Yowzah Oneshot Collection (3)

5

     love, and some verses you hear

                     hihoplastic                  

There are so many things he has to give her.

The locket she wears beneath her clothes, her lipstick, her diary. He’s seen it in her future, and must fulfill it in her past—little things and big things and promises he prays he won’t have to keep. He has to teach her to fly the TARDIS and speak Gallifreyan. He has to give her a blue diary. He has to tell her his name.

She apologised for that, and he knows why—it’s fixed, now. He has no choice. He told her his name because one day it would be the only way to convince himself to trust her; to cherish her while it lasted. But he can see it in her eyes, sometimes, the way she looks at him—it doesn’t matter if she’s old or young. Every so often, she looks at him with regret, and he knows it isn’t her own. It’s for him.

Regret, for all the things he’s compelled to do. Or at least, that’s how she sees it. And sometimes, he sees it that way, too. In the beginning, that was all he could think. Tricked by time and space and paradox into trusting someone he barely knew. He hated it. Hated every step because he knew it was already paved; he was walking in his own shadow, and it wasn’t fair. To either of them.

But especially to her. It took him a long time to realise that. Too long, if he’d admit it. It wasn’t fair. Every gift, every sunrise, every sparkling planet felt like cheating—something slipped here or slipped there. She’s wilder, young, not as cautious with their secrets, and when she’s older it hurts that much more, the way she fingers a necklace he once gave her, only because he knew he’d done it.

Now it’s different. Now, he wants to give her everything. He wants to teach her Gallifreyan and to fly the TARDIS and how to keep track of spoilers in a bright blue diary that will eventually fade and fade. He isn’t there yet, but he knows when the time comes, telling her his name will be the easiest thing he’s ever done.

He has no regrets, not anymore, and in time, neither will she. He can’t change their past, or their future. He can’t rewrite her end or her beginning, as much as he’d like, and the fact is he wouldn’t do it regardless. He’s too old, too selfish, and he needs her as she is—beautiful and flawed, broken and hopeful. He needs her darkness as much as her light. But this, this he can give her.

Proof.

Be it in the rings of planets or whispered words or the grip of his hand on hers as they run, he can write over the worried expression on her face, and prove in this go-around how much he cares. He’ll buy her bracelets he’s never seen her wear and take her to places she’s never mentioned. There’ll be adventures he knows nothing about, and kisses just for the sake of kisses.

He’ll teach her Gallifreyan because he loves the way she writes the words on his skin with her tongue. She’ll fly the TARDIS because she’s always been able to fly the TARDIS and because he loves the way her brow furrow when she concentrates; loves the way she stretches out beneath the console at night and sings softly into the heart. He’ll make her keep track of their future and past so that, on nights like this, he can fling open the doors of his ship, and make her gasp.

There are so many things he wants to give her, and this is just the start.