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They’re running. The Doctor loves the running— sprinting away from disaster, hand-in-hand with a friend, excitement tinged with fear, everything happening all at once. The context doesn’t matter— sure, this time they’re running to the TARDIS, escaping assassins in the dead of night, horribly aware of each footfall, each breath , disrupting the empty silence, but it’s the same no matter what they’re running from. Aliens, tsunamis, killer robots, even Daleks: no matter how terrible the scenario, there’s always something brilliant about running away.
Finally, the Doctor can see the TARDIS in the distance, its lettering glowing pale yellow. And this is the best part of running: the relief in knowing safety is only a short way, knowing that in a moment, she’ll be lying on the floor of the TARDIS, exhilarated, catching her breath.
“Almost there, Rose!” she cries, and then immediately realizes her mistake. It isn’t Rose’s hand she’s holding— of course it isn’t. It hasn’t been Rose’s hand in hundreds of years. Maybe thousands.
She hopes Yaz hasn’t heard. Or maybe just won’t bring it up. There’s no time to talk about it now, not while they’re still being chased, not while they’re a few meters from the TARDIS. Not even when they crash through the TARDIS doors and land half on top of each other, laughing off the adrenaline. No, all of that is still survival mode, just the two of them trying to stay alive. No time for real conversations. Just a, “Really makes you wonder why we keep doing this,” from Yaz, and a, “I wouldn’t trade it for anything,” from the Doctor.
But the moment doesn’t last long. Their breathing returns to normal, and they begin picking themselves off the floor, and Yaz asks, “Did you call me something else, back there?”
The Doctor tries to laugh it off, but it comes out high pitched and tense. “Didn’t call you anything. What would I call you? Aside from Yaz, I mean, seeing as that’s your name.” She walks towards the console, focusing on one of the knobs. Does it look a little loose? Yeah, it does, doesn’t it.
But Yaz is right on her heels. “That’s funny,” she says, coming up next to the Doctor. “I could’ve sworn you called me Rose.”
The Doctor wants, so badly, to sidestep the question. That’s weird, she wants to say. Why would I have done that? It’s wrong to lie, especially to her friends, but the Doctor seems to be choosing the wrong thing over and over these days. One more won’t matter. But it’s a moot point, because the minute Yaz says Rose’s name, she freezes, her hand stiffening on the console, her head dropping down. And she knows what Yaz is going to say next.
“Who’s Rose?”
The Doctor steadies herself against the console with both hands, staring at the warm amber of the central column.
“Old friend,” she says. There’s a tear coming to her eye. This new body cries far too easily: sure, the Doctor can usually hold it back until she’s alone, but she shouldn’t have to. She shouldn’t hear the name of someone she knew hundreds of years ago and be on the brink of tears.
Even if that someone is Rose Tyler.
“Old friend,” Yaz repeats. She takes a deep breath, and the Doctor knows what’s coming now, too. She’s had this conversation over and over, throughout the years. She had it with Rose, way back in the day, and now she’s going to have it with Yaz. “Are we all the same to you?” Yaz's tone is sharp, and it does its job: the Doctor feels like she's been sliced through the middle.
“No!” she exclaims. She’s being too defensive, she knows she’s being too defensive, and she backs down. “No. You’re not the same.”
“Just similar enough to mix up our names,” Yaz says drily.
“No,” the Doctor repeats. She turns, meeting Yaz’s gaze. Yaz is staring at her with raised eyebrows and a fire in her eyes. “It’s not about how similar you are.”
Yaz’s eyebrows shoot up even further. “What’s it about, then?”
“It’s about—” the Doctor turns back to the console. She can’t have this conversation while making eye contact. “It’s about me.”
“Oh, of course it is,” Yaz says, and even though the Doctor isn’t looking, she knows Yaz is rolling her eyes. “It’s always about you, isn’t it?” She pauses, and for a moment the Doctor closes her eyes, trying to think how to respond. But then Yaz continues, “I know my lifespan is hardly anything to you, Doctor. But I’m not nothing.”
“You’re not,” the Doctor agrees, staring at the central column, keeping her eyes wide open to stop the tears from falling. “That’s the problem.” She pushes back from the console, pacing back and forth. Yaz’s wary eyes follow her as she goes. “It’s not that you’re nothing, Yaz. Doesn’t matter how long you live. Any amount of life is beautiful. When I mix up names— it doesn’t happen very often, Yaz. And when I say it’s about me, I mean it’s about how I feel .”
She stops, looking Yaz dead in the face. Yaz’s eyebrows are drawn together, and she’s looking at the Doctor with— the Doctor can’t quite place it. Surprise, maybe. Or confusion. Hopefully not hurt, but it’s more likely than the Doctor wants to admit. She takes a shaky breath and soldiers on.
“You are everything to me, Yasmin Khan.”
Yaz’s face softens, just a little.
“You could never be nothing,” the Doctor continues. “I promise you.” She takes a deep breath. “It’s just that— you’re not the first.” She sees Yaz’s face fall, and she rushes to explain. “I’ve lived such a long time, Yaz. Such a long time. You don’t live as long as I have without meeting a lot of different people. And once you’ve met all those different people, well, of course you’re going to get attached to some of them. And when your life is so long and their lives are so short—” The Doctor takes a deep breath. “You’re not going to know them for all that long, relatively speaking. And sometimes, when you get attached to someone new, it just reminds you of the people you’ve lost.”
The Doctor can see the moment it sinks in: Yaz’s expression opens, turns to something approaching pity, and she says, “That sounds awful,” her voice quiet.
“It is,” the Doctor says. “And it isn’t, because having new friends is brilliant. Caring about people is brilliant! Until you lose them.” She takes another breath. “Like I lost Rose.”
“She must have mattered a lot to you,” Yaz says.
The Doctor nods. And then she makes a fatal mistake: she blinks, and the tears start rolling down her face. She tries to ignore them, pushing her words out through the giant lump in her throat. “She did.” She swallows. “And so do you, Yaz. That’s what I’m trying to say. I just— got lost in the moment, back there. The assassins who were chasing us— one of them said something that reminded me of her, and so she was on my mind.” She pauses. “And I’m sorry.”
“I understand.” Yaz covers the Doctor’s hands with her own. Her hands are warm, the Doctor notices: she hadn’t realized her hands were all that cold, until Yaz started holding them. “I didn’t know— I mean, I didn’t realize I meant so much to you.”
The Doctor nods, still steadfastly ignoring the tears running down her cheeks. “You mean so much to me,” she says. “I know I’m rubbish at saying it. But I care loads about you, Yaz. And I always will. Doesn’t matter how long you stay with me.” She manages half a smile. “Cross my hearts.”
Yaz smiles back, a soft, tentative smile. “You are, too, you know.”
“What’s that?”
“Everything, to me.”
The Doctor tries not to let her fear take over. Everything . It’s quite a lot of responsibility, to be everything to someone.
But if that someone is Yaz, well… maybe it’s worth it.
And when the Doctor pulls Yaz into a hug, she knows: even though she lost Rose, even though she will someday lose Yaz, it’s worth it to get to love so very deeply.