Equals

“Legs!” The Doctor wheezed, stumbling away from Circe, “I’ve still got legs! Good.” 

The TARDIS had been set aflame from the sheer force of dual regenerations. Pieces of coral columns fell from the ceiling, while a few of the roundels exploded from the inside, sending shards of glass flying out across the metal grate. Small fires blazed hotter and hotter beneath it.

Circe felt…different. She frowned, running her tongue absently over her teeth as she assessed the situation. A quick glance down saw the hemline of her jeans had risen over her ankles, as well as the hemline of her shirt, revealing the more than a decent amount of her abdomen. The bloody hole in the white fabric where her previous self had stabbed her was still present too. A strand of dark hair fell into her vision, and she pushed it back, noting that it was quite long. It brushed below the back of her neck, for certain. 

Her skin was darker than it had been before, although it only made the scars on her hands more obvious. She wiggled her fingers, lingering regeneration energy causing her head to spin…

Or was she moving her head?

No, the TARDIS was...moving?

“Arms,” the Doctor enthused, “hands…ooh fingers, lots of fingers!” 

Circe squinted at the Doctor, grasping the console with both hands as she stared at the new body.

Blimey, he was...

Dorky. Yet, somehow, utterly endearing.

He had a certain gangly enthusiasm about him, as if he hadn’t quite figured out how his own limbs worked yet—bounding about with the energy of someone perpetually mid-thought, never quite landing in one place for too long.

His long brown hair flopped haphazardly over his forehead, almost defying gravity with how it bounced whenever he moved, nearly obscuring the wide, vivid green eyes that flickered between boundless curiosity and manic determination. They had that sharp, ancient glint—the kind that said he had seen too much, far too much—yet still carried the unshaken belief that the universe could be brilliant, if only given the chance.

And then there was his nose. Larger than before, certainly. Pointier, too, like it had been sculpted with an extra flourish at the last moment. Not quite Roman, not quite aquiline, just… distinct. A nose that would probably twitch if he was particularly excited about something—like an unusual space rock or an unexpected giraffe.

His eyebrows, or lack thereof, barely made an impression at all. They were thin, faint wisps over his expressive eyes, as if they had forgotten to regenerate with the rest of him.

And then there was his mouth.

It stretched in that peculiar, lopsided way—somewhere between a knowing smirk and a giddy beam, depending on how much trouble he was about to get himself into. But more than that, it rested on a chin that could poke someone’s eye out.

A magnificent chin. A chin so prominent that, if he had to, he could probably use it as an offensive weapon. A chin that, even when his face was at rest, seemed eager to lead the charge into whatever madcap adventure awaited.

Altogether, he looked like an excitable, time-traveling professor who had fallen headfirst into the universe and was still trying to make sense of how his own face worked.

And yet—despite the flailing, the nose, the chin, the almost-eyebrows—he had that unmistakable presence. The kind that made you trust him, even when he was making it up as he went along.

Because he was still the Doctor.

Circe tilted her head, biting her lip as she watched him list through his own appendages, even as the TARDIS rocked through space and time, 

“Ears, yes. Eyes, two,” he confirmed, hands shifting across his face, “nose, I’ve had worse.” As his fingers reached his chin, his expression shifted to affront, as if he were offended by his own chin, and he exclaimed, “chin, blimey! Hair,” his hand rushed up to the top of his head, and his voice broke from strain, “I’m a girl! No! No…”

Circe had to fight to keep her laughter in. His energy was contagious. He was bountiful and joyful and exciting. 

“I’m not a girl,” his fingers danced across his Adam’s apple to confirm, before he pulled down the longest part of his hair to see, “and still not ginger!” 

“I didn’t realise being ginger was so important to you,” Circe teased, licking her lips as she took in his new body. “I’d have picked it for myself if I’d known.”

The Doctor spun to her immediately, his green eyes—ones that looked suspiciously like some she had had—dilating as he caught sight of her. And with a sudden intention he’d never shown before, this new Doctor stormed up to her, wrapped one arm around her waist and the other behind her head, and dipped her.

He was far too comfortable touching her already. Did this regeneration come with a proximity issue?

“Hello, Magic,” he murmured, all confidence and mischief, before his lips crashed onto Circe’s.

It was like being swept into a whirlwind. A dramatic, cinematic moment that should have come with triumphant orchestral backing. Circe had faced Time Lords, Daleks, and the terrifying abyss of her own mind, but none of that had prepared her for the sheer enthusiasm with which the Doctor kissed her.

The world around them blurred. The fires? Irrelevant. The crashing coral? Unimportant. The fact that the TARDIS was still actively falling out of space onto some unsuspecting planet? Minor detail.

The TARDIS lurched violently, and the Doctor sprang back like he’d been electrocuted, sending Circe straight to the metal grating with an undignified thud.

She blinked up at him, flat on her back, dazed and definitely not swooning.

The Doctor looked equally stunned, eyes wide and mouth agape, as if he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. He flailed his hands wildly, then pointed at his own mouth like it had betrayed him.

“I—uhh—that wasn’t—!”

Circe groaned and pushed herself up, reaching instinctively to rub the back of her neck, which jarred painfully. 

The Doctor, still in full post-regeneration overcompensation mode, misread this entirely.

“Right! Helping!” he declared, seizing her hand…and yanking far too hard.

Circe yelped as she practically launched into the air. The Doctor, caught off guard by his own strength, stumbled backwards, colliding full force with the console.

With the momentum of a human-sized meteor, Circe crashed directly into him, slamming into his chest.

There was a beat of silence between them as they both stared at each other in surprise. 

The Doctor blinked down at her, eyes cartoonishly wide, and accused, “You’re a lot heavier than you look.”

Circe, forehead having been pressed against his stupid pinstripe suit, lifted her head just enough to glare. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she drawled. “Shall I regenerate into someone lighter next time?”

The Doctor swallowed. “No, no, you’re fine. You’re great. Really fantastic. Top-tier regeneration—ten out of ten—”

Circe pushed off him with a groan. “Move again, and I will use you to put out the fires.”

The Doctor nodded rapidly, hands flying up in surrender. “Noted. No moving. Fires bad.”

A roundel exploded behind them.

The Doctor beamed. “On the other hand; maybe we should move a little bit.”

Circe glanced at the monitor over his shoulders, scanning the influx of error reports and damages causing by their mutual regeneration. The Time Energy surging through her was too rampant for her to touch the controls, but she could fix whatever internal damage there was. “Right, I can’t fly the TARDIS right now, so I’m going to make sure our girl doesn’t collapse on herself and ruin her dimensional stability.” 

The Doctor’s lips were turned up in a cheeky smirk, his eyes darkening in the firelight. Circe paused, raising one eyebrow at him. 

“What are you looking at me like that for?” She asked, bewildered. 

His hands came to rest on her hips, fingers dipping just below her shorter cardigan to trace patterns on her newly-revealed bare skin. Circe shivered, something the Doctor definitely noticed, and his voice was deeper, huskier, as he said, “it’s not my fault if you look so…good taking command.” 

Circe’s jaw dropped, and she lifted one hand as if to press against his hearts. His gaze dropped to her lips, and he leaned forward just slightly, expectantly. 

Circe smacked his chest twice, and then annunciated each following word with another strike. “We—are—currently—crashing—you—moron!” 

And she pushed away from him, running down the stairs to the corridor. 

His voice echoed after her, playfully accusatory, “you hit me!” 

She stopped in the doorway and turned to see him rubbing at his chest dramatically. “What did I say about the fires?” Her voice was almost monotone, and her threat was left unspoken. 

"Not to move!" He defended himself, and Circe's glare hardened, if that was possible. The Doctor huffed, still rubbing at his chest like she’d actually wounded him. “Alright, alright! Prioritizing survival over flirting—boring, but fair.”

He turned back to the console, still pouting, but a sudden burst of sparks from the ceiling made him flinch. Circe watched as he yelped, stumbled, and nearly tripped over his own feet trying to dodge another falling roundel.

Her lips twitched. “What did I just say?”

The Doctor straightened, smoothing down his shirt with the air of a man who definitely hadn’t just made a fool of himself. “That fires are bad and that I should stop being so devastatingly charming?”

Circe squinted at him. “I said none of those things.”

He clicked his tongue. “You implied it.”

A particularly loud explosion rocked the TARDIS, nearly sending them both off balance. Circe did not dignify him with a response before spinning on her heel and disappearing down the corridor.

The Doctor watched her go, lips twitching back into a wide, cheeky grin. Regeneration was always chaos, but this one? Oh, this one was going to be brilliant.

Then, as if the TARDIS herself had finally had enough of him, the console let out a warning wail, and the ship tilted violently—sending the Doctor face-first into the railing with a yelp.

Circe’s voice, floating from the corridor, was utterly unimpressed: “If you break the ship more, I will throw you out of it.”

The Doctor froze, glancing at the doors in a moment of amused fear, but he quickly grasped hold of the console before him, adjusting the stabilisers and the flight coordination before he yelled out, ecstatic, “Geronimo!”

The dimensional technology was housed deep within the TARDIS, tucked away in one of the lower control rooms—a precautionary measure in case of invasion or attack. Unfortunately, that meant Circe had to navigate three winding flights of spiral stairs while the ship was actively falling out of space and time.

Which, of course, meant that the Doctor was failing to fly the TARDIS correctly.

Circe scowled as the ship lurched wildly to one side, nearly sending her straight into the curved wall. She grabbed onto the railing with one hand and the smooth metal paneling with the other, gritting her teeth as the floor vibrated beneath her.

"This body had better be better at running," she muttered under her breath, steadying herself before launching forward again.

Another explosion rocked the ship, and she barely managed to stay upright, her boots clanging loudly against the metal steps as she descended at breakneck speed. The heat from the fires above flickered through the grated floors, illuminating the winding staircase in flashes of orange and blue.

The TARDIS was working frantically to contain the damage their regenerations had inflicted, and Circe could feel her guilt sitting heavy in her chest. If she and the Doctor had just regenerated when their bodies had told them to, the explosive force wouldn't have been nearly as bad. They had pushed it too far, and now the ship was paying for it.

"Sorry, girl," she murmured, brushing her fingers over the cool wall as she reached the bottom of the stairwell.

She burst into the control room, the doors hissing open as she approached.

It was a small, tightly packed space—more utility than aesthetics, unlike the grand chaos of the console room. Walls lined with glowing control panels hummed softly, displaying dimensional readings and spatial integrity diagnostics in swirling Gallifreyan script. The primary stabiliser—a massive cylindrical mechanism embedded in the centre of the room—was sparking wildly, pulsing erratically like a heartbeat out of sync.

The TARDIS shuddered violently, but this time, it wasn’t her failing. The engines were finally slowing down, the chaotic descent evening out into something almost controlled.

Circe glanced at the nearest monitor, narrowing her eyes at the displayed coordinates.

The TARDIS had landed…

"Did he actually—" she started, surprised. She had expected worse.

Her hands stilled on the console as the ship lurched one final time, then, miraculously, stopped moving entirely.

No more violent shaking. No more alarms blaring. No more explosions.

Silence.

Circe exhaled slowly, blinking at the monitor in mild disbelief.

“…Huh.”

Had the Doctor actually done it?

Was the TARDIS… okay?

Hope filled her, and she took a deep breath, thankful for the moment’s reprieve. 

"Alright, let’s fix you before we end up inside out," Circe muttered.

She rolled up her sleeves, grabbed the nearest interface module, and began rerouting power, fingers flying over controls as she worked to reinforce the collapsing dimensional stability.

The readings flickered, and the wild fluctuations began to settle.

Good. That was good.

For a brief, fleeting moment, she allowed herself to hope.

Then the engines let out a low, eerie whine.

Circe froze.

A second later, the deep, mechanical churning of the phasing sequence reverberated through the ship like a dying breath.

Circe’s stomach dropped.

“Oh, you absolute—”

She abandoned everything and bolted back up the stairs, taking them two at a time, barely keeping her balance as the TARDIS shook violently around her.

Somewhere above, the Doctor’s voice rang out over the chaos, “geronimo!”

Circe skidded to a stop at the top of the stairs, breathing hard.

The Doctor stood there, soaking wet, holding a rope and hook like he had just stepped out of a nautical disaster. The TARDIS doors snapped shut behind him, having revealed nothing but the deep blue-black of a night sky beyond.

Before she could even process what had just happened, he was already off again, charging around the console, flipping switches with wild abandon.

The phasing engines let out another protest—a screeching whine that made the whole room shudder. More debris rained down from the ceiling, a few roundels cracking open from the strain.

Circe snapped to attention, yanking the monitor toward her, fingers flying across the controls as she tried to offset the worst of the damage.

Over the roar of the engines, she yelled across the console, “Where the hell did you go? And why are you wet?”

The Doctor grinned at her, eyes gleaming with unrestrained thrill, his damp hair flopping wildly as he spun around. “I was in the swimming pool, climbed out, found a friend!” he announced proudly, adjusting his bowtie even though it wasn’t actually there yet. “She’s a child, called Amelia Pond, and she’s got an impossible crack in her wall! And I promised her I’d be back in five minutes!”

Circe froze mid-motion, her hands stilling on the console. Circe blinked. A child? Oh, brilliant. Because he was soresponsible.

Her frown deepened, an old, familiar reservation creeping into her expression—a remnant of her last body’s caution.

He couldn’t mean…

He wasn’t seriously thinking…

“…Wait. Already?” Her voice was quiet, almost lost beneath the engines’ mechanical roar.

The Doctor’s grin faltered, just slightly. He caught the hesitation in her eyes, the trepidation in her stance. His fingers hovered over the buttons, uncharacteristically still. Then, in a rare moment of pause, he turned fully toward her, leveling her with an earnest, searching look.

And with all the seriousness he could muster, he promised, “Only if you’re okay with it.”

Circe held his gaze for a beat, then nodded once.

The energy snapped back into him instantly, as if her permission had rewound a spring inside him. With a broad grin, he spun on his heel and threw himself back into action, initiating the re-materialisation sequence.

Circe exhaled, refocusing, keeping their coordinates locked in as accurately as possible.

A brief moment of silence stretched between them, broken only by the hum of the TARDIS resetting itself.

“An impossible crack?” Circe asked, curiosity slipping into her voice despite herself.

The Doctor’s grin widened, wild and uninhibited, eyes gleaming with something between wonder and mischief.

The instant the TARDIS fully materialised, he snatched her hand, dragging her toward the doors with infectious excitement.

“Impossible crack,” he declared, pausing just before stepping outside, voice practically buzzing with thrill. Then, with a playfully daring grin, he added, “And a perception filter!”

Circe couldn’t help it—a grin tugged at her own lips.

Then the Doctor threw open the doors and bolted out recklessly, Circe right behind him.

“Amelia!” the Doctor called out carelessly, barely slowing his pace.

Circe’s sharp gaze swept the garden as they stepped onto the overgrown grass. Unkempt. Rusted swing set. Rotting wooden shed.

She frowned. It was daytime. Had it not just been the depth of night? 

Something was wrong.

The Doctor, oblivious in his rush, was already bounding toward an old blue door—TARDIS blue, Circe realised in the sunlight.

“Amelia, I worked out what it was! I know what I was missing!” he shouted, sonic screwdriver already in hand. “You’ve gotta get out of there!”

But...nothing happened.

The sonic flickered and whined, but the door refused to budge.

Circe stopped beside him, arms crossed over her cardigan, unimpressed. She lifted a single, pointed eyebrow, watching his increasingly desperate efforts.

He kept sonicing. The door kept refusing. More whirring. More failure. More button pressing.

Circe’s eyebrow inched higher.

The Doctor let out a huff, shaking the sonic screwdriver as if that would somehow make it cooperate, until finally, with an audible click, the lock gave way.

"Ha! See? It’s fine."

Circe just hummed noncommittally, stepping aside as he charged inside, bolting up the stairs without hesitation.

She followed, but at a much slower, much warier pace.

“Amelia!” the Doctor called, his voice echoing through the suspiciously empty house. “Amelia, are you all right? Are you there?”

Circe frowned, sweeping her gaze over the hallway as she ascended. The house had the bare minimum of furniture, the kind that made a place look lived in but not feel it. The walls—TARDIS blue—were covered in faded, peeling wallpaper, an attempt at warmth that didn’t quite succeed.

Something about it felt wrong.

The hair on the back of her neck stood on end as she climbed.

Ahead, the Doctor halted at the first door on the landing, buzzing it with his screwdriver as he explained, “Prisoner Zero, from the crack in Amelia’s wall, is here.”

Circe’s mouth rounded in understanding.

“Amelia?” she called, her voice softer than the Doctor’s, careful, coaxing. “Come out, kiddo. We’ll keep you safe.”

At the top of the stairs, Circe pressed her ear to the door, holding her breath, listening.

The house was absolutely silent, other than the Doctor's screwdriver. Not even the wind caused the wooden walls to creak, nor the water causing the pipes to moan. 

Then…a floorboard creaked.

Her eyes widened, and before she could react, something slammed into the side of her head.

Pain exploded behind her eyes, her vision tilted, and she barely had time to register the Doctor’s shouted warning before all she saw was darkness.

Circe came to on a rough, woven twine rug, the coarse fibres digging into her skin. She grimaced, shifting carefully, only to realise that one of her hands wouldn’t move.

Her wrist was restrained against a radiator. She blinked, frowning. Why was she restrained?

“White male, mid-20s. Asian female, mid-20s. Breaking and entering. Send me some backup—I’ve got them restrained,” a voice reported somewhere above her.

Circe hummed thoughtfully at the brief description, the first clue to her new appearance. 

Beside her, someone jerked harshly, yanking at her cuffed wrist. Circe scowled, resisting the motion as her vision cleared enough to take in her surroundings. They were still in the same house, still at the same galactic coordinates. But now, a young woman—white, freckled, with flaming red hair and a police uniform—stood leaning casually against the railing, watching her.

Circe groaned, sitting up straighter and squinting at the woman’s face. There was something almost familiar about her sharp gaze, the way she held herself.

“Oi, you,” the woman barked, arms crossed over her uniform. “Sit still.”

Circe blinked. “…What?” she muttered, absently tugging at her still-restrained hand. She glanced to the side just as the Doctor stirred, his green eyes dazed and unfocused.

“Cricket bat,” he mumbled, his head lolling as he blinked at her. “I’m getting cricket bat.”

The policewoman—who Circe was quickly deciding she did not like—lifted her chin and stated, matter-of-fact, “You were breaking and entering.”

Circe groaned, dropping her head back against the cold metal radiator. “There was no breaking! Only entering!”

The Doctor froze for exactly one second before abruptly trying to stand. Circe’s arm jerked up with him, yanked by the handcuff connecting them, before the Doctor’s momentum stopped short—and he went sprawling right back down onto the floor with a thud.

He lay there for a beat, then sighed dramatically, hands spread out at his sides. “Well, that’s much better. Brand-new me, whack on the head. Just what I needed.”

Circe raised an unimpressed eyebrow at him. “Need another one, Starman?”

The Doctor bolted upright. “No!” he exclaimed, eyes wide with panic, before pointing urgently at their captor. “Nope, please, don’t let her hit me.”

He glanced around quickly, as if checking for witnesses, then leaned in conspiratorially. The policewoman, against all reason, unconsciously leaned in too.

In a low, serious whisper, the Doctor murmured, “We haven’t tested it yet, but I’m pretty sure her uppercut is going to be a lot worse than last time…”

Circe gaped at him. He sneaked her a playful glance, but before she could snap back, the policewoman cut in, "do you want to shut up now? I’ve got back-up on the way!”

“Hang on, no, wait…” the Doctor rambled, straightening. “You’re a policewoman.”

“And you’re breaking and entering.” She folded her arms. “See how this works?”

“But what are you doing here?” the Doctor pressed, eyes narrowing. “Where’s Amelia?”

The woman’s entire demeanor shifted. Her face dropped, her expression wavering. “Amelia Pond?”

“Yeah,” the Doctor confirmed, gaze searching hers. “Amelia. Little Scottish girl. Where is she? I promised her five minutes, but the engines were phasing—I suppose we must have gone a bit far. Has something happened to her?”

The woman’s hazel eyes went wide, silence stretching between them.

“Amelia Pond hasn’t lived here in a long time.”

Circe rolled her eyes in frustration. “Because that’s not ominous at all. What happened to her?”

The Doctor shifted, urgency creeping into his voice. “How long?”

Circe caught the slight hesitation the officer gave before she responded. 

“Six months.”

“No,” the Doctor laughed in disbelief, shaking his head. “No, no! I can’t be six months late.”

Circe’s frown deepened. “Wait, when did we first land? I didn’t catch the date, I was too busy fighting fires and the laws of space.”

The Doctor barely seemed to hear her. His desperation sharpened, green eyes flickering. “I said five minutes, Magic; I promised!”

Circe nodded in understanding, but a sick feeling coiled in her stomach. What had Prisoner Zero done to the child in that time? If she weren’t restrained to a radiator, dealing with a missing child and a stray alien, she might’ve actually stopped to consider how the new nickname made her feel. It was the second time he’d used it, and she had no idea if she liked it yet. 

The policewoman turned away, reaching for her walkie-talkie.

“What happened to her? What happened to Amelia Pond?” the Doctor pressed, but the woman ignored him, bringing the device to her mouth.

Circe frowned. She didn’t hear the usual buzz of static that would've accompanied a Sol 3 comms device like that which the woman held. Her gaze scanned the woman’s uniform, piecing together details. Then she let out a slow breath, almost impressed.

The uniform was decent. She had to give her that.

“Sarge, it’s me again.” The woman’s tone was sharp. “Hurry it up. These two know something about Amelia Pond.”

Circe shifted closer to the Doctor, lowering her voice while the fake policewoman was distracted.

“Reckon Prisoner Zero is behind that door?” she whispered.

The Doctor startled, snapping his gaze to hers. His grin flickered to life, all mischief and thrill. Then, before Circe could process it, he brazenly placed a hand on her lower back. A sharp shiver rippled through her spine. Her cheeks grew warm, and she wondered how obvious it was on this new face.

The Doctor didn’t move his hand. His eyes scanned hers, taking in her reaction, and his grin only deepened, slow, knowing, dangerous in a way she hadn’t accounted for.

Circe’s hearts stuttered, realisation slamming into her like a freight train.

She was blushing.

And the Doctor knew it.

Her breath hitched, and in a desperate attempt to claw back some control, she hissed through gritted teeth, “stay on track, Starman!” 

With a sudden burst of movement, the Doctor turned to the policewoman and said, “I need to speak to whoever lives in this house now.” 

The woman planted her hands on her hips, which only drew Circe’s attention to just how short the skirt was. She bit back a smirk. The slow realisation of exactly why this woman might’ve had this uniform only served to humour her. 

“I live here,” the woman told him. 

“But you’re the police!” The Doctor protested. His fingers brushed across Circe’s back, and despite the fact he hadn’t delved under her woollen cardigan again, she could still feel the persistent heat of his hand as if it was pressed against her skin, and it still caused heat to pool…everywhere. 

Circe tried to hide her stammer, “p-police still have to live somewhere.” 

The Doctor’s resulting grin only worsened her fluster. 

“And this is where I live! You got a problem with that?!” She interrupted, distaste crossing her expression. 

The Doctor tilted forward, voice deceptively light.

“How many rooms?”

The woman blinked, thrown off. “I’m sorry, what?”

Circe sighed, already knowing where this was going. “On this floor, how many rooms do you see? Count them. Out loud.”

The woman’s brows knit together. “Why?”

The Doctor, ever insistent on being enigmatic, flashed a deliberate, knowing smile and said, “because it will change your life.”

The woman snorted, unimpressed—but something in the weight of his voice made her pause. Her expression flickered through a cascade of emotions—disbelief, confusion, frustration—before settling into mild exasperation. Still, she humoured him.

“Five. One, two, three, four, five.”

“Six.”

The Doctor’s voice was quiet, certain, absolute.

The woman froze, expression shuttering as if she couldn’t quite process what he’d just said.

“Six?” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper.

Circe’s stomach knotted. The air felt heavier now, charged with something just beneath perception. She leaned in, her voice low and careful—not a demand, but an invitation. “Look. Right at the corner of your eye. Just when you think there’s nothing there… keep looking. Stay curious. Don’t be afraid. Look.”

The woman’s breath hitched, her body tensing instinctively as she followed Circe’s instructions. She stared, unblinking, past the edges of her understanding. And then…she saw it.

Her entire body locked up, her fingers twitching at her sides, as if her brain was fighting the very idea of something that shouldn’t be there.

The sixth room.

Her throat bobbed. She took a half-step back. She whispered, “that’s…that is not possible. How’s that possible?” 

The Doctor rambled urgently, “Perception filter. Around the door. I sensed it last time I was here. Should’ve seen it.” Then, with absolute certainty: “Circe would’ve. She’s brilliant like that.”

“But that’s a whole room,” the woman breathed, and Circe noticed the way her body shifted forward, as if drawn towards it. Circe shifted forward too, accidentally pulling the Doctor’s arm taught against the radiator as she did so. 

“The filter stops you noticing. Something came here a while ago to hide. It’s still hiding,” the Doctor explained. The woman began to approach the door, and he called after her, “and you need to uncuff us, now!” 

As if in a daze, she murmured, “I don’t have the key, I lost it.”

Circe groaned, dropping back against the radiator with a thud. “Oh, stars. Of course.” Then, dry as the desert: “I hope you cleaned these handcuffs from the last time you used them.”

The Doctor frowned, looking quickly between the woman and the handcuffs. “How can you have lost it?” He exclaimed, and then, just as baffled, “cleaned them? What—? Why?” 

Circe rolled her eyes at his oblivious nature. Evidently that hadn’t changed. She instead snapped at the woman, “stay away from that door! You do not want to know what might be behind it!” 

The Doctor joined in, demanding, “do not touch that door!” 

The woman’s hand twisted the metal knob, making Circe give a sharp laugh, leaning back against the radiator to watch. The Doctor gave her a betrayed look, and she shrugged. “If she won’t help herself,” she explained. 

“Listen to me!” The Doctor yelled, “Do. Not. Open that—”

The door creaked open.

The Doctor threw his hands in the air. “Why does no one ever listen to me?” He turned to Circe, utterly betrayed. “Do I have a face that no one listens to? Again?”

Circe tilted her head, considering. A beat passed, and she gave him a half smile in consolation. The Doctor’s expression fell further. She rolled her eyes affectionately.

The Doctor began to rummage through his pockets, trying to find his sonic screwdriver. Coming up empty, he asked the woman, “my screwdriver, where is it? Silver thing, blue at the end. Where did it go?” 

The woman’s voice echoed slightly as she called back, “there’s nothing here!” 

Circe glanced around the floor, trying to spot the screwdriver. Perhaps it had rolled out of the Doctor’s pocket while they’d been unconscious.  And then, the Doctor told the woman exactly how to see whatever creature was inhabiting her spare room. 

“Whatever’s there stopped you seeing the room. What makes you think you could see it?” He stated, and Circe turned a harsh glare on him. “What?” He murmured.

“Did you just remind her exactly how to see through the perception filter?” She asked, and his eyes widened comically.

“Now, please, just get out!” 

There was a beat of silence where Circe braced herself, half-expecting a scream, a scuffle, something.

Then, a voice, far too calm. “Silver, blue at the end?”

The Doctor perked up instantly. “Yeah.”

There was a pause, before she replied, “…it’s here.”

The Doctor let out a breath. “Must’ve rolled under the door.”

Slower this time; “yeah. Must’ve.”

Circe’s stomach coiled. Something about the way she said it was wrong. The silence dragged.

“And then it must have jumped up onto the table.”

Circe’s blood ran cold, her stomach twisted sharply. “Get out of there.” Her voice dropped into something colder, sharper. “I don’t care who you are, police or not—get. Out. Now.”

The woman didn’t respond, lingering in the room, and Circe smacked her free hand against the wooden floor, trying to grab her attention again. 

“Get out of there!” The Doctor echoed, “get out!” 

There was still silence, which meant that the woman was still most likely unharmed, but…Circe had a bad feeling. Time Energy tingled under her skin. 

“There’s nothing here, but…” They heard. 

“Corner of your eye,” the Doctor reminded.

Circe’s head thunked back against the radiator with a harsh, unforgiving thud.

The Doctor winced so hard it looked painful—his whole body jerked upright like a puppy that just got caught knocking over a priceless vase.

“…Ohhh no. She’s gonna yell at me again.” He hesitated. Then, in a frantic whisper to himself: “Think fast. Distract. Compliment. Run if necessary.” He twitched like he was about to bolt, but then froze, eyes flicking down to his hands. His expression dropped. “…Running impossible.” For a half-second, he just stared at the handcuffs, utterly betrayed by physics. 

Then, all at once, he jerked forward, straining against the restraint, “don’t try to see it!” The sudden shift in urgency made Circe snap to attention. “If it knows you’ve seen it,” his green eyes flashed, voice sharp as a knife against glass, “it will kill you.”

Circe’s stomach twisted. “Don’t look at it!” she snapped, voice edged with warning.

And then, they heard a scream.

Circe whipped her head around, cursing.

"Idiot human," she hissed, fury finally boiling over—but she was still handcuffed to a radiator, and that just made her even angrier.

The woman bolted from the room, slamming the door shut behind her—sonic screwdriver clutched in her trembling hand.

The Doctor strained toward the door. “Give me that,” the Doctor griped, taking the slime covered device in hand. He grimaced, but pointed it at the door. It buzzed half-heartedly, but eventually worked, the lock clicked closed. Finally, he directed it at the handcuffs, but the screwdriver chose that moment to break. 

“Ah, what’s the bad alien done to you?” The Doctor cooed, flicking open a diagnostics panel on the side. 

The woman was stood beside the Doctor, hovering fearfully there as she kept a strict eye on the door. “Will that door hold it?” She asked. 

“Oh, I’m sure a century old wooden door with a century old brass lock will hold an intergalactic prisoner,” Circe snarked, then to the Doctor, “what did you do to that screwdriver?” 

“Interdimensional multiform from outer space—they’re all terrified of wood!” The Doctor snapped, before he finally managed to make the screwdriver buzz once again. “I didn’t do anything! Blame the alien!” 

Circe felt her hearts stop as a faint light beamed from the edges of the door. “Right, police-whoever-you-are,” she stated, “you need to leave. Don’t worry about us.”

“Yeah,” the Doctor agreed, “your back up’s coming. We’ll be fine.”

The woman shifted on her feet, before she admitted, “there is no back up.” 

The Doctor paused, glancing up at her. “I heard you on the radio. You called for back up.” 

She looked uncomfortable as she explained, “I was pretending, it’s a pretend radio!” 

The Doctor froze mid-motion, sonic still buzzing uselessly.

“You’re a policewoman.”

Amy hesitated, before finally bursting out with, “I’m a kissogram!”

The Doctor’s entire expression collapsed.

“You’re a…huh?!”

Amy yanked off the hat, shaking her red hair loose, and crossed her arms.

Circe tilted her head, smirking. “So that’s what they call it nowadays.”

The Doctor looked personally betrayed. “I—you, but…you had a hat! Police have hats!”

Amy shrugged. “Yeah. And so do kissograms.”

The Doctor looked like his entire worldview had just shattered.

“So that’s what they call it nowadays,” Circe mused, smirking upwards. 

The door broke down, falling to the floor with a slam. In its place stood two life forms; a bald white man wearing blue overalls and a black Labrador, chain leash linking them.  The pair stepped forward, the man glaring harshly at them. 

“But it’s just…” the woman frowned, staring at them. 

“No,” the Doctor corrected, “it isn’t. Look at the faces.” 

Because there was a dog growling, but the dog’s muzzle wasn’t moving. No, instead, the man’s mouth was moving, in perfect time to the dog’s barking. 

“What?” She stammered, “I’m sorry, what?” 

Circe leaned forward, eyes flicking between the man and the dog, analysing. Then, her lips curled in delight.

“It’s all one life-form.” Her voice was almost reverent, fascinated. She grinned at the Doctor, thrilled by the discovery. “One creature disguised as two. Isn’t that nifty?!”

The Doctor wasn’t looking at the creature. He was looking at her. Something warm and sharp gleamed behind his green eyes, something almost dangerous.

Circe’s cheeks burned. She smacked his shoulder. “Get us free, Starman!”

The Doctor blinked rapidly, jolting back to reality. “Right! Yes! Multiform! Clever old multi-form! I was thinking about that! Definitely not about, um…never mind—!”

Circe rolled her eyes, trying to downplay her own reaction to his stare. “Unbelievable.” She turned back to the multiform, tilting her head. “But you got the voice a bit muddled, did you?” Circe asked, “though, you need a direct psychic link. Whose form have you taken?” 

But the multiform didn’t have the capacity to respond, instead just growling with the man’s mouth bearing its teeth. 

Which were each thin, long sharpened toothpick style canines that seemed to expand from its mouth like ever-growing blades. 

The Doctor buzzed his screwdriver uselessly again, before he finally looked up, and barked out, “stay, boy. Us, we’re safe. Want to know why? She sent for back-up." The Doctor gestured to the woman with his screwdriver.

Only for the woman to hiss at him, “I didn’t send for back up.” 

Circe scowled, twisting to send the woman a harsh glare. “Never lied to cover your ass?” She snapped, hearts pounding as the multiform growled again, seeming to get louder as it crept forward. 

“Yeah, that was a clever lie to save our lives. Okay, so, no back-up!” The Doctor tried again, “and that’s why we’re safe. Alone, we’re not a threat to you.” Circe frowned, not entirely sure where the Doctor’s reasoning came from but maybe, just maybe, he’d stop it there. 

“If we had back-up, you’d have to kill us!” 

As if the universe was against them, a broadcast from above them announced, “Attention Prisoner Zero: the human residence is surrounded.” 

Circe felt it before she fully processed it: a slow, sinking drop in her gut, a sickening twist, like gravity had suddenly shifted sideways.

Oh, she was going to kill him.

The woman glanced upwards, shifting nervously. “What’s that?” 

Circe exhaled sharply through her nose. “Our back-up.” She turned slowly, deliberately, to the Doctor. She raised an eyebrow and waited.

The Doctor froze. Blinked. Shifted nervously.

"Okay," he dragged out, like he was about to say something brilliant. Then, against all reason, he doubled down. "One more time! We do have back-up, and that’s definitely why we’re safe!"

The broadcast changed, stating, “Prisoner Zero will vacate the human residence, or the human residence will be incinerated.” 

Circe let out a slow, dry exhale. “Oh, brilliant.” She turned to the Doctor. “Anything else you’d like to manifest into existence?” She paused, then, with a slow, scathing exhale, she tipped her head back toward the cotton-white ceiling, glaring like the universe itself had personally offended her. “Survived the return of our home, just to get blown to smithereens by intergalactic prison guards. Fantastic. Truly poetic."

The Doctor winced. “Safe,” he offered weakly, “apart from, you know… incineration.” He glanced between the woman and Circe, then caught the dagger-sharp glare Circe was shooting at him.

“Sorry,” he muttered quickly.

Circe inhaled deeply—long, measured, controlled—like she was mentally boxing up her irritation and shoving it onto a shelf for later. Then, sweet as poisoned honey, she quipped, “Anything else you’d like to jinx us with? Her eyebrow arched. “Maybe a good old-fashioned ‘what could go wrong?’ Or perhaps ‘what’s the harm?’”

The Doctor shifted uncomfortably. Circe leaned in slightly, voice dripping with faux enthusiasm. “Oh! No, wait—I know! My personal favourite: ‘Who could it hurt?’" He coughed, avoiding eye contact. Circe leant back against the cold metal once again, scowling. "Nothing? No snappy comeback? Well, that’s a first.”

The broadcast began to repeat the announcement, causing Prisoner Zero to walk into another room.The Doctor took that as his cue—not to panic, not to strategise, but to start violently whacking his screwdriver against the floor.

Bang.

It gave a pathetic bzzt.

Bang. Bang.

And then, a slightly less pathetic bzzt.

Circe eyed him warily. “That’s your grand plan, then? Just beat it into submission?”

Bang. Bang.

The screwdriver spluttered, whined—then, miraculously, let out an actual, steady hum.

The Doctor beamed, triumphant. “Ha! See? Works every time.”

He immediately pointed it at Circe’s cuff. 

With a sharp buzz, the cuff snapped open, metal clinking against the floor.

Circe shook out her wrist with a relieved sigh. “Finally.”

The Doctor moved to his own restraint—only for the screwdriver to sputter again, flickering like a dying lightbulb.

Circe sighed deeply. “Oh, for goodness sake.”

The Doctor grimaced, holding the screwdriver up as if begging it for mercy. “…one more time, for me, please?”

Circe rolled her eyes but smirked. “Try not to break it again, Starman.”

With another bang, a flicker of dying sparks, and then, with one final sputtering buzz, the screwdriver whined just long enough to snap open the second handcuff.

Freed, the Doctor sprang to his feet like a coiled spring.

Before Circe could fully process it, he bent down, grabbed both of her hands, and yanked her up with him in one fluid motion.

Circe stumbled slightly, catching herself. “Warn a girl next time,” she muttered.

The Doctor, completely ignoring that, turned to the woman with a wide, manic grin.

“Run,” was all he offered. 

Then, with a mischievous glint, he tugged Circe after him, dragging her at full speed down the corridor, down the stairs, and straight into the overgrown garden.

Outside, the woman pulled the door shut behind them and followed the two Time Lords through her garden. 

“Kissogram?” The Doctor protested. 

“Yes, a kissogram!” The woman defended. “Work through it.”

The betrayal still stinging, he asked, “why’d you pretend to be a policewoman?” 

Circe rolled her eyes, wondering if she’d ever have a normal conversation with this Doctor’s regeneration. She instinctually scanned the environment for any obvious threats, but unable to see anything beyond a stray branch in the path. Leading the way towards the TARDIS, she tugged the Doctor out of its way, just in case he tripped over it in his newly overly-enthusiastic body. 

“You broke into my house! It was this or a French maid!” 

Circe snorted, “why specifically French?” 

The woman ignored her, chasing after them. “What’s going on? Tell me!” She demanded. 

The Doctor threw his hands in the air, turning to face her. “An alien convict is hiding in your space room disguised as a man and a dog, and some other aliens are about to incinerate your house. Any questions?” 

“Yes!” 

“Me too!” The Doctor agreed.

Circe leant against the doorway, sensing the TARDIS’ displeasure. “She won’t open,” Circe warned, right as the Doctor yanked on the doors, hard. 

His face crumpled for a moment, and he exclaimed, “no, no, don’t do that, not now!” The Doctor pulled again, then pushed, like that would somehow change things. Nothing. He turned to the TARDIS like a wounded puppy. “Come on, Old Girl, I just got you back—don’t be mad—let me in!” Still nothing.

He glanced wildly between Circe and the woman, then blurted out, “She’s still rebuilding. She’s not letting us in.”

The woman glanced up to her house, catching sight of the multiform standing at a window and barking at them once again, and made her mind up. She grabbed the Doctor by the arm, and dragged him away, demanding, “come on!” 

The Doctor flailed in surprise, somehow grabbing Circe with his free hand as they went. Circe stumbled, momentarily tripping over her own feet as the human now dragged the pair of Time Lords out of her garden.

“No,” the Doctor protested, “wait, hang on, wait: the shed!” He freed himself from the woman’s grip and dashed to the other side of the garden, where the old rotting shed stood that Circe had noticed beforehand. The Doctor still held her hand, grip firm in a way that fit perfectly within her own. “I destroyed that shed last time I was here, smashed it to pieces.” 

“So there’s a new one now,” the woman offered, frustrated and confused. 

Circe tilted her head, running a finger across the old wood. “This wood is more than six months old,” she commented, sensing the age of it. 

“Exactly! The new one’s got old. It’s…ten years old at least.” 

“Twelve,” Circe corrected, and the Doctor turned his gaze to her appreciatively. 

“Twelve years.” The Doctor stared at the shed as if it had personally betrayed him, as if it wasn’t their own fault. 

Not six months. Twelve years.

His breath left him like he’d been punched. “I’m 12 years late.”

Circe raised an eyebrow at him, crossing her arms as he slowly turned to look at her. “You made a promise to a child,” she breathed. “And now…she’s spent her life waiting for it to be filled.” 

Guilt swam in the Doctor’s vision, and Circe squeezed his hand. 

“He’s coming,” the woman reminded, and Circe glanced at her, noticing the anxiety in every limb. 

“Why did you say six months?” The Doctor pushed.

She shook her head. “We’ve got to go!” 

“This matters; this is important!” The Doctor insisted. “Why did you say six months?” 

Amy didn’t even hesitate. Her expression shuttered—frustration snapping into something sharper. She threw his own words back at him, like a slap to the face. “Why did you say five minutes?”

The Doctor took half a step back, like the words had physically struck him. His face cracked open in surprise. Circe blinked, her brain chugging through the implications of those words. 

Amelia Pond, the child waiting twelve years for an impossible man to return. Growing up, never sure if it was real or imaginary. Waiting in perpetuity. 

The weight of it settled over her like a shadow. 

The woman, Amelia Pond, groaned, glancing worriedly at the house again. 

“What?” The Doctor’s voice was a thread too thin, unraveling.

Amelia tutted, but softer this time, less frustration, more something else. “Come on.”

Circe glanced at the house, too, seeing Prisoner Zero was not where he had been before. The moment was slipping away. She exhaled shakily, nodding.

The Doctor swallowed. “What?”

“Come on!” Amelia snapped, grabbing the Doctor’s wrist and yanking.

Circe barely had time to brace before she was dragged along, boots kicking up damp grass.

The three of them burst onto the open street, racing past the multiform as it exited the house as well, barking at them all the while. 

The town was quaint, the kind of place that looked like it belonged on a postcard. That was about all Circe had to say about it. The scenery was idyllic, with stone walls and black lampposts decorated by ivy and moss and flowers, and the people they passed seemed perfectly content to wander the streets simply. 

As in, the villagers seemed used to seeing Amelia Pond running through the streets, even if it was after two strangers. 

The Doctor skidded to a halt so abruptly that Circe nearly crashed into him. He pointed at Amy like she’d personally betrayed him. “You’re Amelia.”

Amy paused, exasperated, tugging down her miniskirt, before deciding to continue her quick pace.

Circe frowned, watching the ginger Scot pace up the path. “You’re late,” the ginger snapped. 

The Doctor and Circe chased after her. “Amelia Pond, you’re the little girl!” The Doctor’s voice broke in realisation. 

“I’m Amelia,” she confirmed, “and you’re late!” 

“What happened?” The Doctor asked. 

He still held Circe’s hand, even as they followed the angry Scotswoman up the street, and she had to fight to keep her cheeks from blushing every time the slightest tug on it reminded her that he still held her hand. 

“12 years,” Amelia snapped. 

“You hit me with a cricket bat!” The Doctor exclaimed. 

“12 years!” 

“A cricket bat!” 

“12 years, and four psychiatrists!” Amelia snapped. 

Circe frowned, snapping, “you hit me with a cricket bat!” 

Amelia sent her a glance, a mild apology within the hazel eyes. She bit her lip, and offered, “you were with him.” 

“Four psychiatrists?” Circe echoed, eyebrows shooting up. “That’s… excessive.” She glanced between Amy and the Doctor, lips pressing together. “…You sure we’re not the mad ones?”

Amelia paused, nose held in the air for just a moment, before she admitted, “I kept biting them.”

Circe’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “…Huh.” She frowned, trying—and failing—to mentally picture the logistics of it.

“Why?” The Doctor asked.

Amelia glanced at him, her expression smoothing out, quieter now.

Then, like it was the simplest thing in the world, like it explained everything, she stated, “they said you weren’t real.”

The Doctor stared. Circe felt his fingers twitch in hers, just once.

Before either Time Lord could react to that admission, an ice cream van just ahead of them began to broadcast the same message from the house. Circe’s stomach sank as they listened to it. 

“Prisoner Zero will vacate the human residence, or the human residence will be incinerated.” 

“Come on,” Amelia complained, “we’re being staked out by an ice cream van?” 

Circe murmured, “something tells me that might be playing in more places than that house.” 

The Doctor squeezed her hand in agreement, then yanked her forward at full speed.

Circe barely had time to plant her feet before she was half-running, half-being-dragged toward the van.

It seemed that this Doctor was a ‘run first, think later’ kind of man. She could get used to that. 

“What’s that?” The Doctor demanded, hands pressing against the glass window. “Why are you playing that?”

The vendor frowned, and explained, “it’s supposed to be playing Clair De Lune.” 

Circe smiled, commenting, “oh, I love that piece!” The vendor smiled at her, even as the Doctor picked up his radio player, holding it to his ear. Circe glanced at him, frowning. “Are you trying to give yourself tinnitus?” 

But the Doctor shushed her, listening closer. Circe rolled her eyes, catching Amelia watching them like they were an unsolvable puzzle.

She smirked. “Yes, it’s always like this.”

Amy startled, looking guilty. “I—uh, I didn’t ask a question.”

The Time Lady smiled and gave a short laugh. “You didn’t need to.” 

Then the Doctor was rushing away once again, and Circe sighed heavily. 

All around them, every single speaker was emitting the same broadcast. People with mobile phones were holding them up in confusion, listening to the phone and frowning. Runners with headphones had pulled them out, the announcement loud enough to be heard when unworn. 

Circe watched as the Doctor spotted something in the distance, and beelined for it. Aiming for a cute white cottage with a white picket fence, he hopped the fence, hair flopping everywhere as he did so, and landed in the overgrown garden. Amelia didn’t wait for Circe, running after the Doctor.

Circe glanced at the ice cream vendor and gave him a smile. “Thanks for your help!” 

Then she, too, ran after the Doctor and Amelia, or at least, she tried. Her jeans fought her every step of the way.

Was this what it felt like to be strangled by denim?

She was going to burst a seam. At this rate, she’d regenerate again just trying to keep up.

Stars above, her last body had been tiny.

Circe made it into the cottage just as the Doctor was finishing talking to an old lady wearing a purple cardigan. On the telly, a blue iris took up the entire screen, glancing around as if it could see into the lounge room. The same message came from the speaker there too. Amelia stood beside the Doctor, but there was a measure of alarm on her expression as the old lady looked her over in surprise. 

“And this is my partner in crime,” the Doctor announced, pointing to Circe, “and television faults. Let’s have a look!” 

He stepped around the left of the sofa, and Circe came around the right, meeting either side of the old woman. 

“I was just about to phone,” she explained, handing over the television remote. Circe took it, curiously exploring what each button would reveal. “It’s on every channel.” The woman then saw Amelia in her police outfit, and she smiled. “Hello, Amy, dear,” she greeted warmly, before she frowned. “Are you a policewoman now?”

“Well, sometimes,” Amelia offered, voice tight. 

“I thought you were a nurse.” 

Amelia exhaled sharply, trying to work her way out of it. “I can be a nurse.” 

“Or, actually, a nun.” 

“I dabble!”

The old woman gave her a skeptical look, like she wasn’t quite sure if Amy was joking or clinically unstable.

There was a beat of silence where Circe pressed her lips together, desperately fighting a laugh. Then a small, helpless snort escaped, just enough for the Doctor to catch it. He nudged her playfully, eyes alight with amusement. Circe glared at him, but the corners of her lips were already betraying her. His green eyes sparkled in the midmorning light, and for a moment, Circe forgot what she was doing. 

The old woman sighed, shaking her head like she’d officially given up on understanding Amy Pond.

“Amy,” she interrupted, “who are your friends?” 

The Doctor picked up on the new name, turning to Amelia. “Who’s Amy? You were Amelia,” he protested. Circe sighed, refocusing on the television. Perhaps she could refine the signal, figure out where it was coming from. 

“Yeah,” Amelia shrugged, “now I’m Amy.”

“Amelia Pond, that was a great name!” The Doctor insisted, raising his eyebrows. 

Then Amelia hesitated, and she finally replied, “a bit fairytale.”

Circe frowned. Something about the way Amy said it—like she was closing the book on a childhood dream—made Circe’s chest tighten. She glanced at the Doctor, who was still grinning, still excited, like he hadn’t quite caught what had changed.

The woman finally turned to the Doctor and her eyes lit up in recognition. Circe stiffened, ready to defend against the elder, when she said, “I know you, don’t I? I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

Circe caught how Amelia’s gaze drifted down, sudden embarrassment or chagrin filling her expression. She frowned, watching carefully. 

The Doctor grinned. “Not me. Brand new face.”

Then he suddenly stretched his face like an absolute maniac— mouth wide, eyebrows up, eyes bugging out like a startled owl. “First time on!”

Circe sighed. Loudly. “I should’ve left you in the garden.” He ignored her. 

“And what sort of job’s a kissogram?” 

Amelia shrugged, “I go to parties and I kiss people.” The Doctor looked at her, concern evident in his gaze. “With outfits. It’s a laugh.” 

“You were a little girl five minutes ago!”

She groaned, “you’re worse than my aunt.” 

The Doctor persisted, “I’m the Doctor, I’m worse than everybody’s aunt.” 

Circe paused her fiddling, and nudged his side with the television remote. He glanced at her, gaze skimming over the old woman. He paused, and his eyes widened slightly, before he had to do a double take. “And that is not how I’m introducing myself.” 

The Doctor lifted the radio he had stolen from the ice cream van—Circe made a mental note to herself to return it once they’d sorted this mess out—and buzzed the dying sonic screwdriver across it, listening as the broadcast changed languages every few words. 

“It’s being broadcast to every location on the planet,” Circe realised, and she glanced around the room, spotting a sliding window behind them. She headed over and lifted the pane up. 

“In every language,” the Doctor added. 

Circe poked her head out, looking up towards the sky. “Nothing there yet,” she told the Doctor, who nodded, beginning to pace across the living room floor. 

“Okay, planet this size, two poles, your basic molten core…” the Doctor listed as Circe began to calculate. 

“That’s at least a 40% fission blast,” she stated. “Assuming standard power rates and flux division,” she frowned, waving her fingers in front of her as she did the calculations in her head. “I give us twenty-five minutes.” 

The Doctor’s eyes lit up, and he grinned at her. “That’s five minutes more than I thought!” 

Circe laughed, shaking her head. “No, Starman, twenty-five minutes from the start of the broadcast.” 

His face froze mid-smile. The light in his eyes died instantly. “…Oh.”

He turned away, muttering furiously to himself, just as a young man walked into the house and entered the living room. The Doctor, who was half a head shorter than the man, squinted up at him like he was assessing an architectural flaw. Then he slowly circled him, muttering, “twenty minutes, what do you think, twenty minutes?” He gave the man a quick up-and-down glance, nodded sagely to himself, then turned to Circe, completely serious. “Yeah, twenty minutes.”

Amelia interrupted, “twenty minutes to what?” 

The man who’d just walked in glanced at the situation before him, and asked, “are you the Doctor?” 

The old woman exclaimed suddenly, “he is, isn’t he? He’s the Doctor! The Raggedy Doctor.” 

Circe’s mouth dropped open at the title, and she laughed, leaning against the wall beside the window as she watched. The Doctor’s gaze flickered between her and the humans, a measure of amusement and chagrin on his expression at the nickname. 

“All those cartoons you did, when you were little,” she continued, smiling at Amelia, who was wincing, but smiling endearingly at the woman, nodding and humming in acknowledgement. “The Raggedy Doctor, it’s him!”

“Cartoons?” The Doctor asked, frowning at Amelia. 

“Oh, Raggedy Doctor,” Circe teased, causing the Doctor’s eyes to land on her. She dramatically placed a hand on her forehead, pretending to faint, and wafted herself with her other hand. “My Raggedy Doctor, do save me!” 

She laughed again, missing how the Doctor’s eyes had drifted from her own to her bared neck, down the now too-tight button-up white shirt, and across the sliver of bare skin just above her jeans, missing how his eyes darkened, how his embarrassment had faded into heat. 

His breath hitched—just slightly.

His eyes darkened. His embarrassment faded into something warmer, heavier, something that curled at the edges of his thoughts before he could catch it.

He suddenly realised he was staring.

He jolted, blinking rapidly, before yanking himself back to the conversation like nothing had happened. “Right! Cartoons!” he said, just a bit too loudly. “Cartoons?” He repeated again, still confused. He reached across the space to grasp Circe’s hand, leading them both over to one of the sofas and pulling her down next to him, wrapping an arm discreetly around her waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Circe barely had a second to process it before his fingers slid beneath her cardigan, tracing feather-light patterns against her hip.

A shiver ran up her spine, unbidden. Unacceptable.

She shot him a sidelong glare, but the Doctor just kept watching the screen, calm, unbothered, like he wasn’t completely undoing her composure in real-time.

The man who’d entered late exclaimed to the older woman, “gran, it’s him, isn’t it? It’s really him!” 

Amelia hissed at him, “Jeff, shut up!” Refocusing on the central problem, she asked, “twenty minutes to what?” 

The Doctor stared into the television screen with a seriousness that Circe hadn’t seen from his face yet. “The human residence,” he explained, “they’re not talking about your house, they’re talking about the planet.” 

Circe glanced at the three humans, stood watching them. She gave them an understanding smile even as she explained the information that could change their lives; “there’s a spaceship that will incinerate the planet if another alien life-form doesn’t leave.” 

“Twenty minutes,” the Doctor mused, turning his head to rest his chin on the crown of Circe’s head.

His voice dropped—softer, quieter, like a secret meant only for her.

“To the end of the world.”