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The Doctor is beautiful in the midst of a battle.
On the list of things Yaz will never tell her, that one’s near the top, because she suspects the Doctor would hate it. No, she knows she would. And Yaz doesn’t exactly like the fact that they keep ending up there in the first place. But once they’re there…
Once they’re there, she can’t help but be caught by the fire in her eyes, the determined set of her jaw, the way she flurries into motion and never seems to stop until the day is saved. The way people sit up and take notice, the way they listen to her, because she draws them in, like she is a golden flame of hope and everyone around her are moths who can’t help but come closer.
Yaz knows she is. She knows, looking at her as she explains the plan to the crouching, worried people around them, as they straighten their shoulders, looking optimistic for the first time in days, that she would follow this woman anywhere.
And then the Doctor turns and catches her eye and pauses in her speech, just for a second, to offer up a smile that’s meant just for her, and Yaz is certain. This is the kind of adoration that can raise armies. The kind of love that can change the world.
It’s certainly changed Yaz.
It’s changed everything, and she knew, she’s known from the start, that she wouldn’t end this journey the same way she began it. The Doctor had told her as much. But she’d never imagined this. She’d never let herself picture falling in love before now, because it’s always seemed… fake, somehow. Distant. Not quite real. But the warmth that grows in her chest whenever she looks at this impossible, ridiculous miracle of a woman cannot be anything but love.
She hasn’t said a word to the Doctor about it. She hasn’t dared. She has no idea how to even begin to form the wriggling mass of hope and adoration and affection into anything like words, and even if she could, she’s not sure she could bear the Doctor’s reaction. She’d hate to make someone she cares about so much uncomfortable. She’d hate it even more if the Doctor laughed, or pitied her, somehow.
So she keeps her thoughts to herself, and she watches the Doctor save the world again and again, glowing bright and golden and glorious every time.
The battle of the day is in the aid of a group of miners on Beshan 6. The Doctor had brought Yaz for the incredible mountain views, and of course they had found themselves in the midst of a miner’s strike turned deadly. Unwilling to give in to their demands, the company bosses had begun employing energy hounds. The beasts are enormous, some monstrous amalgamation of wolf and gorilla, with shaggy black fur and endless rows of glowing blue teeth. That would be terrifying enough on its own, but of course the creatures also feed on energy, and the miners, coated as they are in the ore that fuels Beshan society’s faster-than-light technology, have been sitting ducks.
“Ready, Yaz?” the Doctor asks, trotting over to her and picking up some of the equipment they’ll need.
“Think so,” Yaz says, grabbing her own pack and swinging it over her shoulder. She nods at the worried cluster of miners. “They all on board with the plan?”
“Yes,” the Doctor says. “We’ll set up a perimeter with these, then lure the energy hounds away. And I’ve got these—” the Doctor fishes a small, glowing sphere out of her pocket “—primed and ready to go. Bit like the pting, back in the day. We’ll overload ’em, get ’em to take a nice kip, and then the miners’ll be free and clear to get away from here. They’ll have to regroup and try again, but we’ll leave these supplies with them. They’re in with a chance.”
The Doctor’s eyes darken at that, and Yaz resists the urge to take her hand. They’re not like that, as much as she wishes they could be.
“You’re saving their lives, Doctor,” she reminds her. “They’ll have a chance because they’ll be alive to take it. Because of you.”
The Doctor pauses, a smile flicking briefly at the corner of her lips.
“Because of us, you mean,” she says kindly. “C’mon, let’s go get this set up.”
The terrain is rocky and uneven, peppered with gnarled thorn bushes and spindly reddish trees that remind Yaz of pine trees. They don’t speak much as they place and prime the relays that will form the barrier around the entrance to the mine, keeping the energy hounds far away from the miners. It’s slow going; what amounts to a path is often littered with gravel and pine needles, and both of them stumble more than once as the ground shifts beneath their feet. Two suns swing steadily overhead, and by the time they’re finishing up, the Doctor’s shrugged out of her coat and rolled up her sleeves as she fiddles with the relay links.
It’s a solid plan. It very nearly works, too.
“That just about… does it…” the Doctor says, sticking out her tongue to fiddle with the last of it.
And then there’s a growl, low and threatening, from behind them, and Yaz’ blood runs cold. The Doctor’s eyes widen, and she whips her head towards Yaz in a flurry of blonde hair and panic.
“Up,” she says. “Up, in the tree, come on!”
Yaz doesn’t need to be told twice. She and the Doctor both spring upwards, hands scrabbling against rough bark, until they’ve pulled themselves ten feet off the ground and just barely out of reach of the snapping jaws of the entire pack of energy hounds.
“Why are they here?” the Doctor groans, smacking her palm in frustrated fear against the trunk of the tree. “They should be way closer to the mine entrance.”
“Will it still work?” Yaz asks, pulling her foot up as one of the hounds snaps towards her boot. “Can you set it off from here?”
She knows the answer before the Doctor even shakes her head.
“They’re too scattered like this,” the Doctor says with a frustrated growl, nodding at the uneven ground shot through with trees. “There’s no way I’ll get to all of them, especially with the barrier still down. I just—I don’t understand.”
Yaz stares down at the swirling, snarling mass of hounds beneath their feet. Their fur is so dark they blend together, and it’s hard to get a proper count, but there have to be at least ten of them, and even one is a threat. But the Doctor is right; the bosses have been sending the hounds towards the mine entrance, driving the miners backwards and into the tunnels. The Doctor and Yaz were supposed to pin the hounds on the flat road outside, so the miners could sneak out this way, up along the rocks. So why have the hounds followed them here?
The Doctor’s coat swings in the breeze, one tree over and several branches closer to the ground. And when the hounds nose towards it, snapping and whining as the wind whips the fabric out of their reach, it clicks. They eat energy. If faster-than-light fuel is a snack, then surely artron energy is an absolute feast. And she and the Doctor are the ones on the menu.
Well, the Doctor certainly is. Yaz hasn’t been in the TARDIS anywhere as long. By herself, she probably wouldn’t be enough to lure the hounds away. With her coat, though…
She glances up at the Doctor, and her face is stony. Surely she’s making similar calculations to the ones Yaz has just made. But this time, Yaz gets to the conclusion of the problem first.
“Doctor…” she tells her, straightening her shoulders, “Get them out of there, yeah?”
“Yaz—”
Yaz doesn’t wait to be told no. She just leaps. She flings herself downward out of the tree, slamming into the ground with a jolt, pinwheeling her arms to stay upright. And then she grabs the Doctor’s coat, and she runs.
The pack of energy hounds takes off after her.
She can hear them, just behind her, barking and snarling, their claws scrabbling on the rocks. Yaz isn’t faster than them. But she is smaller, more nimble, better able to navigate the uneven ground. But she doesn’t just need to lead them away—she needs to buy the Doctor time. So for the first heart-pounding minutes of her flight, she lets them get as close as she dares. Once or twice she can feel hot breath against the back of her neck before she puts on another burst of speed.
When she hears the soft hum of their relay system buzzing into life, she lets her shoulders sag with relief, just for an instant. The Doctor and the miners are safe now, on the other side of the barrier. She’s bought them enough space to get out. And in spite of everything, she smiles. Because that’s what matters, isn’t it? The Doctor’s safe. She’ll be okay. Whatever happens now, the Doctor will go on saving a universe that needs her. Whatever happens now, Yaz will have made certain of that.
She skids down the hill then, letting branches snap back into the faces of the hounds charging after her. She clambers up and down rock faces, shoving her way through dense thickets. It lets her slow down a little from her mad dash sprint. She’s good at the running, these days—it’d be impossible to keep up with the Doctor if she wasn’t—but this is pushing it. She knows that, can’t think too hard about it, just has to keep moving. The hounds are slowed by the rough terrain and branches in their faces, but certainly not stopped. Their claws take chunks out of the rock as they follow her upwards. The thickets she’d squeezed through get ripped out by the roots as they pass.
Yaz runs, the Doctor’s coat clenched in one fist and trailing behind her like a battle standard, and she hopes she’s enough to see this through.
She leads the hounds on a circuitous route through the forest. She goes up and down hills, across streams, leading them away from the mine and back towards the central path where they’d intended to lay their trap. Her leather jacket snags on a thicket of thorns, and she wastes precious seconds trying to pull it free before giving up, shrugging out of it and catapulting the branch it’s stuck on back into the face of the hound about to bite her arm off.
She tries not to listen to the wrenching, ripping sounds of the jacket being torn to bits behind her as she runs again.
She can see the clearing up ahead when it happens. She’s darting along the top of a ridge, calculating her path down to the ground where hopefully the Doctor is waiting, trap at the ready, when the edge of the stone beneath her feet crumbles. She falls, scraping her chin against the rock face, tumbling down into a narrow ravine overgrown with brambles. The thorns scratch into her without the protection of her leather jacket, tangle in her hair, and something has stabbed sharply through her shoulder. She tries to stand, biting back a pained cry. She’s stuck.
Gasping for breath, she turns her head as much as she can. Above her, the ridge she’d fallen from. Ahead, through the narrow crack of the ravine, is the road to the mine. She’d got so close.
With a silent apology, Yaz balls up the Doctor’s coat and, with the arm she can still move, hurls it as hard as she can towards the road. There must be a lot of stuff squirreled away in her pockets, because it sails through the air much more easily than a bundle of fabric ought to. She can see the hounds thunder past her overhead, in pursuit of the jacket, at least for now.
That’s it. There’s nothing else she can do. She just has to hope she’s gotten them close enough that the Doctor can finish the plan.
Carefully, she reaches up with her one free hand to try and untangle her hair. It’s slow and painful, and any movement too far in the wrong direction digs the thorn stabbed through her shoulder in further. In the distance, she can hear snarls and yelps, and a few screams, and she tries to tug herself free faster so she can see what’s going on. So she can help. But all that gets her is a lightning bolt of pain down her right arm.
“Slow and steady, Yaz,” she murmurs to herself through gritted teeth. “It’s all right, you can do this.”
She’s pulled most of the thorns away from the top of her head, working her way down her braid, when the snarling gets closer. She looks up, and she spots one lone energy hound, something that looks like blue blood dripping down from where its ear should be, looming over her from the top of the ravine. It sniffs, and it growls, its claws gripping the rock as it crawls towards her.
Yaz jerks back, and then she groans, more thorns stabbing into her side, pinning her in place. She’s trapped. She looks around for a stick, a rock, anything to defend herself with, but there’s nothing within reach except more vines covered in thorns. Wincing, she pulls herself further into the thicket, hoping to at least put a barrier between herself and the glowing blue maw looming towards her. But there’s nothing else she can do but squeeze her eyes shut and wait.
Above her, there’s a sharp whistle, followed by a buzz. The sonic! Yaz snaps her eyes open just as the energy hound raises its head towards the top of the ravine again. The Doctor stands there, radiant, furious, the sonic in one hand and a glowing sphere held aloft in the other. With each buzz of the sonic, the sphere glows brighter, and the hound raises its head another inch away from Yaz, tracking the change.
“Go on,” the Doctor says at last, squinting against the light now. “Fetch!”
And she hurls the sphere away into the trees. For a moment, Yaz can’t breathe, and then the hound takes off, barreling after the charge and away, its heavy footfalls fading into the distance. As soon as she’s sure it’s gone, the Doctor turns to look down at Yaz, and Yaz sags into the ground with relief.
It’s over.
“Hold on,” the Doctor calls. “I’m coming to get you.”
Yaz lets her head drop back against the rock face. She suddenly feels very out of breath as the adrenaline catches up to her so fast her head spins. And then finally the Doctor is there, fishing a pair of thick gloves out of one of her coat’s many pockets—Yaz tries to ignore the fact that the bottom of the coat is tattered and filled with teeth marks.
“What happened?” Yaz asks, straining to reach her, wincing as she tries to move.
“Stay still, Yaz,” the Doctor instructs, her eyes wide and flitting all over the place as she tugs the gloves on.
“Did the miners get out? I heard screams—”
“They’re fine,” the Doctor says. “All of them, thanks to you. That was… some of the bosses. They were waiting along the road. The hounds turned on them.”
“Oh, God.”
“It could have been worse,” the Doctor says darkly, and leaves it at that. “Right… let’s get you out of here and back home, yeah?”
Carefully, the Doctor helps Yaz extract herself from the thorns, holding back one branch at a time until first her hair is free, then her arm, and then, at last, the biggest thorn is yanked out from beneath her shoulder blade. She can’t help but whimper, curling forward, and the Doctor catches her with a gentle hand on her uninjured shoulder.
“It’s all right,” she says softly. “You’re all right, Yaz, I’ve got you.”
Yaz looks up, finding the Doctor’s face unusually close to hers, and her breath catches for an entirely different reason.
“I’ve got you,” the Doctor repeats, so calm, so reassuring. “Can you stand?”
“Think so,” Yaz murmurs, taking the Doctor’s offered hand and struggling to her feet.
The Doctor lets her lean on her arm all the way back to the TARDIS. Once they’re there, she tries to steer Yaz towards the med bay, but Yaz shakes her head.
“I’ve got a first aid kit in my room,” she says. The TARDIS is magical, but even this ship of infinite possibility can’t make a medical facility anything less than cold and sterile and intimidating. Yaz doesn’t want to face that right now. She wants the cozy amber lights in her room, or the console room, the soft glow that tells her that she’s safe.
“Yaz—” the Doctor protests.
“Please?” she asks, hating how small her voice sounds suddenly.
The Doctor gives in.
Yaz leads the Doctor into her room, trying not to think about how long it’s been since she was last in her space, trying not to think of anything at all but retreating into her bathroom and washing the grime from her hands and face, brushing the burrs out of her hair. Once she’s done that, twisting it up and out of the way as simply as she can with one hand, she grabs her first aid kit and finds the Doctor waiting for her on her bed. She’s remembered to kick off her shoes first, this time—Yaz had a go at her for it once, years ago. Somehow, Yaz is touched she’s remembered now, in the midst of all this.
“Do you… want help?” the Doctor offers hesitantly. Her eyes are still flitting around everywhere, no doubt cataloguing all the different little scratches and bruises she’s collected.
Yaz nods, holding out the first aid kit and dropping down beside her on the edge of the bed, working her own shoes off. The Doctor rummages through the kit, sticking her hand much farther into it than it should be able to go. Engineered dimensions everywhere, it seems.
“Aha,” the Doctor says, finding what she’s looking for. “Here we go. The TARDIS must like you if she’s stocking this here for you, Yaz. Seventy-third century stuff, disinfectant and liquid bandage all in one. Should patch you up fast, but it does sting a little. That all right?”
“Fine,” Yaz nods, turning to look at her.
The Doctor spins off the cap and squeezes a bit of the stuff onto her fingertips, and then she’s reaching forward and taking Yaz’ chin in one hand, brushing the disinfectant over the scratches along her jaw. The stuff smells faintly of eucalyptus, somehow, and it’s cold, and it does sting, but that’s not what makes Yaz suck in a sharp breath and hold herself as still as she can. The Doctor’s hands are so soft against her skin, so much more gentle than she would ever have expected from someone who spends all her time flapping about like a bird taking flight.
“Sorry,” the Doctor murmurs.
Yaz just shakes her head, not trusting herself to speak.
“Can I take a look at your shoulder?” the Doctor asks.
Yaz nods, and as the Doctor shifts around to sit behind her, she realizes she’s going to need to take her shirt off for this, and she’s both glad she insisted on staying out of the med bay and worried she’s made an enormous mistake. Her fingers shake a little as she undoes the buttons, but she’s dragged painfully back to reality as the fabric tugs at her skin as she shrugs out of it.
And then the Doctor’s cool fingers settle against her shoulder, and Yaz can’t breathe. Her chest feels tight, the remnants of adrenaline and several years’ worth of desperate longing expanding rapidly until there’s no space left for air. She feels restless, reckless, under the weight of the Doctor’s hand, and she’s sure the other woman must be able to hear how fast her heart is beating.
“Oh, Yaz,” the Doctor sighs softly.
“That bad?” Yaz manages to ask.
“Nothing this stuff won’t fix,” the Doctor answers quickly.
She starts with the biggest wound beneath her shoulder blade, and this time Yaz’ hissed-in breath is pain rather than yearning. She can already feel the cool substance on her chin knitting her skin back together, though; she knows it won’t be long before this puncture wound is gone too. Gone and out of sight and tucked away, like so many feelings before it.
“You shouldn’t have done that, Yaz,” the Doctor says suddenly, and her voice is tight, like she’s biting back—anger? Fear?
“Why not?” Yaz asks. “I could tell you were just about to do the same.”
“That’s different,” the Doctor grumbles, her fingers swiping along a cut on the back of her neck. “I’m not… as breakable as you are. I’m not worth that, ever.”
The Doctor’s hand slides down along her spine, swiping across another scratch, and Yaz shivers, and the tight knot of feelings in her chest surges.
She wouldn’t have said anything.
Perhaps she shouldn’t.
But while the Doctor’s wrong that she isn’t worth it, she’s right that this was a close call. A very close call in a lifetime full of them. And Yaz doesn’t regret what she’s done, doesn’t regret a single thing, even if today had been the day the Doctor couldn’t get to her in time.
Doesn’t regret anything but the thought that if she’d died today, the Doctor might still think she was unworthy.
And she’s facing away from the Doctor, doesn’t have to look her in the eye as she speaks, and her hands against her skin feel so perfect, so right, she can’t help herself anymore. She wants this. She wants the Doctor. And she knows, now, how to be brave, when it counts.
“You are, though,” Yaz insists. “I know you don’t like it, but I’d do it again if I had to. I’d keep you safe, every time.”
“You shouldn’t worry about me, Yaz,” the Doctor murmurs. She settles her hand on Yaz’ shoulder again, her thumb brushing against the skin beneath the puncture wound, as though she’s checking it again, reminding herself. “I should be so much more careful with you.”
“This was my choice, Doctor. You’re always my choice.”
“Why?” the Doctor asks, and she sounds so shattered, so genuinely unsure, that Yaz’ heart breaks for her. “I’m not worth your life, Yaz, please don’t ever be so reckless on my account—”
“Of course you’re worth it,” Yaz interrupts. “Love is always worth it. And I—Doctor, I love you.”
The Doctor’s thumb on her shoulder stills. Yaz freezes, because what if she’s done it wrong, what if she’s ruined everything, what if—
“You love me?” the Doctor says, her voice small and surprised and almost scared.
“I do,” Yaz whispers back. “Think I always have, if I’m honest, even before I knew I could. I—is that all right?”
“Oh, Yaz,” the Doctor whispers again, and she shifts so that she can look Yaz in the eye. Yaz takes a deep breath and dares to look at her, and instead of pity she finds the Doctor’s eyes shining with tears and an expression that’s so familiar to her it aches. “You shouldn’t. I’m not… being with me, it’s dangerous.”
“Like I said,” Yaz replies, offering up a smile, “My choice. And that’s… whatever you want, I’m okay with. If you don’t… if you’re not… I understand, I just—I wanted you to know. Anything else, that’s your choice. But you’re mine, Doctor. Always.”
For a moment, the Doctor doesn’t speak, and Yaz lets herself hang in that limbo, lets herself catalogue every little detail of the woman sitting in front of her in this moment before everything changes forever, one way or another. She takes in the way her long lashes stick together beneath the weight of unshed tears. Every thread of green and gold in her eyes, the way her gaze makes her feel like she can see right through to the heart of her. The soft curl of her hair along the sharp line of her jaw. The bob of her throat, and the line of freckles down her neck.
She’s even more beautiful here, bathed in their home’s soft amber light, the beginnings of a shy smile tugging at the corners of her lips, all for her.
“My choice…” the Doctor finally whispers.
She raises a hand to cup her chin again, her fingers trembling as she holds her, as she skims her thumb along her bottom lip.
“Yaz,” she says again, her name like a prayer, or a plea. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Yaz answers at once. She’s never been so sure about anything in her life. “Please.”
At last, the Doctor ducks her head, and she kisses her, and Yaz sighs at the gentle pressure. She reaches up, taking the Doctor’s face in her hands, running her fingers through her hair, and it’s just as soft as Yaz had imagined it would be.
The kiss is gentle and slow, and Yaz can’t help but smile against her lips as the Doctor presses forward, leaning into her. The Doctor holds her so carefully, as though she’s something to be treasured, and Yaz is absolutely overcome by the sensation. The knot of feelings in her chest isn’t tight anymore; it’s overflowing, spilling through her whole body and setting her nerves alight with joy, with relief, with more love than she knows what to do with.
Eventually, she has to pull away, grinning, resting her forehead against the Doctor’s as she catches her breath. She cards her fingers through the Doctor’s hair again, finally shifting back so she can see her face, but instead of a smile, she finds wide, concerned eyes, an expression filled with so much fear and longing she wants to cry.
“Hey,” she says gently, scooping the Doctor’s hand up from her lap and placing it against her cheek. “I’m fine. I’m here. I’m right here, Doctor.”
The Doctor nods, and she pulls their joined hands down, her fingers sliding across the pulse point at Yaz’ neck, over her collarbone, settling against her heart. Yaz’ breath catches; the Doctor’s palm against her chest burns into her skin. And the Doctor’s watching her, cataloguing every breath with eyes that have gone dark.
“Show me?” she whispers, her voice low and rough.
Yaz crashes into her.
She kisses her hard this time, grabbing the Doctor by the collar, pulling her in as close as she can, pouring every ounce of passion she feels into the kiss. She has to, to prove this to the Doctor, to prove she’s alive, and here, and loves her more than any words in any galaxy can say. And the Doctor follows her lead, slipping her tongue into her mouth, tangling her hand in Yaz’ hair. She surges forward, pressing herself in, until she’s kneeling halfway into Yaz’ lap and instead, Yaz pulls her legs up from the side of the bed, letting herself drop backwards against her pillows, pulling the Doctor down with her. She winces when her still-healing shoulder hits the fabric, and the Doctor stops at once, holding her body above Yaz’.
“All right?” she asks, sounding worried.
“Yes,” Yaz answers, sliding a hand around her waist and tugging her down, back into the kiss, her body pressed against hers.
And for a moment, Yaz wonders if she’d hit her head harder than she’d thought on the way down that ravine, wonders if she’s dreaming, because this is far too good to be true. But the weight of the Doctor’s body against hers feels real in spite of everything, feels so good Yaz can hardly think straight. Her heart soars, and all she can think is finally.
All she can think is more.
The Doctor shifts, kissing her jaw, her neck, and she lets her hand drift down to cup Yaz’ breast through her bra, and she squeezes. Yaz can’t help the moan that escapes from her lips, can’t help but arch upwards into the touch, and suddenly it is very clear that the Doctor is wearing far too many clothes. Her hands slide down the Doctor’s sides and tug up on her shirts, and when her fingertips meet skin the Doctor gasps, pushing herself up from Yaz’ neck in surprise.
“I—sorry, I—is this all right?” Yaz stammers.
Her heart pounds as she looks up at the Doctor, and she tries to keep her eyes on her face, on the startled look in her eyes, rather than her heaving chest and messy hair. They both probably need it, this pause, this question, because this feels fast, she knows it is, but it doesn’t feel wrong. And isn’t it just like the two of them, to dive headlong into something new?
And then the Doctor lifts one hand to hover over Yaz’ face, her fingers just barely ghosting against her skin. She’d been scraped bloody there an hour ago. Can the Doctor still see the evidence?
When she looks up again to meet Yaz’ gaze, something’s shifted in her eyes. Something’s caught alight. And she nods, reaching down to untuck her shirts, tugging them over her head and tossing them somewhere off the bed before sending her rainbow print sports bra off to join them. Before Yaz gets a chance to take in the expanse of soft, freckled pale skin in front of her, the Doctor leans back in, kissing her fiercely, like her life depends on it. Like Yaz’ life depends on it, like she could disappear at any moment.
But Yaz isn’t going anywhere. She’s going to cling to this, to them, to her Doctor, with everything she’s got.
Yaz reminds the Doctor of that with touches rather than words. She trails her fingers across the Doctor’s ribs, up the bumps of her spine and into her hair, and the Doctor shivers, pressing herself in closer. Yaz is breathless and dizzy at the feel of the Doctor’s skin against her fingertips. She’d never quite let herself hope for this, not really. But without really meaning to, she’d forced both their hands today. She’d taken a wild leap and it carried them both through more bravery, more reckless, desperate vulnerability than she’d thought possible, and somehow it’s brought them here. All she knows now is the feeling of the Doctor’s fingers trailing fire across her skin. All she knows is that she cannot get enough, and she rocks her hips upwards, whining into the kiss, trying desperately to press her whole body into the Doctor’s touch.
All she knows is that this is everything, and she is going to make sure that every second of this chance she’s gotten counts.
Either time is sliding around them, or the TARDIS has gone wonky, or Yaz is even dizzier than she thinks, because she can’t tell if it’s minutes or hours later when the Doctor finally slips a hand behind her back when she arches up again and unhooks her bra, finally reaches down to work the button on her jeans at Yaz’ nod. She sits up again to help her slide the jeans off, and suddenly they’re both laughing when one cuff gets stuck on her sock. The Doctor crows triumphantly when she’s finally got them off and tossed to the floor, but when she looks back at Yaz, her grin freezes. Yaz ducks her head, wondering if she should move, or turn down the lights, or do something to make herself seem like more than she is, because she’s only Yaz, only human, and she’s got the universe with her in her bed. This is so much more than she knows how to process. More than she knows how to be worthy of.
“Yaz,” the Doctor whispers then, her voice trembling, and Yaz looks up to find the Doctor staring at her with nothing short of awe, like she’s a supernova or a brand-new invention or a miracle instead of just a girl. “Yaz, you are… so beautiful. You’re… Yaz, I…”
Her mouth opens and shuts around words that must stick in the back of her throat until she looks away, her jaw tight with frustration. But Yaz knows, or she thinks she does. She can see it, in the joy lighting up those ancient, haunted eyes. She can feel it, in every touch of the Doctor’s hands against her skin.
“Doctor,” she says tenderly, reaching up to brush her fingers along her waist, her ribs, the underside of her breast. The Doctor gasps and turns to look at her, and Yaz smiles. “Show me?” she echoes.
For the first time all night, a real smile bursts across the Doctor’s face and stays, brighter than sunlight breaking through clouds. She grabs Yaz’ hand and kisses her fingertips, her palm, her wrist, and then when Yaz sucks in a breath she dives forward and kisses her lips again. Yaz winds her fingers into the Doctor’s hair, egging her on as she kisses her way down her neck. And that ball of impossible, wonderful tangled feelings in her chest stretches as the Doctor’s hands explore their way across Yaz’ body, touching her like she’s something wonderful to discover, like she’s precious, and it pulls taught when the Doctor’s fingers finally slide down and find home.
It doesn’t take Yaz long to fall apart under the Doctor’s fingers. It doesn’t take her long to wipe the smug look off the Doctor’s face when she flips her onto her back and returns the favor. They lie tangled together in the quiet for a long while after, catching their breath, drawing lazy patterns on each other’s skin, until the Doctor nuzzles her nose into Yaz’ neck.
“I don’t know what I would do without you, Yaz,” she whispers.
Yaz shifts, brushing the Doctor’s hair back from her face before she speaks.
“You’d carry me with you,” she whispers back, leaning in to press a kiss to the Doctor’s chest, right above her hearts, her strange double heartbeat a comforting rhythm against her lips. “But Doctor…” she adds, kissing her neck “…if I have anything to say about it…” she kisses her jaw “…that won’t happen for a very, very long time.”
She kisses her jaw again, just beneath her ear, and the Doctor squirms beside her. Yaz smiles against the Doctor’s neck before she shifts away so she can look at her.
“Do you trust me?” she asks.
“Yes,” the Doctor answers at once. “More than I trust myself.”
“Then you know that I’ll be here, right beside you, for as long as I can be,” she insists.
This time, the Doctor kisses Yaz, and it’s soft and sweet and full of promise. Yaz wraps the covers around them both, tucking them into this little bubble she has no intention of leaving for a while yet.
Because the Doctor is beautiful out in the universe, on every field of battle big or small, a radiant and righteous beacon of justice and kindness and hope.
But there’s a different kind of wonder to her here, curled beneath the blankets at her side, in the dim, hazy lights of their home. There’s a different kind of fire in her eyes now, one Yaz isn’t familiar with but longs to get to know. And she suspects, in a way that twists her heart and makes her pull the Doctor in closer, that she’s not used to the kind of quiet beauty that comes with happiness. But now that she knows she can, Yaz is going to spend every second she’s able helping her shine a light on that happiness.
Because the Doctor is beautiful, and impossible, and wonderful. And Yaz is, and always will be, entirely hers.