#doctor who crossover fics

[libraryofgage]

A Hop, a Skip, and a TARDIS Jump

Part of: Steve Deserves Good Parents, Actually Debbie and Fester Addams One | Two Rick and Evelyn O'Connell One | Two (on the way!) Harley Quinn One 10th Doctor and Rose One (you're here!) Scooby Gang (there are plans for this one lmao, so plz be patient with me orz)

I know it says 10Rose up there, but this series starts with 9Rose, because 9 is also special blorbo in my heart hfjdks Christopher Eccleston didn't have to put his whole chest into the role but he did and I love that for him

Anyway, have fun with this one! We're getting time travel shenanigans coming up (and angst, def some angst, but it'll end sweet I promise), and a little meme at the end

As always, if you see any typos, no you didn't :)

Satellite Five 200,000

Running into the woman was an accident created by the chaos of something changing on Satellite Five. Steve doesn't know what that is, exactly, but he can feel it in the air, in the way the humans around him have started rushing, in how the food stands have suddenly ground to a halt. And he comes to a halt with them, his hearts speeding up in his chest as the frenzy reminds him of another time, another planet, another chaotic scene that ended with him being launched across time and space while his home died.

When he finally gathers his wits enough to move, he turns right into a woman's leg, bumping his nose hard against her and falling to the ground with a startled cry. He holds his nose, the bridge smarting and causing his eyes to water as he looks up at a pretty young blonde woman who immediately crouches in front of him.

"Sorry about that. You all right?" she asks, her hands hovering in the air like she wants to check him for injuries but doesn't want to make him uncomfortable.

The funny thing is, Steve has seen this woman before. He saw her earlier in the day, getting into the elevator with a journalist and a man, and he assumed he'd never see her again. Nobody who got in the elevator came back. He's so overwhelmed by the shock of seeing her again that he almost misses the familiar aura around her, the lingering traces of golden space dust and passing time.

Almost.

He stares at her with wide eyes, his tears actually falling now, and then throws himself into her arms. "What took so long?!" he cries, clinging to her shirt like he'll be thrown across time and space one more time if he lets go.

"Woah, hey now, no need for crying," she says, utterly confused but gently smoothing down his hair anyway. "What's wrong?"

After taking a few moments to calm down, Steve starts to answer when he realizes something. The woman only has one heart. He can only hear one set of beats in her chest. He jerks away, his hands trembling as he stares at her. She's still covered in that familiar aura, practically swimming in it, but she's not like him.

It hurts. Steve can feel the bitter cold of disappointment replacing the hope that had started to grow between his hearts. He thought...he thought he'd get to be with someone like him again. Maybe not his original family---they're dead, long gone, and Steve is never getting them back---but a new one that wouldn't let him feel quite so alone anymore.

Maybe she was just injured. That would explain it well enough.

"Where....where's your second heart?" he asks, his voice small as he grips the hem of his shirt to steady himself. "Y-you...why do you--"

Before Steve can get the rest of the question, a man in a leather jacket, looking slightly annoyed as he checks his pockets, appears next to the woman. "Right then. C'mon, Rose, we got dead weight to drop off," he says, his tone hard.

The woman, Rose, looks up at him. "Hold on a minute, Doctor," she says, "we've got to help him find his parents first."

Steve opens his mouth, wanting to say that won't be possible, as he looks up at the man. Their eyes meet, and the words get stuck in his throat. If Rose carried lingering space dust and passing time, this man is made of it. Steve can see the gold around him, swirling and calling, singing in a way he'd forgotten about. Even the name is familiar---not that Steve knows this particular Time Lord, of course, but he knows the conventions and traditions.

"I'm afraid that'll be impossible, Rose," the Doctor says, his voice softer and full of disbelief as he crouches next to her on the ground.

"What? How do you know?"

The Doctor doesn't answer her. He just holds a hand out to Steve, waiting patiently. When Steve takes it, the world finally rights itself. He can feel the blood pumping through the Doctor's veins, fast and powerful in a way only two hearts can manage. He can practically taste time and space coating his tongue as he steps closer. When Steve places his hand on the left side of the man's chest, feeling the beating of one heart before sliding his hand over to feel the other, he cries even harder than before.

And the Doctor cries, too.

It's not a loud crying, but he pulls Steve into his arms and holds him with the same desperation and fear that he'll disappear if he loosens his grip that Steve felt when he hugged Rose. "I thought...I thought I was the only one left," the Doctor says, moving his hand to cradle the back of Steve's head.

"Doctor, what's going on here?" Rose asks.

Steve peeks out at her, and then he's lifted into the air, still held in the Doctor's arms. His jacket smells like the past and future, a soothing scent that gets Steve to relax like he hasn't in a long time. "Long story short," the Doctor says, his voice still rough from crying but recovering, "you somehow bumped into the only Time Lord child in existence." A few moments pass before he speaks again, the smile and awe clear in his voice as he says, "You're just fantastic, Rose. Fantastic."

Despite his best efforts, Steve can't keep his eyes open long enough to see how she reacts or what the Doctor does next. The exhaustion of fending for himself and pushing away the despair of losing everything sweeps over him. This could all be a dream, and the Doctor might be a figment of his imagination that disappears when he wakes up, but Steve lets himself dream for now.

--------

Hawkins, Indiana, 1971

"Okay, Steve, go ahead."

Steve glances up at his father, shifts his gaze to his mother, and then approaches the console. He reaches up and starts turning a dial, ignoring his mother's excited noise and his father's interested hum. Once he's turned it enough, he walks around the console and pulls a lever, flips a switch, and yanks another dial two notches to the right. Then, when he's sure his parents can't hear him, he leans in close and whispers, "Take me wherever you'd like me to be, TARDIS."

He feels something warm and happy surge under his fingers where he's holding the console. Not a second later, the familiar whooshing sound of the TARDIS fills the room, and Steve hang on for dear life as his father shouts, "Fantastic! Where do you think we'll land, Rose?"

"Somewhere child-friendly, hopefully," his mother replies, grabbing his father's arm and holding on for dear life.

Steve grins, his hearts beating fast and hard behind his ribs as the TARDIS slowly comes to a stop, its engine quieting to a gentle whirring as it parks. "Go on then," his father says, appearing behind Steve and nudging him to the doors. "See where you've brought us."

With his breath stuck in his throat, Steve slowly pulls the left door open. Sunlight streams into the TARDIS along with the delighted shrieks of other children and a warm wind that can only mean summer. Steve blinks, staring at the playground a few feet away.

"Oh," his father says, his tone duller than before, "seems boring."

This statement is followed by both the TARDIS making an offended noise and Steve's mother smacking his father in the chest. "Don't be rude! Boring is safe, which is good for Steve's first drive."

"Can...can I go play?" Steve asks, his voice soft as he feels a sudden longing sweeping through him. He hasn't played with people his age after leaving Gallifrey. In fact, he hasn't been around them. On Satellite Five, Steve didn't see other children. They were cared for on a different floor, and he never risked getting into the elevator.

Since leaving Satellite Five (since finding another Time Lord and basking in the TARDIS and crying together when Steve accidentally called the Doctor "Dad" and Rose "Mom"), Steve has been surrounded by Daleks and nanogenes and older humans and every alien under the sun, but he's never been around children.

The thought is exhilarating and terrifying and alluring all at once.

"Of course, Steve," his mother says, placing her hand on his head and brushing a few stray hairs from his face. "You go play, and we'll call you back in a few hours for some ice cream, yeah?"

Steve grins and nods eagerly, throwing a quick goodbye to his parents before running out of the TARDIS. He dashes across the street, coming to the edge of the playground before stopping. The grass turns into tiny rocks and pebbles beneath slides and swings and monkey bars and a merry-go-round. And kids. More kids than Steve really knows what to do with, which gives him an unfamiliar feeling of anxiety that makes him wipe his palms on his shirt.

"Hey, why are you just standing there?"

The question is asked by another boy Steve's age. His hair is a little frizzy and curls around his ears, and he's got band-aids covering his arms and stretching across the bridge of his nose. He's standing to Steve's left, holding a red rubber ball and ignoring the other kids around them.

"I've...never been here before," Steve says, meaning that he's never been in this situation.

The boy doesn't understand that, though. But when he says, "Oh, so you're new around here," Steve doesn't disagree. "Well, nice to meetcha. I'm Eddie."

He shifts to hold the ball against his chest with one arm and holds out his other hand. Taking it and shaking once, Steve introduces himself and asks, "Can we be friends?"

Eddie's eyes brighten, and he nods. "Yeah! Let's be bestest friends. Can I call you Stevie? Mom says you can give nicknames to friends."

"Sure! So, uh, what do we do now?"

Eddie pauses, looking at the playground with a slight frown. "We could play games," he says slowly.

"Oh! How about Weeping Angel?"

"What's that?"

Steve thinks for a moment. "Weeping Angels are these statues that move when you don't look at them. In the game, someone will face away, and the other person will start sneaking up on them. If the first person turns, the second has to freeze in place. If the first person sees them move, they lose. If the second person reaches the first and touches them, they win."

"It sounds like Rad Light, Green Light," Eddie says, tilting his head slightly. "But, sure! Let's play it."

Steve smiles brightly and follows Eddie to a clear patch of playground. "I'll be the Angel in this round," he offers, waiting for Eddie to agree before walking a few feet away. "Let me know when you're ready!"

Eddie turns around, still holding the rubber ball, and glances over his shoulder. He stares at Steve for a few seconds before looking away and saying, "Ready!"

As lightly as he can, Steve takes a few steps forward, doing his best to make no sounds like the Weeping Angels he's seen before. When he notices Eddie moving, he freezes, quickly placing his hands over his eyes but leaving enough room to peek between his fingers.

When Eddie turns, he's frozen in a classic Weeping Angel pose. Eddie studies him for a few seconds, eyes narrowed before slowly turning around again. Steve exhales softly, and the game continues.

Steve wins exactly three times, Eddie wins twice, and there's one round in which they both dissolve into laughter because of the position Steve freezes in, so they don't count it. When Eddie gets bored of playing, he introduces Steve to foursquare, which is why he has the rubber ball. When he gets bored of that he drags Steve around the playground, introducing him to each piece of equipment with pride.

By the time the sun has started to dip low on the horizon, Steve is sweaty and dirty and happier than he's ever felt as he hides under the slide with Eddie. They're pressed close together, sharing a popsicle Eddie's mother had given them, purple juice making their hands sticky.

"You're really cool, Stevie," Eddie suddenly says, his lips and tongue purple as he offers the last bit of popsicle to Steve.

After taking it and letting the cold ice melt on his tongue, Steve asks, "Hey, do bestest friends keep secrets that only they know?"

"Of course! Nothing is stronger than a bestest friend secret."

"But you gotta promise not to tell anyone. Not even your mom."

Eddie seems to realize this is serious now, and he straightens up a bit. "I won't," he promises, "cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye."

That seems a bit extreme to Steve, but what does he know of human customs? He leans in close, his mouth almost pressing against Eddie's ear, and whispers, "I'm an alien."

He pulls away in time to see Eddie's disbelieving look. "What? You look human. No way you're an alien."

"I am!" Steve says. "How many hearts have you got?"

"One. Duh."

"I've got two."

Eddie snorts. "Yeah. Right. Nobody has two hearts."

"Here, you can feel them," Steve says before grabbing Eddie's hand and placing it over the left side of his chest. He waits a few seconds, making sure Eddie can feel that heart, before sliding his hand to the right side. He watches Eddie's face turn bright red, and Steve figures it's from excitement or shock at realizing Steve is, in fact, an alien.

Before Eddie can say anything, Steve hears his mother calling, "Steve! It's time to go!"

He pouts, letting go of Eddie's hand. "Aw, man," he mumbles, crawling out from beneath the slide. Eddie scrambles after him, his cheeks still flushed and his eyes wide. "I gotta go now, but I'll see you again soon, Eddie."

"Yeah, soon," Eddie mumbles, seeming dazed until he shakes his head. "Your, um, secret is safe with me, Stevie."

Steve blinks and flashes a blinding smile. "Of course it is," he says, "You're my bestest friend."

With that, he hugs Eddie and then runs to his mother, brimming with excitement at getting to tell her all about the park and Eddie.

------

If you'd like to be tagged for this series, let me know!

And, finally, a meme for your viewing pleasure:

[ghost-bison]

Some of my favourite Doctor Who fanfiction (mostly One Shots)

Drawing Nearer by Geat (Ninth Doctor/reader, Ninth Doctor & reader) on AO3

This author understands the beauty of Nine like no one else does. Like fuck. Wow. If you want something immersive and soft and beautiful this is the one. Actually, even if you don't, this is the one. You need it in your life believe me. And! If you're into the Tenth Doctor instead, or just want more of the amazing stuff after you finish the first one, there's a sequel to it, Like One of My French Girls?, which explores the same prompt (reader drawing a portrait of the Doctor) with a freshly regenerated Tenth Doctor. Which is really clever and witty so you should read it as well.

Immolation by songofdefiance (Donna Noble & Twelfth Doctor, feat. Bill Potts) on AO3

This one is what would happen if the writers were geniuses. It's a whole episode and holy shit it doesn't matter who your favorite characters are: it's for everyone. It's so smart I felt like an idiot reading it. (and yes the 1k words comment on there is me lmao don't judge me I was just very enthusiastic)

Children of the Time War series by illyriashade56 (Donna Noble & Tenth Doctor) on AO3

There's a reason I've read so many fics from this author. Had trouble picking a favorite, and still can't, but this one deserves whatever publicity I can give it. It's got it all. Holy crap. Hurt/Comfort, nice Donna whump, amazing descriptions, solid plot, and you know what's good? Once you're done reading this one, you can check her account and read another one cause they're all so good. I haven't read part three yet cause I'm keeping it for a perfect night (do y'all do this as well or is it just me? anyways lol, some fanfics are just so good that I need to shower, change my bed sheets, make a playlist and clean my room before reading them) (also the author is nice and I'm referring you to her account if you want to check more of her stuff: @illyriashade56)

Run (To A New Beginning) by Topaz_Eyes (Donna Noble/Tenth Doctor) on AO3

Just like the previous one, I had trouble picking just one from this author. The sex scenes dont seem to exist just out of horniness, they're really, really good, funny, witty and moving in a way I can't explain. The author has a way with words, it feels like you're in the story (so if you're horny for Donna Noble this is the one for you). And if you don't like explicit scenes, still check out the author, they've got some other amazing stuff! Like a bittersweet, sort of fix-it for Donna's ending (Journey's End).

The Awesome and Entirely True Tale of the Doctor's New Companion by TheBigCat (Donna Noble/Ninth Doctor) on AO3

Honestly this one slaps on all aspects and that's all I have to say. You need to read it. And when you have, you need to read it again.

Stress Fracture by Youth_of_Australia (Donna Noble & Twelfth Doctor) on AO3

I wasn't expecting to love this one so much when I clicked on it. The author specifically says they don't like Twelve and that's their bitter take on him. So you'd expect it to be Twelve slander, but actually, and I'm saying that as a big Twelve fan... it's surprisingly accurate. It's a mature, well-thought take, in the point of view of Donna, it bathes in the remains of TenDonna's friendship in bittersweet ways and it's beautiful and sad and nostalgic.

The Greeting-Card Aisle by twelvedimensional (Donna Noble & Ninth Doctor) on AO3

Pissed myself reading this one (all three times), cause it's so real. This author knows what they're doing. Take Nine and Donna, put them in a room together and that's certainly what's gonna happen. And believe me, the result is side-splitting.

Constructive Criticism by goldenrod (Donna Noble/Ninth Doctor) on AO3

A very sexy take on Donna and Nine as traveling companions. Nine only has eyes for Donna and her boobies (as he should). Oh, and it's sassy and hilarious.

Creature Fear by goodbye2pisces (Donna Noble/Tenth Doctor, Donna Noble & Tenth Doctor) on AO3

This one could very well be canon. I need it as an audio book. It's cute, funny, there's a bit of Donna/Ten whump, it can be read as platonic or romantic, and it has the most adorable little epilogue.

Think Outside the Box by TheAsexualofSpades (Tenth Doctor & kid!reader) on AO3

Basically if you love Ten but don't wanna fuck him, if you had a rough day and no one's around for a hug, if you grew up with emotionally distant parents, or if you simply need to have a good crybaby moment, this one's for you.

I'm On Fire by TheDarkMaterial (Donna Noble/River Song, Donna Noble & River Song) on AO3

Just like the last one, this one's kinda like a warm blanket. It's short, it's healing, it might make you cry nice little tears... also idc it's canon to me.

Appetites by EllyF (Donna Noble & Tenth Doctor) on whofic.com

This one is hard to read because it's very graphic on the Ten whump, but... it's fucking worth it. Trust. Me. Jfc. It's Hurt/Comfort so don't worry for yourself, but the angst is real, the gore is terrific, there are some horrible comparisons in there that will absolutely draw some tears, and the frustration will be real, but when you're done with it, you'll be like Wow. Wtf did I just read.

Only Human by Louiecat68 (Donna Noble/Tenth Doctor) on whofic.com

If you're looking for Donna whump, search no more: this is the place. This one's pretty graphic, pretty horrible, Donna's going through it in all possible ways and you'll want to wrap her in a blanket, feed her burgers and hot chocolate and burn the world down around her. Quite literally.

The Doctor is In by crystanagahori (Martha Jones & Tenth Doctor, Martha Jones & Donna Noble, Donna Noble/Tenth Doctor) on AO3

This one's funny and so sweet and you have no trouble reading it in the characters' voices cause it's faithful to all three of them. I don't read Martha fics usually, I only clicked cause I saw TenDonna, but even if you're like me, you'll have no problem reading it even when it focuses on Martha's life, believe me. The vibe's just immaculate.

Your Eyes Aren't Rivers by ClementineCrane & Multifandomfuckfest (Donna Noble/Tenth Doctor) on AO3

Another one where the vibe's immaculate! Basically one of the things that made me want to write a Doctor Who High School AU of my own. Ten and Donna are absolutely adorable in this.

I'm tagging some people who'd probably be interested in one/some of those:

@bobcatblahs

@madhatter0309

@doctordonnasstuff

@brisingr-sword

@peggysbundy

@doctor-donnaa

@daze-stole-ur-milk

@obsessedanddepressed

@doctordonna-protection-squad

@jellojellyroll

@basmathgirl

@illyriashade56

@ichangemyusertoomuch

@tatennant

@paradox-n-bedrock

@cdyssey

@love-in-the-time

@davidtennan-t

@rushinintolove

@whatsfourteenupto

@nat-20s

@thegingergoddess

@odakota-rose

If some of you read/have read one or several of those and wanna interact feel free to dm me :)

[arting-block]

𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝 (𝟐) | Eleventh Doctor x MCU!Sorcerer Reader

❝𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵—𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩—𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥?❞

Summary: Recovery and revelations.

Genre: Romance, AU/Crossover

Warnings: Mentions of anxiety, PTSD, graphic depictions of violence, mentions of killing, comfort

Words: 26.2K (yes you heard that correctly)

Reader: POC friendly, she/her, 24 y/o.

A/N: i wrote 6 whole drafts of this god-forsaken chapter all of which included more backstory and angst. trust me, this was going to be over 50k but i didn't think tumblr could handle allat.

previous chapter |

[KAMPOT, CAMBODIA  24 YEARS AGO]

The humid air from outside still somehow seeped into the old hut of the village shaman. Dark, moody clouds could still be seen over the night sky. A small abode tucked away from the main roads, separated on all sides by thick foliage and dense forest. 

Therula hated using Eldritch Magic more than anything, but cannot deny the ease of the sling-ring. Cracks of azure light cut through the air in front of the hut. Warmth from the (L/N) estate and its lavish tapestry halted, turning to centuries-old wood and tropical breeze. The door to the hut, covered in red talisman and chicken feet, was left ajar. Yellow candle light came through the crack of the door frame, enticing the young woman inside.  

Bright yellow walls and intricate drawings cover the old shaman’s home. Ink sketches of human bones against mandalas; the hollow sockets where eyes were supposed to be staring back. On the ceiling there was an intricate projection of the night sky. Nebula, stars, and planets floating against the inky black of space, much like the one Therula conjured in her own home. 

It smelled of incense and peppers. A horrid combination that made Therula (L/N) physically ill. Even without the pregnancy hormones, she would still gag at the sharp smell of the home. Silks adorning Therula clung to her clammy skin. Its ornate pattern, coupled with hand-woven lace seemed odd in the humble environment. 

Anxiety crept in her bones slowly. As if to draw out her unease for as long as possible. A dull cramp settled in her gut, making her seeming calmness falter. Therula placed a laced hand above her stomach, exhaling softly to get her mind under control. 

This is for her own good.

A new mantra she often found herself saying. It keeps her focused, reminding herself that sacrifices are worth it. 

Months of sleepless nights are finally catching up to her. No matter how much concealer or color corrector she puts on, there’s still the gaunt look under her eyes. Her skin is losing its usual luster, and her fidgeting increased tenfold. Very improper indeed, but she gave up trying long ago. 

With anxiety came the sudden rise in heat. Therula felt her chest, neck, and face starting to flush. Inch by inch, crawling up her skin until sweat collects at the base of her head. She couldn’t help but mutter a soft prayer, hoping a call to her patron will give her strength, “Planet of oceans and ice, I ask to strengthen my veins with your power.”

She spoke in an ancient tongue, one that no book held record of. A language passed down from mother to child, only spoken within family. 

On cue, the familiar chill of her magic materialized. It took root in her heart and quickly overtook her body. It wasn’t enough to send her teeth chattering, but enough to calm her. Above all, it was a testament of Therula’s bond to her planet. A sign that they were there for her, aiding her through this difficult time. 

Whilst Therula was acclimating, she failed to notice the shaman materialize behind her. She didn't feel the air shift or the feeling of magic crackle through the air. A sign of the old shaman’s abilities than the lack of awareness on Therula.

“Back so soon? And without your husband, no less,” a snide voice said from behind Therula.

Therula whipped around, placing a hand over her startled heart. She silently cursed herself for letting her guard down. 

The shaman is a raggard woman with a hunched posture and a perpetually hoarse voice. Her tan skin was wrinkled heavily, but still had some residual roundness of her youth. The whole of her chest is covered with amulets and thick, circular clusters of peppers which Therula believes contributes to her posture. Bright primary fabrics construct the robe she adorns. 

A stubborn woman and old enough to have seen Pluto’s full orbit thrice. Her bony hands are covered in dainty tattoos and the tips of her fingers are dyed bright red. The old shaman regards Therula with a piercing gaze and her wrinkled lips into an even thinner line.

Therula had only met the old woman once before. Months ago, when she was barely showing her pregnancy. Therula had come with her husband then, seeking arcane advice for something barbaric. Enestor wasn’t keen on seeing a traditionalist, especially if it concerns his wife and unborn daughter, but he knew how much it meant for Therula. 

At that time, the shaman pushed back at Therula’s request. Too risky, especially when the subject has yet to breathe air. 

Now, as her due date grew nearer, Therula acquired new information regarding her family history—around the curse plaguing her unborn daughter. 

Therula rolls her shoulders back, holding her head high, “He doesn’t understand the situation we are in.”

The shaman shuffles closer, the amulets clanging softly against one another. Peppers along her neck are still sharp with capsaicin, making Therula’s nose scrunch. The shaman’s gaze zeroes in on her large stomach. Beneath the extravagant dress and expensive lace, the shaman could feel the pulsing heartbeat of an unborn child. 

A grunt came from the shaman, “You make decision without husband? Something that will not be reversed?”

The same warning, the same displeased look. 

Something in Therula hardens under the gaze, hardening her voice as much as she could, “He’s not part of my practice. This is a matter that concerns me, no one else.” Her tone is final despite the obvious waver. Her hands stuck along the sides of her swollen stomach, both soothing the baby and her own nerves. 

The shaman’s smile is smug, almost proud. She wags a red dyed finger at Therula, “You are bold, I’ll give you that. Many people come to my hut asking for power. None have asked to take it away.”

A warning. Something irreversible that cannot and would not be undone. 

“Will you do it?” Therula asked, her nerves starting to get the better of her. The calm, collected façade chipping away. 

The shaman huffs, “You ask for impossible, I give you impossible. Although I advised against this, it is clear you are stubborn.”

The old crone beckons Therula to the other side of the room. Wood beneath their feet creak and groan under their weight. The small room only takes a few strides to cross. On the other side, a dark wooden door with a large magical seal painted in red. The brushstrokes are precise and delicate, but it looked more haunting than beautiful. As Therula approached closer, she could make out the grooves of a fingerprint along the paint strokes. The sound of keys clanging made Therula watch the old woman shuffle through her belt. 

Keys, small knives, and talisman were bunched up on a single loop of her belt. The shadows swallowed any definition, making it seem like one big mass. It was hard to tell which key started and the talisman ended. 

A few seconds of shuffling until Therula heard the click of the keyring. An old brass key was finally found. Carved by a dark metal with small flourishes. 

It seemed heavy by the looks of it. The shaman’s shaky hands lodged the key into the lock, twisting it with some strain. The door creaked open as the gears of the lock shifted. Therula could see clusters of lit candles of different colors in every corner of the room. Despite the numerous candles, it was much dimmer than the room previously. Ends of the walls were a dark, inky black with no discernible corners.  

Light from the candles gave a blue hue to the contours of their faces. The smell of incense wafted away to a damp, moldy smell. 

Shelves filled with exotic herbs and more peppers sat along the wall. Glowing bottles next to wet specimens. Even a few shrunken heads dangled in the dark corners. All of which were nothing surprising to Therula. An old crone of her caliber is expected to adhere to traditions, no matter how unsavory. 

In the middle of the room was a giant magic seal. Old Khmer script along its edges along with complicated geometric patterns in the same red paint as on the door. Therula found herself transfixed by the seal. It was a dying art in the magical world. With newer mages seeking Eldritch Magic, there was no need for manually hand-drawing seals. Here, in the small hut in Kampot, a piece of this tradition is marked in stone. 

In the dim lighting of the room, the red seemed dark and muddy. Almost like…

Something uneasy was felt in her gut. Therula took a deep breath, caressing her abdomen. The door creaked shut with the sound of a metal lock clicking, making the poor mother jump. The shaman snickers, no doubt trying to make Therula on edge. 

“I fail to understand why you come here. Plenty of other strong, young mages to do your bidding,” the shaman grunts, pouring glowing liquids and peppers into a wooden bowl. Her bony fingers found a stone pestle to grind the ingredients together, “Not that I mind. Rare to see such esteemed witch from powerful family come to old shaman. Many good elders from your clan to take care of your problem. Those who know this curse better than I.”

Therula shifts her weight, feeling a dull ache in her knees, “You’re the only celestial witch old enough to pull this off. Even the most promising witches and warlocks from my clan only have a planet to call upon. Rumor has it that you have a star. A large one at that.”

A planet for guidance is a feat in itself. Talented mages had taken decades of their lives trying to build a connection. Complete devotion wields pure energy to siphon off of. Planets, with their rich mythology and monstrous size, give unparalleled power to their mage. 

But a planet would only take you so far. 

The shaman smiles at the praise, “You need power to match the curse, yes? One that is old and of equal value.” She brings the wooden bowl to Therula, who hesitantly accepts. 

Fluorescent blue liquid sloshes inside the bowl. The sharp sting of peppers hits Therula, forcing her to aggressively blink away tears. The shaman once again took another look at the mother’s stomach. There was no doubt that the unborn child had the gift. A strong current of magic swirling in around the womb despite the soul not taking hold yet. 

A strong vessel, perfect for a powerful witch. 

“I wonder what your ancestors did to warrant such a nasty curse,” the shaman mutters, still loud enough for Therula to hear, “No doubt the caster pulled divine intervention. Your family is protected by the nine planets, yes? But that’s not good enough. Not pure enough.”

Curses, especially ones involving the soul, are notoriously difficult to break. The older the curse, the more it festers and grows. With time comes the destruction of knowledge, including customs and language. Sooner or later there would be no one alive, nor any record preserved, to break the curse. 

The old shaman was born centuries before, older than some of the elders in Therula’s clan. Her magic was cultivated during a time where magic was still abundant in the public mind. A celestial witch with a star as her patron. Pure energy, older than the curse festering in Therula’s child. Energy that is easy to bend and manipulate, especially when it comes to magical seals. 

Therula huffed, a bead of sweat dripping down her temple, “It has to be done. Trust me, I weighed any other possibilities.”

There wasn’t any other choice. Not one that could save both mother and child. 

“Each year fewer of us are being born. Not to mention the sickness that's spreading,” the crone says, still eyeing her stomach, “I’m sure you’re aware of the potential of your daughter—.”

“Potential means nothing when her life is at stake,” Therula snaps, her eyes burning despite placing the bowl away from her face, “Powers or not, she’s my baby. If there’s a chance to give her a better life, then I’m willing to take it.”

Months of stress pouring through each word; no mistaking the raw edge of desperation.  

The shaman’s lips pressed to a thin line, but said nothing. It was clear that Therula was going through with her plan one way or another, even if it meant going to a lesser mage to get the job done. At the very least the old woman could provide a safe, stable spell that won’t harm either the mother or the fetus. 

The shaman reaches within the deep sleeves in her robe, pulling out a small decorative dagger. It was gold, matching the amulets on her chest, and encrusted with blood-red rubies and rich emerald. The blade gleams despite the low lighting, curving down to a sharp point.  

“I need to ensure the seal will last. Blood from me—” the shaman wastes no time slicing her palm. The thin skin broke through, and her darkened blood dripped into the bowl in Therula’s hand. The shaman took the bowl and flipped the handle of the knife to Therula, “ —blood from you. Power from two witches, and their patrons, are better than one.”

Therula’s heart hammered in her chest, but her hand grasped the ornate handle with no hesitation. A slight burn emanated from her hand where the deep cut was made. She clenched her hand, watching the blood pool out of her fingers and into the glowing bowl. Fluorescent liquid bubbled upon contact. 

“You drink this the moment you go into labor.” The shaman decants the liquid into a clear jar. “The soul of your daughter will start to enter her body. This elixir will enter her bloodstream and create a barrier around her spirit. Once child is born, she will be cut off from magic. The older she grows, the stronger the seal. Her soul will attach itself to barrier and create unbreakable bond.”

Therula takes the glowing jar. It’s easily a cup of liquid and no doubt will taste like copper and spice. Her hands tightened their hold. Early victory could easily sour as there were still five weeks left in her pregnancy. Nothing is for certain until the time of her labor. Even then, Therula would still worry and fret over her child. 

“How strong? Nothing is unbreakable, you of all people should know that,” Therula bites.

The small kernel of hope did nothing to mask the skepticism. After many months of mental torture, it seemed too good to be true. 

The shaman smirks, all knowing with her centuries of power, “Not even a star could undo it.”

— — —

[PRESENT]

Sound is a distraction. It dulls your brain and nullifies your other senses. Silence, in the absence of numbing noises, makes the air coil around you. Your body becomes aware of forces beyond your control. 

It wasn't crippling, but always there. 

Vibrations of energy flowing inside your skull, through your bones. It fills space between your atoms, making your body denser. It’s been the background of your existence for so long, that a part of you feels empty. It feels…

Lighter. You feel lighter. 

The Doctor left the room to retrieve his companions: Amy and Rory Pond. Husband and wife who he swept away from their ordinary lives back on Earth. Rather, they became husband and wife during his time with them. Not too long ago, but he seemed unsure. His eyes are always going about from one side to the next. The Doctor then remembered why he went off on a tangent, saying it would only take a few minutes. 

“Get comfortable. Don’t exert yourself.”

It’s been a few minutes. You shuffled back to the meager cot against the far corner of the room. Each step sends an ache in every fiber and joint in your body. 

It’s unnerving. The quiet of the air. No overbearing weight on your chest. There’s space between your thoughts and air into your lungs. 

It’s a new feeling, too new to be comfortable with. 

Sitting on the edge of your bed you let the seconds tick by, hoping to gather your bearings, think things over before the Doctor and his companions arrive. 

Your hands drag against the edge of your wrappings. Numb, damaged fingers find the frayed threads to slowly unravel. Scratching would hurt, so you quell the urge to scrape your nails on your palms. Keeping your fingers occupied so that you can fuel your nervous tick. A habit you couldn’t shake off and one that your mother always disapproved of.

Scattered thoughts pass through your mind. 

Flashes of color. The familiar burn of your magic. The rush of adrenaline—

Your throat closes. You need to keep calm. Focus on the now, figure a way out…

Silence bites your mind. It makes your feelings more apparent and it frightens you. 

You don't know the next step. You always know—should always know. 

A Master of the Mystic Arts, always a step ahead of everyone else. Commander of spells with experience that came with being an apprentice for six years. You had a big role to fill the moment the Ancient One anointed you as her apprentice and you met her expectations step by step. 

You were powerful. Surrounded by heroes and supportive friends alike. 

You were on top of the world. Power imbued in the fibers of your body. All the knowledge the universe had to offer at the tips of your fingers.

So why did you wish to leave? 

Being stuck in space wasn’t the issue. Being stuck in a universe with no discernable way out isn’t what’s plaguing you. 

Why did you leave? Why did your only thought—your dying wish—was to leave the world behind?

You were supposed to be a brave soldier, fighting for the universe itself. You never caved, never wavered in the battlefield. When the blood spills from your teeth or bones break beneath your skin, you always get back up. 

You swore an oath, bound by blood, to serve humanity and in return was bestowed the highest honor a sorcerer can have. 

And yet…you’d wish to give everything up. To leave your family, Peter, the Avengers—even Stephen and Wong. In your dying moments you acted on selfishness. 

The guilt causing tension in your body wasn’t from failing to keep Wanda and Vision safe…

It was because you chose your own life above all others. Above your friends; above the billions of others who no doubt deserved it more than you. 

The only surefire way to get back is if someone opens a portal and brings you to them. There’s too many variables, too many worlds to slip into. Traversing through the multiverse is like gliding through hot syrup and pure madness. No one in their right mind would suffer the cost just for a ghost. 

There’s no guarantee that even if you manage to survive another trek without magical protection that you could sift through and find your universe. The equivalent of finding a needle in a larger, near infinite pile of identical needles. 

You’re stuck. 

Thump, thump, thump. 

Voices and footsteps echo outside. Growing louder, getting closer.

Your body stiffens, your ears trying to pick up their conversation. Closer and closer they come. You shake away any stray thoughts, focusing on the present.  

Their voices sound clearer. Accents, different from the Doctor’s. Male and female, young, agitated. Arguing about something. They're too far away for you to make heads or tails of their conversation. Their voices come fast, fluctuating between stuttering exasperation (the Doctor most likely) to scathing retorts (Amy, judging from the higher pitch) and a deep groan that oozes annoyance (Rory, process of elimination). 

Voices and footsteps grow louder as the seconds tick by. Jumbled noises smooth into intelligible words. Not enough to piece together their conversation, but enough to know that they were a few paces away. 

Whisper-shouting and rustling of clothing stops the moment they reach your door. 

The ornate brass door knob rattles against the steel door. Side to side, as if it’s stuck. The door creaks open, the voices hushed the moment you see three figures standing outside.

Red hair, plaid shirt with worn jeans, and curious eyes peek through the door frame first. A beautiful woman, with a round face and even rounder eyes. She steps into the space with an air of caution, but there’s no mistaking the piqued curiosity. 

A tall man with sleepy eyes and spiky blond hair follows behind her. He wears a comfy, soft sweatshirt and a pair of dark, crisp denim. He doesn’t appear fearful, but doesn’t look too happy to be here. You notice the squared shoulders and measured steps, reminiscent of those in the military. 

The Doctor comes in last with a mind swarming with unfinished thoughts. His hands sweep around his jacket, trying to fix his appearance before stepping beside the blond man. The tension from your conversation seemed to dissipate, leaving a rather aloof expression on his face.  

The woman—Amy, you assume—stares at you, unblinking as if to not miss any movement. Her husband with cool regard, but has a protective arm around her shoulder. Their eyes take in every bruise and discolored skin, waiting for the Doctor to speak up. 

You can’t help but observe them too. They stood far enough that you could take in the tops of their head and all the way down to the worn converses they both had. Human, but something tells you they’re a bit more than that. 

Everything about her and her husband seemed so…ordinary. Civilians with catalog clothes and that tentative look on their face. If you didn’t know any better, you’d assume they would be another faceless civilian out on the streets of whatever city you’re stopping in. The three of them stand in opposition to you. Each with their own perception of you, ranging between caged animal to war-stricken soldier. Pity, confused, and sad. It’s almost suffocating. Beneath the hesitance was an undeniable feeling of sorrow. As if seeing you was a tragedy. 

You don’t like it. Despise it, even. It seems that in every corner, in every face you see, there was an underlying sadness for you. It seems the lingering stares follow you outside of the multiverse and into the green eyes of Amy and the steel blue of Rory. 

The Doctor doesn’t seem to notice his companions’ less-than-enthusiastic mood. He stands beside you, bending slightly to get to your eye level. “These two lovely chaps are my companions: Amy and Rory Pond! Ponds, meet the wonderful—and very much alive—(Y/N)!” He does some jazz hands towards you with a proud smile on his face. 

They each wave to you awkwardly. 

You lick the sharp skin on your lower lip, the tiniest of smiles on your face. “I’m assuming you’re the Nurses?”

Rory and Amy seemed a bit stunned at your poor attempt at a joke. You guessed the contrast of a beaten face and a strained smile was a bit jarring. 

Then, Rory chuckles. Airy and genuine. It seemed the tension between them lifted. Amy’s shoulders relaxed, letting a smile of her own to be seen. 

“That’s a good one, I see what you did there,” Rory says. “Though, for the record, I’m the only certified medical nurse here.”

Your brows pinch, turning towards the Doctor with suspicion. He doesn’t seem to notice your wary looks, simply beaming at you with that smile of his. 

You shift in your spot, “Uh, I should’ve asked this when I woke up. How long, exactly, was I out for? When I blacked out, I didn’t register time passing. At all. Lemme guess, a few months?”

You’re not stupid. Back in the jungle, lying in that ditch, you felt your soul bursting inside your body. If it wasn’t for your unwavering spite, that stubbornness to get up, to keep trying, you would’ve seen the familiar skeletal face of Death herself. 

So far gone, that enough time passed that you are able to walk. You clearly remember struggling to do so; the biting pain still lingers in your knees. 

Something flashes in the Doctor’s eyes. A shift in his cheery demeanor to something serious and foreboding. 

Caution, you thought. 

“Five days.”

You blink. Once. Twice. 

Maybe you shattered your eardrum on the way here. 

“Sorry, I thought you said five days,” you scoff, almost laughing at the ridiculous thought. Sure you may heal cuts and bruises relatively fast, but you were on the brink of death. Bones were broken, no doubt a ton of internal bleeding sprinkled throughout your body.  

A taste of lemon on your tongue, a warm energy above the nerves of your spine.

Truth, your body says. 

You look at the Ponds and see the same look of weariness. Amy gives a slight nod of her head, confirming what the Doctor said. 

Denial grips your mind. Doubt in their words despite the lack of obvious deception. It makes the settling realization hit a lot harder. 

“It doesn’t make any sense. I should be out for weeks—months even,” you mutter, mostly to yourself. “Damage like that, I wouldn’t even bat an eye if it was a year.”

Acceptance creeps up, denial withers and in its place the cold grip of anxiety. You feel the leftover stinging and the scattered numbness from your injuries. You’re still healing and nowhere near full health, but you could walk and think somewhat clearly. 

A distinct memory floats in your mind; the time when you sustained a nasty fall from an eight story building. While some magic had cushioned your descent, you still heard the crack of bone when you landed on your side. Your humerus had deep fissures which took three weeks to fully heal, even with the help of healing magic. Not to mention the physical therapy alongside it.  

No, there’s no way I could’ve healed like that on my own.

You lift your head up towards the Doctor. “Did you give me some sort of medicine? Some technology that could advance human healing?”

“Well, not exactly,” the Doctor says, trailing off at the end. “Most of the machinery here requires blood work and stem cell extraction. However, because your body was retaining so much heat, we quickly realized that it could damage our equipment. Our biggest concern was the amount of blood being kept in your body cavity—a big sign of internal bleeding. And boy did you have a lot!” The Doctor chuckled, but upon seeing the disapproving look of his companions, he immediately smoothed his expression.

Rory rolled his eyes, continuing where the Doctor left off: “When the Doctor initially scanned your body in the jungle, he identified the sources of your internal bleeding. Mostly in your spleen and around your abdomen from blunt force trauma. We thought we would need to take you in for surgery but—” 

“Your body cauterized the wounds,” the Doctor cut in, too eager to let Rory finish. “Initially we thought it was due to the burning you sustained, but upon closer inspection, I realized that the burning was localized to the wounds you had. Tried my luck and decided to nick one of your veins and observed what happened. Sure enough, you sealed it moments after.”

You almost couldn’t believe what you were hearing. Almost. At this point you were willing to believe that you were a long lost moon princess that can transform with a magical compact. Somehow that seemed more believable in your mind than crossing the entire multiverse. 

At your stunned silence, Rory clarified further: “What he means is that your body—somehow—burned off the areas where you were bleeding without damaging surrounding tissue. But that wasn’t the weirdest part.”

“That wasn’t weird?” you ask, wondering how much new information you could take before your mind breaks. “So I now have burnt tissue stuck in my body on top of CMBR? Are my organs constantly boiling?”

The Doctor taps the bridge of your nose, making you jump. “Good, you’re paying attention. Luckily your cognitive functions seem to be working fine. To answer your first question, no. Whatever burnt tissue remained was overtaken by healthy tissues. Your cells were rapidly dividing to fix whatever damage was left behind. Even your bone marrow was working overtime to bring back the blood you lost.”

“What about the second question?” you ask. “You said that I still housed the CMBR—Big Bang CMBR—in the tissues of my body. Correct me if I’m wrong, but shouldn't my insides be cremated by now?”

In a flash, the Doctor’s finger points dangerously close to the middle of your brows. “I’m a bit insulted that you think I forgot.” He retracts his hand and paces in front of you. “To answer your other question, yes and no. The heat is mostly concentrated towards your heart and your blood. After a few days your body returned to normal temperatures and the CMBR was safely stored. For the most part.” 

You can’t help but inwardly wince. Phantom licks of fire tingle around your hands, threatening to swallow you whole once more. 

Amy moves closer, peering at you. Less analyzing, more like gazing over your features. When your eyes met, you were surprised she didn’t falter. She moved one step closer, her hands tense at her side. A bit of fear clung to her skin.  

“You told the Doctor something, before we came in,” Amy prompts. Any caution melted, spurring her curiosity. “You came from another universe, yes?”

“Don’t entertain her,” the Doctor says, though there isn’t malice. He seemed more exasperated that his companions were considering your story despite his opposition. 

Amy ignored the Doctor, focusing her attention on you, eager to what you had to say.

It was hard to pinpoint where you could even start. Bruce crash landing on the foyer of the New York Sanctum or the Battle of New York years prior? 

Events in your mind cloud and blur together. Too fresh of a wound to recount, even though five days have passed. Your body is still tense. The adrenaline has long since faded, but you can’t seem to unwind the taught muscles in your body. It doesn’t help that you’re in a room with strangers and a humming environment that seems alive.

“I was in battle, protecting Earth,” you start, the words scratching your throat. You can clearly remember the panic and animosity on the battlefield. The air was sparked with rage and stank of blood. “An alien named Thanos wanted to kill half of all sentient beings from the universe in order to preserve resources. He managed to collect five out of the six Infinity Stones. Each stone represented a core trait of existence. Infinite power, that when collected together, could bend the entire universe to your every whim. They were remnants of the Big Bang, hence the CMBR in my body.”

Your voice wavers slightly. Tired, scabbed, numb fingers clench the cotton sheets beneath you. 

Guilt swirls, clawing the inside of your chest. Enough to force your words out with anger lacing each syllable. “My friend had the last stone. He was already injured and Thanos’s army had worn through our defenses. I swore that I would protect him. I took an oath to protect humanity, even if it costs me my life. I tried to stop him—I did what I could and it didn’t matter—”

You cut yourself short. Your eyes were trained on the linoleum floor but all you could see was blood. The sound of flesh being torn apart by alien teeth and the screams of Wanda pounding in your head. 

“The stones—my arms—I tried to stop him. I absorbed as much as I could and I wasn’t strong enough. But I didn’t care about the burns, all I wanted at that moment was to save my friend…And it wasn’t enough.”

It didn’t matter that you managed to hold off Thanos long enough for Wanda to break the Mind Stone. Your promise was null and void and perhaps deep down you both knew it. It was better to hope than go into battle with defeat instilled in your mind. 

Forcing your head upwards, you locked eyes with the Doctor.

Something passed through the Doctor’s face; his lips pressed to a thin line and his eyes holding what words would fail to say. 

Understanding. 

The atmosphere of the room was thick with tension. Though your rushed and jumbled recount of events left more questions than answers, the three strangers didn’t pry further. Amy seemed to be the one most visibly upset. 

Feather light steps and a pinched expression on her face, Amy sat down on your bed beside you. Her weight makes the old foam creak, the close proximity makes the emotion pouring out more apparent. Pity and empathy came off of her in waves. If it was anyone else, under any other circumstance, you would recoil at the feeling.

“You’re safe now,” Amy whispered, her hands on your shoulder accompanying the gentle words. “You don’t have to explain yourself. Not unless you’re ready.”

Citrus on your tongue and the waves of sorrow easing the tension in your body. 

You don’t let the tears flow. You scrape together any ounce of energy to let yourself fall apart. Not now. You’re not ready for that. 

Breathe.

A muffled groan leaves you, your shoulders sagging with the weight of…honestly, you don’t know what to call it. Overwhelmed is a vast understatement to what you’re feeling. A throbbing headache threatens to pound against your skull, your body still desperately trying to pull itself together. You were teetering dangerously close to the edge of your sanity; one wrong thought and you’ll plunge into a familiar abyss. 

The three strangers dare not to move, scared that they’ve pushed you too far. The Doctor’s bright, observant eyes watch every movement of your face, trying to gauge your reaction. 

A shuddering breath escapes you, and you force yourself to fill the empty silence. 

“I-I think I need some time…alone.” Your voice is cracked, barely audible to Amy. You lower your gaze to your clenched fists, barely keeping yourself from trembling. You feel too vulnerable, exposed like a raw nerve. You mumble a strained: “Please.”

Amy doesn’t move right away, lingering in her spot beside you. After a few moments, she gives a feather-light squeeze of your shoulder before standing up. 

The Doctor, despite his distance, seemed to hear you just fine. Shoving his hands into his pant pockets, he sends a tentative smile your way. “Of course, we’ll be out of your hair for the time being.”

He walks to the other side of the room, opening a cabinet to reveal a small fridge. He bends slightly, rummaging through the fridge before grabbing a glass pitcher filled with cold water and a mug from an adjacent cabinet. 

Long legs carried the Doctor back towards you, setting down the pitcher and water on a nightstand beside your pillows. Opening the drawer from the nightstand, you hear the sound of rattling before the Doctor retrieves an orange bottle with large, white pills. 

“Some medicine to help you sleep,” the Doctor explains. “Don’t worry, we ran tests for any allergens.”

You make no move from your spot, only giving the man a stiff nod. 

The Ponds observe silently, fearing that any sound could set you off. They wait until the Doctor ushers them to the door to finally move. Amy twists her head, trying to keep you within her sight even as the door was being shut on her. You catch the quiet panic in her voice as she talks to Rory, but they’re retreating away from your room before you could catch what they’re saying. 

The Doctor is the last to cross the threshold, lingering once more. The corner of his mouth twitches to a slight frown, before straightening to a thin line. “Give a shout if you need anything. Don’t try to leave the room, it can get a bit confusing navigating the hallways. I’ll come back in a few hours to change your dressings.”

He didn’t wait to hear your reply, softly shutting the door with a faint click. 

— — —

The second the door closed, Amy wasted no time dragging the Doctor down the corridor and into the console room. The Doctor protests against her harsh tugging, something about expensive wool, but she couldn’t care less. Her grip on his sleeve was like steel, unyielding even when the Doctor tried wiggling out of her grasp. 

When the familiar flight of stairs came to view, Amy shoved the Doctor forwards, causing him to nearly fall down them. His feet miraculously stumbled to place, albeit with little grace to his movements,  saving him from a nasty fall and possible regeneration. The Doctor stumbled the remaining steps before turning back towards Amy. 

“What was that for?” he demands.

Amy descends down the stairs rapidly, stomping towards the man. “You knew she was gonna be awake.” She pointed a finger square in the Doctor’s chest, her accusing tone pinning him in place. “You didn’t want us in the room with her. All week you’ve been dodging questions—hiding something. Why?”

The Doctor scoffs, which only fueled Amy’s anger. “I told you not to worry about it. Besides I was testing, you know how dangerous CMBR is? Dangerous, lethal. Does that not scare you?”

“You said the radiation levels were not a problem! You tell us what’s going on right now because whether you like it or not we are in this mess together. We found that girl together and that means that Rory and I are just as responsible as you are,” she reminded. 

The Doctor leans back, putting distance between Amy’s face and his. He looked to Rory for support but all the blond could offer was an exasperated look. 

The two of them had an inkling that the Doctor was avoiding them only in regards to the comatose patient in the med-bay. Stuttered, whip-fast excuses, and long winded explanations for his continued disappearance. They knew the Doctor tried to work around their sleep schedule, so Amy proposed sleeping shifts to catch him. It never worked and couldn’t confirm their suspicions, but they couldn’t ignore their gut feeling. He deflected questions from Amy and outright refused help from Rory. 

Amy leaned closer to the Doctor so he could see every inch of her displeased face. Rory, who usually let his wife do the scaring, stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Amy. Effectively creating a human wall against their Doctor. 

The Doctor raised his hands in surrender. “It was only a hunch—but I immediately went back to you two afterwards.”

Rory rolled his eyes. “Telling us after isn’t the same as letting us know beforehand. What happened to being a part of a team? Why did you feel the need to sneak around? We’re here to help.”

The Doctor heard the faint sound of disappointment from his companion, sending guilt straight to his two hearts. He sighs, running his hand through his hair for the umpteenth time. He hoped to have gotten away with it for longer. Alas, nothing could get past Amy or Rory. A part of him—a large one—was glad they were observant to see through his attempt at secrets.

“You’re right, I was sneaking around,” the Doctor admits sheepishly, though a part of him was unwilling to say it. “I wanted to be sure. This situation is unlike anything I’ve ever dealt with.” 

Amy scoffs, but lets a smile peek through. “Just hack it up already.”

The Doctor’s mood lightens a bit, letting him shift in excitement. “As you know, I’ve been trying to comb through her things, rather, what's left of them. Right when she was stable, I checked the driver’s license number on her ID. Y’know, run it through the New York DMV database to find any matches—”

Amy cuts the Doctor off, “But you didn’t find anything. She didn’t exist with no living relatives. You checked her DNA and knew she was human. You traced her back to around our time. We already know this, just tell us what you found out.”

“There, that’s the problem,” the Doctor states rather unhelpfully. Amy groaned. 

The Doctor pivots around, already ignoring Amy. “Girl crash lands in a jungle and has energy from the Big Bang. Wears clothes of a monk but clearly has defensive wounds meaning she was in battle. Odd, monks in battle. An oxymoron if I ever heard one.” He turns back to his companions but continues to ramble to himself. “Why would a New Yorker wear monk garb? A young one at that? Temples, monks. You don’t find enlightenment on the Statue of Liberty.”

Rory nudged Amy’s side, mouthing something to her: money. 

Amy’s eyes widened in realization, digging into her pocket. 

“Forget crashing, why voluntarily fight if you value all life?” the Doctor mumbled into his hand. 

“Doctor, I think I found some—” 

The Doctor cuts Amy off, not even looking in her general direction. “Stones? Who uses stones? Oh, who am I kidding, stones are cool, stones are sturdy and reliable. If I was the Big Bang I would be a stone too.”

“Doctor would you please—”

“Not now Amy, I’m in the middle of something.” The Doctor tries to maneuver around the console, but Amy grabs him by the shoulders, forcing him to acknowledge her. 

God, sometimes she wants to smack him, possibly knock his brain in the process. 

Amy shook the Doctor, glaring at him with enough heat to make anyone wither. “If you would just listen for once, I could tell you where she became a monk. Goodness, it’s like you get paid to ignore people.”

The Doctor looks to Amy’s hand. In it was a crumpled 20 rupee banknote. 

“National currency of the Federal Democratic Republic of Nepal. Odd currency for someone living in New York, isn’t it?” Amy smirked at seeing the Doctor’s eyes widened. 

The Doctor snatches the rupee, giving it a sniff and inspecting it under the TARDIS lights. It was real all right. He spun back towards his companions, “How come I didn’t see this earlier? Were you hiding this from me?”

“A taste of your own medicine,” Amy quips. “It was in her robes, not her wallet. Found it a few minutes ago when I was inspecting it.”

It was a stroke of luck that Amy managed to see the red bank note in the sea of red fabric. Whoever constructed the robes had a knack for secret pockets and seamless edges. At first glance, the pockets themselves were placed in rather odd places. It seemed as though they were slapped on haphazardly; one of them was adjacent to the armpit, another placed smack in the middle of the back. Most of them were empty, save for an odd post-it note or some receipts from Delmar's Deli-Grocery. The Doctor had already found no matches for the receipts or any deli in New York with a name like that. 

Pride bloomed in the Doctor’s chest. He gives Amy a giddy smile and ruffles her hair, “Oh, Amelia. What would I do without you?”

The red banknotes flips in his hand. Another clue for him to dissect.

“So our soldier-monk went to Nepal to be enlightened,” the Doctor observed. “Somewhere along the way she somehow gets recruited into a big war where monks are part of enlistment. Sounds like an awful system to be living under. Things happen, stones get collected, infinity becomes real, she crash-lands on Rwanda.”

“Think you missed a few steps,” Rory mumbled. 

The Doctor flicked the side of his head. “Plot holes in stories are what gives us clues. If her memories have been tampered there would be glaring problems with her story. Problem is, her story is just a big hole with bits of plot in them. A plot stew if you will. No, that’s not right.”

Amy leans against the console. “Maybe she doesn’t trust us to give the whole story. She didn’t seem like she was lying. Everything felt so…genuine. Besides, what else could cause those injuries if not…stones made from the Big Bang?”

“I’ve come from a whole line of medical professionals,” Rory adds. “Never had I seen burns look like that. The skin only split where her veins were. Any other normal injury would follow the pattern of the fire or lightning, not the pattern of your veins.”

The Doctor had to agree on Rory there. Nothing about this made any sense. Normally that would be a surge of excitement. Few things puzzled the Doctor, especially for days on end. What would usually be something of a game very quickly turned to a massive headache. 

You believed everything you said wholeheartedly, but everything that came out of your mouth seemed to contradict the thing before it. 

The Doctor rounds the console, finding the swiveling monitor, with Amy and Rory trailing behind him. His fingers type out something on the keyboard, the monitor beeping to life. 

Charts, data, and a scan of your body was shown. Text flashes, blocks of letters and numbers that could make anyone’s head spin. Amy had seen this screen many, many times, yet couldn’t make out anything in plain English. Rory’s nursing background gave some leverage, easily spotting medical terms and diagnoses that the Doctor gave. 

“Remember how I said that I couldn’t find a relative traced to her?” the Doctor asked, enlarging the scan of your DNA. Large parts of your genes were highlighted in bright orange and another set of text appeared: NO GENETIC MATCHES FOUND. The Doctor continued: “I checked everything. What diseases she’s immune to, her microbiome, and general physiology. All signs point to her being human, but it’s this that gives me trouble. This specific sequence not only doesn’t belong to any human, but doesn’t relate to any living species on Earth. It’s not spliced, it’s the same genome she was given to the day she was born.”

“So she’s an alien,” Rory said, albeit a bit unsure. 

“As much as she is human, yes,” the Doctor answers, typing more things out. “Monk working as a soldier, New Yorker with Nepali money, human with alien DNA. So alien that the sequence doesn’t match any known species—sentient or not—across the Milky Way. I even sent a sample to the Department of Intergalactic Biologics back in Andromeda. Nothing back yet, but I’ve been told that my case is top priority.”

Amy leans her body against the edge of the console. “Last time you asked them for help they took a month to reply back. If I recall correctly, that case was also top priority. Are you going to keep her here until then?”

“That’s the plan, yes,” the Doctor replied. There was an edge of frustration lined in his words. He hoped his normally erratic behavior covered it well enough. “Even if she did omit elements to her story, I doubt it will clear anything up. However, my reason for keeping her onboard is to monitor her CMBR. Specifically, how her body houses it. Or worse, if it can metabolize it.”

Amy’s lips pursed in thought. “Metabolize? As in eat it?”

“As in convert it to energy,” Rory corrects. He glanced at the Doctor for confirmation, to which the man nodded. 

“And that’s supposed to be a bad thing?” Amy asked. “Shouldn’t that be a good thing? That means that the radiation wouldn’t harm her or us.”

The Doctor shakes his head, his body wrung tight with tension. “You and I see her as who she is, as a sentient being with ambitions and goals. At best she could harness the radiation and be at peak physical performance at all times with little food. But not everyone will see her as such.” 

Amy’s eyes narrowed slightly in confusion at the Doctor’s purposefully vague wording. A part of her regretted trying to prod the alien for information. 

Realization of the Doctor’s word dawned on Rory nearly immediately. “She’ll be a battery.”

The Doctor let out a heavy sigh. “A weapon would be the correct term. That's why I couldn’t let her go to the hospital. Even a human one. At such a vulnerable stage, anyone could try to conjure ways to extract the energy inside of her. If not the staff, then surely any desperate enough group who are willing to get their hands on a stable energy source by any means necessary.” 

As much as your odd words and mysterious origin makes the Doctor’s temple ache, it relieved him that he and the Ponds were the first to find you. With countless wars and fights for resources plaguing galaxies across the universe, there’s no doubt in his mind that you would’ve been picked off and made into something less than. All things good and human would be torn away, and you would be left as a husk whose sole purpose was to give and give until you simply couldn’t. 

If what you said was true, that multiverses do exist, then that reality has already come true. The Doctor didn’t make it in time and the universe would have swallowed you into an unknown path where not even the TARDIS could track you down. So many possibilities sprung from his mind that he nearly forgot he was being watched carefully by the Ponds. 

The Doctor didn’t acknowledge the worried looks of his companions. With a deep breath, the man steadied his mind and straightened his back. Back to his old self. 

He clasped his hands and pivoted towards the Ponds. “Right, no point in worrying about the would have or could have. Focus on the now—the present and what we control. As Amy pointed out, our top priority should be our patient’s health and well-being. I’ll save the testing ‘til she’s in full recovery.”

“And how long would that be? A few days?” Rory asked. At the rate you’ve seemed to recover, it would be a matter of time before you were at your full strength.

“I don’t know,” the Doctor admitted. Arguably a worrying statement coming from someone like him. “Internal bleeding and bruising are healing exceptionally fast, but it’s her arms. Whatever force, power—what have you—had done that damage seemed to alter the way her cells repair themselves. It’s hard to tell why, but it’s not going to heal the same way the rest of her body does. That is a certainty.” 

“But she’ll live, right?” Amy asks, a bit fearful of what the answer would be. 

Rory looked expectantly at the Doctor as well. 

Once again, the Doctor is reminded of why he is so fond of humans and their planet. Why he orbits the Earth and adopted it like it’s his own. 

“The chance is never zero,” the Doctor reminds, but his grin betrays his own bias. “I think she’ll be okay.”

— — —

The medicine the Doctor gave you managed to knock you out for three hours. There was no label to tell you what exactly you were putting in your body, but you knew that the Doctor could’ve easily killed you in the five days that you were in his care. After drinking the entire pitcher of crisp water, you took a single pill. In no time, your body sagged against worn pillows and the warm duvet. 

You would’ve probably slept a lot longer had it not been for Amy desperately trying to wake you. 

“You have to get up,” she whispered, gently shaking your shoulder. When you stir slightly, she raises her voice a bit louder. “Rory says you need to eat. You can go back to bed after, promise.”

Sleep still clung to you, trying to pull you back to the soothing, dreamless state you were before. You had half the mind to ignore her, hoping that she will get the message and leave you be. As you shifted your body away from her hands, you felt a familiar ache in your stomach. A loud, rumbling growl that echoed inside your body. 

That certainly woke you up. 

Amy’s laugh further cemented your embarrassment, but you knew she wasn’t trying to make fun of you. She helped you out of your bed as your arms were incapable of hauling the duvet off of you. Still groggy with sleep, you allowed Amy to hover beside you as you stubbornly limp to the door. 

“The Doctor went out for supplies,” Amy says. “Just going to be me and Rory for the time being. We would’ve let you sleep longer, but Rory realized that the Doctor took out your feeding tube, meaning you haven’t had any food for twelve hours.”

“He knew I was going to be awake?” You had to remind yourself that you weren’t back on Earth with your limited technologies. They probably had your whole genome mapped and analyzed by now. 

Amy let out a frustrated sigh. “He had a hunch, but kept Rory and I in the dark. Turns out he wanted to interrogate you alone. He didn’t piss you off, did he?”

You tried to think back on your initial conversation with the Doctor. The confusion, the whip-fast talking, and the odd words he said. U.N.I.T.…Torchwood…

“The Doctor called me something.” You wracked your brain, trying to push past your sleep-deprived memories. “Spor…Sporgatuu? He got pretty upset, accusing me of trying to get him to join a club?”

Amy stopped in her tracks and gave you a questioning look. “He said that to you?” She gave a scoff and under her breath mumbled: “Unbelievable.”

“What? What did he mean by that?”

“The Doctor calls them a fringe, off-the-wall cult,” Amy starts. “One of the oldest in the universe. What we know is that they want the Doctor to join and they always send a woman to speak with him. I’ve only seen one of them, and I can tell you first hand that they got a few screws loose. They believe in magic and that their gods live in other universes. Don’t worry, I’m sure the Doctor knows by now that you’re not one of them.”

You gave a small chuckle. “He sure seemed pretty convinced back there.”

Amy rolled her eyes. “The Doctor is as stupid as he is smart. His heart is in the right place, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t do questionable things. How about we put away the multiverse talk and think about something else for a change. Like…how do you feel about stew?”

— — —

The kitchen wasn’t too far off from the med bay. You managed the distance without wincing or injuring yourself further. Inside, you could smell the cooking vegetables and feel the steam warming up the room. Rory stood at the stove with a plain black apron and some upbeat jazz in the background. You wanted to keep to yourself, opting to sit on the barstool on the kitchen island. Amy respected your silence, not wanting to further distress you and went to join her husband despite his insistence that he could handle cooking. 

She helped Rory with setting the table and poured you a generous serving. Dinner consisted of veggie stew and mashed potatoes. The steam kissed your cheeks and the plate was warm to the touch.

Rory became sheepish when you rightfully complimented his cooking. The steamed carrots melted on your tongue and the seasoning was a delicate blend of savory with a tiniest splash of sweet. The last meal you remember having was microwaved dim sum and expired fried rice. Between covert missions and temple duties, you didn’t think to restock your fridge or have any spare time to grab a decent meal. 

You learned that Rory was automatically elected to babysit you as the only human medical professional. The Doctor simply handed a communication device should he run into trouble. Amy wanted to stick behind, partially because she wanted Rory’s cooking, but also to see how you were doing. She knew how hard transitioning into TARDIS-life (as she called it), and hoped to make it smoother for you. 

After your first plate was cleared, your stomach still felt hollow and ravenous. By the third time Amy refilled your plate, Rory brought the cast iron pot on the stove to the counter in front of you. Breathing became a suggestion and shoving spoonfuls of stew became your sole priority. 

You didn't realize how much you missed home cooked meals. With missions across time and space, your options for food were limited at best. Slobs of unintelligible meat with exotic plants that could poison you were unfortunately very common. 

It was during the holidays or times where your body was on the verge of collapsing were when you could indulge in simple comforts. 

Warm food, cozy bed, time with your parents and siblings.

The thought makes you pause. Hunger that festered in your stomach for the past hour had evaporated, leaving a sour pain. 

Amy, who was observing you like a hawk, immediately picked up the miniscule change in attitude. “Something wrong?”

You cleared your throat. A scratchy, hoarse sound. You shook your head, “Sorry, just lost in thought. It's just…been so long since I had any good food.”

Just how long has it been? Weeks? Months?

It was better to consume anything remotely edible than be picky. You’d learned that the hard way. That didn’t mean that eating mystery meats and slobs was enjoyable. If anything, it made the juxtaposition of seasoned stew and creamy mashed potatoes all the more jarring. 

The two of them said nothing as you slowly ate the rest of your plate. By the time your spoon scraped the bottom of your bowl and your fork scooped the last bits of mashed potato, Rory had decanted the leftovers into plastic tubs. Amy took over dishwashing duty, thoroughly scrubbing the pans and utensils. 

Slowly, you rose from your chair with your empty plate in hand. Movement was difficult and your full stomach made you feel the beginning stages of sleepiness. Still, you made your way over to the couple and placed your plate beside the sink. 

“Thank you. Seriously, you don’t know how much this means to me,” you say softly.  

Amy seemed surprised at your admission. Then, a wide grin blossomed on her face. You returned with a small one of your own, pained as it was. 

— — —

The first time you wandered through the TARDIS by yourself was downright terrifying. When the Ponds supplied you with their information regarding the space-craft, you realized that you were far too tired to actually hold onto the information. Bits and pieces of the conversation stood out; bigger-on-the-inside, spatial warping, dizziness. Amy advised to call one of them to guide you around as it can be overwhelming to experience the TARDIS alone. 

Three days and some hours have passed since you’ve woken up on the strange ship. You’ve always had a speedy recovery—something you’ve come to loathe—and your altered cells have only increased it. Walking around the room can now be handled without any opioids or morphine (courtesy of Rory). Days were spent glued to the bed, broken by the timely visits by the Ponds or the Doctor. Rory made the executive decision to prescribe bed-rest. A week at least. 

Three days and you’re now starting to lose it. With all the sleep medication and sore limbs, you were practically welded to the mattress. 

You’ve walked down the hallways before, but always accompanied by one of the Ponds and never further than a few doors down to the kitchen. So when you woke up much earlier than anticipated, you made the impulsive decision to wander out. 

The door to the med-bay was a light blue tint over the steel; it silently shut itself behind you when you crossed into the hallway. Other doors were other versions of plain steel. You foolishly thought that if you kept track of the doors you’d see, you eventually make your way back to your squeaky cot until it was time for the Doctor to do his daily checkup. You told yourself that you’ll only be gone five—maybe ten minutes tops. 

Blue steel of the med-bay’s door marked the end of the hallway. You hadn’t walked for thirty seconds before you felt a strange shift in the air. As if something had moved and the air blew in response. Turning around, you expected to see the end of the hallway staring back.

An endless, repeating hallway met you instead. On and on it went that you could see a small vanishing point on the horizon. 

Maybe you were freaked out. A cold sweat overcame you and you started to walk back to where you came from. You twist your neck left and right to try and see the familiar door. All of the doors along the hallway were plain silver steel. 

Air billowed around you, like seconds before. This time, it fluttered your cotton shirt and the cuffs of your loose pants. You turned around, nearly jumping out of your skin. 

Blue steel inches away from your face. You turned back around and saw the same endless hallway. Looking at the reflective surface of the med-bay, your fingers hesitantly felt the metal, shocked that it was solid. 

Now you were more than a little freaked out. Maybe you were a little impressed. Was hallucinating part of the side effects of the drugs you were taking? No magic, so space-warping spells are immediately ruled out. You’d encountered many things, but the warping of space without the aid of some type of magic was perplexing. Scary, even. 

And very intriguing. 

It took some mulling and a lot of overthinking. The best hypothesis you could come up with is that the TARDIS is somehow telekinetic. When you panicked and tried looking for the med-bay, it immediately materialized, just out of your sight. 

So you wandered about away from the med-bay, longer than you had previously. You needed to put as much distance between you and the last known location of the med-bay so there could be no doubt. As you gingerly walked, you took the time to catalog the different doors. Most of this hallway was steel, but now that you’re taking time to observe, you realize the slight variations. Some were inscribed in alien language, others had tacky door knobs that didn’t fit with the aesthetic of the door, each one had a small plaque next to them. Some were numbered and others had plain English. Words like “pool”, “storage”, “1890s Costumes”, and other odd labels. 

Turning around, you see the endless hallway. Turning back, the same was met back. Closing your eyes, you plead:

I want to go to med-bay.

Air in front of your face swooshes away, kissing your eyelids. When you opened, the blue steel flooded your vision. 

You were still freaked out, but curiosity eventually won. 

You told yourself a couple minutes at the most to explore; that the Doctor would be waiting to check up on you.

Five minutes easily slipped to ten. Ten to twenty, and eventually you had been gone for an hour. Instead of the med-bay, you tried to summon different doors. Hell, you even opened a few rooms. 

The pool room (yes, a room full of pools) was huge, easily swallowing the med-bay by a few thousand square-feet. Costume related rooms were mostly a plain white room with racks of period clothing. Sometimes there were a pile of mismatched fabrics in the corner, as if someone haphazardly sifted through them. 

Easily, you’ve been in over fifty different rooms. You’d found another kitchen, which looked straight out of a 60s home magazine. Light green walls, pastel appliances, and a large fridge filled with various leftovers. It was bigger than the ones in New York, but smaller in comparison to the vast rooms of the TARDIS. 

You walked down the hexagonal archways, everything blurring together. You didn't mind the repetition as it made each room seem like a mystery. 

A few rooms stood out the most. Ones that had a name and had painted wood instead of steel. They were spread out from one another, taking you twenty to thirty minutes before seeing another one. 

Their knobs were round brass and when you went to touch it, there was a whisper of warmth. As if someone just held it before you. Some variations of these doors were present. 

“Martha” had grooves and was painted beige. 

“Donna” was a light blue with some flourish on the door knob. 

“Rose”, as the name suggests, was a dusted pink with small, colorful flowers. Each of them was locked shut, so tightly in fact, that the door knob didn’t wiggle no matter how much force was put in them. 

Old companions was the likely answer. People, like Amy and Rory, who were swept away from Earth and into deep space and time. You get the feeling that the Doctor locked them for a reason. 

Eventually, you made your way through the endless hallways, completely forgetting about the Doctor’s timely visit. Your hand glides through the oddly shaped hallway and your feet softly padding down clean floors. You didn’t have a destination in mind, just blindly walking in a straight line. It was repetitive, calming in the way meditation was. You didn’t think about potential meetings with masters, or the Infinity Stones residing inside you. 

Guilt was still there, always lingering in your body. Then again, there was always something weighing you down. Still, you kept walking, completely lost in your own bubble. 

Your body has healed remarkably since your waking. Soreness ebbed to stiffness and the nerves damaged had slowly, but surely, been repaired. Your hands haven't had the same luxury as the rest of your body. Still stitching itself together. Deep lines along your veins that had barely been scabbed over. Even if  weeks passed the Doctor believes it will take a year before your skin will finally close. Until then, gauze will cover them, keeping them safe from further damage. 

You hope your body will pull itself together soon. Residue energy from your universe—though terribly unlikely—could help speed things up. 

Air shifts behind you. 

Confused, you turn to see the med-bay materialize, even though you didn’t summon it. Footsteps were heard behind the door and before you knew it, the door swung open. 

The Doctor hung in the doorway, equally as confused. 

“There’s a lot of doors out here. Gets kind of confusing,” you say, as if it was the perfect explanation to your whereabouts. You slipped past the Doctor and into the room. 

The Doctor followed you, still utterly confused. “You could’ve at least told me you wanted to wander. You could get lost in there.”

“But I didn’t. It’s not that hard to figure out how to find your way back,” you say, plopping down on the squeakiest mattress. “Amy failed to mention how the TARDIS can warp space and is telepathic. Is it sentient? Did someone die here?”

A ghost, an emotional one especially, could explain the weird ship without delving into magic. Still spiritual, but not touching sorcerer territory. 

“Kind of, and no. If you knew your way back, why did you take so long to return? I had to get the Ponds out there looking for you.” The Doctor grabs several rolls of gauze and some ointments. 

You paused for a moment. Then, you answered honestly, “It was repetitive. I could walk for a mile and have the med-bay appear the second I command it.” 

I didn’t feel lost. 

For the first time in weeks—months even, you managed to entertain yourself without interruption. You had time to focus, shift your mind into a peaceful state. Even if it was temporary. You take any victory with stride, no matter how small. 

The Doctor unravels your gauze with surprising carefulness. You don’t see him much on account of your sleeping habits and his tenacity to leave the TARDIS for long periods of time. In the rare glimpses you do see, the Doctor is erratic as much as he is smart. Constantly bumping into corners, fumbling instead of walking, always in motion even when seated. 

It’s only when he engages in his namesake is when the Doctor is gentle and slow. Mumblings are few and his focused gaze is hidden behind his brown, wild hair. 

When the entirety of your right arm is revealed, it’s still as raw and tender as yesterday. Most of your skin seemed to remain intact, save for the deep, exposing gashes along your veins. A burn describes skin that's peeled and blistered. A cut would aptly describe the wounds you have. It’s clean, burrowing deep into muscle like butter. It winds and twists around your arms, only stopping around your bicep. From there, the only damage you see is dark, almost purple markings that extend to the middle of your chest and back. 

“It could be worse,” the Doctor notes, sincere and light-hearted.

A small chuckle escapes, but your words are dull. “It definitely feels worse.”

The Doctor reaches for the ointments, weird smelling pastes, and a saline solution. The saline is bottled in a dark, glass bottle written in a script that barely passes as English. After submerging a cotton round, the Doctor dabs the solution along the open wounds. Cold liquid cascades down, kissing the raw edges of your tissue. Up and up the cotton goes until all sides are discolored with flecks of blood and old ointments. 

You don’t mind the silence this process brings. It’s never awkward or boring. The cleanings don’t burn or sting anymore and the Doctor’s focus allows you to observe him. A habit you’ve gotten since you were young, always cataloging features of the people around you. Doctors, policemen, civilians. 

When the Doctor moves to get the next set of items, your eyes briefly meet. He doesn’t seem alarmed at your staring, even when he catches you often. He commented once how you often look at people more when they face away from you. You suppose he’s referring to the times where the Ponds interact with you. For a moment—perhaps for the first time—you really observed his eyes. A clear, muted green that easily slips into blue. The skin and features surrounding his eyes are young and prominent. It’s easy for his eyes to blend into his face and go unnoticed. But at this distance, you see him for who—what he is. 

“You’re old.” 

It’s a second too late and you realize how terribly you’ve worded your scattered thoughts.  

The Doctor looked startled. He immediately turns to the reflective bottles beside him and twists his head around, capturing his features on all sides. Before you could take back your words and verbalize what you actually meant, he scoffs, never taking his eyes away from his reflection. 

“Old? Me? Humans age, it’s natural, it’s supposed to happen.” You can’t tell if he’s talking to you or just rambling to himself. Then, he turns to you with concern, rubbing his throat. “It’s the neck isn’t it? Amy tells me that it’s the first place that starts to change. Or is it the hair? She tells me it doesn't suit me. Or was that Rory?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say, trying to cut in before he misunderstands further. “I mean, sort of—I just mean that you’re older than you appear. You still look young, but you’re for sure older than us, the Ponds and I. You’re immortal. At the very least not human.” 

Now that you’ve verbalized it, everything about the Doctor’s behavior and being makes sense. Apart from the odd clothing and overly loud personality, there’s something off about him. It really shows when the Ponds are also in the same room as him. It’s not scary or uncanny. So subtle that most wouldn’t be able to tell. But you’re not most.

It’s the misplaced, dated slang. The sense that he knows too much and isn’t afraid to show it. How he constantly refers to the Ponds as “people” but sometimes slips into “you humans”. It seems he catalogs every sensory input, from the subtle change in the air to the pumping of his heart, because his brain has the capacity to do so. 

The sheer happiness radiating off the Doctor is infectious. His wide grin and twinkling eyes, joyous that you’ve caught on. 

“What gave it away?” he wonders, an echo of childlike curiosity. He tilts his head, leans ever-so-slightly towards you. 

It’s clearer now. The weight of centuries lingering in the depths of his iris. How could you have not noticed sooner? It’s familiar. Being an apprentice of the Ancient One; having spent countless months—maybe years—traveling between worlds where time is merely another dimension for you to alter. You’ve met and befriended a god whose age transcends the thousands and more so deities who have made you their sworn enemy. 

You remember the first time you’ve met Rocket. How despite his appearance as a normal mammal, you could immediately spot his wisdom before he uttered a snarky question. The way the Collector carries himself and how his brother regards you as less than. But time always manifests. Maybe not in the grooves of one's skin or the white strands of hair, but in the eyes. Always. 

“I’ve seen enough to know. You hide it better than most.” 

The Doctor’s smile doesn’t fade. He still has your wrist in his hand, a gentle but firm grasp. When he squeezes it subconsciously, he finally remembers why he’s there with you. 

Something crosses his face. A thought that makes his brow twitch and his focus falter. “And what are you?”

It shouldn’t surprise you that he asks. You survived a shock of radiation that would’ve no doubt vaporized any other being. Your body heals at an accelerated rate to the point where it takes less than a week for you to walk again. 

It shouldn’t surprise you, but you’re caught off-guard nonetheless. 

Your throat tightens, your tongue feeling like paper in your mouth. “I’m a person. With thoughts and feelings.”

The Doctor stares a moment longer. His lips settle into a more neutral state, and he thinks over your response. You wait for a response, but he turns away. He then grabs a tube of blue paste, the one that smells like burnt rice, and resumes his care. 

You watch as his fingers glide over your hand. Starting with the middle of your palm and working his way out. To the lengths of your fingers, then the tops of your hand and up your forearm. The paste is dense and hard to manipulate. The tips of his finger catch on the sharp, dry flakes of skin and it stings. 

His response is delayed, so much that you’ve returned to watching his work on your arm in deep thought. When the Doctor speaks in a calm, observant voice, it glides through the silence. “You used the word ‘person’. Not ‘human’ or some snide comment that humans normally respond to when asked. Your first thought was to make me emphasize, to humanize yourself without saying it.”

The Doctor’s analysis cuts straight through you, pinning you in place. The way he says it is so matter-of-fact, as if reading from a book that is lying in front of him. 

To have the observation made by someone you know little about—

Your answer is rushed, almost shamed. “It’s just that…some people seem to forget. They’re more concerned about what I can do for them, feelings are second.”

You couldn’t blame the masters for doing so. You often took the hardest jobs, throwing away your childhood one mission at a time. Perhaps it was easier to treat you as a powerful soldier, pushing you to your absolute limits, because it’s easier than acknowledging that they’re enabling your suffering.

The Doctor doesn’t comment or try to analyze the words you say. Fresh gauze winds itself securely back onto your wounds. Your left arm was cleaned and wrapped at the fraction of the time it took your right. At the speed he was going, the Doctor still made sure to not harm you further. 

You don’t say anything when he piles the glass bottles into a drawer next to the sink. Nor do you acknowledge him when he goes towards the door. You feel his heavy stare and the questions that hang in the air. 

You don’t move from your spot until long after his footsteps fade away. 

— — —

In your travels you’ve come to know two things. One: you do exist in other universes. Two: none of them are sorcerers. None of them get their magic. They all seem to live ordinary lives, plagued with little threat, and return to their homes safe and sound. Sometimes there’s trouble in the form of being late to appointments or the forgetting of pants. It’s a break from fighting demons in realms without time. Perhaps you offer alternate versions of yourself fantastical dreams. In return you get to live out a life where you chose differently.

You’ve come to treasure these dreams. It was a break from the norm. So when you start to lie down and the TARDIS lights dim, it wasn’t dreams you were experiencing.

Instead of the normal dreams, ones where you live vicariously through the various alternate lives that you have, you have memories. Exact recreations. No autonomy; nothing you can do but simply watch.

— — —

Guilt festers. It grows and grows until you can do nothing but wallow in your anger. Anger is new. What used to be bottomless sadness that leaves you heavy has now been replaced by bubbling rage. 

You’re glad no one on board shares your gift of sensing energy. Behind every neutral look, every small grin, every dry-humored joke were storms of emotion. It hurts, physically pains you that you allow your grief to evolve. 

You deserve it. All of it. 

There was a point in time where the voice in your head sounded like yours. Then your mother’s. 

Wanda now whispers, her voice echoing in your ear like nails on a chalkboard. 

— — —

There’s a pattern to the dreams—memories, rather. 

If one night you experience a pleasant, mundane sliver of your life, the next will be filled with agony. Sometimes you’re lucky, and get a dreamless rest. But those are few and far between.

You’re not in bed, lying on a dingy cot that squeaks with any miniscule movement. Glowing orange walls are replaced with light green paint and white trim. Disinfectant morphs to a sweet, ambery vanilla from the candles your mother collects. 

The air is warm with the bristling of energy, and sunlight caresses every surface in the living room. 

You shouldn’t be here. 

“Are you okay?” 

A childish voice, one that rings through the air, in the silence of your thoughts. 

Snapping your head down, you meet the scrutinous gaze of your younger brother. Younger than you remember when you’d seen him last. He sits on the old Persian carpet your father loves dearly. No one is allowed to play on the good carpets, lest they ruin the intricate design underneath. Elio sits with his trucks and action figures scattered around him.

But your parents are away and you let him play as long as you’re watching. 

You swallow the lump in your throat. “I’m just tired from traveling. Probably be even more tired when I go back to the Sanctum.” 

“You’re leaving again.”

You feel his pain before his face betrays him. He knows it, hiding his eyes as he stares at the dozens of toys lying around him. Too many for one boy to play with. 

You were gone for three months, trapped in a universe that is comparable to Hell on Earth. Nearly missed your father’s birthday and Master Hamir’s annual potluck; the latter you don’t really care as much. 

No matter how sore your body is or how much work awaits you at your office, you make it a point to see your family after each mission. Always. 

“Not for a few hours at least. Seems like you’re stuck with me.”

For someone who’s age hasn’t passed the double digits, Elio doesn’t let his emotions show. You don’t blame him. Since you’ve gotten promoted, your visits have gotten shorter and shorter. Soon, you’re going to be regarded as just another adult in his life. 

No. You already are. The Elio in front of you is not the one you’d left behind once more. 

The floorboards creak, signaling the arrival of another member of the family. A pink ball of energy, with a fury that rivals your own.

“Elio! I told you not to take my stuff!” 

Lene’s shrill, whiny voice is almost jarring against the silence of the estate. Her puffy cheeks and wrinkled princess gown makes it known that she had just woken up. 

Elio doesn’t bother to look up from his toys. He responds in a calmer manner than his younger sister, “(Y/N) said I could play with your toys as long as you were still asleep.”

At the mention of your name, Lene freezes. Her face was so full of surprise that her eyes bulged out of her head. 

You’re situated on a couch right beside the entrance of the living room, yet Lene’s face morphs into shock at you. As if she’s seeing you for the first time. 

“I thought you left already,” she mumbles, her gaze wide and unmoving. 

You stare back, unsure of how she would react. 

And react she did. Not a second later, her nose scrunches up and tears begin to form. “Does…Does that mean—”

Lene couldn’t finish her sentence before a sob escaped her. Tears that are almost comically big started to bead off her eyes in droplets. Her shrill voice got louder with each cry. Immediately, you scrambled on the floor to embrace the small girl. Her tiny hands wrapped around you and you feel your shirt getting damp. 

“I’m not leaving for a while, okay?” you cooed softly in her ear. Scooping her up in your arms, you start to rock her, holding her tightly. “(Y/N) is gonna leave tomorrow morning, so that means you have the rest of the day with me!”

Your words did nothing but make your sister sob even harder into your chest. You can barely make out her words between each hiccup. “I-I already sl-slept all d-day!”

Glancing up at the window, you can see the sun making its descent. 

Not again.

“I’m gonna visit again soon, you’ll see me again,” you promised, trying to speak over her wails. Still, it feels empty when you say it. “Mommy and Daddy will come home soon and you can ask them to visit me in Nepal. Or what about New York? Don’t you wanna see New York?”

If it wasn’t for the fact that Lene is burying her face in your shirt to muffle her cries, you would for sure lose hearing in one ear. She shakes her head violently, gripping onto you tighter. 

You rock and bounce, still remembering the motions when she was just a small baby. You still see her as such, even now that she’s bigger than most kids her age. 

Her cries mellow into loud hiccups and her pudgy fingers grip onto your crisp shirt like a vice. You feel the wet patch where her tears fell, but you continue to rock her in your arms. 

“Are you really gonna leave tomorrow?”

You almost didn’t catch what Elio said. His voice sounded so small. Far away. His face is downcast, picking at the fibers of the rug beneath him. 

“He misses you a lot, you know. Looks up to you, more than anyone else.”

Your father’s disappointment hits you hard. As stoic as Elio always seems to be, you know how much you mean to him. How much he means to you. How you fight tooth and nail to make it home for the holidays, birthdays, and everything in between. 

To the world you’re Seraph. The Burning One. Master of the Mystic Arts. 

It’s hard to see yourself as anything other than that.

It was difficult to maneuver on the floor with a crying child in your arms, but you managed to lie down on your back next to your brother. Lene’s cries dwindled to violent hiccups as she curled up on your side. You turn your head towards your brother who avoids your stare. Stubborn. You pat the empty space next to you. 

Elio hesitates. For a moment, he stays rooted in his spot, contemplating. At this angle, you can clearly see the hurt on his face. Can feel the hurt. A constant stream of deep longing that pours and weaves between the space of spiritual and physical. Between dream and reality. 

With the wobble of his lip, Elio scoots to your empty side and hugs you tightly. The river of emotions is more intense, almost washing over you. It didn’t take long for his tears to follow. It's a silent cry, one that shakes his body but no noise escapes.

His grip is tighter, his hold on your bruising. The lack of outward passion and vigor doesn't diminish the intensity of his feelings. More so than the normal person. 

It's why he doesn't run to greet you at the door anymore. Why he tends to play next to you rather than with you. 

You don't know whether he naturally keeps his emotions to himself, or if it's something he learned from you. 

“They don't want a hero,” your mother once snarled at you. Her wrinkled eyes would pierce through you, full of hurt. “You're their sister. Act like it.”

You don’t remember how long you stayed on the floor, staring at the ceiling. Your shirt was drenched with tears, spit, and snot but you didn’t move or push them away. If anything, you pulled them tighter against you. 

You didn’t cry. Your chest didn’t ache nor did your stomach cramp from the guilt. You can’t allow yourself to. If you keep crying helplessly whenever you leave, it will only hurt you more. 

By the time the sun dipped past the horizon, your two siblings had long exhausted themselves. You wait an hour more before gently carrying them up to their rooms. With a help of some magic, you managed to tuck them in their beds without so much as a single stir. 

A buzz came from your phone, along with it a sense of dread. 

Master Rokda: The Elders request a debrief of your mission on Earth 75-C. Do not keep them waiting.

When you meet your parents at the front door, they don’t comment on the fact that you’ve put on your sorcerer attire. You promised to be gone for an hour and be back for dinner. 

You pretend not to notice the crestfallen expression of your father or the lack of emotion from your mother. 

— — —

Energy still fires in your blood. Taunting you. 

You should try. The very least you could do is try to harness the power you absorbed.

It’s easier to move now that most of your body has healed. Sleep is now in tune with your circadian rhythm meaning you can stay awake for longer. Your hands are still tightly bound with gauze with only your fingers being exposed. The Doctor replaces the wrappings everyday so you can clean and examine the progress. 

The Doctor had warned you that your arms wouldn’t heal the same, even with the technology he possessed. 

You shake your head, clearing unnecessary thoughts. 

Try. That’s all you have to do. 

Taking a deep breath, you perform some basic maneuvers that maximize the flow of energy throughout your body. Stiffness in your legs and arms are expected, but the strain is difficult to push through. Your muscles still remember the placement of your arms, the amount of force with each step, the way your lungs expand in your chest. 

Your body is used to taking. Greedily absorbing any energy you come into contact with. It’s hard to reverse what you’re used to. To release rather than to hoard. 

The power of the stones sits stubbornly in your body and around your soul. Once frenzied and bubbled, the energy slowly settled as the days passed. Burrowing deeper, melting into any space between your cells. 

You feel your body warm up. Heartbeats quicken and your breathing gets deeper. Your tempo doesn’t change, only the force behind each punch and step. Again. Again. Again. You focus on precision. Every valve of your heart, every cell moving in your body. The way your nerves spark and burn around your arms, down your spine, surrounding you. 

Again. 

Again.

Again.

It’s slow at first. Barely noticeable unless you were looking for it. A flow of heat blooming from your soul, bleeding into your physical body. Streams of static curl alongside the blood flowing, and it creates a strain against your movements. 

As if something’s holding you back. 

Fluid movements slow. Muscles start tightening as the stones’ power solidifies. No longer a scalding plasma, but a physical force that locks your body. 

Again.

Muscles beneath your skin grow taut. Sweat accumulates, forming a film around you. 

Again.

It’s starting to hurt. The fluid precision is slowly morphing to choppy, erratic motions. 

Aga—

The tension wins out against your body, locking you in place. You drop to the floor, gasping as your knees knock painfully on the floor. All at once you cease movement; not even able to twist your neck or limbs. 

You’re trapped. 

You can’t move. You can’t move. You can’t move.

All at once, the orange walls turn into the familiar grasslands of Wakanda. It’s hot. It hurts.

A scent that is so sickeningly sweet and leathery that hangs in the air like thick smoke. It mingles with the ash on your clothes and you can’t breathe. 

Screaming. You hear it in front of you. Around you. 

Breathe breathe breathe—

You can feel it—God you can taste it. Your own flesh searing off. It’s in your mouth, all over your body. You can’t breathe. Why can’t you breathe? Why can’t you move? 

You don't see the old creaky cot you’ve been sleeping in or the mirror next to the porcelain sink. You’re still on the field—no in the jungle. It hurts, it burns, everything is killing you. 

I want to leave. I want to leave. I want to leave—

The air hums with energy. The floor rattles and shakes. Someone’s—something’s panicking. 

Your body caves in on itself and your cheek smashes against cold flooring. 

You feel the strong pulses of energy flowing beneath you. It’s erratic. Alive. Your body tries to siphon it off. No, that’s not right. 

The energy is coming to you. It’s warm. Your hand reaches out, trying to meet it halfway. 

You see the door slam open, a rush of voices, and a burst of emotions mingling with the warmth. 

“You’re not meant for this.”

A voice. Familiar. It’s angry, bleeding with disdain and hurt. 

“Can’t you see this is killing you?”

Your mother’s voice sounds so clear. You miss her. Even if most of the words you spare to each other are angry. 

“Give up. Give up everything. This life isn’t meant for you.”

No. No it wasn’t. 

Only when you closed your eyes, and your consciousness slipped away, is when the taste of your flesh finally leaves your mouth. 

— — —

When you finally came to, it had only been a few hours since the Doctor had found you on the floor. 

He had parked the TARDIS beside the Ponds’ house, hoping to pick them up from their family reunion. The moment the three of them entered the console room did the TARDIS suddenly start acting up. Lights around the room started to flicker and the room seemed to pulsate with urgency. 

It wasn’t long before the med-bay materialized and the Doctor found you lying on the ground. 

There was a dazed look in your eyes, as if you were caught in a dream-like trance. Only when the Doctor came did the TARDIS return to normal. 

A quick scan of your body revealed nothing out of the ordinary. A temporary paralysis brought out by excessive movement. Or so the Doctor says based on what you told him. 

You were trying to gain movement back and became engrossed in your exercise. Not an outright lie, but you didn’t want to remember what transpired. 

You’re tired and you make it known. 

Thankfully, no dreams come to haunt you. Or the night after that. 

— — —

A full week has passed. At least, according to Rory. It certainly felt longer. 

You’re glad they respected your space and need to grieve silently. 

You reap what you sow. 

Today the voice is the sweet, gentle cadence of your mentor. Late mentor. 

Yesterday the memory was of an afternoon brunch with Stephen and Wong. Warm pasta with the side of your favorite juice. A rare day when the three of you forgo the sorcerer attire and wear something casual. Of course, you and Stephen transmutate your robes into jeans and a sweatshirt. Wong tends to spend his limited paycheck on “real clothing”.  

It’s only fitting that tonight’s memory is a violent contrast to yesterday’s serene moment. 

You knew it wasn’t real. All of this. The blood, the panic, the body, was all just a cocktail of chemicals made by your brain. 

You’re fine. You’re in bed, you’re safe.

The Ancient One lies a few feet from you. Her golden robes slowly turned a dark crimson from the gaping wound in her stomach. 

You’re screaming. The air cuts your throat, your lungs burn with the force you exert. An ear-splitting screech that pulls your entire body with it. 

Everything feels sluggish as you desperately try to crawl towards her. Your hand tries to stop the bleeding but the wound cuts through her whole body. The blood is cold, gushing around your trembling hands. You can’t stop shaking. 

Something in the air crackles. A twisting feeling in your chest.

“Does it pain you?” Kaecilius asked, bent down to the other side of the Ancient One’s body. In his hand was a bloodied time shard.

You can’t force a word out. Pitiful sobs leave you; tears slide onto the sickly skin of the Ancient One’s forehead. Every shuddering breath makes it harder to control your body. The Ancient One’s skin is cold, infecting your skin with chills. Why is it so hard to breathe? 

It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s—

Kaecilius hovers above you while the other Zealots stand by awaiting orders. 

No other master is around to help you. They’re guarding the Sanctums while the Ancient One tracked her former student. 

Except they knew you were coming. They knew that the Ancient One would try to fight Kaecilius one-on-one. 

She made you wait with the other Masters in the Hong Kong Sanctum, but something in your gut told you something was wrong. A cold feeling that spreads all over your body. 

It was too late. 

Kaecilius knew you would come. He aimed the very shard in his hand towards you. 

He knew the Ancient One would come to block it.

Your hand trembles in a way that makes you angry—boiling with rage. 

“I’ve heard many stories about you. How the Ancient One sends you away on long, grueling missions into the multiverse. How she makes you take powers from dimensions above without indulging the true secrets to her powers.” Kaecilius gently raises your chin upwards, forcing your eyes to lock. “You can be something greater. Join us and together we could bring Dormammu to Earth. He is a savior. Our savior against time. Against death.”

At this distance, you can see the flecks of brown in his light blue eyes. No regret whatsoever for the deaths and damage caused by his selfish actions.

There’s a sharp sting where your nails dig into your palms. Suddenly, everything hushed. The crushing despair and endless anger swirl in your chest.  

“What are you going to do about it, Seraph?” Kaecilius taunts.

Your body jerks awake, chest still struggling to inhale. 

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Glancing at the metal plating of the ceiling, you reminded yourself of where you were. Not in one of the Sanctums, or your lush room in Kamar Taj, or your room in your parent’s house. You’re a very long way away. 

You throw the blankets off your clammy skin. It’s cold, unbearably so. Every hair along your body stands and your skin rises with it. 

Forcing your body upright was a feat in itself. Your limbs are still numb with sleep and your head throbbed in pain. Bringing your hands to your temples, you tried to stop the panic rising or spreading to your head. The last thing you need is to lose focus. 

He’s gone. 

Dead, along with the others. You made sure of that.

You took a long, deep breath. The stitches along your ribs throbbed as your skin stretched. You let the breath go with a shudder. Repeating the process again, this time with less resistance. Again, again, again until you can stop the shaking. 

Control yourself.

Fear would only make you vulnerable. Others could die by your inability to control it so you smother the fear, the panic, the guilt until there’s only an ache left behind. A cavernous hole in your chest that weighs you down. 

The room is suffocating, the walls are too close, you can still smell the blood—

You need air. Real air. Not the recycled stuff coming out of the vents. Rising out of bed, you try to find some way out.

In your unrest you always find yourself wandering down the corridors of the living machine. Endless halls, geometric interiors. An almost sentient being confined in a box of wires and metal. 

Although you are in the depths of space, the TARDIS tries to mimic night on Earth with its lack of lighting. 

Your vision is hazy and grainy, greatly increasing the risk of your tripping over. Placing your hand on the wall, you let the worn pads of your finger feel the traces of the TARDIS circuitry. Energy, old and powerful, dances beneath the wires and metal. As if to sense your apprehension, the walls slowly glowed a soft orange. 

“Thank you,” a hoarse whisper of appreciation. Your throat is still dry and swollen.

Warmth envelops your spine and the rhythmic pulsing of energy beneath your fingers. A thanks back. 

With each step you take, the more your body seems to wake. Keeping your fingers on the wall, you let the TARDIS be your guide. There’s no words communicated between you, just instinct and feeling. 

The hallway is short, only one soft turn at the other end. You can hear a faint clattering of metal just beyond.

It takes you a long while before you reach the entrance of the console room. A wide room with various lights, colorful wires, meta, and glass. At the center of it all, a large contraption with a mix-match of levers, knobs, and buttons. It was unlike any spacecraft you’d ever encountered, and you’d seen many. You were sure Rocket would curse at the lack of standardized spacecraft mechanisms. 

Beside the entrance of the room—the front door to the TARDIS—was a large hole filled with more wires and more circuitry. You try to stay as quiet as you can so as to not disturb whoever was tinkering. As you approached the hole, to your surprise there was no one inside. 

The air shifted behind you.

“Can’t sleep?”

Spinning around you were face to face with the Doctor; in his hands a wrench and some alien-looking parts. 

“You scared the fuck out of me,” you grit, loud enough for the Doctor to hear. 

“Hey, what did I tell you about that, hm? No cursing. My box, my rules.” The Doctor passed you and tentatively stepped into the abyss of wires. The hole was only chest deep, but he bent down so he could fully disappear.

You followed him to the edge, but didn’t step inside. 

Sensing your staring, the Doctor turns slightly towards you, locking eyes for a moment. Turning back around, he unscrews a few bolts. “Are your arms bothering you again? I have some medicine stocked up in the back of the cabinet next to the sink.” 

Sitting down, bringing your knees to your chin. Phantom pains still come and go, especially after a rough night of sleep. No doubt the Doctor put two and two together. 

You pick at the exposed wires jutting out. The rubber casing rolling between your thumb and pointer. Bright red. The color of your robes, the color of blood. “You’re right, can’t sleep. I should be too old for nightmares and yet, here I am.”

The Doctor stops his tinkering, standing upright so he can peek up at you. Pity clearly displayed. You try not to scowl.

“No one’s too old for them. Dreams are a reflection of your life. Nightmares, as much as we hate them, do have their purpose.”

You grunt, half agreeing. Because to him, dreams are nothing more than a cocktail of bad memories and hyper-active imagination. Nothing you say will change that. 

So you wipe away the discomfort, the guilt that bleeds into anger. You remember why you left your room in the first place.

“I’ve been walking on my own for a while now. A week at least.” You continue to roll the wires and pick at the copper sticking out. You feel the Doctor’s eyes on you, but you don’t mind him. 

The Doctor catches on to what you’re implying. “You want to go outside. On Earth?”

You shake your head. Because what good would it do to bring you to an empty imitation of the real thing? “I don’t mind going on a different planet. I just…I’m starting to go a bit crazy walking down the maze outside my room.”

“Thought you liked walking aimlessly for hours on end,” the Doctor says, leaning against the edge. His voice balances along the edge of teasing. “I have a box that travels through space and time. Anything you want—anywhere you want, I can take you. Any historical figure, any future figure. We can go to the first pizza shop, y’know because you’re from New York.”

A breath of a laugh escapes. “Very observant of you Doctor. Truth be told, I don’t want to get back to Earth. Not for a while at least.”

You try not to think about what you left behind. 

They’re resilient, you often have to remind yourself, They will survive. They have to. 

The Doctor, either choosing to ignore your sullen words or just happy to have the chance to show you something new and fun, immediately gets out of the man-made hole with a broad smile. His hand, warm and inviting, takes yours and sweeps you off your feet. Giddy and mischievous, the Doctor tugs you along to the convoluted and intricate console. 

You’ve peered at it a few times, often when you perched yourself atop the staircase or in passing when walking through the TARDIS. Never this close. 

Knobs, dials, metal, plastic, glass, and other random items welded or bolted together. Either true engineering feat or complete nightmare, you don’t know. The way the Doctor immediately goes to press buttons and pull levers at such a speed to where there’s a gentle breeze when he zips past you is fascinating to see. The more you look, the more puzzling the mechanisms. Do your eyes deceive you or are you looking at a rotary phone that is bolted to the side of the console?

“Time and space, all within our grasp.” The Doctor rushes to your side and whips out a swiveling monitor and a mechanical keyboard. “Since it’s your first time traveling, I do have to lay down a few ground rules. Firstly, do not wander off no matter how many times Amy encourages you to.” 

The Doctor types out something on his keyboard, the monitor displaying characters in some alien language. Pictures of a planet and charts of data appear along with some notes. 

“Two, never ever drink what’s being offered. More often than not it’s going to make you puke and have an aneurysm.” The Doctor spins around to smack and pull whatever’s in front of him. All of which is nonsense in your eyes. When he turns back to you, his gaze is serious and his finger points between your eyes. “Third, the most important. Always have fun!”

A lever with a cherry red handle is pulled down and the room shakes with energy. The TARDIS pulses, sings with power that flows and ebbs in the air. 

Your hands clumsily find purchase on the edge of the console, bracing as the shaking worsens. The sparks of energy lap at your skin and trickle into your flesh. Warm, tantalizing energy that makes you feel rather than empower. 

The TARDIS is alive. 

As if reading your jumbled thoughts, the energy pools toward you. Caressing your shaking body, enveloping you in a comforting hug. It doesn’t seep into your body and get absorbed by you, but simply hovers. 

When the shaking ceased, only then did the energy rippled in the air, settling to a stillness once more. 

— — —

The door to the outside opens, and the bright light from a foreign sun momentarily stuns you. First, you feel the crisp air kissing your face. Next come the smells of dirt, ocean, and salt. Shouts of street vendors, ships docking in the bay, and children laughing. 

You open your eyes and the light settles. Colors bloom into your vision with colorful signs, exotic tapestry, and anything that could possibly be eaten or made being sold in crowded huts. Clear, open blue sky and buildings that remind you of the bustling coast of Greece. Vendors of varying species, colors, and size all hustle anyone walking in hopes to purchase their goods. An entire city, alive and thriving off the coast of a foreign land on a planet across the Milky-Way. 

“The Veskarla Markets from the planet Tresh,” the Doctor says with pure delight, “Haven’t been here in centuries. Met their queen once, she was a very nice lady. Though, she would later put a nasty bounty on me. It’s not my fault that I didn’t know chickens were seen as a declaration of war.”

Amy steps in next to him, observing the scene in front of her. “You really start cracking open history books before going to places. Would save us from all the trouble you keep bringing.”

The Doctor sniffs, fixing his tie. “Reading history is not my style. No, I would much rather experience history rather than think about it from a dingy old book. It’s good for you.”

You ignore the chatter, focusing on securing the black leather gloves you nabbed from one of the costume closets. The cloak you adorn is light with breathable cotton and slightly bigger on you. The color of the midnight sky, swallowing you from head to toe. A stark contrast to the lively colors that surround you. 

Taking in a deep inhale, you relish in the soothing the air gives your lungs. The stuffy ventilation from the TARDIS is slowly leaving your body. 

“Now remember,” the Doctor warns, pointing between the Ponds. “Stick together. We have fresh meat here with us and I don’t want to get into another nasty skirmish with Treshian royalty. No adventures today. Just simple, fun leisure.”

Rory scoffs, “Yeah, keep telling yourself that.”

Amy skips over to you and links up your arms. “You boys get more food and supplies. We’ll venture in the markets.”

The two men nod and scurry away into the depths of the city. The Doctor excitedly mouths off any fact he can remember about Treshian wildlife while Rory tries to read off a supplies list. It took only a few seconds before a current of people swept them out of your sight. 

You look back at the tall blue box that is parked in a very obvious area. It sat snugly beside two open restaurants facing the main road. 

“Wouldn’t someone notice the TARDIS there?” you ask, pointing at the very conspicuous timecraft. 

Amy waves her hand dismissively. “Trust me, the Doctor left it parked outside Buckingham Palace when Queen Victoria first ascended the throne. If no one on the streets of London cared, I think we’re safe here.”

That was another thing you were getting used to. The jarring recounts of time-travel that slip into every conversation. A part of you still doesn’t believe their stories or the figures they’ve met. You’re glad that the Doctor decided to simply travel through space rather than time; the mere idea of time-travel feels taboo to even think about.  

Weaving through the sea of people is difficult when Amy is speed walking effortlessly, practically tugging you by the arm. Your steps, whether it be from the lack of exercise or grogginess, are far less graceful. A few times your boot hits a stay cobblestone or your shoulder roughly hits a pedestrian. Somehow, you manage to stay linked with Amy. 

“Two fish! Great price, the best in the galaxy!”

A vendor with purple hyde and jagged yellow teeth shove two fish in your vision. His many eyes on his face stare expectantly. You peek around the cramped shop, eyeing the walls of fishing rods and weathered nets. Clear basins filled with various marine life are tucked beside the vendor. All the colorful fish were clearly displayed, while the ordinary ones were stored in the depths of the shop. 

Before you could utter a reply, Amy manages to haul your body down the block. You force your stiff legs to carry you faster until you’re walking in tandem. 

“That vendor—Did he speak English? How come I can read the signs posted?” Your eyes follow the cluttered wooden huts and their weathered signs. On a different planet with various species that no doubt immigrated here, there should be shouting in different languages and tongues.

Amy laughs, bumping her shoulder with yours. “The Doctor didn’t explain? Typical. I can’t explain in detail, but the TARDIS can go into your brain and translate everything for you. Words, shouts, anything really.”

Everything you learn about the TARDIS, both from your own observation and tidbits of what others tell you, makes your decades of knowledge of the arcane feel rudimentary. Science that borders on sorcery would be revolutionary back home. A strange universe indeed.

The two of you continue down the single street along the edge of the city. Vendors continue to shout and shove. There seemed to be an endless, unbreaking street with hoards of people acting as a current to pull you through. The worn shoes you hastily put on were not ideal for walking. The tough soles of your boots feel more stone than rubber. You don’t complain, having needed the exercise after essentially being a human vegetable for a week. 

You quickly realized that Amy was looking to do more personal shopping rather than gather items from the Doctor’s supply list. Each shop you stopped inside was ornate and featured odd trinkets. While Amy converses with the vendors, you tend to hover behind like a shadow. 

For an intergalactic merchant hub, Veskarla lacked any shops for weapons or machinery. From the hundreds of shops you’ve passed through, there only seemed to be fish, jewelry, or clothes for sale. Any knives being showcased were for decoration only, often using shells for the blade and gold plated wood. Perhaps there was a different district that handled metal and tools. 

After passing by a myriad of fish sellers and net makers, Amy finally stops by a large shop. It’s lavish with teal paint and gold trim around the frames of the large glass windows. Large, chunky pearl necklaces the color of iridescent snow enticed your eyes. 

Amy lets out a low whistle, taking in the shiny entrance. “It doesn’t hurt to take a peek, right?” 

Amy’s sight has caught a beautiful bracelet made from pearls and gold. In fact, the entirety of the shop is dripping with dazzling gems and shiny trinkets. What made the pearls and gold special is that it lets out a twinkling sound whenever there is a breeze passing by. You seemed to have entered a more wealthy part of the markets as now the crowd has dwindled to about half than it was before. The people around you have more intricate clothing with gems and pearls sewn into them. Vesklara is a city of seafood and jewels, judging from how even the lower income district of the town seemed to also carry these goods, albeit at a lower quality. 

Immersed in the distinctions between Orthalian gold or Treshian silver, Amy doesn’t notice your wandering gaze. While the crowd had certainly diminished, it doesn’t mean there wasn’t a myriad of beings still pushing their way through the markets. Very little seemed to interest you. Most of the items sold were nothing you haven’t seen before. 

After taking a glance around the store, you ended up going back outside. A warm breeze brushed over you, carrying the smell of the sea with it. 

You were glad to have a change in scenery. The nightmare that befell you hours before is now at the back of your mind. Being grounded, tethered to a living, thriving city with people and stone to stand on brings an ease back to your body. It doesn’t replace the electric hum of the atmosphere back home, but it does allow you to feel connected to the space around you. You feel the rush of excitement, the displeased customers, the swell of pride for a city that is the crowned jewel of Tresh. So caught up in your musing, you almost failed to hear the stall across from you, across the sea of beings. 

A boy, whose back faces you is pleading with a grumpy vendor. His clothes are dirty and ragged with spindly limbs and matted hair. You peer over to Amy, to see her still obsessing over the bracelets. 

Without a second thought, you cross between the crowds of people. Limbs and pointed joints shove into your body, but you force yourself through. When you exit out of it, you find yourself next to the small boy. You can see just how frayed the edges of his shirt are. How the deep blue skin in his legs and arms are smeared with dirt and scrapes. His long black braid has leaves sticking out of it. 

“Please sir. Just let me try once,” the boy, who looked no older than ten, asks pitfully. “I’ve been saving for a while now and—”

The vendor grunts out, slamming his fist against the wooden counter. “How many times do I have to tell you boy? We don’t serve your kind here.” 

You see how the boy’s face crumpled. His shoulders cave and his lip wobbled. “Please…just once. If I lose, then you will never hear from me again.”

The vendor laughs at that. Cruel and full of teeth. You step back to see what the man is selling—or rather promoting. 

Proto’s Festivities! Try Your Luck or Buy Trying!

Three red targets are parched behind the counter, similar to ones in amusement parks. There’s scratches and indents, but more so on the wall behind them. When you look to the side, you see a stack of daggers hanging from the wall, blunt from repeated use. What really caught your attention was the ornate items dangling from the ceiling. Pearl necklaces, polished leather shoes, and laced fabrics encased in gold. 

“Can I help you lady?” 

Your attention snaps to the large alien who stands behind the counter. His face looked like an unholy union between a pig and a snake; reptilian eyes and mouth with a large snout placed in between. The collar of his shirt is stained with grease and the purplish hue of his skin glistened with sweat. 

Proto towers above you with a questioning gaze. 

“Do you serve humans?” you ask, sharper than you realized. 

Proto’s beady yellow eyes scan you from head to toe. A noise, something akin to a snarl, emits from his throat. Scratching at his chin, he answers, “Not my preferred customer. But I suppose money is money.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. “Then let me play in place of the boy.” 

The child’s eyes widened, mouth agape. He takes a small step towards you, a small look of hope graces his features. “Y-You would do that?”

Proto lets out another laugh, louder than the first. It drones on for a few seconds longer than necessary, and he goes to wipe his eye with a pudgy finger. He wheezes, “You—ha—You’re gonna play for him, yeah? You and your tiny human form? Is this a joke?”

You reach out your hand towards the boy expectantly. His hold on the gold coins in his hands tightens, just for a moment. Then, he relinquishes his hold, placing the heavy currency on your palm. The leather in your gloves squeaks when you close your hand. 

Slamming the coins down on the counter, you cease the light-hearted attitude of Proto. “The goal is to hit the targets, correct? Money is money. Let me play.” 

Proto’s eyes narrow at you in suspicion. Picking up one of the three coins, he holds it up to his face, inspecting every groove minted on the metal. Once he deems the coins genuine, he looks at you with wickedness on his face. A grin that shows the rows of teeth caked in plaque. 

His hand reaches for the knives hanging on the wall, picking off the shortest and dullest ones from the set. His face inches towards yours with a condescending grin. “Yes, you simply hit the targets and your efforts will be rewarded. Simple as that.”

There’s a concerning amount of insincerity dripping from his voice; glee and dishonesty practically oozing from every word. Proto slides the knives to you whilst pulling the coins towards him with his other hand. 

You take in one of the knives, flipping it in your hand experimentally. There seemed to be no weird center of gravity or any odd characteristics that might give away foul play. You can make do with the dull edge. Looking at the targets ahead, you can easily make the throw blindfolded. You move to raise the knife, but Proto stops you. 

His finger wags in your face. “Ah, ah, ah. I didn’t say we could start yet.” 

You hear the click of a button, then the whirr of machinery. 

The red targets seemed to jerk and slide, the machine beneath them creaking and groaning from overuse. Red circles move from side to side. There’s no pattern to the speed or direction of the targets’ movements. 

Your lips curl to a snarl, at which Proto starts laughing once again. 

“Oh! Is the tiny human regretting her choices already?” Proto slaps his leg as he wheezes out another belly laugh. “Look at that face! You’re practically seething! Ha!”

This son of a bitch.

You ignore the howling mass of scum behind the counter, focusing on the blurring vision of red targets. Gripping the tip of the knife, you steady your breathing, bracing your knees. A lingering, dull throb still haunts you, but you ignore it. Focus. 

Twisting the knife in your hands, you try to find the target with the slowest movement. Judging by the choppy movements and run-down shop, Proto might’ve never had any repairs. You can make out the large patches of rust and hear how the gears catch onto one another. A harsh, screeching sound that barely makes the targets falter. Click, click, click. You stand still, counting the gap between each miniscule falter of the machine. 

Ten seconds exactly. 

Proto’s laugh continues. He grins, wider this time. “Is the tiny human having second thoughts? I forgot to mention this before, but no refunds. Ha!”

You quell the urge to dig the blade into the gummy flesh in his thick neck. It might take some hacking, but it would be worth it to shut him up.

The squeaks of the machine snap your focus back. You take a steady inhale, clearing your mind of murderous thoughts. This wasn’t about you. 

Focus. 

Metal scrapes against metal in an awful pitch. The targets blur, and the laughing continues. 

You hear the familiar click, click, click. 

Inhale. One. Two. Three.

Quick as a whip, your body snaps in motion and the blade lodges cleanly into one of the targets. 

A gasp comes from the boy beside you. Proto’s howls of laughter cease. 

Another knife finds its way in your hand and you repeat the motions. You eye a target, trying to predict its motion. Whatever force you exerted on the first target had altered the motion of the machine. It was slower and the falter in of the targets’ movements were longer. 

Click, click, click. In another flash, the knife lands clean in the middle of another target. 

You hear the shuffle of feet and the whispers of passersby.

“There’s no way she would make that shot.”

“Isn’t that Proto? I thought he was still in jail.”

“Come on! Shoot it already!”

A crowd has formed behind you, but your sole focus is the last of the shuffling targets. 

Its movements are faster than the last two. Almost a blur of red that dances between one side of the stall to the next. Your body tenses, being still longer than previous tries. Your brows furrow, your muscles flexing beneath your skin. 

Proto seethes in his corner, nostril flaring like an animal. The crowd draws nearer, trying to get a better look at what you’re doing. 

Excitement buzzes in the air. Fueling you. 

The scrape against metal, and the tune of click, click, click. 

One.

Two. 

Three.

The knife whistles in the air, the crowd goes still. Wood snaps and buckles, caving under the pressure of your throw. 

For a split second, your heart stops. Then, a wild cheer erupts behind you. 

Under the sheer power of your throw, the target snapped backward, nearly breaking off the machine entirely. Still, your knife sits lodged in the wood, swinging erratically with the rest of the set. The machine lets out one last howl before the rust and age finally forces it to stop. The metal groans and creaks in protest before succumbing to its fate. 

Proto’s jaw unhinges, gaping at the sight. 

The boy with deep blue skin and rags for clothes is beaming. Tears prick his eyes and he’s jumping up and down in sheer joy. Before you could say anything, the boy leaps into you, giving you a bone-crushing hug. Maybe you were lucky that you heal fast. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” the boy squeals, pressing his face against your stomach. He releases you and points to an item hanging off the rack inside the stall. “That one! I want that one please!”

You follow his finger, trying to find what the boy wanted so bad. 

Red robes sewn with a delicate lacing of pearls and gold. Decadent craftsmanship that no doubt took months—maybe even years to create. You dare say more intricate than the attire you’ve seen around the whole market. 

You couldn’t fight the smug grin even if you tried. Proto looked furious. “You heard the boy. Give him the robe.” 

Proto huffed, looking monstrous and wrathful. If there weren't so many watchful eyes, you were sure that he would try to skin you alive with one of your dull knives. Begrudgingly, Proto marched up to the robes and snatched it off its hook. With a nose-flaring glare, he tosses it to the gleeful boy beside you. 

Above the cheers of the small crowd, you hear the familiar shouts of your group. 

Amy is jumping up and down, similar to how the boy was moments before. Rory hollers with the crowd, waving his hands in the air. 

The Doctor comes barreling towards you, clasping his hands on your shoulders. He shakes you with a big smile on his face. “Bra-vo! Splendid, that was absolutely—positively—brilliant! Well done!” 

Hands from the mass of people shake and prod you. Praise and cheer ring hollow in your ears.

When you turn to look at the boy, his toothy grin is aimed right at you. Only for you. Tears flow in rivers down his face, curving around his smile. “Thank you!”

Sincerity, joy, relief. It flows from the boy and straight to your chest.

Only for him do you smile. It’s small and beaten around the edges, but a no less genuine thing. Something warms the hollow in your chest. A crack in your armor, one that makes the pain erode away. Ever so slightly. 

— — —

“How on Earth did you manage that? I thought you would be stiff from sleeping all week.”

You take a bite out of your dessert, taking a moment to ponder Rory’s question. “One of the first things I learned when I started training. Knives were much easier to handle when you’re twelve.” 

The sky is turning a hazy orange and the shops along the coast of the busy town are still alive. The small café tucked away in an alley deep in the city where their hours of operation start when the sun lowers in the sky. 

After destroying Proto’s machine, you walk the boy to his family who live in a small house at the edge of town. Only when you arrived at his front door did he give you his name: Rivolo. His parents were both equally shocked at what the boy delivered and were eternally thankful for what you did. You were simply glad to give the boy a chance to have new clothes to wear. Though, the strain of your body lingers, especially in your upper back. 

For the first time, the four of you collect around with food and drinks, talking. It started with little stories about the last few hours when you departed. Rory bought a new weighted blanket with fabric that behaved like water. The Doctor tried bargaining with a seamstress for a new jacket and ended up being kicked out of the establishment. Supply runs and odd occurrences transitioned to earlier adventures. Mostly the Doctor talking about famous historical figures with such clarity it might as well have happened yesterday. 

“I did have a knife throwing contest whilst traveling during the Ottoman Empire.” The Doctor takes another heapful of shaved ice and condensed milk. His mouth is full when he speaks: “I still technically have another date set up. You’re going to come with me.”

“Is that a threat?” you muse, picking at your own bowl. 

“Most definitely.”

Streetlights that dot along the pier were the first to alight. Then the ones along the edge of town, until the cobblestone streets are bathed in warm light. Stars are beginning to twinkle in the sky and the ocean breeze makes the air drop significantly. It doesn’t stop the people who journeyed here from crowding around bars and enjoying the dusk. 

Rory is the first to groan out, stretching his arms over his head. He rubs his stomach, his eyes pinching close. “I think I ate enough for three. God, it feels like my stomach is about to burst.” 

Surrounding him were piles of fish bones and dessert bowls. At least he had the courtesy to stack them. Amy and the Doctor lean against one another, the former sharing her husband’s discomfort. You had the foresight to order enough to quell your hunger, not enough to inhibit movement. 

“I’ll clear these up, you guys get back to the TARDIS.” You take the hefty load of plates and bowls into your hands with little effort. “I can find my way back. Go before it gets too dark.”

The three of them huff and groan, slowly rising out of their seats as if it pains them to do so. 

Amy pats your shoulder with a grimace. “You’re an angel, thank you.”

Rory gives the Doctor his shoulder to lean on as Amy trails behind them. You couldn’t help but watch them stagger down the street. 

A family. A unit. Whatever the three hold runs deeper than friendship and would be an understatement to say so. 

Walking down the alley, you try to locate the front of the café. With the crowds of people blocking the entrances of any open building made it all the more challenging. You walk in slow, measured steps, careful to not trip over any wobbly stone that pokes out. When you do manage to slip into the right café, the sun has more than set. The chill in the air turns into a cold breeze that flutters your cloak and makes the hairs on your body stand on edge. 

You don’t feel safe. If you had the thunderous power of the multiverse behind you, then you wouldn’t feel so paranoid walking through the narrow alley. No weapons adorn your legs, no phone to call for help. You cursed under your breath. 

Pulling on your hood, you let the dark fabric cover you completely. You keep towards the edge of buildings, always scanning ahead for any activity. Find a crowd, blend in. Easy enough when the entirety of the marketplace is still buzzing. 

It’s hard to pin down exactly where you are. Your eyes squint in the low light, trying to find any landmarks to help you journey back. You don’t realize how lost you are until the crowds slowly disappates and the lamps along the streets get fewer and fewer. 

Shit.

You should’ve swiped the knives from Proto. A dull blade is better than no weapon at all. 

Straining for any signs of life, you try to backtrack your steps. Maybe if you make your way back to the café, then you could wait for the Doctor to come get you. 

Your foot was already pivoting before you caught a faint glimmer of red fabric out of the corner of your eye. 

Turning around, you see a familiar cloak with pearls and gold stitched along its side. 

Rivolo!

What better way around the city than the boy who lived here? With newfound determination, you follow the trail of red down another alley. Your legs are loose from walking, already catching up to the fleeting figure. 

Your feet soundlessly trek the uneven streets, bobbing and weaving through tight corners and miscellaneous boxes lying around. Rivolo seems to dash just out of reach, always dodging out of sight whenever you cross another street. 

“Rivolo!” you call out, trying to keep the fabric in your sight. The boy is a few ways ahead, delving deeper into the city. You quicken your pace. 

In a matter of seconds, you’ve managed to close the gap between you two. The boy is fast but you have a decade or so of running through the boroughs of New York under your belt. You push through the burn in your muscles. Your hand stretches outward and you catch the scruff of the hood. 

With a twist, you reel the boy back and spin his small body around. 

Your chest heaves, putting your hands on your knees. “I’m so sorry, I tried calling you but you were too far away. I need some he—”

You freeze, the blood in your body running cold. 

The person you’ve tracked down wasn’t the innocent boy with a long braid and toothy grin. In the low light, you can clearly see the robe this stranger adorns. The intricate stitching, the same glimmering pearls that twinkle under the light. You reel back, as if the sight of it offends you. 

Whatever you caught looked almost human. Its flesh was a ghostly pale that looked sickly under the streetlights. Gaunt face with a long nose and bulging eyes. His iris looks like a small pinprick, wild and focused on you. No hair on his head or on his face. When you observe longer, you see the imprint of scales along his skin. 

You narrow your gaze, your voice an echo in the silent alley as a deadly whisper. “Where did you get that cloak?”

The alien eyes you up and down, tilting his head to the side. His words are impish, almost nasally in tone. “Hm? Who are you? You don’t seem related to that Ikrallian boy.”

“I’ll ask you again.” Your hands shoot out, gripping the color of the red cloak. The alien falters at your harsh movements. “Where did you get this cloak? A boy named Rivolo had it earlier.”

He didn’t seem frightened by your tone. Boredom is set in his features, as if you’re inconveniencing him. He ponders for a moment, only for his features to light up in mock realization. “Oh, that’s his name. Did he have blue skin and freakish hair? Y'know, introductions never came up. I could barely hear my own thoughts because of his screaming.”

Pure delight drips from his mouth. The thing in your hands snickers as if he’s letting you in on some inside joke. 

Your heart pounds in your ears. 

Something poked your ribs, and the man’s mouth curled to a sneer. “Now, now. Usually I don’t like fighting women. Gets too messy and there’s always so much crying. If you just walk away, go back to where you came from, I won’t have to gut you in this alley.”

The familiar heat of rage bubbled in your chest. Tension in your body cramps your muscles, threatening to snap.The knife the man holds starts dragging up towards your ribs, teasing the soft flesh there. The thing chuckles, his breath fanning your face. 

“Maybe I should. ‘Cause then you can see your friend…what’s his name again?” He tilts his head up, pretending to think. “Ah, Rivolo. He probably bled out by now. Oh—where are my manners? I haven’t introduced myself. The name’s Beetle—”

Your fist connected to his jaw with a sickening crack. 

Beetle’s body flies out, landing into the ground in a heap. You take lungfuls of air, trying to cool down. The alien twitches before rolling back to his feet. Blood dribbles out of the corner of his mouth, but his grin still remains. 

Wiping his chin, he hunches down, the knife in his hand gleaming in the moonlight. His nasally, gruff voice cuts through the still air. “Just my luck, a lady who can fight. Now I won’t feel so bad when I drain you on the street.”

His body caves in before he launches himself. 

You stagger to the side before you twist around, dodging his slashes. When he gets too close, trying to aim for the spot where your heart lies, you grab his arm and pull him across your body. Using your leg and stiff muscles, you use his momentum against him and slam him to the ground with his arm twisted behind him. In the quick second that he’s off-guard, you stomp on his hand, forcing him to let go of his knife. The knife, you realized, had dark substance caking it. 

Blood. 

You hear something crack before Beetle’s body rotates beneath you. Dislodging his arm out of his socket allowed him to sweep your body off balance and bounce back up. You land on the ground, your jaw connecting to stone with a pained groan. The stitches under your clothes throb painfully. 

Beetle swings his dislocated arm back, forcing it in the socket once more. He laughs at the face you make. 

A dull cramp locks your joints. Cold air and strained tissue squeeze your nerves, sending pain throughout your body. You try to brace yourself on your forearms, but a heavy foot stomps on your back, forcing your back down. Your chin collides with stone and your teeth rattle in your mouth. 

“I’m starting to like you like this.” He raised his foot from your back momentarily before slamming it down. Air is forced to leave your chest as you cough beneath him. His other foot is planted just beside your head, the other digging between your shoulder blades. “Maybe I’ll let you go just so I can chase you down the street. I’ll let the fear settle in, then delight in your screams when I finally catch you—”

You put every ounce of strength into maneuvering over to his ankle and bite. Your teeth sink into skin, catching the tendons of his foot. Warm liquid gushes in your mouth, spilling between your teeth. A shrill howl of pain and the weight lifts off your back. Beetle falls, desperately grasping his ankle. Blood seeps, coloring the pavement beneath him. 

“You fucking cunt!”

You roll to your side, hacking out the bitter blood into the cobblestone. With a grunt, you rise to your full height, swaying slightly.

A mouthful of iron is on your tongue. It mingles with the ocean breeze and sours in your mouth. Your steps are silent and methodical. Half limping, half striding to your target. 

The red cloak Beetle wears beckons you closer. Your heaving comes from the barely hidden wrath that bubbles. You reckon you looked more like a rabid animal than a human. When you approach Beetle, you grasp the back of the hood and yank it. His smaller, stout frame unraveled from the flowing cloak and you held it tightly against yourself. 

Something warm trickles down your abdomen. Bringing your hand to the bottom of your rib, you feel the cotton of your shirt being soaked. Your stitches torn and the thin skin broken. All the energy you had gained this past week has been sapped, leaving you trembling. 

You spare the alien a cold, withering stare. Your bloodied mouth is twisting to a snarl. “Thank every single star under this sky that I am not in full health. If I see your wretched face ever again, I will not hesitate to rip you apart. Bone by bone.”

Kill him, leave nothing behind.

Your voice sounds unfamiliar in your own head. A monotone, apathetic edge, almost clinical in nature. 

Another voice rings over. Young, still full of life. 

Don’t be the monster everyone expects you to be.

Peter did not understand the beaten path you’ve forged for yourself. Nor did he understand the continuous nature between black and white; to him, good deeds and bad ones are objective without nuance. 

Beetle is hunched, body held taut with caution. Gauging to see what you’ll do next. 

No matter how much you want to wring his neck like a stubborn piece of cloth, you can bring yourself to spare mercy. Just this once. You will alert the proper authorities and hope that Beetle is injured enough to not stray too far. 

Karma will see to it, sparing you of the role of judge, jury, and executioner. 

“(Y/N)? Is that you?”

A voice, accented and childlike. 

You back straightened, whipping around to the entrance of the alley. A shallow breath escapes your throat and relief washes over you. 

“Rivolo, y-you’re safe.” Your voice is raw around the edges, and you catch the unease in his face. You stagger towards the boy, bleeding and hurt. When you grasp his narrow shoulders, you utter a rushed, “What happened?”

The boy maneuvers to your side, pulling your arm over his shoulder. “I went to get food for my family. I was trying to get back home before a strange man tried taking my food. He stabbed me, but it didn’t matter. My species don’t bleed out easily.” 

At the sound of his voice, Beetle thrashes around. His head jerked and his mouth frothed in fury. 

“Of course you survived. Of course! Even after I went after your heart—just my fucking luck!”

Beetle rolled to his stomach with a murderous gaze. His teeth bared and his back hunched like a prowling animal. 

So much for mercy.

You hurriedly unlatched yourself from Rivolo and shoved his cloak in his arms. “Go find the Doctor and the Ponds. Run as fast as you can from here and whatever you do, don’t look back.”

Sounds of bones cracking turns your attention to the heaving alien. Beetle’s finger is shoved in his ankle, forcing his bony finger into his Achilles tendon. Blood gushed out more, spilling over his leg and arm. With a strained growl, Beetle rearranges the fiber in the back of his ankle.

Anger and determination pulse in the air. A warning.

“Go, go, go!” You shove Rivolo into the open street. He scampers away, and you see him retreat out of sight. 

You couldn’t anticipate the speed at which Beetle came at you. Without warning, Beetle sent a punch straight towards your stomach. As if his punch was a singularity, your body caved inward, warping around his balled fist. You slam against the wall, not even a moment to think before another punch lands squarely on your cheek. Whipping your head to the side, you feel your skull throb painfully and the vessels inside your face break. 

Beetle’s hand wraps around your throat and slams your head into the stone wall behind you. His hold constricts, closing your windpipe as he kneed you in the abdomen. Once. Twice. You try to squirm out of his way, blocking his repeated attack with your hands but you’re losing strength.  

You’re getting lightheaded. Everything hurts. Bile tries to climb its way up your body, but Beetle’s hand prevents anything from getting in your body or getting out. 

The sickly creature looms over your face. His earlier grin and playful façade completely wiped clean. “Do you know what I hate more than cunts who fight dirty? Hm?”

Another kick. Your organs contort inside your body, trying to accommodate the point of Beetle’s knee. If choking you out won’t kill you, internal bleeding certainly will. You try to muster a cough, only to choke on your own mucus. 

His face draws closer, into your ear as you desperately gasp and thrash in his hand. His words sliding across your skin like sandpaper. “An ugly, bleeding woman. No matter where I stab, you’ll always look gross and disgusting when you die. I suppose it isn’t such a loss though. I do enjoy watching your life get snuffed out. And once I dump your body on the street, I’m tracking your little friend next.” 

You don’t stop writhing, even when he keeps slamming your head against the wall. Even when he sends another punch to your face, bursting your lip open. Even when the next one lands in the middle of your face and you feel blood gushing out. It hurts, your lungs burn. Your soul rams against the confines of your body, trying to break itself free. 

His laugh is cold, void of any real humor. 

“What are you going to do about it?”

The words cut through your mind like an arrow. Everything stills, and for a moment Beetle's eyes morphed into a light, steely blue. 

Glass and stone contort, fractals that dance in the background with magic humming in the air. A blade made of air and crystal that drips crimson blood, the markings of Dormammu's power etched in your mind forever. 

“What are you going to do about it, Seraph?”

The hush of the world around you. A moment where nothing exists but the sound of your heartbeat pounding in your head. 

A goal carved its way to the forefront of your mind, silencing all other thoughts, wants, needs. 

Make him bleed. Make him suffer— 

The heat came first. A thunderous roar that synced with your heart, it flooded your body with a burn. Energy that lights up your cells and singes the ends of your nerves. 

Grasping the thin, pale wrist of your attacker, you focus the energy that’s building. It lights up your body with a crack. Beetle’s smug face falters. The bones in Beetle’s wrist snap and crumble. You feel the fragments ripple beneath his skin and his tendons bunching as your grip gets tighter and tighter. 

A blood curdling scream rips through Beetle as he jerks away from you. With his weight finally off your throat, you collapse against the wall trying to catch your breath. Releasing the hold on Beetle’s wrist, you stagger to your feet. Every ragged inhale sends shocks of pain from your midsection. Using the wall for support, you lift yourself up. Everything feels numb, your legs and arms feel like static. 

You watch as Beedle clutches his swollen hand. When he jerks his body, his hand rotates dramatically, detached from the forearm entirely. You give no warning, no ounce of preparation. Before Beetle had a chance to blink, you were already towering over him.

The first punch made Beetle’s head turn so sharply that you thought you’d broken it. A loud, thunderous sound came, echoing in the narrow back alleys. The sounds of Beetle’s ragged breathing and heartbeat were the only indications that he still lived. The next hit was just as hard, with no time to react. Each blow you deliver slices the space between you, turning his skin to paper and bones to glass. A precision that comes with years dealing with the worst outcome possible. A lingering notion that each blow you deal is fatal. 

Sometimes the flesh caves and splits where you hit. Blood splatters on your gloves, making it increasingly difficult to continually land punches. When the blood in his face makes your fist slide off his skin is when you move to kicking his body. Over. And Over. Wherever your foot lands, his body jerks accordingly. Again and again.   

Only when you stop your onslaught do you manage to get your heartbeat to steady and your breathing to even. 

Your body is a furnace. It trembles trying to keep whatever power lies in your veins. When you move, it feels distorted in a way. Your mind is still hazy from the oxygen deprivation, near floaty in feeling. One foot in front of the other, you move through the stagnant air. The thrashing, bleeding alien tries to crawl away from you. Your hands shoot out from your robes, catching his ankle and dragging him close to you. 

Mixing in with the salty ocean air and the blood coating your teeth is a taste you’ve come to hunt for. It’s sweet, addictive and delights you so. 

Beetle’s fear is palpable. As he lays shaking below you, he doesn’t tear his gaze from yours. 

“You hurt my friend.” Beneath the soft whisper of your words, an undeniable edge of wrath can be felt. “I gave you a chance to run and you used that as an opportunity to attack me. You’ve made your decision and I have no choice but to see it through.” 

The scum twisting and groaning doesn’t get a chance to fix his mouth before your foot connects with his sternum. Not enough to break it completely, but enough to knock all of the wind out. You can’t move effectively without the entirety of your midsection erupting in pain. You crept your foot up Beetle’s chest, seeing the realization hit him.

A barbaric move. But it’s clear that Beetle has already done more, if not worse, on innocents. When your foot meets the middle of Beetle’s neck, you ignore the spark of delight at the sight of his terror. You slowly apply more of your weight as thin hands try to wrap around your shoe. 

His feet kick wildly trying to land a hit but his strength is weaning. You offer him no taunting words, no remorse for what you’re doing. Beetle was trying to kill you from the start and it would be dangerous to let him wander. 

You didn’t want to spill blood on your first day out, but you’re too worked up to care. What’s another death to you? 

Beetle squirms, trying desperately to throw you off. Murderous intent swallowing his eyes, directed only at you. Whatever good he managed to do, it will never balance the harm he confessed to doing. He would be better off as fertilizer, the only way his existence would ever be a net positive. You wouldn’t mind if his dying breath lingers in your dreams. 

You don’t find it in yourself to care. 

Movement dwindles and the fiery passion is slowly dying the longer your foot lingers. Copper and sugar invade your nose in harmony. 

Beetle spasms and gargles. His already pale skin gets impossibly more stark.

Just a bit more—

You feel the air shift, a presence just beside you. But you felt it a second too late. 

A blur of black and a crackle of light is all you see before a powerful punch sends you flying backwards. Your body tumbles down further into the alley, rocks and sharp debris awaiting you with each hit. Your momentum finally stops when you collide into a stack of wooden crates, splintering the wood upon impact. You let out a pained hiss through your teeth, trying to move.  

Moonlight scatters where the streetlamps fail to illuminate. Shadows bend and warp most of your vision, but you spot the imposing figure easily. It’s tall, whatever it is. Humanoid in shape, covered head to toe in fabric. You’re too far away to see any clear details, only a vague, smokey outline where light manages to hit. 

Something else invades the charged air. For a moment, the pent up anger and murderous intent evaporates leaving behind something primal. 

Hairs on your body stand on end. Dread suffocates you. It surrounds the cloaked figure and you wonder how it managed to sneak up on you. 

Your body trembles, nearly collapsing down into the pile of broken wood again. The energy you’ve mustered up has already started to disperse. 

Beetle gasps loudly, wheezing with such ferocity you think his heart would climb up his throat. The pungent smell of blood and sweat hangs in the air, encasing him. 

The imposing figure doesn’t spare him a single glance or word. No mask or identifiable features could be seen, but you feel the weight of his gaze. An inhuman, powerful energy accompanies it. Grasping the leftover wood that surrounds your body, you force your weakened body to get up. To fight, to stand your ground. 

Beetle hacks and coughs. “You were there the whole time?” His voice is raw, his words barely intelligible. “Why didn’t you come sooner?” 

The figure offers no words or acknowledgement, never turning its head away from you. Your skin prickles and a dull instinct makes your hand twitch. 

Beetle turns his head, ready to mouth off to his companion. When he sees the figure’s hard gaze fixated on you, Beetle’s face morphs to a furious sneer. 

“You’re my assignment! Are you kidding me? What about the Ikrallian boy?” 

Your ears perk up, your body on high alert. They wanted you here. Beetle may not have realized, but he wasn’t just a simple passerby. Assignment…had they…planned this? 

Then it clicked. Maybe it was your proximity to the Doctor, perhaps they believe they could kidnap you to have leverage over him. You did spend a good few hours with him and the Ponds, traveling around the market. Why would they target him? For the TARDIS perhaps? Amy did say that it was the last of its kind. A powerful machine that could travel anywhere would be a target for any criminal worth their salt. 

But why Rivolo? Why target him? Cruelty for cruelty’s sake?

“(Y/N)!” A startling loud echo of your name, one that seems to have a series of footsteps that follow. It was behind you. “(Y/N) are you there?” 

Before you even had the chance to turn your head to the direction of the voice, you hear the thundering steps halt behind you. 

The Ponds are out of breath; Amy grabbing onto your shoulder for support while Rory has his hands on his knees. Their skin glistened with a mixture of sweat and humid air, their chests heaving with exhaustion. 

“We…Rivolo…help…” Amy could barely muster up the words, her head hanging low, trying to even her breathing. Whatever relief she had when find you was wiped clean when she got a look at your face. No doubt the blood from your nose had already crusted on the lower half of your face. “What the hell?”

Rory was already tensed beside you two, staring at the two figures in the alley. He cleared his throat, gesturing towards Beetle. “Is this why you couldn’t find your way back?”

You move out of Amy’s concerned hold, putting yourself in front of them. “You shouldn’t be here. Go find the Doctor—”

“There you guys are!” 

As if the mere mention of his name summons him, the Doctor rounded the corner also out of breath with the familiar blue alien boy behind him. The Doctor’s arms flail as he forces his feet to stop. “How many times do I have to have the talk with you two? Hm? No wandering! No running off in foreign lands! It’s rule number one when traveling. I don’t expect much from (Y/N)—”

His tangent stopped when his mind finally caught up with the present. His face frozen, looking over your newly battered face. Rivolo cowers behind him, clutching his jacket in a tight fist. 

You cursed under your breath. It’s one thing to have to fight, it’s another to look after four individuals who don’t seem capable of fighting. You’d barely healed enough to walk properly and now you could look forward to another week of mindless wandering in the sterile hallways of the TARDIS. Great. So much for a first day outside. 

Beetle hauled up his shaking body, his two legs appearing as though they might snap under his own weight. Hunched and heaving, Beetle clutches the midnight fabric that encases the figure. Even from this distance, you can clearly see the pure hatred plastered on his face. “Why wasn’t I made aware of this? I thought the boy was the target!”

It was then that the dark figure finally directed its eye-less gaze to the trembling alien beside him. Beetle doesn’t falter, instead gripping tighter on the fabric to stabilize himself. 

When the figure spoke, it was a deep, rumbling sound. Smooth and unhurried. It carried through the salty breeze as if they were speaking right next to you. “Target the young Ikrallian and remain in the city thereafter. Your duty has been fulfilled.”

There was something in the tone of his voice. Such finality, a sureness that everything that has happened was meant to be. Dominos falling into place. 

“Target the Ikrallian boy…” you thought, everything rushing in your head at once. I was their target. By attacking Rivolo, it would guarantee that I would try to follow him. Why me? They don’t know who I am. 

The eye-less figure slides his head in your direction. You feel its glaze stripping you, peering through skin and muscle. It shakes off Beetle’s grip like he’s nothing more than a speck of dust, stepping towards you. Feather-light steps with only the sound of plated armor clinking together being heard, its glaze holding yours. 

You force yourself into a defensive position, trying to lock into every movement. The figure stops a few feet away from you and you can make out the reflective surface of armor underneath a billowing cloak. There’s enough light to show the texture of the cloak and the buckles along its waist, but the place where a face should be is pure darkness. No curve of a nose, or sockets where eyes would be, nor a mouth to speak from. A smooth, glossy surface that reflects your bruised face. 

“Who the hell are you?” you hissed. Your warped reflection moves, highlighting the swollen jaw and caked blood across your face. “Did you purposefully lure me out here? Am I some unlucky passerby you just so happen to choose for your sick little game?”

The figure takes a few, slow steps towards you. The way his body moves seems streamlined; no unnecessary sway of his arms when he stands still nor any miniscule movement of his chest to indicate that he’s breathing. 

When he speaks, it’s calm, barely passing a whisper. Still, you hear it loud and clear. “We know what you are. Where you are from. What you will become. You will come to shape my past; I too shall shape yours. You will fight me, here in this city. It would mark the beginning of the end.”

“End of what?” you demand. You try to shake off the way his tone makes the hair at the back of your neck raise. The total resolve of his voice, as if whatever you do will make no difference. 

“The end of everything.”

taglist:

@angelxx7 @namenotimportant1373 @mxacegrey @krokietino @kanemxyoo @talia-the-gemini @floyd-le @fandom-lover-4 @ainttalkinboutlovesblog @dap11 @loliakeoghan23 @redsakura101 @xcharlottemikaelsonx @animatronicanime @venomsvl

[crookedfivefingers]

NOTE 7/23: The actual first chapter of this fic is now significantly different! Just keeping this post here for archive purposes, I suppose 😂

NOTE 8/13: The first chapter is now up!

I had this thought about Ten and Martha traveling back to Venice in the 1700s.

Naturally, they wind up separated during the trip — which is how Martha eventually finds herself in the company of a charming, if hauntingly familiar stranger…

One who can’t seem to keep his eyes off of her.

Ten x Martha | Martha x Casanova

✨WIP snip from ch.1✨

In May of 1758, the many streets of Venice are packed for the annual Feast of the Ascension —but a day filled with food and laughter is cut short when Martha loses sight of the Doctor in the crowds.

By the time she’s finally able to break free and locate the missing Time Lord, she’s stunned to see him being tugged into a carriage by a beautiful young woman… A carriage that swiftly disappears down the road and out of sight.

Alone, hurting, and more than a little cross, Martha suddenly realizes that she’s stranded in an unfamiliar city… over two hundred years in the past. Bloody brilliant.

She can’t even remember where they parked the TARDIS at this point — not with the endless narrow alleyways and labyrinthine streets.

It’s a modest blessing, but she takes some comfort in knowing she’s at least dressed appropriately for the times, straightening her elaborate wig as she begins walking in the carriage’s general direction.

As time passes, the sun tucks itself away beneath the edge of the horizon, and the crowds finally begin to dissipate. Without the excess noise and foot traffic, Martha has more room to process the events of the evening, sort-of-searching for the long-lost carriage (but mostly brooding) as she puts increasing wear on her shoes.

After some time, the sound of music and laughter drifts into her ears, catching her attention to pull her from the darkness of her thoughts. She allows herself to be drawn towards it without hesitation, and not three minutes later, she’s standing at the edge of a ballroom in the Palazzo Pisani Moretta.

Partying shouldn’t be top of mind, of course — but after a full day of celebrating throughout the city, she can’t imagine putting any more stress on her aching feet. The poor extremities scream for reprieve in the wedge sandals that hide beneath her skirt, scolding her for not putting more thought into her choice of footwear.

To be fair, the move to enter the building isn’t entirely void of strategy. After all, the Doctor could be in here. Seems like just the sort of place his little date might like to mingle, she thinks with a healthy roll of her eyes.

To say the Palazzo is extravagant is putting it mildly. In addition to what may well be a few hundred elite guests in attendance, the spacious hall is adorned from floor to ceiling with finery, the glowing chandeliers illuminating marble statues and countless works of art. Servers in masquerade weave through the crowd with practiced ease, trays of nibbles and beverages balancing on splayed fingertips.

Feeling inspired, Martha snags a cup of wine as soon as she’s close enough to reach for one, downing half of the bitter, eighteenth-century swill with as much haste as her twenty-first-century taste buds will allow. She forces a smile through her grimace when the server looks to her for approval, still concerned with cordiality [even as she crashes a party wherein she knows no one at all].

Partygoers welcome her readily: happy socialites with hair as big and dramatic as the wig she’s been regretting picking out all day. The compliments they lavish her with almost make it feel worth the hassle, however, and in that moment, she’s grateful that the Doctor let her raid the wardrobe. It feels so much easier to exist in a time period without standing out — at least, more than she already feels she does as a black woman.

(The Time Lord really can be thick, can’t he?)

Over and onward, Martha decides to let loose as much as she can, keeping a wary eye out between little sips of murky, purple wet. It’s been at least three hours since she last saw her mate, and though the environment that surrounds her is intoxicating, she can’t deny the little pinpricks of worry that emerge in her gut.

Surely he wouldn’t just sod off for a shag... would he? Leave her all alone without a word?

Is that really something the Doctor is capable of after everything they’ve been through?

An image of his disappearance flitters across her mind’s eye: a flash of a woman’s smiling face as she drags him into her fancy carriage by the lapels, her giggles resounding off the stone walls as they slip away together.

Another image nips at the heels of the former, only this time, it’s the Doctor’s stony expression as he returns from across the field in Farringham, having just had a proposition rejected by Nurse Redfern. The same proposition he made the morning after finding out how his companion truly felt for him, easily filing that information away as a “non-issue.”

Alright, so maybe he can be a bit of a tosser. Great. Maybe he has no interest in being found just yet, being fully aware that Martha can handle her own.

Everything’s always on his terms, anyway.

Furthermore, and she hates to even think it in the first place, but: who’s to say he didn’t think slipping out unannounced was the only way to get away from her for the night?

Blimey. If that’s the way he really thinks of her...

No. No, no, no — those thoughts aren't helpful for anyone. Not right now.

Worst case scenario, Martha will find a kind local to seek shelter with before night’s end, though she prays it doesn’t come to that. The idea of even thinking about sleeping knowing the Doctor is just out there somewhere makes her stomach churn — even if he has got… friendly company.

Sigh.

Time for more wine, she reckons; her eyes flick about the crowd until she spots the closest server, and then she attempts to head in her direction.

While en route, a portly man in technicolor robes requests a dance, which she turns down as politely as possible. Then another guest — a dark-haired noblewoman about forty-five years old — stumbles on the mosaic when her heels catch the train of another woman’s dress, and Martha helps her to her feet.

All the servers carting wine around only seem to be getting further away, and it feels like a sign. Perhaps she shouldn’t be consuming any more alcohol — at least, not until she has a little more peace of mind.

To her surprise, she doesn’t have to wait long at all.

Through a sea of bobbing heads, swaying bodies shrouded in brightly-colored fabrics, and a thin haze of incense smoke, their eyes lock from across the room — and Martha briefly foregoes the right to oxygen.

She knows she should be relieved (or perhaps furious — definitely furious), but as her throat grows tight and dry, all she’s got the presence of mind to feel is the frantic fluttering of her heartbeat as blood roars in her ears.

The Doctor has never looked at her like that.

Temporarily immobile, she can only watch as he approaches her with deliberate, single-minded steps, the dance floor seeming to part naturally around him. He doesn’t falter or pause and he doesn’t need to; this man claims a route that no one capable of sight would dare interfere.

Somehow, in the last few hours, he’s wound up in a loose red tunic, tight black trousers — tights, essentially — and matching black boots. A black, silken band wraps around his neck, purely decorative, bringing the black from the rest of the outfit together to complete the look.

It’s an entirely different getup than the one she helped him pick out this morning, but let it be known that it’s no less gorgeous for it. Even his hair is different than she’s ever seen it, appearing softer and lighter with significantly less product than usual (if any at all), and he looks…

Bloody hell, he looks incredible.

When he arrives, he gets quite close — closer than Martha’s body and mind are anywhere near recovered enough to be prepared for — and she has just enough time to notice the color of his eyes when he takes her hand.

Are his eyes... blue?

The smile he fixes her with is slow and certain; it simmers just as the gaze he ensnares her with. He seems to reach right into her soul’s lowered defenses to bury himself at the thick of it, lifting her hand to his mouth to rest his gentle lips against her skin.

The touch is just jarring enough to wrench Martha out from the clouds as the realization hits her.

This man is not the Doctor.

“I hope you’ll forgive me,” he murmurs, his voice and cadence eerily identical to the one she knows. “If I'm honest, I just couldn’t resist your magnetism for another moment longer.”

His words, though softly spoken, seem louder than anyone or anything else in the room, effectively shutting the rest of the world out.

"Erm," Martha chokes, eyes wide. Stunned. "I-I, er..." She shakes her head slowly, her voice (and brain) temporarily evading her. It feels as though she's fallen through a crack in dimensions. Perhaps she has.

“Right — sorry," the man chuckles. "Bit rude of me. My name's Giac." He finally lowers her hand between them, flashing a wink, giving her fingers the softest of squeezes before letting them slip through his. "Though I must admit... I am far more eager to learn yours.”

Note: This is a post-Blink story in which Martha is seduced by Giacomo, inspiring clarity and an almost possessive jealousy within the Doctor. How ever will he handle it? I’ve also considered an eventual threesome, but should that happen, it will be strictly het Martha-worship. (Also, per the David Tennant miniseries, Giac is pronounced “Jack”)

[halfbakedideas]

this is a bookshop, not a parking space!

A TARDIS being accidentally parked indoors leads to a Demon and a Time Lord having somewhat of a reunion, and a very confused Angel.

notes:

Yet another fic I never cross-posted to here, and this was the first time I ever wrote crowley or aziraphale.

As for the timeline…just post Forest of The Dead (DW s04e09) but pre-Midnight, and just pre-Good Omens s2.

Read on Ao3

—x—x—x—

The TARDIS had no windows. Not that windows would do you any good when moving through time as well as space. As such the Doctor had developed something of a habit of parking the TARDIS in rather odd and/or unconventional places. They only parked the TARDIS inside when they intended to do so. Most of the time.

But there were times that the TARDIS had materialised indoors and the Doctor (and their current companion) didn’t know until they stepped out. Office buildings, alien spaceships, and on one notable occasion, an Angel’s bookshop. Windows would have helped immensely in all of those cases.

—x—x—x—

It was a pleasant Thursday afternoon. A. Z. Fell and Co. was still open for business but was not going to be for much longer, at this rate.

Aziraphale sat on the sofa tucked away behind the bookcases halfway through a reread of Agatha Christie’s Death in the Clouds when he heard a peculiar sound. It sounded like a cross between an out of tune violin and a car horn

The Angel abandoned his book on the sofa to go investigate what had made the sound, although not before he had marked his spot with a bookmark. Emerging from within the shelves, Aziraphale discovered a blue Police call box standing in the middle of the open space between the door and the bookcases. Which certainly hadn’t been there earlier.

What was that doing here? Police call boxes hadn’t existed since the 1950s and certainly not inside shops. Let alone his shop.

The box’s door creaked open and two people emerged from within. A red-haired human lady in a gray dress and purple cardigan, and…a very familiar-looking person in a long brown coat whose aura was definitely not human despite their appearance. Aziraphale caught sight of some kind of machine that was glowing green behind them.

“The 2020s! fantastic decade—“

“Why do you have my husband’s face?” the Angel demanded before he had the time to think of anything else to say.

“What?” they questioned. Both of the newcomers looked very confused.

What were they? A Demon with the power to steal other’s faces? Another Angel with that power? Or something else entirely? They must have the ability to change face.

And Aziraphale hadn’t seen Crowley all day, it was nearing three p.m., the last time that he had looked at a clock. Usually the Demon would have shown up around lunchtime at the very latest, like clockwork.

“Your face, it isn’t yours. Why did you take it?” he pressed. “What did you do to Crowley?”

“Crowley?” they asked, the confusion disappearing from their face.

“No no! I haven’t done anything to them!” they insisted. “Well not in the last twenty years, at least,” And then, softer: “He’s still hanging around here? After all this time?”

So this mysterious unknown not-human did know Crowley after all. It wasn’t just the face that was the same (well, except for the hair), it was the voice too.

“Yes?” he said, unsure of what else to say. Now it was his turn to be confused.

“And if he’s your husband…you must be Aziraphale!” they exclaimed, eyes lighting up.

“I am,” he confirmed with a nod.

“Doctor, who is this man?” the lady asked, interrupting their conversation.

“Someone very dear to a friend of mine,” they told her. “Speaking of, where is Crowley?” They looked around the shop, as if trying to find the Demon, even peering around the police box.

“Sorry, who are you?” Aziraphale asked, instead of answering their question.

“I’m the Doctor,” they introduced themself.

That was a very vague name, or was it a title in the way that the word was intended to be used?

“And this is Donna,” They turned to the red-haired lady.

“Hi,”

“What exactly are you a doctor of?” he asked.

“Oh, many things,” they said with a gesture to nothing.

Before any of them could say anything more, the door opened and someone entered the shop.

“Angel? You here—?“ Crowley’s voice called out.

The Demon came to a sudden stop not too far from Aziraphale. He looked both shocked and confused, although certainly more shocked than confused.

“Doctor? What’re you doing here?” he asked. “What’s with the face? And that suit? Where’d the scarf go?”

“Sorry about the face — I knew it looked familiar,” they said, the second part sounded like it was more directed towards themself than Crowley.

“You two do know each other!” Aziraphale interjected. “Crowley, how do you know this Doctor?” He turned to his husband.

“Oh, they’re an old friend,”

Well that was infromative.

“Would someone please tell me who you two are?” Donna asked. “Or am I gonna have to keep standing here all confused?” she added.

Aziraphale echoed the sentiment.

“Right, yes…Donna, this is Crowley, I met them in the 1860s, although not with this face,” The Doctor introduced him. “And this is Aziraphale, he owns this bookshop,”

“Hello,” the Angel greeted pleasantly. “Now, this is very interesting and all, but could you please park that…police box—“

“—TARDIS,” the Doctor corrected him.

“—TARDIS outside? This bookshop is still open and I doubt that you want any customers who come in here to ask questions about it,” Aziraphale said.

“No, no I do not. Won’t be a moment,”

“Thank you.”

The Doctor and Donna returned back inside the police box, shutting the door behind them. The same out of tune violin-car horn cross sound filled the shop and the TARDIS faded out of sight.

It reappeared in the alleyway behind the bookshop, not that either Aziraphale or Crowley would know that.

The Doctor and Donna came back inside after having moved the TARDIS.

Despite Aziraphale’s confusion and mistrust of them, Crowley seemed to not only have befriended the Doctor but trusted them too. And he did not trust people easily, so the Angel decided that he would trust them as well. For the time being.

The rest of the afternoon saw a pot of tea (which had originally been lemon-ginger but had since been miracled into the green it had remained as for the next three hours) being shared and even more questions from both sides.

—x—x—x—

“Those two…they weren’t human, were they?” Donna asked when she and the Doctor were back in the TARDIS standing around the console later.

“No, they aren’t,” they agreed as they fiddled with something.

“Then what are they? Aliens? They looked pretty human,” she commented.

“They’re not technically alien either, not in the same way I am,”

Okay, now that’s just confusing.

“What do you mean ‘not technically alien’? You aren’t having me on, are you?” Donna said.

“Nope. Supernatural beings — well Angel and Demon, but that still counts as supernatural,” the Doctor explained.

Of all the wild things that she had been expecting them to say, supernatural beings hadn’t even made the list.

“What? An actual angel, like in the Bible? Not like those murderous statues?” she questioned.

Although, now that she thought of it, those two being a Demon and an Angel made rather a lot of sense.

Who was which? Aziraphale definitely seemed more angelic than demonic, but the way he had come storming out of the backroom and accused the Doctor of stealing his husband’s face. Crowley appeared the opposite. Honestly it seemed equally possible that both of them were either.

“Those ‘murderous statues’ are Weeping Angels, Aziraphale’s just an Angel,” the Doctor explained, having finally finished with whatever he had been doing to the console. “Now, what do you think about a visit to Alpha Centauri?” they asked.

Well, now she had the answer to her most recent question.

“That sounds lovely,” Donna said. “As long as we’re going there because you want to and not because we’re responding to a signal,” she told them, sternly. “I don’t want another Library situation just yet,” she added.

“There’s no signal this time, I promise,” they reassured her.

“Alright.”

The sound of the TARDIS dematerialising filled the alleyway. It caught the attention of a man wearing far, far less clothing than was considered socially appropriate, not just in this century but in any century, carrying a cardboard box who happened to be walking past.

[chloepleasestopdying]

I really do love crossovers so so much. I love sticking characters in situations that they clearly were never be in and the best way to do that is to stick them in universes they should have never interacted with. Plus I get to think about two whole fandoms at once??? I love it.



[lady-bess]

A Lady Bess announcement!

Bess is back in their writing nook, and things are about to take a turn! There is a new series on the horizon!

Well, this one might be a little too niche, but oh well! I need my boys together in the same universe somehow.

"Lost in the West" - a Doctor Who x Kingsman crossover (11th Doctor/Jack Daniels/Reader) is in the works! (Rating TBC)

For those of you who are new to my blog, or haven't had the misfortune of me talking your ear off about it, I grew up with Doctor Who. I got into it with 9, adored 10, and I would go on to really enjoy 12. But 11? Dear readers, I fell in love, and I fell hard. Rumour has it I still haven't got back up, fourteen years later.

*whispers* the rumours are true

Writing for the Doctor Who franchise is actually how I got started with fic writing. When I was 13 I wrote a full Wattpad story on my iPod Touch Gen.2 (a blast from the past, am I right?), but it would be another six years before I started on A03. Before I was LadyBess, I was MrandMrsDoctor, and I uploaded a handful of stories back in 2018.

Some of them didn't live to see today - I used to write RPF for the cast, and while I think some RPF definitely has its place from an artistic standpoint, mine did not age well at all. It wasn't anything crass, not by a long shot. But those stories no longer reflect me as a writer.

But, the rest remain! And I'd like to dip my toe back into writing for Doctor Who/11 specifically - I revisited the franchise in November with my story "Run", and it was lovely to see it get some traction. Also good to know I don't just write for Kingsman 🤭

So, what will this story entail?

Well, we're still in the rough draft stage at the moment, so I can't give away too much. This post is just to get y'all excited! But let's just say that there'll be a trip to a small town in the American West, and we'll meet a very familiar looking cowboy...

But what will happen when your time is over, and you're supposed to leave?

I'll do posts about this as it develops more! As with Fallout, I'll personally want to have written a good amount of this before I start publishing. But updates and artwork will start arriving soon!

Like what you just read? Drop me a follow! And if you want to read something from either the Kingsman or Doctor Who franchise in the meantime, check out my Masterlist! All my Doctor Who fics still live over on A03 only, but they're in my Masterlist nonetheless.

With love, Lady Bess xox

[purplesigebert]

WIP Wednesday #27 - DW Crossover

Hi everyone, I'm back!

So this week is very wibbly wobbly, timey wimey.

Enjoy!

In the corner, there was a first edition of Wuthering Heights that Caroline had gotten for Lena in 1847, and had the author sign it with her real name - not her pseudonym. Next to it was a grimoire of Ayana’s, the witch hadn’t wanted to give it to her - distrusting as she was of vampires, but if there was one thing that was true it was that Bennetts looked out for their own. It only took the two women’s hands brushing for Ayana to see her and Bonnie’s friendship. The Bennett witch hadn't wasted any time in handing it over after that.

It was strange, but perhaps not so surprising that the storage locker still existed. Caroline wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth; it was better to thank her lucky stars.  She smiled as she looked around the space.  It was a collection of items that spanned almost 2000 years of history (albeit of an alternate timeline).  Caroline may have only spent 100 non-concurrent years in that world but she had accumulated a lot of stuff.  Trunks of dresses and gowns from every era, back-ups of Roman centurion uniforms - because that’s all what Rory would wear, until they were forced to go underground.  A gramophone, chests of her favourite jewelry - all of it here in Cardiff.

She should give the gifts to Bon and Lena soon, maybe they could go on a girls trip when Bonnie got back from visiting her dad’s side of the family.  They could go to New York! Bonnie and Elena hadn’t been there before, and Caroline truly loved playing tour guide. 

Turning, Caroline knocked into an end table and heard something rattle against it. It was a frame that was leaning against the table.   Pulling away the cloth covering it, the breath left her chest, no small feat for a vampire who didn’t need to breathe.  There, looking back at her was a portrait of herself and Klaus Mikaelson.  It was one of the few portraits that he didn’t do himself, rather he got one of his friends - Hans Holbien the Elder no less - to paint them. Caroline had been trying not to think of him, which was hard enough when during the past few weeks, when her mum was sending her leads on his and Stefan’s whereabouts to give to Elena.  

Shaking her head to clear the memories, Caroline reached for the nearest item to distract herself.  She flipped open another book and almost dropped it.  Staring back at her, tucked between the pages of sketches (many of them were of her), was a daguerreotype of Klaus, but that still wasn’t the most interesting thing about what she held in her hands.  

It was not the fact that she had one of Klaus’ sketchbooks in her storage locker - but that on the next page there was a letter, unopened, addressed to her, in Klaus’ hand.

[notelcol]

Hellooo, request might come off as weird, but I've been thinking about it. For a few days

Could you write a small fix about collei going on an adventure with the 10 doctor while trying to escape dottore?

Okay so this was an awesome request, thank you so much! Never noticed the similarities between El Dottore and The Doctor until now…..I will apologise since they weren’t exactly escaping Dottore in this. *I got a little carried away in the rest of it tbh* I hope it still hits the spot for you though ✨✨

WONDER 🍃

Doctor Who x Genshin Impact crossover

Featuring the 10th Doctor and Collei

TW : MUCH cannon divergence, mentions of injury, captivity, mentioned medical abuse

——-

The TARDIS warped disjointedly as it spun through spacetime. It’s usual musical sound was a comfort to the Doctor, but this one was new. All these centuries and he had never heard it cry in such a manner. It terrified him. He was frantically pulling levers and smashing buttons, anything to escape the pull of this monstrous vortex. His efforts were all in vain. For once, his knowledge and experience wasn’t going to get him out of this one. All he could do was watch on his scanner as the TARDIS entered the eye of the vortex and all the systems shut down.

——-

Collei stared at the damp ceiling, trying to ignore the shivers racking her body. The chains around her wrists were irritating the wounds from the doctors scraping the eleazar scales from her skin. She didn’t understand why they had to run those awful tests every day, but she was thankful there had at least been no experiments performed on her in a while. A whirring sound followed by a thud from the basement below suddenly caught her attention. Perhaps she had given thanks too soon and this was another experiment in the making. Footsteps became clearer, entering the corridor outside her room. She sat up, wincing as the chains weight shifted.

The Doctor landed with a thud, the TARDIS systems slowly returning to life one by one. The second his screen came back on, he pulled it down closer to his face and studied his location. This vortex could have sent him anywhere, from before time itself right until the end of everything.

“That can’t be right..” He muttered to himself. “That’s not possible.” He spun on his heels and ran towards the TARDIS doors. He popped his head out first, making sure it was safe. Then slowly he stepped out, taking in the wet brick walls, corroding the seemingly random pieces of machinery they held. He lifted his screwdriver, scanning to confirm his theory. Gasping, he dropped his arm. His face, for the first time in hundreds of years, held a look of pure wonder. One all his companions had worn upon viewing their first new planet. While he had been to parallel universes, he had never found an entirely new one with different planets and star systems.

“I’m in another universe!” His hands pulled at his face while he grinned like a child. Laughing, he made a break for the stairs. Once in what seemed to be a main corridor, he burst into the first door he saw. There wouldn’t be long until the vortex started to close and he was all too aware of that and even more unwilling to waste a single second in his Teyvat adventure.

Collei jerked back in her bed, as her door flew open. Her wide eyes shook as she took in the odd appearance of the man in front of her. Spiky black hair and a blue striped suit….certainly not a fatui. So what could he be doing in her room?

“Hello! I’m the Doctor.” His smile faded as his eyes fell on the chains around the frail girls wrists.

“The Doctor?! You’ll get yourself killed running around saying that!” Collei warned the obviously unwell man. She held her breath as he stepped closer to her, his brows furrowed. He kept coming until he knelt at the side of her bed.

“What’s your name?” He asked, staring thoughtfully into the scared child’s green eyes. She hadn’t been granted the respect of eye contact in such a long time.

“My name is Collei.” His smile returned as she spoke.

“Well, that’s a lovely name.” Despite his exaggerated manner, she couldn’t bring herself to doubt his honesty.

“Right! How about I get you out of here and you can tell me what’s so wrong with my name?” He didn’t wait for Collei’s reply before he pointed his sonic screwdriver at the chain locks. Her green hair fell into her face as she tilted her head in curiosity at the buzzing sound emanating from the glowing stick. The Doctor chuckled at the young girls shock when the chains from her body.

“Are you ready for an adventure?” He held his hand out, already knowing the answer by the spark in her eye.

——-

The new duo sat in the TARDIS as the Doctor looked around on the map for possible starting points.

“Mondstadt.” Collei near whispered, facing the grated floor. “I’ve always wanted to go to Mondstadt.” She spoke a little stronger and the Doctor flashed her a cheeky grin.

“Mondstadt it is!” He dramatically pulled down a lever and watched as Collei stared at the flashing lights and moving machinery of the engine, releasing her first true smile in years.

“I can’t believe you aren’t surprised that it’s bigger on the inside.” He kind of missed the running joke.

“We have lots of domains that are bigger on the inside in Teyvat!” Collei explained. “Though none that move quite as far as this one.”

They landed in a large grassy area. Both instantly enamoured by the dandelion seeds in the wind and sweeping hills, they made their way toward the city on foot.

“So, what exactly is the problem with my name?” The Doctor asked.

“The Doctor or Dottore is a bad man. He works for a big scary company who do harm everywhere they go!” Collei fearfully shouted before taking a breath. “He is an unstoppable genius, who does experiments on people and even himself. He did one that created different clones of himself at different phases in life. It multiplied his own brain power and now he runs experiments all over Teyvat at the same time!” Now with the full picture, The Doctor could finally understand.

“This man….. I think is the me in this universe.” He pondered.

“This universe??” Collei was getting confused now.

“Oh yes, of course! I’m an alien from another universe also called the Doctor; who also, sort of, has multiple versions of himself.” He didn’t expect the young girl walking at his side to believe him, but she seemed not to question him.

“Are you a genius like him?” She wondered. The Doctor made an awkward sound.

“Ah well, I suppose some people might say that…sometimes.” He babbled. “But I am nothing like him.”

Finally, they had arrived in the city. Collei ignored the Doctor mumbling something about ‘Germenie?’ and took a million mental images of the street in front of her. Peach cobblestones, surrounded by bustling buildings with bold bunting strings bringing bright colours to her eyes, all crested by a giant statue of the anemo god of freedom. The tiredness that dragged her down was worth it for the sights she had dreamed of for as long as she could remember.

“Are you alright there Collei?” The Doctor was concerned with her paling face, but trusted her when she said she was fine. They continued on, making their way up the stairs towards the big statue when the sonic screwdriver beeped.

“The vortex has started to fluctuate.” He solemnly stated. “I’ll have to go back to the TARDIS after we see the statue, or I won’t make it back to my universe.” Collei focused her eyes to the top of the stairs, not wanting him to see her sadness. She understood, but there was still a pang in her heart.

“Look! We’re here.” She changed the subject, grateful for the stairs ending. The statue seemed even more vast when stood at its feet and Collei couldn’t help but giggle at the little children weaving in and out of the archways surrounding the area. As she moved her head to follow their path, she noticed everything had begun to move too. Faster and faster, her vision spun until it went white and she fell to the ground.

——-

Awaking in a small bed once more Collei shot upright, hands going straight to her wrists. Her relief that her adventure wasn’t a dream didn’t last long as she realised that she had probably been unconscious too long for the Doctor to have waited. They hadn’t even gotten to see Springvale or Stormterror’s Lair, never mind the rest of Teyvat. She shook her head to put her selfish worries aside and tried to be happy that her friend made it home. Deciding to look for any sign as to where she could be instead. Not a moment later, the door opened to reveal a young girl with two cute ponytails, who seemed to be a deaconess.

“Oh good! You’re awake!” She gently smiled before her face dropped into a panic. “Wait there! Don’t move!” The church deaconess called over her shoulder as she ran away, leaving Collei bewildered.

Within moments the door opened once more.

“DOCTOR!” Collei jumped out of the bed and threw her arms around him. “I thought you had left.” She admitted.

“We definitely cut it close.” He sighed. “I’m sorry. I have to go now.” He pulled away and sat her back on the bed. “Deaconess Barbara has helped me organise some care for you. A man named Tighnari will be coming to collect you soon, and don’t worry I checked him out myself. He’s a good honest man with medical expertise.” Collei relaxed at the idea a little after hearing the Doctor had been to see Tighnari.

“Cant I come with you?” She was afraid to be alone again.

“No. You would never be able to come back to your universe. I can’t have you be the last of your people too.” A dark look washed over him, showing the raw truth behind his words.

“I’m going to miss you.” She looked down at her feet dangling from the bed.

“Chin up Collei. You are going to be brilliant. Your adventure is just beginning.” He was satisfied leaving when the young girl in front of him lifted her head and gave him a strong, tearful nod. A ghost of a smile remained on her face as she watched him leave. But instead of being sad, she did what she thought the Doctor would tell her to do. She wondered what kinds of adventures would follow after Tighnari came to collect her.

——-

Thank you for reading ❤️

[libraryofgage]

A Hop, a Skip, and a TARDIS Jump (2)

Part of: Steve Deserves Good Parents, Actually

Debbie and Fester Addams One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six Rick and Evelyn O'Connell One | Two | Three Harley Quinn One | Two 10th Doctor and Rose One | Two (you're here!) Scooby Gang (there are plans for this one lmao, so plz be patient with me orz) Jedidiah and Octavius (from Night at the Museum) One | Two Queen Clarisse Renaldi One | Two | Three Leverage Crew One

Here's the second line jump fic! If you'd like to learn about line jumping, you can read this post

Anyway, after 84 years, here's part 2 of TenRose being Steve's parents. This time actually with TenRose lol

There's a meme at the end of this one, too, so I hope you enjoy it

Anyway, as always, if you see any typos, no you didn't :^)

-------

Hawkins, Indiana, 1974

Steve looks the same, but his organs are new, he's a tiny bit taller, and he's having the same growing pains as his father. He stretches his fingers, wiggles his ears, and feels his liver chugging along like never before. He's doing better than his father, though; he's not too caught up in the taste of a new pancreas, at least.

He is, however, subject to scolding from his mother.

"I can't believe you!" Rose shouts, pacing in front of the console before coming to a stop. "Are you thick? You could've been seriously hurt!"

"Oh, I don't think that's very fair," the Doctor says, pushing his hair out of his face, something he's never been able to do before. "He's a teeny-weeny Time Lord, Rose. He regenerates just as good as me. Well, better even."

"That's not the point, Doctor! You've only got so many lives before you run out. Don't let Steve join you for the beginning of each one."

"Well, maybe we should remember how we got here in the first place," the Doctor says, "Someone thought, 'Oh, I'll just take a little peek-a-boo into the time vortex,' for the fun of it!"

After listening to them argue for a few more minutes, Steve slowly gets up and quietly makes his way over to the console. He places his hand on a dial, holding still but feeling it turn under his palm. "Take us somewhere safe," he whispers, glancing to where his parents are holding a staring contest that could end in them kissing or shouting.

Steve feels the TARDIS hum around him, agreeing with his suggestion, and the engine kicks to life. "What?" the Doctor asks, looking around before spotting Steve at the console. "Hold on a minute, who said you could send us anywhere?"

"I didn't turn anything," Steve says, innocently looking up at his parents. "Maybe the TARDIS got tired of your arguing, too."

As though agreeing with him, the TARDIS makes a particularly loud whoosh as it jerks and nearly sends Rose off her feet. The Doctor catches her easily, an arm around her waist, but stumbles himself. "Oh, blast, this body is scrawny," he says, clenching his jaw as he grips the console to keep himself upright.

"I'll say. You're likely to stab me with an elbow there," Rose replies, her voice more amused than anything else, and Steve quickly looks away before he's subjected to the gross goo-goo eyes his parents start making at each other.

When the TARDIS finally comes to a stop, Steve barely waits before rushing to the doors. He hears his parents shout after him, but he throws one of the doors open without a second thought, an excited grin forming when he sees familiar trees and a familiar playground. It's been a few months for him, long enough to be an entirely new person, but he has no clue how long it's been for Eddie.

Maybe only a day has passed. Maybe a week. Maybe fifteen years. Well, he doubts it's been fifteen years. The playground doesn't look like fifteen years have passed. Either way, he looks over his shoulder at his parents. "I'm gonna go play now!" he says, letting the door slam behind him as he runs out.

He's only more excited when he immediately finds Eddie. It's odd, because most humans just look alike to him, other than his mother, of course. They're all kind of shaped the same and none of them feel like time and space; they're boring, completely untouched by and unaware of the greater universe beyond the molecules of stardust that formed them.

But Eddie is different. Eddie's hair holds red space and his fingers scatter time when he moves. Eddie's words drip with galactic dust and meteoric currents. His eyes are the brown of T'Lochlor royal jewels and contain the sparks of planetary births. His smile curls with the essence of alternate dimensions and black hole gates.

Steve tried explaining it to the TARDIS once, figuring she was the most likely to know what's so different about Eddie. The only thing she'd been able to tell him is that, somewhere in the future, Eddie would be destined for tragedy and stars. She wouldn't say (or simply didn't know) what order they would be in, but Steve decided to focus on the stars.

He rushes over, his smile wide as he gets closer to where Eddie is sitting on a bench, watching the playground with a slight pout and a cast on his right leg. "Eddie!" he shouts, practically tackling the boy in a hug when he's close enough.

"Stevie?!"

Steve pulls away, hopping onto the bench and settling next to Eddie. "Yep! Hi."

"Dude, it's been so long!"

"Oh," Steve says, frowning slightly as he looks Eddie up and down. They still seem to look the same age. "How long?"

"Like three years. Where were you?!"

"Uh, traveling. My parents go all over the place," Steve explains, figuring it's not exactly a lie. "Anyway, what happened to your leg?"

Eddie blinks, looking down at his cast before pouting again. "I broke it in P.E. cuz the coach made me play soccer," he says.

Steve doesn't quite know what P.E. is. Or soccer. But he gets the main point: Eddie can't play because his leg is still healing. "How come you're still here then?" he asks.

"Better than being home."

There's something weird about Eddie's words, but Steve doesn't ask him about it. His mother has told him that, sometimes, you just shouldn't pry into people's home life. Even if you care, it could make them angry or upset. They'll share when they're ready.

"Oh," he says, moving closer to Eddie on the bench until their shoulders are touching.

"Tell me something cool," Eddie says. "Where did you and your parents go?"

Steve thinks for a moment. He already told Eddie about being an alien, but is he allowed to talk about the time travel stuff? Is that too impossible to believe? Maybe he'll just ease Eddie into it. "Uh, we went a lot of places," he says, swinging his legs, "Oh, like this city where they have a super big hospital and the doctors are all cat-people."

"Why'd you go there?" Eddie asks.

"I died, kind of, and Mom wanted to make sure I was okay, even though Dad promised her I was. And Dad died, too, but he's done it a few times, so he's better at it than I am. Anyway, Mom was going crazy with worry, so Dad brought us there to get me checked out. Clean bill of health, according to the doctor."

Eddie stares at him for a while. "You died?" he finally asks, his voice sounding a little strained.

"Yeah, but not really. I mean, my people regenerate instead of die. So, like, my current body can't survive, so I pull on time and space to make myself a new one, one that can live as long as I need it to."

"Oh, right, cool, that's not confusing," Eddie says, huffing as he glances away. He swings his legs a few times before asking, "What happened?"

"Mom looked into the TARDIS's heart, absorbed the time vortex and became Bad Wolf to save us. If she stayed like that, she would've burned up from the inside out, so Dad kissed her to draw the time vortex out. He started to regenerate, but the backlash of it was destroying the TARDIS. We would've crashed otherwise, so I absorbed some of his regeneration energy, and that burned all of my cells up, so I had to regenerate, too. Mine was a bit gentler than Dad's, though, so it didn't cause much damage."

"I feel...even more confused."

Steve smiles at him, holding out his hand. After a few seconds, Eddie takes it, and Steve squeezes once. "That's okay. Alien biology is weird. Like, I think it's weird that you've got an appendix. You don't even need it anymore."

"What did we need it for before?"

"Something digestive, I think," Steve says, waving his free hand dismissively, "Dad knows more about that stuff than I do."

Eddie nods, looks down at their hands, and then looks at the playground. "Your parents sound...really great, Stevie," he says.

There's something in Eddie's voice that makes Steve hesitate. He bites the inside of his cheek, hesitates for a moment, and then scooches a little closer. Maybe telling Eddie about the time travel thing will make him smile again; maybe it will take that weird hurt in his eyes away for just a few minutes. "You wanna see something cool?" he asks.

"Sure," Eddie mumbles, looking over as Steve reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a phone from 2046. It looks totally clear, but the glass panel on the back is frosted, keeping people from seeing what's on his screen.

"What kind of music do you like?" Steve asks.

"Usually whatever my mom listens to," Eddie says, shrugging as he watches Steve tap on the glass in his hand. He jerks when the screen lights up, showing a bunch of tiny squares across it. "What's that?"

"A phone."

"Uh, nope, no way, phones are, like, attached to walls and stuff. They plug in. They're, you know, bigger, and stuff. And they aren't made of glass."

"It's, uh, a future phone. From the future. Many, many years in the future."

Eddie snorts, bumping their shoulders together. "Time travel isn't real, Stevie."

"I'm an alien. I just told you about a city with cat-people doctors. Time travel is the unbelievable part?" Steve asks.

They stare at each other for a few minutes, Steve waiting patiently as he watches disbelief fade into realization in Eddie's eyes. "Holy shit," Eddie whispers, his eyes getting wider as he looks down at the phone. "Where's your time machine?"

"Across the street. That blue box over there. My parents are inside."

"How did I miss that?"

"It's got a perception filter," Steve says, repeating his father's words easily. "So people's eyes just...slide over it."

Eddie slowly nods and looks back at Steve's phone. "I, um, my mom likes David Bowie."

Steve nods and looks up David Bowie music videos.

----------

Despite thinking Steve might hang around this time, that he might not disappear from Eddie's life like last time, that's exactly what he does.

He introduces Eddie to music that won't exist for decades, to bands like Green Day and Lovejoy and some singer from another planet called Ln'ra. Their voice makes Eddie's brain prickle between his ears, his heart lurching in his chest with the desire to sing the way they do.

Steve holds Eddie's hand the entire time, a gentle breeze passing over them, their heads leaning against each other. Music plays surprisingly clear from the piece of glass Steve insists is a phone. Time seems to slow down for a brief while, and Eddie forgets all about the world for a while.

He forgets about his mom crying. He forgets about his dad shouting. He forgets about the dull ache in his leg as the bone mends itself. He forgets about everything, and it's the most peaceful and relaxed he's felt for months.

And then the sun is setting, dipping beneath the trees and splashing the sky with oranges and pinks and reds. Steve sighs when he sees the colors, lets the music video play to the end, and then turns of his phone and slips it into his pocket.

"I've gotta go," he says, standing up from the bench but still holding Eddie's hand.

Eddie doesn't fight it, even though he wants to, because something tells him Steve can't stay. Something deep in his mind tells him that he won't. Not yet, at least. Because Eddie is sure, at some point, Steve is going to stay.

Or Eddie will stay, because he's technically walking away, too, right? He's not exactly begging to follow Steve wherever he goes, because he can't. He has a mom, a dad, an uncle, guitar lullabies at night and surprisingly good waffles in the morning, some friends at school and a group project that needs turning in.

So, neither of them can stay. Not right now, at least. But maybe next time. Eddie hopes---as he watches Steve push open the door of that weird blue box and wave one last time before going in---that one of them will get to stay sometime soon.

-------

Tag List (let me know if you'd like to be added!)

@romanticdestruction, @lublix, @jackiemonroe5512, @lee-da-vinci, @rowanshadow26, @didntwant2comecome, @katouasobi

And here's the meme! Very tiny text but it's basically just copy/paste Steve's dialogue about regenerating lol

[haveyoureadthisfanfic]

Summary: One last survivor encounters another.

Author: Telynores

[arting-block]

𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝 (𝟏) | Eleventh Doctor x MCU!Sorcerer Reader

❝𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶?❞

Summary: Something is wrong...very wrong.

Genre: Romance, AU/Crossover

Warnings: Mentions of anxiety, heavy cannon divergence for this series as a whole going forward.

Words: 4.5K

Reader: POC friendly, she/her, 24 y/o.

A/N: REPOST since I stupidly uploaded the wrong draft 💀. That post and timeline won't appear. I spent the week editing and I'll get to finalizing the second chapter. Sorry if the plot seems slow, I want to flesh everything out.

previous chapter | next chapter

Forces of the universe contort and stretch your atoms mercilessly. Colors, light, and sounds shred your senses until your mind can only process pain. You can discern if you’re traveling up, or down; all you feel is the skin of your flesh searing off. Plasma glides around you, lulling you into its embrace. The sea of cosmic energy passes through your body and your soul eagerly accepts. 

Then it stops.

Daring to open your eyes, you are met with a vast, multi-colored plane of existence. White dots of all shapes and sizes surround you, connected by a web of energy. The temperature borders on scalding, but you don’t flinch. You know this place. The edge of your universe. 

Being here with a physical body hurts more than you imagined. Sorcerers only come here in astral form. You’ve already reached beyond the limits of your physical universe. You feel movement around you. Space-time distorts and you feel your body being pulled down, down, down—

You hit the ground with a deafening BOOM. The Earth caved under the force of your descent as your body drags a couple of feet into the soil.  

The air sizzle around you as you try to open your eyes. Everything’s hot—burning. Your skin barely contains the heat that your blood emits. Power, raw and ancient, boil your veins. It’s all-consuming. 

A magic beyond your mortal understanding is now fighting for dominance against your one soul. The pain you feel goes beyond your torn skin and burnt muscles. Your spirit is being burned—decimated. 

You try to sit up; gritting your teeth at how stiff your sore muscles are. You notice the lack of feeling in your limbs. Dull pin-pricks trickle around your hands and up your arms as if your limbs went to sleep. You roll to one side and use your forearm and your other palm to push yourself upright. Letting out a shrill cry, you try to command your limbs to move. In the fog of your mind, you think rigor mortis is starting to take place. 

Every inch of movement is sharp and painful. Your lungs struggle to keep your breath even as you push up off the ground. You catch a glimpse of how damaged you were. The skin around your arms is peeled and caked with dried blood. Burnt muscles are exposed between the gaps of your exposed dermis. Enchanted sorcerer robes were no match for primordial cosmic energy it seems. The sleeves that would’ve normally protected against magical fires were burnt off. 

“Get…up,” you croak weakly. You can’t even curl your fingers around the charred grass beneath you. Your limbs obey no command. 

Between the blackened muscles of your hands, you see slivers of multi-colored light. It peaked around the veins of your hands and danced gracefully down your forearms. It was taunting you. The power of five Infinity stones rests in your palms and you cannot even muster the strength to even sit up. They might even be the reason you’re rendered immobile. 

You knew one thing for certain: you were alive. Maybe not for long if you keep wallowing on the ground. 

Thanos won. 

If the pain from your marred arms was debilitating, the realization that you weren’t strong enough to save half of the universe stung worse than any physical wound. The ringing in your ears and the headache are distracting enough to stop you from going down a mental spiral.

Breathe. Stay calm. 

Your body shuddered with every shaky inhale. Every little movement caused sharp pains and burning. You feel hot energy bubbling beneath the surface of your skin and you wonder if it’s going to burst. 

“Get…up,” you wheezed. Tears started to prick your eyes and your arms were shaking trying to keep your upper body off the ground. 

I’m weak. I was never strong enough, to begin with.

Clenching your teeth, you stubbornly command your limbs to move. 

Why bother? It’s not like I’ll be much use anyways.

“Please!” your voice is raw and scratchy. It physically pained you to cry as your lungs pressed against your ribs. Your legs tingle but don’t obey. 

Don’t listen to those thoughts. Prove them wrong. Get up.

Your arms collapsed under your weight and you slammed your head onto the dirt. All the fight left your body and you feel the metallic taste of blood in your throat. 

— — —

An hour passed before the nerves in your body responded to your mind’s command. Every shallow breath sent waves of constant pain emanating from your ribs. You grit your teeth and swallow the searing pain. Stubbornly, you rise from the rubble on shaky, bleeding legs. 

The sparks of your nerves and numbness in your hands combine to shield your mind from recent events. Survive now. Think later. Your mind obeyed the command, putting all of its efforts into moving one foot in front of the other. The small crater you found yourself in was shallow enough that you could crawl out of it despite feeling like you were immobile. Everything blurs and your senses dull. Survive, Move, Breathe. You remind yourself the need for oxygen is worth the throbbing in your ribs. The air scratches the worn cords of your vocal folds— mingling with the copper taste of blood. 

One foot drags in front of the other. Half stumbling, half dragging, you move your defeated body. You are nothing more than a ghost possessing a long-dead body; desperately clinging onto life as if you have something worth living. 

Vines, branches, leaves, and dirt swirl in your vision in a dizzying pattern. Move. 

The weight of your sling ring anchors your thoughts. Its cold surface stings against your chaffed skin. Once polished and sturdy was now cracked and brittle. Like your hands, it took the full force of five Infinity Stones; you think it will snap in two with one use. 

— — —

A shrill whirring sound accompanied the arrival of The TARDIS. Its blue paint contrasts with the natural landscape of Rwanda. The TARDIS’s doors slam open as The Doctor stumbles outside. Immediately, the humid air makes the clothes on his body stick and his hair damp. The heat though is unnatural. His nose smells of smoke, but no cloud of ash would indicate a fire. 

The Doctor is no stranger to odd happenings. Things that don’t quite line up, but come together in a glorious puzzle that only he knows how to solve. Smoke in the air, but no visible fire. Air that seems to simmer when the weather is supposed to be cool in this area. His fingers reach towards his sonic screwdriver and use it to scan the air. 

Amy finds the jungle fascinating. Sure, the purple ferns on Pandora are bioluminescent and the waters of Jahroda are hot pink, but she never got a chance to explore Earth’s own biomes. Most of the time they visit Earth it’s either a different period in Europe or her hometown Leadworth. Her sense of adventure heightens the possibility of knowing more about her home planet. Stepping onto moist soil, she notes how rich the greens of the leaves are.

Rory, ever the cautious soul, stands directly beside his wife. Something in his gut told him that an important change will be made. Although he cannot discern if that change is good or bad, it’s a feeling he cannot ignore. He keeps his thoughts to himself, however, not wanting to bring his wife’s mood down. Especially with something as flimsy as a “feeling”. 

“Well that’s odd,” The Doctor inspects the findings of his screwdriver. A piece of this puzzle has revealed itself to him: high amounts of CMBR. 

Amy looks over The Doctor’s shoulder at the screwdriver, “You gonna elaborate?”

“Cosmic background radiation—CMBR for short. It’s light from the time of the Big Bang which has been stretched as the universe expanded. What’s odd is that CMBR is as cold as -270 degrees celsius! The chemical composition of the air is relatively normal save for a bit of smoke—BUT,” The Doctor whips around to face his companions, “Those compositions don’t explain the heat we’re experiencing right now. The TARDIS says it would be 16 degrees, but in this area, it’s jumped up to 36!”

“But you said CMBR is super cold, how could it heat the air?” Rory tried to follow The Doctor’s rambling. 

The Doctor snaps and points his finger directly in Rory’s face, “Why does CMBR—which is known for being cold, heat the air?”

Rory wasn’t amused in the slightest.

“CMBR isn’t always cold?” Amy tentatively asked.

“No,” The Doctor kept his eyes on Rory, but pointed accusingly at Amy, “It’s cold now.”

The implication of his words made the two uneasy. 

“You’re saying that the energy from The Big Bang…is here?” Amy tried to piece her limited knowledge of cosmology to whatever nonsense The Doctor is saying. 

“BINGO!” The Doctor clapped his hands, happy that Amy caught up to him somewhat. 

“Wait—Pause,” Rory pinched the bridge of his nose, “You said radiation, right?”

The Doctor waved dismissively, “Don’t act like you haven’t inhaled toxic fumes in the boiler room of spaceships. The dosage of CMBR right now is far below the lethal limit to kill a human.”

The Doctor says it so nonchalantly that at first glance, it seems he forgot he wasn’t human himself. His choice of words—radiation, dosage, lethal—should send bouts of anxiety inside his human companions. The unknown is a primal fear second to the fear of death. 

Rory’s heart beats steadily at The Doctor’s words. Amy’s curiosity eats away at her mind, ready to experience another new adventure with her two favorite people in the universe. Beyond their instincts, their trust in The Doctor had overwritten their biological code. Conditioned by life-threatening events and planet-saving memories, Amy and Rory accept the unknown. 

Walking along the crowded terrain, the trio huddles together and observes the frightening wonder that surrounds them. Long, spindly trunks and densely packed leaves block out the harsh Rwandan sun. Dew drops permeate the air, the vines cascade off branches in soft waves, and the sweat of their skin imprints on their minds. The wind is still and sounds are few and far between. Only the sonic screwdriver and The Doctor’s mumbling breaks the natural silence. 

It doesn’t take long for them to reach the anomaly. The rapid sounds that come from the screwdriver make both of The Doctor’s hearts leap. His mind already conjured theories on what exactly the anomaly the TARDIS picked up. 

A time field was an obvious guess, save for the fact that any rupture in space-time the anomaly caused sewn itself shut. As far as anyone could tell, no rupture occurred in the first place. Time fields would also not cause the rapid appearance of CMBR within the immediate area. Then, there was the anomaly itself. Something—or someone—caused the sudden rift and swiftly sealed it. Another time traveler perhaps? A new piece of alien technology that had yet to be known by The Doctor? 

The space between the sonic screwdriver’s beeps became shorter and shorter until it emitted a constant high-pitched whine. The Doctor stopped his movements; his view ahead was obstructed by a conveniently placed curtain of vines. 

Anticipation crept up in the trio as they watch The Doctor swat away the vines. Sunlight blinded them for a moment before they laid their eyes on the scene before them.

— — —

Time blurred the moment you tried taking a few steps out of the crater. Your body started to buzz and dots danced along your vision. Quick, fast heartbeats, uneven breathing, and lightheadedness were the only signs that you weren’t going to stay conscious for much longer. 

A muffled voice picks up in your fuzzy mind. Were they muffled or did your hearing fail you? You vaguely feel your body slump to the ground. A pair of arms grab you. You existed outside of your body. Any feeling you possessed faded, leaving you to watch as people drag you off the ground. You were lifted and your arms were slung around two shoulders. Panicked voices barely registered. 

Slowly, the voices were overpowered by ringing in your ears and your pounding heart. The black in your vision grows larger until you feel the weight of your eyelids dropping. Your mind bears no thought as you slip out of consciousness. 

— — —

You have a close relationship with pain and all of its forms. You’ve been subjected to the universe’s worse foes and clawed your way to victory. Bones have been broken, and blood—both yours and otherwise—had been shed. Parts of you have been lost and you gained more armor to guard your weakest points. When you crashed into the jungle, it was undoubtedly the worst your body had been subjected to.

The pain in your shoulders rudely snaps you back into the waking world. First, you feel the burning soreness in your upper back. It traveled all over in the form of stinging and aching. You audibly groan as you shifted in your bed. 

The cot let out an audible squeak as you swung your legs over the edge. Aches and pains made you stiff in your movements. The metal floor sent a cold sting to your feet as you tried to stand. 

Glowing orange walls surrounded the expansive room and gave an ambiance. The whole structure of the walls and vents that decorate the walls seemed to be a campy alien spaceship from a movie in the 90s. The ceiling had large air ducts, circular tubes, and multi-colored wires jutting out. A metal sink and mirror were situated on the other side of the room. Between you and the sink was a metal table with multiple shelves. On each shelf were bottles of disinfectant, medical tools, and vials with substances that glowed. 

You inhaled deeply, ignoring the sharp pain from your lungs expanding, and used the wall to guide you to the sink and mirror. Your joints creaked painfully and your steps were uneven. Half shuffling, half limping you pushed your aching body. Breathe, you had to remind yourself. When approaching the sink, you grabbed the edge of the counter. The arch of your feet was sore and your knees ached in protest. 

The first glimpse of your reflection made your heart jump to your throat. Your eyes snag on the numerous discolored patches of swollen skin. Your cheekbones and jaw were various shades of black and blue. Between the bruises were bandaged stitches crisscrossing irritated skin. Whatever small cuts that were too small for stitches were scabbed over in a dark red crust. The smaller cuts decorated the marred skin down your neck and—you assumed—underneath the white shirt. When you shifted closer, you saw a haunting ghost staring back. Despite how the sight of your face left you sick, you couldn’t move your eyes away. Lifting your head around, you let your eyes capture every new gash and bruise. 24 cuts. 7 of those had stitches. 4 large bruises. 

“You’re supposed to be on bed rest,” an accented voice cuts through your thoughts. 

You whip your head around to meet the stranger. Were you so caught in your thoughts you failed to hear his footsteps?

The man was a few paces ahead of you. Brown hair framed his boyish features. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his brown tweed jacket. He stood leisurely, but his eyes analyzed every movement of your face. It wasn’t curiosity. He was cautious. 

Whatever moisture was left in your swollen throat dried up at his stare. The cracked skin on your lips stretched painfully as you forced a few words out, “Who are you?”

“I’m The Doctor,” he says simply. As if it was a simple truth of the world. 

“Did you stitch me up? No offense, but…You don’t look like any medical professional,” you mumbled. More accurately, he didn’t remind you of Stephen. The Doctor lacked the crisp demeanor and commanding aura that Stephen possessed. If anything, the man in front of you looked more like an English professor than a medical doctor. 

“Why yes, I did! Are you in pain? No itching, fever, aches?” he stepped closer to get a better view. His hands were clasped loosely in front of him and he had to bend slightly to get to your eye level. 

“No, none of that. Where exactly…” you trailed off looking at the room around you.

The Doctor seemed to understand what you intended to ask, “Ah, well you’re safe first and foremost. We’re in space and while the chances of encountering other life aren’t zero, it’s safer than where we were on Earth.”

His words threw you in a loop. Space? Taking a good look around the room, you would expect this place to be a cafe at Tomorrowland, not a spacecraft. It didn’t look like any of the alien spaceships you’ve encountered. Back home, ships were sleek and minimal with neutral colors. Even flashy party ships made 100 years ago still had a level of pristine that wasn’t reflected in the room you were in.  

Your heartbeat started to rise; pieces of a puzzle started coming together. You were in another universe. That in of itself isn’t hard to believe and you’ve had your fair share of multiversal adventures in the past decade. Something was wrong. Fundamentally wrong. Beyond the torn muscles and barely-functioning organs, you felt the unease deep in your soul. 

“How did you find me?” 

“Who didn’t find you is the real question,” The Doctor dug his hand into his pocket and retrieved a strange cylindrical device. Clicking a button, the tool let out a high-pitched whine and he used it to scan your upper chest area, “A rip in space-time, though not normal, wasn’t anything to write home about. What did catch my eye was the amount of CMBR lingering in the impact area. Practically every fleet within a few hundred light years and a working broadcaster would pick up the radiation. ”

“Cosmic background radiation? From the hole in space-time?” 

“Not exactly,” the device stopped ringing and The Doctor looked at a window on the side of it, “In fact…it came from you.”

You scoffed at his accusation. When you met his deadpan expression, your smile dropped. 

“Oh, you’re being serious. Like…Radiation from the Big Bang inside my body…Right now?”

“For some reason, your body is keeping it stable and housing it within your veins and muscles. When we moved you from the crash sight, your body seemed to absorb any leftover radiation from the clothes on my body and in the air.”

Looking down at your wrapped hands, you see the split skin around the skin of your fingers. A thick layer of scabs prevented you from seeing the muscle underneath. You could feel the stones’ powers weaving between your fingers and down your arm. Your nerves were too numb to determine if the heat of the magic hurt or warmed you. Everything felt static.

“Listen to me (Y/N), I need you to—”

The Doctor’s words died when he saw you back away immediately. 

“I didn’t tell you my name,” your voice wavered. 

Sensing the change in your mood, he brought his hands up, “It was in your wallet—”

“Wallet? Y-You have my wallet? You went through my robes?”

Your robes were your pride and joy. For four years you intricately stitched runes into the inside fabric, seams, and the lining of your pockets. Layers of protection interlocked and knotted together to not only make the pockets seemingly disappear when you’re not wearing it but were physically incapable of opening up when it was off your body. It would take years to even get rid of the knotted magical energies before you could even begin to undo your runes. You made sure of that. 

The Doctor dug into his jacket pocket before revealing a familiar rose-colored rectangle. Before he held it out toward you, you snatched it from his hand. Flipping it open, you were horrified to see the black-and-white image of your driver’s license. Your pocket change, gift cards, and stacks of talismans were still where you left them. Without a doubt, you were holding your wallet in your hands. Everything from the frayed ends to the scratches of the leather was the exact same. 

Not even Wong had the ability to break your runes. Three hundred and forty-one runes, thirty-five charms, and twenty curses. Yet some wimpy Englishman with no eyebrows seemingly had the skill needed to break down your life’s work. 

I don’t know whether to be mad or impressed. 

“How the fuck did you break them? The runes, the curses—How the fuck did that happen?” you gawked at the items in your hand.  

The Doctor had his hands up and backed up slowly to gain distance from you, “You were bleeding! We had to remove your clothes and hoped we could identify you.”

“And the wallet fell out?”

“Yes! I swear,” fear was evident on his face. His words slightly wobbled and his breaths were quick. 

He tells the truth.

Your body had a way of connecting with others subconsciously. It wasn’t telepathy or some magical spell. It is a primal instinct. Fear, truths, and lies crackled in the air and your body could sense the change. The Doctor’s words didn’t leave an ache in your gut or a tingle down your spine. Anxiety pooled in your stomach, taking root and branching outwards. 

When placing runes, one must embed power into them. Eldritch magic drew power from external dimensions and those energies expanded into the greater multiverse. No matter where you were, those energies should feed into the runes and power them. 

Unless…

“Who protects Earth from external threats?” you tried to keep your voice even. 

The Doctor narrowed his eyes at you, “Depends on the threat. Not to toot my own horn, but I have been the one to stop many of the otherworldly threats that plague our universe.”

“The Avengers? S.H.I.E.L.D.? Guardians of the Galaxy?” 

“Nope, never heard of ‘em. Sounds like cool band names wouldn’t you think?” The Doctor gave a small, cheeky smile. 

“Iron Man? Spider-Man? The Sorcerer Supreme? Do none of those names ring a bell?” 

“No—Wait, what exactly are you asking for?”

“Are you seriously telling me that you—” you point your finger at his face, “ —are the sole protector of Earth?”

The Doctor straightened his jacket and gave a pleased look, “Well when you put it that way. Of course, I’m not the only one. You’ve probably heard of them, uh…U.N.I.T. and Torchwood? They’re Earth’s protectors against extraterrestrial threats.”

“What about mystical ones?”

“Mystical? Why on Earth would you need to—oh. I see it now.”

Hope bloomed in your chest. Maybe it has been a while since he’s seen Earth. You weren’t crazy, something in this universe must mirror your own. Maybe it was a niche superhero or maybe he knew someone who—

“You’re a Sporgatuu. Explains the weird robes and odd questions. Look, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. The answer is, no! I will not join your stupid lil’ club no matter how many women you send!”

You gaped him. Is he seriously accusing you of being a missionary?

“I mean c’mon! After 2 thousand years you still believe in fairy—”

“Multiverses! Do you know anything about the multiverse?”

The Doctor scoffed at your question, “Again with the ol’ multiverse nonsense. When will you learn that our timeline is a fixed one? If so much as a single alternate universe was created, it could greatly distort our reality and cause everything to collapse in on itself!”

“I am from an alternate multiverse! You said I had CMBR in my body. It was because I came from a universe where I accidentally absorbed the physical energies of our universe and…Uh, unknowingly came here. I-I just assumed that the properties of your universe would be close to mine.”

You let out a shaky breath. In the span of a few minutes, you’re entire worldview came crashing down in one single blow. Never, in the years you’ve been a sorcerer traveling the multiverse and higher dimensions alike, had you encountered a universe where the fate of humanity rested on a goddamn Englishman. In almost every parallel universe there existed at least a group of like-minded powerful protectors. Most universes had a Sorcerer Supreme, Avengers, or The Illuminati. With the magical energies residing within the universe, it guaranteed that every single universe had magical protectors of some kind. 

The Doctor’s eyes widened, his mouth slightly agape as he tried to process your words. The silence that enveloped you amplified the thoughts swarming in your head. You started to pick at the edge of the gauze around your palms trying to keep yourself calm. Breathe. In and out. 

“This is ridiculous. You seriously believe in alternate timelines?” The Doctor ran a hand through his hair. 

“I don’t know what rock you’ve been living under. Unless you got a better theory on how I acquired numerous burn marks and radiation, I’m going to find a way back home. If you’re not gonna help me then just give me my clothes and stuff. I’ll be out of your hair.”

“No, absolutely not. I mean this with all due respect, but you’re a mess. When we found you, you were a writhing, bloody mess.”

You rubbed your face and let out a deep groan, “I don’t have time for this. Seriously, if you’re not going to help I’ll grab my stuff and leave. With or without your permission.”

Turning away, you start to walk away and toward the entrance of the room. You only made it a few paces before a hand gently grabbed your wrist, stopping your advancement. Turning your head over your shoulder, you meet The Doctor’s worried face. 

He looked stuck in thought. Striking green eyes flittered between yours and around your face. You didn’t dare move a muscle. 

“Prove it,” his voice is above a whisper, but there is intent behind his words, “Prove that your universe exists. If what you’re saying is true, I will help you get back home. In the meantime, you’re going to have to stay here until you’re fully healed. There’s a chance your body would reject the radiation.”

If what he said about your robes were true, and the fact that seemingly none of your allies existed in this world, Eldritch magic wouldn’t be possible. You feel it in the stagnant air around you. Beyond the humming of machinery and electricity flowing between circuits, the void of space is dead. Back home, energies were a powerful current that you could barely control. An ocean of power that could drown you if you did not respect it. The universe you crashed into is empty and cold. 

“And if I can’t?” you clenched your hand to keep your voice steady.

The Doctor smiled, “Then you’ll have to stick by for a while.”

taglist:

@angelxx7 @namenotimportant1373 @venomsvl

[tens-girl]

Reached that stage of Good Omens fanfic writing where my open tabs include Christian mythology of the war in Heaven, the chemical composition of stars, and diagrams of the anatomy of wings…

It’s a slippery slope from just wanting to write some smut about the universe’s most tempting demon…

(And it’s my universe, so the Tenth Doctor running his fingers through Crowley’s feathers is perfectly normal, obviously)

[ghostofafruit]

I'm moving over to focusing on my more longform fics! But I have a bunch being planned, so I wanted to know which one had the most interest!

It's Not Really a Secret - The continuation, and completion, of the already long ago started Merlin fic. Uther discovers Merlin has magic, but Merlin discovers he's immortal. I've got a further 5k words written for it already!

Title-less Good Omens x MCU Spider-Man crossover - Post s2 Crowley needs a change of scenry, and with the help of some friends, he finds himself living in a shitty apartment owned by a shady landlord. Post NWH Peter is struggling with his new life, but at least he's not homeless anymore even if his apartment is odd and his landlord is shady to say the least. (It's a neighbours crossover basically)

The Misadventures of Rose Tyler - A series of 17 3-8 chapter fics following an immortal Rose Tyler as she tries desperately to return to her birth universe. Hijinks ensue in other universes, sometimes crossover hijinks.

Peter Parker, Totally Not a Half-Blood - Peter Parker is perfectly ordinary, he's not sure why so many people seem to think he's not. His spider-like nature is entirely because of the spider-bite. So what if he already had spider-like allergies before the bite? Or a love of high places? Or weaving? He's not, despite what so many may say, the son of Arachne

Title-less Doctor Who x MCU crossover - The Doctor and Rose find themselves stranded in an alternate universe. Despite their best efforts, the Tardis refuses to move, at all. They have no choice but to blend in. Rose get's a job at Midtown School Of Science and Technology, and gets pulled into chapheoring on the school trip to Stark Industries. Along with helping out with that, her and the Doctor have figured out that Spider-Man is young and feel the need to help him out.

Married Life - A Doctor Who Series 2 AU with the Doctor and Rose being married, featuring episode rewrites, original adventures, and plenty of hijinks

Title-less Hells Belles x MCU crossover - When the blip happened, half the entire universe ended up in the grand lobby of the after life. Several volounteers and employees of the Front Deathsk had watched parts of the blip happen. The blipped don't count as dead, and as such can't face universal judgement. Between the hellp desk, the front deathsk, and several blipped heroes, they figure out a pocket dimension for half the universe. In this pocket dimension, on it's Earth, Peter reveals his identity as Spider-man, mostly because he'd already spent days wandering around in the ruined suit helping out. When the blip gets reversed, the majority of the blipped Earth resiednts keep Peter's identity secret, those that try to reveal who he is aren't believed. When his identity is revealed, the blipped try to help him out. This one is the most convoluted and would take a lot of planning!!

[oldfangirl81]

I feel like around college but summers are particularly in need of stories about what Stiles was doing. It would be extra fun for brief crossovers.

"Hey Dad, sorry about earlier. Turns out I'm out a job again. This place wasn't lying about being the most haunted city in America. Oh, no it wasn't the ghosts who destroyed my place of employment but local ghost hunters. The ghosts are neat."

"Derek, I promise I'll be there for Eli's first birthday. A friend is going to fly me. Um, no need to pick me up from the airport. Connor just wants to meet you in return. Something about winning a bet against his boyfriend."

"Hey Scott, do you know anything about baby foxes? Yes, Damian, I promise he can be trusted to find out what we should do next."

"Hey Melissa, can you make sure Dad got the package? Not sure when I'll be on the planet again...I mean back in town."

"Boyd, I'm going to need you to keep the pack from watching the news. I might have gotten caught up in a tiny Tsunami in Santa Monica."

"Peter, how could you not warn me that royal family is actually werewolves and that Doctor Who was just really lampshading facts? Also, there is one less Argent alive. Apparently trying for the first son's lover is a bad thing for longevity."

"Erica, make sure to repeat I'm fine and on my way home if Derek sees the news. But the BAU was impressed by my internship over the summer. So really it is a win. I should get a punch card over how many serial killers take me hostage."

[shadesofdeviant]

Just gonna drop this here as a little teaser.

My Good Omens x Doctor Who crossover is a-go.

What happens when The Doctor and Donna are joined for the events of "The Giggle" by an immortal occult being with a familiar face.

Crowley just wants to know who butchered his creation and renamed it 'mavity', and what's this about God being turned into a jack-in-the-box?

You got me trapped in your dark fantasy world Don't you know you make me woozy? You have me wrapped around your little finger Baby, don't you know You can't lose You make me offers that I can't refuse You keep telling pretty lies You're tired with the truth Only you're killing me with your Propaganda

Currently a WIP being written. Hopefully to begin posting soon.