Chapter Text
The TARDIS is groaning.
You’ve never heard her make a sound like that before. It’s almost like she’s sick, her middle spiral turning far slower than usual.
You glance at the Doctor and she looks just as scared as you are.
So reassuring.
“Doctor?” you call out, clutching your personal favourite spiral for dear life as the ship jolts the two of you side to side, like she’s trying to shake you off. “What the hell is going on?”
“Erm,” she yells back, “Don’t worry! I’ve got everything under control—”
The console erupts in sparks and flame. You barely catch a glimpse of the Doctor falling backwards.
“I don’t mean to kill the vibe, but it don’t look like you’ve got everything under control!”
“I don’t know what you mean!” she shouts. “Hold on, let me try something!”
She ducks under the console and re-emerges with a hammer.
You stare.
She takes a deep breath.
“Oh no. No, no, no,” you say, panicked. “I really don’t think that’s a good—”
She slams the hammer down. Hard.
“Sorry!” she winces like the blow hurt her more than it did the ship.
The cloister bells begin to ring. The amber lights turn to red. The TARDIS jolts once again and you almost fall.
“Sorry again!” she calls, and brings the hammer down a second time.
Then, without warning—
Thomp .
The TARDIS lands. Unceremoniously. As if none of it ever happened.
The Doctor is clinging to the console, wide-eyed, hair a mess. You’re still hugging the pillar like you’re expecting it to hug back.
She shoots you a shaky grin. “Here we are, then!”
You glance toward the doors. “Are we actually there? Is it really Rio?”
“Yeah!” she grins, mostly with her mouth. Her brow is still furrowed. “Sure. Rio. Bang right.”
You’re not sure you believe her. Still, you bolt for the door anyway.
You’re expecting a beach — sun, heat, salty air clinging to your very soul.
What you get… is so much more disappointing.
You stare down a hill. Below, rows of identical houses sit in tidy formation.
And a sign that reads: Welcome to Wayloncree.
You turn back into the TARDIS — and nearly run into the Doctor.
“Small problem,” she says, grimacing.
“You don’t say,” you shoot back.
“This isn’t Rio.”
“Yeah, the lack of a beach kind of gave it away,” you reply, flashing her a sarcastic smile. “Where are we?”
The Doctor rushes back to the console, reading from one of the screens. “America. Ohio. Wayloncreek.” Then she grimaces again. “1954.”
“Oh. Creek, not Cree. That makes more sense.” You pause. “Can’t we just… leave?”
“In theory, yes — just… not right this moment. The TARDIS needs a breather. Bit of a recharge. Cosmic indigestion, really. We’ll be in and out before you can say ‘Rio’.”
“Wait. You actually wanna go down there? Can’t we wait here?” you ask.
“There’s a lot of smoke!” she exclaims, like that’s a good enough reason, and this isn’t an infinite ship with infinite rooms. “Also, bit of a weird energy reading. We should check it out.”
But she’s biting back a smile, and her eyes are glowing gold under the lights.
You smile back. There isn’t a single thing you wouldn’t do for that grin of hers.
“Come on, then,” you sigh, rolling your eyes playfully. “ Wayloncree , here we come!”
The Doctor rushes ahead, tugging you by the hand. But when you reach the door, she stops.
She looks down at your joined hands, lifts them slightly, then glances up at you. There’s so much in her expression you can barely read it all — reluctance, uncertainty… fear?
You look at your hands too. It crosses your mind that she’s never been one for touch. Could that be it?
“You know I don’t mind if you don’t do it, right?” you say gently. “It’s okay.”
She hums, eyes drifting toward the houses below. “You do know what happened in the 1950s?”
It’s half a question, half an assumption. And unfortunately for you — but fortunately for her — your knowledge isn’t the most… thorough.
“I remember Rosa.”
“Yeah, that’s next year,” she murmurs. “Does the Lavender Scare ring any bells?”
“Did people in the US run away from your perfume?” you quip, mostly because you don’t like how fear looks on her.
You remember the last time she was like this.
The witch hunt.
And that … that nearly didn’t end well.
The Doctor gives your hand a tilt, coaxing you forward. “All I’m saying is: we might need to be careful. Just in case.”
You don’t ask what the Lavender Scare is, and she doesn’t tell you — but her hand stays loose around yours, like she’s halfway through letting go… but doesn’t really want to.
And with that, you think you understand what she means.
With your heart aching, you let go first. She looks at you, half puzzled, half relieved.
“It’s okay,” you say with a smile. “We can be discreet.”
She smiles, too. But it’s tight, contained. One of the ones you hate .
“Woah, look at that!” you exclaim suddenly, pointing at some random spot down the hill, anything to distract her long enough.
It works.
“What? Where?” she asks, head swivelling side to side like that might help.
You make sure no one’s watching.
Then grab her face and plant a kiss on her cheek.
She stops walking and freezes completely, like someone flipped her off switch.
You burst out laughing.
“Oi! What did I just say about being—” she begins to protest.
But the fun drops from both your faces in an instant when you hear a noise.
That noise.
That groaning, wheezing noise.
You both turn at once.
The TARDIS is gone.
You stare for a few minutes at the mountaintop where she’d been parked.
“Oh, brilliant !” the Doctor breaks the silence. “Whose idea was it to leave the TARDIS anyway?”
You draw a long breath. “I don’t think it’s being gay that’s going to get me arrested today,” you mutter. “Murder, on the other hand…”
She bends down, plucks something from the grass, and promptly stuffs a few leaves into her mouth. Then she straightens, and humphs triumphantly. “This way! Come on!”
You follow, because the last thing you need is to get lost in a random American suburban town in the 1950s.
“What is? The TARDIS?”
“Nope!” she chirps, far too cheerfully for someone presumably stranded. “Restaurant. I’m suddenly starving.”
Yeah.
Murder is definitely what’s going to get you arrested today.
***
The town appears to be quite small.
After the welcome sign — and now, up close, you can definitely see the K from “creek” hanging backwards from a single screw — there are rows upon rows of houses.
They’re just as identical as they looked from up on the hill, but now you can see children riding bikes, playing in driveways, and a few adults tending carefully to their gardens.
They all stare as you pass.
Though really, it’s the Doctor who draws the attention.
If you happened to catch, in passing, a woman confident enough to wear whatever she pleases — someone who clearly has no idea where she’s going, and yet somehow looks like she owns the entire town — you’d stare, too.
You hang back a few steps, taking advantage of her mumbling guilt (she’s very pointedly avoiding your eyes, which can only mean one thing: she’s lost) to admire the view… just like the locals.
A few rays of sunshine break through the clouds, landing — as if on cue — right on her hair. And for a moment, she glows: a halo of gold and burgundy and something almost rainbow.
Oh yes. What a view.
You can almost ignore the fact that she’s got you two stranded for goodness knows how long.
You think it’s this view that distracts you from how long you’ve been walking.
The Doctor keeps turning — this way, that way, left and left, then right — and somehow, you never reach the bloody restaurant.
After the thirteenth left turn, she stops short, and you nearly stumble into her.
“No… I think it’s that way, actually,” she mutters.
“We just came from that way,” you groan, rubbing your hands over your face. “Shouldn’t we ask someone?”
She shakes her head, eyes pinched shut.
“Something’s wrong. I can feel it in my brains — like I can’t think straight. Don’t you feel that?”
You shake your head.
She exhales, frustrated. “If only I could block it. Whatever it is.”
You step closer, instinctively brushing your fingertips against hers.
“Let’s just try to eat something first,” you say softly. “Maybe that’ll help you think.”
Suddenly, a car pulls up beside you.
You hadn’t heard it coming, too distracted by the weird vibes.
You both turn.
It’s the police.
“Where’s Yaz when you need her, eh?” you quip, because you’re terrified. You don’t even know why.
She doesn’t laugh.
The car window rolls down slowly, and you finally see the face of the man inside.
White. Brown hair and a moustache. Blue eyes. A kind smile.
He’s actually smiling widely at you — but you don’t trust it. You don’t trust him .
Then his eyes drop.
And that’s when you realise you’re still holding her fingers.
You let go instantly, tucking your hand behind your back, eyes dropping to the ground.
Being discreet isn’t going quite as smoothly as you would’ve hoped.
“You two lost?” he asks, still smiling.
You glance at the Doctor, waiting for her to say something, as she usually does.
But she’s frowning, eyes fixed on the ground like she’s trying to make sense of something.
So you turn to him with a forced smile. “Yeah. We’re looking for a restaurant? We’re from out of town.”
He nods. “There’s a diner downtown, ma’am. Best food you’ll ever eat, if I may say so.”
He leans slightly out of the window, pointing down the road.
“You go straight until you hit the church. Then turn right, left, and you’re there!”
“Right,” you breathe. “How long do you reckon it’ll take?”
“About twenty minutes.”
“Right,” you repeat.
Great. More walking.
“I could give you girls a lift, if you’d like,” he offers. “Plenty of space in the back seat.”
The Doctor looks at you. You look at her.
She steps back — so slightly that you’re sure only you notice.
And you know exactly what that means.
You turn back to him with another too-bright smile. “We could do with the walk. Good way to get to know the town and all that.”
She nods, flashing a grin of her own, all teeth, no warmth.
“Very well!” he says cheerfully, settling back inside the car. “If you need anything, I’m Officer Miller. Give us a shout.”
He winks. Then the car pulls away.
“Eh. He seems kinda nice,” she shrugs.
You exhale, chin tilted toward the road. “Diner, then?”
“Yep,” she nods, already walking. “Hopefully I’ll be able to think by the time we get there.”
Sus or not, Officer Miller gave you the right directions.
After you pass Grace Baptist Church, it’s only a few minutes before you reach the diner.
The building is painted a soft pastel, with a neon sign that reads: Red Barn Diner . An overwhelmingly red-and-white checkered awning shades the entrance, where a plastic OPEN sign swings side to side in the wind.
You push the door open. A little bell rings over it — and the moment it does, the few people inside fall silent.
They stare. Study. Murmur among themselves.
Then, as if nothing happened, they carry on.
“The welcoming committee,” the Doctor murmurs, flashing you a grin.
You bite back a laugh, following her to one of the booths by the windows. Finally a seat, after all that walking.
You slide into one side of the booth. The Doctor takes the other.
She seems to reconsider, then shifts, and sits beside you instead.
Her leg presses lightly against yours. Her scent catches in your breath.
You close your eyes, drawing it in.
Call it lavender yearning.
You lean forward slightly, resting an elbow on the table — all just an excuse to look at her. Subtly.
The Doctor notices, of course.
By now, she’s more than used to this little habit of yours.
So she looks at you. And she stares back.
Your eyes drift over her face. Her eyes — somewhere between brown and green now, as the cloudy sky filters through the window and reflects off her.
The freckles across her cheek, making her look star-kissed.
Her lips and the way her tongue runs over them in that little nervous tick she sometimes has.
You smile, despite yourself.
Until—
“Can I take your order, please?” cuts in the voice of a woman.
You sit upright, coughing slightly. The Doctor mutters a quick “Right.”
You start repeating inside your head like a mantra: You're in 1954. Get yourself together. You're in 1954. Get yourself together . You're in—
“What’s today’s pie?” the Doctor asks, with the same excitement she’d use asking about a new planet.
You glance at the waitress.
She looks very young, barely an adult. The pastel uniform hangs neatly on her frame, apron tied tight around the waist, smile practiced to the point of muscle memory.
“Today’s apple pie, hun,” she replies. “House specialty.”
“An apple a day…” you mutter under your breath.
The Doctor wrinkles her nose, then blows out a breath. “Yeah, I’ll have that anyway.”
Then she turns to you. “What are you having, lo—”
She stops mid-word. Clamps her mouth shut.
You freeze.
Then turn slowly toward the waitress, pasting on an awkward grin. “ Lo mismo . The same.”
If the girl thinks you're strange, she’s very Midwestern about it.
She jots the orders in her notebook, flashes a smile, and walks away.
The Doctor’s mouth is still a tight line.
You sigh.
Maybe she should try your mantra, too.
“I don’t know how we survived my mum’s birthday,” you mutter under your breath. “So, thinking better?”
She nods. “Yeah. The closer we got to downtown, the less foggy I felt.”
She pauses. “Which begs the question: why ?”
“You don’t like the suburbs?”
She squints at you, and you get the feeling your answer isn’t far off.
“Why?” you echo.
“No idea,” she says, shaking her head. “But I want to analyse the signal I picked up on the sonic.”
She claps her hands once. “Right! We’re gonna need a few things.”
“We’re gonna need a place to stay,” you cut in, fully aware she hasn’t thought that far ahead.
And she hasn’t, if the sharp tapping of her fingers on the table is anything to go by.
“Yes. That,” she concedes.
The waitress returns with your order. You smile at her as she sets them down.
“I need new clothes,” you continue after she leaves. “A toothbrush and toothpaste. Five minutes with you in a room.”
The Doctor chokes on her soda.
Then, she hums thoughtfully. “All very valid points. I need a mechanic.”
“Hm? What for?” you ask, mouth full of — surprisingly — delicious pie.
“I need parts! If I can build something to bypass this signal or block it—”
“Maybe the TARDIS will come back,” you finish.
“Bingo!” she grins, already finishing off her drink.
“Is that why she left, then?” you ask, a little apprehensive.
“You remember the HADS?” she says.
“That security system?”
“Yeah. It kicks in when there’s enough danger to make the TARDIS scared,” she explains. “Something pulled her off course and dragged her here, but she didn’t want to land.”
“Yeah, I remember that bit very well.”
“So I’ll test the theory on me. If I can block whatever’s interfering with my brain, I can block it for everyone else too.”
“With 1950s technology?” you ask, incredulous. “Are you finishing your pie, by the way?”
The Doctor stares down at her nearly untouched pie, barely one bite taken.
She pushes the plate toward you. “Nah, I’m full. And, did you forget I built an entire demon repellent in 1947?”
You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “We came all this way— Yeah, I remember. When the demons turned out not to be demons, and the ‘repellent’ worked for, what, half the time you hoped?”
When you glance at her again, she’s staring at you, mouth half-open, mildly shocked.
You sigh, fork in hand as you claim a piece of her abandoned pie.
“Sorry. If anyone can pull it off, it’s you.”
Speaking of which…
“Why you, specifically?” you ask. “Shouldn’t this thing be affecting me as well? And all these people?”
She hums uncertainly. “I don't think you're not being affected — I think you're just not feeling it. My theory is that this signal or energy, it's designed for human minds. Subtle enough to interact with you but not alert you.”
“For what, though?” you ask. “Who would target suburban Ohio of all places?”
“Dunno. But we'll find out.”
You smile at her determined look. You do love it when she includes you in things you absolutely know you won't be in the least helpful with.
You finish your drink and declare triumphantly, “I'm good to go!”
Then, a thought dawns on you. “Oh my God. We don't have any money.”
The Doctor picks up the psychic paper from her coat pocket, flashing it at you with — which is the only way you can describe it — naughty grin.
You giggle, leaning close to whisper, “That is so wrong.”
“I'll leave a bigger tip next time! Now, come on.”
She raises her hand, way too high, like she’s in some sort of classroom.
The waitress (inevitably) spots her and brings over the bill.
By the time you reach the cashier, your heart is pounding like it’s trying to leave the diner before the Doctor gets you both arrested — because clearly, being stranded wasn’t stressful enough.
As usual, she doesn’t look even slightly troubled.
She flashes a grin at the cashier — a woman in her sixties, white hair, wearing the same pastel apron as the waitress — and whips out the psychic paper.
The woman squints through her thick glasses, then gives the Doctor a once-over.
“Is there something on my face?” the Doctor whispers.
“That’ll be the coat and the trousers,” you murmur back.
“You’re wearing trousers too!”
“Yeah, but have you seen yourself in a mirror?” you shoot back.
She scrunches up her face at you.
“That’s a compliment, by the way,” you chuckle.
“There. Added it to Mr. Wilson’s slate,” the cashier cuts in.
The Doctor’s grin slips into a grimace for a split second. “Right! Thanks for the service, loved the pie. Bye, then!”
She turns away, and you follow, only for her to spin on her heels and face the cashier again.
“Actually! I think you can help me,” she chirps, leaning casually against the register. “You see, we’re from out of town—”
The woman gives the Doctor another once-over, as if to say, I can tell .
“—but we’re gonna stay with you for a while!” She nudges you with her elbow, practically glowing. “Loving this town, we are.”
You play along, throwing the cashier the sweetest smile you can muster.
Somehow — and you’ll never understand how — it works. The woman’s expression softens into something warm and welcoming.
“Well, you’re very welcome to our Wayloncreek community!” she beams.
“Thanks,” you say, trying to hold the smile without letting your jaw cramp.
“About that — we’d feel a lot more welcomed if we had access to a few certain things,” the Doctor says, drawing out the s and tilting her head, clearly hoping she won’t have to be specific.
“Of course!” the cashier exclaims. “What is it that you two need?”
And just like that, you leave the diner with a golden list: Bank. Grocery market. Clothing shop. Repair shop. Town’s only motel.
You glance down at the paper in your hand as the little bell chimes behind you.
“Blimey, love,” you murmur. “I don’t know how you do it.”
“The sun’s starting to set,” she says, gazing up at the sky. “We should get your things first. Tomorrow, I’ll get that device going.”
Before you can ask which of those things she means, she turns left and calls out: “Come on!”
As Yaz would say: normal services resumed .
***
One nice thing about a small town: everything you need is downtown.
Unfortunately, that’s also the worst thing about downtown — everyone knows each other, everyone does not know you two, and the motel is all the way on the edge of the outskirts.
And that means?
You guessed it. More walking.
The trip to the grocery market is the easiest one. It’s close to the diner — just a few turns away — and you quickly find what you need.
You leave with a pair of toothbrushes (even though the Doctor insists she has a Venusian one and doesn’t actually need it! ), toothpaste, and a few extras you remembered: towels and shower caps.
Everything, once again, goes on that one Mr. Wilson’s slate.
After that, you manage to convince the Doctor to change course and swing by the bank before it closes.
Someone’s going to miss a few hundred dollars but… oh well.
From there, you run — literally — to the clothing shop.
You manage to arrive before closing, though not without earning a few lingering stares from the elderly people sitting on a bench out front.
The shop is almost entirely glass on the outside. A few mannequins stand in the display, dressed in colourful, vibrant dresses, all covered in what the Doctor gleefully calls “round things”.
(Apparently, she loves them.)
Above the door, a large orange sign reads Harmony Fashion in looping cursive.
And inside, you’re in claustrophobia hell.
You burst into the shop, panting and nearly kicking the door open.
One of the saleswomen mutters a quiet, “Oh my.”
The Doctor must feel as trapped as you do, because she stops just inside the entrance, holding the door open for you, but with her arm extended just far enough to keep you from stepping in fully.
Her eyes sweep the shop, tongue running along her bottom lip.
The saleswomen stare at the two of you.
The Doctor stares at the rows of clothes, the mirrors, the cramped little changing rooms.
You think that’s her way of saying: retreat.
Then, one of the women approaches with a smile. Her blonde hair is tied neatly in an orange ribbon, matching her dress. The smile she offers sits somewhere between anxious and sympathetic. “Hi there! Welcome to Harmony!”
She glances at you — still half-hidden behind the Doctor like a nervous child clinging to a parent at Thanksgiving — and then turns back to the Doctor. “How can I help you?”
“Right!” the Doctor suddenly grins. “Yeah, you can. My mate here, she needs some clothes.”
She points at you, dropping her arm, and you quickly step up beside her.
The woman — Betty, now that you can see her lanyard — eyes you up and down. Then, she flashes you a bright grin. “Oh, you definitely came to the right place.”
You hold your breath as you smile back.
Oh, you most certainly haven’t.
Betty guides you over to one of the rows, proudly gesturing to a collection of polka dots and poodle skirts.
She points to a red-and-white dress. “This one’s perfect for when you go on a date with your boyfriend.”
Your eyes shut tight, brows creasing in reflexive pain.
Suddenly, you’re back in church — do this , do that , whispers in your ear, fingers pointed at your life.
You kind of want to die.
A loud noise yanks you out of your misery.
You turn just in time to see Betty — and the rest of the saleswomen — running into the street.
It’s a car.
Moving in short, jerking bursts.
No one’s driving it.
You glance to your side and there’s the Doctor, stuffing the sonic into her coat with a huff.
“Blimey,” she mutters. “Quite enough of that .”
You feel a giddy warmth bloom in your chest.
She decided to haunt a car — in a town like this — for you.
You draw in a sharp breath. “Oh, I could kiss you right now.”
“That won’t last long. I saw some trousers over here,” she says, already motioning for you to follow.
The trousers turn out to be in the men’s section, surrounded by an abundance of shirts — some plain white, some striped, some vibrantly checkered.
In short:
“Is this where Graham shops for clothes?” you quip.
“Is the right question!” she laughs.
You hear a few feminine voices outside and quickly grab a few pairs of trousers in your size.
They’re all in a thrilling spectrum of dark brown, less-dark brown, darker brown, and black. You also pick up some of the most Graham-est shirts you’ve ever seen, plus a green jacket and a brown one for variety.
Then you slip into one of the changing rooms, motioning for the Doctor to hold the curtain closed for you.
Just as she does, you hear Betty’s voice from across the shop, still laced with that unshakable smile.
“You’ll forgive me for that—”
The Doctor snorts. “No, I won’t,” she whispers.
“—but wow ! Good grief.”
There’s a moment of silence while you finish dressing — top and bottom — and you can almost hear the slightly manic grin the Doctor is probably aiming at her.
This must also be when Betty realises you’re missing.
“Oh! Has she found something?”
“Yep,” the Doctor replies.
She’s reached the one-word-only stage. Betty would have to nearly die before the Doctor lets her back in emotionally.
You glance at your reflection in the aged, slightly warped mirror — and you actually like what you see.
You knock twice on the curtain to get her attention. “How do I look?”
She peeks inside, flashes you a grin, and gives you a thumbs up.
“If she needs some help—” Betty starts.
But the Doctor cuts in. “Nah, don’t worry. I’ve helped her change more times than I can count.”
You freeze.
Silence from Betty.
You cough.
You can see her tapping her foot nervously, shaking the curtain. “Holding this, I mean.”
“Oh,” Betty says with a stiff laugh. “Okay. Well, if you need me, I’ll be at the front.”
You’re nearly done trying everything on, but you wait until you hear Betty’s heels clicking farther away before cooing dramatically.
“Aw. Don’t you wanna help me change now, too?”
The Doctor groans. “Next time, we’re doing my things first.”
You laugh, slipping out of your trousers to change back into your old clothes.
You pull off your shirt and as you do, you notice her fingers still curled around the curtain’s edge, holding it closed.
You’re craving her so much. What’s one more impulsive thing?
So you lean forward and press a kiss to her index finger.
She yanks the curtain open — just enough to stick her head in, probably planning her next Oi! — then immediately snaps it shut again when she sees you half-naked.
You burst out laughing.
“Down, girl,” she whispers, but you can hear the smile in her voice. Then, after a beat, she adds, “Lavender.”
It’s both a warning and a reminder. And you’re tired of being reminded of what that means.
You stick your tongue out at her — even though you know she can’t see it — and say, slightly whiny, “You’re no fun.”
When you glance back at the curtain, you can clearly make out the shape of her face. She’s pressing against it — lips pushed forward.
You laugh fondly. She’s giving you a kiss.
So you kiss her through the fabric. It’s awful — the feeling of the fabric makes your skin crawl — but still. Better than nothing.
She leans back, and you get back to dressing in silence. You wonder what all those women might be thinking.
It’s then that a question starts to nag at you.
“Baby?”
She hums in reply.
“What actually is the Lavender Scare?”
“Think of it like the Red Scare — you know, the U.S. government going after anyone they thought might be a communist. Except with this one, it’s…” she trails off.
“People like us,” you say.
“Exactly,” she agrees, a bit quieter now.
After a pause, she continues. “It was mostly government workers at first. But the thing is, with this stuff, it spreads. Starts off official, then it leaks into everything. One whisper and suddenly everyone’s looking sideways. It quickly turned into a witch hunt.”
“Been there, done that,” you chuckle, gathering all the clothes you tried on over your arm.
“You should know your community’s history, you know?” she says, sounding lightly offended on your behalf.
You open the curtain and shrug. “I’m not American. You don't even remember you're a woman half of the time.”
She wrinkles her nose, then glances down at the pile of clothes in your arms. “Gonna take all of that, are ya?”
“I think this should do it. Hopefully we’re not stuck here too long.” You sigh. “Shame they don’t have pyjamas.”
Then you glance at her empty hands. “You’re not getting anything?”
She arches a single eyebrow.
You’re in danger.
“My clothes are perfectly fine, thank you!” she huffs.
“For now, yeah,” you laugh. “Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the TARDIS isn’t around to do your laundry.”
You think she’d be chiller if you had offended her granddaughter.
Hands on hips. Chin raised. You’re fully on Sontaran POV.
“My biology is completely different—”
“Wanna say that louder?” you cut in.
“—I can go days without changing anything. I barely sweat. Do you see me sweating?” she finishes, triumphant.
“I could try,” you mutter, struggling not to laugh. “Fine. Suit yourself. But if you start stinking while you’re building that thing, I will start calling you Stinky-Jane.”
She raises that eyebrow again.
“Human oil,” you say with a shrug, aiming for your most casual tone. “Not the same kind the TARDIS runs on.”
“Ugh.” She rolls her eyes. “Fine.”
The Doctor aggressively picks a few shirts — suspiciously similar to the ones you chose — and shoves them at you.
Then she nearly starts a revolution digging through racks for trousers she might actually like.
Eventually, she finds two pairs vaguely similar to her usual style — both cropped above the ankles.
She shoves those at you too, then spreads her arms theatrically. “Happy?”
“Not gonna try them on?”
“Nope,” she says, already heading for the cashier.
You follow her, but not before grabbing a couple pairs of plain cotton pants. Not glamorous, but hey, you’ll take practical over commando.
Betty steps behind the counter to ring you up. Her eyes skim over the clothes you’ve chosen, then flick to you with something you can only describe as discomfort.
She glances sideways at her coworkers. But says nothing.
You realise they’re all watching you.
The Doctor is bouncing on her toes. She’s noticed, too.
Betty hands you a paper bag with your new clothes and grimaces (because that’s definitely not a smile). “Thank you for shopping at Harmony.”
You don’t even get the chance to reply — the Doctor’s already pulling you out the door.
Once you’re outside, you let out a long, exhausted sigh. “You’re right. Next time, we’re doing your things first.”
Arriving at the motel is a relief for both of you.
This side of the outskirts is barely populated, and the fogginess — she’s calling it “head-wonk” now — isn’t as strong out here as it was in the residential area.
The motel is the only non-pastel thing in town.
The building looks old, the once-white paint fading to grey.
It doesn’t even have a name. Just a single word on a crooked sign: MOTEL.
Inside, though, it’s surprisingly well-kept.
A receptionist sits behind a pane of glass near the entrance, eyes fixed on a small black-and-white TV.
“Hi!” the Doctor chirps, making the woman jump slightly. “D’you have a room for the night?”
The receptionist falls into the now familiar script: eyes flicking up and down the Doctor, then settling on you.
Finally, she says in a robotic monotone, “One moment, please.”
You lean against the glass, your feet throbbing from all that walking.
“We have two options available,” the woman says. “A room with comfortable twin beds and access to our shared facilities… or, if you prefer, a room with a spacious double bed. That one comes with a private shower bath for your convenience.”
The Doctor’s brain visibly short-circuits — never give her two options with no obvious downside.
And you’re far too tired to remember your promise to be discreet .
“Double bed!” you blurt. “I need a bath.”
Both heads turn slowly toward you.
You’re past the point of caring. “Do we pay now or...?”
The receptionist clears her throat. “That’ll be seven dollars.”
Key in (the Doctor’s) hand, you march toward your room, drop the bags on the floor, step into the bathroom, and close the door.
Then you just shut your eyes… and breathe.
In. Out.
You’re tired. Your feet ache. And it’s just hit you that today was only the beginning.
Your throat tightens.
A mix of feelings you can’t even begin to untangle wells up inside you, pressing against your chest like they want to come out. Like they deserve to.
Inhale. Exhale.
Knock-knock.
“You okay?” comes the Doctor’s voice, muffled through the door.
You glance down at the gap near the floor.
You can see her shadow, shifting from foot to foot, the way she always does when she’s unsure.
You smile.
Then, summoning your best tone, you lie. “Course. I just really need a bath.”
She hums softly. “Kay.”
She doesn’t buy it. She doesn’t really have to.
You stay there, leaning against the door, until you feel like you can breathe again.
Then, you finally take in the bathroom.
The walls are lined with light blue tiles.
The toilet sits next to the bathtub, which is tucked behind a glass sliding door.
There’s a small cupboard above the even smaller sink, and curiosity nags at you to check what’s inside.
The cupboard’s cramped. Not a lot fits.
There’s a nearly-empty tube of toothpaste. A jar of hair gel. And two bars of soap, lavender scented.
The irony.
You fill the tub with hot water and let it soak the ache from your body.
You stay there for God knows how long.
And if you cry?
Well… the bathtub will never tell.
When you finally decide to leave, you realise: you left all your things outside.
Your new towel, too.
“Doctor?” you call out, hoping she can bring you the bags.
Nothing.
“Doc-tooor?” you try again, sing-songing.
Still nothing.
Come to think of it, everything is too quiet.
You climb out of the tub, tiptoeing so you don’t slip and crack your head open and die…
Only to find the Doctor herself sitting on the floor, back against the bathroom door, a towel draped over her shoulder, sonic nearly glued to her face.
You chuckle softly.
If she’s always going to be waiting outside the door, you think you can definitely do this.
She gives the sonic a sharp shake — like one might do to an old thermometer — and you gently remove the towel from her shoulder.
She wiggles in surprise, probably only now realising you’re standing behind her. Then she drops her head back until her eyes meet yours.
She grins. “Hiya!”
You smile back. “Hi, there. Why are you sitting on the floor?”
She glances at the sonic in her hand, then holds it up for you to see. “Was trying to gather some data on the signal. It’s a low-level frequency, definitely not human technology.”
You start drying off as she speaks, fully aware you could stare at the sonic for a thousand years and still not understand a single blip.
“Wow, this alien really needs to pick better targets. We could be in New York right now,” you quip. “I bet they’d have a lot better food options, I’m starving.”
“Unless…” She pauses, then snaps her fingers. “Unless that’s exactly why they chose a place like this. If you've got a low-level signal, subtle enough to interfere with the local species and you need to soft launch it, you don’t go straight for the Big Apple. It’s a rehearsal. Somehow.”
Your blood runs cold. “For what? So much stuff’s happened in this decade.”
“Thing is, I don’t think it’s only one big thing they’re planning,” she says, sonicing the air again. “I’ve got a theory. But I need to check something first.”
You sit down beside her, wrapping the towel around yourself. “After building the device?”
“Yeah.”
You smile as she goes back to frowning at the sonic.
You wrap your arm through hers and rest your head on her shoulder, one of the perks of having her already used to your proximity.
A few months ago, this might’ve made her bolt.
Today, though, she taps her fingers gently against your head.
“Thank you for this,” you say, shaking the hem of the towel.
“Yeah,” she replies, softly.
You stay like that for a while. Your bum is starting to ache, but her arm is so soft and warm that you begin to rub your face against it — and suddenly, you understand why cats do that.
She chuckles. “What are you doing?”
“I thought you spoke cat,” you mumble against her sleeve. “This is a kiss. For the non-fluent people in the room.”
She laughs again, and it’s such a breezy, light thing that you think you might levitate.
But the real kicker comes soon after that, when her hand finds your cheek and gently guides your face closer to hers.
And she kisses you.
It’s soft and tentative, like she’s trying to convince herself it’s okay.
But you’ve been waiting all day for this. You’ll convince her it is.
Your arms wrap around her neck as you lean in for another kiss. This time, she kisses you back, unrestrained.
And when her hands move to gently untie the knot in your towel, you make yourself a quiet promise:
Tomorrow, you’ll worry about being discreet.
Tonight?
Call it lavender dreams.
Notes:
i should stop writing about things i've never lived and start focusing on things i am an expert at like......
uhm......
(crickets)just joking, thanks for reading and i hope to see you soon!
rip amy, you would've loved rio
Chapter 2: Lavender Hope
Summary:
The Doctor begins to untangle the mystery of the signal, while you gather intel among the locals.
What is it that you two are going to find out?
Notes:
here i am, trying to post this on time for international LGBT pride day!
chapter warnings: judgmental stares, implied homophobia, sometimes obvious homophobia. just a small part of the chapter, though, this isn't trauma porn
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
You fall asleep in her arms.
So it’s a surprise, the next morning, when you wake to sunlight on your face and reach out to gently tap the space beside you — only to find it empty.
“Doctor?” you call out.
Nothing.
You groan through a yawn. “Can’t believe you’re making me chase you through homophobic hell.”
Still nothing.
Grumbling, you sit up — slowly, because your legs and feet are screaming — and shuffle over to the bathroom door.
You knock. “Doctor? Are you there?”
Silence.
You open the door. Everything’s just as you left it: your old clothes in a heap on the floor, yesterday’s bathwater still in the tub.
You glance back at the room and yep — your towel’s still abandoned near the bed, and your bags are untouched by the door.
But her coat is gone from the rack.
You sigh.
Chasing after her will be step two. Step one?
Cleaning up this disaster you’re currently calling a room.
You take care of your basic needs first — because a clean-up isn’t a clean-up if you’re not clean enough — then it’s: bed, bags, bathroom.
After half an hour or so, you’re finally picking something from your new clothes.
You go with the less-dark brown trousers, a yellow shirt (with two pockets! The Doctor would be proud), and your regular pair of sneakers. You didn’t buy any shoes, and you don’t care if it looks weird.
You’re in the bathroom, applying a bit of the lipstick you always carry — just to throw people off — when you hear the front door open.
“Oh, look what the cat dragged in,” you mutter.
“Hi!” she greets you excitedly. “You’re up!”
You hum, finishing your lipstick. “Where did you go?”
You hear the sound of her boots coming into the bathroom, and when you turn, she’s holding out a relatively large paper bag.
“I brought breakfast!” she grins.
You stare at the bag. Then at her.
“You… brought breakfast…?” you repeat, a little incredulous.
“Yeah!” she nods, swinging the bag softly at you.
You break into a smile somewhere between are you okay? and do you want to marry me?
“What?” she asks, her grin faltering just slightly.
And because you’re so very you — and because you hate seeing that flicker of doubt in her eyes — you quickly take the bag from her hand.
“No! Nothing, it’s just — wow, this smells amazing — you don’t usually…” You trail off.
The Doctor brushes a strand of hair from her face and places her hands on her hips. You feel slightly guilty for making her self-conscious.
So you tap her gently, nudging her out of the bathroom. “I mean, how did that conversation even go?” you laugh.
She wrinkles her nose, like the answer should be obvious. “It went well!”
***
Doctor’s POV — One hour and a half ago.
You said you were hungry.
Actually, no — you said starving .
She’s not hungry. That pie was enough for a whole week. Three weeks, tops.
But you’re hungry.
You like pizza. 1954 doesn’t have pizza.
Maybe in New York. If she had the TARDIS...
Yeah, but if the TARDIS was here, the two of you wouldn’t be here in the first place.
Focus, Doctor.
You’re hungry.
She’s got limited options and limited time — you might be waking soon.
Red Barn Diner it is, then.
She successfully removes her arm from under your head and — very calmly, very quietly — slips out of the room.
The sun’s barely peeking over the horizon. People are still waking up.
And the Doctor?
She’s bolting for breakfast.
She arrives at the diner just as a young woman is opening up for the morning.
The woman eyes the Doctor with a mix of incredulity and caution — all things she’s well used to in humans by now.
So the Doctor throws her a grin. “Don’t worry! I’ll wait.”
The woman gives a small, uncertain smile as she unlocks the door.
“What’s yer name?” the Doctor asks.
“Nancy,” she replies, shyly.
“Hello, Nancy! I’m the Doctor.”
Finally — finally — Nancy breaks into a more genuine smile, still shy, and extends her hand.
The Doctor shakes it. She thinks she’s just made a friend.
“You’re the new one in town, ain’t ya?” Nancy asks. “You and your friend?”
“Yeah!” the Doctor replies — and maybe her smile is a bit too stiff now. She should drop it. “Me and my… friend.”
“I just need to open the till and I’ll get your order, ma’am,” Nancy says, heading into the building and motioning the Doctor to follow. “You staying?”
The Doctor tilts her head. “In the diner?”
Nancy laughs, a sound that reminds her of your laugh. “No, ma’am. In our town.”
“Ah. Right!” the Doctor chuckles. “No, just passing by. Travelling.”
Nancy smiles as she wipes down the counter and flicks on the lights. “That’s my dream, miss. One day I’ll travel this country as far as the eye can see.”
“Why not today?” the Doctor asks. “What’s stopping ya?”
“Oh, you know the deal, miss,” she says, smile slipping. “It’s not appropriate for a girl to travel alone.”
“Go with a mate!”
Nancy goes still, eyes fixed on the cleaning cloth in her hands. “She’s a girl too.”
“Oh,” the Doctor breathes.
Unfortunately, she understands exactly what Nancy means.
And, unfortunately, she never really knows what to say in times like these.
Then, Nancy breaks into a smile. “And I have to take care of my grandma’s diner, so…”
“Oh!” the Doctor exclaims. “The woman in the apron who’s here in the evenings? That’s your grandma?”
“That’s her,” she laughs warmly, picking up a small notebook and pen. “Won’t let me get away with anything, God bless her. What’re you having, miss?”
“Right, yes,” the Doctor mumbles, eyes darting to the banner behind her, scanning the options.
She squints slightly, lips pursed (she swears that helps her think). What would you get?
Eggs — scrambled or fried?
Cereal — do you even like that?
Coffee — oh, definitely not.
Her eyes fall back on Nancy, still patiently waiting with her pen in hand.
“Nancy, if you were hypothetically stranded in a place you weren’t planning to stay, and you hypothetically didn’t have anything you really liked to eat… what would you want for breakfast? Hypothetically?”
Nancy laughs. “Hypothetically your fault she’s stranded?”
“Hypothetically,” the Doctor grimaces.
“Breakfast would be hypothetically sweet, miss,” she chuckles.
“Would it?” the Doctor asks, a bit surprised.
Nancy only smiles, glancing up at the banner and jotting something down. “You can’t go wrong with this.”
The Doctor accepts the suggestion and waits patiently while Nancy gets it done.
When she’s about to leave — having kept her promise to leave a bigger tip, mind you — Nancy calls after her.
“How’d you convince your family to let you travel, miss?”
The Doctor smirks, brow raised. “Who said anything about convincing? I just ran away.”
And with that, she leaves — a new friend made, a quality breakfast secured (if Nancy’s suggestion checks out), and the smug satisfaction of thinking: that went very well indeed.
***
You chuckle softly, sitting on the bed. “I wish I could’ve seen that.”
Then you open the bag — and the smell nearly knocks you out, it’s that flipping good.
Inside, the food is divided into smaller paper bags: fried eggs, a slice of toast with butter, bacon, and a small cup of orange juice with just a bit spilled down the side.
It’s perfect. And you’re starving.
You beam at her. You’d say I love you if you could — but not yet.
For now, you just lay the food out on top of the larger bags and feast .
“Did I get it right, then?” she asks, shifting awkwardly beside you.
“Oh my God, sorry,” you say, mouth full. “Yes. You’re amazing.”
She grins, too.
Honestly, you could live without pizza if it meant seeing that grin every day.
After that, you pay for another night in the same room — you’ve grown quite attached to the left side of that bed — so you can head to the repair shop.
Outside the motel, though, you spot Officer Miller.
He’s sitting in his car, talking to a man standing at his window.
He hasn’t seen you, but something about him makes the hairs at the back of your neck stand on end.
You don’t even realise you’re frowning until the Doctor calls your name.
“Something wrong?” she asks.
Your eyes drift back to Officer Miller. He’s laughing at something the man just said.
You look away.
“Can we wait until he leaves before heading out?” you ask.
“Yeah,” she says, eyes scanning the scene. “Course.”
You follow her to the end of the corridor, near your room.
“You scared of him?” she asks, tone curious.
“No,” you shake your head. “I just don't like him.”
She hums. “Why’s that?”
You shrug. “I don’t know. He just gives me the creeps.”
“Right,” she nods, still looking toward the corridor you just came from. “But like, can you elaborate why? It's not usually like you.”
Her questions start to grate a bit and you’re not even sure why.
You let out a breath. “I never liked cops,” you say, more sharply than you meant to. “Ask Yaz. She’s never heard the end of it. What’s up with you all of a sudden ?”
She tilts her head. She doesn’t look surprised, or upset. If anything, it’s like she’s… studying you.
You frown a little, a silent what?
Then she chirps, “Just checking! I think we're good to go.”
When you get to the lobby again, Miller is gone, as well as the man he’d been talking to.
The walk to the repair shop is a quiet one.
The Doctor occasionally pulls out her sonic, scans the air, humphs, tucks it away, repeat.
You try to mimic her calm by pretending not to notice the stares at your clothes as you make your way downtown. You just hope none of them will be a liability when it’s time to put your plan into action.
The repair shop looks like every other one you’ve seen back in the future — though, granted, the cars and the TVs look very different.
You sigh. You’re really trying not to be a downer, but looking at these cars — the ones you’ve mostly only ever seen on TV — makes you want to give up. And you’re not even the one building anything.
The owner — a man in his fifties, white-ish hair, green eyes — spots you both approaching and steps out to meet you.
“Hi!” he waves, offering a warm smile. “You must be the two new folks in town!”
“That’s us!” the Doctor grins, folding her hands in front of her.
“I’m Rick Delaney. Pleasure to meet you.”
You introduce yourselves and he extends a hand to her — then to you — and nearly breaks your hand in the process.
“Need anything repaired?” he goes on, chuckling. “TV, radio, cars. Anything mechanical, I’m your guy.”
You realise, quite suddenly, that you really like him. Not a single look of mistrust, judgment, discomfort. You weren’t even sure people like that existed in this time.
“Actually,” the Doctor says, all casual, “I was wondering if you’d let me do some work here.”
He lets out a puff of laughter — not mean, just genuinely surprised.
“Well, you see,” he says, glancing back toward his shop, “it’s a small town. Ain’t got enough business to need help, if I’m honest.”
“Oh, no, no, no.” She waves her hands. “I wouldn’t touch your stuff. You wouldn’t even have to pay me. I just need some tools and your shop here is brilliant, by the way.”
She’s already shifting on her feet, trying to peek past him into the back of the shop like an impatient child.
He blinks, still confused, so you jump in. “She’s an engineer.”
“Oh!” He chuckles again. “Working on an experiment, miss?”
“Sort of.” She wrinkles her nose, then grins. “So, is that a yes?”
He rubs his chin, thoughtful, then breaks into another warm laugh. “Why, yeah! Not every day we get a proper engineer in old Wayloncreek. Make yourself at home, Doc!”
Rick heads back inside the shop, and the Doctor turns to you, eyebrows arched.
“Wasn’t expecting it to be that easy.”
You chuckle. “If you smiled at me like that, I’d let you do anything too.”
You follow him inside before catching her reaction, but judging by the few seconds she lingers behind… you bet it was a good one.
“Okay, so, I guess you know how everything works in here,” Rick says as he leads you both inside, gesturing toward the shop.
The Doctor stuffs her hands into her coat pockets, rocking back and forth on her feet as her eyes scan the room, taking in tools you have absolutely no clue about. “Rick Delaney, you are a lifesaver ! ”
He rubs the back of his head and gives a subtle, flustered little smile — flustered! — then points to a spot toward the back of the shop. “Think you can set up over there for your experiments. Best not to scare away the customers.”
Then he lets out a hearty laugh and gives her a light pat on the shoulder.
You figure that — what with her name and the title you gave her — he probably thinks she’s about to build some kind of Frankenstein.
She doesn’t seem to mind, though. She’s already rummaging through a box of parts, cooing at this, muttering at that, like a kid in a toy store.
You love watching her work — especially when, just like now, she slips off her coat and rolls up her sleeves.
But, unfortunately, you’ve got a plan of your own.
You pick up her coat from where she dropped it — half draped over a box — and pull it close.
It’s warm.
It smells like her.
And you really wish it was still last night and she was still wrapped around you.
You clear your throat. “You’re keeping the money in the inside pocket, right?”
She nods, absent-minded, blowing dust off some kind of metal cylinder.
“I’m taking some of it, okay?”
She hums in affirmation, head practically buried inside the box.
You smile, watching her. She looks so adorable when she’s focused like that.
Then you sigh. “Alright. I’m gonna walk around downtown. See you later.”
You’ve barely set her coat back down when she suddenly freezes, like her brain’s just caught up to what you said.
“What? No.” She’s already closing the distance, brows creasing. “I need to know where you are. I can’t keep you safe if I don’t know where you are.”
Your heart beats faster in your chest. You wish — God , you wish — you could kiss her right now.
Instead, you gently take her hand and press a soft kiss to it.
“I’m just going to buy a bike — because my feet physically cannot handle another day like yesterday — and get a job. I’ll be fine. Just pick up the phone if I call you.”
The Doctor scrunches up her face. “Why d’you need a job?!”
“We might need the money. And also—” you lean in, dropping your voice like you’re sharing a state secret, “—intel.”
She frowns, considering. Then finally, with a curt little nod, she concedes.
You glance behind you — no customers, Rick’s busy with a car — and steal one more kiss to her hand before letting go.
“See you at lunch?” you ask, already stepping away.
“Roger Wilco,” she says, hands planted on her hips. Then, softer, “Be careful.”
“You too.”
And with that, you head off toward downtown.
You don’t have to walk far to find a bike.
Rick’s shop is just a few minutes from downtown, and there — right next to the post office — you spot Johnson’s Cycle Shop.
It’s a brown building with a beige sign and yellow letters. Inside, several rows of bikes stretch toward the back of the — relatively small — shop.
Sitting on a stool out front, on the sidewalk, is a man. Short. Bald. Head buried in his newspaper. He doesn’t even notice you approaching.
Here’s the first difference between you and the Doctor: everyone always notices her.
You clear your throat. “Hi. Excuse me,” you say, offering a subtle smile.
Slowly, he lowers the newspaper, slides his glasses down his nose, and just… stares at you.
Your smile falters. You jerk your head toward the shop. “I was looking for a bike.”
The man folds his newspaper — rather aggressively so — and slaps it down onto his stool. Then mutters, “You may follow me.”
Difference number two: no one’s quite as excited to talk to you .
You follow the man — who must be that Johnson from the sign — as he leads you toward a row in the back of the shop.
The bikes there are actually… really nice!
Low bar, rather small, each with a white basket on the front.
Your eyes wander over the options — pink, orange, or grey? Big or small basket?
Then your gaze drifts a few steps ahead, to a bike sitting on a different row.
Red. Large. Metallic-looking crossbar. Not a basket included as its only downside.
Ryan would love it.
Or — more accurately — he’d love to chuck it off the top of the Peak District.
You chuckle at your own thought and walk toward it.
You grab the handlebars — and it’s like they hold you back.
“How much is this one?” you ask him.
Johnson walks over, eyes the bike. “That’s a special model. Eighty dollars.”
Your eyes widen. “Sixty... five?” you try, squinting.
His gaze snaps to yours, and there’s a competitiveness in it that’s just a little terrifying.
“Eighty, miss,” he repeats, firm.
“Seventy! And two helmets.”
“What, now?” he barks, sounding genuinely offended.
You glance around the shop and only now realise there are no helmets. Not even for kids.
“Never mind that,” you mutter, awkwardly chuckling. “Seventy.”
“Seventy-five,” he grits out, like he’s physically restraining himself from yelling.
“Deal!” you grin, practically shouting.
Difference number three: all you get is five dollars off.
He unlocks the bike from its rack with the same love he used to fold his newspaper, and you hand him the money.
While he’s counting it, you figure you might as well try your other plan.
“I don’t suppose you’re in need of an assistant, are you?” you ask, hand nervously gripping the bike’s brake, like that’s going to stop him from giving you yet another weird look.
It doesn’t.
His eyes snap to yours, brows furrowing, glasses sliding to the tip of his nose.
You nod, smiling like you totally expected this. “Understood. Have a nice day.”
You leave without looking back.
You didn’t think getting a job would be easy, but it’s starting to look a lot harder than you anticipated.
Stopping just outside the post office, you pull out your phone and snap a photo of your newest possession.
The street isn’t busy. No one’s watching.
So you go bolder.
You open the Team TARDIS group chat and send the picture with the caption: “Look at this beauty.”
It’s the others’ day off the TARDIS. You don’t expect anyone to reply.
Ryan replies in under thirty seconds.
“oh. my. days.”
“It’s yours,” you type. “Once we get the TARDIS back.”
“wait. what happened??”
You laugh, locking your phone. Too much information for now, Ryan.
And then it hits you — you're right in front of the post office.
You’ve got a bike. Maybe… maybe they’re hiring.
The office is a small, white building.
Inside, a woman sits behind a glass panel, doing her nails. She looks about your age, ginger hair tied back with a bow.
You knock gently on the glass.
She glances up, offering a polite smile. “Sorry,” she says, quickly setting the nail polish aside. She picks up a paper, holds it close to her face, reads something, then looks back at you. “Is your letter inside a standardised envelope?”
“Uhm, actually,” you chuckle. “I don’t have any letters. I was wondering if you have a vacancy. I’ve got a bike, and I’m staying in town for a while.”
“Oh,” she replies, surprised, eyes flicking back to the paper like it might hold an answer.
When she eventually finds none, she lowers it, giving you an apologetic smile. “Would you mind waiting here just a little while?”
“Not at all,” you smile. “I’ll wait.”
Your heart’s beating fast. She seems nice enough. The post office looks like a low-stakes job. You could definitely do this.
You watch as she heads to the back, approaching someone. You can’t see who — the window’s covered in fluted glass, but behind the distortion, the shape looks like a man.
A few moments later, the figure shifts closer to the glass.
You were right. A man. White shirt. Grey trousers. Busy expression.
His eyes sweep over you — up, down — and his face changes.
A shake of his head, then he disappears behind the glass.
Your stomach sinks.
You have a feeling you know exactly where this is going.
The woman now glances at you too, like she’s being told something she’s not sure how to repeat.
She returns to her seat with the same polite, but now distant, smile. “I’m sorry,” she says. “We don’t have any vacancies.”
You laugh, bitter. No use hiding it. “Yeah. Didn’t think so.”
You leave, again, without looking back.
Here, it’s your clothes. Back home, it’s who you love.
Either way, you’d recognise that man’s expression anywhere.
Difference number four: you’re not as brave at demanding respect when it’s not given to you.
You linger outside the post office, leaning against your bike.
You take a deep breath.
It’s only the second attempt, you tell yourself. Two bad people don’t define your worth or your ability to help.
And that’s so very her, isn’t it?
Even your subconscious sounds like her now. How much you wish the rest of the world did, too.
You pull out your phone again.
The Team TARDIS group chat is apparently a mess — Yaz and Graham both wanting to know what happened to the TARDIS and where you two are.
But that’s not why you picked it up.
It’s the wallpaper.
It’s you and the Doctor, sitting in front of the Eiffel Tower.
You hadn’t planned on landing in France. You hadn’t planned on staying.
But — as these things usually go — you did.
And that night, when the tower lit up, you dragged her there.
Waste of time, really.
She was glowing a lot more than the tower could’ve ever dreamed of.
You smile at the picture, now with a new resolve.
You promised her you’d meet at lunch. And you will bring her good news.
Because here’s where you both are extremely similar: if hope isn’t helping things, you’ll drag it by the ears until it does.
You climb onto your bike for the first time, drawing in a deep breath.
Downtown " Wayloncree" — just you wait and see.
So, you try:
The pharmacy (they only employ Americans).
The middle school (the kids gawked at your bike; no one from the admin office ever showed up).
A Five and Dime store (the owner’s wife gave you that look™ and said they had no vacancies, even though the queue at the cashier was nearly out the door).
The bakery (they were nice, but it's a family business).
And the local radio (right wing. You left before anyone came to interview you).
By the end of it, your stomach is reminding you that breakfast was good… but maybe not enough.
So you decide to stop at the diner.
Today, there’s a young woman at the cashier where the older woman had been yesterday — which is a relief, since you technically never paid for that soda and pie.
You head toward the booth you’d sat in with the Doctor, then pause.
That woman had liked the Doctor yesterday.
Maybe… ?
Either way, what’s one more rejection?
You approach the woman, and before you even reach the cashier, she gives you a smile.
Genuine, too.
She’s very young. Same age as the waitress from yesterday. Kind brown eyes. A chef’s hat that’s far too big for her.
“Hi. Sorry, you’re not too busy?” you begin, with what is, by now, almost muscle memory.
She shakes her head. “You’re one of the new ones in town, ain’t ya?” she asks, still smiling. “The one with the Doctor?”
You laugh, surprised. “Wow, her reputation precedes her. Yeah, that’s me.”
“She was here this morning,” she laughs too. “Did you like our breakfast, miss?”
“Oh, so that was you?” you grin. “It was divine .”
She laughs again, looking a little shy. Then offers her hand. “I’m Nancy.”
You shake it, introducing yourself.
For the first time since leaving the repair shop, you’re having an actually lovely conversation. Surely, that’s gotta be a sign.
So, you take a breath and go for it. “I don’t know if the Doctor mentioned, but we’re kind of…”
“Stranded,” she finishes for you.
You gulp. Not quite the word you’d have chosen in public, but… technically not a lie.
“Exactly,” you nod. “And I’m looking for an opportunity to give back to the community while I’m here.” ( Shorthand for: I wanna know the gossip. It might help the mission. ) “Is there anything I could help with here?”
Nancy thinks for a moment, eyes wandering over the diner, like she’s picturing you in it.
“You see, miss,” she starts, and you’re already bracing yourself, “this diner’s my grandma’s.”
“Of course,” you smile, not fully able to hide the disappointment. “I understand.”
But then, her next words nearly knock you off your feet.
“We lost our cleaner a few weeks ago, she had a baby. I’ve been doing the cleaning in the afternoons, once my grandma takes over here.”
You nearly launch yourself over the counter.
“Yeah! Sure! I can do cleaning!”
“But I can’t promise you anything, miss,” she says, offering an apologetic smile. “I gotta wait for her.”
“Of course! Thank you! Thank you so much for even considering it.”
Her smile widens. “Of course, miss. If I can help.”
You slide into the same booth you sat in with the Doctor and order a simple milkshake, your whole self vibrating with the possibility.
Everyone in this town comes through this diner.
Nancy is nice.
So much intel. No bigotry.
Call it lavender hope.
Unfortunately for your poor heart, it’s still only half past twelve in the morning. Your milkshake is long gone. The diner’s getting busier by the minute.
You wait until Nancy has a few seconds to breathe, then approach the counter again.
“Nancy, can I start cleaning already? You guys are busy and also, how’s your grandma supposed to decide if I stay or not if she can’t see my work?”
She pauses, considering, then gives you a surprised smile.
“You know I’ve never thought of it that way?”
She opens a small door in the counter and motions you inside.
You pass through the kitchen — two people working, one cooking, one on dishes — and she leads you to a cupboard at the back.
“I think there’s one here that might fit you,” she mutters.
Uh-oh . You’ve got a pretty solid guess what that means.
“Uh… I don’t usually—” you start.
But she pulls something from under a pile, grinning. “Here you go!”
It’s a dress.
Pastel, just like the one she’s wearing. Apron tied around it.
You stare at it. It stares back.
You cough. “I don’t wanna keep you, but—”
“Something wrong?” she asks, frowning.
“—would there be a problem if I just… didn’t?” you gesture vaguely at the dress.
Nancy looks genuinely thrown for a second.
Then breaks into laughter. “You and the Doctor are so different.”
“Yeah,” you chuckle, awkward. As she starts untying the apron from the dress, you add, “Funny, I’m usually the normal one compared to her.”
That clearly amuses her even more. She laughs as she hands you the apron. “There you go, miss. Tie it round your shirt. No one’s gonna notice a thing.”
You smile, doing exactly as she said. Then throw her a thumbs-up ( and quietly thank the Doctor in your head for kindly passing on to you her most awkward habits. )
Nancy grins and throws one right back. “Authentic Red Barner if you ask me. Mop’s behind that door, I’ll head back to the till!”
Grabbing the mop is… an adventure in itself.
You find it. But no bucket.
Then you find the bucket. But no cleaning products.
Then you finally find the cleaning products behind the kitchen door.
And then it hits you.
Where do you even start cleaning?
Just then, a man walks in through the front door.
White. Blonde. Blue eyes. White shirt. Grey trousers. A mini Bible tucked into his shirt pocket.
Goosebumps run across your skin.
You’re not even sure why.
You wait for him to pick a seat, then move to mop the opposite side of the diner.
The place is as busy as it gets now, every table full except for the round one in the middle.
You start picking up bits of conversation.
A group of young men are talking about how they wish Eisenhower were more publicly supportive of McCarthy’s efforts against communism.
Your knowledge of American politics is pretty terrible, but you can piece together enough — the former’s the president, the latter’s the senator.
You roll your eyes.
A woman’s sitting by the window, staring at her reflection and fidgeting with a letter. Looks like she’s waiting for someone.
A pair of elders are debating the war — or rather, the man is talking at length about the war, while the woman just listens.
And then—
“Nancy!” a voice cuts in, cheerful.
“Oh hi, Mr. Wilson!” Nancy replies. Her smile’s polite. Reserved. “Didn’t see you come in. Same as always?”
Ah.
The Mr. Wilson.
The man who — unknowingly — paid for your pie, your soda, and half your house utensils.
You glance over at him again, just in time to catch the grin he throws Nancy.
You’ve seen that smile before. You’ve seen so many men like him.
Smiles stretched wide enough to hide all kinds of hatred behind them.
You bravely venture closer to where he’s seated, but still far enough to just listen without having to interact.
“Haven’t seen you in church this month,” he says.
You catch the contrived smile Nancy throws him. “Oh, you know, mister. Life gets busy. Helping out my grandma.”
“Your family never misses a sermon, Nancy,” he fires back, all cheerful.
Cheerful enough that you feel a sudden, violent urge to punch his teeth in.
Okay. Maybe a bit overboard.
“Life here is passing,” he goes on. “Invest your time—”
You sigh and tune it out. You’ve heard this sermon before. Too many times.
And if Nancy’s face means anything, she’s tuned out, too. Her gaze is distant, fixed on some random corner of the diner. Completely blank.
It’s when he moves to the cashier that you mop a little closer.
“Think about what I told you, okay, Nancy?” he’s saying. “Smiley Nancy . That’s what we called you when you were little, remember?”
She laughs, but it doesn’t sound like she’s having fun. “Sure do, mister.”
Then she clears her throat. “That’ll be two dollars and seventeen.”
He chuckles. “Getting pricey, aren’t you? You sure you’re adding that up right? Want me to check it for you?”
Yeah. You’re definitely punching his teeth today.
Nancy pulls out her notebook and flips it open. “Eight cents for the coffee. One dollar thirty-five for the meatloaf you just had. Plus the two slices of pie and two sodas from yesterday.”
Your blood goes cold.
You think you actually stop mopping.
He chuckles. “That must be some kind of misunderstanding. I wasn’t here yesterday.”
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit is literally all you can think of.
Nancy hums. “Well… I can check with my grandma, if you’re willing to wait until she arrives.”
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh sh—
“You know what?” he suddenly laughs. “No problem! I’ll pay for that. Keep it as a reminder that we want to see you this Sunday.”
You let out a shaky puff of air, practically sagging in relief. That was just the most—
THUNK.
So caught up in your own brain, you hadn’t noticed you were standing directly in front of the door .
Which means, when you go to pick the mop back up—
—you swing it right into Mr. Wilson as he’s walking out.
When you look at him, he’s rubbing his mouth, brow creased.
Nancy’s hands are clapped over her mouth, eyes wide.
You feel so uncomfortable around him that you can barely remember how to apologise.
Still, you try, throwing him your best shy smile. “Sorry. I don’t know where my head was.”
Mr. Wilson stares down at you for a few seconds and for a moment, it feels like you’re being measured, studied. Not in the way the Doctor does it, curious, analytical.
No. This is different. Like he’s trying to catalogue you.
Then he chuckles. “I don’t think I know you yet.”
“No, sir,” you reply, tone flat as a robot’s. “I’m new in town.”
“Well then,” he chirps. He pulls something from his pocket — a business card — and hands it to you. “I’m Ralph Wilson. If you need anything at all, you can find me at that address.”
His smile widens. “Hope to see you in church!”
And with that, he leaves.
The bell over the door rings — and the second it does, Nancy bursts out laughing.
You’re still so nervous it takes a second for the laugh to register. But when it does, it bubbles up, awkward and breathless.
And that’s when you realise it.
Nancy’s laughing, but her eyes drift back toward the same corner of the diner where they had earlier, when Mr. Wilson was talking.
And in that corner is the waitress from yesterday.
She’s laughing, too.
She gives the diner a quick once-over — checks that no one’s calling her — then rushes over to the counter.
Nancy grabs her, and together they disappear into the back, both of them laughing their eyes out.
Could you be… could you be possibly reading too much into that?
You do some more mopping. Then some table cleaning. Eventually, you check the clock — half past one.
Nancy’s back at the cashier, scribbling something in her notebook. Her friend is busy around the diner.
You mop your way over until you’re close enough.
“So… you don’t like Mr. Wilson?” you ask, trying to sound as casual as humanly possible.
She presses her lips together. “I don’t go thinking about him.”
Right…
Not the answer you were expecting.
“Fair enough,” you chuckle.
You’re about to ask if you can have lunch — because yes, you’re hungry again and no, you haven’t had a full meal in two days — when she sighs.
“He’s the council president, miss,” she says. “He knows everyone. And everyone knows him. Everyone likes him.”
“You guys have a council?” you blink, curious.
She nods, shutting her eyes like just saying it gives her a headache. “We unfortunately do. All the old people talking about communism and church and marriage...”
“I see…” You grin. “Sounds boring. When’s the next one?”
“Oh, every Saturday. At the public park next to the church.”
Tomorrow, then.
Wouldn’t that be an interesting place to gather intel…
Nancy must read your face exactly for what it is, because she laughs.
“You really don’t wanna go there, miss. Nothing interesting ever happens.”
You laugh too. “God, no, I imagine it doesn’t. By the way…” — you pivot — “can I get something for lunch?”
“Yeah, of course!” she grins. “Just order with Marie there.”
Marie. Name noted.
“I don’t suppose…” you add, a little sheepish, “you’d have... a tupperware, would you?”
Nancy’s face folds into the most perfect mix of surprise, amusement, and mild concern.
But—
Half an hour later, you’re riding your bike out of the diner, tupperware full of food balanced in your (borrowed) bag.
You’re on a roll today.
A few minutes later, you’re parking by the repair shop.
There’s a humming buzz coming from inside, but Rick is out front, fixing a car.
You smile. That’s her.
When Rick spots you, he waves with his greasy hand. “Back already?”
“Here for lunch,” you grin, waving back. Then you swing your backpack to him. “Want some?”
He gives you one of those hearty laughs he seems to live on.
“Nah, I’m having lunch with the wife.” Then he nods toward the back of the shop. “Quick hands she’s got, huh?”
You chuckle, biting your lip. “You have no idea. I’ll go check if she’s still alive, if you’ll excuse me.”
He laughs again and goes back to his car.
You head toward the back — and there she is.
Crouched in front of some kind of table she’s definitely thrown together, welding stick in hand, welding helmet on the floor while sniffing something she’s holding in the other.
You missed her so much.
“Please tell me you’re not gonna lick that,” you quip.
The Doctor glances over her shoulder until her eyes land on you — her hair swinging around her neck and falling back into her face — and she beams.
“Hi! Is it lunchtime already?”
She gets up from her crouching position — and honestly, you’d love to understand how she does that so fast — and throws both hands in the air, looking slightly manic.
“Right! D’you want the good news or the bad news?” Then, she adds, “I also have weird news. And radio news.”
You squint, biting back a laugh. “What’s the radio news?”
“Ah!” and she throws you a grin — that crooked grin — half mischief, half chaos, like she’s about two seconds from pulling an actual Frankenstein out of her pocket.
She grabs you by the shoulders and brings you to a radio sitting on her makeshift desk.
At first, it looks like she’s searching for a station, but then she lands in-between signals. Just static.
She turns to you. “Okay?”
You have no idea what she’s doing. “Okay…?”
She points the sonic at it. And waits.
Suddenly, the static shifts, softer, lower. And underneath it...
A beeping .
Three beats. Then two. Then three again, this one with a long pause between each sequence.
“Three-two-three… is that Morse?” you ask.
She hums, shaking her head and flicking the radio off. “Thought so at first. No pattern, though.”
“And what’s the weird news?”
“I built a tracker!” she declares, holding up a small square metallic object.
There’s a circular pattern etched onto it — Gallifreyan.
“Cute!” you grin.
“Yeah, except it’s not tracking.” She taps it with her thumb. “It’s like the signal jams anything that tries to lock onto it.”
Then, she grins that mischievous smile again. “Except…?”
“The sonic?” you guess.
“Nope.” She leans in, bouncing slightly. “Okay, I’ll tell you the good news— wait.” Her eyes narrow. “You didn’t have that bag before.”
“Oh!” you laugh. “Nearly forgot. I brought lunch. I mean, I brought lunch for me , but even though I know you’re probably not hungry, I brought this—”
You open the smaller bag, handing it to her. “Waffles. In case you’re craving sugar.”
She lights up like you’ve just handed her the solution to everything and eagerly snatches the bag.
You take the opportunity to drag over a stool and plop onto it, opening your own lunch.
“You can have this too, if you want,” you add casually. “Now… what’s the good news?”
Mouth full, she rummages in her pocket, then drops something into your hand.
A small, orange, glowing crystal.
“Stenza tech?” you blink, confused.
She nods.
You stare at her. “Are you saying that beeping has something to do with the Stenza and that’s actually good ? ”
“What? No ! ” she splutters, mouth finally free, like you’ve just blurted out the worst blasphemy imaginable.
You groan, sinking back slightly. “Okay. I think you lost me.”
“What do we know about Stenza tech?” she asks, but you can tell it’s mostly rhetorical. “It’s extremely annoying and extremely incompatible with anything you try to combine it with.”
“Hence we ended up in space?” you ask, mouth full, wondering if she’s even going to understand you.
She does. “Correct.” Then, pointing at the crystal, “So what I’m doing is, I’ll use that to block the signal in me brain. And if it works — and it will work — I can replicate it on a larger scale.”
“Wow. That’s actually genius!” you grin, then snort. “Don’t know why I sound surprised.”
The Doctor frowns slightly, already rummaging through her desk. “Yeah. Don’t know why you do.”
Well. That’s you told.
You pivot. “Is it broadcasting? Like, someone sending something out? ”
“No,” she replies. Then sounding graver. “More like sending in . ”
You frown.
But before you can ask what the hell that means , she throws you a grin. “Got the bike, then?”
You light up. “Yeah! And the job. I mean, pretty sure I have.”
“Diner?” she asks, hands on hips.
“Yeah! Good guessing.”
She smiles, but it’s… distant? You don’t really know how to read that.
She knows something. More than she’s telling you. That’s for sure.
If that’s how she wants to play, you’re not telling her about the council, then.
Win-win.
You’ve finished your food now and start gathering your things to leave, when it hits you. “Hang on. What was the bad news?”
She wrinkles her nose. “Oh, yeah! Didn’t actually have bad news. Just the weird news.”
“And the radio news?” you chuckle.
“Also the waffle news! That was your cue.”
You laugh. “I’ll be sure to bring more of those. Anyway, gotta go. I wanna be there when Nancy’s nan arrives.”
You glance around, doing that little safety check like you did this morning, and only now notice Rick isn’t by the car anymore.
You step back a little, just to be sure.
“What?” the Doctor asks, following after you.
You giggle. “No, no, stay at the back. I think he’s gone to have lunch.”
No Rick. No customers. No one.
Still giggling, you dart closer to her and tap your lips. “Just one.”
“Really?” she starts, already gearing up for the protest. “I just told you this whole city’s vibe is completely off—”
You stamp your foot softly, like a whining kid. “Just one. Pretty please.”
She puffs out air, but she’s smiling. You know she’s smiling.
And, finally, she leans in and gives you your just-one-peck you’d been begging for.
You grin, grab your bag, and bolt outside, laughing.
But the second you step out, the laughter stops.
The hairs on the back of your neck stand up.
You glance around.
Nothing. No one.
So why…
Why can’t you shake the feeling… of being watched?
Notes:
me writing a gender non-conforming reader: this better not awaken anything in me
tune in next time for some more paranoia and the doctor being a scientific gremlin. hope to see you there!
Chapter 3: Lavender Intuition, pt. 1
Summary:
Wayloncreek starts to show its first signs of real danger just as you begin to blend in. But what happens when all that attention turns to the Doctor?
Notes:
here we go agaaain! this is a smaller-ish-esque chapter, but i'll make it up for that with the last one guys, it's getting really big.
like, maybe-i-think-i-don't-know-where-to-stop it bigwarnings for this chapter: mentions of guns, a lot of paranoia again, the feeling of being stalked. some innuendo at the end
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
A tree.
A car.
Your own shadow.
Another car, this one nearly hitting you.
Wherever you look, it’s like there are eyes glued to your back.
Watching you. Tracking you.
Eyes everywhere.
Call it lavender intuition.
Arriving at the diner is a relief.
You lean against the door, finally breathing, not even checking if there are customers behind you.
Nancy calls from the counter, cheerful. “Just in time, miss.”
As you approach, she grins. “Good news! My grandma liked your cleaning.”
You blink.
Her grin widens, and she chuckles. “You’re hired!”
“Oh my God,” you breathe out, sagging, forehead thunking softly against the counter.
“Finally. Some good flipping news. Thank you so much. As the Doctor would say right now, you’re a lifesaver.”
She laughs again, patting your head gently.
Her laughter fills your chest with warmth.
Smiley Nancy, indeed.
The rest of the afternoon drags out preeeeetty slowly.
Nancy’s grandma — Bertha McAllister, as you were introduced — walks you through how everything works: what time the diner opens and closes, how much you’ll get paid per hour.
You’re expected to start at ten in the morning and clock out by six in the afternoon. One day off a week, to be agreed.
And about your lack of uniform, all you get is a muttered, “Young people, these days.”
Not bad, honestly. Not bad at all.
As evening rolls in and the diner gets busier, you find yourself alternating between two tasks: one) eavesdropping; two) thinking about whatever it is the Doctor’s hiding.
Here’s what you gather from the locals:
A teenage couple arguing because the boy won’t lend the girl his jacket.
Mr. Wilson has an important announcement to make at tomorrow’s council meeting.
The diner’s milkshake is more milk than chocolate these days.
(True.)
A group of middle-aged women complaining that these days, anyone can be accused of being a commie.
Two boys loudly wishing the city had a picture house.
And an old couple grumbling about how the government’s stealing their money to give to “the foreigners.”
Oh! And the council starts at half past eight tomorrow morning.
Now. About the Doctor.
She said that: a) the signal is a low-level frequency; b) it’s probably affecting humans, but we can’t feel it; c) it’s sending something in, not out; and d) whoever’s doing this probably wants to scale it up eventually.
…Yeah. You still have no idea what’s going on.
Mind control? For what, though? Politics?
Are the Americans trying to take over the Russians with mind control??
Fortunately, the clock hits six p.m.
You are so making her tell you what the hell is going on.
You head to the back of the diner to drop off the cleaning supplies, double-checking you haven’t left anything behind. As you untie your apron, something slips out of your pocket and hits the floor.
Mr. Wilson’s business card. It must’ve shuffled around when you cycled here and luckily it didn’t fall out earlier.
You pick it up and read it.
82 Evergreen Lane.
Deacon at Grace Baptist Church.
And...
Owns the radio tower and station.
There’s even a number listed — call the station for music and theme request s.
Sus. Very sus.
Still staring at the card, you step out from the back of the diner, walking slowly, lost in thought.
Until your ears catch what someone’s saying to Bertha at the cashier.
“—walking around like that, nearly hitting the children,” grumbles an older woman. She looks about Bertha’s age — and very, very cross.
“I’m telling you, a woman that old, with those... pants ! Like she’s some kind of boy!”
Uh-oh . You have a sinking feeling you know exactly who she’s talking about.
Sliding Mr. Wilson’s card back into your pocket, you drift closer as the woman keeps going.
“Pointing that thing around, running about! Running between cars, Bert. What is the world coming to, huh?”
You clear your throat. Both women jump.
“Sorry, I just— I accidentally overheard what you were saying,” you say, polite but urgent. “This woman... was she blonde?”
“Oh, yes !” the woman replies, but not before shooting you a sharp, disapproving look (which is quickly overridden by her sheer excitement at getting to gossip).
“Wearing a coat?” you ask, grimacing.
“Outrageous ! ” she practically spits.
“Oh, shit , ” you mutter, out loud.
Both women gasp, eyes going wide with scandal.
You wince, turning to Bertha. “Sorry, Mrs. McAllister. I’m clocking out. See you tomorrow!”
And with that you grab your bike, hop on, and bolt.
The residential area is a good few minutes away, even with the bike.
Since you’ve arrived, you’ve gotten pretty well acquainted with downtown and the outskirts. Finding her here, though?
Needle in a haystack.
You cycle through street after street, block after block, until the moon’s already hanging high in the sky.
You’re tired. You’re lost. And you need to find her.
You’re also starting to feel... a little paranoid.
What if a car hit her, and she regenerated, and you lost her her?
What if she nearly ran into a kid, and they arrested her??
What if she flipped on her Oncoming Storm mode and got into a proper fight with someone???
What if she went back to the motel and you’re looking for her here like an idiot????
You stop. Pull over onto some random corner, panting.
Which — as it turns out — is the best thing you could’ve done, because now you can hear voices.
Not casual chatter like the conversations you passed earlier.
A buzz. Choppy. Panicked.
You steer your bike toward the noise, trying to look like you’re just casually strolling by.
“—and did you see how that thing was glowing? I closed my door when she ran down your street,” a woman says.
“My husband’s home,” another replies. “He’s got a gun if he needs to use it. Waiting right there on the balcony.”
She points at a house. It’s too dark to make it out.
You’ll take it anyway.
You zap down the street, no doubt scaring off that group of women in the process.
It’s irrational. It’s ridiculous. You know that. And yet, you cycle faster, heart hammering, terrified that any second now you might hear the crack of a gun. And the unbearable pain that would follow.
You can’t regenerate. She’ll carry that guilt for the rest of her lives .
Then — suddenly — like light at the end of a tunnel, you see a silhouette.
Someone standing in the middle of the street, something glowing bright orange wrapped around their arm.
They start walking again. And now you can see it clearer —
The coat!
“Doctor!” you shout, pedalling like a madwoman.
She stops, but you can see she’s torn. Frozen between staying and running off again.
She takes a step forward.
“Doctor! For God’s sake, stop!”
You reach her — just in time — and throw the bike sideways in front of her, blocking her path.
She flinches back, startled.
“What the hell are you doing?” you snap, hands shaking, adrenaline starting to crash.
“I got a fix of the signal here for just one moment! And then it was gone!” she exclaims, frustrated.
And frustration is dangerous for anyone in her path.
And, coincidentally, you are in her path. Literally .
The Doctor runs both hands down her face, pacing in a tight little circle.
Your eyes drop to the glowing, orange bracelet thing wrapped around her arm.
“What’s that?” you ask.
“If I could just find it!” she growls, pacing faster. “But it keeps fidgeting. Like... like...” She throws her hands up. “Like a rotating IP! Except it’s alien , and reverse engineering won’t work, and it’s so annoying!”
She finally stops. Hands on hips, biting her bottom lip.
Her voice drops. “If I find whoever’s doing this...”
You’re still breathing shallow, heart in your throat. She’s one minute away from turning into a proper safety hazard.
You need to get her out of here .
“Hop on the bike , ” you tell her.
“What?” she frowns, like you’ve just suggested the moon is actually cheese. “No. You go back to the motel. I need to—”
“Hop. On. The. Bike.” You cut her off, sharper now. “The whole city is talking about you. There’s a guy waiting out with a gun. The search is over, Doctor!”
That seems to get her.
Her lips press into a tight line. Brow slightly creased.
And God it hurts. It hurts that you had to snap at her. So much you could almost cry.
But you’re still scared, and the group of women at the far corner is still there, still watching.
The Doctor points at the bike, voice small. “We don’t both fit on that.”
You step off. “You do it,” you grumble, voice shaky. “You already made me chase you halfway across town, least you can do is get me out of here.”
Reluctantly — very reluctantly — she hops onto the seat.
And you, very dangerously, put your feet on the bars above the tires and hold onto her shoulders.
As she starts pedalling back up the street, you nod towards the far corner. “See those women? They’re all talking about you. In one of these houses there’s the guy with a gun waiting for you to pass by again.”
You shouldn’t taunt her. You know that. But it’s either that or break down completely from whatever the hell this night has turned into.
She hums. “Yeah. Best not.”
Then, without missing a beat, she turns the bike around and heads the other way.
You’re almost at the end of the street when something makes your heart nearly stop.
“Wait, wait, wait!” You frantically tap her shoulder. “Stop. Stop for a minute!”
“What? What? What happened?” she asks, braking hard.
You don’t reply. You can’t. Your brain is short-circuiting.
The street sign.
The address.
Evergreen Lane .
“My God…” you breathe.
“What is it?” she snaps (yeah, she’s definitely annoyed now).
“Nothing,” you lie, shaking your head. “I’ll explain at the motel.”
At the very least, maybe that’ll make her cycle faster.
***
You flop onto the motel bed.
Arms stretched. Legs stretched. Face-down on the mattress.
Behind you, the familiar sound of boots.
Step. Step step. Step step step... stop.
You make a questioning hum.
After a beat, comes her voice, small. “I’m sorry.”
You roll onto your back, facing her.
She’s not looking at you, eyes fixed on the ground. “I thought that maybe...” she trails off. “I was so close.”
You sigh.
You’re tired. You’re still a little angry. But, blimey, you love her so much. All you want right now is to pull her in and not let go.
But she’s not getting off the hook that easily.
“What’s that glowing thing on your arm?” you ask instead.
She turns her arm toward you. “It’s my blocker!”
“Oh!” You sit up a little, smiling despite yourself. “Did it work?”
She beams . “Yep! Not head-wonking anymore.”
You’re still smiling when you say, “You’re definitely taking that off when I turn off the lights to sleep.”
She scrunches her face, but starts unclasping it anyway, leaving it next to your bags.
You chuckle.
Then, you ask, “Why were you haunting the residential area in the first place?”
Her arms fly out to her sides, full of dramatic indignation. “I wasn’t haunting it! I was... researching it.”
“Mhmm.” you reply, dry. “So why were you researching it like you were haunting it?”
She digs something out of her trouser pocket — the tracker!
“It worked!” she declares. “Nearly.”
You sit up fully now, fixing her with a look. “Working is a boolean, Doctor. It either does or it doesn’t.”
“Booleans are overrated,” she says, tossing the tracker into the air and catching it again. “It did work, just not how I expected. Instead of helping me find the source of the signal, it gave me a pattern . I decrypted it, and then I got a general location. The closer I got to the houses, the more specific it got.”
She finally sits next to you on the bed, exhaling hard. “I was so close.”
If only she knew…
“Maybe if I just tweak it—” she starts, already sounding way too excited.
“Nope!” you blurt, snatching the tracker straight from her hand and shoving it under your leg.
“Oi! What’s that for?” she protests.
“You’re telling me everything you know about this signal,” you say, firm.
She tilts her head, suspicious.
You nod, doubling down. “What is it doing? Why is it doing what it’s doing if it’s doing anything? All that jazz.”
She scrunches her face. “I just told you!”
“No, you told me what you’ve been doing with this,” you reply.
(And make the mistake of picking it up from under your leg for a second.)
She lunges.
You bolt for the door.
“You’re not having it back,” you warn, tone light, but you mean every word . “Not while you’re not letting me in on what’s going on.”
She draws in a deep breath and looks away. “Dunno what you mean.”
“Yesterday, you gave me that look. The ‘this thing’s worrying me and now I’ll think about it for the rest of my life’ look. But then you get me worried, and if I get worried you’ll get worried, too. So let’s not worry. Spill the beans.”
“I don’t make that face!” she exclaims, scandalised.
“You make that face all the time , ” you shoot back, laughing. “Tell you what. If it interests you, I also have a little bit of information I’m not telling you. And I bet it’s gonna bring some very interesting light to what happened tonight.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“Yeah,” you reply with the most sarcastic smile you can conjure. “ Tell me your bit… and I’ll tell you mine.”
“Fine!” she grumbles, pushing up from the bed.
She starts pacing, hands on hips, frustration practically leaking out of her ears.
Then she spins, snapping her fingers at you. “I know! What’s the first thing you noticed about the people here?”
You frown. “That they stare a lot. Especially at you.”
“They stare at you, too.”
“That’s why I said especially ,” you deadpan.
She waves that off, already pivoting mid-step. “And why do they do that?”
“Because we’re out of town. And gay. I mean, I’m gay, you’re an alien.”
“Exactly!” she fires back, suddenly more serious. “And that’s because they see us as fundamentally different from them .”
She stops and looks at you expectantly, waiting for it to click.
And it does.
“Wait, is the signal making them see us that way?”
She presses her lips together. “Not making. Nudging, just a tiny bit. Amplifying personal biases. Like how you felt about that cop, remember?”
You step closer. “No, but I have my reasons! I’m under the influence of that thing too?”
“Any and all personal biases. Even the justified ones.” She nods, sharp. “And yeah — moment we landed, we walked right into it.”
She’s pacing again now, gesturing wildly.
“So what it does is, it takes whatever you don’t trust, don’t like, and amps it right up to the stratosphere. Makes you feel like it’s you, and anyone who thinks like you, against the rest of the world. And then you gotta hit home base, bunker down— and now I think I’m really mixing up my metaphors.”
You blink, confused. Not about what she’s said. About you.
Have you been imagining all of it? All the stares. All the quiet judgement. Was it all inside your head?
“How do you know that?” you ask.
“You know Pavlov, yeah?” she starts.
You nod.
“Well, that signal we heard on the radio works kinda like that. Makes you feel better when you react to something you don’t like. Reward loop. Feeds it. Keeps the cycle going.”
“Okay, but like — how did you figure out the bias thing?” you ask, genuinely curious now. “Because we humans obviously can’t notice it. Can we?”
She bounces a little on her feet. Flustered. Not looking at you. “Yeah. You guys don’t notice it.”
A beat.
And then it hits you.
“Oh! You felt it. Your own biases?”
She gives you a tiny nod, her shoulders curling slightly like she wishes she could fold herself into her coat and disappear.
She looks extremely uncomfortable with the conversation.
“Okay,” you smile softly. “I’m not gonna ask.”
You mean it.
You want to respect her boundaries. Getting her to open up this much has clearly been difficult enough.
…
But…
Yeah, no. You can’t help yourself.
You burst into laughter. “Was it the houses? It was, wasn’t it?”
She groans, sitting on the bed with a flop . “They’re all the same!!”
“White fence, green grass…” you giggle.
“I’d never have a house,” she declares, wincing, like the concept itself is horrifying. Then, she beams. “I’d have a flat. Like Yaz’s.”
“That living room!” you grin.
“And I’d have a purple sofa. I’d love a purple sofa.”
“Just add a balcony and it’s perfect,” you agree, throwing your arms out like you can sketch one into the air.
Then you shake your head.
“No, wait. You’re distracting me. Back to the problem: why were you making such a fuss about telling me this? This is like... a mild day with you.”
She cocks her head to the side, lips pressed into a tight line, then gets up, wandering to the nightstand like it suddenly needs inspecting.
Of course, for all your jokes, you don’t actually know if the rows of identical houses are her amplified bias.
It might be one of them, sure. But you’d bet it’s not even the worst one.
“Is that why the TARDIS left?” you ask, cautious. “Not because of the signal itself, but because of you? And your deep, profound hatred for white fences?” you chuckle.
She chuckles back. “Yeah. Something like that.”
No… it’s not that yet.
Then, she pivots. “So. What was it you were gonna say? Actually, what did you see back at that street?”
You don’t reply straight away, your brain’s still catching up.
“Oh, wait,” you point at her. “Is that why you knew I got the job at the diner? You already knew about Nancy!”
She crosses her arms and nods, her whole face saying “please let’s talk about literally anything else now.”
You groan, half laughing, half frustrated. “You could’ve told me! Would’ve spared me so much this morning!”
“I couldn’t know for sure,” she replies, defensive. “I had a hunch. Needed to be sure.”
You sigh, finally sitting back on the bed.
She had a hunch. And now... so do you.
She didn’t want to tell you, because telling you would mean acknowledging it.
The bigotry. The prejudice. What you’d face.
And if there’s one thing the Doctor doesn’t like...
You bite back a smile. It’s really sweet, actually.
“Okay.” You tap your hands against your thighs. “A promise is a promise. Do you remember that Mr. Wilson? The one who unknowingly paid for our pie and toothbrushes?”
“Yeah!” She nods. (And her eyebrows crease just slightly at the edges in that way that makes her look so adorable ).
You clear your throat. Focus.
“He’s the council president. He owns the radio station,” you go on and she leans in now, interested. “And...?” you grin, drawing it out.
She takes a step closer. “And?”
“He lives on Evergreen Lane.”
She frowns, confused.
“Where I found you.”
The Doctor leans back, eyes darting across the room, pacing again, her brain no doubt already thinking of one hundred different possibilities.
“Problem is…” you sigh. “He hasn’t actually done anything. He hasn’t called me a slur, or threatened someone. He’s just… perfect . The way Wayloncreek clearly expects anyone to be.”
You draw in a sharp breath. “And now I’m not so sure anymore if these are clues or just… things I should unpack with my therapist,” you chuckle softly, sad.
She’s kneeling in front of you before you’ve even noticed.
“Listen to me,” she commands, softly, but with enough weight in it that your eyes snap straight to hers. “You don’t look down on those people. You don’t have some fundamental belief that this what’s-his-name is wrong for existing. What you do have is lived experience. You know this type of person. And what you also have —” her eyes burn into yours “— is a bloody good intuition. And that might just be what saves us this time.”
Your chest tightens, and you can’t help the smile tugging at your lips.
“Got me?” she asks.
You nod. “Got you. Thanks.”
She nods back, then jumps to her feet. “Now, if he’s human, how 's he got access to a signal like that? And why? Why would ya want to sabotage your own species? I mean, wouldn't be the first time but…”
Your eyes track her as she paces, hands on her waist, boots tapping against the floor. When she stops, her face shifts to that serious, stern look that always makes you feel slightly scared.
(And something else too, but you don't really want to think about that right now.)
“Don't like bullies. Don't like conspiracies. And I definitely don't like alien signals interfering with local life.” She throws her arms out. “And, blimey, isn't this the town of my dreams?”
You bite back a grin.
It seems you've figured out one of her biases, after all…
Fortunately, she'll be wearing that bracelet tomorrow.
“Good thing there's gonna be a council meeting tomorrow morning,” you tell her. “Half past nine, if you wanna tell him that in person.”
Her arms drop to her sides, slowly, and she looks at you.
You’ve seen that look before. Plenty of times. And you’ve never quite figured out what it means.
It’s not soft. Not exactly.
Not serious, either.
Not playful. Not confused.
But it’s always — always — meant for you.
And you really, really like it.
You extend your arm, offering back her tracker.
But when she reaches for it, you yank your arm away, laughing.
She fixes you the look™. It never helps her case. And she never learns.
You hold it out again, just to whip it back when she moves.
Except she’s way too quick and her hand snaps around your wrist.
What follows is a completely pointless, giggly mess.
You twist, wriggle, flail — all the while she just laughs, breezy and triumphant, like she’s not breaking every single one of Newton’s laws to pin you down.
It only ends when, somehow, she ends up on top of you.
And after that, well…
The bed will never tell.
Notes:
tune in next time for lavender intuition pt 2, where we'll see our wilson guy in action for real — and the doctor won't like it one bit. also, the doctor doing questionable things while looking criminally hot.
you know, tuesday.hope to see you there <3
Chapter 4: Lavender Intuition, pt. 2
Summary:
You and the Doctor attend the council meeting, where Wilson starts to show his true colours — and the town decides which side they’re on.
Oh, and the Doctor is criminally hot. Literally.
Notes:
we're almost there y'all!!! i had so much fun writing this chapter lsflsflfsf 13 is a delight to write
chapter warnings: homophobic speech, but that's like any political speech rn, the feeling of being stalked and watched makes a comeback <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Knock knock knock.
“Baby, come on!” you call out, knocking on the bathroom door again. “We’re gonna be late — and I cannot believe it’s me saying this to you .”
“Give me a minute!” she fires back,a tad more annoyed than you were hoping for.
“Oi! Don’t give me that tone.”
Knock knock knock
“You’ve been given several minutes. Time to go!”
You start pacing the room, arms crossed, eyes flicking back and forth to the clock.
Eight-fifteen.
“Honestly,” you mutter, loud enough for her to hear, absolutely on purpose. “A Time Lord. Over two thousand years old. And she takes more time getting ready for a COMMUNITY COUNCIL than the ACTUAL HUMAN in the room.”
The door finally swings open with a grumbled, “I’m not deaf, am I?”
And your jaw?
Well, it nearly hits the floor.
“It’s this trouser,” she mutters, fidgeting with the hem. “Had to rig a clip for the suspenders, can you believe that?”
You don’t reply.
You can’t.
You’re pretty sure you look like a puppy. Tongue practically hanging out.
“What d’you think?” she grins — and oh, you could kill her.
If she didn’t look this hot .
She’s somehow made an entire outfit out of the scraps you bought from Harmony Shop that day.
Black trousers. Light-yellow button-up, sleeves casually rolled, top button left open, just enough to expose her collarbones. And, of course, her signature yellow suspenders.
It hugs her in every single place it should not legally be allowed to hug.
But she doesn’t even give you a minute to gawk, already turning for the door with a cheerful (and undeniably smug) “Shall we?”
You finally snap your jaw shut. “This is so unfair. Why does the bigot get the nice outfit and not me?”
She’s halfway through the doorway when she glances back, tossing you a grin that really should be declared a hazard . “Chop chop. Wanna be late?”
That’s you told 2.0.
You follow, pretending your knees don’t feel like jelly. Wherever she moves today, you already know your eyes are following.
First thing that happens: the motel clerk’s eyes nearly fall out of her skull when the Doctor approaches to pay for another night.
Second thing: the bike.
“What is that? ” you yell.
There’s a bike rack.
A whole bike rack.
There wasn’t one yesterday.
There is one now.
It’s blue.
Navy blue.
A very specific navy blue.
Your eyes flick to the Doctor as she steps out of the motel.
She shrugs. “I quite like my shoulder blades, you know?”
You gasp, feigning offence. “I am not strong enough to break your shoulder blades! Actually, when did you do this? You were right next to me before I—”
“Shhhh!” She cuts you off, finger pressed to your mouth, far too close, and suddenly your brain isn’t doing words anymore.
(Are you blushing? You’re blushing. God.)
“Anyway,” she hops on the bike, “ when I did it doesn’t matter. Weren’t you the one complaining about being late?”
You laugh. “Oh my God, you really don’t like being called out, do you?”
“Dunno what you mean,” she grumbles. “Hold tight, will ya? I’m not stopping to fetch ya from the street.”
You giggle, arms looping around her waist, far too happy about it.
But as the Doctor starts pedalling away your eyes catch the motel clerk.
Watching.
And the hairs at the back of your neck stand up.
It’s a windy day, and the Doctor cycles fast .
(You’d go fast too if you had two hearts.)
Her hair’s surprisingly long enough to keep whipping into your face every other second.
You don’t suppose you’d be breaking your promise about being discreet if you just leaned your head against her back, would you?
You try it — and it’s the best decision you’ve ever made. It’s like floating in a lavender cloud.
You stay like that for a while until you hear her humming. You blink, glancing up.
“I feel naked without me coat,” she says.
“Please don’t talk about being naked,” you shoot back, barely suppressing your laughter.
Then you spot a clothing shop like Harmony, all glass at the front.
You chuckle. She caught her own reflection.
It does make you think, though. “Doctor… Why did you change your clothes?”
“Well,” she starts, with that maddeningly cheerful tone, “what better way to check how loud the biases are than to be the bias itself?”
She sounds so excited to be the target of prejudice, it almost makes you forget how terrible it can actually feel.
And loud the biases are indeed.
The moment the Doctor brakes the bike — with the same enthusiasm she uses when parking the TARDIS, you’re frankly surprised you haven’t been thrown over — every head turns.
The park itself is actually beautiful.
Tall trees, neat flower beds. The humming and singing of the birds filling the air, sounding like peace itself.
In the middle of it all, chairs are set in a big circle, and you even recognise a few faces from the diner.
To your surprise, Nancy and Marie are here too. You spot Nancy first — hard not to, considering she’s literally standing up to get a better look at the Doctor.
Marie’s eyes follow the two of you as well, tracking your every step as you head for a seat.
It’s not judgment, of course. Not even close. It’s admiration . So much so they can barely hide it.
And that’s why — very casually — you loop your arm around the Doctor’s.
(You’re not possessive, you’re just making sure— No, yeah, you are possessive. So what?)
You also spot Rick, waving enthusiastically at you and the Doctor. There’s a woman his age sitting beside him. You figure that’s probably his wife.
Officer Miller is sitting on the opposite side of the circle, not wearing his uniform. You can almost forget your bias for a small moment, what with how normal he looks.
But alas, not every look is a friendly — or even neutral — one.
With so many eyes turned your way, you catch it all — concern, contempt, aversion.
You glance at the Doctor, wondering if she notices it too.
Her eyes are wandering — taking in the park, the people, the birds — much like a child. Wide-eyed. Curious. Completely enthralled.
And that’s when you know. Every single person in Waylon Creek should watch their back — because she has a plan.
And you have no idea what it is.
Just then, a tall man — older than Rick — steps up to the podium set in the middle of the circle of chairs. He’s holding a microphone, its wire stretching all the way back to the church a few metres behind you.
He clears his throat, and the buzzing of the crowd dies down.
“Hello, everyone,” he greets, pulling a folded piece of paper from his pocket. His voice is hoarse, each word drawn out painfully slow. “Today, we will discuss the following topics.” Another throat clear. “Best practices when cleaning this very park. A few complaints about noisy neighbours. And, finally, why it’s important to prioritise the local shops.”
By the time he finishes reading, you want to crawl out of your skin.
“What?!” the Doctor wrinkles her nose. “Is that it?”
With the way her voice spikes when she’s indignant, there’s no way he didn’t hear her.
The man brings the mic closer again. “Oh! And at the end a very important message from our dear president, Mr. Ralph Wilson.”
The Doctor visibly relaxes next to you.
“Oncoming Storm,” you hiss at her.
Her face twists, one eyebrow arched, the other furrowed. That’s her “I don’t know what you mean” face.
So, the meeting goes exactly in that order.
First, a woman in her forties steps up to the podium, explaining how to clean the park and how the schedule works. Everyone’s expected to contribute, either financially or hands-on.
Second, a man — moustache, beard, thick glasses that make his eyes look way too big for his face. He asks the neighbours to reduce noise and street conversations after nine p.m.
A lot of eyes — including his — fall on the Doctor.
If she notices, she pretends otherwise.
Then, another man steps up, and you recognise him as the bakery owner. He launches into a speech about how some locals have been visiting neighbouring towns, and how that’s damaging the local economy.
And finally — before you completely fall asleep — Mr. Wilson takes the podium.
And that’s when something interesting happens.
The moment Mr. Wilson grabs the mic, the speakers buzz. Not the usual kind of feedback. A weird sort of interference.
And underneath it — very faintly — you hear it: three beats, two beats, three beats.
Your eyes snap to the Doctor’s and hers snap to yours.
How could that have happened here?
“My fellow citizens,” Mr. Wilson begins. “My fellow Americans. Today, I come to you with a request. And I hope that, by the end of it, you’ll understand how much of an honour it is to be part of this new phase in the history of our beloved Waylon Creek and our beloved Ohio.”
A ripple spreads through the crowd, buzzing voices, excited smiles.
You have a bad feeling about this.
“We all know the state of the world today. We all know what we’re fighting against,” he goes on. “For our families. For our homes.”
“Seventy-one years in the past,” you mutter to the Doctor, “and it’s like I’m watching the news.”
She purses her lips at you — and you don’t know why but you get the feeling that’s not just a 2020s problem.
“The war, ladies and gentlemen, isn’t out in the fields this time. The war isn’t against the Germans. The war isn’t against the Nazi—”
“Wouldn’t it be fun if something happened to his mic?” the Doctor whispers.
You bite back a laugh.
“—or against the axis of evil! Our war is to defend and uphold this country’s values. To defend the United States of America from the enemy that eats us from the inside.”
He pauses here, and you know it’s practiced. Calculated . He wants everyone to absorb what he’s saying before they even fully understand what it means.
You’ve seen this so many times. And God, you are so tired of it.
Mr. Wilson lifts the mic again, turning slowly in a circle so he can meet everyone’s eyes. “And we all know what that is. Communism.”
The people hum in agreement. A few shout a loud, “Yeah!”
“These so-called civil rights,” he presses on.
Another wave of agreement.
“Homosexualism.”
And he has the audacity to look right at you when he says it.
Your blood starts boiling. Your breathing spikes.
But you remember the signal, and what it does. You are not giving him the upper hand.
You lean towards the Doctor. “I think he just called my name. Might be my turn to speak.”
That makes her chuckle, genuinely.
An old woman sitting next to her shushes you both.
You refocus on his voice. “—that threaten our children. That threaten our future. We need to start fighting back. We need to join the founding fathers of this country in what may be the last great battle of our society.”
After another pause, he presses on. “I want to be an example for our community. I ” — he jabs a thumb into his own chest — “took it upon myself to start this fight. And yesterday, I removed the first weed of its kind from our midst. Raymond Lee.”
The crowd buzzes immediately.
“Those who know him, know he’s been showing clear signs of mistrust in our community. Questioning our values.” His voice hardens. “As it turns out, Mr. Lee is a communist. And Mr. Lee is in the best prison in New York as we speak.”
Gasps. Clapping.
A woman hides her face in her hands, shoulders trembling.
You recognise her. It’s the woman from the diner. The one with the letter, who was waiting for someone.
Waiting for Mr. Lee.
You glance at the Doctor.
She’s fuming. Lips pressed into a line. Brow creased. Chin tilted high in that dangerous way.
“And that is why I need all of you!” Mr. Wilson declares. “If you know someone like that — someone who compromises America’s security — bring it to my attention. Talk to the police.” His voice rises. “Let’s fight for our future. United we stand — ”
“ — and divided we fall,” the crowd finishes, like a prayer.
Mr. Wilson steps down. Applause erupts.
Nancy looks petrified, Marie rubbing her back as gently as she can.
You can feel the eyes on you. And not just on you — on the Doctor .
They look at her like she’s the living, breathing personification of every enemy Mr. Wilson has just mentioned in his speech.
And that’s when you feel it, crawling under your skin.
Something’s shifted.
And your lives are about to get so, so much worse.
As soon as people start leaving their seats, the Doctor turns to you, eyebrow raised. “Time for a chat?”
It’s not a question, not really. She’s already on her feet, striding toward where Mr. Wilson stands, surrounded by a small cluster of people.
You follow immediately. She usually does this bit alone, you’re not missing a second of it.
When you reach him, he’s smiling, holding an old lady’s hand like he didn’t just declare a witch hunt in town.
When her hand slips from his, his eyes land on you two — and his smile falters.
“Ralph Wilson, isn’t it?” the Doctor says, grinning, but it doesn’t come anywhere close to her eyes. “I’m the Doctor. I don’t think we’ve met.”
She extends her hand. Wilson stares at it for a beat too long. Then, finally, shakes it.
“Exactly, ma’am,” he replies, clipped.
She’s the first one to let go.
“So,” the Doctor continues. “Are you a police officer?”
It sounds casual, the way her tone is so light, like the start of a conversation. But her gaze barely moves. Her smile is the only soft thing about her right now, and even that feels like teeth.
He chuckles. “No. That isn’t the grace I was given. I’ve been fortunate enough to be trusted with the flocks of God — right here, at this very church behind you.”
The Doctor tilts her head, just slightly. “And under whose authority did you arrest Mr. Lee, then? God’s?”
His expression shifts. Gone is the tight, practiced smile, and in its place, outright anger. “Ma’am, that is blasphemy!”
“It’s a simple question,” you chime in. “Unless you weren’t telling them the truth.”
He chuckles again, incredulous. Then clears his throat, trying to pull himself back into composure. “I didn’t do any arresting, the police did. I found the clues, I handed them over. But these people?” He gestures vaguely at the dispersing crowd. “They need a guide.”
“And it gets to be you, doesn’t it?” she fires back.
Then she hums, lips pressed into a thin line, glancing up at the sky like she’s thinking. But you know her well enough to recognise that look.
“Funny thing,” she muses. “Last time someone like you wanted to be a community’s guide you had to serve the war.” Her gaze drops back to him. “Didn’t ya?”
His face hardens again. “You’re not from this town,” he spits, his eyes flicking down to her trousers. “You wouldn’t understand how we work.”
“You’re right,” she agrees, stepping closer. “I’m not from this town. I'm not from this country. I’m not even from this planet. And that’s why I’m telling ya—” she leans in just enough “—stop this witch hunt before it even starts.”
He scoffs, laughing. “And under whose authority are you commanding me now? The suffragists?”
She laughs too, but it’s cold. Ice cold. The kind of laugh that makes even you scared to stand in her way. “Keep this up and you’ll find out.”
His laugh dies immediately. Something flickers in his eyes — real fear.
He clears his throat, forcing himself to sound casual. “Let’s see.”
And with that, he walks away.
The Doctor’s eyes follow him as he leaves. Her jaw’s tight, her shoulders rigid, and with the way the sunlight catches her eyes… she looks ancient . Dangerous .
And suddenly, you get why she usually prefers to handle this part alone.
You also realise that was Wilson’s first warning. After this? God only knows what comes next.
A third thing you notice — she’s not wearing her blocker. And if this was her while slightly head-wonk, you don’t even want to imagine how far she can come.
Which is precisely why you decide it’s time to defuse the tension. Get her out of her own head. Isn’t that what you’re good at?
You start clapping. Softly. Deliberately.
She jumps a little, startled, and takes a step to the side.
“Wow,” you say, still clapping. “ This. This is exactly why I follow you to the most obscure corners of the universe. It’s for moments like this.”
The Doctor rolls her eyes, already patting down her back pocket, but you can tell she’s fighting back a grin.
“So let me get this straight,” you go on. “ I can’t even hold your hand because we have to be” — you throw in exaggerated air quotes — “‘discreet.’ But you can tell Mr. Bigot over there that you’re from outer space? How’s that fair?”
Her hand finally closes around what she’s looking for — the sonic, obviously (and now you really want to know how she made these trousers’ pockets bigger on the inside) — and she suddenly sprints a few steps forward, sonic pointed straight at Wilson’s back.
The soft whirring cuts through the air.
After a beat, she lowers it, frowning like she’s just tasted something sour, and walks back to you with a disappointed face.
Then she turns to you. “Gimme your phone.”
“You’re not reformatting it, are you?” you ask, but hand it over anyway.
She pouts. “Why would I do that?”
I don’t know, Ask Ryan, you think.
Instead, you say, “What are you doing with it, then?”
She’s already fiddling with it — and you really, really hope she isn’t about to reformat it, because you don’t have a backup of the photo on your lockscreen.
“Testing a theory,” she replies.
You sigh. You do love it when she decides to go all reticent. “What theory?”
“You gotta trust me on this one,” she says — and cups your cheek for a few, criminal, far too quick seconds.
There goes all your rationale.
“Right,” she says, locking your phone and slipping it into her pocket. “Let’s synchronise our watches.”
She holds out her wrist then drops it. “Nevermind. Not wearing a watch. See ya at lunch!”
You don’t know whether to roll your eyes or blow her a kiss.
So you choose a third, neutral option.
“Doctor,” you call, just as she’s already walking off. She glances back. “You’re not wearing your blocker.”
She glances at her arm. Scrunches her face. “Oh, yeah.” And then keeps walking.
You really, really hope that throws some sense into that head of hers.
You don’t have to pedal far to get to the diner.
You didn’t have dinner. Didn’t have breakfast. Safe to say you’re starving. You just want to eat something before clocking in.
But the second the bell over the door rings… you nearly lose your appetite.
A few people are already inside. People you recognise from the meeting. Their eyes track you the moment you step in, following you all the way to your favourite booth.
You feel watched when you order.
You feel watched when you pay.
“Everything okay?” Bertha asks, cutting through your thoughts.
“Yeah. Thanks, Mrs. McAllister,” you manage, your smile barely passing as polite instead of a grimace.
She opens the counter door with a frown.
You sigh. Time to work.
You head to the back door to fetch your apron and cleaning supplies—
—and jump when Nancy and Marie jump.
They were whispering. Hushed, hurried. Arguing? Or just… generally stressed?
Maybe it has something to do with Marie’s backpack, which Nancy is now very conspicuously trying to hide.
“Sorry,” you blurt. “Sorry, I was just— I needed to get my apron. And the cleaning stuff, too. Do you guys want me to—”
“No!” Nancy cuts in, and from the way she winces, it definitely came out louder than she meant. “No, no, miss. We were just…” She trails off.
“I think this is it, hun,” Marie says, quickly handing you the apron.
You grimace a thank you. “I’ll just… go back there, then. Grab my stuff.”
“Sure,” they both answer, in near perfect sync.
They’re still exactly where you left them when you return with the bucket and supplies.
When you’re back at the diner, you let out a long, exhausted breath. This is really shaping up to be a lovely day.
Unfortunately for you, Mr. Wilson’s jolly little speech has officially robbed you of the only reason you wanted this job in the first place: intel .
Now, every time you mop near a table, the conversation dies.
The ones who do keep talking? Useless things. The price of milk. The weather. One guy spent five minutes debating whether it’s gonna rain tomorrow. (It’s Ohio. Of course it will.)
Some don’t even bother with subtlety. They wait until you walk away and then start whispering.
And even though you don’t know any of these people — nor do you want to — you were almost starting to feel like a small part of the gears that turn this town.
Now? You’re just… here.
And honestly? You were promised stars. Galaxies. Wonders of the universe.
All you’ve gotten these past few days are… flashbacks from Sunday school.
When yet another pair of eyes watches you like you’re the walking, breathing downfall of the United States — and before you can spiral any further —
Tap-tap on your shoulder.
You turn — no one there.
Tap-tap on your other shoulder.
No one.
You laugh immediately. There’s only one person this could be. The tapping and managing to make you laugh.
“Doctor, I know it’s you,” you say, giggling.
“Oh, you’re no fun,” she mutters behind you.
You turn to her — and you swear the sun shines just a little brighter.
Or maybe it’s her smile. The stars. The galaxies. The wonders of the universe.
“C’mere,” she says, nodding toward the booth — your booth, actually. You’ve decided it’s yours now.
Of course, you follow.
“I don’t know if I should be stopping right now,” you whisper as you sit next to her.
“Why not? It’s lunchtime,” she replies, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
And it is — exactly noon.
You grimace. “My lunchtime’s a bit later than this.”
“Well, you’ve just anticipated it!” she grins and, because her brain works in ways you hope one day to understand, unties your apron and tosses it onto the seat across from you like that solved it.
“There you go!” she beams, pointing at the abandoned apron like it’s a perfectly logical solution.
You chuckle, shaking your head. “You’re so lucky you’re cute.”
The Doctor twists her whole body to check the banner of options above the cashier. “What’re you having for lunch? D’you know what this place really needs? A menu on every table. You should suggest it,” she says, giving you a tap on the shoulder.
“I’m the cleaner!” you laugh.
“Exactly!” she grins.
Then, she suddenly twists round toward the booth behind you. “Need help deciding what to get?”
At first, you think it’s someone she knows, with how breezy she sounds.
But then you catch the man frowning, sinking behind his newspaper.
You sigh.
“There’s been loads of those since Wilson’s speech,” you mutter.
“Yeah, I know,” she replies. “Speaking of which — updates! I visited the radio tower.”
You lean closer. “And?”
She leans in, too. “It’s a totally—”
“Can I get your order?” Marie cuts in.
You both jump back. When you glance up, Marie’s all smiles, directed entirely at the Doctor.
The Doctor points at you, flashing that squared, slightly-too-toothy smile that means she’s feeling just a bit awkward. “She’s not slacking. We’re having lunch.”
Marie laughs. “No problem, Doctor.”
You order just a meatloaf, all the staring sort of killed your appetite. The Doctor goes for a milkshake.
Marie heads off, still grinning at her.
“‘No problem, Doctor.’ ‘Of course, Doctor,’” you mimic, pitching your voice to mimic Marie. “When it’s you, they’re all smiles, the both of them.”
“Who is she?” the Doctor asks, completely oblivious.
You laugh. “Nancy’s ‘friend.’”
“Oooh,” she grins, like the whole universe suddenly clicks into place.
Poor Marie. You can’t even imagine what it’s like — growing up somewhere like this, and then seeing someone walk in — someone like the Doctor — living the life you’ve only ever dreamed of, unapologetically…
You’d be all smiles too.
You clear your throat. “So… the tower?”
“Oh! Right. Totally normal radio tower,” she says. “No alien signal. No weird staff. Just yer standard 1950s station. They do have a plumbing issue, and the antennas could use a bit of paint, but I've decided that's not important right now.”
“But… the three-two-three signal on the radio?”
She shakes her head. “The radio picks it up, but it’s not broadcasting it. Something else is. But I synced up your phone to the frequency, just in case.”
“Okay, but if it’s not the radio— wait. Hang on.” You squint. “How do you know about the plumbing and the antennas?”
She looks at you like that’s the dumbest question anyone’s ever asked. “I told ya. I visited the radio tower.”
You take a long, deep breath. “When you say visited …”
“I got inside.”
You shoot to your feet, pointing toward the back of the diner. “Back.”
The Doctor humphs a ‘ what? ’
“Back room. Now.” You hiss it under your breath, already moving.
She scrunches up her face — but she goes.
As soon as you shut the back door — the same one where you’d nearly walked in on whatever Nancy and Marie were doing — you press your hands together like you’re praying.
“Please, for the love of God, tell me you didn’t break and enter the tower.”
“I didn’t break and enter!” she fires back, punctuating every word with her hands. “I just entered.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, letting out an exasperated, disbelieving laugh. “Doctor, you do realise we are Mr. Divided-We-Fall’s current targets, right?”
She makes her obviously face.
“And you think breaking and enter—”
“Just entering,” she cuts in.
“—entering without permission is the best idea?!”
She stuffs her hands in her pockets, nose scrunching. “You’re not gonna like the rest of it, then.”
“Oh my God. It gets worse?”
“No, but see—” She steps closer, practically bouncing now that she gets to explain. “The signal wasn’t coming from the tower, but remember? My tracker gave me a pattern.”
You nod.
“And I got a proper fix on it right on the street where Wilson lives.”
“So you went there?” you ask, and your voice physically hurts saying it.
“Yeah!” she beams, far too proud of herself. “Except, absolutely no readings. Not even inside his house.”
“Not even—” You throw your hands above your head. “Was anyone else inside his house?”
“No. No people. No photos of anyone. Nothing. Just an ordinary house.” Then she hums, tilting her head. “Maybe too ordinary.”
You press your fingers to your temple. “Did anyone see you leaving his house?”
“No, I checked. One hundred percent sure. Seventy percent— No, thirty three, absolute minimum,” she says, and still has the audacity to flash you a shy smile like this is charming behaviour.
You don’t even know where to start. So much could’ve gone wrong. She should’ve worn her blocker — that’s what you’re telling her.
And yet…
“So, are you saying Wilson is, what? Carrying the transmitter with him?” you ask, curiosity winning against common sense.
“Yeah,” she grimaces. “Wish I wasn’t, but I think I am. If he weren’t human, I’d bet he is the transmitter himself. But I checked him with the sonic, one hundred percent human. Unfortunately.”
You cross your arms. “So what’s your plan now? Finger to the throat, put him to sleep, search him over?”
That makes her laugh. “Nah. Not using Venusian Aikido for this.” She taps her temple. “Back to plan A, tackle the signal itself.”
Suddenly, you burst out laughing.
“What?” she asks, clearly confused.
“You are insane,” you grin. “Actually insane. I thought we learnt something from the witch hunt?”
“We did!” she chirps. “We learned that us is better than them !”
You cock your head, utterly unable to hold back the fond smile pulling at your lips. “You have no right to be charming. All your charming rights are revoked.”
She laughs, feigning surprise. “Who says I’m trying to be charming?”
But she’s already walking closer, and with the way she’s looking at you, with how warm the very little space between you suddenly feels — with the way she should be arrested for looking this good in clothes your grandpa uses at home — you both know exactly how this ends.
You’re the one to close the distance, landing a quick kiss to her lips.
She’s grinning when her brow rests against yours, her nose brushing yours in that soft, wordless way that makes your knees absolutely useless.
You chuckle, slipping in another kiss, a little longer this time.
And that’s when her hand comes up to your cheek, lips parting against yours — and oh, you could fly right now.
Your hand finds her neck, fingers curling, wanting her closer—
When the sound of the door slamming shut makes you both jump.
Wide-eyed, you both stare at it for a few long seconds.
You clear your throat first. “That’ll be the milkshake, probably.”
“Probably,” she echoes, sounding just as (terribly) composed as you.
(And if Marie’s inability to meet your eye for more than ten seconds before absolutely losing it giggling behind the counter means anything? You were right, it was definitely the milkshake.)
Phone back in hand and bill paid, the Doctor heads off toward Rick’s repair shop, off to build the thing that will save you all.
You… go back to mopping.
The day drags on… and on… and on. People still stare, especially the ones who’d been at the council meeting this morning. And they all still fall silent when you get too close.
When the clock finally strikes 6 p.m., you slip into the back to hang up your apron and drop the bucket.
On your way out, Nancy — sitting behind the cashier now — gently reaches out, fingers brushing your arm.
“Heading off, miss?” she asks, smiling.
“Yeah.” You try to return it, but fail. “Back to my bike.”
She nods, but her gaze drops to the counter, her smile turning just a little… sad?
You hesitate. “Everything okay?” you ask cautiously. You’re not that close. But still.
Nancy takes a breath. Then offers you a softer, wider smile. “I just… wanted to say thank you.”
Your brows pull together. “For what? The mopping?”
She laughs — a real one — which makes you chuckle, too.
“It’s my job. Don’t worry,” you add.
“No, not that,” she says, shaking her head. “Just… thank you. And if you could thank the Doctor, too. For me and for Marie.” Her eyes flick briefly somewhere behind you, where Marie is currently talking to a customer.
You frown even more, completely confused.
Nancy points at your face, grinning. “Wind’s gonna hit and you’ll stay like that forever.”
That pulls a proper laugh out of you. Whatever she’s trying to say, you think a thank you is enough.
“Well then,” you grin, offering her a dramatic little bow, “you’re welcome.”
She laughs, tipping her imaginary hat back at you. And with that, you part ways.
Outside, though, whatever little pocket of warmth Nancy had given you is completely blown away.
Your bike.
One of the tyres — flat. The saddle — sliced clean off. The front bar — bent, crushed, ruined .
“What?!” you shout. “I can’t— I promised this to Ryan!”
You spin around, looking for whoever’s done this. But there’s no one. No footsteps. No laughter. Just that feeling prickling at the back of your neck.
Eyes. Everywhere. Watching.
“Well, guess what?!” you snap, voice raised, throwing your hands out. “Give the Doctor five minutes and three inches of scrap metal and she’ll build something none of you bean-brained lot could ever dream of. I hope you’re looking forward to seeing me riding a brand new bike tomorrow.”
Silence. Not even a cricket.
You stare down at it, at the mangled thing that was supposed to carry you home.
And now? Now you’ve got to drag this wreck all the way to the repair shop. Hope the Doctor can spare a minute. Hope she can patch it up. Hope you don’t fall apart before you even get there.
When you reach Rick’s shop, he’s already rolling down the door.
When he spots you, he grins. “Hi, you! Long time no see.”
You try to smile back. Swallow down the ache.
But you can’t.
You burst into tears, letting the bike clatter to the ground as your hands shoot up to cover your face.
“Oh, my— you poor girl,” Rick says, stepping forward, gentle and concerned. “Did you get hit by a car? Are you alright?”
“No,” you sob. “I’m fine. It wasn’t a car.”
His eyes fall on the wreckage at your feet, and linger there. He nods slowly.
“Well, I could take—”
You don’t hear the rest.
Because that’s when you see her.
The Doctor, walking toward you. She’s back in her usual clothes and the sight of her, the familiarity, the comfort, it shatters what little composure you had left.
Her expression crumples the moment she sees your tears.
And when her eyes find the bike, you can see on her face the exact moment her hearts break.
Because your bike was never just a bike.
And this wasn’t just vandalism.
Your time is running out.
And you know the Doctor doesn’t usually like touch when she’s not ready for it — but right now, she’s just petrified. She never really knows what to do when someone’s crying.
But you need her. You can show her.
Poor Rick is still talking when you sprint toward her and bury your face in the crook of her neck.
It takes a few seconds… and then she hugs you back.
“Don’t worry,” she murmurs after a while, tapping gently on your back. “I’ll get you an even better one.”
You smile, even through the tears.
And you don’t doubt she will.
***
Rick brought you water even though you insisted you didn’t need it, and now you’re sitting on top of an open cardboard box, next to the Doctor, as she jiggles between her Bigger Blocker (it’s what she’s calling it now) and your bike.
“—and when I press this button,” she says, showing you a glowing amber light in the middle of a black metal box, “it should triangulate the signal and connect it to me sonic here,” she gives it a shake, “so theoretically the signal’ll be so scrambled it won’t be able to rebuild itself.”
Then she turns to your bike. “Mind if I take out the crossbar?”
“I do,” you reply at once. When she turns to look at you, you chuckle awkwardly. “But if you really have to…”
Rick emerges from behind a car with a tyre. “Hah, told you I’d find one, Doc!”
“Ooh, good lad!” she exclaims, rushing to fetch it from him.
You chuckle as Rick grins like a little kid, watching her replace your old tyre. He doesn’t know it yet, but it’s only a matter of time before he reaches official companion status. Just a gold star away.
“Yep, fits perfectly,” she says after finishing. “Gold star for this excellent tyre!”
And there it is.
Despite not knowing what it means, his grin widens, like he’s properly proud of himself.
“Well, if you’re sure you don’t want me checking it, I’ll be heading home to the wife,” he says, then points at each of you. “You girls take care, huh?”
As soon as he leaves, the Doctor wiggles a little. “ ‘ Girl.’ I don’t even remember how old I am, what’s up with these people?”
You decide to ignore that. “Doctor, really, I changed my mind. You don’t need to fix my bike today. What about the Bigger Blocker?”
She runs the sonic over the bike. “What about it?”
“Well, did you press the button?” you ask. “Is the signal off?”
“Nope,” she chirps, rummaging through a few spare parts Rick left next to her. “Need some more time.”
You gulp. You know she’s fixing your bike and you don’t want to seem ungrateful, but…
“How much more time?” you ask, cautiously.
“Few hours, I think— ooh, this’ll do it,” she coos at a tube-looking… thingy. “A day, max.”
You get goosebumps at that, your breathing going shallow.
“Doctor,” you breathe, “I don’t think we have one more day.”
That makes her stop. Her eyes suddenly go distant. “I know,” she says quietly. Then, as if nothing happened, she turns back to the pile of things beside her. “Did you feel something?”
You nod. “Since yesterday. Like there’s eyes glued to my back, watching me every time I’m out. I thought it was the bias thing, at first.”
“And it is, but that’s the thing,” she grins, that way she always does when a problem is hard enough to make her brain tickle, “a bias is a distortion by itself. If the distortions of some people in this town are thrown directly at you , how distorted can your perception get?”
You frown, confused. “What, so the eyes are all in my head?”
“Yes and no,” she says, tilting her head while — surprisingly — hammering off the bike’s bent front bar. “No, as in — yeah, there’s definitely people after us,” she adds, pointing at her work-in-progress to prove her point. “But yes, as in — you feel all the tension a lot stronger than it’s actually happening.”
After hammering a bit more and biting some kind of questionable tool to test it, she grins. “Which is brilliant!”
“I… can’t really see the upside in that,” you murmur.
“Well, remember what I said is going to save us?”
You squint, trying to recall your last conversations. “Was it my intuition?”
“Bingo!” she exclaims, already reaching for her molding equipment.
(Her equipment, because this shop is obviously not Rick’s anymore.)
“Okay, I still don’t see how that’s good,” you tell her.
“It’s good for the same reason you know we don’t have one more day. If you feel everything more than you should, then you also know what’s coming,” she beams, sliding the helmet onto her head. “Your very own crystal ball! Except not crystal—” she wrinkles her nose, “Earth crystal is actually really fragile.”
You chuckle. “Right, but for my intuition to save us, we’re gonna need that blocker working, right?”
She erms , sliding some gloves on.
“Right?” you try again, teasing.
“The signal won’t triangulate,” she shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “Wanted to take my head out of it for a while. Isn’t that what humans do?”
“That’s usually, like… a walk,” you quip.
“Well,” she grins, “this is my walk!”
You laugh, your eyes falling on the Bigger Blocker again. There’s no design on the outside, the metal looking quite rudimentary. You know she’s built this as fast as her wonderful mind allows.
“Does Rick ever ask anything?” you ask. “About what you’re doing?”
She hums — and now, when you look at her, she’s fully prepared to start her trademark engineering mess. “I tried explaining to him how I was trying to read and process wavelengths floating around the air, and he just laughed. Also, don’t think he noticed that telly over there is missing a few parts, so…”
You laugh. “Oh wow, he’s getting the full experience.”
If the Doctor hears that, she pretends she doesn’t. “Right! Mind your eyes.”
And on she goes.
And if, one day, you’re walking around and you hear welding noises where there should be none — check if it’s not some blonde, genius, grinning alien in an apron, building something that might just save your life.
Or, you know, get you around town.
You’re so used to it by now — after countless nights of falling asleep on the TARDIS console room floor while she fixes however many quantum things she can think of — that you do just that.
You fall asleep.
And in your dreams, you see Officer Miller.
He's getting out of his car, on the same street where you met him back when you landed here.
Suddenly, he spots you.
In the dream, you get the urge to walk to him.
But you don’t.
And when you think he's about to tell you something—
You wake up.
Not from your own will, but because someone is tapping on your brow.
You open your eyes, reluctantly, only to find the Doctor standing above you. When your eyes meet hers, she beams.
“What d’you think?!” she asks.
It takes you a moment to realise she’s pointing at something by her side.
And it’s her. Your bike.
She’s good as new, no signs of what was done to her before. The paint is navy-blue now — and you’re still not going to ask how she found that colour in Rick’s shop — and the crossbar is intact!
You bolt to your feet to run your hands over it.
The saddle is now made of vinyl, and you have a strong feeling it came from one of the cars Rick left lying around.
Well, the bike will never tell.
But the best thing about it? You have a basket now. And when you place your hand inside it, you quickly realise it’s bigger on the inside.
God, you wish you knew how she does that.
When you turn to look at her again, she’s smiling — so bright and so warm it makes your heart burst inside your chest.
You grin. “Thank you so, so much.”
“’Course!” she replies.
After a beat, she steps forward, like she’s wrestling with herself.
And then, she hugs you.
You nearly melt in her arms, chuckling a little.
When she pulls back — one of her arms still draped around your shoulders — she nods. “Nice walk, that. Now—” she takes a deep breath, and her eyes fall on the Bigger Blocker.
“You’re staying?” you ask.
She presses her lips into a tight line, still watching the device.
You glance at your phone — half past ten.
You're not cycling alone now. Not after what happened.
But she spent all this time working on your bike. Only fair if she gets to work on the actual thing that might save this town from its own prejudices.
So, you give her a quick kiss on the cheek.
“It’s okay. That’s the priority right now. I get it.”
She opens her mouth to speak, probably to disagree, given how her brows are creased.
But you cut in. “Really, I don’t mind. I’ll test the bike tomorrow.”
That makes her tilt her head.
You laugh. “I’m sleeping here, you genius. And you’ve got the only spare blanket in the shop.”
She lights up at that and because she knows you so well, she swiftly takes off her coat and hands it to you.
And yeah, you could be on the comfortable bed back at the motel. You could be under blankets that smell like conditioner.
But this open cardboard box here at Rick’s shop has something the motel doesn’t — her .
And her brilliance.
And the bike she fixed.
And a coat that smells like lavender.
And as for Rick? Well… the shop will never tell.
Notes:
the doctor wearing those clothes is fanservice but i don't mind because i'm the fan being serviced 💅
tune in next time for a never-ending chapter (please, someone help me, i can't stop writing it) where everything heads to its (never-ending) end. hope to see you there!
Chapter 5: Lavender Revolution
Summary:
You're surrounded by all sides when an unlikely ally joins your cause. But is that enough to save this town - and yourselves?
(Or: You've fucked around. Now it's time to find out.)
Notes:
"google dot com does it rain in ohio send" the things i do for this story smh
also,,,,,, i'm so sorry for the length of this chapter. i swear i tried to make it shorter but the story kept on going and going and going...
chapter warnings: arresting, interrogations, anxiety and paranoia, the doctor mentions wanting to kill someone, description of a character that might be slightly disturbing. if stuff with eyes trigger you, then proceed with caution (it's not the focus, but it's mentioned twice)
oh and i nearly forgot: welcome to the horrors!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It all started with the rain.
You know it’s normal, you know that’s what happens in summertime.
Still, something at the back of your mind tells you this isn’t a good sign.
You leave Rick’s shop early in the morning, so he doesn’t find you asleep on the floor (wouldn’t that be awkward to explain?).
The first thing you notice is the rain.
The second is your bike. Somehow, the Doctor’s made it smoother than ever. You’re also pretty sure it’s faster now.
The third… well, biking in the rain is definitely not as glamorous as the movies would have you believe.
The water falling insistently on and all around you makes it harder to check your surroundings. Are you being followed, or is this just your crystal ball ringing? Go figure.
The motel clerk gives you a side-eye as you walk in — but she always does that, so you try to ignore it.
There’s no hot water in the shower, and somehow that feels like yet another bad omen — but you try to ignore that too.
When you leave for work, there are a lot more people — and the staring kind — on the streets. You try to ignore that too.
So far, the only good news is that the Doctor’s made some progress! She was able to ping the signal and disrupt it temporarily, before it changed its pattern completely and forced her to retrace it from scratch.
Which, for her, must be almost nothing at all.
When you get to the diner, you quickly conclude that’s probably going to be the only good thing about today.
The diner is closed.
In front of it, a huge crowd has gathered, all seemingly aggravated.
You notice some of them talking to someone in the middle and your heart nearly gives out when you see who it is.
It’s Bertha.
She’s crying relentlessly, the people around her trying to calm her down.
When they see you approaching, a few of them point and say, "There she is!" and other variations.
You have a bad feeling about this. You try to ignore that too.
Bertha stands up, supported by some of the others, and immediately walks up to you.
“Mrs. McAllister,” you murmur, “what’s happened?”
“Nancy,” she cries. “Have you seen my Nancy?”
“Her and Marie are gone. We can't find them anywhere,” one of the women who’d helped her tells you — and you notice her eyes and nose are red. Despite that, her eyes are just like Nancy’s.
Nancy’s mother.
It hits you that Nancy had thanked you yesterday, you and the Doctor.
The backpack she hid when you caught her and Marie whispering in the back room.
She knew. This was planned.
You only wish you could’ve said goodbye.
“We saw you talking to her,” a tall, bearded man says. You can’t even remember if you’ve seen him before. “You were leaving and you stopped to talk to her.”
“You bowed and all. Saw it, too,” another man adds.
You shake your head, turning to Bertha. “No. I’m sorry, Mrs. McAllister, I really am. Nancy has always been lovely to me. But all she said was thank you.”
“For what?” her mum asks, her voice suddenly sharper. “What would she be thanking you for?”
Something inside you tells you that mentioning the ‘thank you’ might not have been a good idea. You try to ignore that too.
“For the cleaning,” you reply, trying to sound as casual as possible. “I’m the cleaner.”
Bertha starts crying again, and leaves to sit on the crosswalk she had been sitting on when you arrived. Nancy’s mum looks torn between comforting her and confronting you.
She chooses the latter.
“Why would she thank you for that?” she asks, but it sounds more like an accusation than a question. “It’s your job, isn’t it? Isn’t that why you get paid?”
You blink a few times, surprised. Now that you really look at her, even her hair is like Nancy’s, though hers is soaked by the rain. How can two people be so similar and yet…
“She was always very kind,” is all you can manage to say.
That must have surprised her. It’s her turn to blink, her expression softening just slightly, her eyes turning almost kinder.
That doesn’t last very long, because one of the women who had been standing next to Bertha suddenly joins in.
“Ain’t you the one walking ’round town with that blonde woman?” she asks, and it also sounds more like an accusation than a question.
“Yeah, I remember her,” another one adds, looking from you to the first woman. “I’ve seen them together, too.”
You nearly laugh when you recognise her voice. It’s Betty, from Harmony Shop. Without the orange dress and the manufactured smile, she doesn’t even look like the same person.
“You’re right, Nancy did mention something about a new woman in town,” Nancy’s mother says, trying to recall. Then, her eyes widen. “Doctor. That’s the name she said!”
Oh, you have a really bad feeling about this.
“Right, she was at the meeting. Dressed like I haven’t seen before,” the tall man nods, crossing his arms and turning toward you. “Who invited you? You ain’t from this town.”
“What is she a doctor of?” the man next to him asks.
You can barely keep up with everything. You don’t even know who to answer first.
You go for the last man. “Engineering,” you reply.
“Ha! A woman?” another man — smaller, who’d been lurking behind the tall one — suddenly pushes forward. “Miss, do you know how long it took me to become an engineer?”
You breathe out a laugh, incredulous and increasingly scared. “Look, I know Nancy and Marie leaving is terrible but— but me and the Doctor, we’ve got nothing to do with that.”
“Think of it now, Nancy was acting strangely the day she mentioned this Doctor,” Nancy’s mother ponders out loud to the women beside her.
You shake your head desperately. You’re sure the cold creeping up your spine isn’t just from the relentless rain.
Maybe you should—
“What are you doing here anyway?” Betty cuts in sharply.
Another woman behind her gasps. “You’re right! I remember these two. That night they said some crazy woman was walking around with a glowing… thing ! I saw them together, leaving on a bike.”
— stop ignoring all the signs —
“Wasn’t it yesterday that someone got inside Ralph’s house?” the engineer guy cuts in. “Looked like a woman?”
Your eyes dart through the crowd, and you notice a group off to the side, their eyes glued to your bike. Are they surprised? Angry? Confused? You can’t really tell.
“I think we should call the police again,” the tall man concludes.
The rest of them murmur in agreement, including Nancy’s mum.
— and get the hell out of here.
It’s risky. Definitely dodgy.
But you simply take a small step back. Touch the bike behind you to make sure it’s there.
And then you run with it. Out of their reach, ignoring their voices. Hop on. And bolt.
To the only person who might know what to do now.
Your heart almost stops when you get to the repair shop and find the door still closed, the only sound the rain hitting against the metal and splashing into the puddles on the ground.
Then it hits you that it’s Sunday. Rick probably doesn’t open on Sundays.
And if it’s Sunday, and all those people were at the diner instead of at church or at home… then this is even worse than you’d originally thought.
Snapping out of your shock, you frantically start pounding on the door.
“Doctor! Red alert!” you call out. “Big, scary red alert!”
The rolling door begins to rise, that familiar whir of the sonic echoing under it.
When it’s up just enough, you see the Doctor hurrying over, brow deeply furrowed.
“What is it? What happened?”
You duck under the door to escape the rain. “Nancy and Marie,” you start, a little breathless. “They've run away.”
“Oh,” the Doctor says, but it doesn’t sound shocked, sad, or even worried.
“‘Oh’?” you repeat, incredulous. “What do you mean ‘oh’? Please tell me it wasn’t you who told them to leave!”
“I didn’t!” she shoots back, defensive. Then she tilts her head before walking to the back of the shop. “Directly. All I said was that I ran away.”
You shut your eyes, trying to collect yourself. “Well, congratulations, consider yourself a source of inspiration. Anyway, they’re calling the police on us. The town thinks we’re responsible somehow.”
She frowns.
“Especially you,” you go on, your voice rising, “because someone saw you leaving Wilson’s house! You didn’t check for witnesses like you told me you did!”
She winces. “Sorry. Head wonk.”
“You should’ve been wearing your blocker!” you say, exasperated. “Where even is it?”
“Had to dismantle it for the Bigger Blocker,” she points at the device on her desk. “I needed Tim Shaw’s piece of circuitry, remember?”
She starts stuffing tools into her coat pockets, then grabs the Bigger Blocker. “Right. Time to regroup.”
“Are we leaving town?” you ask, half hopeful, half knowing that’s definitely not the plan.
“Nope. We’re off to the motel,” she says, already moving to the bike.
“But isn't that obvious? That's the first place I'd go if I were a cop!” you rush in front of her, trying to block her path.
“Yeah, but better there than here. Don’t want Rick getting in trouble because of us. Also, that’s exactly what we want,” she says, stepping around you toward the door.
“You actually want the police to find us?” you ask, utterly flabbergasted.
“You remember Wilson’s speech yesterday,” she replies, sliding the Bigger Blocker into your bike’s basket. “He declared war, didn’t he? Well, he didn’t know who he picked a fight with! It's our time to show him.”
She hops on the bike, sonic in hand, and points it at the door. “Chop chop, will ya?”
You take one last look around the shop. Somehow, you know this is the last time you’ll see it.
Then, you run over and hop on the bike behind her.
***
“Here. Take this,” the Doctor says, handing you a rainbow towel.
You’ve been stuck standing in the same place in the motel room like a root since you arrived, flinching at every sound outside, convinced it’s the police coming for you.
The Doctor, meanwhile, has fully unpacked: tools and the Bigger Blocker sprawled across one side of the room, while she paces on the other.
It’s only now you realise she was drying her hair, and now she’s handing you the same towel she just used.
Her hair is a beautiful, honestly astounding mess of curls and waves. You’d love to truly appreciate it if only you didn’t have the threat of arrest hanging over your head.
You’ve been staring too long, because she frowns slightly and shakes the towel at you. “It’s auto-draining,” she explains, like it’s obvious.
You blink. “Was that in your pocket?”
“Yeah!” she chirps.
You grab it, laughing despite yourself. “How do you always have exactly what you need in there?”
She just shoots you a toothy grin, then turns and walks back to her corner of the room.
“Right! What do we know?” she calls out as she paces, hands on her waist. “One, the signal is a low-level frequency, very subtly amplifying human biases.”
“We can’t feel it, but you can,” you chime in, rubbing your hair so vigorously you hope it shakes off the last four days or so. “That’s two, I forgot to count.”
“Yeah! The signal was designed to be as low-key as possible, so none of you would ever notice or complain — because that would be a problem! No alien wants to deal with complaining humans, I can tell ya that!”
“Charming,” you mutter.
“Three, Wilson is somehow carrying the transmitter with him,” she continues. “Radio, station, house, all clean.”
“Four, now the town thinks we helped two girls escape,” you add.
“Together. Escape together, that’s the real issue for them,” she points at you, emphasis sharp. “There’s only one thing we’re missing.”
You shake your head, frowning.
She shrugs, licking her bottom lip — not in the nervous way, more in the this-is-really-bothering-me way. “ Why ? Why's he doing all this? Why here? Why now? And why him?”
“No, but you told me that,” you say, moving closer. “Our first night here, you said it was like a soft launch. Training here to move somewhere else.”
She nods, stepping closer too. Her eyes are so intense now, so focused. She has fully slipped into ‘the Doctor’ mode, the version the universe knows, the one you love watching work.
(Again, if only you could enjoy watching it without everything else happening…)
“Yes, this is a soft launch, but that’s not the why. That's the goal. I wanna know why he’s doing this. What does he want? What does he gain from it? And most importantly, how do we stop him?”
“Well, our chat with him didn’t exactly go well,” you remind her. “We can’t just go and ask him.”
She purses her lips, nodding.
“And now, with the police after us, we can’t exactly try to talk again either,” you add, handing her back her towel. “Thanks.”
She mutters a “yeah,” stuffs it into her pocket, and sits on the bed.
“No, don’t do that!” you grumble. “You’re soaking wet, you’ll ruin the bed.”
She scrunches up her face but gets up again.
You process what you just said, then roll your eyes at yourself. “That phrase out of context…” You shake your head. “Actually, this is ridiculous.”
She hums questioningly.
“Us. Hiding here,” you say. “We haven’t done anything wrong!”
She goes stiff, eyes serious, and gives you a small smile. “No. We haven't. And we're gonna make them see that, somehow. Together.”
You smile at her, nodding — a silent ‘thank you’, a hidden ‘I love you’, a covert ‘I need you’.
Together .
As long as you're together, you can do this.
Then she tilts her head, flailing her arms. “Now, we're technically not hiding — we're waiting. Also, playing devil’s advocate here, but we did rob a bank,” she says, extending her arms, head tilted to the side, almost like she’s proud of it.
You laugh. “And we still have that money!”
“Yeah, I keep telling you to quit overspending,” she quips. “There’s also the fake government ID—”
“Trespassing private property,” you squint.
“I had my reasons!” she exclaims.
“Nothing to do with the law,” you chuckle.
“And also, unregistered and potentially dangerous equipment!” she announces, lifting the Bigger Blocker to place it on the bed — and oh, that grin tells you she’s really, really proud.
You walk over with a smile, finding it adorable how she presents it to you like you haven’t seen it before.
Then, your smile falters. “It's a shame it didn't work in time.”
“Oi! A little more positivity here,” she scolds playfully. “And it did work. It disrupted the signal long enough for me to feel its difference — only then it was re-established. If I did it once, I can do it again. There’s just— there's something I'm missing.”
You know what she’s doing. This is her version of dragging hope by the ears until it helps. You’ve seen her do it countless times. You’ve learnt from the best.
Unfortunately, you also know that she knows you probably don't have enough time. Even if she tinkers with it now — as her eyes dart over the device, clearly thinking about it — you'll likely be found before she can finish.
And for a moment, a very, very small moment… you simply don’t care.
Yes, your brain is screaming about the very real possibility of being arrested soon. But right now, you’re standing next to her. And her hair is wavy. And her coat is already drying.
And she looks beautiful.
And for her, you'd do it all, all over again.
She catches you smiling fondly at her and she smiles back.
You move in for a hug, when—
Knock knock knock.
“Police! Open the door!”
The Doctor quickly stuffs all her tools inside her coat pocket, leaving only the blocker on display.
The man at the door knocks again, this time louder, stronger.
You’re shaking, you realise. You’ve been arrested before, of course. That’s just life with the Doctor. But somehow — your biases, perhaps? — this feels so much more personal. So much more dangerous.
She must notice, because she grips your shoulder, gives you a curt nod and a tight-lipped smile.
“Together,” she reminds you.
“Together,” you whisper back.
And then, she moves to open the door.
Outside, there are not one, but five police officers. And among them… is Officer Miller.
“Oh, hi!” the Doctor greets them as if she’s welcoming old friends, but you can hear the clipped sarcasm under her cheerful tone. “You took your time. I always wondered how many people would fit in this room.”
The officer at the front — a man taller than Ryan, muscles the size of your legs — steps inside first, striding right past her. His eyes wander the room, scanning every corner. He kicks your bags on the floor, sending a few of your used clothes spilling out.
“Hey! Watch it!” you exclaim, your mouth moving faster than your brain.
You instantly regret it when his gaze snaps to you and then lands on the Bigger Blocker, sitting on the bed beside you. And yet, he says absolutely nothing.
That’s what unsettles you most. The fact that he can just walk in, say nothing, treat you like an object in your own space, and still scare you so much.
The officer opens the bathroom door, checks inside, then motions to the others outside.
Officer Miller is the next to enter, hand on his gun. He turns first to the Doctor. “Stay still while I search you.”
She rolls her eyes, letting out a bored sigh as he pats her down.
Luckily, he doesn’t check her pockets — they do look empty — but it makes your stomach twist all the same.
“That’s not necessary!” you burst out, voice tight, sharper than you meant. “Why are you treating us like criminals?”
Miller comes over to search you, his tone low and warning. “Anything you say can be used against you.”
“Oh, right!” the Doctor quips, with mock enthusiasm. “We’d never guess that.”
Unfortunately for you, he finds your phone — and takes it with him.
Finally, the first officer — the tall one — opens his mouth, his voice as heavy as his stare. “What’s that box?”
“Why d’you ask?” she shoots back, chin tilted slightly up.
The officer just scoffs, like he’s already tired of this exchange. “Nevermind. Take them in.”
Miller moves in quickly, grabbing the Doctor by her arms, while another officer steps forward to take you.
“Do you really have to do this?” she quips, sounding almost bored. “I can walk, you know.”
As soon as you step outside the room, the hairs at the nape of your neck prickle.
“Something’s wrong,” you mumble to yourself.
You quickly realise your intuition wasn’t lying to you: there are five officers, because they came in two cars.
Miller escorts the Doctor to the car parked at the front, while you’re guided to the one at the back.
Your breathing picks up as reality sinks in — you won’t actually be together.
You try to stall at the car door, holding out hope that somehow she’ll be brought to you. The last thing you see before the officer behind you forces your head inside is her gaze, unwavering, calm, locked on yours.
Her car pulls away first. Then yours follows, in the opposite direction.
Your eyes stay glued to the rain-soaked window, tracking her car until it’s out of sight.
And then — to hell with what any of these cops think — you break down and cry.
The officers drive the car down what feels like an endless road.
You’re biting your nails, vision still blurred from tears. All you can think about is Wilson’s speech, and how Raymond Lee ended up in New York.
Is that what’s happening to you now? Are they taking you to another state?
Or worse — what if they do that to the Doctor? What if they find her sonic? What if they take her things? How on Earth will you ever find her?
Will she find you?
Will you ever see her again?
It’s only after what must be half an hour that you hear a voice crackling over the car’s radio. You can’t make out much, but the ending sounds like “station.”
The car takes a sudden turn, doubling back the same way you just came.
After some time, you see the motel. Then after some more, you spot the radio tower.
Downtown.
You’re still in Wayloncreek. And you start to breathe again.
But the police station is on the opposite side of the diner where you’ve never been before. It’s a surprisingly large building for such a small town. The parking lot has space for four cars, but only one other car is parked there.
The officer opens your door and handcuffs you — because clearly, you must be the most dangerous threat imaginable — but you barely register it. Your neck cranes desperately, scanning for any sign of her.
You keep searching, even as he leads you inside. And inside. And further inside, through twisting halls and dimly lit corridors.
Until finally, you reach a small, dark-lit room with only one table and a chair on each side.
When he shoves you down into the chair, whatever fragile hope you had left collapses completely.
You didn’t see her anywhere.
You don’t know how much time passes while you’re there. You don’t even try to count.
All you can think about is how none of these people deserve the Doctor trying to help them by stopping this signal. For all you care, they could just drown in it.
You’ve never hated a group of people more than you do now.
Just then, the door opens. The same officer from the motel room — the tall one — steps inside and sits down across from you.
He calmly folds his hands on the table in front of him, then sighs. He stares at you for a few seconds longer, like he’s waiting for you to break first.
You scoff, turning your head away.
“Do you know why you’re here?” he asks, voice infuriatingly calm.
You don’t reply. The only sound in the room is your foot tapping restlessly on the floor and your shallow breathing.
“Do you?” he repeats.
“Do I look like I know why I’m here?” you snap back. “Isn’t that supposed to be your job?”
“We can do this in two different ways,” he says, his voice rising for the first time. “We ask you a few questions, you cooperate, and you might get to leave. You don’t cooperate…” he trails off.
“And you’ll move me from this room to another one with some bars in it,” you finish for him, your voice shaking with all the anger you’re trying to hold back. “I think I get the gist.”
He lets out a long exhale through his nose, then taps both hands on the table. “Good.”
The officer ducks down and fetches a folder from under his chair. “First of all, I’m Officer Carlyle.”
He slides a piece of paper across to you. “Is that you?”
You look down. It’s a photocopy with your name and an ID. Must be from the motel’s records, the only place that asked you for identification.
You nod.
“And is that your security number?” he asks.
“Might be,” you reply. “I haven’t got it memorised.”
“Can I see it?” he tries again, and you can hear the impatience bleeding through his carefully measured tone.
“Handcuffed,” you say, suppressing the idiot you wanted to say. “I haven’t got it on me.”
He hums, rubbing his hands over his mouth, before snatching the paper back.
“Your friend—” he starts — and that makes your head snap up immediately.
Rookie mistake. His eyes leave the paper to study your face, just for a moment. He knows exactly where to press now.
“— is this her name?” he asks, sliding another photocopy across the table.
Same thing as before, her name and an ID.
You nod.
“Can I assume that’s her security number as well?” he asks, but this time his tone is… sarcastic?
You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “How would I know that?”
“It’s her security number,” he replies flatly, like it’s obvious.
“So?” you shoot back.
“Well, back home —” he sighs, settling back in his chair and looking infuriatingly relaxed, then waves his hand vaguely in the air, “before this work, before everything, my wife was always the one who knew this sort of thing. I never bothered to memorise it.”
He leans forward again. “So, I was just wondering… are you the one who remembers, or the one who forgets?”
Under any other circumstances, someone implying you and the Doctor are married — married , for crying out loud — would’ve made you embarrassed at worst, giddy at best.
Here? You’re suddenly very thankful your hands are cuffed.
You give him your best sarcastic smile. “I have a friend who is five times the cop you are, and she was a teenager the other day. I bet she never needed anyone to memorise her security number for her.”
Carlyle straightens up, visibly taken aback.
Then, he snatches the copy back, sliding it into his folder.
“Ms. McAllister and Ms. Lewis,” he says, like it’s a flat statement.
Nancy and Marie, you deduce.
After a moment of silence, he goes on. “How well did you know them?”
You rub your eyes with your hands. “Very well,” you quip. “I got here four days ago, and one of them was my boss.”
“Fair enough,” he concedes. “You must be aware they share the same… predicament as yourself.”
You bite the inside of your cheek. “Are they under arrest too?”
He exhales again, sounding bored. Every time he does that, your breathing grows more uneven. How can someone be so irritating just by breathing?
“When was the last time you saw Ms. McAllister?”
“Wait,” you lean forward for the first time. “Am I being interrogated because an adult decided to leave her home?”
“Answer the question, please,” he replies through his teeth.
You scoff softly, shaking your head. “Yesterday.”
“Did you talk yesterday?” he presses.
“She was my boss,” you shoot back.
“What was the subject of your conversation?” he goes on, making it clear he finds this dull.
“I—” you start, scrambling for something when it suddenly hits you: why is he asking these questions?
“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” you finally reply.
He shoots you a tight, dry smile, nodding once. Then, he slides another piece of paper toward you.
It’s a composite sketch, albeit a very primitive one. The eyes are way too close to the nose, and whoever drew it clearly couldn’t decide if the hair was long or not. Despite all that, you’d recognise that face anywhere.
It’s the Doctor.
“We received a call yesterday reporting that someone had trespassed on the home of a citizen very dear to our community,” he says. “Someone who looked like that. Ring any bells?”
You swallow, staring at the sketch. Then, you shake your head.
“Poor sod,” you mutter. “I wonder if they can see anything at all with their eyes drawn so low.”
The absurdity of it — the sheer level of Doctor-ness in your own words — hits you, and despite everything, you laugh.
Your laughter dies the moment he stands, dragging the chair behind him with a loud screech that echoes through the room.
Carlyle moves to sit on the edge of the table next to you, leaning in close, his voice low and sharp. “Do you think this is funny? Huh? Is this your idea of a joke?”
Your breathing quickens so much you think you might pass out. You shake your head.
“You come clean here, and if you do, we release your friend.”
Your head snaps up once more, despite all your efforts to keep it down. Your eyes search his face, desperate, trying to find even the faintest hint that he might be telling the truth.
“What do we think of that?” he asks, though it sounds more like an order than a question.
You draw in a shaky breath, then nod, barely.
She might still be here, you tell yourself. You hope, desperately, he’s not bluffing.
He taps the sketch again. “What did she want?”
You stay silent.
“Are they paying you well?” he presses. “They must’ve offered a lot of good stuff, right?”
You frown, refusing to look up and meet his ugly, looming face. “What are you talking about?”
“Your Russian friends, who else?!” he shouts suddenly, slamming the table so hard it rattles.
You jump back at the noise, but your mouth still forms a small “o.”
The Doctor had explained to you, about the Lavender Scare and the Red Scare: one to hunt queer people, the other communists. Carlyle is trying to pin you as both!
“Hey! Hey!” he snaps his fingers sharply in front of your face. “This is about your friend now, remember? If you wanna see her again, you’d better start talking!”
He taps the sketch again, and you have to fight not to roll your eyes. He’s so close, and you don’t know what he might do.
“Who is she working for?” he demands, his voice rising sharply at the end.
“You don’t even know why you’re doing this!” you burst out, yelling before you can stop yourself. “You’re just… following. Someone told you you’re still at war, and your brain has never stopped to ask who it is you’re fighting. Or even why.”
“And who is it we’re fighting?” he shoots back, low but ragged, his breathing matching yours. “Her?”
“If you knew just what kind of…” you trail off, shaking your head hard. You’ve already said too much.
“Enlighten me,” he sneers, then flips through his folder and slaps a new photo down in front of you.
A photo of the Bigger Blocker.
“What is this?” he asks.
Your eyes don’t leave the picture.
Carlyle steps off the table, kneeling so his face is level with yours. “Who made that?”
You don’t answer. Your eyes stay glued to the picture. Looking at it now, all you can think of is her. And you miss her so, so much.
Tears well up before you can stop them.
“Was it your friend?” he presses again, noticing the tears.
Your silence makes him inhale sharply, patience wearing thin again. “How did she build that?”
Nothing.
“You better start talking—” he hisses.
“She’s an engineer,” you finally snap, voice tight and cracking. “That’s how.”
He stands, looming over you now. “Our technicians are right at this moment dissecting every piece of that thing. If you tell me first—”
“I already told you!” you shoot back, a tear slipping free down your cheek. “She’s an engineer. She builds things!”
“How does it work, then?” he yells. “What does it do?”
“I don’t know!” you yell back. “She’s the engineer, I’m not! Does your bloody wife know how the police work?”
“Of course not,” he snaps, like it’s obvious.
“Then how am I supposed to know how that thing works, how she built it?” you go on, your voice shaking. “I’m not the engineer, am I?”
Carlyle lets out a sharp, low laugh.
Then he asks, low and slow, almost too calm. “So, you’re admitting right now that you are to your friend what my wife is to me?”
Your blood runs cold.
That wasn’t the comparison you meant to make. In fact, you don’t even know what point you were trying to make anymore.
He waits now, patient, certain he’s finally got you cornered.
You swallow, once, twice, trying to think, to breathe.
Is this it? Would they lock you both away now, because of you? Was everything she’s done these last four days for nothing?
But then, her image flashes across your mind. Radiant, brilliant, hair a mess of waves, eyes alive with light, even when you both knew what was coming.
And something bubbles up inside you. Stronger than the anger, stronger than the fear.
Pride.
Call it lavender revolution.
“Yeah,” you nod, lifting your head to meet his eyes. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
He frowns, visibly thrown.
“And don’t worry,” you continue, voice stronger, steadier now. “If it’s too much for your forward-thinking brain to handle, we’re not married. That’s a word you won’t have to hear next to people like me for a long time. But you know what? I love her.”
His brow creases even further, as if your words are a foreign language.
“I love her,” you repeat, almost laughing, your chest heaving. “So, go ahead. Show me in the law where it says I can’t. Show me where it says building things is a crime. Show me where it says leaving your home without previous warning is illegal. And while you’re at it — go to hell!”
That was clearly not the confession he wanted. The surprise on his face — mixed with so many things you don’t want to think about — says it all.
Then, abruptly, he throws the folder down on the table with a loud slap. You flinch, squeezing your eyes shut, bracing for the hit.
But instead, you hear the door slam.
When you open your eyes again, Carlyle is gone.
It takes a few seconds for your breathing and your heart to even begin to steady.
And when you finally start to think clearly again, another officer enters. Wordlessly, he takes you away.
He leads you down another corridor to a small, empty cell with a metal toilet in the corner.
As he closes you in, you’re left alone, and you can’t help but wonder if this means he really did find something in the law to keep you here.
Inside the cell, you take your time to think about what just happened.
The last time you were this scared, you were in close proximity to a Dalek. You’ve clearly overestimated your ability to keep cool under pressure.
You also remember Carlyle saying the Bigger Blocker was being dismantled, and you nearly cry all over again because of it.
You hope to all the stars and constellations that Stenza tech is difficult to crack. That maybe, if the Doctor gets out, if she finds you, you can still grab it in time. You’d go to another city, rebuild it just enough to—
The door swings open. And in walks Officer Miller.
If seeing him before gave you the creeps, now — after everything — it takes everything in you not to recoil.
But when he looks at you… it’s almost like he did in that dream. And for some reason, you feel like you should go to him.
He steps forward, unlocks the cell, and gestures for you to come.
Reluctantly, you do.
“What’s going on?” you ask, cautious, heart pounding.
“You are under arrest for disorderly conduct,” he states, calm as a pond, almost robotic. “I am taking you to an institution.”
“What?!” you snap, pulling back. “This is absurd, you can’t just—”
“Word of advice,” he all but whispers, containing your movements. “Save it for the way there.”
And why… why does it feel like he’s trying to help you?
As Miller leads you back through those same corridors, the officers’ eyes follow your every step. Every hair on your body feels like it’s screaming.
You just don’t know what they’re screaming about.
When you finally get inside his car, he uncuffs your hands and your mind races. The Doctor’s words echo: your perception is distorted by the biases around you.
Right now… should you trust him? Should you force the door open, make a run for it?
You just can’t go to one of those “institutions.” You know you wouldn’t survive.
What the hell are you supposed to do now?
Then, as he drives to the highway, Miller checks the rearview mirror, unplugs the radio.
He ducks under his seat.
Your first thought is, he’s bringing out a gun.
But no. Much to your heart’s relief, he pulls out your phone.
“What?” you mumble, completely lost.
He passes it to you.
It's on a call.
You hold it to your ear, trembling. “Hello?”
“Look if it isn’t the most famous prisoner in all of time and space!”
You almost drop the phone.
It’s the Doctor.
“Actually, no. That might be me,” she corrects. “Yeah, that’s definitely me. But you can take second place.”
Your brain can’t decide whether to laugh or cry, so you do both.
“Doctor, I can’t believe— Oh my God, It’s so good to hear you again.”
“Yeah,” she replies, soft. “Missed you too.” After a beat she goes on, matter-of-fact: “Anyway, still stuff to do. Trust Miller. He’s on our side.”
Your eyes dart to the man, who’s still scanning the road in the rearview mirror.
“How on Earth did you pull this off?” you try to whisper.
“Erm. Long story.”
***
Doctor’s POV - some time ago, interrogation room
“Oi! Anyone there?!” the Doctor calls out, for the… ninth, tenth time already?
She’s been sitting in this dark-lit room for what feels like an eternity — which is, in reality, almost twenty minutes.
Fortunately, she’s always keeping track of time.
Unfortunately, she’s always keeping track of time.
She groans, louder this time. “Seriously, the worst part of being arrested is having no one to talk to!” she exclaims. “It’s usually good practice not to keep your prisoner waiting, just so you know.”
Nothing.
She lets her head fall back, eyes drifting to the ceiling. If she has to stay still for one more minute, she genuinely thinks she might burst.
Out of boredom.
Has anyone ever died of boredom?
Well, she’s not about to be the first.
So, she straightens up, deciding to recalibrate. What does she know?
For starters: the Bigger Blocker has been taken in. Good. That’s what she was hoping for. Hopefully, this little interrogation will provide her with enough information to nudge it in the right direction.
You were taken in another car, in the opposite direction. Another city, maybe? Just a delaying tactic?
She could scan for you with the sonic, but: a) too many inputs; b) pretty sure there are people behind the glass which is, in turn, behind her.
That’ll have to wait.
Okay, what else?
Oh! Three of the five officers who found you had taken her here. That means she’s seen as a threat.
Which… can be good.
Maybe?
No, definitely. Very good.
Also: the guy you don’t like. The Not-Yaz one. What was his name again?
Miller! That’s it. Something’s off about him. She should investigate further.
The Doctor sighs, tapping her fingers against the chair, feeling quite productive after all that.
She checks the time again —
Two minutes have passed.
Okay. New plan. She’ll take off the handcuffs, pop over to the next room, drag someone — anyone — in here to actually do the interrogation, so she can get some information.
“Right,” she mutters. Then she calls out, louder. “I just want it on the record that I waited!”
Just then, someone pushes the door open.
It’s Not-Yaz.
“Oh, hi!” she chirps. “Is this how you usually do interrogations? Cause if it is, I’ve got a few notes!”
He chuckles, placing some kind of folder on the table. “You really do like to talk, don’t you?”
“Love it. I’m very good at it, too,” she replies, flashing him a tight-lipped smile. “So. What’s in the folder?”
Not-Yaz — no, Miller — laughs. “Who’s interrogating who here?”
“Well, since you won’t start,” she shoots back. “My friend, where is she?”
He sighs. “I’ll ask the questions. You’ll answer them.”
The Doctor humphs, shifting in her seat. She really, really doesn’t like being told what to do.
He places two pieces of paper in front of her.
Motel records. Her name and (fake) ID. Your name and (also fake) ID.
“Ooh, yeah,” she says breezily. “That reminds me, only one motel in this whole city? And the only good thing about it is the bed!” Then, in a lower voice, she adds, “But yeah. You’d know that.”
His eyes snap up to hers at once, the rest of his face going rigid. Briefly, his gaze darts to the glass behind her, then back again.
So. There’s definitely people watching.
And whoever they are, they don’t know about his stop at the motel, back on that day you saw him.
She tilts her head slightly, studying him.
He clears his throat, snatches the copies back.
She’d pretty sure that was his bishop going down.
“It’s safe to say,” he goes on, “that you arrived last Thursday. The day I met you both on the road. Is that correct, ma’am?”
“Yep.”
“On the same day, a considerable amount of money went missing from our banks.”
The Doctor purses her lips. “Really? That’s terrible. You should upgrade your security!”
He smiles thinly. “You don’t think that’s a coincidence?”
She shakes her head, firm. “Nah, don’t believe in coincidences. Like meeting you so many times since we got here, for example.”
“I’m an active member of this community,” he replies, picking up another paper from his folder and sliding it to her. “You, ma’am, seem to be one too.”
It’s a composite sketch. A terrible one, mind you. But it’s her.
There goes her bishop.
“Blimey, is that how people see me?” She wrinkles her nose. “Regeneration is a lottery.”
“That sketch is based on a report we got yesterday,” he explains. “Apparently, someone broke into Mr. Ralph Wilson’s house.”
She only stares at him, lips tight.
“Did you do that?” he presses.
“I haven’t broken anything since I got here,” she replies, voice grave for the first time.
Technically not a lie. She really hasn’t broken anything. Wilson’s house is exactly the way he left it.
Speaking of which…
“My turn now,” she chirps suddenly, eyes brightening. “That guy Wilson, what does he gain from exploiting you lot?”
Miller’s eyes widen briefly.
She mirrors him, mouthing silently, “Oh, so you noticed it too?”
He looks away, running a hand through his hair. Then, he takes another paper from the folder. But before sliding it over, he pulls a pencil from his pocket.
The Doctor cranes her neck as far as she can, trying to peek.
Finally, he slides it toward her. “Ma’am, I wanna know if you recognise that,” he says, tapping on the image.
It’s Wilson’s street (what did you call it? Oh, Evergreen Lane!), that much she knows. But the real prize isn’t the street.
It’s what he wrote above: “ with us ”.
Her hearts drum wildly in her chest. That’s the answer to her first question.
You’re here.
“Nope,” she replies, breezy. “Every street here looks the same, don’t know how you even manage.” Then, looking firmly at him but keeping the same light tone, she adds, “Where?”
“Wayloncreek,” he says.
She clicks her tongue. “No, obviously. I mean—”
“The question is if you recognise it!” Miller suddenly raises his voice, and she arches her eyebrows (he’s trying, but he’s really not selling it). “If I said that house was in the room next door, what difference would it make? I wanna know: do you confess you’ve been inside Mr. Ralph Wilson’s house?”
She can barely hold back a grin.
You’re not just here, you’re really, really close.
That’s good. No, not just good. That’s brilliant.
“Clever!” she exclaims, and it’s genuinely a compliment to him. “Really digging the way you’ve built your case.”
He scoffs, picks something else from the folder, and scribbles on it before sliding it to her. “Why don’t you ‘dig’ whatever this is?”
It’s a photo of the Bigger Blocker. And scrawled on it (really, Miller? Talk about discretion): “ help you ”.
She throws him a disapproving look — one she really hopes makes him realise his lack of subtlety — then shrugs. “Course I dig that! That’s me box, I love me box.”
She purses her lips at him, silently demanding more information. What does he expect her to say, her entire plan out loud?
“Is it Russian?” he asks.
She gives him a curt nod. Good cover.
“Why?” she shoots back immediately. It’s what she really wants to know: why does he want to help? She quickly adds, “Oh! And how?!” Then, just to throw off the others surely watching. “D’you know you can taste the difference between Russian and American metal? How can you even ask me that? You’re supposed to be the professionals!”
“Look, let’s make a deal,” he exhales, hitting his pencil on the desk like he’s bored out of his mind (reality: he’s shaking, which really doesn’t help her right now). “If you come clean, we’ll let you walk out those doors. Right now, we just want to understand. Imagine I’m someone like you or your friend—” he motions toward the photo again — “and explain that device to me, ma’am.”
Imagine I’m someone like you or your friend.
Oh…
Oh!
“Well?” he presses.
And another one of her bishops bites the dust.
Okay, that’s the why sorted.
“Yeah, but how do I explain it?” she asks. “It’s not easy if I don’t have it with me, you know! That’s like having the cup without the soup. Or the soup without the cup? Anyway—”
Just then, someone knocks on the door.
Miller goes rigid, glancing between the glass and the door.
“Wanna take that?” she offers brightly, shrugging. “Don’t worry, I’ll wait. Don’t wanna let it go to voicemail.”
That snaps him up.
The door opens before he even gets there, and another officer — one she recognises from the car — peeks in.
Her eyes dart to the papers on the table. The scribbled messages. If the others find them, she’ll have to start her plan from scratch…
The officer starts to hush something, but she hears it perfectly.
“— so we’re going to check it, seems like something’s up there. Apparently, she’s made the boss angry.”
He leaves, followed by another officer right after.
Miller closes the door and stands there, staring at it for a few seconds.
“Well, that’s just rude,” she mutters. “Did they just leave my interrogation?”
He turns to her, nodding slowly, like even he can’t believe it.
“So?” she probes.
“Your friend,” he finally says. “She got the boss angry. They’re all heading to her room.”
She beams, her hearts thundering in her chest.
It’s you. Of course it’s you. Never mind clever plans, elaborate code-switching, a zillion different bits of machine. At the end of the day, you always have her back.
And she hopes you’re safe.
And she misses you. So, so much.
And, well… her ego’s a bit bruised, but that can wait.
“Usually,” she says, voice strained as she works the cuffs, “it’s my interrogations that stop the place. I actually stopped my whole planet once when I was on trial!”
The handcuffs slip off, and she sighs.
“Must be getting old.”
He runs a hand through his hair, pacing from one side to the other. He’s completely lost.
The Doctor watches him for a few seconds (she’s feeling rather lost too, what is she supposed to say to a panicking officer?!), resting her hands on her waist.
“You’re clever,” she tells him, but it sounds more like a question than a compliment. “Really clever. Why’re you doing this?”
He stops, still looking just as nervous. “I told you. Back there.”
“No, I mean this ,” she gestures around. “This police thing. You’re so much above it.”
He seems shocked for a second, then breaks into a shy smile. “I wanted to make a difference, ma’am.”
She gives him a tight smile. “Yeah. Don’t we all?” Then, she claps her hands together. “Right! We need to leave this place. Come on.”
“No, hold on,” he breathes, catching her by the shoulder (and yes, she does duck away. Nothing personal! Just instinct at this point). “My whole career is on the line. After this… who knows what happens? You— I— who are you? What are you doing here with those… things? I don’t wanna help a criminal.”
“Oh! Speaking of those things, d’you know where they’re keeping my box?” she asks brightly.
He goes pale.
“It’s okay, I’m not your boss,” she teases gently, trying to calm him.
“It’s… it’s with the technicians,” he manages.
“Oh, that’s your problem?” she wrinkles her nose. “No worries! Here, use this.”
She hands him the psychic paper, which now reads: Official request from Chief S. Carlyle.
If possible, Miller goes even paler.
“How— what is—”
She raises both hands. “Where’s your car?”
“Out front. Where we brought you in,” he replies automatically.
“You need to take me in,” she insists. “You wanna help, don’t ya?” He nods. “So, let’s get out of here.”
He nods again, nearly clutching the psychic paper. Then, his eyes fall on her wrists.
“The handcuffs! You took them off!”
“It’s okay,” she grins. “I’m not hostile.”
When she opens the door, another officer is passing through, probably the only one missing the show you’re putting on next door.
He spots her, then Miller behind her.
And stops.
“Yeah, sorry,” she mutters, and — even though she shouldn’t do it too often — her hand moves straight to the young man’s temple. Instantly, he goes blank.
Very carefully, she drags him to the chair Miller had been using to interrogate her and settles him there.
When she looks up, Miller is — somehow — even paler.
“He’ll just dream he was interrogating someone,” she explains lightly.
Silence.
“He’s alive!” she throws her arms out wide. “See? Not hostile. Let’s go.”
She steps outside, Miller hovering behind her like he’s guiding her away.
But she stops.
And she looks back.
The room where you are is just a few steps away.
And she can feel you.
All she has to do is go in there, stop the interrogation, pull you out.
But she knows: she’ll only get you out if she does it properly .
So, with a deep breath, the Doctor turns and heads outside.
Miller leaves her there and hurries off to fetch the Bigger Blocker. When he comes back and hands it over in the car, she nearly screams.
“No! What did you do to my blocker?” she snaps, snatching it out of his hands.
“The technicians were trying to understand it…” he stammers.
She glares at it. The top has been ripped off — rather hastily, too — and the TV pieces she’d nicked from Rick are all scattered inside.
The button is now inactive, though Tim Shaw’s piece of circuitry is still attached.
“At least there’s that ,” she mutters, disappointed. “Ugh! I spent the whole night building this! What is it with you humans and breaking things you don’t understand?”
Then, she looks up, noticing they’re still sitting in the parking lot.
“And what are you still doing here?!” she shouts, exasperated.
“Right, I—” he stammers, then finally starts to drive away. “It’s just… you’re talking humans, and planets, and…”
Uh-oh. Here come the questions.
She pulls out her sonic, scanning the box just to keep her hands busy. Might as well be productive.
“I don’t know, ma’am. You’re talking like… like you’re not one of us,” he finally blurts.
“If I weren’t, would it make any difference right now?” she shoots back. “Would me being different stop you from wanting to help?”
He blinks at her, face all twisted in confusion. Then, still looking utterly lost, he shakes his head. “No. It wouldn’t.”
“Good,” she says. “Cause if you said it did, things would get very tricky.”
She leans forward, so her point really comes across. “My friend doesn’t trust you. I’m choosing to give you the benefit of the doubt. So let’s focus on what we’ve got in common, not what we don’t.”
He opens his mouth to say something, but she cuts in again, all in one breath. “Also, I lost my bishop and my horse, but you definitely just lost your king.”
He frowns, completely baffled.
She scrunches her face. “Oh, yeah. The chess bit was only in my head.”
He shakes his head again, in a way that makes the Doctor think of a dog. (It’s been a while since she’s seen a dog. Dogs are nice!)
“It’s like we’re speaking a different language,” he mutters. “Can you now explain what’s going on? Why are you carrying that box? What are you doing here?”
“Erm, best to take the highway,” she cuts in quickly, setting the blocker aside.
He throws her another lost, slightly panicked look in the rearview mirror. “Where are we going?”
“Nowhere,” she replies breezily. “But the rain’s stopped, and a police car endlessly looping downtown really doesn’t look like a patrol. And before I answer your questions, you’re going to answer mine .”
“Uh… you mean ‘why’ and ‘how’?” he tries.
“Nope!” she grins, leaning forward like she’s sharing a juicy secret. “I asked ya what Wilson gets from exploiting you lot and you gave me that big-eyes look.”
He immediately widens his eyes again.
“Yeah, that’s the one,” she says. “So, what do you know about him that makes you want to help us?”
He chuckles awkwardly. “Well, ma’am, you see… I don’t really know anything about him. I just know he ain’t right.”
“You feel it, you mean? Like it’s crawling under your skin?” she asks, lighting up.
“Yes!” he exclaims, tapping against the wheel. “Yes, exactly! How do you know that?”
“It’s what my friend feels when she sees you!”
She only realises a beat too late that maybe that wasn’t the best thing to say right now. His smile fades almost instantly.
“She’s got her reasons,” she quickly adds, waving it off. “And it’s always been like this?”
“Yeah, ever since he got here,” he replies.
“Yeah, that’s what I— Wait. So Wilson hasn’t always been here?”
He shakes his head. “No, ma’am. He’s from another town.”
“Which is?” she presses, leaning in.
“I… I don’t actually know.”
“But everything changed after he arrived?” she deduces.
“Yeah!” he nods, surprised she’s keeping up so quickly.
“Everyone loved him, and you couldn’t work out why you didn’t,” she continues.
“Exactly!” he breathes, relief flooding his voice. “You’re really good at this, ain’t you?”
She lets out a dismissive little hmph that doesn’t quite hide her pride. “Oh! Straight ahead is the motel, make a right turn here!”
He does. “I'll have to go back to the station eventually,” he says.
“See, this is why you’re not Yaz. Yaz wouldn’t be worried about going back to her station,” she tells him.
Yes, Yaz absolutely would.
No, he doesn’t need to know that.
“Who—” he starts.
“But you’re dropping me off somewhere first, I just need some answers,” she explains, cutting him off. “Wilson, when did he get here?”
“Some… four, five years ago? Probably.”
The Doctor frowns. “All that time? That don’t make any sense.”
“He seemed alright at first,” he continues. “I didn’t mind him myself. But then he grew here, you know? He got made deacon, then he got the idea for the radio station—”
“And sometime after that, you started to feel that way about him?” she finishes for him.
“That’s right,” he nods. “It’s also when things got…”
He trails off, shoulders drooping.
She knows exactly what he means. And she wishes she could say something nice. But right now—
“Ugh! There’s something I’m missing!” she groans, throwing her head back. “It was all clear: we’d go to the station, I’d get more information, tinker my blocker in the right direction, then I could block this signal and we could all go home to eat a fried-egg sandwich. But now, all I got is a broken blocker, no sandwich and no new nothing!”
“I’ve answered all your questions, haven’t I?” he says. “Now you have to answer mine. That was the deal, ma’am.”
“Okay. Fine,” she grumbles.
“Those accusations… breaking inside Mr. Wilson’s house, the bank robbery. Did you really do all those?” he asks, voice low. “And that box you’re holding… Who are you, really?”
“Alright, Not-Yaz, I did do all that—”
“It’s George, actually,” he corrects with a grimace.
“— but!” she leans forward, giving him a wild, mischievous grin. “Are you ready to get your mind blown?”
***
“— so she told me about this signal you’ve been chasing, and how you’re from seventy-one years in the future, before I dropped her off,” Miller has been explaining everything that happened since you got separated. “She told me to check the station and get you out. I got there just in time.”
“So, she’s at Rick’s?” you ask.
“To fix the broken blocker, yes,” he nods.
“Blimey, couldn’t you have come up with something less terrifying to say when you were getting me out?” you huff.
“No, but that wasn’t a lie,” he replies. “Chief Carlyle ordered your arrest. Both of you girls.”
“Don’t— don’t do that, don’t call her a girl,” you nearly shriek, in her honour. “So as far as he’s concerned…”
“You’re a solved problem,” he finishes for you.
“Of course, he’s going to catch up eventually,” you mutter.
“… of course,” he echoes, sadly.
“He’s the chief, you said?” you ask him. “He told me he was an officer.”
“Yeah, he does that,” he sighs. “He wanted you to trust him.”
You get goosebumps at the very idea, your eyes falling to the silent, wet road, just as the sun starts to break through the clouds.
“You still don’t trust me, either,” he says, and it’s definitely not a question.
You make a mental note to thank the Doctor for mentioning that bit to him.
“The Doctor does,” you reply, still not looking his way. “I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt.”
He chuckles.
“What?” you ask.
“She told me the same thing,” he smiles. “It’s like you’re connected.”
You smile too. “Who says we’re not?” Then you point at the road. “Anyway, where are we even going?”
“Nowhere. The Doctor told me to stay on the highway, I’m just driving in circles,” he explains.
“So your boss thinks we're away,” you deduce.
“At least until she confirms we’re clear.”
“One of us,” you mutter under your breath, laughing at how naturally he’s already referring to her as if she’s in charge.
Some time passes in silence, at least from words, because the hairs on your arm start to tickle and buzz, and you don’t know what that’s supposed to mean.
When you finally glance at Miller in the rearview, you find him looking… sad. Just really, really sad.
You’re conflicted. You know the way you feel about him is partly the result of the bias manipulation, but… is it?
You want to be better than Wilson. Better than Carlyle. Better than the people blaming you for Nancy and Marie’s escape.
So, you cough. You clear your throat. You sniff.
And finally, you manage. “I’m sorry.”
He looks at you through the rearview, puzzled.
“After this, can you go to jail for helping us?” you ask, cautious.
He exhales. “Maybe not for that.”
You give him a sympathetic smile. After a beat, you add, “You know, I have a friend who’s a cop too. Well, technically, she was. She never really went back to it, not after the Doctor…”
Silence.
You shrug. “But, I mean, you’re not Yaz.”
“Not you too!” he suddenly exclaims, like he’s about to snap. “My name is George. Officer Miller. George Miller. Not Not-Yaz.”
It’s your turn to stay silent. You stare at the rearview for a few seconds.
He stares back.
You try to hold back a snort. You can’t.
He cracks a smile.
And before you realise it, you’re both laughing your eyes out, as if you’ve been friends forever.
It’s then that it hits you. “Wait a minute! You said ‘maybe not for that’?”
He laughs, and you gasp. “Are you a communist?”
“Holy cow! Where do you get your ideas?” he replies, still laughing.
You’re laughing too. “Wait, no, that’s not fair! I don’t know American politics! Is it for treason?”
He even hits the wheel from laughing so hard.
You gasp again, clapping your hands. “You’re gay! You’re a home of sexual!”
“Ding, ding, ding!” he exclaims, and you giggle like you really just won a prize.
“And what’s his name?” you ask, nudging him lightly on the elbow.
His cheeks redden immediately.
“Come on, what’s his name?” you tease.
“Paul,” he replies, looking as red as a tomato.
“Awww! George and Paul! So cute,” you coo.
The image of a police officer — pushing thirty at most — blushing because of his boyfriend is enough to send you into another laughing fit.
After a few minutes, when your laughter finally dies down, you ask, “So, that’s how you clocked Wilson?”
“I ‘clocked’ him?” he frowns, confused.
“I mean like, noticed he was weird,” you explain.
“Oh! Right. Yes, that’s it, according to the Doctor,” he says. “I don’t know and I can’t prove it, but I think Wilson… clocked me back. Tipped me off to the Chief. Paul and I, we made the same mistake you girls did.”
“Which was?”
“Not being discreet,” he replies.
You’d be offended if you had the time.
But just then, you feel the hairs at the nape of your neck rise. Really, really strong this time.
“Okay, okay,” you flail your hands, trying to shake off the feeling. “If you’re like me and you’re actually kinda nice, this tingling isn’t about you. Something’s wrong.”
“You must be getting sick, ma’am,” he says. “Too much rain, I’m sure.”
“No, no… this isn’t a flu, it’s like when I felt…” you trail off, thinking.
Where have you felt this before?
When it comes to you, you draw a shaky breath in. “Oh.”
“What? When did you feel that way?” he asks frantically.
“When I felt like I was being watched,” you mutter.
He widens his eyes at you.
And just like that — tires screeching, dust flying into the air — he stops the car on the sideroad.
Miller is already taking out his gun. “Nothing up or down. I’m checking outside.”
You should say something about the gun before he leaves — the Doctor will never let you forget it if you don’t — but with the feeling of eyes glued to you, everywhere, you can’t concentrate.
Alone in the car, you try to take a deep breath in… then out…
In… out…
It doesn’t last long.
Beep-beep-beep.
Beep-beep.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
“You have got to be kidding me,” you mumble, hastily opening the door, nearly falling out in the process.
“Nothing’s out here, ma’am,” he says when he spots you, fingers ready on the gun, pointed down. “Sure it’s not—”
You wave your hand to shut him up. “Your radio. It just did the beeping thing. Has it done that before?”
He shakes his head. “What beeping?”
“What? Out of everything, the Doctor couldn’t have mentioned this? Come back here,” you motion him over, opening the door again.
Sure enough, the radio is still doing it when he gets behind you.
“It ain’t ever happened before,” he frowns. “It’s off, I disconnected it. Didn’t wanna get called by the station.”
The rising hairs are turning into full goosebumps now. You think you’re hyperventilating.
“I don’t know, George,” you mutter. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
He shuts the car’s door again—
—and gasps. “Well, I’ll be darned!”
The goosebumps feel like needles against your skin.
And with that, you don’t really know what you’re expecting when you turn.
But it certainly wasn’t him.
You were definitely, absolutely not expecting to see Mr. Wilson.
***
Wilson looks different, somehow.
He’s wearing a suit today. Purple tie, his church’s symbol next to his heart.
But that’s not what’s different.
When you say the Doctor looks inhuman, you mean it as a compliment.
The Doctor looks like infinite energy, barely contained by a body that tries very hard (and fails) to hold it.
She looks like a force of nature. And that’s one of the many reasons why you love her.
Wilson looks inhuman too — but in a very, very different way.
He looks like some sort of energy, unstable, phasing in and out.
“Officer Miller,” he nods at him. Then, fixing his eyes on you: “We meet again.”
“Mr. Wilson,” Miller announces, tense. “I’m gonna ask you to stay away from this car. What are you doing here?”
“It’s a public road,” Wilson chuckles. “Isn’t that my right as an American citizen?”
Miller’s eyes stay locked on him, his posture rigid, ready to strike.
Wilson, on the other hand, has never looked more relaxed.
Just then, he phases again. His body flickers, lighter, almost transparent, like he’s losing opacity altogether.
Miller points the gun at him.
“No!” you exclaim. “Put it down. Remember what the Doctor said, the biases. He’s doing this on purpose.”
Miller doesn’t lower it completely, just aims at Wilson’s legs instead of his head.
“Of course you’d know that,” Wilson says, smiling wide. “You and that… woman . Have you no shame?”
Something recoils inside you at the way he says that .
But that gives you an idea.
You don’t care if he sees it. You grab your phone from your pocket.
And you ring her.
Luckily for you, she picks up. “Hi! Just fixing this thing’s bitstream trinary connection. What’s up?”
You don’t reply, holding the phone tight in your hand. You can hear her calling your name.
“And that’s how I knew,” Wilson says, his eyes fixed on your hand. “I’d felt it before — someone tampering with me — and it took me longer than I’d have liked to realise it was the two of you.”
Suddenly, he laughs. “And you know what your mistake was?”
He actually waits, as if you’re going to answer.
Then he shrugs. “A phone signal synced to my frequency. Technology out of this time. It wasn’t hard to find.”
“Why are you doing this?” you ask, echoing the questions the Doctor rattled off this morning. “What can you possibly gain from any of it?”
“I’m sure it would be very convenient of me to stand here and explain everything to you,” he smiles, phasing again. Then he turns to Miller. “I think it would give your idiot boss just enough time to realise what you’ve done. But that’s not what I’m here for. I just wanted to see you with my own eyes.”
“Why did you build this signal, Wilson?” you push again.
He laughs, and each time, it grows more grating, more alien. “A Time Lord and a human, yet the problem remains the same. You only ever see the world through your own narrow point of view. That’s how I know I chose the right place. And you—”
What happens next is something your mind can’t comprehend.
Wilson’s body seems to melt, disappear, morph into a shadow that — impossibly — emanates light. Wherever you look, there are eyes staring right back at you.
“—you have already lost,” he finishes, his voice now a horrible static, the three-two-three humming beneath it.
You’re petrified. You don’t know what you’re seeing. You’ve never seen anything like it.
It’s the sound of gunfire that snaps you out of it. Miller is firing at Wilson.
“No, George!” you yell, covering one ear with your free hand. When you look again, Wilson is gone. “Don’t do that again!”
He looks livid. “Did you hear what that thing just said? I don’t know what kind of cop your friend was—”
“The kind that doesn’t need that!” you cut in sharply. “If the Doctor catches you using a gun— Wait. Oh my God.” You bring your phone to your ear. “Doctor?!”
“I knew it! I knew I was missing something!” she’s muttering, mostly to herself. Then she stops, her voice suddenly concerned. “Are you alright?”
Your mouth opens and closes, you can’t think of what to say.
“Course not,” she says quickly. “I’m sorry. I should’ve been there.”
You take a deep breath. “No,” you finally manage. “You should be fixing that thing someone decided to break.” Miller raises his hands, mouthing Hey, that wasn’t me . “What did you say you missed?”
“What was that thing he said again?” she asks.
“… That we already lost?”
“No! Before that,” she presses, her words spilling faster as she goes on. “Our point of view. That first day we met Rick, you told him I was an engineer — because that’s what I do, I build things. So you and I kept thinking in terms of building, creating — but Wilson, he doesn’t need to do that! He never needed to build the signal: he is the signal!”
You can practically hear her bouncing off the walls from the phone. “No, no. But you checked him after the meeting,” you remind her. “I saw you.”
“He was using some kind of psychic shield, presumably,” she explains, rapid-fire. “So good that even the sonic couldn’t decrypt it. But what he thought was our mistake was actually his: I synced your phone to the frequency and he triangulated it, presumably this morning when I disrupted the signal. So I tracked him through this call, and now I know exactly what he is!”
She takes a breath you can almost feel through the line.
“Wilson is a Zilliontrite!”
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” you ask (because someone from the Fam would ask that right now, and you’re doing it for them).
“Good question, depends on the angle,” she replies at once. “The Zilliontrites are this huge, massively populated species. They move like swarms through electrical currents back on their original planet, and if you happen to fall there it’s nearly impossible to escape sane.”
“It’s the eyes, isn’t it?” you ask, trembling just remembering it.
“Exactly!” she exclaims, sounding genuinely thrilled. “The eyes that follow you everywhere, that’s what you were feeling before! And that’s what they do, this entire species is obsessed with the concept of having a one-mind only. A sort of thinking where no one stands out — one echoes the other, who echoes the other, until you get this massive echo chamber full of eyes and molded thoughts. But they’re not very bright, the way they go about ensuring this one-mind thing is by emanating a signal that disrupts the subconscious mind. Think of the past few days with just one bloke doing it, now imagine a whole hive.”
You instantly remember the stares. The whispering. The broken bike. Nancy’s mum.
“They turned on each other,” you say.
“Bingo,” she replies. “Their home planet is nothing but luminous dark now. Completely destroyed, they live in the ruins. History says they haven’t learnt their lesson, though. The destruction made them worse, presumably. Even more obsessed. So to answer your question: it’s definitely a good thing! Cause now I know what I was getting wrong — I couldn't block the signal before because it's organic masquerading as synthetic. Now I know what to do! Ooh, me brain’s fizzing. I love it!”
You shake your head. “No but, Doctor, he said something about choosing the right place and that we already lost. If they destroyed their own planet, is that what Wilson wants to do to Earth?”
“A soft launch,” she mutters, suddenly quiet. Then she groans. “Sometimes I hate being right!”
“What is it?” Miller asks next to you, sounding scared. “What’s happening to Earth?”
You raise your hand for him to wait. “So, do you think there's more Zillontrofes here?”
“Zilliontrites,” she corrects. “No, don’t think so. Not-Yaz said Wilson’s been in Wayloncreek five years at most. My guess is he’s been using that time to perfect his signal for the human mind. He must’ve looked far and wide across the universe for a nice match. And then he found you, and in the perfect time too. Cold War, Red Scare, Lavender Scare. He found paradise. Clever!”
Oh, great. The part where she starts praising the enemy.
“Yeah, now is not the time,” you cut in. “What’s he doing, then? Is he heading to you?”
“I think he’s calling his mates,” the Doctor replies, urgency rising. “But how? The Zilliontrites’ signal is localised. It might work for a small city in Ohio, but he can’t use it to reach galaxies billions and billions of years away. Think: if you were a bigoted entity with a lot of eyes and you needed to phone your mates across the universe, what would you do?!”
As if on cue, thunder roars across the sky.
You jump in surprise, your eyes falling on the dark clouds looming on the horizon. When you do, you spot the top of the radio tower.
And the hairs at the back of your neck stand up.
“More rain, darn it,” Miller grumbles next to you. “You should get back inside, ma’am.”
You barely pay him any mind.
The Doctor is muttering something too. Her voice sounds distant, she must’ve left the phone somewhere and is pacing around Rick’s shop.
Your eyes stay glued to the tower.
“Doctor,” you say, quietly. “The radio—”
“—tower! Snap!” she finishes for you, picking up the phone again, nearly giving you a heart attack in the process. “Did you feel something when you saw it?”
“Yeah,” you nod. “I can’t describe it, but I’m feeling it now.”
“Good! That's where we’re going, then. Wait, I mean — no, not good,” she corrects herself. “Ah well, you get the gist.”
“Should we go to you, then?” you ask, just as another thunder booms.
“No, go to the tower now,” she says, urgently. While she talks, you mouth ‘radio tower’ to Miller, already walking back to the car. “If he revealed his true form to you two, my tampering might’ve made him speed up his plan. We need to stop him before he sends out that signal, I might need you to do something for me.”
You nod, trying to burn every word into your memory despite how fast she’s speaking.
“Now, go,” she commands. “And, uh… good luck, love.”
She ends the call before you can reply.
And the rain starts again.
“Yeah. I love you too,” you mutter, before turning to Miller. “Come on, we need to go to the tower. And please make it fast, or she might get there before us. By foot.”
Miller hesitates, staring back at the spot where Wilson had appeared.
“Look, I’ve seen some wild stuff with the Doctor,” you tell him. “And your boss was still one of the scariest of them all, so…” You motion to the car.
He starts to walk, slowly, brows creased. “What are we even doing there? It’s too close to the station.”
“I don’t know, the Doctor just told us to go,” you shrug. “This is the part where we follow her without understanding what’s going on.”
“What’s happening with Wilson?” he asks. “Are we under attack?”
You let out a deep sigh, trying to sound as sympathetic to his confusion as humanly possible. “I’ll explain on the way. But we need to go. Now.”
You reach the car, already throwing open the back door and sliding inside, trying to escape the cold drops of rain now clinging your clothes to your skin.
Miller doesn’t move, his back turned to you as he stares up at the sky.
“George!” you call out. “What part of ‘now’ is unclear to you?”
Reluctantly, he turns back to you. “The radio tower. It’s where Paul works.”
You raise your eyebrows at him. “Well. Isn’t that just convenient?”
***
“But seriously, a right-wing station? Did he have to work there?” you ask.
You’ve been nagging Miller nonstop since you finally convinced him to get in the car and head to the tower. He’s been driving like a lunatic — which means you might actually get there before the Doctor does.
Hopefully.
“I thought about applying for a job there once, but I left the minute I saw that ‘better dead than red’ big ass cardboard cutout,” you go on. He shoots you a wide-eyed look, and you realise you just said something completely absurd for this era. “Sorry. I mean, really big cardboard cutout.”
“I don’t know how things work in the future,” he grunts, making a sharp turn. “Golly, I don’t even know how there is a future. But here, we have to take them from the inside. We have to camouflage. You have the privilege of deciding where to work, you don’t live here.”
“Alright, okay,” you chuckle, a bit awkward now. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to hit a nerve.”
“It’s not—”
“No, no, you’re right,” you cut in again, more serious this time. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I wasn’t judging Paul. I’m sorry if it sounded like that.”
He makes another sharp turn, his brows still drawn tight.
“A lot of us can't be out to our families, even in the future,” you tell him quietly. “So, I get it. Really.”
A stretch of silence follows.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters. And when you look at him, his brow isn’t furrowed anymore.
“It’s okay,” you smile. “Good, I thought you might throw me out on the side of the road just now.”
He laughs.
“But I still judge you for being a cop,” you add, half joking, half not.
“Which is why we’re doing this, ma’am,” he grins, pulling up by the radio tower.
Finally.
The rain is relentless again, warm and cold at once, like the best summer storms can be. The smell of dust wet by the rain is almost comforting, almost familiar.
“I parked at the back,” Miller says, tapping your shoulder as he starts to jog forward. “The entrance is out front.”
You run to catch up, your heart thudding with every slap of your shoes on the wet pavement. The tower is massive, the back entrance on one block and the front on another.
You’re running as fast as you can, half-expecting to run straight into Wilson at any moment. If Miller’s hand hovering over his gun is anything to go by, he’s thinking the same thing.
A thunderclap booms overhead just as you turn onto the street where the main entrance is—
And you slam into someone.
It’s the Doctor.
“Ouch!” she yells, covering her face with one hand and you notice she’s holding her coat wrapped around a box (the Bigger Blocker!), which must be what rammed into your belly and left it throbbing. “Watch where you’re going!”
“Doctor!” you gasp, thrilled to see her, and now nursing a sore belly. “I can’t see a thing in this rain!”
“Shouldn’t we be getting inside?” Miller calls behind you. “Unless you like standing around in a storm!”
“I do, actually!” she yells back, voice rising above the rain. “We are getting inside but we need to coordinate first. Here’s what we’re doing: I’ll go talk to him. You—” she thrusts the Bigger Blocker into your hands “—get this connected to the transmitter inside the Control House. I’m sure Not-Yaz can help you with that.”
She turns to dash off, then stops and runs back to you. “Sorry, too many things going on. I’m happy to see ya.”
She starts to leave again, stops once more, and turns back. “Oh! And keep this away from me.”
She hands you the sonic.
And then she’s gone, for good this time.
You stare down at it, then up at Miller.
He grimaces. “I’ve never even seen a transmitter before.”
“You and me both, mate,” you say, shrugging. Then you tilt your head with a bashful smile. “Don’t you think a certain someone could help us?”
The transmitters’ room is on the ground floor. After you pass the reception — yes, the same one where you tried to apply for a job, complete with that infamous cardboard cutout — and twist through a couple of lefts and rights — there it is.
You wouldn’t have found it alone, of course.
That’s why you have Paul.
Paul is the man who’d greeted you at the reception that Friday morning. You remember him being lovely.
Now that you think of it, he is also the man who'd been talking to Miller outside the motel that day.
Ginger. Taller than George, smaller than Carlyle. Strong build. Freckles scattered all over his face.
You really hope he doesn’t remember that you bolted before he returned with an answer.
Either way, the look on his face when he sees two rain-soaked, unhinged people sprinting toward him — one of them being his boyfriend — is absolutely priceless.
He’s mid-sip from his water bottle, and nearly chokes. “George! What are—”
“Long story,” Miller cuts in. “Transmitters, where are they?!”
“This is a matter of life and death, proper emergency,” you add, panting.
Paul looks shocked, confused, surprised, and maybe just a bit wounded by Miller’s urgent tone.
“He’s said all them lovely things about you,” you try to reassure him. “Just so you know, there’s a guy full of eyes wandering this building, and we need to find the transmitter like, right now!”
“Paul!” George barks.
“I’ll take you there!” Paul yells back — and poor man, his eyebrows might never come back down.
The three of you rush to the room like your lives depend on it because right now, they actually might.
“Here it is,” Paul says when you reach a large, wooden door. “It’s very hot in there, you should really have some sort of equipment.”
“No time. Thanks for the help,” you reply, then turn to Miller. “Stay out here, just in case. You’re police.”
“Not judging me now, then?” he quips.
“Always will,” you shoot back with a smile, before slipping into the transmitters’ room.
Inside, several large metal cabinets hum so loudly you can feel it in your chest. Paul was right: it’s scorching.
The cabinets sit behind protective grates, stuffed with dials and switches and a mess of things you absolutely don’t understand.
But then you realise the Bigger Blocker has a new tail.
It’s actually a jack and it just so happens to match the socket near one of the larger cabinets exactly.
The Doctor’s been here already. She wouldn’t expect you to rig up a connection from scratch. This has to be it.
You slot it in.
Sparks fly.
Tim Shaw’s golden circuitry flickers to life.
Then… nothing.
You step out, not entirely sure if the water clinging to your skin is sweat or leftover rain, but for now you feel… relieved.
Maybe too relieved.
“So,” Miller asks, his voice taut. “Has it worked? Are we safe?”
You’ve barely heard him.
“The Doctor gave us the blocker and the sonic,” you start thinking out loud. “The blocker is supposed to block, obviously, that three-two-three signal, which is apparently being sent by Wilson.”
“Wilson? That church man?” Paul asks George.
“How long has all this taken?” you interrupt, cutting into Paul’s question (poor Paul). “Two, three minutes?”
“About that,” George nods, frowning. “Why?”
You shake the sonic at him. “Isn’t that too fast? Too simple? Why would she give me this?”
“She didn’t give it, did she?” he points at it. “She told you to keep it away from her.”
You draw a deep breath in. “You’re right!”
“Why would she say that?” he crosses his arms. “Is she a security issue?”
“I— I think I’ll just head back to my desk,” Paul tries, patting Miller’s arm.
Miller holds him back, not looking at him either.
(Poor Paul.)
“Oh, wow. Lovely procedural thinking,” you chuckle. “Of course she is, there’s planets where she’s literally enemy number one. Especially since she’s not—”
You gasp.
“What is it?” George asks, frantic.
“The bias!” you exclaim. “I don’t know exactly what it is, but it’s something to do with the bias. She wouldn’t talk about it the other day, she kept deflecting when I asked her!”
“Uh… is Wilson the problem, or is she?” Paul asks, utterly lost.
“Wilson, for sure,” you reply, finally looking at him. “But I think we can help her a little bit more.”
Miller nods, determined.
Paul looks from him to you. “We?”
***
The Doctor doesn’t have your tingling intuition, but she knows for a fact that Wilson is on the first floor.
The control room is the only place he could be. The transmitters’ room — where, hopefully, you’ve already connected the Bigger Blocker — is too hot for a Zilliontrite.
It’s the mix of light and dark. Think about it: you move through electricity and your whole body is this huge signal transmitter, put that together with— actually, never mind.
The why isn’t important. Not this time.
The closer she gets to the room, the more she feels all these feelings, these impulses, these instincts.
Easier to call them a head-wonk (which they also are, her head is properly wonking right now) than to admit the truth.
She’s angry.
That’s not new. She’s always angry.
The Doctor bets that would surprise her Fam and, yes, even you.
Sometimes she doesn’t know what to do with all that anger.
Today, though, she knows exactly what she’d like to do with it.
And that’s how she opens the door to the control room.
Wilson is already there.
She smiles something that definitely shouldn’t be classed as one.
Of course he’s here.
“Ah!” she exclaims, clasping her hands behind her back. “Look who isn’t!”
Wilson turns to look at her, attempting some kind of snarl.
The Doctor snorts, a little pfft escaping her lips. “You’re not looking very good right now for that whole menacing vibe you’re trying to pull off.”
It’s not a complete taunt either, he does look awful. His psychic shield must be damaged if his on-and-off flickering means anything. He’s barely stable.
Wilson toggles a switch, laughing. “Your doing, Doctor.”
Oops. She must’ve destabilised him when she finally managed to interfere with the signal this morning.
Too bad.
“I warned ya,” she replies, steely. “Yesterday at the meeting. Did you think I was joking?”
His eyes are fixed on her, unmoving. Still, he presses another button.
It’d be so easy to give him a small shock, something like a quick pinch. She could use her sonic—
She doesn’t have her sonic. She gave it to you. For precisely this reason.
She takes a deep breath, throwing in a grin for good measure. “Uh— would you mind not pressing those buttons right now? I know it’s difficult for your mind to wrap around this, but I did come here to stop you.”
Wilson laughs again — and really, not even a Dalek is as grating as him — and presses another button. “Of course you did. And under whose authority are you here to stop me?”
“No, no, no, no,” the Doctor says, stepping closer to him. “You don’t get to play that with me! We’re not the same. You made life a living hell for the people of this town. My friend went to jail because of you!”
“I see,” he smiles. “So, your authority, your decision.”
It’s her turn to smile, something she doesn’t realise is a lot closer to a snarl. “That’s right. How long have you been doing this? Four, five years? Maybe a century back home? I’ve been at it for a lot longer than that. I’ve seen so many like you trying the same thing and they never win!” She grins. “You’re not winning, mate. Because I always stop you.”
“And how are you planning to do that?” he asks.
She bites the inside of her bottom lip. Her hands clench. “For all the pain you caused? For all the manipulation?” She scoffs — and it’s like she can suddenly hear something else going on. That can wait. “You deserve exactly what my own biases are telling me to do.”
You deserve to die, is what she’d like to say.
I’d kill you if I could, is what she’d actually like to say.
But more importantly, she hears that again.
Is it Wilson? Is it one of the buttons he pressed?
“I understand,” he smiles, phasing in and out again. “Your attachment to these humans is your own blind spot. Otherwise, you’d see it for what it is.”
And she hears it again!
But it’s not a different voice. It’s not a third person. It was Wilson’s own voice.
And now that she thinks about it, it was her own voice too.
That works like… like feedback!
And they’re in a radio station right now. There are several studios next to this room.
So the only plausible explanation is… someone’s broadcasting them.
She tilts her head, trying to gauge if Wilson has realised it.
Apparently not.
“Huh,” she says, as if confused. “And what is it, then?”
Not that she needs his opinion, what does a flickering Zilliontrite have to say that’s even remotely interesting? It wasn’t interesting when he looked human, imagine now.
No, she just wanted to test the feedback — and yep, still there.
And there’s only one person who could’ve done that.
***
“Take me through that again,” Miller asks.
“We don’t have long!” you exclaim. “You go to the roof where the antennas are. You’re taking my phone with you, so when you get there, you’ll tell us. Point the sonic at the antenna thingies and think about broadcasting it to every radio, TV, anything possible while at it. Then you can come back down.”
“Just point it?” he asks. “No trigger?”
“It’s not a gun,” you say, firm. “Psychic interface, just point and think. Whatever that’s supposed to mean, it’s what the Doctor says. Meanwhile, Paul and I will make sure the mic we turned on that connects to the studio is working.”
Paul gives you a thumbs up.
“I’ll be at the front desk, waiting on the phone,” you continue. “And don’t lose my phone! I haven’t got that picture backed up on the cloud.”
Miller squints.
“Forget you heard that. Paul, can you check the connection again, please?”
Paul nods and hurries off to check.
You’ve been trying to coordinate this plan at lightning speed, knowing you might not have enough time at all.
It was a good thing the Doctor left the sonic with you. You managed to turn on the mic in the control room from outside, so that her voice can be heard in one of the nearest studios. Thanks to Paul, you got it done in record time.
“And you think this will help?” Miller asks while Paul is away. “How?”
“Without the blocker, she thought it was a good idea to break into Wilson’s house—” you begin.
“Yes, I know that,” he sighs.
“—and it’s not like she wouldn’t have done it anyway,” you continue, ignoring him. “But that’s what she said — it amplifies what’s already inside. If she gave me the sonic, something about what she wants worries her about herself. And if I know her, one thing that always helps is knowing someone’s hearing — that the city and I, we’re all hearing. She’ll want to be the Doctor, that’s for sure.”
Miller nods, just as Paul returns.
“All good,” Paul says. “Mics on both ends are on. She’s, uh— she’s saying something about stopping him…?”
Miller is already stepping into the lift. “I’ll report back.”
And up he goes.
“Do you have a radio on your desk?” you ask Paul
He leads you over.
“I’ll tune it to our station,” he says.
“No, no. Leave it on any other station, we need to check if the sonic will work,” you explain.
“I see…” he says, still sounding unsure.
You grip Paul’s desk phone like your life depends on it, eyes fixed on the radio, praying to hear her voice at any moment.
“I’m— I’m still not sure what’s actually going on…” Paul mutters, chuckling awkwardly.
You sigh. “Long story, mate. Basically, the guy who owns this tower is an alien and right now my friend—”
“—and prejudice. Do you think I created all those?” Suddenly a voice bursts through the radio speakers.
It’s Wilson.
“Do you know how many places I tried before this self-called planet?” he goes on. “Where else would I find a place like this, where I don’t even have to create the problem,” he laughs. “The problem is how they see each other.”
The lights flick for a second. You hold your breath.
“Step away from that desk,” comes the Doctor’s voice, calm, collected, calculated.
By her tone, she already knows what’s happening and she’s putting Wilson right in the spotlight.
You start to giggle, shaking Paul’s arm. “It shouldn’t be legal to be this clever!”
Paul gives you a stiff, square smile.
Poor Paul.
“All I had to do,” Wilson continues, laughing again, “was tell them what they wanted to hear.”
Miller calls your name on the phone. “Do you think it’s worked?”
“Yes! Yes, it’s working, sorry,” you reply, practically vibrating. “Come back down.”
“Copy,” he says.
You turn your attention back to the radio.
“— obsessed with their own ideas of what is right and wrong. My signal didn’t tell them to be like that. They just wanted someone to validate their prejudices. And every time I walked among them with a Bible in my pocket, I was just that. They’re just like me, Doctor. But you’re too blind to see that.”
“You’re wrong,” she shoots back. “Because that’s not what humanity is. Yes — they have flaws, and yes — they have prejudices. But they have something you don’t—” she makes a small pause, and you can practically hear the grin in her voice “— diversity! Humans are plural, they’re different from each other — and that is brilliant! That should be embraced! And another thing is that they learn — and that is also something you don’t have. It’s their ability to see beyond their differences, beyond what sets them apart, and work together.”
Oh, you love this part so much; your heart beats faster, your chest so warm it almost aches.
When you look at Paul, his eyes are red. He doesn’t understand a single thing that’s happening, but she still manages to touch his heart.
You wish you could see the rest of the town hearing it, too.
“She’s good, innit?” you grin.
“You think you know humans because you’ve seen them at their worst?” the Doctor continues, her voice full of emotion. “Oh, come on. That’s the easy bit. I’ve seen them fighting, hiding out of fear — but they always choose better. So now I’m giving you the choice: be like the best of humanity, learn from what happened to your planet, and choose better!”
Wilson chuckles. “Do you really believe all that?” he asks, condescending.
“Just to make it clearer for you: that signal you’re preparing is not leaving this building,” she says, firmer now. “So step away from that desk and leave this planet while you still have a choice. You’re not turning these people into a mob you can control.”
“Oooh, wait for it,” you whisper to Paul.
“I don’t answer to you,” Wilson snarls.
At first, it looks like nothing is happening.
Then, the lights flicker again. Three times, two times, three times. And the power goes off.
“Was that supposed to happen?” Paul asks, apprehensive.
“Good question,” you mutter, then press the phone back to your ear. “George?”
The lines are down too. Obviously.
“I think he should be downstairs by now,” Paul says, sounding slightly anxious.
“I think you’re right,” you say, setting the phone back on the hook. “Also, our broadcast probably is— wait, can you smell that?”
He sniffs the air. “It’s like something’s burning.”
Suddenly, a horrible screech echoes through the building, making every hair on your body rise.
Paul feels it too, covering his ears with both hands.
When you can think clearly again, you realise where it’s coming from.
Upstairs.
“The Doctor!” you bark, already sprinting for the lift.
It’s off. Of course.
You bolt for the stairs. With every step, the tingling in your body intensifies, that electric prickle you’ve come to dread.
She’s gotta be safe. She has to be.
Your heart is nearly clawing its way out of your chest. The smell of burning gets stronger, heavier.
Finally, you reach the door.
When you throw it open, you see something that will fuel your nightmares for the rest of your life.
Wilson is… disintegrating.
His form dissolves above the control desk, luminous darkness leaking through the cracks of buttons and switches. And the eyes… some wide open, terrified; some fixed on the Doctor; others melting, weeping liquid to the floor.
He’s still screaming.
Her name.
“I gave you a choice,” she tells him, firm, unflinching. “You did this to yourself.”
You’re frozen, just like on the highway. Your eyes fix on his many eyes, each a dagger slicing into your skin.
Suddenly, it’s like the Doctor snaps.
“No!” She rushes in front of you, blocking your view. “Don’t look at the eyes for too long! How long have you been here?”
You take a deep breath in. When you close your eyes, you can still see his.
She yells your name.
You shake your head, trying to rid yourself of the image.
“The lights,” you manage to mutter. “They’re down, and the power too. I came to check if you were okay.”
“Yes. The lights,” she says, clipped, her head turning to where Wilson is still dissolving. “Right. We still got some time. This building is about to go down. We need to go. Now!”
She starts dragging you away, but you stop, shocked by what you just heard. “What?! What do you mean it’s going down?”
She yanks at your shoulders again, her words spilling out faster than your brain can process. “Wilson’s dissolving into pure electricity, fusing into the wiring, despite everything I just told him! That, combined with my blocker — which, in my defence, I didn’t exactly have time to fail-proof — is overheating everything as we speak. So it would really help if we could just. Get. Going!”
“No, but Miller!” you stop again, eyes wide. “I think he’s stuck in the lift! It’s my fault, I told him to go to the roof!”
The Doctor gasps. “George!” Then she grabs you firmly by the arms. “Get everyone else out. I’ll be back in a mo!”
And you watch as she rushes toward the stairs.
You understood her directives, clearly.
You're scared for a cop you barely know.
You can already see the smoke getting heavier and thicker.
And yet… your head turns toward that door.
Where Wilson is.
And for the first time, you understand how that Pavlov thing works — you want to look at him again. You want to stare into those eyes and watch them cease to exist. Just the thought of it feels good.
You get why people went mad looking at them.
You take a step toward it—
And somehow, some way, you don’t know how she does it, but you hear her voice, loud and clear from the stairs: “Go!”
And that’s enough to snap you out of it.
You bolt downstairs to the ground floor. The smoke there is so thick, so black, you can barely see anything.
Luckily, Paul has already pulled the fire alarm, and a crowd is hurrying outside when you reach the lobby.
“Oh, thank you so much,” you tell him. “Is there anyone else on the other floors? I think the tower is blowing up.”
“No, it’s Sunday — but George, where is he?” he asks, and you see the panic starting to crack through.
“Hey,” you hold him by the sleeves. “The Doctor’s getting him out right now. She’s really good at this, he’ll be okay. We need to wait outside.”
Reluctantly, he nods, yanking his sleeves out of your grasp.
The smoke is making it nearly impossible to breathe, and you think that’s the only reason he agreed to leave. You don’t blame him for being mad at you. You’d be too.
Outside is a mess of coughing, confused people plus a few locals already gathering outside the tower, curious about what’s going on. The rain has calmed down to barely a drizzle, which makes it easier for you to wave your arms and ask them to move to the other side of the road, away from the building.
There’s only one who doesn’t move.
“Paul!” you call out, rushing over to his side. “Please, get away from the door!”
“Don’t talk to me,” he snaps, teary-eyed, his voice hoarse from trying not to cry.
“Fine!” you grumble. “Then I’ll stay with you.”
You catch him giving you a puzzled look before his eyes dart back to the building.
Truth is, if something happened to Miller, you’d never forgive yourself.
And also… what if something happened to the Doctor?
Time drags on, the smoke completely swallowing your view of the lobby. You don’t have your phone to call the Doctor, no sonic, nothing! Right now, even breathing isn’t on your list of priorities.
Paul is crying.
You take a deep breath and move to go. “I’m going in.”
Despite his anger, he grabs your arm. “You’re gonna die! Someone needs to call—”
Just then — just then!!
The Doctor finally emerges from the building, supporting Miller, who’s got his arm draped around her shoulders.
You and Paul beam, laugh, clap your hands, rushing toward them—
But you don’t even have time for that.
“Get clear!” she screams before you can reach her. “Get clear!”
This time, it’s Paul who drags you back.
And suddenly, the ground shakes. You hear a muffled blast as you sprint across the street.
Then comes the deafening roar and the unthinkable heat.
The four of you are thrown to the ground.
With your ears ringing, you glance back at the radio station, only to find a mess of stone, metal, and fire. It’s like a sight of war.
Wilson is gone.
The Doctor appears in front of you, brows deeply creased. “You okay?”
You don’t even have time to answer before she’s already pulling you up by your shoulders.
“I’m— yeah, I’m fine,” you manage to mumble quickly. “Doctor, the signal thingy, is it gone too?”
She lets out a small “ah!” and suddenly rushes over to Miller. He’s sitting on the ground, Paul fussing over him as he rubs his hand across his brow.
She pats at Miller’s upper pocket, fetches the sonic — yes, without warning — and then dashes into a small stationery shop on the same sidewalk.
It’s empty, the owners probably among the crowd outside. When you catch up to her, you find her frantically rummaging behind the counter, muttering “radio, radio, radio.” Then she shouts, “Ah!”
“What is it?!” you cry.
“Found a radio,” she says, almost bashfully. “Course the sonic can scan it too, but I just want to be sure…”
She trails off as she tunes to that familiar static between stations.
She points the sonic at it.
It whirls.
Nothing.
You both exhale at once, so hard you feel like you might collapse right there.
“We did it,” you breathe, hardly believing the words as they leave your mouth.
“Yeah!” she chirps, walking over to you. “Yeah. We did it.”
You stare at each other for a few seconds, chests heaving, your throat raw from all the smoke.
Then, she hugs you. Really tight.
You wrap your arms around her waist, chuckling softly.
“I missed you,” you murmur.
“Missed you too,” she replies, pulling back slightly. She’s smiling, but there’s something slightly sad behind it. “Thanks. For helping me there with… that . Don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t. Done that.”
You laugh fondly. Gold star to you for understanding what she means, even though she phrased it in the most awkward way possible.
“Of course, love,” you say, smiling. “Together. And thank you for snapping me out of Wilson’s eyes back there.”
Her smile widens. “Course. Together.”
And then you hear it.
The most beautiful sound in the universe.
That groaning, wheezing echo. Louder and louder.
“Is that—” you begin, hardly believing your ears after everything.
“Oh, please, give us that!” the Doctor nearly pleads, rushing out of the shop.
You both follow the sound around to a parallel street — and there she is!
Blue. Old. Tall. Beautiful.
Home.
Notes:
paul is based on an oc i used to have ages ago, and my oc was just as pathetic (lovingly) as this guy is lmao
anyways, we're basically done now! i still got an epilogue i'll post in a few days (which is the campiest, gayest thing i've ever written lmao), so i hope to see you there.
Chapter 6: Epilogue
Summary:
After the fight is over, you convince the Doctor to help your two new friends - and she takes you to the a glittering future.
In every sense of the word.
Notes:
this is it you guys 😭😭😭 call it lavender is officially over! good riddance shfkshfks
i’m joking (kind of), but the last chapter was so so hard i couldn't wait to not have to write this story anymore lmaonow the only warning i have for this epilogue is: this thing is gay as shit. it's camp like the campiest doctor who eps are afraid of being ("okay, that's an overstatement"). and it's really, really self-indulgent (i had so much fun writing this fslkhfkshfsk i had to cut myself short cause i was just going and going and going), i wrote it purely for self-indulgent purposes. but hey, for that, check my ending notes =D
oh, editing this to add: the 'I Spy' game is a reference to Kerblam! the novelisation (in which, yes, the Doctor uses A for atom)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The Doctor makes a sound that is frankly obscene as she rushes to the TARDIS doors.
She sighs, resting her forehead against them. “I missed you. I’m sorry for scaring you away. Signal’s gone, I’m all good now.”
You widen your eyes, quickly looking away so she doesn’t notice.
(Does she know you heard that? Were you even supposed to hear that?)
Luckily for you, the TARDIS simply opens her door. The sight of the golden spirals inside is so comforting it nearly makes you cry.
Just as you’re about to step in after her—
“Ladies!” someone calls from behind.
You turn. It’s Miller, hurrying towards you.
You widen your eyes at her. “Ladies?”
“One up from ‘girls’,” she quips.
You laugh, just as he catches up to you. The poor man is a wreck — parts of his face are grey from all that smoke, his clothes completely soaked, and there’s a small tear on his brow.
Only now do you realise you must look like a terrible thing yourself.
“What happened?” you point to his brow.
“Oh, this? I fell inside the elevator. It jolted when the lights flickered the first time,” he explains. “I would’ve suffocated if she hadn’t found me. Thank you, ma’am,” he nods at the Doctor.
“I aim to please,” she replies, flashing a smug smile.
Still, one of her hands is holding the TARDIS door open, half her body already inside, the other half still outside.
You almost snort. She can’t even pretend to be patient right now.
“Anyway, I came to return this,” he says, slipping something out of his pocket.
It’s the psychic paper.
“Nah, keep it,” she wrinkles her nose. “Got tons of copies.”
You frown at her. “I don’t have one of those, but you’re giving one to him?!”
She shushes you.
That’s you told, 3.0.
Miller laughs. “I still don’t think I know how to use it.”
“Here, let me see,” you say, snatching it from him. “It says: ‘I’m nervous my boss is finding out what I did, and I love my boyfriend.’”
The Doctor coos behind you.
Miller’s cheeks go as red as a tomato. “Like I said, I don’t know how to use it.”
You laugh, handing it back to him. “Just think of what you want people to see. I mean, what do I know? That’s how she does it.”
She rolls her eyes at you playfully before fully stepping inside. The door closes behind her.
“Aaaand I think that’s my cue,” you tell him. Coincidentally, you hear the sound of sirens in the distance. “Oh yeah, definitely my cue. Funny how your boss was ten times faster to find me and the Doctor this morning, but now it took him an eternity to check where the mysterious broadcast came from, don’t you think?”
Miller doesn’t laugh. “Wilson didn’t convince him to come after the broadcast, did he?”
You click your tongue. “Understood.”
He checks behind him, looking anxious.
“Go on,” you nudge him carefully. “Use the psychic paper to tell him this was all an undercover FBI mission or something. He won’t be able to arrest you.”
This time he does laugh, genuinely. “I might do that, ma'am.”
“Oh! Before you go. My phone! I almost forgot,” you grin, extending your hand to him.
He begins to rub the back of his head.
You wiggle your fingers. “George? My phone.”
“I’m sorry,” he grimaces. “I think I lost it on the way down. There was a lot of smoke, ain't it so?”
You think you stop breathing.
You blink.
Then you groan. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me that sooner?! How am I supposed to find it among the debris?” you yell, moving to go.
Suddenly, Miller bursts out laughing.
You slowly turn around.
He’s holding your phone in his hand.
You snatch it away from him, one second away from hitting him. “You know what? You don’t actually deserve that psychic paper. Give it here!”
He laughs even harder. “Should’ve seen your face, ma'am.”
You try to scowl at him, but you can barely hold back a smile.
“Very funny,” you tell him. “Well, nice to meet you. Hope you have a nice career at the FBI.”
You begin to turn away, but he calls your name, sounding serious now.
“Can you answer me one thing?”
“Eh, don’t even think about it,” you wave your hands wildly. “I can’t talk about the future. I’m pretty sure she can hear everything we’re saying and she’d kill me.”
“No, it’s just one thing,” he insists, staring down at the psychic paper in his hand. Then he looks at you. “Marriage. Is it possible in the future for people like me? Like us?”
Your brows crease in pain. Such a simple thing — something straight people take for granted — and here he is, asking for it like it’s a miracle.
You sigh. “Not for a long time still. But we get there. In my time it’s already possible, although they’ve been trying to change that.”
He nods, disappointed. “I see.”
“Is that what you want with Paul?” you ask, gently.
He smiles. “It’s my biggest dream, ma'am. That and being transferred to New York.”
“Awww, that’s so sweet,” you grin, then glance down. “And hey, I think Paul is still mad at me for putting you in danger. Can you tell him I’m sorry?”
His smile widens, and he almost looks shy.
“Will do,” he says, puffing his chest out and saluting.
That — with his shy smile and red cheeks — is certainly a combination.
You laugh, nudging him away. “Bye, Not Yaz.”
And then, finally, you step inside the TARDIS.
“There you are!” the Doctor exclaims as soon as she spots you, pressing a few buttons here and there on the console in that dance you’re already so used to. “I was thinking — Lesbos!”
You squint, walking up to the console. “Come again?”
“Lesbos!” she repeats, as though that explains everything. “It’s a planet named after the island. Basically a natural paradise, tons of original species and—” she grins, rushing to where you are, raising her finger like she’s got a surprise, “— no men allowed!”
You burst out laughing.
“It’s good, yeah?!” she exclaims, darting back to the other side of the console again. “To make up for the past few days.”
“I can’t believe that’s an actual place. But, hang on… Why did you change your hair?!” you cry.
Come to think of it, she’s changed her shirt too — she’s wearing the blue one now. Her coat is dry, and so are her trousers.
And her hair is straight again.
“I didn’t!” she replies, confused.
“I didn’t have time to appreciate the waviness!” you continue complaining. “I was gonna do it here!”
“Oh,” she wrinkles her nose in a half-wince, half-laughter. Then, she places her hand on the main lever. “Lesbos, then?”
“Wait, no!” you snap your fingers. “I need to get my bike, I promised it to Ryan. Also, all the stuff we bought.”
“Oh, yeah,” she mutters, disappointed, like she hadn’t even thought about that.
“And I need to change my clothes, I’m getting the shivers here. Why do you always keep it so nippy?”
She scrunches her face at you — meaning she didn’t like that — while you check your reflection on your phone.
You look like a pathetic wet cat, with a lot of ash sprinkled on your face for added charm.
You make an indignant noise. “Weren’t you going to tell me I look like I was mining coal? How was I going to Lesbos like this?”
She looks up from the console. “Oh, that? I can just—” she licks her thumb and rubs it against your cheek.
You laugh, struggling to escape her reach.
“Right, that didn’t help as much as I thought it would,” she muses. Then, she pulls the lever down and the TARDIS makes a thump. She clasps her hands together, proud. “There. Parked outside the motel.”
“Well, I’m not stepping outside like this,” you chuckle. “You wait there.”
You catch her grumbling as you leave for your bedroom, and you laugh. With the Doctor, it’s never about what’s happened, what’s behind, or staying still. You know she can barely wait to leave this place for good.
It’s Ohio. You can’t wait either.
You take a quick shower and change your clothes so you at least look like you haven’t been in a near-death experience in the past hour. The TARDIS has a sense of humour, and now your wardrobe is full of clothes you’d probably find at Harmony Shop.
It’s funny, but also such a relief. You’re leaving 1954, free from this particular type of judgment. You hope Lesbos doesn’t have a dress code.
And speaking of the future… you just had a nice little idea.
Walking out in something you’re sure would have people in your time thinking you’re a James Dean cosplayer, you step into the motel room for the last time, taking one last look at the walls and the bed, the only safe place you had in this city for all these days.
On your way out, you try to say goodbye to the clerk. She’s so focused on her crossword that she doesn’t seem to hear you.
At least there’s that.
Back at the TARDIS, you nearly run into your bike.
“Got the bike, did ya get your stuff?” the Doctor shouts from the console.
“Affirmative!”
“Let’s go, then,” she says in that tone that’s somehow a question posing as a statement, or a statement pretending to be a question.
“Doctor…” you begin, settling your bags on the floor next to your favourite pillar.
She hums, eyebrows slightly arched.
“George,” you say.
She places her hands on her waist, squinting. “Who’s that?”
You laugh. “You know who he is, you remembered his name when you had to save him.”
She hums again. “Ah, right. What about him?”
“His biggest dream is getting married,” you tell her, rocking on your feet like that’s going to help her get it faster. “With Paul.”
She humphs.
“And I know we can’t change the future,” you say. “But maybe we can change… his future?”
The Doctor looks up for a few seconds, thinking. Then, she beams. “Why not? I’m a romantic.”
You could melt. Not just because of what she said, but because of how she’s glowing, how she’s so keen to help.
She bends down on the console, fiddling with something here and there, while you watch her, grinning, utterly lovesick. Maybe you could finally take the chance to say—
“Oh!” Her head snaps up. “By the way, what was it that you said in the police station that caused all that kerfuffle?”
Your grin turns into a grimace. “Oh. That? Well…”
She pulls a lever down, looking at you expectantly, like a little kid waiting to go outside on the first day of summer.
And that’s how you just decide to go for it. Isn’t that what you wanted?
So you shrug. “I just said that I love you.”
You can positively say that you’ve just shocked her more than Wilson ever did. Her eyes go slightly wide, her hands freeze mid-air, you’re not even sure she’s breathing.
Just when you think this might be the equivalent of a Time Lord blue-screen of death, she smiles. A shy, small, completely unsure smile.
She is so adorable.
You grin back.
And the TARDIS lands.
“Also!” you exclaim, rushing to the doors, “that wasn’t a kerfuffle . If Miller’s story is true, that was a revolution, thank you very much.”
“Alright!” she replies, frowning.
You stop to look at her before opening the doors, giggling. “Wait, are you jealous my interrogation was more ‘eventful’ than yours?”
Her mouth forms an indignant little o . “Who got us out? I did! That was me.”
“According to Miller—”
“Well, he doesn’t know everything , does he?” she shoots back, half-playful-half-annoyed, hands on her hips. “Anyway, what’re you waiting for?”
You finally open the door, laughing hard. “You’re jealous!”
“I’m not !” she exclaims, which is the last thing you hear before stepping outside.
She’s parked the TARDIS right next to the stationery shop you’d visited. The crowd is much bigger now, a chattering mess of people, a cloud of white smoke rising from the collapsed tower and covering them like a mushroom — and walking among them without the feeling of eyes glued to your back all the time is a sensation you’d long forgotten about. In the middle of it all, you can just make out a police car.
Despite all your showing off to the Doctor, Carlyle was actually terrifying. And you really, really don’t want to run into him again.
You try to approach two or three people, hoping to ask if they’d seen a tall-ish guy with brown hair and a moustache — but no one replies.
It’s not that they’re avoiding you, like they did at the diner. And it’s not that they don’t see you either.
They look at you. They seemingly don’t know what to make of you. And then… they move on.
“Crikey, this city,” you mutter. “What the actual f—”
“They’re round the back of the building,” says a voice you recognise as Paul’s, coming from behind you.
You turn to him, trying to gauge where you stand. He seems a little hesitant, but not angry anymore.
“With his boss?” you ask.
He nods.
“Well… can you tell him I’m looking for him? It’s not trouble, I promise.”
Another nod.
Poor Paul.
You head back to the TARDIS, where the Doctor is waiting at the door.
She brightens when she sees you. “Got him?”
You shake your head and take your place beside her. “Talking to Carlyle.”
Your eyes drift back to the crowd. One of the old ladies you’d seen several times at the diner briefly meets your gaze. Her eyes scan your clothes for a second, then flick away.
You sigh.
“Do you want to—” you start.
But at the same time, she says, “Are you—”
You both laugh.
“You go first,” you offer.
“Nah, you go,” she says, tapping your shoulder.
“No, you.”
She places her hands on her waist and squints at you. “ You . Just out of spite.”
“You times infinity!” you grin, pointing at her.
She cocks her head to the side, squinting even more. Then, with a dramatic sigh, “Fine.”
But instead of asking directly, she just sort of… hovers. Eyes on the ground. Then somewhere a little lower than your eyes. Then she clasps her hands.
Finally, softly, “Are you alright?”
You look away, eyes drifting to the collapsed tower. You give her a small nod. “Yeah.”
From the corner of your eye, you see her nod too.
You stand in silence for a while, the low buzz of the crowd the only sound between you.
Then, you sigh again. “Okay, one of us has to talk about it. I just thought that after Wilson died, things would get better, you know?”
When you glance at her, she’s looking at you too — that look of hers, puzzled but full of care, like your worries are a problem to solve.
Half of the time she doesn’t actually know how to help. But you love the weight of her gaze, of her attention on you.
That’s why you speak at all.
“With the signal,” you continue, “it was like they saw me and didn’t like what they saw. I was a problem.” You gesture faintly to the crowd. “Now it’s like I don’t even exist. Look at them. They don’t even notice the TARDIS.”
“Perception filter,” she says, folding her arms.
“Yeah. Something like that,” you murmur, shaking your head.
You wrap your arm around hers, tempted to rest your head on her shoulder, but you don’t. You were arrested this morning for “disorderly conduct” after all. No need to push your luck.
Silence settles between you again, and you start to wonder how long Miller’s going to take.
Then, she speaks. “You do realise most of these people have only ever seen the same day over and over again,” she says, smiling — in that way she does, where you’re never sure if it’s a question or not. “And that’s fine, yeah? Humans, you lot have different expectations in life, different timing.”
You nod, and her grin widens. “But you ? You’ve seen wonders! You’ve seen galaxies and stars and constellations and aliens with terrible fashion sense — and I’m not talking about me, by the way — and you’ve saved worlds . How many times have we saved planets together?” she nudges you.
You chuckle. “I’ve lost count.”
“Exactly!” she beams. “These people — the ones who look away when they see you — they wouldn’t even know what to do with all the stuff you’ve seen, all the things you’ve done. Honestly? They can only wish they could see the universe the way you do. And even without all this brilliant stuff, nobody else in the universe does it the way you do.”
You’re a little teary-eyed, even as you grin so wide your cheeks hurt. Half the time she doesn’t know how to help, but when she does… oh, when she does.
“To sum it all up,” she begins, then frowns, lips tightening. “Why is he taking so long?”
That breaks you. You laugh, burying your face against her shoulder. “Oh, Doctor. You don’t know how good at this you are.”
“What were you going to say, then?” she asks.
“Hmm. I forget,” you reply, looking up to stare at her.
You didn’t, actually. You were going to ask if she wanted to pop off to Lesbos and come back in a second since Miller is taking his sweet time. But you don’t want to go now. Not when you’re this close. Not when you can soak in everything about her.
You’ve missed this! Who’d have thought that surviving a bigoted hellscape would take time away from your favourite hobby?
Luckily for you, the light drizzle is already working its magic on her hair, the tips curling in on themselves. And the sun, shy as it is behind the clouds, catches her just right. Her eyes are amber now, flecked with green and gold, like those galaxies and constellations she was just talking about.
She really does look very kissable right now, that’s the truth.
And just when you think you might test how powerful this perception filter really is—
“Looking for me?” Miller cuts in, making both of you jump slightly.
You let out a long, dramatic exhale. “You have terrible timing, has anyone ever told you that?”
He doesn’t seem to have listened, his eyes squinting up at the TARDIS. “Why does it say ‘police box’?”
“Never mind that,” the Doctor says. “So, does your boyfriend know you want to marry him?”
George’s eyes nearly launch themselves out of his face. He turns to glare at you.
You shrug. “You tell me, you’re telling us both.”
“Holy cow,” he mutters under his breath, then clears his throat. “Only in passing. It’s not a possibility, as you know.”
“Well, it is now!” she grins, wild and gleeful. “Go fetch him, will ya?”
His eyes land on you again, eyebrows practically glued to the bridge of his nose.
“We can take you to the future to get married,” you say, like you’re explaining basic grammar to a child. “And after that, we’ve got places to go — so, chop chop.”
He stares at the two of you for a few more seconds. Then suddenly bolts, disappearing into the now-dispersing crowd.
“Oh, brilliant,” she mutters. “More waiting time.”
“Round of ‘I Spy’?” you nudge her, because you know how much she hates being still.
“Yeah! I spy with my little eye—”
“I was starting this time,” you complain.
“—oooh, imagine a Zilliontrite playing this—” she shoots you a toothy grin “—something beginning with… A. And small.”
You nearly choke at the thought of Wilson spying something with his little eyes. “Let me think… Ants?”
“Nope!” she shakes her head, smug.
“You better not be talking about stars or galaxies this time,” you laugh. “I still think you didn’t win last time, you can’t see the Medusa Cascade from Earth.”
“It’s not a star!” she exclaims. “Go on.”
Your eyes wander, scanning the scene in front of you. People are leaving now, some still standing in clustered groups. The cloud of white smoke is far thinner than before.
“Oh, I know! Ash! From the tower,” you grin.
“Nope!” she repeats, flashing that same smug grin you really wish you could sloppy-kiss away.
“Arm!” you try.
“Nope!”
“Automobile!”
She scrunches her face. “Small?”
You groan. “I give up.”
“Atom!” she throws her arms wide, so satisfied with herself you almost want to kill her.
“Doctor,” you say, taking a deep breath, “you can’t actually see an atom.”
“Maybe you can’t,” she shoots back.
Just then, you spot Miller approaching with Paul.
“I’m going to make your next round a nightmare,” you hiss at her.
She arches her eyebrows, laughing a silent Ha . “Try me!”
When you look at them, Paul is crying again — though probably for a different reason now — while Miller tries very hard to look as composed as his tomato-red cheeks allow.
“Off we go, then!” the Doctor exclaims, giving you a light tap on the back before heading inside. “You do the explaining, right?”
It’s not a question.
“Right. Where do I even start?” you mutter under your breath, rubbing your head. “You two, forget everything you think you know.”
They stare at you.
“I mean it!” you raise your hands. “Don’t tell me I didn’t warn you.”
You motion them inside.
“We’re all fitting in there?” Miller asks, eyes scanning the box.
“What did I just say?” you laugh. “Come on in!”
They do.
Their reactions are amazing. Paul’s jaw practically hits the floor.
“Wait, is this—” George starts, stammering. Then he looks back at the door, which is already closing. “Are we—”
The TARDIS makes a thump , followed by her characteristic groaning sounds, and your heart hammers in your chest — you’re taking off!
“It’s bigger on the inside than on the outside, no biggie!” the Doctor calls from the console. “Kay, you know what I was thinking? Somewhere nice, maybe on Earth, somewhere you two know!” she adds, very excited, running from one control to the next until she lands beside the three of you, near the stairs. “What do you say?”
George’s head is swivelling from side to side, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.
Paul is blinking at the Doctor.
She hums, then whispers to you, “Is her translation circuit working?”
You chuckle. “I think their brains aren’t.”
“Where… is this?” Paul finally asks.
“This is my spaceship!” she beams, then turns to you. “I thought you were doing the explaining.”
“You took off before I did!” you exclaim.
Miller suddenly chuckles, eyes fixed on the moving central spiral. “Golly! So, this is the future?”
“No,” you reply, turning to look at her fondly. “This is the Doctor.”
She smiles back — and it’s such a shy little thing, so contained, so sweet, you could ascent.
Then, the TARDIS lands.
“Oh, wow!” the Doctor exclaims, stifling a laugh. “You guys took so long to decide, she brought us somewhere herself! Let’s take a look.”
And she swiftly runs towards the door.
“We should follow her before we lose track of where she is, that happens very often,” you say, then cross your arms at George. “But you better leave that —” you point at his belt, “—and that —” you point at his police uniform, “—in here. If you’re not working, you don’t need any of it.”
Paul sniffles. “I keep telling him that.”
George doesn’t even argue. It’s a wonder he hears you at all, with the way his eyes wander over the console even as he starts unbuttoning his jacket, like a kid who’s got too many presents on Christmas.
“When you’re done, we’re outside!” you call, hurrying to the door.
When you step outside, the bright sun nearly blinds you. Once your vision adjusts, you realise you’re on a sidewalk next to the entrance to a white bridge.
There’s a buzz of chattering, stadium horns, and music in the distance. And right in front of you — left and right — is a huge crowd of people dressed in rainbow everything.
You grin. It’s Pride.
To your right, you spot the Doctor chatting animatedly with a couple of drag queens selling Pride pins, fans, flags, and so much more. Surprisingly, she leaves their table with a newspaper.
Just then, Miller and Paul step outside, instinctively shading their eyes from the sun.
“Ma’am, where are we?” Miller calls, raising his voice so you can hear him. “What’s all this?”
“This is Pride!” you grin. “It’s how we celebrate all of us. We throw this every year.”
“This is the biggest one, though,” comes the Doctor’s voice from behind you. “I mean, the biggest one so far. They don’t know it yet,” she adds, handing you the newspaper.
“Where are we, Doctor?” you ask.
“Budapest, Hungary. 2025. Your time, innit?” she says, tapping your shoulder, then turns to the boys behind you. “Do either of you have any kind of connection to Hungary?”
They shake their heads.
She humphs. “Maybe she just wanted to come to Pride.”
“But what is this about?” Paul asks. “It’s a party of sorts?”
“It is now, it wasn’t always one,” she replies, and you turn to her completely. She’s got that tone that means you’re about to dive into one of those explanations you love.
“Pride started as resistance, at first,” she goes on, gesturing wildly in cadence with her words. “A few years from your time — around 1965 — gay organisations started something called the Annual Reminder. The goal was to make people see how this large group was being denied basic rights. It was mostly peaceful, until 1969, when Stonewall happened.” Then she squints. “I might have to make you boys forget all this.”
“What about this parade?” you ask quickly, before she can actually think about doing that. “You said this is the biggest one? In the whole world?”
“In Hungarian history,” she corrects. “But that makes it even more brilliant! The government has essentially banned any and all Pride events. These people here aren’t just partying — they’re fighting! They’re here despite the government, despite the police, despite the threat of fines and prison. And the result?” She grins, motioning for you to follow her.
You turn the corner where the bridge begins.
And this time, your jaw nearly drops.
It’s a sea of people — so many that, from where you are, you can’t even see where the crowd ends.
The Doctor chuckles, practically glowing. “What a world.”
“I thought the future would be safe,” Paul says from behind you, in between sobs. “But it’s still a fight.”
“Yes, it is,” she replies. “Sometimes, throughout history, you have to remind them who you are. But it’s not always. And it’s definitely not forever, either. Wanna see?”
With the way she’s smiling, you’d say yes even if she’d asked you to jump.
But still. “It’s such a shame, though,” you pout. “This parade looks nice.”
“Wait until you see the next one!” she exclaims, rushing back inside the TARDIS.
Then, she stops at the door. “But, blimey, you two look terrible.”
You cough in mock outrage — a polite “nice one” — though you can’t even say she’s exaggerating. They do look terrible.
Between the tear on Miller’s brow, Paul’s tear-streaked face, and their clothes full of ash and dirt, they somehow look worse than you did before your shower.
“Luckily for you, the TARDIS has a Jacuzzi,” she shoots them a tight-lipped smile.
“What?!” you exclaim. “You never even told me we have a Jacuzzi, and they get to use it?”
She shushes you as they step inside.
That’s you told 4.0.
You shake your head, feeling slightly offended that these two are getting all the new shiny things, when you stop to notice what you’ve been carrying since it was handed to you.
The newspaper.
It’s an exclusive edition, apparently made for Pride only. But what catches your attention is one of the headlines: that miserable orange man who calls himself a president and his newest fight with his musty previous-best-friend-turned-enemy.
Last time you were on Earth they were inseparable, you remember that well. And now here they are, causing a public scene and dragging everyone else with them.
Which makes you think… Could they be… Could they really be… Zilliontrites?
“Nah,” you mutter under your breath. “Too on the nose.”
The TARDIS’ door opens.
It’s the Doctor.
She tilts her head. “Don’t need to rush inside! Take all the time you need.”
You laugh, taking another look at the newspaper before walking into the ship.
Yeah. Too on the nose.
Several minutes — and countless rounds of 'I Spy' later (also counting the total number of minutes you used to convince her to let you buy a flag from the cool drag queens before you left) — you finally set course for your final destination: the biggest Pride in the universe according to the Doctor, the place where your two new friends are going to achieve their dreams:
Space Vegas.
If you thought Budapest was a sea of rainbow spots, Space Vegas right now looks like you tripled that and then some.
There are neon signs and tall, slender palm trees all around. The sky is a pink thing, streaked with bright white lines. And there’s music, laughter, and rainbows everywhere!
“See those lines?” the Doctor asks as she steps outside the TARDIS, raising her voice as loud as she can while pointing at the sky. “They’re the rings of this planet! They’re white now because of all this galaxy’s sun reflecting against them. When it starts to set, we’ll see them changing from white, to orange, then yellow, until they get white again!”
“Having rings looks really cool!” you grin.
She wrinkles her nose. “It would destroy Earth.”
Well, that’s that settled, then.
“This planet is beautiful,” you smile, your eyes falling on the several smaller groups forming a larger one as they follow a sound truck passing by. “And fun, too! How come you don’t come here often?”
“Meh. It’s usually not as exciting, just the billionaires of this galaxy trying to get even richer. Or poorer, sometimes,” she says, hands on her waist. “But this time of year it’s got the—”
“—biggest Pride in the universe,” you complete for her. You’ve lost count of how many times she’s already said that.
“—and I’ve got a mate here who sort of owes me a favour,” she shoots you a toothy grin, then walks off toward one of the large buildings on the other side of the road.
Just then, the wedding boys walk out of the ship.
You don’t know what the TARDIS envisioned for Paul, but his outfit looks like he was aiming for a mix of Elton John with Freddie Mercury and landed on something an alien diplomat might wear for an official speech. And as for Miller…
“You know what, George,” you say, crossing your arms at him, giving him a once-over. “As an Elvis cosplayer, you make a really good cop.”
When you think of Elvis, George is everything that doesn’t come to mind. His hair is supposed to have a quiff, but it looks like a cow’s licked him. His clothes should resemble that iconic white jumpsuit, but on him they look jumbled together and definitely more cream than white.
You think the TARDIS doesn’t like him very much.
Much to your surprise, Paul laughs — really hard. For your amusement… and Miller’s disappointment.
And after all that crying from poor Paul, isn’t that a nice change?
After his laughter calms down, George asks, “So… how does this work? Do we just…?” He trails off, his cheeks turning red again.
“I have no idea,” you shrug. “I’ve never been here before. Wait here, I’ll go find the Doctor.”
You cross the street, nearly getting swept away by the sea of dancing aliens, and catching a taste of alien glitter in your mouth. You finally spot the Doctor talking to a man who's laughing with her.
Now that! That is what you’d call an Elvis cosplayer.
If Miller looks like the outfit you ordered from Wish, this guy is the one you’ll never be able to afford. And it’s not just the clothes, either. Everything about him is identical to the photos you’ve seen: the hair, the eyes, the smile, all of it.
You think you’re gawking when the Doctor catches up to you.
“All sorted!” she claps. “Where are they?”
Your brain can barely process what she’s saying. You point at the guy now walking away. “That is some impressive Elvis lookalike,” you say.
“Oh, him?” She points in the same direction. “Not a lookalike. That’s him.”
Your head snaps toward her. “No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is!” she grins.
“Nope,” you shake your head.
“Yeah!”
You let out an incredulous laugh. “Doctor! No, it’s not! How did he get here in the first place?”
She leans in, voice low, like she’s sharing a secret. “Never tell Sinatra this is where he’s hiding.”
You burst out laughing, and she takes you by the hand toward where George and Paul are waiting.
“That’s them, right? Surprised they didn’t wander off.”
“Are you officiating the wedding again?” you ask.
After passing once more through the parade — and miraculously not being swept away — you cling to her now glittery coat as your guide.
“Not this time,” she replies. “I wanna see the parade. Haven’t been here in over a century!”
You stop in front of the TARDIS, where the two of them are still standing, gawking at everything unfolding before them.
The Doctor plants her hands on her hips, grinning wildly. “So! Who’s up for a wedding?”
***
You are.
Which is why you’re currently sitting in a private booth — or, as the Doctor calls it, a private deluxe orbital viewing pod — hovering above the main square, legs dangling over the void and a (now empty) packet of some kind of meal the Doctor swore was “the best ponoté in the galaxy” crumpled beside you.
(It tasted like nothing you've ever eaten before, but you were starving !)
Speaking of her, the Doctor is notoriously bad at just sitting still — thankfully, the pod has a container bar, which she’s currently hanging onto, trying to see everything at once with barely contained glee.
You don’t blame her. It’s really, really beautiful.
Right now, you’re watching something that looks like a Vogue ballroom battle, which began just a few minutes after you arrived. But instead of just dancing, they’re waving flags at each other, showing off their outfits, and occasionally doing a few things you’ve definitely never seen at a ballroom before. Things like: flying, telekinesis, turning into a sort of living rainbow torch.
You know. Alien things.
George and Paul are lined up to be called in a few minutes, and you swear that if you squint really hard, you can spot Paul still chatting excitedly with a group of green, three-armed aliens he befriended on the way to the wedding queue.
You don’t know who’s winning this ballroom battle. You’ve never seen this many species in a single space, and you don’t even recognise some of the flags they’re waving. But from up here, you can see the entire parade — the parties spilling out beyond the square, the pink sky deepening into purple, the rings overhead shifting orange — and you’re so happy.
Happy that here, you never have to worry about being discreet.
The crowd below your pod erupts in cheers for the final performance — and you feel eyes on you.
But unlike in 1954, there’s no tingling, or biases, or “crystal balls”. No, these eyes you know. You recognise the weight with which they fall on you.
So you look up and, of course, there she is. Watching you. Studying you. Trying to work you out.
When your gaze meets hers, she blinks a few times, like waking from a trance.
Then she smiles, the kind of smile she somehow makes look like a question. “Liking it?”
You beam at her. “Loving it! This future… it’s something I’d almost given up wishing for, believing in. There are so many flags here I’ve never seen before. To think that we keep growing and evolving, it’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of. This is literally planet-wide!”
“Yeah!” she grins, turning back to you. “And by now, Pride is a celebration and a celebration only. All the fighting days are long gone.”
Her eyes turn soft — impossibly kind — and her smile somehow grows even brighter. Then she says, “Keep believing.”
If she’s always going to be next to you, showing you what hope looks like, you know you can definitely do this.
You can definitely keep believing.
Just then, a drag queen — whose skin is red, white, and polka-dotted (you think that's some kind of cosmic irony) — grabs the mic and clears her throat.
“Now that we have today’s winners—”
“Aw, I missed the winners!” the Doctor grumbles.
“—it’s time for them: the cakes, the tears… the WEDDIIIINGS! ” she bellows, flinging her arms wide to hype the crowd — as if that were even necessary.
You see the other pods beginning to converge around the square as the crowd below erupts again in applause, and the Doctor coos, “Ooh! Can we do that?”
You try to find a button or some kind of switch, but she’s already aiming her sonic at every surface of the pod in sight.
And it works! You lurch forward — a bit too drastically for your liking, but then again, you travel in the TARDIS — until you’re hovering somewhere above the equivalent of bleachers, a stairway that leads to the inside of the square just a few inches behind you.
The lights dim, and silence falls over the crowd. A single spotlight lands on the far right of the square, and in walks Elvis .
He takes the MC’s place at the centre, pulls a see-through screen from his pocket, and calls out two names — which you’re frankly not even trying to understand.
“So, he’s just marrying all of them at once?” you ask the Doctor in a hushed tone.
She shakes her head. “Elvis will officiate one by one, first. At the end they’ll throw the bouquet. And then, there’s cake!”
You laugh. “I still can’t believe it’s Elvis, to be honest.”
“Why not? Last time I was here, they had David Bowie.”
“They had who ?” you ask, raising your voice.
She shushes you.
That’s you told 5.0.
Your eyes return to what’s happening below you, where the two names “Elvis” called belong to two young women. They look human, matching orange dresses, matching joy, absolutely glowing. And your heart aches as they reach the centre.
They remind you of—
“Don’t these two look like Nancy and Marie?” the Doctor asks, grinning. “Not physically, obvs, but something about them.”
“Yeah,” you smile, a little sadly. “I was just thinking that.”
“Yeah.” Then, after a beat, “I hope they have a nice life,” she says with a sigh, and it’s so rare to hear her so willful that you don’t even know what to say.
“Elvis” begins reading something that sounds like the equivalent of traditional wedding declarations.
You gasp. “Oh! I nearly forgot! Nancy asked me to thank you.”
“Hm?” she turns to you. “What for?”
You shrug, smiling. “For being a source of inspiration, I guess.”
She smiles back — and you swear you could lose your damn mind. She looks so happy, arm resting against the container bar, glitter scattered through her hair.
You want to kiss her.
But, as always, you don’t have time, because “Elvis” (no, you still don’t believe it’s him) calls two names you recognise.
George Miller and Paul Jones.
You shoot up immediately, eager to watch them come in.
Beside you, the Doctor snorts. “George Jones. That’s never gonna work. Miller is such a cool name, Paul should take it.”
When they reach the centre, Paul starts crying again. This time, you almost join him.
“Oh! Better yet, Miller-Jones,” the Doctor whispers, nudging you. “Miller & Jones? Millones . I’m talking so you don’t notice I don’t know what to say right now.”
You chuckle softly, wrapping your arm around hers. “You don’t need to say anything. You’re fulfilling the dream of two guys from 1954, one of whom you convinced to betray his government to help you. That’s enough.”
She hums once as George begins to read his vows. Then again when he finishes.
Finally, when Paul starts his (between hiccups), she seems to accept it. And she pulls you closer.
After George and Paul ( Miller-Jones , much to the Doctor’s delight), the three-armed couple takes their place. Then another couple. And another one. And another one. Until, at some point, you lose count.
When they’ve all been married, the newlyweds gather around “Elvis” (no, you still don’t believe it’s him), and music begins.
Not just any music, of course.
The most obvious one. The most cliché one.
Can’t Help Falling in Love.
Obviously.
“Ooh, that’s a spoiler,” the Doctor chuckles. “This song won’t be released until 1961, when—”
“Shhh,” you hush softly.
“…Alright,” she mutters under her breath.
And that’s her told, for a change.
You know the song well, and you were looking forward to hearing him sing, but instead he lets the crowd do it. It’s so loud you can feel your chest humming.
The newlyweds sway gently. The sky has turned a deep purple, and the rings above glow yellow.
And you’re trying so hard not to cry.
You look at the Doctor, eyes focused on the scene below. And at this moment, you don't care if the song is cliché. You don't care if the people are off-key.
All you can see is the person you wish would take your whole life for her. The one you can't help following. The one you can't help falling. The one you can't help loving.
When you look away, you feel the Doctor’s eyes falling on you again, but this time, you don’t look back. You close your eyes, take a deep breath, and simply bask in the warmth of her attention.
Then, an idea hits and it makes you giggle.
“Round of ‘I Spy’?” you ask.
“What?” she blinks, surprised. “Right now?”
“Yeah!” you grin, turning to face her. “I’ll go this time! I spy with my little eye something I really want, starting with K.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Kinesthetics?”
“How is that something I want?” you laugh. “It’s something I want . Something I can never get enough of.”
The music stops, the lights return, and the crowd erupts in cheers. Even so, you don’t look down, you’re focused entirely on her reaction.
And for a genius…
“Kaleidoscope!” she grins. “You were chuffed when I showed you that Plutonian one.”
“No!” you laugh again. “Look, we’re missing the moment. Focus, Doctor: something I can’t get enough of!”
She frowns her entire face at you.
“Oh, come on! You know very well what I mean.” you push her playfully. “I’ll just have to show you, then.”
She lifts her eyebrows — which means she does know.
You take a step closer, grinning. You’re finally getting that kiss.
When suddenly, the Doctor turns sharply, snatching something mid-air.
It’s a bouquet.
She examines it briefly, then glances down. Your eyes follow hers and you spot all the newlyweds below, tossing bouquets into the crowd.
Somehow, one made it to your pod.
And the Doctor caught it.
Apparently, she realises what it means at the same time you do. She yelps softly, then dumps it on you.
“What?!” you shout, barely catching it (and you don’t even know why you’re trying to catch it!).
“What?” she echoes, sounding just as panicked.
“What did I do to you?” you laugh. “You attacked me with flowers! ”
“No, I didn’t!” she retorts, pointing at the crowd below. “They did!”
As if on cue, a spotlight slams down on your pod, nearly blinding you.
The MC is hyping up the bouquet-catchers, and before she can say something that will make both of you combust on the spot, the Doctor bolts.
Not off the pod, obviously. Down the stairs behind you.
“Hey!” you shout after her. “Where do you think you’re— Ugh, never mind!”
You jump after her, bouquet in hand, laughing like some kind of lunatic bride on discount.
The corridor at the bottom of the stairs is covered in flags and paintings on the wall (and is that Chappell Roan?), filled with couples everywhere and people flowing in and out of the square.
It’s not hard to find the Doctor. For someone fleeing from flowers, she’s got zero escape plan. Especially when there’s a drawing of the TARDIS at the far end of the wall.
When you catch up to her, she’s already pointing at it, beaming. “She made it to the wall of fame!”
“Truly a queer icon,” you quip.
Then, she wrinkles her nose. “How come I didn’t?”
“How would you know?” you ask. “What if one of these is future you?”
She pulls a ‘meh’ face, when her eyes fall on the bouquet still in your hand.
She does a little sideway step. “Keeping that, then?”
You shake it in front of her face, scattering a few petals. “Nope. I got attacked, and this is my proof. I deserve compensation.”
She raises a single eyebrow. “Yeah? Well, I’m sure Elvis—”
“Oh, shut up.”
You drop the bouquet.
A shame, really. They were beautiful flowers.
But when your lips touch hers, your hands get busy .
They’re everywhere in her hair, on her face, her arms, her waist.
And you don’t mind one bit when she pulls you closer, until you’re fully pressed together. Until your back is against the wall where a very pretty TARDIS is painted.
And — if either of you could think straight right now — you’d notice another painting directly across the corridor. One of a couple, kissing just like you.
One of them looks suspiciously like you.
The other, suspiciously like her.
How did that get there?
Well…
Space Vegas will never tell.
Notes:
so this is it!
call it lavender is completely done and wow, what a ride.
this story was meant to be a little thing for Pride, but then it grew more than i expected. i poured a lot of myself and my energy into this world to make it make sense, to make it feel real. i even made a makeshift map djjdjsd so i'd know where every street and building was. i did so much research on the 1950s in America, small-town life, small-town Ohio, the way people talked back then - and even then, i'm sure i didn't get everything exactly right. still, if you've come this far, i hope you can feel the care i put into every aspect of this story to make it work as well as possible.
i said in the beginning that i wrote this epilogue purely for self indulgent purposes - and okay, that's mostly true.
but not entirely.
writing this epilogue - and this story as a whole - was my way of coping with the way the world has been treating us queer folks lately. this year's Pride didn't feel like one where we had much to celebrate. rights we already fought for are being stripped away (trans women banned from the Olympics, trans rights rolled back in the UK, politicians in the US and honestly in several parts of the world wanting to ban gay marriage). violence is on the rise (a teenager in Brazil was recently murdered just for being gay). and communities that should be spreading love (yes, church, i’m looking at you) have turned into echo chambers of eyes and voices that have to look and sound the same.
and meanwhile, our own community - the one that should be standing together - is being divided, one letter at a time. take down the T. then the B. then the A. until one day, we’re no longer a community at all.
and then the Zilliontrites of this world will have won."Hope doesn't offer itself up, you have to imagine it. Whole worlds pivot on acts of imagination", is what the Doctor says in The Tsuranga Conundrum.
so this is me imagining.imagining that, by remembering where we came from and acknowledging where we are, we can create a future where we're all accepted and we're all together as one. where not one of us will have to worry about being discreet.
and imagining that, maybe, in that future, there will be a slightly awkward, absolutely brilliant, drop-dead gorgeous alien, whose grin is enough to brighten a solar system.
i like to think that’s what Budapest did, even in the face of an official ban. and I like to believe that it’s people like them — people like you and me, and the reader, and George and Paul — who’ll make our future better.
anyway... ty for staying with me on this ride! hope to see you again one of these days x
ps.: is that really elvis or is the doctor messing with you? well... the author will never tell ;)
lou_the_kidney_bean on Chapter 1 Mon 23 Jun 2025 11:41AM UTC
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one_careless_owner on Chapter 1 Tue 24 Jun 2025 11:39AM UTC
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Cybersixed on Chapter 1 Sat 05 Jul 2025 07:54AM UTC
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one_careless_owner on Chapter 1 Sat 05 Jul 2025 11:00PM UTC
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Iced_Tea_Possibly on Chapter 1 Mon 28 Jul 2025 09:14AM UTC
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one_careless_owner on Chapter 1 Tue 29 Jul 2025 10:21PM UTC
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Cybersixed on Chapter 2 Sat 05 Jul 2025 09:59AM UTC
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one_careless_owner on Chapter 2 Sat 05 Jul 2025 11:01PM UTC
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Iced_Tea_Possibly on Chapter 2 Fri 01 Aug 2025 01:26PM UTC
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one_careless_owner on Chapter 2 Sat 02 Aug 2025 02:23AM UTC
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Ghostmonument on Chapter 2 Thu 14 Aug 2025 08:12PM UTC
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one_careless_owner on Chapter 2 Sun 17 Aug 2025 12:56AM UTC
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Cybersixed on Chapter 3 Sun 06 Jul 2025 02:39AM UTC
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one_careless_owner on Chapter 3 Sun 06 Jul 2025 05:55PM UTC
Last Edited Sun 06 Jul 2025 05:56PM UTC
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Iced_Tea_Possibly on Chapter 3 Fri 01 Aug 2025 01:51PM UTC
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one_careless_owner on Chapter 3 Sat 02 Aug 2025 02:27AM UTC
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one_careless_owner on Chapter 3 Sun 17 Aug 2025 01:04AM UTC
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Iced_Tea_Possibly on Chapter 4 Fri 01 Aug 2025 02:35PM UTC
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one_careless_owner on Chapter 4 Sun 17 Aug 2025 01:09AM UTC
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Iced_Tea_Possibly on Chapter 5 Sun 03 Aug 2025 09:37PM UTC
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one_careless_owner on Chapter 5 Tue 05 Aug 2025 10:17PM UTC
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Iced_Tea_Possibly on Chapter 6 Sat 09 Aug 2025 10:53AM UTC
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