The Time of Change

The Question

I hear the door open and shut, but I don't move from where I sit on the edge of the platform. My arms are wrapped around the rail in front of me, my chin resting on my hands and my eyes trained on the wall. My mind races to figure out the source of this oddly hollow feeling as his footsteps approach. Perhaps I just grew too attached to Elliot and Mo. That would be the easy answer.

But then, why do I feel this discomfort in the pit of my stomach? What is that feeling? I touch near my bellybutton with the tip of my index finger as the Doctor plops down on my right, our legs dangling side-by-side. In my peripheral vision, I can see he's deep in thought. To avoid my own worries, I wonder what could be bothering him. I hope it isn't the Silurian tribe sleeping below us. One day in a millennium, they'll come back up and attempt at life above the surface yet again. Hopefully by then humans will be more tolerant, compassionate, and compliant. Maybe they'll have less of a strong head and quick reflex to act before they think.

The Doctor and I sit in silence, lost in our own thoughts, for I don't know how long before I sigh, lean into him, and rest my head on his shoulder. He lays his on mine, kissing the top of my head and interlocking our fingers together.

"Fix your lock?" I inquire.

"Probably not."

I give a breathy chuckle. A beat passes, then I ask, "What are you thinking?"

He bites his lip, considering me. "A whole mess of things," he admits. "I wouldn't be able to sort one from the other if I tried." I laugh quietly because that's exactly how I described my thought process oh-so-many years ago, the first night I dreamt of the TARDIS since my childhood. It was almost ten years ago now, and somehow it simultaneously feels every bit that long and just like yesterday. "What about you?" he replies. "Any developing plans for universal domination going on in that lovely mind of yours?"

"How'd you guess?"

He taps his temple. "Logic."

I smile, shaking my head. "I'm in the same position as you," I tell him. "There's a lot happening upstairs. I find myself wondering about some things and worrying about others. That's my job in this world, after all: to wonder and to worry."

He gently nudges me with his shoulder, lifting my head a little. "I stress, therefore I am," he adds, and I laugh. "Precisely." Now a thought occurs to me, and I raise my head to look at his profile. "Y'know," I start, "one thing I have settled on is this notion. Since you float around fighting crime and all that... Well, you're kind of like a policeman."

The Doctor squirms, but I can see the crooked grin. "I'm not a policeman."

"You live in a police box."

"... Purely coincidence."

"I can see the comic-book titles now. Adventures of the Intergalactic Police-Doctor," I say, fanning my hands out in front of me.

That small grin on his handsome face grows, the right corner quirking up farther. "What does that make you, then?"

"You're the good looks, and I'm the brains. I thought we had this established, sweetheart."

Suddenly, the TARDIS puts in her two cents: Don't inflate his ego with false praises. We all know I'm the attractive one in this dynamic.

We both explode into laughter, a sound that fills me to the brim with happiness. From this angle, I see how long his eyelashes are, how they curve so delicately upward and nearly touch his very light-colored eyebrows. I can clearly see each and every premature line in his young face, though I know he is rather older than he appears. I see how the different light sources from all around the circular room reflect onto his blue eyes, making them even brighter than usual. His hand in mine is soft and reassuring as we go quiet once more. The silence between us feels normal and ordinary, as if we've been married for years, although I still can't fully comprehend the fact that we are married at all. It feels too good to be true, like if I pinch myself, I'll find that none of it really happened.

Ask him, the TARDIS prompts me.

A question I didn't even know I had bursts forward, and I hear myself whisper, "Doctor?" He makes a small sound somewhere between a grunt and a sigh, but I know he's listening. I take a deep breath before continuing.

"What's your name?"

He glances at me, not exactly sharply but with palpable surprise. "What?"

I lift my head off his shoulder and level my eyes with his. "When the Weeping Angels were attacking," I say, keeping my voice as steady as possible, "you told me that you chose your name. You chose to become 'the Doctor' because it meant healing, helping. You said you chose to become him. So... who were you before?"