#skfdkjdf

It hadn’t hit you, not at first. There hadn’t been time initially; there so rarely ever was. Not when there was so much going on, so much to do. And even after, when you had slammed shut the doors of the TARDIS and left the planet behind, you were still riding the wave of exhilaration. It was that particular brand of adrenaline utterly unique to traveling with the Doctor, and it kept your mind focused on moving forwards, with nothing more distant than the here and now. It was glorious, chaotic, intoxicating. It was survival. It kept the awareness of even bodily injuries from distracting you, because it didn’t matter that you couldn’t make a fist with your left hand, or that Yaz’s shirt was more blood than anything else, or that the Doctor could only draw in measured, shallow breaths. The only thing that mattered was the next step, the next breath drawn, the next moment unfolded. Surviving. And when you had survived, when you leaned panting against the doors of the TARDIS and watched while the Doctor flew around the console, her hands a blur and her voice a continuous counterpart of conversation to the groaning of the timeship as it took flight away, away from there- that was when the wave was at its peak. It flooded you with triumph and coloured everything golden, bright. It was a sort of pride that said yes, we did it, another adventure completed, another win. So no, it didn’t hit you right away, the impact of what you had just seen. What you had just done. The choices you had made, the consequences you had watched unfold. It wasn’t till you stood swaying in the console room and watched as the Doctor and Yaz moved away that you started to feel it. To understand. Horror trickled through you, slowly at first, but building. Between one breath and the next, it was a flood. Your face felt cold even as your injured arm began to burn, and you couldn’t stop remembering, couldn’t stop seeing, not even when you closed your eyes- And then, nothing. Your mind had carefully and firmly blanked. At some point you had ended up in your room, sitting on the floor. You weren’t sure if that was by choice or not. It didn’t matter. You sat and stared at nothing, safer by far than closing your eyes. Your wounded arm was not exactly numb; you were aware of the pain. It just didn’t touch you. (You were also aware, distantly, that you should probably have followed Yaz and the Doctor to the medbay, but you hadn’t. Had just stood there, alone in the gently humming console, until your feet moved on their own, took you away.) It was Yaz who eventually found you, sitting against your bed with your knees drawn to your chest. She might have spoken to you, or she might not have. It was only when you realized that you were warmer and turned your head that you noticed her, settled down next to you on the floor. You shook your head slightly; you got the impression that you weren’t keeping track of time in an entirely coherent manner. You blinked slowly, realized belatedly that Yaz had said something. “What?” “I don’t want to be alone,” Yaz repeated, and paused. “Do you?” The words were raw, scraped too thinly over exhaustion and pain to be in any way gentle. But they were for all that kind. Kind, and sincere. Because they were coming from Yaz. What she said, she meant. “No,” you whispered, and leaned your head against her shoulder. Your hand found its way into hers without conscious effort or choice, or perhaps it was her hand that found yours. You both sat that way for a while, with clutching hands and distant eyes. You were still in a conflicting state of numb fog mixed intermittently with flashes of horror, but it was easier with Yaz there. Or if not easier, at least… better. She had seen the same things, had made the same choices, was living with the same memories. Eventually, a separate thought floated to the top of your mind, and you mumbled it into Yaz’s shoulder: “What’s the Doctor doing?” “Wondering why her friends are hiding on a floor, and not in the medbay where they’re supposed to be.” You felt Yaz jump, and you lifted your head, looking over the edge of your bed to see the Doctor framed in the doorway. Yaz leaned around the edge of the bed to look for herself, then settled back against you with a released breath. “She really loves making a dramatic entrance,” Yaz muttered, and despite everything, your lips twitched in an approximation of a smile. It was true. “I heard that,” the Doctor said as she moved into the room. Her boots appeared in your field of vision, followed abruptly by the rest of her as she crouched down in front of you and Yaz. You blinked, focusing on her face and noting idly how her ear-cuff glinted in the dim light as she turned her head from you to Yaz. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, and her eyes were narrowed. She looked worried. Tired. “You didn’t follow us to the medbay,” the Doctor said, and you realized that she was looking at you again. “Weren’t you hit by one of those blasters?” Her tone was neutral, but her eyes were flickering with a restless, almost angry tension as they moved down. You looked down as well. “I- didn’t think about it,” you said truthfully, looking blankly at your left arm. You felt Yaz move. “That looks bad,” she said, and the genuine concern in her voice reached you even through your hazy disinterest. “It’s not, but it does need tending,” the Doctor said, though she was looking at your face as she spoke, not your wound. “I didn’t think about it,” you repeated, your voice hollow. Something in the Doctor’s expression shifted, and you struggled to elaborate. You wanted to appease that look in the Doctor’s eyes, but it was hard to find words when emotions themselves eluded you. “I just- I- I didn’t-” you were trying to articulate, but you could feel those emotions (your pain, your memories) welling up in your chest, in your throat, and they were choking you. Yaz tightened her grip on your hand, and the Doctor’s expression shifted again. “Hey, alright, it’s fine, you don’t need to explain-” she began, soothingly, but the memories were still rising, building, and something had to give, something had to give. “- and I can’t- if I try- I can’t make it stop-” “Can’t make what stop-” “They’re… even when I- I close my eyes and I- I see it all again, again and again-” you shuddered and fell silent as you choked on your own words. Yaz was also silent, but tears were running slowly down her cheeks and her own gaze was glazed and distant with remembered horrors. The Doctor’s lips had parted slightly, but as her gaze moved from you to Yaz and she saw the tears, her lips flattened again, pressed tight over words she did not say. They were present in her eyes, though. The Doctor was tired, hurting, and now she was angry too. Angry for the pain she saw in her companions, for the damage done. But her voice when she spoke was absent of that anger. She was good at that, at misdirection. Only her eyes ever betrayed her true self when she let her guard slip. But you weren’t looking at her eyes, or anything else. Nothing in that room, anyways. “Oh,” the Doctor said softly, “oh, my poor fam. Come here, you lot.” Leaning forwards, she pulled you both towards her and into an embrace. You closed your eyes as your face pressed up against the fabric of the Doctor’s coat and inhaled the familiar scent (vanilla, with hints of machinery and something else, something distinctly her). You could feel Yaz next to you, your hands still entwined. It was an awkward, precarious embrace, huddled as you were on the floor and with only four good arms to go around for the three of you. Yes, it was awkward. It was also suddenly as necessary to you as air, as the next drawn breath. You shuddered again as the Doctor spoke, her voice still gentle and absent of the storm that lurked in her eyes. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” she murmured, her head bent over you and Yaz. Her own eyes slid closed, and you could hear the exhaustion in her voice, the way it rasped slightly. She had taken damage too, you remembered.  Anger stirred in you, a sharp jab that pushed away some of your numb fog. You lifted your injured arm and wrapped it painfully around the Doctor, holding her to you as tightly as you could. “Are- you okay?” you asked the Doctor, your voice muffled by her shirt and coat. The Doctor made a quiet sound, something not quite a word, and you felt her shift, pulling you more fully into her arms while her head bent closer over yours, her nose resting in your hair. You could feel her heartbeats against your own chest, and unconsciously you began to match your breathing to hers. “Oh, yeah. You know me, I’m the king of okay.” The words were almost (almost) convincing, falling breezily from the Doctor’s mouth with what was close to her normal light, irreverent tone. Close. She obviously heard the discrepancy too, and cleared her throat. “Have you seen anything like that before?” Yaz asked. “Have you- done that-” she trailed off bleakly, and the Doctor was silent for a few moments. “I’ve been traveling for a long time,” she said finally, quietly. “I’ve seen the worst of the universe, in so many forms and species. Death and famine and war and senseless, needless cruelty, selfishness and fear…” her arms tightened around you and Yaz as she spoke. “But I’ve seen the best of the universe too. People who leap to protect others without even a thought, who stand in front of those in need and go above and beyond to make the universe a better, kinder place.” She pressed a soft kiss to your head, then did the same to Yaz. “Does it get easier?” Yaz asked. “Having to see the- the worst bits?” Again, the Doctor was silent, and this time the moment stretched just a little bit too long. “Come on then,” she said, and she had layered her words with that breezy cheerfulness again, avoiding Yaz’s question. “Enough moping around on the floor. How about some tea? I love tea-” she was moving as she spoke, extricating herself from the embrace and standing. She helped up Yaz, then held out a hand to you. You started to reach up with your injured arm, then dropped it with a wince and proffered your other hand. “Mmm,” the Doctor said as she pulled you up, her eyes sharp on your bad arm. “But before tea, you need patched up.” She had kept a grip on your arm, eyed it critically while moving it gently back and forth. You blinked slowly. The presence of Yaz and the Doctor (and the touch of their skin on yours) was an anchor, but you were still drifting as your mind tried to shield you. To forget. “I’ll start the tea,” Yaz said, wiping surreptitiously at her cheeks. The Doctor’s eyes moved to her briefly and her expression softened, though she did not comment, only nodded. The three of you left, Yaz vanishing in the direction of the kitchen while you trailed after the Doctor (who couldn’t seem to make herself walk slowly to save her life) into the medbay. It didn’t take particularly long to clean and bandage your arm (the wound was largely superficial, if painful) and soon you and the Doctor joined Yaz in the kitchen. True to her word, Yaz had started the tea, and when you came in it was to the sight of her straining to reach some mugs, her face tight with frustration and pain. “I got it,” the Doctor said, stepping forwards quickly. For someone who was by the most generous of estimates barely an inch taller than Yaz, the Doctor nonetheless rarely missed an opportunity to flex her superior height. You rather suspected that Ryan and Graham had begun storing items in higher and higher places, and for precisely that reason. (You were for example sure that the coat hook in the console room had been stealthily and consistently adjusted until it was several inches higher, and counting. One of these days the Doctor was going to try to hang up her coat and find herself to reach, and then… well, you weren’t sure what would happen but you doubted popcorn would be out of place.) You’d been meaning to broach the topic with Yaz and brainstorm possible counter attacks against Ryan and Graham’s mischief… perhaps the TARDIS could be wheedled into lowering the door frames? You accepted a mug of tea automatically from Yaz, your gaze distant as your thoughts pieced themselves together sluggishly, disjointed. Ryan and Graham… you looked up suddenly, and met the eyes of the Doctor. She’d been watching you, and there was a crease next to her left brow. “Are you- are- Ryan and Graham?” you said haltingly, not sure why the words were so reluctant to form. “Yeah, we should probably be picking them back up soon?” Yaz said, though her tone made it into a question as she too looked at the Doctor. “You know how Graham gets,” she added with a faint smile. “Right you are,” the Doctor agreed, setting down her tea. Her eyes flicked between you and Yaz, and her lips pressed together again over more unspoken words. “I’ll just be a mo,” she said, and slipped away. A vacuum of silence was left in her wake, and you and Yaz looked at each other. The memories seemed somehow brighter, more real in that ringing silence. As if they filled the room with a swelling, tangible presence and left no room for you and Yaz. She must have felt it too, because after a moment she stepped to your side, and her free hand found yours again. Not long after the familiar groaning wheeze of the TARDIS filtered into the room, followed by a brief silence and then muffled voices, growing louder. You had one of those sudden painfully clear thoughts that cut so sharply through the fog, and realized that you were not prepared to talk to Ryan and Graham. Yaz’s grip on your hand was suddenly tight, or perhaps it was your grip on hers. You clung to each other, silent in solidarity and apprehension. The voices grew louder, then suddenly muted as another voice spoke over them. It was the Doctor, and though you couldn’t hear her actual words, you could hear the cautionary tone of her voice. There followed a few more exchanges, more subdued, and then a brief silence. When the Doctor stepped back into the room, she was alone. She lifted a hand and brushed hair out of her eyes as she approached you and Yaz. Though her face was drawn tight with exhaustion, her eyes were as sharp as ever as they focused on the two of you, and she noted immediately the way you were clutching each other with pale, wan faces. “Oh,” she said, and there was something so deeply, painfully sad in that one quiet word that you felt as if it shivered in the air, in your heart. You were too raw for it, and closed your eyes- no! You opened them again, afraid of what you saw when you closed them, when you shut out the distractions of the world, when you let yourself still and think and- There was a tug on your hand. You blinked, and realized that the Doctor had grasped Yaz’s other hand and was pulling her away, and you with them. You followed as they moved to the library. Partially because following was easier than resisting, but mostly because when all else failed, you had that, had them. You would follow those two women into anything. “We’ve got tea and biscuits,” the Doctor said, sitting down on a sofa next to Yaz. You had just settled on Yaz’s other side when the Doctor had snapped her fingers and leapt back to her feet. “I know! A fire, we should have a fire. That’s proper cozy, just what we need.” She took off her coat and tossed it over the arm of the sofa before moving to crouch in front of the fireplace. She muttered all-but inaudibly to herself for a few moments as she poked around (you thought you heard a flippant ‘this should be fine’ which didn’t inspire an awful lot of confidence). A few experimental buzzes on the sonic however produced a very respectable fire indeed, and one that didn’t seem too likely to burn down the room. “There,” the Doctor said in a satisfied voice, rocking back on her heels and dusting off her hands. “Cozy.” She placed her hands on her knees and glanced briefly over her shoulder at you and Yaz. Her hair had fallen across her face again, and strands of it were limned in gold by the light of the fire. You stared at her, crouched, disheveled, tired, shadowed. Yet she glowed. She glowed. She caught your eye and smiled, pushing some of her hair out of her face. “You’re going to stay with us?” Yaz asked, moving over as the Doctor resettled herself on the couch between you and her. “‘Course,” the Doctor said easily, leaning back against the cushions and crossing her legs. She reached out and grasped one of Yaz’s hands, then yours. Her fingers curled gently around yours and she gave a soft squeeze. “For a bit, anyway. I think we should be together after… after that. And,” she added, an attempt at sternness as she looked between you, “this seems better than huddling on a floor.” The sternness was somewhat undercut by the way she squeezed your hand again, however. You leaned your head against her shoulder, staring sightlessly into the fire. On your other side Yaz copied you, and the Doctor made a quiet sound, dropping quick kiss on Yaz’s head, and then yours. “My fam,” she said softly. “I’ve got you.” “We’ve got each other,” Yaz corrected, and you nodded in agreement, feeling the Doctor’s hair brush across your face. “Right,” the Doctor said, and her voice sounded odd. She cleared her throat. “Do you… want to talk about it?”  Your breath seized. The shard of bright, unflinching memory pierced your fog, tore it to shreds like damp paper. You stiffened, clutching convulsively at the Doctor’s hand and turning your face into her shoulder, away from the light. Your chest had tightened at the thought of- at the thought- and your arm jerked as it gave a sullen pulse of pain, as if the conversation had woken it. “Or… maybe we just talk, about any old thing,” the Doctor continued. She was looking down at you, and for a moment the reflected firelight was nothing compared to the fire in her eyes. You couldn’t see that, though. You could just feel her warmth against you, and her gentle hand around yours. Yes, it was only her eyes that ever betrayed her. “That sounds good,” you heard Yaz say faintly. So that’s what you did, the three of you. You talked. Mostly the Doctor, spinning stories of past adventures and regenerations and friends. The stories often brought up more questions than than they resolved, but that was okay. You had long since accustomed yourself to the Doctor’s whimsical and rapid-fire method of speaking, the way she blended the ordinary and extraordinary with effortless, capricious casualty. She was youthful and brilliant; she was ancient and utterly mad. She was both the raging storm and the anchor that kept you safe, and as she spun her stories in that quiet room you felt your mind finally begin to quiet. Not all the way, not even close, but… a veneer of normalcy crept over you, and you relaxed. Eventually, impossibly, you fell asleep. You hadn’t wanted to, knowing what you’d see when you closed your eyes with nothing left to confront but yourself. Those thoughts, those memories. But you weren’t alone, and the Doctor’s familiar voice (along with her presence, and Yaz’s) slowly suffused you with enough peace that your mind quieted. And with the quiet came, blessedly, sleep. Your head was in the Doctor’s lap at that point. She had draped an arm over your side, and the gentle circles made by her fingers had been a countermelody to her voice, another anchor. At some point Yaz drifted off as well. She had moved to the floor (she said she liked her feet toasty, though the Doctor suspected that in truth her shoulder was aching) and dozed with her back against the sofa and her head just touching yours as it rested against the Doctor’s thigh. The Doctor stopped talking, eventually. But she did not sleep. If you had been awake, if you had seen the fire reflected in her ancient, solemn gaze, you might have wondered if she too was afraid of what she would see behind closed eyes. So there was silence for a long time. Until- “How are they doing?” The Doctor looked away slowly from the hearth to look at Ryan. She gave him a tired smile as he lurked in the doorway; his posture was worried, unsure. But at her smile the young man stepped farther into the room, his gaze moving between you and Yaz. The Doctor followed his gaze, her eyes fixing on Yaz in the flickering firelight. Yaz always managed to look worried when she slept, so that at least wasn’t new. But the Doctor felt that the policewoman’s face was more stark, the skin more tightly drawn over her bones than normal… and the heavy bandaging on her shoulder didn’t do much to help dispel the image. The Doctor’s gaze moved to the side, followed slowly by her head and her hair fell partially across her face as she looked down at her other sleeping companion. You. It was less normal for you to look so harried, so upset when sleeping, and the Doctor’s eyes might have tightened as she stared. But her hand that rested on your side remained soft, gentle. Protective. “I don’t know,” she answered finally, and even she could hear how tired her voice sounded. How helpless. “Not worse.” “That’s something, then,” Ryan said, though his tone lacked conviction. The Doctor looked up at him and managed another tired smile. There was no joy or happiness in it, but there was genuine appreciation for Ryan and his kindness. “Yes, it is.” “If you want a break or anything, I can sit with them-” “No.” Guttural, low, raw. The word was an instinctive reaction that left no time or room for softening, and even the Doctor was startled when it left her lips. Just one word, but it had been torn from a primal place of raised hackles, bared teeth, flashing eyes. “No,” she repeated, more gently. “I’ve got this.” Her voice was still ever so polite, and it didn’t match her eyes even a little bit. Ryan nodded cautiously, his eyes moving from the Doctor’s left hand (which had moved to cup your head, fingers splayed as if to shield) to her right (which had dropped to Yaz’s un-bandaged shoulder). The gestures were small, but there was nothing subtle about them, and Ryan was wise enough not to push. Not when he saw the cracks in the Doctor’s composure, confined though they were to her eyes (and to that one devastating word). For someone normally so open and upfront with her emotions… it was more alarming than if she had shouted. Those bared fangs and flashing eyes lurked just beneath the surface of her familiarity, a familiarity which suddenly seemed so thin, so insubstantially draped over the ancient, feral thing that she truly was. Ryan had to remind himself again that this person, this friend of his, was not human. But she was his friend, and he did not fear her. So he nodded again, and he did what friends do. He offered his help once more, even in the face of her pain and rejection. “Well, if you do need anything, Graham and I are around, okay?” “I’ll keep it in mind,” the Doctor said, and the wildness had receded from her eyes as she watched him move to go. (Receded, yes, but it lurked. Always, it lurked.) “Ryan-” he turned, looked at her, “thank you. Really.” Ryan nodded, because he heard the tacit apology, because he understood. He left the Doctor alone with you and Yaz, once again staring into the depths of the fire with unreadable eyes while her hands remained as they were, draped protectively over you both. Keeping you to her. When you woke a while later, for a moment you thought she had gone. Then you heard the soft sounds of murmured voices and stifled weeping. You opened your eyes slowly, forgetting for a moment where you were or why there was such a heavy, cold weight in your gut. Then you remembered. You lifted your head and blinked blearily. The fire had died down to sullen embers, and the light in the room was muted, somber. You realized eventually that you were looking at the back of the Doctor’s head, and she was sitting on the floor cross-legged next to Yaz. “-nothing to be ashamed of,” the Doctor was saying. Yaz wiped almost angrily at her face, and you realized she had been the source of weeping. “I’m not,” Yaz said, her voice low and miserable. “Or- well, maybe I am. I mean, I have training for this kind of thing. Trauma and violence, and that sort-” “Training isn’t meant to produce apathy,” the Doctor interrupted firmly. “Training means you can still act and handle yourself in a tense situation, not that you’re unaffected by it, especially after.” “Well, yes but-” “And,” the Doctor continued, slightly louder, “I doubt training for the Sheffield police covers intergalactic warfare, hm? More parking tickets, fewer bio-morphic super-weapons, possibly?” Yaz smiled despite herself and ducked her head. “You did brilliantly,” the Doctor added, quieter. “That was-” she hesitated. “Horrible,” Yaz whispered, and the Doctor reached over, grabbed her hand. “Yes.” There was a lengthy silence, and though you couldn’t see the Doctor’s face, you could see when she took in a deep breath and tensed her shoulders before speaking again. “I can take you home,” the Time Lord said softly, as if the words didn’t tear at her as they left her mouth. But even you could see how rigidly she held herself. “If you want-” “NO!” The Doctor actually winced as you and Yaz both shouted at the same time, turning to look at you with a scrunched nose as you shoved yourself upright with your good arm. “No,” you repeated. “Absolutely not,” Yaz added, and despite the recent tears her voice was steady. The Doctor looked between the two of you. Her expression was serious, determined; she fully intended to take you and Yaz home if asked. But you could see the burgeoning hope in her eyes. The relief.  “I can’t promise that this is the last time,” she warned. “It could happen again. It probably will. I would understand if you wanted to go home-” “We said no,” Yaz interrupted. She was still holding the Doctor’s hand, and you slid stiffly off the sofa so that you could crouch on the Doctor’s other side and grab that hand too. “We are home,” you said. You might have tilted your head, gestured at the room. But your eyes remained steady on the two women. Home. “But-” “We are home,” Yaz repeated, firmly. “We’re a fam, right?” The Doctor was uncharacteristically silent as she looked from Yaz to you, then down at the chain made by your linked hands. You saw her throat move as she swallowed. You met Yaz’s eyes, and then the two of you leaned over and enveloped the Doctor in an embrace. Your face rested somewhere between the Doctor’s neck and shoulder, and you could feel the delicate flutter of her pulse (as well as Yaz’s hair tickling your nose). It wasn’t even remotely comfortable, that embrace. You were all of you stiff (injured, exhausted) and your arms and legs met in a lumpy, disorganized, awkward jumble. And you wouldn’t trade it for the world. Yours, or any of the others you and seen, any you had yet to see. This was home. The three of you remained that way for several quiet, fragile moments. Even the Doctor was silent, and you could feel the hitch in her breaths. It might have been from the smoke inhalation, from her injury… but you didn’t think so. You could still feel her rapid pulse, could still feel her hand gripping yours so tightly. Could still remember the fear in her eyes when she spoke of leaving you... and the relief when you refused. Several moments of fragile silence, that stretched into the shadowed corners of the room and to the stars beyond. Then you felt the Doctor stiffen, as if remembering something. Her chest rose as words made their way to her mouth, and some sliver of premonition (or perhaps more accurately, past experiences) made your lips twitch into the beginnings of a smile before her words were fully formed. “How do you lot keep ending up on the floor?! There’s furniture, proper furniture, and yet once again I find you like this- funny, is it?” the last words were delivered to Yaz, who had begun to giggle. It was infectious, and you began to as well, you face still pressed against the Doctor’s neck. “You two started it,” you pointed out, your voice somewhat muffled. “No, Yaz started it,” the Doctor said automatically, as if scoring a point. Yaz lifted her head and gave her a dirty look. “I- hey! It’s not like either of you had to join me-” “But you did start it,” you replied, giggling again in response to Yaz’s indignant sputter. “That’s- hang on, you started it! Back in your room!” “Well, then you’re both copy-cats who have no one to blame but yourselves,” you said loftily, and were rewarded when both women made sounds of outrage. It only made you laugh harder, especially when an exasperated Doctor tried in a grand gesture to stand up, but utterly failed to escape the tangled embrace. Eventually the noise attracted Ryan and Graham, who poked their heads cautiously into the room. The apprehension that had lined their faces shifted into confusion, and ended up somewhere between amusement and exasperation. “They’re mad,” Graham observed, absently taking a bite out of sandwich that Ryan didn’t care to guess the contents of. Ryan was silent as he watched for a moment longer, taking in the gasping, arguing, laughing pile that was the three of you. Your arms were still entwined, and Yaz had her head thrown back against the couch as she giggled. The Doctor was still making an effort at standing (and was unsurprisingly in the midst of delivering what appeared to be a lecture, though it was largely undercut by the amused curve of her lips) but was thwarted, both by Yaz’s entangled legs, and by her coat which had slipped off the soft to drape across all three of you- indeed, your face was completely covered by it, and Ryan could only hear muffled sounds of laughter and protest coming from beneath it. “Reckon so,” he said finally. Graham noted with some surprise that he was smiling. “C’mon, let’s leave them be. They’ll be fine.” And he was right.  It would take time, of course. All things do. But you all had each other. You were, after all, a fam. You would be fine. There was still so much of the universe to see.