strong enough [crossover]

xviii. she's a triple threat - judge, jury, and executioner!

content warnings: little bit of spice,  major injury

*

After The Princess Bride, Rose declares she's going to bed. Jack, looking a bit antsy, says he's going to hit the gym. And then it's just MJ and the Doctor in the media room. He offers to walk her back to her room and she accepts, taking his hand in hers. She swings their intertwined hands between them, grinning like she won the lottery — and when you really think about it, she kind of has.

"You're in an awfully good mood," the Doctor notes. "Something happen when you and Rose went to get ice cream?"

"Kind of?" MJ admits. "And it got me thinking about some things."

They stop outside her door. The Doctor raises his eyebrows. "Like?"

"I'm staying," she says. "I realized I was being...not an idiot, because I'm not even remotely capable of being such a thing, but I was being...I don't know. Silly, maybe? No, not silly."

She opens the door and they step inside. For once, the Doctor isn't wearing his combat boots — instead it's his slippers he leaves at her door, probably more out of habit than anything else. MJ flops down on her bed and pats the space next to her. He lays down too and he's so beautiful and he's in her bed and MJ needs to focus, gods dammit.

She clears her throat. "I've known, obviously, that things with Luke really fucked me up, but for some reason, I thought it didn't affect friendships and stuff. But it did. And I realized earlier that I was pushing you guys away because I was scared of getting burned again."

"But we're not Luke," the Doctor says — not in accusatory way. He says it so simply because he knows it's something she already knows, but it still needs to be said.

"No, you guys aren't Luke," MJ agrees. They're both lying on their sides, facing each other, and she reaches out to tap the tip of his nose. "You especially aren't Luke."

"And thank the gods for that," the Doctor says. He pauses and a look of horror dawns on him. "Oh no. It's spreading."

She giggles. "Well, what can I say? I'm a trendsetter." Amusement fading fast, she adds, "And I'm staying. I promise I'm staying."

"Well, that's too bad, then," he says, rolling onto his back. "Because I've decided I want you gone."

She bites back a smirk. "Oh yeah?"

"Yep," the Doctor sighs. "I realized I'm sick of being the second-smartest person in the TARDIS and I want you out. Have your bags packed and ready to go by nine o'clock tomorrow."

"Are you sure about this?" MJ asks. "I mean, I think I should at least have a chance to argue my case."

"Isn't it 'plead my case?'"

"I don't plead," she says plainly.

He considers that, then nods. "You may argue your case. But don't expect me to change my mind. I already decided I'm turning your room into a museum of my greatest accomplishments."

"Oh, I think I can convince you," she teases.

MJ climbs on top of him, knees on either side of his hips, and his jaw drops. She smooths her hands up his simple gray t-shirt and over the planes of his torso. Her hands settle on his shoulders and she leans in. He watches her with thinly veiled anticipation as she lowers her face closer and closer to his. When their lips are only centimeters away from each other, his breath audibly hitches in his throat.

She can't stop the smirk that curls her lips. MJ's always thought of herself as powerful, of course, but this? This hold she has over him? Gods, she could get drunk off it.