Ikaria (11th doctor X Male Reader)

Two

You walk down the aisle of the plane, your leg aching like crazy - the long flight really wasn't good for it. Stuffing your earphones into your pocket, you slowly go down the steps, gripping the rail. You follow the line of people across the concrete and into the terminal.

Straight away you notice a couple of men holding up a cliché cardboard sign with your name scrawled on it. You limped over to them, wobbling a little. The first man, a snowy-haired rough shaven man who looked around 60, stepped forward. "You're Y/N?"

"No, I'm Obama," you grumbled,
faltering a little. The man glanced at your leg.

"Do you need to sit down for a bit?" he asks in a fake concerned voice.

"I'll be fine."

He extends his hand. "Simon," he offers.

"You already know my name," you reply, shaking briefly. The other man extends his hand also. He has a clean shaven face, with eager hazel eyes. A flop of dark brown hair projects over his right temple, brushing the skin just above his eye. You shake his hand.

"Basil," he smiles.

"Y/N," you reply. He pushes his hair from his eyes and shoots you a sheepish grin. Simon folds up the cardboard with some difficulty, tucking it under his arm like a newspaper.

"Do you have bags?"

"No, I dropped everything and flew here screaming and unprepared as soon as my tongue was shoved down that guy's throat," you say, starting towards the bag pickup. Basil snorts a little, suppressing a laugh. Simon doesn't seem to be listening.

You tap your toes against the ground, looking out for your suitcase. After describing the make and colour to Simon, the man wanders off closer to the conveyor belt. Basil rocks back on his heels impatiently. "Gay?" he asks in a low voice.

"Mmm," you hum, casting your eyes down. Was he one of the instructors? Would you get punished?

"Pan," he replies, bouncing up and down a little. "Brother found a post I put on the Internet of me and my boyfriend at a pride parade."

"You're not an instructor?"

"Nup!" he says cheerily. You look up to him through your lashes - he stands almost a head taller than you. You've always erred on the small side of the hight range.

"Heh, mother walked in on me tonguing a hot dude and just about dropped dead on the spot," you chuckle. He snorts again, still jittering and down.

Simon approaches you, dragging your suitcase behind him. "This one right?"

"Yeah," you mutter, "just be careful, freshly dead bodies can still bruise if you toss 'em around too much."

It earns that small snorting exhale of air from Basil, and Simon once again chooses to ignore your words. He beckons us to follow him, and begins walking toward the car park.