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on begged and borrowed time

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Starting at the end, it’ll be her hands — pushing away, or clinging on, or gesturing wildly.

It’ll be her face, as the last one you see, and vice versa.

It’ll be the feeling of her skin under yours, and the familiar way she says your name in a voice that will change with her. It’ll be quiet and slow and painful — a heartache you’ve yet to experience. A wound you can’t reach, dug deep somewhere in your chest with no hope of a scab over. It’ll be a loss like a you’ve never felt before.

But the end is far away, if she’s counting by the seconds. It’s a ticking clock that’s edging closer, but it seems pointless to dwell on the things that will happen no matter how hard she tries to stop them.

That’s what she tells herself, anyways. What she reminds herself of as she gets ready in her room. Their rendezvous point. The Doctor said she should feel comfortable, so maybe her room in the tardis would be best. Yaz doesn’t tell her she’s comfortable wherever the Doctor is. It feels like an unnecessary twist of a knife, especially cruel given the circumstances. A reminder that neither of them needs right now.

They’d talked about setting it up, pretending to be strangers in a bar, thinking maybe it’d make the last moments easier, but it all seemed so pointless when the end result was the same — and truthfully, Yaz doesn’t think she can wait that much longer (and subconsciously, she knows the Doctor can’t either).

She wipes her sweaty palms on the thigh of her jeans and thinks about taking them off. Maybe that would be too forward? But what is considered too forward when the Doctor is waiting for her cue to come in, for them to—

There’s a knock at the door and Yaz jumps, startled. She hadn’t expected her to knock. That’s not how this is supposed to go — not how they planned it to go (but then again, when has anything they’ve done gone to plan?). She wipes her hands once more, trying to calm her racing nerves, and reminds herself that this is the Doctor. This is her Doctor. The woman she’s traveled with for years. The one who knows her better than anyone else in the entire universe.

The one who will (hopefully) fuck her brains out so hard that losing her to regeneration won’t feel so full of chances neither of them were brave enough to take.

The door creaks open in the time it takes Yaz to steady herself, and the Doctor’s head cautiously peeks around. She looks as nervous as Yaz feels and that somehow makes Yaz feel calmer. At least it’s not just her.

“Knock knock.”

Yaz can’t stop the sides of her lips from twitching up, trying to keep the smile off her face from the Doctor’s stupid joke. “You’re supposed to knock before you open the door.”

She shrugs and nudges the door enough to slip in, kicking it closed with her boot. “Don’t like to get bogged down in the order of things,” she says, looking around the room. Her hands clasp behind her back and she rocks on her toes while she studies the shelf of knick knacks Yaz keeps adding to — things she’d picked up on their travels. Her face gets close to a small jar, and she brightens. “Ah! I remember that one! When Ryan got stung by those bee people and they apologized with the special honey!” 

“Yeah, the honey that’s lethal to humans,” Yaz adds, and she crosses her arms over her chest just to give her hands something to do.

The Doctor makes a face and leans back. “Yeah, probably shouldn’t keep that out. Someone might accidentally eat some.”

“Meaning you?”

She shrugs. “Maybe. Sometimes I get hungry at night, forget the things I keep round here that are poisonous. It happens.”

Not really, but Yaz doesn’t say that. She doesn’t know what to say, actually, and they fall into silence as the Doctor continues to look around the room as if she’s never been here before.

“Nice room y’got here — the tardis obviously likes you. She only gives the nice rooms to the people she likes.”

“So your room must be a broom closet then?” Yaz quips.

The Doctor opens her mouth in mock outrage. “Yasmin Khan, how dare you! The tardis loves me! Right, old girl?”

The lights dim and somewhere deeper into the ship, Yaz hears a beeping noise. The Doctor frowns.

“Doesn’t sound like it.”

“She’s just upset I left her in a bit of a mess last time I regenerated. I promised I won’t do that again! Only clean regenerations from now on!”

The word brings the room to a standstill, as if the air itself isn’t even moving. The low hum that’s always present in the tardis is suspiciously absent now, and it feels suffocating. Yaz hadn’t realized how much she’d come to rely on that noise to fill the space and now that it’s gone she feels like her heart is going to carve itself right out of her chest.

The Doctor frowns. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Yaz says, voice only slightly strained. Her throat is tight. She swallows in hopes that helps. (It doesn’t.)

“Do you…need to get ready?”

The heart that had collapsed in her chest is suddenly back and beating stronger than ever, pounding hard enough that she’s pretty sure you’d be able to see it through her shirt. Her voice cracks on the only word she tries to say. “Ready?”

The Doctor shoves her hands into her pockets and doesn’t make eye contact anymore, instead looking around the room again. “Yeah! Y’know, if you wanted, I dunno, to shower? Or something?”

“I’ve already showered.”

The Doctor’s eyes snap back to her and she looks like she’s finally taking it in that Yaz has changed from the yellow jacket and red shirt, instead opting for something softer. It didn’t feel fitting to put those clothes back on, not with everything that’s happened (and everything that’s going to happen).

“Right.” She frowns again. She’s doing that a lot. Yaz doesn’t like it, and she desperately wants to do something about it. “I can…come back, if you want. Or need. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable, or like we have to do this — because we don’t! We can do something else! Like go to that meringue planet that I’d mentioned, or get some ice cream. One last trip for old times sake. And I heard of a new shop on the other side of the galaxy in about 300 years that sells the best constellation choc chip, made with real stardust! It even comes with its own little floating planet around the cone!”

It’s so easy to let herself fall back into old habits that she almost agrees. She almost just lets the Doctor lead her out, because going for ice cream feels far easier than any of this, and she even almost believes she’d be okay with an ending like that. Almost okay never knowing — okay with never being brave.

Except she’s not, and because she’s acted selflessly for years now, she thinks the universe owes her one thing. The Doctor owes her one thing. And Yaz owes it to both of them.

So she’s brave, and she uncrosses her arms and tries to keep the shake from her voice and almost manages to hide the nervous edge. She relaxes her clenched hands, and steadies herself inside, and she’s brave.

And goddamn, she’s cursing herself for not kissing the Doctor sooner.

It’s so bloody easy that she almost lets out a sob, right into the Doctor’s mouth. The way they fit together is something she’s read about in romance books but never thought she’d get, and it sounds pathetic to even try to explain. As if words could ever do it justice to describe the feel of the Doctor shaking in her arms, trembling, and gripping Yaz’s biceps as if she’s the one who’s going to disappear soon. It feels like too much and so little all at once, and it’s only natural when the Doctor pushes her forward until the backs of her knees hit the edge of the bed and she’s forced to sit down.

They don’t break for a single moment and the Doctor immediately straddles her lap, boots digging into the sides of Yaz’s knees. Her hand is on Yaz’s neck, just like it was earlier, except this time she’s rubbing her thumb over Yaz’s thudding pulse and it’s doing things to her that are absolutely not PG. There’s a hand on her shoulder, on her hip, sliding under her shirt and brushing the underwire of her bra, and Yaz wishes she hadn’t put it back on. Why did she even bother getting dressed? What was even the point? It feels so stupid to have done it now that she’s mentally cursing herself again for overthinking it all.

It’s her name that does it, really. The way the Doctor says it between kisses, as if she can only break for seconds at a time before needing another fix, and Yaz sure as hell isn’t going to deny her that.

“Yaz.”

Mortifyingly, she almost moans. She manages to hold it back, but just barely, and instead plays it off like a gasp at the Doctor’s blunt nails digging into her ribs.

“Yeah?” she says, taking a deep, shuddering breath. The hand on her ribs flattens, fingers splayed out.

The Doctor pulls back and looks dazed and — bloody hell. Her mouth is wet, and her lips are pink, and her tongue actually darts out to lick at them. Yaz can’t keep her eyes off of them, and the Doctor can’t keep her eyes off Yaz.

“I don’t remember what I were gonna say,” she mumbles distractedly. The fingers under Yaz’s shirt start to dance over the side strap of her bra. “I, uh…”

Yaz’s whole entire body is on edge. She feels ready to run away or start doing jumping jacks, and she can’t decide which. Her hands tighten on the Doctor’s hips and she realizes she hasn’t moved them a single bit since they’d started, and that feels like a crime. It should be illegal for her to have the Doctor in her lap while they’re both fully clothed. There’s absolutely no time to be wasted here.

“Doctor? Can I just say…” Her fingers dip under the waistband of soft trousers. Softer than she’d ever imagined. She’s touched them before, sure, but never like this. Never touched these parts. And doing that, touching the Doctor where she never has before, makes her feel like she can do or say anything. “You really need to get out of these clothes.”

There’s a silence that’s so long that Yaz almost thinks it’s the wrong thing to have said. Maybe she was too brave. Maybe that’s too far. Maybe she won’t even get the reference and it’ll just seem like Yaz is some teenage pervert. Maybe —

The Doctor shakes when she laughs, and then almost falls off Yaz’s lap (and the bed). It takes a quick reflex for Yaz to catch her with a hand on her arse, holding her still while she continues to laugh like Yaz has just told the funniest joke in the entire world.

“Right you are, Yasmin Khan,” she says with a final chuckle, and then she’s sliding off Yaz’s lap and very clumsily trying to take her suspenders off without taking her coat off first, all while hopping on one leg while she pulls at her boot. It’s the most chaotic thing Yaz has ever seen, and she thinks she should help, right? That would be polite? Proper? To help out? But when she stands up to help, the Doctor holds out a hand.

“I’ve got it, gimme a mo.” Her boot flings off and hits the wall, probably leaving a dent. Neither of them bother to look at where it landed, and the other one flies the other way a few seconds later. And then the Doctor is haphazardly sliding clothes off in no actual order until she’s —

Oh.

Yaz’s eyes widen. When they’d talked about this — in the brief time they’d talked about it, between her hand glowing with regeneration energy and both of them admitting they didn’t want to leave with regrets — she hadn’t considered that she’d actually be seeing the Doctor naked, or even mostly unclothed. And now, having her standing here in front of her, it’s suddenly a lot to handle.

She’d look away if she could, but her body has a mind of its own and can’t keep her eyes from staying locked on each new piece of pale skin that’s uncovered as the Doctor strips off a t-shirt, and then her trousers, and then another t-shirt. She doesn’t even hesitate, as if she’s not the slightest bit uncomfortable being naked in front of Yaz, and this entire situation is so Doctor-y that Yaz feels a manic laugh bubble up in her throat.

The Doctor pauses, fingers hooked in the bottom of her sports bra. “What’s funny?”

Yaz covers her mouth, instantly feeling bad. The Doctor is undressing in front of her and she’s laughing. What kind of monster is she?

“Sorry, I’m not laughing at you,” she says, trying to smooth the situation over.

“Well yeah, I didn’t think you were,” the Doctor says sincerely. “Think of a good joke or summat?” Her fingers lift the bra and it gets tossed somewhere that Yaz doesn’t care a single bit about.

Okay, if she’s being honest — and being honest now seems like as good a time as ever — she’s thought about the Doctor’s tits…a lot. Like, often. She can’t help herself, and she would never have assumed her imagination was correct in any way, but goddamn. If people wrote poems about women’s tits, Yaz would write one right now.

She’s so distracted with staring at the Doctor’s chest that she barely notices her boxers being tugged down, or the Doctor approaching her once more. She only really comes to when fingers start to tug at her belt and Yaz feels a wave of heat wash over her body, making her slightly dizzy.

“Whoa,” she murmurs, holding onto the Doctor’s arm. Her eyes close and she sits back down because she might just pass out from everything happening so fast and she definitely doesn’t want to miss any of this because she can’t keep her head about her when a pretty woman is undressing.

“You alright?” The Doctor’s voice is concerned and Yaz feels a hand touch her forehead. “You’re hot.”

“Not so bad yourself,” Yaz quips. She can almost hear the Doctor’s eye roll.

“Do you want to stop?”

Not in a million years.

The Doctor laughs.

Shit, did she say that out loud?

“Alright, then,” she says. “Do you need space for a minute?”

What she needs is to suddenly be out of her clothes. She suddenly feels suffocated in the t-shirt and jeans and if she doesn’t get them off in the next few seconds she’s going to explode.

“I’m just hot, I need air,” she says, starting to tug her shirt up.

“Here, lemme help,” the Doctor murmurs, and then Yaz’s shirt is over her head. Her jeans are next and they do a bit of maneuvering to get them over her hips, and Yaz falls back on the bed as the Doctor works on pulling them down her calves and off her feet. Her socks, too, and she’s suddenly blissfully cooler than she was a few seconds ago. “That better?” the Doctor asks.

“Much.” Yaz’s eyes blink open finally and she sees the familiar ceiling of her bedroom. The swirling galaxies remind her of home and she realizes it’s because she sees the tardis as her home, and not because they remind her of Earth.

There’s silence next. A long pause while Yaz feels the tightening of her heart as she realizes this is the one home she’s felt at ease in, and she’ll have to say goodbye to it soon.

“I’m gonna miss this,” she admits quietly. Something of a confession, that sits heavy in her stomach. Less heavy when she adds, “I’m gonna miss you.”

The Doctor answers immediately — automatically. “I’ll miss you too, Yaz.”

Yaz snorts. “No you won’t. You’ll be…” she waves a hand, “new. And have another companion with the new you.”

They’ve never talked this frankly about what happens next — about how the Doctor will go on without Yaz, almost as if she’d never existed in the first place. Sure, there will probably be looks, and moments of silence if her name ever comes up, but the Doctor is gonna move on. She’ll do it because she has to, and Yaz will do the same.

In some ways, this feels like a breakup.

“I’m sorry.”

Yaz looks down then — down her body at the woman kneeling in front of her, almost between her legs. Completely naked and looking more war torn than Yaz has ever seen her. This, she thinks, might be the hardest battle the Doctor has ever endured. This ongoing one, not starting with Yaz and not ending with her either, but including her somewhere in the middle. The battle between time and the Doctor, between the Doctor and fate. It must be so tiring being immortal.

She doesn’t say it’s alright. It’s not like it would mean anything, or solve the problem, or even make the Doctor feel better at all. It’s not alright, and they both know it, but the cards have already been dealt and now they live with them as they’ve come.

Yaz shifts up onto her elbows and reaches out for the Doctor. When her hand hits something solid she feels relief, and the Doctor has an infectious grin on her face as she clumsily climbs onto the bed, hovering over Yaz’s body. Her knees dig into the mattress next to Yaz’s hips, hands doing the same on either side of her head, and Yaz can only think of one thing she wants in the entire universe right this very moment.

The Doctor kisses her like it’s their last, hard and passionate and full of things they’ll never get to say. There’s so much behind it that Yaz feels like she’s going to choke on it all until the Doctor pulls away with a gasp and presses heated lips against Yaz’s neck. Over her thudding pulse, sucking a hickey right into the dip on her shoulder. Teach scrape, and a tongue soothes over, and Yaz is (once again) putty in her hands.

The Doctor suddenly sits back on her heels. “I remembered what I were gonna say!” she exclaims. “Do you have a preference on how we have sex?”

It’s so blunt that Yaz is sure she’s heard wrong.

“Uh…”

“If you have specific kinks, or some things can’t make you come. I’m not great with a lot of penetration, meself, but I can do a finger or two! And if you’ve got any preferences like that, we can probably make it work. I’m sure I’ve got a strap-on laying round here somewhere, if I look.” She frowns and looks around the room, as if her strap-on is going to be lying around somewhere in Yaz’s room. “Gotta remember where River put it last. But I’m sure I could find it!”

The image of the Doctor wearing a strap-on is literally the only thing Yaz can think of right now, and she’s almost mourning the fact she’ll probably never experience it. Especially if the glowing of her hand is anything to go by, then they don’t have time to stop by a sex shop.

“I’m okay with anything,” Yaz says, voice barely even strangled at all. And then she adds, “Except anal. Not really…into that.”

The Doctor nods like Yaz has told her a really interesting fact about herself.

“Right, understandable. I love anal.”

Right. Understandable. Wait —

“But I’m not gonna ask you to do that,” the Doctor adds. “Not for our first time, anyways.” She winks.

It’s funny, kind of, how the Doctor says first time and Yaz thinks of it as last time . There’s something in there about how the Doctor must see it as a beginning while Yaz sees it as the end.

“I, um…”

“Unless you…want to?” The Doctor’s brows knit together and she looks actually puzzled.

Yaz cannot believe she’s having a conversation about anal while the Doctor is sitting naked on her lap.

“Doctor?” Yaz says, settling her hands on the Doctor’s bare hips. Her skin is warm, which is unexpected considering she literally always runs cold and she’s never been more bare than right now. “How about we just…do what feels right.”

The Doctor’s face breaks out into a grin and she nods. “Brilliant idea, Yasmin Khan. Gold star. And ten extra points. Think that puts you above Ryan.”

Yaz feels such a surge of affection in her chest that she almost can’t breathe, but she manages a chuckle. “Oh please, I’ve been above Ryan for years now.”

“Can’t confirm nor deny. You know I don’t choose favorites.”

Yaz grins cheekily. “Sure, but I’m definitely the favorite, right?”

Instead of answering her, the Doctor leans down for another kiss.

Oh yeah, Yaz is definitely the favorite.

She’s almost getting used to kissing the Doctor. Almost getting used to feeling her skin, the bumps of her spine when she runs her hands up, the expansion of her ribs when she takes a particularly sharp breath. There’s so much that’s new but it already feels familiar in a way that Yaz has only ever felt in her own body. Like she knows every place to press, every inch to map out, every minute detail that’ll make the Doctor gasp into her mouth. Like she could settle into the Doctor’s chest and know her way around in the dark.

(Like she’s finally home.)

Kissing the Doctor is incredible, but feeling hands on her own body is almost too much. The Doctor teases the edge of her bra, fingers dipping under the straps, and Yaz is going a little bit insane at the anticipation. It’s sort of killing her and she almost breathes a sigh of relief when it’s finally pushed up her chest.

“Can I—”

“Please,” Yaz interrupts, eyes still closed. She doesn’t know what the Doctor was gonna say but it doesn’t matter. At this point she’d let her do anything (even anal) without the slightest bit of resistance.

One hand palms her left breast and Yaz feels fireworks explode in her chest, singing the relief of finally as she’s touched like she’s been aching for for years. A rough thumb runs over her stiffening nipple and —

“Fuck!”

Her back arches but the Doctor stays put, mouth following her as she gently sucks another hickey to the underside of Yaz’s breast. A hand lays flat against her side and holds her in place, and a tongue runs over the heated skin, and then the Doctor has Yaz’s nipple in her mouth and Yaz really can’t be blamed for the words that spill from her lips. Curses and moans, pleas for more, and the Doctor’s name mixed in between somewhere.

There’s teeth on her ribs, and the Doctor’s hand sliding down her stomach. Fireworks exploding behind her eyelids and a dizzying feeling as the Doctor leaves another hickey above her left breast, over the thudding heart in Yaz’s chest. Over the heart threatening to jump out and present itself to her, as if she’ll be holding onto it for long.

The pointlessness of this all comes rushing in. The bittersweet helplessness she feels at this entire situation. The sickening irony of it all. Because it’s funny, right? That the first woman Yaz has let herself truly fall for, without checking for a parachute first, is the one that will be her end. Always so careful to never get too close, never let herself get too attached, and yet Yaz is here, far too attached for her own good, and she can’t decide if she’s worse off because of it.

Tears well up in her eyes and she quickly wipes them away with the palm of her hand. She doesn’t want to cry during sex, especially not when it’ll be their last.

The Doctor doesn’t seem to notice, thankfully, and continues sucking dark marks onto Yaz’s skin, feeling how she reacts to every swipe of her tongue and brush of her fingertips. At some point Yaz’s hands end up in her hair and that seems to be very favorable because the Doctor changes position slightly, trails her lips up to Yaz’s neck and straddles one thigh. Yaz half expects the Doctor to push her thigh up, make Yaz grind on it, but then the Doctor lifts her chin and kisses her fervently at the same time as her other hand makes its way into Yaz’s underwear, not pausing in the slightest. The Doctor kisses her open mouth when she gasps in response to the fingers on her clit, rubbing small, tight circles, exactly how Yaz does when she’s alone.

“Oh my god—“

The Doctor slips one finger in and Yaz almost comes.

“Fuck, I’m close, Doctor, I’m gonna—“

Her thigh is wet. Wet and warm. And for half a second Yaz thinks the Doctor must’ve spilled something? Until—

“Just a bit longer, Yaz,” the Doctor husks against her cheek, hot breath ghosting over the shell of her ear. Her hips roll forward and Yaz feels more warmth on her thigh.

Oh, bloody fucking hell.

The Doctor’s free hand (not currently teasing Yaz’s cunt) reaches down to pull Yaz’s thigh a bit higher, giving her a better angle, and she starts grinding harder, hips snapping forward with each movement.

Yaz clenches so tight around the single digit that the Doctor pauses for just a second, pulling out slightly (but not stopping her grinding) and lifting her head so she can look Yaz in the eyes.

“Alright?”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

Fuck!

Her brain can’t process all of this information at once. It’s slow as molasses, barely able to get it through that the Doctor is getting off on her thigh while she fucks her. The Doctor is getting off on fucking her. The Doctor is getting off!

She whines in response. Something needy and wanting and almost pathetic. Her tongue feels like it can’t form words anymore, stuck in her mouth and useless to her now. Honestly, she might come from this alone. Which seems to also be the Doctor’s position because her grinding suddenly speeds up and turns a bit more jerky.

She doesn’t have to answer verbally because the Doctor knows her better than she knows herself, and has always been able to read her like an open book. And so she pushes past the tightness, adding another finger when Yaz relaxes, and curling them both up in a way that makes her see stars. Or is that the ceiling of her bedroom? Nope, stars, behind her eyelids, because her eyes are closed now and she doesn’t remember doing that. And the Doctor is talking to her and saying things Yaz can barely hear, in a language she only faintly understands. One she’s only learned by deciphering the screens in the console room, but never heard spoken aloud.

She understands all the same, and the feeling of the words seeps into her bones and nestle deep in her chest. With every thrust of fingers, and sharp snap of her hips, the Doctor repeats a few words into her ear, over and over again.

The Doctor is saying I love you.

Yaz does the only thing she can do in response, hoping the Doctor can feel everything she’s feeling as they press their lips together, moaning into each other's mouths when they find the perfect rhythm. Yaz holds the Doctor close, one hand sliding down to her hip to feel her move while the other cups her neck, feeling the double pulse that’s going faster than a hummingbird. The Doctor drops her head down until their foreheads are almost touching, noses bumping with their movements. The Doctor’s eyes are closed but Yaz focuses on her mouth, on the very faint freckles that dot her cheeks. The curve of her brow and the twitch of that wonky lip that isn’t quite right on both sides. She studies it all, tracing it with her eyes and committing it to memory.

It’s a tear that hits Yaz’s own cheek, and for a second she thinks she’s the one that’s crying, but then the Doctor mutters those unintelligible words once more. The ones that pull at something in Yaz’s chest. And, well, what’s Yaz supposed to do about that?

She says, “I love you too.”

The faint glow in the room gets brighter when the Doctor comes; it would be blinding if Yaz wasn’t watching something far more stunning. If she wasn’t solely focused on the Doctor’s mouth as it drops open, and her brow as it furrows together, and the way she moans with a shaky breath as her thighs clamp around Yaz’s own and her fingers curl up, coaxing Yaz to follow her into pleasure seconds later. Blinding pressure explodes under her skin, causing her eyes to fall closed as she comes harder than she’s ever come before.

They’re almost in sync, and it feels like a metaphor or something for their entire relationship thus far. Almost together, almost on time. Almost. 

The Doctor pulls out but gently rubs Yaz’s clit, as if she doesn’t want this to end quite yet. And Yaz would’ve been glad to entertain her if her body wasn’t so overstimulated at the moment. As it is, every pass over her clit becomes slightly painful and the Doctor sighs audibly when she presses one last kiss to the slowing pulse in Yaz’s neck before she pulls back and tries to sit up. Yaz’s thigh is still pressed between her legs and she slowly lowers it when the Doctor grimaces, obviously also just as overstimulated as Yaz feels.

There’s a bit of maneuvering afterwards and her thigh is wiped off with a towel as she lay there, boneless and panting. The Doctor falls onto the bed next to her with the exact (read: little) amount of grace Yaz would’ve expected from her. And then there’s silence. Just the hum of the tardis, and the Doctor’s soft breaths, and Yaz’s own body feeling so alive in this very moment that it’s hard to process the Doctor is actively dying next to her.

“Is it gonna hurt?”

The Doctor hums quietly, and the hand closest to Yaz reaches out blindly to find her fingers and hook them together. A thumb strokes her knuckles absentmindedly.

“Yeah,” she says. “A lot, actually. Worst pain I’ve ever felt.” She pauses, then adds. “Second worst pain.”

When Yaz turns her head, the Doctor is already looking over, eyes clear now from the tears but holding something in them, a sadness that feels heavier than the crying.

“Yeah,” she agrees, swallowing past the lump in her throat. “Second worst.”


She chooses the raspberry moon rock, and the Doctor insists on getting the little floating planet cones. They’re actually pretty cool and the planet tastes like mint chocolate chip, and they eat them while they sit on the tardis, floating just above the Earth. The view is breathtaking, and incredible, and she’s positive she hasn’t seen a sight that comes even close to the feeling it gives her deep in her stomach, a flurry of butterflies ready to set off into her chest. 

And, y’know, the view of Earth from here is good too, she supposes.

She wonders, briefly, if she’ll come to terms with it — not traveling. If she’ll feel stifled by going back to the mundane day to day of life, or if she’ll settle in like putting on an old coat. If she’ll look for the Doctor everywhere she goes, catching glimpses of blonde hair and feeling her heart race just a bit every single time before the letdown makes her stomach sink. She wonders if she’ll find love that compares, or if everything after this will be second best (because, really, how can anyone compare to loving the universe?). She wants to ask the Doctor all of this, how her previous companions coped with it all — how her previous lovers coped with it all — but nothing she thinks of feels right. And so she settles for the ice cream cone, and the Doctor’s fingers entwined with her own.

Maybe, she supposes, all endings aren’t forever. Maybe they’ll meet again, someday. Maybe the Doctor will return, just as she is now, in some time that Yaz hasn’t experienced yet.

Maybe it’ll all be okay.