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She’s being watched again.
This is not the first time Yaz has been watching her. It’s been on and off again, and not in the way the Doctor is supposed to notice—no, it’s the kind of watching people do when they’re worried. The worst kind, in the Doctor’s opinion, because she shouldn’t have to worry anyone.
She’s fine .
The problem is that Yaz isn’t just...worried, anymore. The Doctor can see that in her eyes as well, when she dares to look. She’s a little angry now, maybe more than a little, and that’s the bit that scorches the Doctor’s skin even as she looks away.
She tries to ignore it. She’s ignoring it now, actually, which isn’t working.
It’s been a few hours since they’d left Atropos. The Doctor has finally had time to change into a sweater, shedding her sweat and embarrassingly tear-stained shirt, and Dan is off eating a sandwich somewhere. Vinder is gone, searching for somebody he hadn’t mentioned in specifics.
And Yaz is on the steps, watching the Doctor. The Doctor, meanwhile, is trying not to be watched.
“So interested in repairs?” she calls casually as she plugs in some coordinates and sets them on standby, delete in one hour. She won’t actually use the coordinates. She just needs to be moving her hands. It’s all about appearances. “Never took you for a mechanical type. Thought that was Ryan.”
“It was.” Her voice is flat, sort of angry. Definitely not good. The Doctor swallows a wince, and doesn’t look in her direction. “What are you doing?”
“Oh, you know. Adjusting the temporal coordinates. Touching up the atmosphere conditioning. Setting the—”
“None of those things exist.”
Half bent over the console, hopefully out of view, the Doctor cringes.
“Well,” she says, trying for casual, “just trying to check your knowledge. I thought—”
“What does the Flux have to do with you?”
The Doctor freezes solid. Really—she can feel the ice in her veins. Pretty impressive for the fact she’s warm-blooded.
“Nothing,” she says. Her voice has changed and she hadn’t even meant it. She’s getting pretty bad at that, lately. Controlling her temper.
It’s Yaz, amazing Yaz, brilliant Yaz, who doesn’t deserve it at all, but it’s like the Doctor’s lost control. A poke at her shields sends them slamming down, and her shouts and cutting remarks are the arsenal she fires back with. A very effective way to say don’t talk to me .
It’s also not particularly nice. She needs a better method.
“That’s not true.” Abruptly, Yaz hoists herself to her feet and comes around the console. She’s really angry, the Doctor notices in belated alarm. Properly furious, and she can’t even remember what she’d said to cause it. Something about asking questions? It’s been a long day, and when she recalls just how close she was to answers, her fingers curl and her breath comes short. She wants to hit something. She wants to scream.
She wants, a little bit, to cry, but she’d regenerate a dozen times before showing that to anyone.
“What do you mean, it’s not true?” As Yaz stalks around the console, the Doctor bends deep over the deep-space monitor. She’s not even looking at it. She’s listening to those familiar, impatient footsteps. “It’s perfectly true. I didn’t mean anything by it. Most likely, my head was mixed up by time—you know how that can play hell on a person. Honestly, I don’t even remember what we were talking—”
“Stop lying!” Yaz’s hand hits the console, open-palmed. It’s not hard, but it’s loud enough to send the Doctor’s chin jolting up. She connects with Yaz’s gaze and quails.
This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. She’s been avoiding those brown eyes for ages, trying to miss the anger and the fear, and worst of all, the love that lives inside them. Humans like Yaz shouldn’t love beings like the Doctor. Their love is fleeting and strong and impossibly powerful, and to hand it to a creature like the Doctor is downright irresponsible. The Doctor isn’t human, isn’t even of this universe. It’s not that she can’t return it either, because she knows she has the ability, should she dare let herself for a moment, but to do so is unthinkable.
Yaz is a wonderful human being. The Doctor can only watch herself ruin that bit by bit for so long.
The Doctor looks up into Yaz’s eyes, and in the calmest tones she can muster, says, “I’m not lying.”
“Yes, you are.” There are tears sparkling in Yaz’s eyes. “And you’re trying to do it again. You’re trying to avoid me. As if we’re not friends, as if we’re not—”
She catches herself on the last one, and the Doctor catches herself too. As if they’re not...close, in a way the Doctor hasn’t allowed herself to be. She knows that Yaz wants such a thing, that closeness, that touch, even, but she also knows that to fulfill such a desire is to open herself even further. What if she splits apart?
She might die. It’s a dramatic answer, but she feels the truth of it deep in her gut. She might not survive the spilling of her guts to Yasmin Khan, and she’s afraid that anything close enough to such might tear her apart. It’s too risky to attempt.
Maybe.
“We are friends, Yaz,” she says awkwardly. She means it too, but Yaz wants something more, and she can’t say she doesn’t either, but for Rassilon’s sake, does that mean she has to give it? Why can’t she have the—the friendship, the love, without all that horrible openness? Why can’t Yaz just accept her for the person she wants to be?
Why can’t everybody just leave her the hell alone?
“But the thing is,” the Doctor continues quickly when Yaz opens her mouth to refute, “I, uh—”
“What?” Yaz is watching her with a slight crease in her brow, the downturn of her lip, like she’s trying not to cry but clearly can’t manage such a task. There are tears in her eyes. She’s only human, and humans cry so easily. The Doctor has never managed such a feat.
She needs a distraction. Something. She needs to change the subject.
“Uh—” She ducks her head below the console and seizes on the closest thing. “Oh! Have I ever told you how the custard cream dispenser works? Absolute magic, honestly—”
“You really—” Yaz’s disbelief is as cutting as a knife. She’s still for a second as the Doctor pops up from below the console, custard cream in hand, then abruptly whirls around.
“Fine!” she says, her back to the Doctor. Her shoulders are shaking. “Fine. Okay. Listen, I’m not so stupid that I want to cry in front of someone who doesn’t even care enough to not lie to my face, but you know what? You have a knack for making me feel like an idiot. I should have known.”
“What?” The Doctor straightens hurriedly, the custard cream falling from her hand. It bounces upon the floor and disappears from view as the Doctor steps forward. “Wait—Yaz, c’mon, you know that’s not what I—”
“Then why won’t you talk to me?” Yaz turns around, her eyes watery and pink, and it’s a terrible sight to see because she’s not even trying to hide it anymore. Like a big sign, pointed at the Doctor. Your fault . “Why can I be a friend on your terms, and not—not anything else? Why doesn’t it matter what I want?”
“Wh-what do you want?” The Doctor hates how her voice is shaking. She steps forward, hands reaching out just a little, though she can’t even make herself touch Yaz in a comforting manner. The ability isn’t hardwired in, not in this body, not like some of her others. “Yaz—”
“I—” Yaz starts, then abruptly shuts her mouth and shakes her head. “No. Never mind. You haven’t answered any of my questions. You don’t get to have me open up instead.”
With that she starts to turn, the want in her bleeding off so clearly the Doctor could have told her she didn’t need to be a telepath nor particularly perceptive to guess what she’s feeling. She could have told her that she didn’t need Yaz to open up, because Yaz is so open without meaning to be, in her wants and actions and her feelings, all pouring out for anybody to see. It’s not that she wears her heart on her sleeve; it’s that sometime, a while ago, she gave her heart to the Doctor without the Doctor even noticing, and the Doctor is meant to put it in safekeeping, but she doesn’t know how.
“That’s—wait!” the Doctor calls, because Yaz is starting off again. “Wait! Yaz, I can—you don’t have to open up! I never meant—wait!”
She rushes forward then, and in a fit of utter bravery catches her by the sleeve. It’s not what she intended to do—she meant to catch her by the wrist—but maybe it’s better, because it doesn’t jerk Yaz around. It just gives her pause.
“Wait,” she repeats, breathless with a little too much fear. “Wait. Yaz—don’t walk away. I can...fix this. I’m the Doctor! I’m your friend. Fixing things is my job.”
“Really?” Yaz turns, and the question isn’t hopeful. It’s mean and bitter, all hard around the edges, and it pulls the Doctor back a second. “And how do you expect to do that?”
“I—” The Doctor hesitates. It’s a question, but it’s not—it’s not unanswerable. It’s not like she can’t see what Yaz wants. It’s not like Yaz has never been clear about her crush, even when she isn’t meaning to be. It’s not like she doesn’t want some piece of the Doctor to safekeep for herself.
She wants the Doctor in the way the Doctor is too twisted up to give, but maybe she can fake it. Maybe she can fix this. Because sometimes, you have to tighten the screw even if it hurts your fingers.
“I know what you want, that’s how,” she tells Yaz, and just has time to see Yaz’s eyes widen before she does what she’d been telling herself she couldn’t possibly do. She leans in to kiss her.
Their lips meet briefly, and for a fraction of a second, she thinks she’s made the correct decision. Yaz softens beneath her touch, her whole body bending ever so slightly toward her, as if in anticipation, and for a second, the Doctor is only happy. She’s done the right thing. She’s fixed it. She’s not sure how she’ll keep fixing it, but as usual, she’s done the impossible: gotten ever closer, and yet kept herself safe and far away.
And then Yaz pushes the Doctor off of her with such strength that the Doctor nearly stumbles right into the console.
“What the hell are you doing?” she exclaims. Shock and fury lace her tone, neither of which the Doctor expected. She catches her balance against the console, rights herself, and sputters.
“I thought—but—you wanted—”
“I wanted you to open up, you—you asshole!” she cries, which is stunning, because Yaz doesn’t really swear. Not often. Not at the Doctor, though the Doctor gets the feeling such a thing was a long time coming. “I can’t believe you did that! Do you think I’m stupid?”
“I—no!” the Doctor cries, hands flying up in defense. She feels like she’s lived this quite a few times before, though never in this body. Either kissing the wrong person, or being kissed by the wrong person, or just generally making wrong kissing decisions in general. She’s never been good at this.
Why on earth did she think it might be a solution?
“Listen—” She tries to speak calmly, both for Yaz and her own racing hearts. “I—Yaz, it’s not you. I was just—well, I thought you wanted to be intimate, and close, and isn’t kissing—”
“No!” Yaz says. There are open tears in her eyes, to the Doctor’s horror, though she seems more angry than sad. Maybe that’s a good thing. Probably not. “It’s not open unless you are open, dummy! I thought—I thought you were going to tell me something, not try to distract me!”
“Why would I do that?” the Doctor says before her brain has a chance to catch up to her mouth. “I mean—wait! Yaz, talking is so, so—listen, who needs it? And I thought you wanted to—”
“You—” Yaz levels a shaking finger in her direction. “Don’t get to tell me what I want. You have no idea what that is.”
“Oh, I don’t?” the Doctor scoffs, and in that moment, her own anger flares up too. Maybe because it doesn’t strike her as fair, that Yaz gets to be so open-without-saying-anything with what she wants, while the Doctor has to lock herself away in bits and pieces because—because—
She doesn’t actually know why. But she knows there has to be a reason somewhere.
“Now, Yasmin Khan,” she says, and steps forward, picking up a challenge Yaz has definitely not dropped on the way, “that just isn’t true. Because you have never tried to hide that you want me to open up, to share secrets, to be nice and kind and whatever it is you think I am—”
“Only because that’s what you want me to believe!” Yaz shot back. “As if you don’t go on about how kind and perfect you are, when we both know you have a whole past you won’t even talk about!”
The Doctor stiffens. “Oh, so you think you have a right to know where I come from?”
Yaz doesn’t even skip a beat, though her tone does lower to match the Doctor’s. “I know where you came from, Doctor. I saw your burning planet. And I cried for you for days, you know that? But you won’t even discuss it.”
The admonition—worse, the admission of Yaz having seen her destroyed home—carves something soft out of the Doctor. She feels the slice of the knife as it slinks through her ribs, and shrinks against it.
“I don’t want to,” she says, voice soft and dangerous. “I’m allowed to have secrets, you know. I’m allowed to not talk.”
“Sure,” Yaz snorts, “but not if you want to drag me along too, Doctor. I mean, I guess you’re right, yeah? You don’t have to tell me a single thing. But you keep dragging me across the universe, hunting up a past you refuse to share, and putting me in danger, and you know what’s stupid? That I keep going along with it!”
The Doctor swallows hard, wiping away a waver of doubt. “You don’t have to. I could drop you off right home. Is that what you want?”
“No!” Yaz says, and that horrible, unanswerable frustration is there again. “I don’t want to go home, Doctor, but you know what the worst part is? It’s not even because I want to see the universe anymore. It’s because I’m terrified what you’re going to do while I’m not around.”
The Doctor’s insides go cold. It’s the worst, most humiliating admission Yaz could give; the admission that she thinks the Doctor isn’t capable of being on her own. That she thinks she’s in danger, and worse, from herself.
“I don’t think you should worry about that,” she says softly, calmly, but inside, she’s shaking a little. It’s terrifying to be seen so suddenly, her insides taken out and shown around for everybody to see. It occurs to the Doctor in a moment of blinding realization that perhaps she’d been so busy seeing all that Yaz wanted that she’d failed to notice that Yaz had seen everything she’d been trying to keep hidden. “I’m fine, Yaz. I’m not going to...do anything.”
“Except chase danger with nobody around to stop you,” Yaz scoffs, but her voice has gone all shaky too. “But not like you normally do. It’s like...I dunno, Doctor. I don’t think you’re right in the head. Do you know how much you yell at me? How you’ve yelled at Dan? Do you really think you can treat someone that way?”
“I—” the Doctor starts to defend, then stops. That instinctive feeling of I’m a Time Lord, I know more than you, of course I can yell , rises up in her, but it’s immediately squashed by the reality of Yaz’s distress standing full-faced before her. The taste of it sits on her tongue, bitter with sudden understanding. “I haven’t—I wasn’t yelling , I just—”
“Losing your temper,” Yaz sniffs. “Like the kind of bloke who yells at his wife when a football match ends badly. That’s what you remind me of, Doctor. A jerk who yells at his wife.”
“That’s not—” the Doctor begins automatically, then stops again. Horrible realization shrivels her tongue. “I didn’t mean—that’s not what I intended. I’m just—”
And then she stops again too, because she can’t say it. And the worst thing is that now she wants to, facing Yaz like this. She wants to tell her, because maybe Yaz is right. She has been a jerk, and maybe not for a good reason, and all she’s been doing is trying to avoid the problem, but she can’t. She can’t avoid her friends.
But she can’t even make herself tell her what’s wrong.
“I—” she tries again, then stops. Tears, shamefully, prickle the corners of her eyes. “I—”
“Doctor…” Yaz’s posture is still stiff, but she softens slightly, head tilting a little, eyes widening as she notices the exact thing the Doctor doesn’t want her to notice. “Are you okay? You know you can—”
“I know,” the Doctor says immediately, but the words are thick, and so is her tongue, like there’s cotton filling her mouth, and she knows then that she can’t say it. She can’t tell Yaz about her past. She can’t tell her what she’s searching for. It’s too hard, all of it, and pushed to the brink like this, apparently she doesn’t rise to the occasion. She just shuts down. “It’s just that—”
“Wait—it’s okay.” Yaz steps forward, hand out, but stops when the Doctor jerks back on embarrassed instinct. “Doctor, you can cry, you know.”
“I’m not crying,” the Doctor lies. It’s a bad lie, too—there’s a tear dribbling down her nose as she speaks. At least she’s not a messy crier. “I just—Yaz, you have to understand, I lo—”
But she can’t say that either. It’s hideously embarrassing, that she’s standing here crushed under the brink of all these emotions, but at the very least, Yaz isn’t laughing. There’s concern upon her face, and all her anger, perhaps unfairly so, has fallen away.
“You don’t have to tell me that,” Yaz says, and takes a tentative step forward. “You don’t have to tell me what I want to hear.”
“No, that’s not—” the Doctor protests, even as her throat closes up. She’s still, perhaps stupidly, trying. “Yaz, I—I care about you, okay? Can I just—can we leave it there? F-for now?”
An idiot. She’s an idiot, and selfish too. Spinning Yaz around and then refusing to answer her questions anyway. She wants to tell her that she’s trying, damn it, but she can’t even do that either. Yaz would be well within her rights to turn and march up those steps.
But she doesn’t, and that’s when the Doctor remembers that Yaz is perhaps too kind. She steps forward, one gentle hand coming up, and lays it very carefully on the Doctor’s shoulder. Light, but still firm enough to make a comforting weight. Just as the Doctor would want, though Yaz has never made such a gesture before.
“We can leave it there,” she says. She’s too kind. Too damn kind. “That’s okay with me. For now.”
The Doctor nods. Another tear escapes her eye and rolls down her cheek, and as she wipes it away with the heel of her hand, she becomes aware of an odd, slight lump beneath her foot.
She looks down as Yaz does, and catches her quiet laughter.
“So much for your custard cream,” she says, and the Doctor sniffs her laughter in agreement. “You’ve pretty much crushed it.”
“I have, yeah,” the Doctor admits, and removes her boot to reveal the crumbled remains. “‘Least we have the dispenser. There’s always more.”
“Yeah.” Yaz smiles crookedly, her eyes still upon the biscuit. Then she looks up at the Doctor, and her smile widens. It’s a little forced, but not in a bad way. Like she’s telling the Doctor that she’s going to do the thing the Doctor most wants, and ignore her horrifying breakdown. “You didn’t tell me how it works, though. Sort of curious.”
“I didn’t, did I?” The Doctor steps back, managing a smile of her own, watery though it may be, and bends shakily over the console. Her hands are trembling, but she ignores them, and politely, Yaz does too. “Here, let me show you. The TARDIS actually has the recipe stores—”
“Like the official recipe?”
“‘Course, just like they make at home. And—”
Yaz listens intently as she chatters on, her expression of interest growing ever more genuine, and after fifteen minutes of explanation, by which time she’s switched to explaining the genetic make-up of sentient biscuits, she’s almost forgotten she’d been crying. By thirty minutes in, Yaz is laughing, and it’s almost normal. The Division feels like a distant dream. The Flux might as well be on the opposite side of the universe. It’s just the two of them, and old times.
And there will be explanations, and extended ones. Apologies, plenty of those. An effort, even, to be more open and less angry, to talk like friends and not like shuttered coworkers. To be close, in a way Yaz actually wants, and not by way of the Doctor’s lousy guess.
But for now, there’s just biscuits and old friendship, and it’s enough to get them by.