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England, covered in blood. The Doctor, covered in stars.
They plastered to his ribs, those stars. They plastered to his brain and grew there, and sprung their tendrils from his smile, laugh lines not from age but joy (or maybe age, a thousand years of hard smiling). He tended the memories of planets between his ears; only the forgotten ones, and the burnt out suns, and the universes pressed into dark and pulled back. One not-man. One anomaly who ran, and sometimes held England's hands. England pressed his fingers to those wrists, once, and felt two pulses.
(And once, England pressed his fingers to his chest and felt two beats; and once, England's palm to his inner thigh, thumpathumpathump .
(And once, too much love poured out of him, and he used to say: just enough for two hearts. Barely.))
There have been too many faces. Over nine hundred years of bumping elbows, the ends of the world, a little blue box. Cricket gear and stripey scarves and a bloody bowtie. A million moments all played out in the wrong order.
"What would you do," he's asked England once, smiling about the rim of his glass, "if you could relive everything all over again?"
There is a point when you reach (roughly) the age seven hundred and fourty, and you realise the people you hold closest are the ones that are always there—not necessarily obvious, but just. Existing. Present.
England has told him, "I'd rather die ," because he is stretched thin and old enough without a second lifetime. It takes him a moment to add, "Why, are you offering?"
The Doctor is trenchcoat and pinstripe and red eyes tonight. Something has happened, a heartbreak obvious in the slope of his smile, but England knows how this works. He is gesticulating fiercely, forcing the sadness low to relay his stories, escaped Delphonian fetishists and the burst of Folflower, pumpjacks on Mars a million years from now.
England pulls out the whiskey, then; it is aged a hundred and something, a pirate’s liquid gold. He pours out half glasses, and drinks the Doctor’s share too. It is just about enough to make him soft, and the Doctor’s jokes funny, till he is laughing big-mouthed and ugly. His head is tossed so far England can taste nebulae on his molars when he pulls them back.
There is something quite perfect about it. The air is damp, and warm, and the Doctor is divine in the petrol glow. Life comes down to coloured lights: the ghost sheen of the moon, orange streetlamp, night sky minutiae shelling back the armour sewn under his skin.
He’s had dreams of dying, here. The garden at half moon, full of that wild, wide laughter. If he were to die, now, aching ribs and eyes deep-creased at the corner, company of a madman—it would be nice.
(But then the people have stopped off, and the night is absolute silence, and he is biting his lip to break. "Oh, I loved her," the Doctor's saying. It is a rare moment, a soft one; this is the real reason him for being here. A tear rolls down the dramatic line of his nose—it leaves a blip on the table. "Like the universe, my Rose.")
The Doctor doesn't stay, but he never does.
England normally plays dormant on a Sunday, but it's about eleven am and there's a crash that puts his heart into his mouth. A figure is sprawling his way through the rose bushes; a police box, picked out by the sun, and a familiar oopsy-daisy as the heads of his foxgloves go flying. Ping. One in the birdbath. Ping. One over the fence.
England leans out the kitchen window. "Good morning. Bad landing?"
"Sort of." The Doctor twists back, surveying the damage, clucks his teeth. "I'll pay for anything."
"You better," England says, but he is fighting back a silly joy, one that breaks him into a smile as he opens the door.
"You seem in good humour," the Doctor says.
" You 've got a new face." England says. His own intimacy surprises him, straightening the Doctor's lapels, grinning broadly. He pulls the ends of his (new) bowtie, and goes, "Really?"
"They're cool ."
He looks impossibly young, his face broad and soft-lined. There is the wicked air about him being where he shouldn't, the patch-oddness of his jacket, how he bounces on his heels. They clop in a rhythm.
"You look younger every time I see you," England says, and it comes out wistful. "How awful."
The Doctor mocks offense. "Awful?" He touches off England's shoulder, a comfort. "Don't worry, you look as good as you did in the sixteen hundreds—and trust me, I would know."
England can find no reason to doubt him, moving off into the kitchen, saying: "Just there, were you?"
"Visiting, mhm. You seemed so busy, i didn't stay very long—oh!" The Doctor elbow-wrestles his way to the counter, eager-eyed, "Earl Grey! Perfection," and plucks the cup from him, fishing out the teabag to throw in the bin with a finger.
England spoons out his own with a little more grace. "Careful, there. New outfit and all?"
"You do like it? And—yes, yes, new. New everything, really! New friend, even—new friend plus one ."
England pauses, here. He lets himself into a chair, sucking his teeth. "Who are they, then?"
"A Scottish girl. Pretty," and the Doctor's hands come to his shoulders, here, curled into claws, "and feisty, rawr ."
"She sounds like a charmer," England takes a sip, a breath. "Be careful."
"Hm?"
"Be careful with her."
The Doctor flumps into the chair opposite, pushing his hair from his temples. It should not be attractive. England should not want to push it away for him, because it's only gone and fallen straight into his eyes again.
A thousand things not to do.
"Whatever do you mean?"
England wonders whether it is worth the argument.
Still, he says, "You know what I mean," and goes on, at the blank stare: "You. You have this terrible habit of turning up—popping into people's lives—and just," it's hard, now, because damn, because, "and it tends to make people..."
He struggles for words, briefly.
"... lose track of things, themselves, family and friends. How many times have you passed on through? How many?"
"Is the number so important?" The Doctor sighs, pushing his cup around on the saucer. It makes him look even younger—England wonders if he knows he's pouting.
"Yes, it is. Because these are my girls, and you cannot—my people, my lives," and he really wants to say, my Doctor , my holder, protector, the thousandth-time-saviour of London. He swipes his hair back, and suddenly the argument loses all weight. "It... doesn't matter."
The Doctor sips, shame-faced. "Should I apologise?"
"Not to me," England says, and regrets it. He lets out a sigh as he stands. "No, it's fine. Want to help me with breakfast? Lord knows you handle a stove better than I do."
The morning plays out this way. England gets up six times to brew more tea, laying out plates. The Doctor asks if he has scones—yes, and jam and clotted cream—and apparently this is breakfast enough. They don't talk much, but England offers to darn his socks some, to oil the door of the TARDIS, and how are all these years weighing you down?
(It's in his eyes. How, when England talks about some things—silly things, home-made things, half-family things—his eyelids lower, and there is such age in them that England could not understand.)
It really is all new: he has habits of pressing kisses to foreheads, hands either side of his head, whenever England's mentions anything positive (no, he hasn't experienced any aliens lately; yes, it is rather good to see you; mwah mwah mwah). When he finally relaxes on to the sofa, his trousers sit too short and there are two layers of socks over the ropy muscle of his ankles.
(It is ten past eleven when England doesn't mean to say, "Stay," but does anyway. The Doctor's eyes go a little wide, his mouth loose, but he smiles with his entire face—eyes pushed narrow, cheeks bunched, and yes. Okay. That would be nice.)
America saw them talking, once—or more than once, but when one man has so many faces, it's hard to put two and two together. It was purely by accident, noticing the oddness of Shetland tweed and an askew bowtie in Paris . The Doctor does that, urges a curiosity, draws you in. America made some pass-remark on his eyebrows, or lack thereof, that had even England forcing back the curve of his smile.
He'd asked, "Who was that, then?"
"An old friend," England had said.
It wasn't a lie, really. The Doctor liked to call them selective truths .
England hasn't seen him since he found the guest room empty; this wasn't a surprise in itself, but England was surprised by his own hurt, an ache that lasted a little long to be typical. He blames old age and an even older affection for it.
There is a corpse-silence all through May.
June feels important, though. It is still coarse and scudding, but the air tastes different. England feels as if he's missing something. He starts having dreams where the stars are blown out, one by one, the sky a milkless dark.
But today , there is the TARDIS set primly upon his lawn. It is one in the afternoon and someone is knuckling his window, pressing their nose to the glass, motioning. England opens the window, and flicks the kettle switch.
"Hello, handsome!" The Doctor says, the bridge of his nose a little red. He is smiling like a flashbomb. "Having fun?"
"The front door's open," England tells him, and then: "Why are you visiting?"
"Me? I had something to check up on," the Doctor says. He disappears, briefly—only to reappear a moment later, mouth running the whole way. "Yes, because the world almost, you know, poof , and you are basically," he makes shapes with his free hand, mouth contorting, "you. The world. A— thing, a part of it all. So. I was checking."
England blinks blearily. "... Right."
"And I've a wedding, yes! That's very important, I can't forget that, do remind me before I go—suit. Suit and bowtie—top hat? Top hat. Top hats are cool, aren't they. Good. I don't need to rush really," and he breathes for the first time since. "But ah, I think it's been put off enough, the poor things."
England stares at him. "And that's why you're here? For a wedding?"
"Well, yes." The Doctor scratches his jaw, eyes lighting up. "See, I'm not supposed to exist yet—I'm an abject thought, a loose circuit she hasn't connected but there—and I need time to change, don't I? Because she'd murder me if I turned up otherwise, all raggedy, and—aha, I smell bergamot!"
"Er. Yes," England says, shaking his head, "sorry. Whose wedding?"
"Ah! Ah, my little Scottish girl, you remember? Ginger, vicious, and her little English boy. Bit of an idiot but sweet, and I've about," he looks at the clock, here, mouths numbers, "ten minutes: a man—Augustus, balding but pleasant, shaped rather like the teapot—is about to stand up, and then there's a big fuss, epiphany, dress everywhere, a blare of wicked Scottish accent. That's when I'm due."
England fights back the upturn of his mouth. "You sound terribly excited," he says, "I didn't pin you one for weddings. It's a bit organised, subdued , for you."
"Excuse me," the Doctor says, his mouth an o, a put-upon offense, "I love weddings! It's all—big, big dresses, big food, big family—big dancefloor. Ooh, yes. I love weddings." The teacup becomes his impromptu partner, twirling about the front room, smart shoes clapping. "Yes, the whole she-bang."
England is briefly jealous of the teacup. He clamps the feeling down, checks the wall clock. "Shouldn't you be going? Even for you, ten minutes is cutting it a little close."
The Doctor huffs but there is a resignation in how he slows, slotting the cup back on to the saucer. "I have been late more than enough times," he concedes, turning to wink before he slips through the door. "Wish me luck!"
He leaves the reception a little early, Amy's face pressed into the crook of Rory's neck, woozy with shared delight. The Doctor finds England at his desk, tired, paperwork stacked daunting about his elbows.
England asks, over his pen:
"How did she look?"
"Oh," the Doctor says. He closes his eyes, as if to trap love in his head. "Perfect."
"Come with me."
The sky in Houston was that extraordinary blue that made the horizon endless, stretching the world out like a canvas. It was also thirty eight degrees celsius, August, and England was full-dress in suit and tie. The after effects of jet lag and debt talk and monstrous heat have left him full of gravel.
He looks up from his paper.
"What?"
The Doctor was there when he got home. England didn't know what to make of that, but it isn't the first time, and he was really rather glad of the tea made proper.
"Come with me," The Doctor repeats. His expression is odd, scanning. "In the TARDIS."
England goes back to his paper.
"You've never let me in there before. Why now?" he asks. England remembers being young, wild, when curiosity burnt a hole through everything. He remembers the rejection even more so. "Well?"
"Just. Follow me. Please," he says, and his gaze is so intense England can't not.
The Doctor doesn't say anything at first, smoothing his hands over the panel. But now he is grinning, a wonderful temptation in his teeth, palm pressed wide to the door.
"Have you ever seen it? I can't remember." He rubs behind his ear, an anxiety in his fidgeting. "I can't wait to see your face--I don't think I've ever seen you properly surprised, you know?"
And he's pressing the door back while England is halfway through his own response— no , he hasn't, because he never let him. And then he—shuts up, because a painful breathlessness wells up under his ribs.
Light is spilling out on to the pavement like molten gold. There is something inexplicably captivating, the insides lit up like the nacre of an oyster and just--endless, and full, and impossible. England can feel it all through the soles of his sensible shoes. That new oldness, lives and souls that have left their patina, footfalls and breaths and loves and sorrows and simple humanities in layers around them, absorbed into the machine. It hangs about like a fog.
England stops at the doorframe.
"... No. No, now, hold on . You are always the one saying I can't do this—I can't see things , that it would mess everything up. This is against the law , basically, your laws—"
"I'm not supposed to hang around with humans, really. Or go meddling. It would be boring if I did follow rules—no one's left to reinforce them anyway," the Doctor says (and there is that moment, a break, a sadness). He bends upside down over a railing, "I can break them if I want. And anyway," and he pings back up, hair following a split second after, "we might just pop along to some planets, reminisce, all that!"
England opens his mouth, shuts it. "I can't ."
"Surely," The Doctor says, and he is half-pleading, half-joking, "surely, England can care for itself a while."
"God. You know it's not that." England shuts his eyes. His voice is softer than he means it to be. "You know I can't."
His breath is shaky. England knows how easy the Doctor can read him, and how he is a second away from buckling.
"I'm lonely," he says.
(How England hates him for it, and hates himself for knowing it's true, and that he's lonely, too. How dare he play pity, how dare he—when England has waited so long, weeks, decades, a lifetime.
England still says yes. He's not happy about it, though.)
He spends an hour trying to control the loopy excitement swooping through his belly, the post-jetlag aggression still riling. It is a combination that edges him on sickness when he leans out of the door, watching London dissolve into red snakes of tail lights, lit up obelisks and the faint, city smell of pollution.
"This is mad," he says. "Christ."
The Doctor replies (and it is a promise in the upturn on his mouth), "It can be madder, if you'd like."
The first thing the Doctor says when they land is that he may want a helmet. This is not something that inspires much confidence.
As it turns out, it rains diamonds in Kataa Flo Ko.
"It's a little less— touristy than Midnight, not so many crowds, you know. No less beautiful!" The Doctor reassures, as if England could care. There's a pause, his gaze flickering to the clouds and back. "Well, as long as it doesn't start hailing. Actually, let's hope the suns don't rise either, because you miiiight end up with ah—quite a rough sunburn, what with all the, uhm, reflections. You see."
England chooses to ignore that.
"There are humans here?" he says, instead. He has spotted a cluster of children in the distance, kicking up showers of stones, gap-toothed and delightful. "When are we?"
(That really is a question you could only ask now, isn't it? The absurdity strikes England hard enough to laugh.)
The Doctor follows his gaze. A smile works its way on to his face, a proper face-splitting affair; There is such a joy there, an appreciation, that England is surprised a second time.
"Humans," he says, with no small amount of affection. "Everywhere, you are. Like rats. Let's take a look, shall we?"
Upon approach, there is this great furore: shaking hands, claps on the back so enthusiastic they nearly knock England breathless, voices and laughter. Tons of laughter.
"A friend of the Doctor's," somebody says, though it is hard to tell who with the wealth of happy mouths, "is a friend of ours!"
England finds out, eventually, the reason for this. That the Doctor has saved this colony before—Sontarans, a city made not for offense but defense, the screams of children. England fears this will be a common occurrence, like a celebrity recognised wherever they go, but it is impossible not to get caught up in it. Everything is lit up and shatter-bright. The children are small charms; they tug on England's fingers and fill his palms with pea diamonds till his grin is count-my-teeth wide. The thanks are endless.
Their love is so exuberant,
tangible
. So much joy. Could power the planet for centuries.
They leave soon after, if reluctantly so. England is still working the high off from walking ankle-deep in diamonds as he settles on the floor, leaning his back against the centre of the TARDIS. It makes him smile harder, watching the Doctor's feet twist around the console.
"How long," England begins, and then stops. Not quite the right wording. "How—far have you travelled, do you think?"
England follows the shoes till they are beside him, and looks up. The Doctor crouches down till they are face to face, his matched in wonder.
And then he says:
(This is the moment where the door shuts behind you, where everything is different and there's no going back, when your hold on everything is spun off into the stars to burn up with them. And, of course, who else but him could do that.)
"I don't gather miles. I gather stories."