onecarelessowner - Tumblr blog

onecarelessowner · 10 hours ago

Text

Call It Lavender

Pairing: 13th Doctor x Female Reader

Word count: 6k

Warnings: period typical homophobia, very subtle. reader has one (1) traumatic homophobic flashback of her past (based on my myself, projection is a lovely thing), a few innuendos at the end of the chapter, reader doesn't trust cops (projection is a lovely thing²), no use of y/n

Summary: The TARDIS forces a stop in small-town Ohio. In 1954. During the Lavender Scare. The town is weird. The signal’s weirder. And the locals are... watching. Oh, and you're gay. Good luck with that.

Author's note: HAPPY BIRTHDAY JODIE WHITTAKER, HAPPY PRIDE EVERYONE! this is a work in progress but i am committed to updating it! as always, english isn't my first language, so feedback is very welcome. also worth noting that i'm not american, but i've done a lot of research on small-town 1950s life and the Lavender Scare BUT take everything with a grain of salt and also a whole lot of love <3

you can also read this on ao3

Lavender Dreams (part one) | Part two | Part three

The TARDIS is groaning.

You’ve never heard her make a sound like that before. It’s almost like she’s sick, her middle spiral turning far slower than usual.

You glance at the Doctor and she looks just as scared as you are.

So reassuring.

“Doctor?” you call out, clutching your personal favourite spiral for dear life as the ship jolts the two of you side to side, like she’s trying to shake you off. “What the hell is going on?”

“Erm,” she yells back, “Don’t worry! I’ve got everything under control—”

The console erupts in sparks and flame. You barely catch a glimpse of the Doctor falling backwards.

“I don’t mean to kill the vibe, but it don’t look like you’ve got everything under control!”

“I don’t know what you mean!” she shouts. “Hold on, let me try something!”

She ducks under the console and re-emerges with a hammer.

You stare.

She takes a deep breath.

“Oh no. No, no, no,” you say, panicked. “I really don’t think that’s a good—”

She slams the hammer down. Hard.

“Sorry!” she winces like the blow hurt her more than it did the ship.

The cloister bells begin to ring. The amber lights turn to red. The TARDIS jolts once again and you almost fall.

“Sorry again!” she calls, and brings the hammer down a second time.

Then, without warning—

Thomp.

The TARDIS lands. Unceremoniously. As if none of it ever happened.

The Doctor is clinging to the console, wide-eyed, hair a mess. You’re still hugging the pillar like you’re expecting it to hug back.

She shoots you a shaky grin. “Here we are, then!”

You glance toward the doors. “Are we actually there? Is it really Rio?”

“Yeah!” she grins, mostly with her mouth. Her brow is still furrowed. “Sure. Rio. Bang right.”

You’re not sure you believe her. Still, you bolt for the door anyway.

You’re expecting a beach — sun, heat, salty air clinging to your very soul.

What you get… is so much more disappointing.

You stare down a hill. Below, rows of identical houses sit in tidy formation.

And a sign that reads: Welcome to Wayloncree.

You turn back into the TARDIS — and nearly run into the Doctor.

“Small problem,” she says, grimacing.

“You don’t say,” you shoot back.

“This isn’t Rio.”

“Yeah, the lack of a beach kind of gave it away,” you reply, flashing her a sarcastic smile. “Where are we?”

The Doctor rushes back to the console, reading from one of the screens. “America. Ohio. Wayloncreek.” Then she grimaces again. “1954.”

“Oh. Creek, not Cree. That makes more sense.” You pause. “Can’t we just… leave?”

“In theory, yes — just… not right this moment. The TARDIS needs a breather. Bit of a recharge. Cosmic indigestion, really. We’ll be in and out before you can say ‘Rio’.”

“Wait. You actually wanna go down there? Can’t we wait here?” you ask.

“There’s a lot of smoke!” she exclaims, like that’s a good enough reason, and this isn’t an infinite ship with infinite rooms. “Also, bit of a weird energy reading. We should check it out.”

But she’s biting back a smile, and her eyes are glowing gold under the lights.

You smile back. There isn’t a single thing you wouldn’t do for that grin of hers.

“Come on, then,” you sigh, rolling your eyes playfully. “Wayloncree, here we come!”

The Doctor rushes ahead, tugging you by the hand. But when you reach the door, she stops.

She looks down at your joined hands, lifts them slightly, then glances up at you. There’s so much in her expression you can barely read it all — reluctance, uncertainty… fear?

You look at your hands too. It crosses your mind that she’s never been one for touch. Could that be it?

“You know I don’t mind if you don’t do it, right?” you say gently. “It’s okay.”

She hums, eyes drifting toward the houses below. “You do know what happened in the 1950s?”

It’s half a question, half an assumption. And unfortunately for you — but fortunately for her — your knowledge isn’t the most… thorough.

“I remember Rosa.”

“Yeah, that’s next year,” she murmurs. “Does the Lavender Scare ring any bells?”

“Did people in the US run away from your perfume?” you quip, mostly because you don’t like how fear looks on her.

You remember the last time she was like this.

The witch hunt.

And that… that nearly didn’t end well.

The Doctor gives your hand a tilt, coaxing you forward. “All I’m saying is: we might need to be careful. Just in case.”

You don’t ask what the Lavender Scare is, and she doesn’t tell you — but her hand stays loose around yours, like she’s halfway through letting go… but doesn’t really want to.

And with that, you think you understand what she means.

With your heart aching, you let go first. She looks at you, half puzzled, half relieved.

“It’s okay,” you say with a smile. “We can be discreet.”

She smiles, too. But it’s tight, contained. One of the ones you hate.

“Woah, look at that!” you exclaim suddenly, pointing at some random spot down the hill, anything to distract her long enough.

It works.

“What? Where?” she asks, head swivelling side to side like that might help.

You make sure no one’s watching.

Then grab her face and plant a kiss on her cheek.

She stops walking and freezes completely, like someone flipped her off switch.

You burst out laughing.

“Oi! What did I just say about being—” she begins to protest.

But the fun drops from both your faces in an instant when you hear a noise.

That noise.

That groaning, wheezing noise.

You both turn at once.

The TARDIS is gone.

You stare for a few minutes at the mountaintop where she’d been parked.

“Oh, brilliant!” the Doctor breaks the silence. “Whose idea was it to leave the TARDIS anyway?”

You draw a long breath. “I don’t think it’s being gay that’s going to get me arrested today,” you mutter. “Murder, on the other hand…”

She bends down, plucks something from the grass, and promptly stuffs a few leaves into her mouth. Then she straightens, and humphs triumphantly. “This way! Come on!”

You follow, because the last thing you need is to get lost in a random American suburban town in the 1950s.

“What is? The TARDIS?”

“Nope!” she chirps, far too cheerfully for someone presumably stranded. “Restaurant. I’m suddenly starving.”

Yeah.

Murder is definitely what’s going to get you arrested today.

***********************************************

The town appears to be quite small.

After the welcome sign — and now, up close, you can definitely see the K from “creek” hanging backwards from a single screw — there are rows upon rows of houses.

They’re just as identical as they looked from up on the hill, but now you can see children riding bikes, playing in driveways, and a few adults tending carefully to their gardens.

They all stare as you pass.

Though really, it’s the Doctor who draws the attention.

If you happened to catch, in passing, a woman confident enough to wear whatever she pleases — someone who clearly has no idea where she’s going, and yet somehow looks like she owns the entire town — you’d stare, too.

You hang back a few steps, taking advantage of her mumbling guilt (she’s very pointedly avoiding your eyes, which can only mean one thing: she’s lost) to admire the view… just like the locals.

A few rays of sunshine break through the clouds, landing — as if on cue — right on her hair. And for a moment, she glows: a halo of gold and burgundy and something almost rainbow.

Oh yes. What a view.

You can almost ignore the fact that she’s got you two stranded for goodness knows how long.

You think it’s this view that distracts you from how long you’ve been walking.

The Doctor keeps turning — this way, that way, left and left, then right — and somehow, you never reach the bloody restaurant.

After the thirteenth left turn, she stops short, and you nearly stumble into her.

“No… I think it’s that way, actually,” she mutters.

“We just came from that way,” you groan, rubbing your hands over your face. “Shouldn’t we ask someone?”

She shakes her head, eyes pinched shut.

“Something’s wrong. I can feel it in my brains — like I can’t think straight. Don’t you feel that?”

You shake your head.

She exhales, frustrated. “If only I could block it. Whatever it is.”

You step closer, instinctively brushing your fingertips against hers.

“Let’s just try to eat something first,” you say softly. “Maybe that’ll help you think.”

Suddenly, a car pulls up beside you.

You hadn’t heard it coming, too distracted by the weird vibes.

You both turn.

It’s the police.

“Where’s Yaz when you need her, eh?” you quip, because you’re terrified. You don’t even know why.

She doesn’t laugh.

The car window rolls down slowly, and you finally see the face of the man inside.

White. Brown hair and a moustache. Blue eyes. A kind smile.

He’s actually smiling widely at you — but you don’t trust it. You don’t trust him.

Then his eyes drop.

And that’s when you realise you’re still holding her fingers.

You let go instantly, tucking your hand behind your back, eyes dropping to the ground.

Being discreet isn’t going quite as smoothly as you would’ve hoped.

“You two lost?” he asks, still smiling.

You glance at the Doctor, waiting for her to say something, as she usually does.

But she’s frowning, eyes fixed on the ground like she’s trying to make sense of something.

So you turn to him with a forced smile. “Yeah. We’re looking for a restaurant? We’re from out of town.”

He nods. “There’s a diner downtown, ma’am. Best food you’ll ever eat, if I may say so.”

He leans slightly out of the window, pointing down the road.

“You go straight until you hit the church. Then turn right, left, and you’re there!”

“Right,” you breathe. “How long do you reckon it’ll take?”

“About twenty minutes.”

“Right,” you repeat.

Great. More walking.

“I could give you girls a lift, if you’d like,” he offers. “Plenty of space in the back seat.”

The Doctor looks at you. You look at her.

She steps back — so slightly that you’re sure only you notice.

And you know exactly what that means.

You turn back to him with another too-bright smile. “We could do with the walk. Good way to get to know the town and all that.”

She nods, flashing a grin of her own, all teeth, no warmth.

“Very well!” he says cheerfully, settling back inside the car. “If you need anything, I’m Officer Miller. Give us a shout.”

He winks. Then the car pulls away.

“Eh. He seems kinda nice,” she shrugs.

You exhale, chin tilted toward the road. “Diner, then?”

“Yep,” she nods, already walking. “Hopefully I’ll be able to think by the time we get there.”

Sus or not, Officer Miller gave you the right directions.

After you pass Grace Baptist's Church, it’s only a few minutes before you reach the diner.

The building is painted a soft pastel, with a neon sign that reads: Red Barn Diner. An overwhelmingly red-and-white checkered awning shades the entrance, where a plastic OPEN sign swings side to side in the wind.

You push the door open. A little bell rings over it — and the moment it does, the few people inside fall silent.

They stare. Study. Murmur among themselves.

Then, as if nothing happened, they carry on.

“The welcoming committee,” the Doctor murmurs, flashing you a grin.

You bite back a laugh, following her to one of the booths by the windows. Finally a seat, after all that walking.

You slide into one side of the booth. The Doctor takes the other.

She seems to reconsider, then shifts, and sits beside you instead.

Her leg presses lightly against yours. Her scent catches in your breath.

You close your eyes, drawing it in.

Call it lavender yearning.

You lean forward slightly, resting an elbow on the table — all just an excuse to look at her. Subtly.

The Doctor notices, of course.

By now, she’s more than used to this little habit of yours.

So she looks at you. And she stares back.

Your eyes drift over her face. Her eyes — somewhere between brown and green now, as the cloudy sky filters through the window and reflects off her.

The freckles across her cheek, making her look star-kissed.

Her lips and the way her tongue runs over them in that little nervous tick she sometimes has.

You smile, despite yourself.

Until—

“Can I take your order, please?” cuts in the voice of a woman.

You sit upright, coughing slightly. The Doctor mutters a quick “Right.”

You start repeating inside your head like a mantra: You're in 1954. Get yourself together. You're in 1954. Get yourself together. You're in—

“What’s today’s pie?” the Doctor asks, with the same excitement she’d use asking about a new planet.

You glance at the waitress.

She looks very young, barely an adult. The pastel uniform hangs neatly on her frame, apron tied tight around the waist, smile practiced to the point of muscle memory.

“Today’s apple pie, hun,” she replies. “House specialty.”

“An apple a day…” you mutter under your breath.

The Doctor wrinkles her nose, then blows out a breath. “Yeah, I’ll have that anyway.”

Then she turns to you. “What are you having, lo—”

She stops mid-word. Clamps her mouth shut.

You freeze.

Then turn slowly toward the waitress, pasting on an awkward grin. “Lo mismo. The same.”

If the girl thinks you're strange, she’s very Midwestern about it.

She jots the orders in her notebook, flashes a smile, and walks away.

The Doctor’s mouth is still a tight line.

You sigh.

Maybe she should try your mantra, too.

“I don’t know how we survived my mum’s birthday,” you mutter under your breath. “So, thinking better?”

She nods. “Yeah. The closer we got to downtown, the less foggy I felt.”

She pauses. “Which begs the question: why?”

“You don’t like the suburbs?”

She squints at you, and you get the feeling your answer isn’t far off.

“Why?” you echo.

“No idea,” she says, shaking her head. “But I want to analyse the signal I picked up on the sonic.”

She claps her hands once. “Right! We’re gonna need a few things.”

“We’re gonna need a place to stay,” you cut in, fully aware she hasn’t thought that far ahead.

And she hasn’t, if the sharp tapping of her fingers on the table is anything to go by.

“Yes. That,” she concedes.

The waitress returns with your order. You smile at her as she sets them down.

“I need new clothes,” you continue after she leaves. “A toothbrush and toothpaste. Five minutes with you in a room.”

The Doctor chokes on her soda.

Then, she hums thoughtfully. “All very valid points. I need a mechanic.”

“Hm? What for?” you ask, mouth full of — surprisingly — delicious pie.

“I need parts! If I can build something to bypass this signal or block it—”

“Maybe the TARDIS will come back,” you finish.

“Bingo!” she grins, already finishing off her drink.

“Is that why she left, then?” you ask, a little apprehensive.

“You remember the HADS?” she says.

“That security system?”

“Yeah. It kicks in when there’s enough danger to make the TARDIS scared,” she explains. “Something pulled her off course and dragged her here, but she didn’t want to land.”

“Yeah, I remember that bit very well.”

“So I’ll test the theory on me. If I can block whatever’s interfering with my brain, I can block it for everyone else too.”

“With 1950s technology?” you ask, incredulous. “Are you finishing your pie, by the way?”

The Doctor stares down at her nearly untouched pie, barely one bite taken.

She pushes the plate toward you. “Nah, I’m full. And, did you forget I built an entire demon repellent in 1947?”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “We came all this way— Yeah, I remember. When the demons turned out not to be demons, and the ‘repellent’ worked for, what, half the time you hoped?”

When you glance at her again, she’s staring at you, mouth half-open, mildly shocked.

You sigh, fork in hand as you claim a piece of her abandoned pie.

“Sorry. If anyone can pull it off, it’s you.”

Speaking of which…

“Why you, specifically?” you ask. “Shouldn’t this thing be affecting me as well? And all these people?”

She hums uncertainly. “I don't think you're not being affected — I think you're just not feeling it. My theory is that this signal or energy, it's designed for human minds. Subtle enough to interact with you but not alert you.”

“For what, though?” you ask. “Who would target suburban Ohio of all places?”

“Dunno. But we'll find out.”

You smile at her determined look. You do love it when she includes you in things you absolutely know you won't be in the least helpful with.

You finish your drink and declare triumphantly, “I'm good to go!”

Then, a thought dawns on you. “Oh my God. We don't have any money.”

The Doctor picks up the psychic paper from her coat pocket, flashing it at you with — which is the only way you can describe it — naughty grin.

You giggle, leaning close to whisper, “That is so wrong.”

“I'll leave a bigger tip next time! Now, come on.”

She raises her hand, way too high, like she’s in some sort of classroom.

The waitress (inevitably) spots her and brings over the bill.

By the time you reach the cashier, your heart is pounding like it’s trying to leave the diner before the Doctor gets you both arrested — because clearly, being stranded wasn’t stressful enough.

As usual, she doesn’t look even slightly troubled.

She flashes a grin at the cashier — a woman in her sixties, white hair, wearing the same pastel apron as the waitress — and whips out the psychic paper.

The woman squints through her thick glasses, then gives the Doctor a once-over.

“Is there something on my face?” the Doctor whispers.

“That’ll be the coat and the trousers,” you murmur back.

“You’re wearing trousers too!”

“Yeah, but have you seen yourself in a mirror?” you shoot back.

She scrunches up her face at you.

“That’s a compliment, by the way,” you chuckle.

“There. Added it to Mr. Wilson’s slate,” the cashier cuts in.

The Doctor’s grin slips into a grimace for a split second. “Right! Thanks for the service, loved the pie. Bye, then!”

She turns away, and you follow, only for her to spin on her heels and face the cashier again.

“Actually! I think you can help me,” she chirps, leaning casually against the register. “You see, we’re from out of town—”

The woman gives the Doctor another once-over, as if to say, I can tell.

“—but we’re gonna stay with you for a while!” She nudges you with her elbow, practically glowing. “Loving this town, we are.”

You play along, throwing the cashier the sweetest smile you can muster.

Somehow — and you’ll never understand how — it works. The woman’s expression softens into something warm and welcoming.

“Well, you’re very welcome to our Wayloncreek community!” she beams.

“Thanks,” you say, trying to hold the smile without letting your jaw cramp.

“About that — we’d feel a lot more welcomed if we had access to a few certain things,” the Doctor says, drawing out the s and tilting her head, clearly hoping she won’t have to be specific.

“Of course!” the cashier exclaims. “What is it that you two need?”

And just like that, you leave the diner with a golden list: Bank. Grocery market. Clothing shop. Repair shop. Town’s only motel.

You glance down at the paper in your hand as the little bell chimes behind you.

“Blimey, love,” you murmur. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“The sun’s starting to set,” she says, gazing up at the sky. “We should get your things first. Tomorrow, I’ll get that device going.”

Before you can ask which of those things she means, she turns left and calls out: “Come on!”

As Yaz would say: normal services resumed.

***********************************************

One nice thing about a small town: everything you need is downtown.

Unfortunately, that’s also the worst thing about downtown — everyone knows each other, everyone does not know you two, and the motel is all the way on the edge of the outskirts.

And that means?

You guessed it. More walking.

The trip to the grocery market is the easiest one. It’s close to the diner — just a few turns away — and you quickly find what you need.

You leave with a pair of toothbrushes (even though the Doctor insists she has a Venusian one and doesn’t actually need it!), toothpaste, and a few extras you remembered: towels and shower caps.

Everything, once again, goes on that one Mr. Wilson’s slate.

After that, you manage to convince the Doctor to change course and swing by the bank before it closes.

Someone’s going to miss a few hundred dollars but… oh well.

From there, you run — literally — to the clothing shop.

You manage to arrive before closing, though not without earning a few lingering stares from the elderly people sitting on a bench out front.

The shop is almost entirely glass on the outside. A few mannequins stand in the display, dressed in colourful, vibrant dresses, all covered in what the Doctor gleefully calls “round things”.

(Apparently, she loves them.)

Above the door, a large orange sign reads Harmony Fashion in looping cursive.

And inside, you’re in claustrophobia hell.

You burst into the shop, panting and nearly kicking the door open.

One of the saleswomen mutters a quiet, “Oh my.”

The Doctor must feel as trapped as you do, because she stops just inside the entrance, holding the door open for you, but with her arm extended just far enough to keep you from stepping in fully.

Her eyes sweep the shop, tongue running along her bottom lip.

The saleswomen stare at the two of you.

The Doctor stares at the rows of clothes, the mirrors, the cramped little changing rooms.

You think that’s her way of saying: retreat.

Then, one of the women approaches with a smile. Her blonde hair is tied neatly in an orange ribbon, matching her dress. The smile she offers sits somewhere between anxious and sympathetic. “Hi there! Welcome to Harmony!”

She glances at you — still half-hidden behind the Doctor like a nervous child clinging to a parent at Thanksgiving — and then turns back to the Doctor. “How can I help you?”

“Right!” the Doctor suddenly grins. “Yeah, you can. My mate here, she needs some clothes.”

She points at you, dropping her arm, and you quickly step up beside her.

The woman — Betty, now that you can see her lanyard — eyes you up and down. Then, she flashes you a bright grin. “Oh, you definitely came to the right place.”

You hold your breath as you smile back.

Oh, you most certainly haven’t.

Betty guides you over to one of the rows, proudly gesturing to a collection of polka dots and poodle skirts.

She points to a red-and-white dress. “This one’s perfect for when you go on a date with your boyfriend.”

Your eyes shut tight, brows creasing in reflexive pain.

Suddenly, you’re back in church — do this, do that, whispers in your ear, fingers pointed at your life.

You kind of want to die.

A loud noise yanks you out of your misery.

You turn just in time to see Betty — and the rest of the saleswomen — running into the street.

It’s a car.

Moving in short, jerking bursts.

No one’s driving it.

You glance to your side and there’s the Doctor, stuffing the sonic into her coat with a huff.

“Blimey,” she mutters. “Quite enough of that.”

You feel a giddy warmth bloom in your chest.

She decided to haunt a car — in a town like this — for you.

You draw in a sharp breath. “Oh, I could kiss you right now.”

“That won’t last long. I saw some trousers over here,” she says, already motioning for you to follow.

The trousers turn out to be in the men’s section, surrounded by an abundance of shirts — some plain white, some striped, some vibrantly checkered.

In short:

“Is this where Graham shops for clothes?” you quip.

“Is the right question!” she laughs.

You hear a few feminine voices outside and quickly grab a few pairs of trousers in your size.

They’re all in a thrilling spectrum of dark brown, less-dark brown, darker brown, and black. You also pick up some of the most Graham-est shirts you’ve ever seen, plus a green jacket and a brown one for variety.

Then you slip into one of the changing rooms, motioning for the Doctor to hold the curtain closed for you.

Just as she does, you hear Betty’s voice from across the shop, still laced with that unshakable smile.

“You’ll forgive me for that—”

The Doctor snorts. “No, I won’t,” she whispers.

“—but wow! Good grief.”

There’s a moment of silence while you finish dressing — top and bottom — and you can almost hear the slightly manic grin the Doctor is probably aiming at her.

This must also be when Betty realises you’re missing.

“Oh! Has she found something?”

“Yep,” the Doctor replies.

She’s reached the one-word-only stage. Betty would have to nearly die before the Doctor lets her back in emotionally.

You glance at your reflection in the aged, slightly warped mirror — and you actually like what you see.

You knock twice on the curtain to get her attention. “How do I look?”

She peeks inside, flashes you a grin, and gives you a thumbs up.

“If she needs some help—” Betty starts.

But the Doctor cuts in. “Nah, don’t worry. I’ve helped her change more times than I can count.”

You freeze.

Silence from Betty.

You cough.

You can see her tapping her foot nervously, shaking the curtain. “Holding this, I mean.”

“Oh,” Betty says with a stiff laugh. “Okay. Well, if you need me, I’ll be at the front.”

You’re nearly done trying everything on, but you wait until you hear Betty’s heels clicking farther away before cooing dramatically.

“Aw. Don’t you wanna help me change now, too?”

The Doctor groans. “Next time, we’re doing my things first.”

You laugh, slipping out of your trousers to change back into your old clothes.

You pull off your shirt and as you do, you notice her fingers still curled around the curtain’s edge, holding it closed.

You’re craving her so much. What’s one more impulsive thing?

So you lean forward and press a kiss to her index finger.

She yanks the curtain open — just enough to stick her head in, probably planning her next Oi! — then immediately snaps it shut again when she sees you half-naked.

You burst out laughing.

“Down, girl,” she whispers, but you can hear the smile in her voice. Then, after a beat, she adds, “Lavender.”

It’s both a warning and a reminder. And you’re tired of being reminded of what that means.

You stick your tongue out at her — even though you know she can’t see it — and say, slightly whiny, “You’re no fun.”

When you glance back at the curtain, you can clearly make out the shape of her face. She’s pressing against it — lips pushed forward.

You laugh fondly. She’s giving you a kiss.

So you kiss her through the fabric. It’s awful — the feeling of the fabric makes your skin crawl — but still. Better than nothing.

She leans back, and you get back to dressing in silence. You wonder what all those women might be thinking.

It’s then that a question starts to nag at you.

“Baby?”

She hums in reply.

“What actually is the Lavender Scare?”

“Think of it like the Red Scare — you know, the U.S. government going after anyone they thought might be a communist. Except with this one, it’s…” she trails off.

“People like us,” you say.

“Exactly,” she agrees, a bit quieter now.

After a pause, she continues. “It was mostly government workers at first. But the thing is, with this stuff, it spreads. Starts off official, then it leaks into everything. One whisper and suddenly everyone’s looking sideways. It quickly turned into a witch hunt.”

“Been there, done that,” you chuckle, gathering all the clothes you tried on over your arm.

“You should know your community’s history, you know?” she says, sounding lightly offended on your behalf.

You open the curtain and shrug. “I’m not American. You don't even remember you're a woman half of the time.”

She wrinkles her nose, then glances down at the pile of clothes in your arms. “Gonna take all of that, are ya?”

“I think this should do it. Hopefully we’re not stuck here too long.” You sigh. “Shame they don’t have pyjamas.”

Then you glance at her empty hands. “You’re not getting anything?”

She arches a single eyebrow.

You’re in danger.

“My clothes are perfectly fine, thank you!” she huffs.

“For now, yeah,” you laugh. “Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the TARDIS isn’t around to do your laundry.”

You think she’d be chiller if you had offended her granddaughter.

Hands on hips. Chin raised. You’re fully on Sontaran POV.

“My biology is completely different—”

“Wanna say that louder?” you cut in.

“—I can go days without changing anything. I barely sweat. Do you see me sweating?” she finishes, triumphant.

“I could try,” you mutter, struggling not to laugh. “Fine. Suit yourself. But if you start stinking while you’re building that thing, I will start calling you Stinky-Jane.”

She raises that eyebrow again.

“Human oil,” you say with a shrug, aiming for your most casual tone. “Not the same kind the TARDIS runs on.”

“Ugh.” She rolls her eyes. “Fine.”

The Doctor aggressively picks a few shirts — suspiciously similar to the ones you chose — and shoves them at you.

Then she nearly starts a revolution digging through racks for trousers she might actually like.

Eventually, she finds two pairs vaguely similar to her usual style — both cropped above the ankles.

She shoves those at you too, then spreads her arms theatrically. “Happy?”

“Not gonna try them on?”

“Nope,” she says, already heading for the cashier.

You follow her, but not before grabbing a couple pairs of plain cotton pants. Not glamorous, but hey, you’ll take practical over commando.

Betty steps behind the counter to ring you up. Her eyes skim over the clothes you’ve chosen, then flick to you with something you can only describe as discomfort.

She glances sideways at her coworkers. But says nothing.

You realise they’re all watching you.

The Doctor is bouncing on her toes. She’s noticed, too.

Betty hands you a paper bag with your new clothes and grimaces (because that’s definitely not a smile). “Thank you for shopping at Harmony.”

You don’t even get the chance to reply — the Doctor’s already pulling you out the door.

Once you’re outside, you let out a long, exhausted sigh. “You’re right. Next time, we’re doing your things first.”

Arriving at the motel is a relief for both of you.

This side of the outskirts is barely populated, and the fogginess — she’s calling it “head-wonk” now — isn’t as strong out here as it was in the residential area.

The motel is the only non-pastel thing in town.

The building looks old, the once-white paint fading to grey.

It doesn’t even have a name. Just a single word on a crooked sign: MOTEL.

Inside, though, it’s surprisingly well-kept.

A receptionist sits behind a pane of glass near the entrance, eyes fixed on a small black-and-white TV.

“Hi!” the Doctor chirps, making the woman jump slightly. “D’you have a room for the night?”

The receptionist falls into the now familiar script: eyes flicking up and down the Doctor, then settling on you.

Finally, she says in a robotic monotone, “One moment, please.”

You lean against the glass, your feet throbbing from all that walking.

“We have two options available,” the woman says. “A room with comfortable twin beds and access to our shared facilities… or, if you prefer, a room with a spacious double bed. That one comes with a private shower bath for your convenience.”

The Doctor’s brain visibly short-circuits — never give her two options with no obvious downside.

And you’re far too tired to remember your promise to be discreet.

“Double bed!” you blurt. “I need a bath.”

Both heads turn slowly toward you.

You’re past the point of caring. “Do we pay now or...?”

The receptionist clears her throat. “That’ll be seven dollars.”

Key in (the Doctor’s) hand, you march toward your room, drop the bags on the floor, step into the bathroom, and close the door.

Then you just shut your eyes… and breathe.

In. Out.

You’re tired. Your feet ache. And it’s just hit you that today was only the beginning.

Your throat tightens.

A mix of feelings you can’t even begin to untangle wells up inside you, pressing against your chest like they want to come out. Like they deserve to.

Inhale. Exhale.

Knock-knock.

“You okay?” comes the Doctor’s voice, muffled through the door.

You glance down at the gap near the floor.

You can see her shadow, shifting from foot to foot, the way she always does when she’s unsure.

You smile.

Then, summoning your best tone, you lie. “Course. I just really need a bath.”

She hums softly. “Kay.”

She doesn’t buy it. She doesn’t really have to.

You stay there, leaning against the door, until you feel like you can breathe again.

Then, you finally take in the bathroom.

The walls are lined with light blue tiles.

The toilet sits next to the bathtub, which is tucked behind a glass sliding door.

There’s a small cupboard above the even smaller sink, and curiosity nags at you to check what’s inside.

The cupboard’s cramped. Not a lot fits.

There’s a nearly-empty tube of toothpaste. A jar of hair gel. And two bars of soap, lavender scented.

The irony.

You fill the tub with hot water and let it soak the ache from your body.

You stay there for God knows how long.

And if you cry?

Well… the bathtub will never tell.

When you finally decide to leave, you realise: you left all your things outside.

Your new towel, too.

“Doctor?” you call out, hoping she can bring you the bags.

Nothing.

“Doc-tooor?” you try again, sing-songing.

Still nothing.

Come to think of it, everything is too quiet.

You climb out of the tub, tiptoeing so you don’t slip and crack your head open and die…

Only to find the Doctor herself sitting on the floor, back against the bathroom door, a towel draped over her shoulder, sonic nearly glued to her face.

You chuckle softly.

If she’s always going to be waiting outside the door, you think you can definitely do this.

She gives the sonic a sharp shake — like one might do to an old thermometer — and you gently remove the towel from her shoulder.

She wiggles in surprise, probably only now realising you’re standing behind her. Then she drops her head back until her eyes meet yours.

She grins. “Hiya!”

You smile back. “Hi, there. Why are you sitting on the floor?”

She glances at the sonic in her hand, then holds it up for you to see. “Was trying to gather some data on the signal. It’s a low-level frequency, definitely not human technology.”

You start drying off as she speaks, fully aware you could stare at the sonic for a thousand years and still not understand a single blip.

“Wow, this alien really needs to pick better targets. We could be in New York right now,” you quip. “I bet they’d have a lot better food options, I’m starving.”

“Unless…” She pauses, then snaps her fingers. “Unless that’s exactly why they chose a place like this. If you've got a low-level signal, subtle enough to interfere with the local species and you need to soft launch it, you don’t go straight for the Big Apple. It’s a rehearsal. Somehow.”

Your blood runs cold. “For what? So much stuff’s happened in this decade.”

“Thing is, I don’t think it’s only one big thing they’re planning,” she says, sonicing the air again. “I’ve got a theory. But I need to check something first.”

You sit down beside her, wrapping the towel around yourself. “After building the device?”

“Yeah.”

You smile as she goes back to frowning at the sonic.

You wrap your arm through hers and rest your head on her shoulder, one of the perks of having her already used to your proximity.

A few months ago, this might’ve made her bolt.

Today, though, she taps her fingers gently against your head.

“Thank you for this,” you say, shaking the hem of the towel.

“Yeah,” she replies, softly.

You stay like that for a while. Your bum is starting to ache, but her arm is so soft and warm that you begin to rub your face against it — and suddenly, you understand why cats do that.

She chuckles. “What are you doing?”

“I thought you spoke cat,” you mumble against her sleeve. “This is a kiss. For the non-fluent people in the room.”

She laughs again, and it’s such a breezy, light thing that you think you might levitate.

But the real kicker comes soon after that, when her hand finds your cheek and gently guides your face closer to hers.

And she kisses you.

It’s soft and tentative, like she’s trying to convince herself it’s okay.

But you’ve been waiting all day for this. You’ll convince her it is.

Your arms wrap around her neck as you lean in for another kiss. This time, she kisses you back, unrestrained.

And when her hands move to gently untie the knot in your towel, you make yourself a quiet promise:

Tomorrow, you’ll worry about being discreet.

Tonight?

Call it lavender dreams.

#sr #doctor who #thirteenth doctor #the doctor x reader #13th doctor x reader #thirteenth doctor x reader #doctor who imagine #doctor who x reader #doctor who x you

14 notes · View notes

onecarelessowner · 10 hours ago

Text

Looking for me?

DOCTOR WHO | 11.08: THE WITCHFINDERS

#not ambiguous at all doctor #<#the witchfinders

676 notes · View notes

onecarelessowner · 4 days ago

Text

thirteen's era appreciation: 507/?

#HER FACIAL EXPRESSIONS #that's why she's just a delight to write #the way she jumps in the 3rd gif is so sidndkdjjd #three apples tall

141 notes · View notes

onecarelessowner · 6 days ago

Text

I really love how much passion the 13th Doctor has for gadgets and engineering.

The Doctor’s always an intellectual, but 13 is specifically all about the creative side of science and it’s so endearing.

#engineer!13 is the best 13 #loml

127 notes · View notes

onecarelessowner · 6 days ago

Text

Anyway here’s a post of when 13 smiles in a way that triggers my fight or flight response

#dhsjdjdkdkdnkd #bite me please

2K notes · View notes

onecarelessowner · 7 days ago

Text

Masterlist

* One shots / & multiple chapters / ✓ completed / ⌂ in progress / 🚫 mature

Something New (ao3 only) & ✓

You and the Doctor are chasing new things about Christmas, so she takes you to a magical planet (in more ways than one). What will happen when the universe decides to meddle with the two of you? Or: The universe is holding a sign saying "Just admit it, already!" and you and the Doctor go to great lengths to ignore it.

Forever (Is Our Today) * ✓

You catch a space flu (thanks to one of the Doctor’s brilliant ideas). She gives you a pill that’ll fix it fast. She just wasn’t expecting the side effects… or what you’d end up saying because of them.

Call It Lavender & ⌂

The TARDIS forces a stop in small-town Ohio. In 1954. During the Lavender Scare. The town is weird. The signal’s weirder. And the locals are... watching. Oh, and you're gay. Good luck with that.

Lavender Dreams (part one) | Part two | Part three

#masterlist #not a fic #shut up misha

0 notes