“Ha ha ha,” you quip. “If I wanna go to a shopping centre I’m not coming back empty-handed, am I?”

She’s standing next to you now, goggles off, her eyes curiously wandering around your bags.

“Ooh!” she points to one of them. “I love that shop. They’ve got the best cheese in the galaxy.”

“Well, I hope so cause I bought some,” you laugh.

She beams excitedly, much like a child on Boxing Day, and you’re pretty sure she wants to reach for the bag.

Problem? The cheetah ring-maker’s bag is right behind that one.

You take a step back. Her eyes immediately snap back to yours.

You chuckle nervously. “You’re not eating my cheese without me,” you say, trying to sound convincing. “I’ll go settle these things and then we’re eating it. Together.”

She gives you a full scrunch — which means she didn’t like the sound of that — and bends to pick her goggles again.

“Wasn’t gonna eat it without you anyway,” she grumbles. “Want help?”

She asks that, but she’s already putting her gloves on. And you wouldn’t take it, either way — this is Mission Impossible and you’re Tom flipping Cruise.

“No, I’m good. See you in a bit.”

The Doctor just hums.

You sigh in relief and head to your bedroom.

Inside it, you close the door, lock it and — just in case — put a chair against the handle.

Sounds extreme, but the Doctor doesn’t understand the concept of personal space (as long as it’s not hers) and locked doors (which, let’s be honest, are mostly just something to point the sonic at). At least if she wants to come in, the chair will let you know.

Most of the stuff you bought are things you don’t actually need: new shirts, cute little gizmos you can’t even name, food.

A lot of food.

You set aside the clothes for washing, the bags with food for the kitchen, a new apron for her (the current one was the victim of last time’s explosion — and it shows) and, most importantly, the earrings.

One for you. One for her.

Even the box for hers is perfect — wooden, TARDIS blue, opens when you touch the top.

You touch it now to see it again, and you nearly cry out of joy.

You sit on the edge of your bed, the only place still empty, to admire it. You hope she’ll love it. You hope she’ll feel all the love you’ve poured onto thinking of it, dreaming of it and then finally finding it.

But right now, what you’d also really love… is to know the word the jeweller chose for you.

Your eyes fall on your calendar, neatly hidden behind your coat rack. One month until your anniversary.

One month for you to find out what this word means.

The smell of something burning — and now you’re one-hundred-percent sure it’s oil — takes you out of your musings.

You hide the box at the very back of the last drawer in your bedside table, tucked under layers and layers of clothes. If she were to sleep in your room as she often does — that is, lying next to you for a few hours with her eyes glued to the ceiling, or flipping through a book — at least she won’t find it.

You open the door and yell into the corridor, “Stop burning things or I won’t give you some of the cheese!”

The reply doesn’t take long. “Oi!”

You laugh.

How much you’d love this to be your forever.

******************************************

You’re in your bedroom again, but this time the Doctor’s with you.

Your head is lying against her chest, one of her hands softly stroking your head. Your legs are tangled, and the only word that can describe the feeling of her skin against your is… bliss.

You’re almost dozing off, but you’re trying so hard not to. You’d like to enjoy this for as long as you can — her warmth surrounding you, the path her hands traced still burning on your skin.

You adjust your head so you’re looking at her face.

She’s staring at the ceiling — nothing unusual there. But her eyes are slower, fixed. Usually, you can see her already thinking of where to go next for when you leave the next places — plural — she’d already thought of a few minutes ago.

Her brain never stops, and you love her for it.

But right now, she’s calm. Sometimes, you have that effect on her. It’s like she, too, is trying to stay here for as long as she can.

The Doctor must’ve felt your gaze locked on her — her eyes start slowly coming down, searching for you.

You hide your face in the crook of her neck, pretending you weren’t staring.

She chuckles. She noticed, obviously.

Her hand comes down to the back of your neck, right there where the roots of your hair meet your skin.

And she strokes it. Gently. Slowly.

You think you’ll transcend.

You sigh softly. “Mhm. I could stay here forever,” you whisper.

And that’s when it dawns on you.

Forever.

Isn’t that the word you’re always thinking about when you’re next to her?

“Oh, I got it!” you mutter under your breath, sitting up.

She makes a “huh?” sound behind you.

You don’t answer. Your eyes just search for your calendar behind the coat rack — one week left.

“What is it? What did you get?” she asks, moving behind you, fully engaging in concerned-Time-Lord mode.

You grin, genuinely, pulling her back down onto the bed. “Nothing. I was just thinking out loud. You do it all the time, you’re rubbing off on me.”

She squints at the coat rack, then back at you — but lies back down anyway.

A few seconds pass. She humphs.

You laugh. But you just happen to know exactly how to keep her distracted from your little slip-up:

Time for round two.

******************************************

It’s the day of your anniversary and you’re a nervous wreck.

You’ve checked your pocket hundreds of times. You know the box is there. You check again anyway.

You ask the Doctor to go to Qantifer again. You’re afraid she’ll complain that you’ve been there recently and there’s nothing new to see — but she doesn’t.

She’s also strangely quiet.

The moment the TARDIS lands, she stops most of her mumbling, muttering and humming.

You try to stir up a conversation and it actually works — she grins, talks about the settlers, takes you to the so-sought-after perfect spot from last time: a bridge, where you can see the entire planet if you tiptoe.

But she’s quiet.

And you feel like you’ll die if you don’t start speaking any time soon.

“So—” you start—

— but at the same time she begins: “What do you—”

“Sorry,” you say in unison.

You laugh — or better yet, she laughs and you show her your teeth (you’re in no mood for laughing right now).

“You go,” she offers.

You open your mouth.

You close it.

Your hand presses against the box in your pocket.

No word comes.

You swallow, breaking eye contact, your eyes falling on the crowd below, gathering together, anxiously waiting for the fireworks as a few balloons dance freely in the sky.

You chuckle.

“It’s like they’re all watching it for the first time,” you blurt out.

She hums questioningly.

“The display,” you explain. “Doesn’t this happen everyday for them?”

The Doctor looks down to see what you mean.

She nods. “Oh yeah. Everyday. It’s the edge of the universe, everything’s in flux here.”

“Not for them, it isn’t,” you reply — and you really don’t know what point you’re trying to make, you want to shut up, but now she’s looking at you with those glowing eyes which means she’s interested, which means you can’t just stop now, can you? — “I mean, everyday is New Year’s Eve. I love the concept and the aesthetics, don’t get me wrong. But like, how does life even work?”

She purses her lips into a straight line, like she finds it amusing.

“A world not all here, not quite there, where everything changes but still stays the same,” she mutters. “Except this is the only life they know. You’re judging things based on the only life you know. To them,” she looks at the crowd again, smiling brightly, “this is a today forever worth living for. Even if they know how it ends. Especially because they do.”

Tears well up on your eyes and you fight to keep them at bay — this is it. That’s your cue.

Just then, the countdown starts — ten minutes to.

You sniff. “Yeah, that actually makes sense.”

Then you clear your throat. “About that—” you stop, laugh nervously, rubbing your eyes, “not the settlers. Forever, I mean.”

You curse yourself under your breath. “No, I wasn’t supposed to start like this. I—”

You clear your throat again. You can feel your hands shaking.

You look at the timer — nine minutes and a half.

“Okay,” you begin again. “I’ve been thinking— always thought to be honest— no, not always, that sounds weird. Although things with you never really happen in a straight line, so…” you chuckle, “Maybe it was from the beginning, who knows?”

Eight minutes and a half.

“But, uh, you know humans. And you know how we do things. And I understand if they don’t make any sense to you — sometimes you don’t make any sense to me, either.”

You grimace. What a way to go in your actual proposal.

“What I’m trying to say is: I’ve been thinking of a way. To say this. It. What I want to say. In a way that you—”

You stop to glance at the Doctor.

Her eyebrows are slightly raised. She’s nodding. Lips pressed together.

You know that face. You just can’t remember what it means.

You glance at the clock. Six minutes.

“—that you—” Under any normal circumstance, she’d probably be plotting her escape route.

Where have you seen that face before?

It hits like a flash: when someone’s explaining something to her, but she already knows exactly how it works and is just trying not to show it.

“—you—”

She’s still nodding. Same exact expression.

Why would she be making that face at you?

Then it crashes into you like one of the fireworks just exploded inside your skull.

The Spring Cleaning. The picture of her wife.

The flyer lying on the kitchen floor.

The coincidence of orbiting the moon of Woozillers.

“—you bastard!” you finally finish the sentence.

The Doctor tilts her head, alarmed. “What?!”

“You complete and utter bastard! You know very well what I’m talking about— you knew! You knew!” you shout, pacing now, somewhere between betrayal and sheer mortification. “How long have you known?!”

She shoves her hands into her coat pockets, looking affronted. “I don’t know what you mean!”

“You let me go through all that— Ugh, I just— Am I really that predictable?”

“No, no, no” she shakes her hand in front of you, grimacing. “I wasn’t expecting it, actually. Honest.”

“Then how?!” you ask — no, demand.

She wrinkles her nose.

You jab your index finger in her face. “Not taking that today. How. Did. You. Know?”

“I was trying to keep you healthy,” she replies, defensively. “And I think I got it right, haven’t seen you sick since!”

You frown.

“Marathon day?” she offers, tentative, like she’s hoping you won’t remember.

“What’s that got to do with this?”

“The pill’s side effects were… a bit unexpected,” she says.

Your jaw nearly hits the floor. “You mean— You mean I…?”

She tilts her head side to side. “Sort of?”

“So you already know everything I was going to say?”

“Sort of,” she repeats.

With a smile. One she’s trying to hide.

You let out a shaky breath, burying your face in your hands. And it’s then that you realise:

You’re the frog in boiling water. This is you being scalded.

And God, what a gorgeous scalding it is.

She erms. “I’m… sorry?” she offers, more question than apology. “I just thought — you weren’t yourself when it happened. I wanted you to get to do it properly. How else was I supposed to help?”

You laugh. Incredulous, fond, and incredibly annoyed.

“No, it’s fine. You already know what I was going to say. You already knew what I’d been planning—”

You turn, not because you’re mad. Just to fetch something.

A small box, waiting patiently in your pocket.

Behind you, she calls your name, somewhat worried.

But you’re on a roll now. “—but I bet you haven’t seen this coming!”

And then, you show it.

The wooden box fits neatly in your palm as you extend it to her.

You make sure the Doctor is looking at it, then you touch the top. It opens and inside it — there’s the earring.

Made for her, exclusively. Poured with so much love.

You’re nervous, of course. The hand holding the box is shaking.

But she doesn’t seem to notice. Her eyes are glued to the earring, mouth slightly open, frozen in her spot.

You managed to render her speechless. You certainly hadn’t seen that coming.

You're grinning so much it hurts. Her hands clench and unclench, like she wants to move but just… can't.

Her eyes briefly cross yours, before falling back on the box. You swear you've never seen her this… moved.

When she finally makes a move, slowly reaching for the earring…

The fireworks begin. New Year's Eve ends — and a new New Year's Eve begins.

But the two of you barely notice the spectacle. You're watching her every move, tears pooling at your eyes — and hers, if you're seeing it right — when she picks it up and studies it.

And studies it. And studies it.

Then, her face breaks in the brightest, most beautiful smile you've ever seen.

She's not just happy, though. It's a mix of surprise, curiosity, that childlike happiness you're so used to, and love.

Oh, you feel so much love.

You're laughing and crying now, both contradictions peacefully coexisting as her eyes flick back to the earring.

The Doctor taps her feet a few times, you know she’s trying to contain herself.

Then she looks at you. “Do you know what this means?”

And with the way her smile glows brighter than the fireworks above, you know this would be your epiphany if you hadn’t already had it.

Her earlier words come to mind, and you nod. “It’s a New Year’s Eve. One I wanna see the end. Do you?”

Her grin widens as she clips the earring to her ear. “I have so many questions!” she nearly squeaks. “Have you got yours too?”

You do. It’s in your other pocket — you didn’t want to risk giving her the wrong one. You slip it on, same ear as hers, and your heartbeat is hanging on by a thread.

You’re matching.

You’re the one proposing and you’re trying not to break down.

She bites her bottom lip, eyes locked on your ear.

You try a joke — one so very her — hoping to stay above water.

“How do I look?” you ask, turning your head like you’re posing.

She mouths an “oh,” smiling like she’s sharing a secret. “Like forever.”

And there it is: her I do.

You close your eyes, releasing the breath you hadn’t noticed you were holding.

It’s real. After all the planning and overthinking, she said yes.

And when her hands cup your face, when her lips find yours, you know:

Seiichirou clapped his hands together and bowed his head in a small prayer. He would have lit incense if he had any, but incense from this world would probably kill him. That would be a touch more dramatic of a reaction than the prayer for the dead already was.

After three years in another world, his old world watch had finally died.

Without batteries, there would be no fixing it, and so he would have to replace it with a local watch. It was something of an end of an era, as the last piece of his own world that he carried. He shook his head and left the watch on his end table, the time frozen at 3:08.

When he wakes up in the black castle, he finds himself surrounded by kittens and... a baby dragon? They walk around him and call him so familiarly, and Cale's heart nearly drops into his stomach when he sees Ron walking into the room.

Ron offers him lemonade, but he's too busy staring at the old man who is supposed to be dead years ago because of Arm, alive, healthy and well.

Confused and shaken beyond belief, he jumps out of the bed, ignoring the calls of children he doesn't recognize and runs out of the room. He finds himself in a castle he has no knowledge of. There he sees a bunch of people he knows and doesn't know.

Rosalyn and Lark, who are part of that black haired hero's party. (Though this Lock is much younger and less destructive than the one he remembers--). Children from Wolf tribe he doesn't recognize, but calls out to him so very familiarly.

Vicross, as neat as always and seemingly comfortable in his presence--the chef who disappeared with Ron, and he remembers the shell the man became when Ron... when that old man died tragically.

He meets an elf dressed in white and gold-- a transparent white haired woman floating beside him-- (what the fuck?) a woman in black robe and spiderweb like marks on her skin-- (a necromancer, what the fuCK--)

and lastly-- he meets choi han. choi han, who looks at him and smiles like they're familiar with each other. choi han, who talks to him politely yet familiarly. choi han, who seems close to him. choi han, who calls him "Cale-nim" instead of "bastard"

it is at that point when cale remembers the voice he heard before that white star bastard shot fire at him. the voice of the god of death, offering him a deal. a deal to save his family and this god damn kingdom they live in. a deal to fix this mess caused by the white star.

a deal where he can meet his mother.

he remembers of that deal, and looks at choi han. the bastard who beat him up for the sake of harris village. ...the damn harris village. his mother. his mother's death. the reason why his mother had to die in the first place.

cale remembers, and so he coldly speaks to this man he has no fondness for, insisting that he speaks with him. alone. with no eavesdropping.

the last point is directed at the people who've chased after his running figure, his glare so cold and uncharacteristic of their young master cale that they can't help but to follow his orders, out of fear of offending him further.

in a room bare of anything aside from choi han and cale himself, cale curses choi han out when the other called him 'cale-nim', the disgust so stark clear on his face. enough for choi han to realize that this person is not his cale.

"you're not cale-nim." he says, wary.

cale scoffs. "i was born as cale henituse and grew up as cale henituse. who do you think you are?" that's when choi han realizes. this is the real cale henituse. the real owner of this body that kim rok soo woke up in a few years ago.

"...you're the real cale henituse."

"damn right, bastard."

choi han hesitates. "...where is kim rok soo?"

kim rok soo. cale remembers that name. thats the name of the person he's supposed to switch places with. the person the god of death said will help fix things up and save his family.

cale insists that he's the one who has the right to ask questions, because this is his body. and choi han reluctantly relents after confirmation that cale hasn't hurt kim rok soo, that he randomly wakes up here without knowing anything at all.

cale starts to ask about the war. the wyverns. puzzle city. the empire. the monsters. the sealed god. the golems. alchemy. arm. white star. although choi han is bewildered. he answers them all truthfully.

the empire is defeated, choi han says. the golems are destroyed. black despair is no more. the monsters are defeated. the sealed god is no more. the secret organization and white star are as dead as they can be.

hearing all of these, cale can't help but to tremble.

"then," he says, with a shaking voice.

"then, what about the henituse territory? what about my father? violan, basen and lily?"

seeing his trembling figure, choi han answers truthfully.

they're safe. the county is a duchy now. duke deruth is busy with territory management. basen is going to become the next lord. lily is shaping up to be a great swordmaster.

choi han sees the trembles of cale's shoulders, and only watches with shaking eyes when cale bursts into laughter. loud, maniacal laughter, though his shoulder is hunched, and he is trembling.

and then, much to his shock, he sees tears.

cale is crying. no, he's sobbing.

painful, relieved sobs. his sadness and grief bleeding out of his very figure. the original cale henituse stands in front of choi han, sobbing to his hands even as a smile starts to bloom on his lips.

faintly, choi han can hear him mumble.

"they're alive," cale sobs.

"they're alive. they're alive. that's great. that's great. that's really, really great."

then, as if no longer able to see choi han in front of him, with hazy eyes and tears streaming out of them, cale henituse looks up to the ceiling, his voice a soft whisper.

"i accept your deal."

chill runs up choi han's body at that point, and he watches in shock as cale suddenly falls to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut, unconscious.

the next day, cale henituse will wake up with kim rok soo inside of the body once more, with no recollection of what had happened the day the original cale henituse took over his body for a little while.