The Time of Change

A Recurring Dream and an Avoided Question

I sit bolt upright in my bed, drenched in a cold sweat. My breaths come in gasps, and I put my head in my hands, wiping hair back from my damp face. I'm trembling from my very core. Why do I have dreams like that? Where do they come from? My mind flits between what I saw and what is real. So far, the only thing that has been confirmed is that the man in my dream was indeed the Doctor before this present one. (It's been years and I'm still not entirely used to that idea). Those screaming metal bots—what did I call them? Daleks?—struck such fear into me. Fear and anger. Were they of my own imagination, or did they exist, as well?

And the woman through whose eyes I experienced the scene... Who was she? And was her name Annie too, or was I subconsciously projecting myself into her position?

I read once that you never dream of someone random. The faces you see in dreams are people with whom you've come into contact at some point in your life, whether in passing on a busy street or in a classroom. That makes everything even stranger. If that is true, then how on earth do I know what I know?

I sigh heavily, confused and at a loss. Slowly I begin to remember other things – things that were not in my dream. A rain-soaked parking lot, and the TARDIS, and the Doctor, and the water tower.

And him asleep beside me.

My heart leaps into my throat as I turn my head sharply to the left, and it sinks below my ribcage when I realize the bed is empty other than myself. I sit back against the headboard, feeling slightly crushed. Perhaps I did dream about it, then. Once again I fabricated him and inserted him into my life, only to awaken the next morning sad and alone. I've done this on several occasions throughout the years, so it's really nothing new. The feeling never quite lessens in magnitude, however.

Subdued, I push back the covers and lower myself onto the rough carpet of my bedroom floor, grabbing my glasses off the bedside table. I'm not entirely sure how I got home last night, and frankly, I couldn't care less at this time. I'm still a bit too engrossed in thinking about that dream before it disappears from my brain forever. That girl had the same name as me, if my mind didn't do anything weird. She wore glasses; I could see because I was looking through her eyes in the dream. And because of this I also noticed that her hair hung in her right eye, exactly like mine does. She had my voice. She felt the way I do when I have anxiety: that colder-than-ice steel hand that captures your stomach and heart. Our thought process and progression of ideas was the same.

Could that girl perchance have been me?

No. That isn't even remotely likely. Dreams about him are unexplainable enough. I don't need to add some Twilight Zone-esque plotline into it as well.

I shuffle into the kitchen. All I really want right now is coffee. I don't change out of my clothes from yesterday (why am I still wearing them?) and don't bother to remove the girly, neon-blue socks I have on. They cause me to slide unsteadily over the wooden floor of the kitchen, but I succeed in reaching the coffeepot without falling. I start fiddling with the filters, prying one off another, pour some beans into the grinder, and scoop the freshly-ground coffee into it. I turn to the sink to get water, and freeze. Slowly I rotate to face the table.

The image that had just been lurking in my peripheral vision meets my eye.

"You are a very restless sleeper, you know," the Doctor complains, shaking his head as he sits at my kitchen table. He stretches his arms into the air, and I hear a soft pop. He grunts, leaning back in the chair. Another much louder crack. "Hear that? That's my back, Annalise. That doesn't happen to me. I'm not that old yet."

I let out a breathy laugh, giddy with shock. "You're two thousand years old!" I reply, setting the glass coffeepot down on the counter and folding my arms. One thought is on a loop in my mind. He did come back for me.

"Two thousand one hundred and ninety to be exact. But what's your point? The Face of Boe was over a million years."

"The face of what?"

"Boe. You know, Captain—" He stops and stares down at his hands, which are clasped together on top of his legs. "Sorry. I forgot you... haven't met him."

I tilt my head to the side. Captain who? Do I even know a captain? He said I don't but the way he so casually mentioned it makes me believe he thought I do. I wonder why he does that, says such vague things and gives even vaguer explanations for them. It's a bit maddening, if I'm being honest.

"So I was thinking," he says kind of abruptly, but uncertainly too, like he's embarrassed about what he's saying. "Maybe I could... you know... stay here, for a little while."

My heart leaps out of my chest and over the moon but I endeavor to stay calm outwardly. "Why?" I ask curiously.

The Doctor blinks several times and continues examining his fingers. "Because I... miss you."

Again I feel as if I may explode from happiness.

He looks at me through his eyelashes from his seat at the table. I feel myself blush, and quickly turn away and busy myself with filling the pot with water and dumping it into the coffeemaker. The words I miss you replay themselves in his voice over and over again inside my head, and I have to close my eyes to avoid getting dizzy from the onslaught of emotion. "What are you thinking?" he asks me, and I can practically hear the intensity in his gaze.

My cheeks get hotter. I'm surprised by how normal I sound when I respond. "Don't you know?"

"Not anymore." I hear a twinge of something I can't place in his voice, and I glance at him over my shoulder. He's still staring down into his lap, but now his expression is quite different. It's more thoughtful than embarrassed, like he's both curious and frustrated.

With the rest of my courage, I spin on my heels and answer his question. "I keep having dreams about you," I tell him, soft but resolute, and he looks at me. "You and a woman, sometimes accompanied by others. She doesn't seem to be very old. She's... got the same name as me, same glasses, same haircut. Does that mean anything? I'm worried I'm overthinking it, but if you're an alien, who's to say this is worth no more than a cough?" I pause. "Also, why can't you hear my thoughts anymore?"

He blinks a few times, searching for the correct response. I can almost see the gears turning behind his eyes as they watch my face. The wrinkles on his forehead appear as his eyebrows rise. He's thinking. I lean against the counter behind me.

"You're twenty-six now," he says finally. Another long beat follows that, and I have to fight the urge to say something sarcastic. Before I can, he continues, "That's when it starts and when it always ends. There's a lot happening in the universe at this particular moment in time. It all revolves around just one person and the point of flux that changes everything about them and the people around them. Everything is dependent on one person. And that is all I can tell you."

"That's it?" I ask disbelievingly. "That's all you're gonna say? Really?"

He nods solemnly, and I know the battle's been lost. At least for now. Perhaps later on I can get him to talk more about it. I jump as the Doctor leaps to his feet quite suddenly, slapping a hand to his forehead like some sort of cartoon character. "I'll be back!" he exclaims, running to the door and yanking it open. I follow him, bemused. "Where are you going?" I call after him into the chilly December morning. Brittle sunlight filters through the trees surrounding my home, and a stubborn beam attempts to blind me before I step out of its way. He's sprinting away from my house and down the street, in the direction of the high school.

"I have to go somewhere!" he yells over his shoulder. "Left the TARDIS at your school! Stay here, I promise I'll be back tomorrow!"

"How can you be sure?"

He stops running and stands stock still about fifty yards away for a full second. Now he says, "I promise."

Those two words fill me with such certainty that I can't help but nod. He starts up again, and in a few moments he's gone. I swivel in my socks on the concrete stoop, my long skirt billowing around my ankles a little as I close the door, and make my way back to the coffeepot to press brew. I allow myself to wonder where he's off to, but I'm not despairing that he left. I believe his promise again, perhaps a bit foolishly. Maybe it's naïve to continue to trust someone who is known for leaving. Maybe it's a mistake.

I suppose I'll never know until tomorrow.