#third x reader

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.