❝ love is a choice ❞ chapter v
summary: what was meant to be a simple, calm trip to an intergalactic museum ended up becoming a a trip through memories the doctor rather wanted to forget. only they weren't her memories. they were yours.
pairing: thirteenth doctor x reader (primary), eleventh doctor x reader
word count: 5.2k
warnings: slight mention of headaches, anger, murder mentioned
author's note: when i tell you this is the chapter i've been DYING to write!!
divider from annaliseart on pixabay
You’d been traveling with the Doctor for a bit of time. While most of your adventures were completed sans slipper-throwing, it didn’t mean that time had made your relationship with the Doctor any better. Snide comments were tossed back and forth like a tennis match, with Amy being the one to catch the ball midair before one of you caused bleeding, internal or external. Rory, who also had joined the fray, hadn’t the courage to get between you and anything, let alone an alien. Even a fish-fingers-and-custard-eating one.
Nearly all the journeys he took the three of you on consisted of two things: running and near-death experiences. The very first one included vampire aliens! Then there was the time you ended up in a dream where you worked as a school teacher and Amy was married and pregnant. You nearly froze to death during that one. Sort of. That was a dream too. So, these harrowing exploits made the calm ones all the more welcome.
The Doctor had taken you to the Amalthea Bookseller, a book store whose walls contained several million books from almost every planet, in every language, and from any point in time. There had to have been about fifty seating areas in the front room alone; you could only imagine how many there were in the other corridors. Apparently, there was a planet with an even larger selection, but the Doctor chose against that one for “reasons.”
The moment you were set loose there, you couldn’t stop smiling. You quickly hunted for your favorite genres, finding a massive selection more extensive than the Waterstones in Piccadilly!
You were only allowed so many books- “The TARDIS is not a bank, you know!” is what the Doctor had proclaimed- so you had to choose wisely. It was hard enough as it was with the entire genre selection, but when your eye spotted the last name of your favorite author, you thought you might burst into confetti on the spot.
You gathered as many of their books as could fit into the complimentary reusable basket the staff gave you upon entry and hurried over to one of the seating areas. If you were going to whittle down which books you could get, you would need time and space. Ironically.
“Well, look at you,” Amy grinned, taking the chair beside you. “In your element, aren’t you?”
“Oh, Amy, this place is amazing!” You half-squealed. “Did you know that my favorite author kept writing well into their seventies? I mean, they’ve got at least twenty novels here! I barely even know where to continue! I already knocked out five, but how can I choose?”
“Well, I’m glad you’re having such a good time,” Amy replied. Her voice had a slant to it that you knew all too well. It meant there was more she had to say and that you weren’t going to like it. Before you could make your escape, Amy said, “You know. The Doctor loves reading too.”
“Okay, Amy-”
Also during your adventures, Amy had become quite bothered with the constant bickering between you and the Doctor. As mentioned before, whenever these spats broke out, more often than not, she was the one who had to grab you both by the back of your necks like a mother cat picking up her kittens by their scruffs.
In her quest to reduce the frequency of these verbal- for now- quarrels, she attempted to find a common ground between you two. Neither of you were very enthusiastic about this. Anytime she thought she might’ve found something, one of you inevitably detested it. There was the time you mentioned how much you adored a song by this one 70’s singer. The Doctor had apparently seen her in concert, a fact Amy was ready to milk until dry. The Doctor, however, felt compelled to inform you that he’d rather fight a hundred Daleks- whatever those were- than listen to her ever again. Apparently, they had a bit of a dispute during the 1975 Grammy Awards and she’d threatened to have a hitman come after him.
“I just listened to that man rant about how he inspired The Haunting of Hill House for the past thirty minutes! And-And he told me all about his good friend, Jane Austen! He likes literature, you like literature! Talk about it together."
“So, what I’m hearing is that I can no longer read. Well, that’s just wonderful news.”
“You know I love you, really, I do,” Amy said softly. “And I wouldn’t want you to change a single thing about you because you are perfect in every single way imaginable. But please. I am begging you. Just please try to get along with the Doctor.”
“Me?” You gaped. “Why do I have to be the one that gets along with him? In case you forgot, he’s usually the one that starts it! Remember how he implied I was one of those fish people? That was a low blow.”
“Okay, that’s a fair point. But! Think about how much better our adventures will be! You can just have fun! You won’t have to worry about stress. You know, when we don’t find ourselves in… already stressful situations, anyway! Just, think of it like… a wedding gift! For me!”
“Oh,” You rolled your eyes. “Was planning it not enough?”
You knew how much this was upsetting her. There had already been some issues between the Doctor and Rory which had mostly been rectified. It was just you now. Both yourself and the Doctor were two people who Amy cared about. Not only did your inability to get along frustrate her, but it also saddened her. Here you all were: her, her boys, and her best friend on these amazing trips across the stars! And half of the people apart of that group were at each other’s throats on a constant basis.
That disappointment reflected in her eyes. You were never good when facing that look, and that didn’t change in the span of however long this conversation had lasted. "Please."
“Fine,” You grumbled. “But the moment he says something out of line, I refuse to be held accountable for my actions, got it?”
Amy nodded, probably not even caring that you were insinuating physical fighting this time around. She took hold of your wrist and pulled you from the comfort of your chair. Through the twisted hallways of shelves upon shelves of books of all varieties, Amy weaved through them until you landed in the poetry section. You didn’t take the Doctor for a poet, yet there he stood.
“Doctor!”
“Ah- Oh.” The Doctor gleamed before he spotted you.
You looked at Amy with bored eyes, “I’m leaving.”
“Nope, no,” She tugged you to her side. You were reminded of a mother forcing a child to speak to their relatives over the phone. Except you hadn’t the luxury of it being a conversation that wasn’t face-to-face. “Doctor, did you know how big a fan Y/N here is of reading too? They quite enjoy a good novel, don’t you?”
Amy jabbed your side with her elbow when you didn't say anything. The force of the motion alone startled a series of words out of your throat, “Yes! Y-Yes, I do. All types! I like to annotate too. Something I picked up in a literature class I took a while ago. My professor says it makes it more engaging.”
He scoffed, “Engaging.”
Whenever the Doctor made these remarks, like he couldn’t possibly fathom the notion that what you said was true, you were more inclined to absolutely throttle him. You could grant him that he was far older than you; thus, he knew about more things than you ever could. What you couldn’t was the belief that just because he was more knowledgeable did not mean that he was always correct.
The Doctor didn’t know everything. He’d made that clear when you were trapped in that dream and were hurtling towards a sun that was burning cold. It was so easy for him to admit that while under stress, but with you, it was like he was some omnipotent deity worthy and demanding of praise. That last bit was how he was with everyone, really, but he just ramped it up to 1,000 whenever you were involved.
This would get under anyone’s skin, and it wasn’t just you! Sometimes you and Rory would have rant sessions beneath the TARDIS’s console when Amy and the Doctor weren’t nearby. You swore that the electric chirping you would occasionally hear was the TARDIS adding to your conversation. You didn’t quite know if she agreed or not, but she seemed invested in what you had to say. Also, you had found out the TARDIS was sentient, which was… something. Cool, but definitely something.
“Is there something wrong with the way I read?”
You placed your hands on your hips, finally turning your body to face the man. You raised your brow and took on a face that you hoped emulated the one you bore the night you joined him. You were quite proud of yourself for making an alien give into your commands, hence why you tried to recreate the winning stare whenever you wanted to intimidate him again.
“Of course not,” The Doctor waved his hand, unaffected by your glare. “It’s just odd.”
“Odd? You’re a bow-tie-wearing alien who carries around a screwdriver that isn’t actually a screwdriver and flies around in a magic box. But, yes, I’m the one that’s odd.”
“I’m starting to feel like you three are always using the bow tie against me. And no, of course you’re not odd,” The Doctor patted your shoulder before resting it there. You stared at it with a blank face until he eventually got the hint and slid it off. “It’s just your reading habits!”
The Doctor says these things so casually that you often feel like you get whiplash. Sometimes it would take you a few seconds to acclimate to the fact that you were just insulted. When you realized, you’d blink away your initial confusion and move on, like now.
“And what’s so odd about them, huh?”
“Well, you could get through books twice as fast if you just read it.”
“Well, where’s the point of attempting to just get through a book? You’re supposed to read it! Really read it!��
“Well, you can still really read it without having to mark all the pages up! It takes up a lot of time just to open a pen cap, and by then you could’ve read ten words!”
“Well-!”
“Okay!” Amy shouted over another formation of a fight. “I have an idea.”
If there was one thing in the universe that you and the Doctor could agree on, Amy with an idea, especially one that concerned the two of you, was a terrifying thing. The mischievous glint in her eyes screamed at you to run like you would when faced with horrifying creatures during your endeavors. However, both of you were stuck in your spot, pinned beneath her plotting gaze.
“Y/N, pick a book for your basket, any of them.”
One of the few you hadn't put away that stuck out to you the most was a murder mystery in a small town. It wasn’t too big, but it was just long enough that you knew you could spend a contented day reading it. “This one.”
Amy took it from your hands before shoving it into the Doctor’s. “Perfect! Now go pay for this.”
"Me?"
“Yes, you!” Amy stated. “You both need to make this friendship work! And the best way to do that is for both of you to contribute to something. Y/N picks the book and you pay for it.”
“That doesn’t seem like a fair exchange at all!” No, but it was definitely Amy’s way of making this an even exchange between you two. You appreciated that.
Amy sent him a look that shut him right up. “Here’s how this is going to go.”
Amy told you what you’d be doing—not asking, telling. You and the Doctor would read the same book, and you’d both write in it. Your thoughts, your theories, your general reactions. You would write in a red pen, and he would write in a blue so that when you were both done, you’d be able to distinguish who wrote what easily. Then, you’d talk about what you read after.
"Like a book club?"
"Exactly."
At first, you were averse to the idea solely because it involved bonding with the Doctor. However, the more you thought about it, the more you realized it was actually quite brilliant. You and the Doctor would interact without ever having to talk to one another. You both could avoid throwing yourselves into another inevitable battle that would only end when Amy reached her wit’s end. You might even get a bit of insight about him.
One thing you noticed about the Doctor the longer you traveled with him was how he guarded himself. You knew what that was like, but the walls around him were different than any you had ever seen. They were secure, fortified, yet they were ancient. Even if you weren’t aware of his ripe age of 907, you knew you'd realize their lifespan was longer than that of the stars themselves. But just like stars, they all eventually burn out.
Amy had already tried asking him about the things that he was hiding away following the Dream Lord events. He’d deflected then, and you liked to think that he would deflect again. You couldn’t do it outright, which is why this book swap was perfect. There was nothing more honest than what someone takes away from literature. The quotes they underline or the paragraphs they highlight say more about a person than one thinks. And, no, the book you chose wasn’t some deep, philosophical epic that would grant you entrance into the inner machinations of the Doctor’s mind, but it was a start.
Also, it was a free book.
Even though the Doctor was an annoying asshole, you couldn’t deny your curiosity. He was an alien from a faraway planet who offered three- technically two since you forced your way onto the TARDIS- humans the chance to explore worlds never before seen by your species. You were taught not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but you had to wonder why.
“Okay,” You agreed. “I’ll do it.”
“So, will I, but! Under one condition! I call reading it first! I’ll get it done quickly, I can assure you,” The Doctor exclaimed. “You humans are exceptionally slow when it comes to reading. Even without the unnecessary writing.”
At that, the Doctor turned and sauntered towards the bookseller. Because his back was turned, he hadn’t seen you with your hands reaching towards him, ready to attack, and Amy with her arms around your middle to keep you from doing that.
True to his word, though, the Doctor had given you the book in only a day’s time. He told you that he would’ve had it sooner had it not been for all the unfortunate writing he had to do. He also complained about the aching of his poor wrists and that if his piloting skills dwindled, it was entirely your fault. You thought about throwing the book at him for that one, and you knew what impressive aim you had. He was lucky you were in a generous mood.
You wandered the halls, hoping to find a nice spot where no one would bother you. As you turned a corner, a light above a door flickered invitingly. The door opened to reveal a small, but not suffocating, room with a warm feel to it. Some plants released a calm, earthy scent while sitting on many of the table surfaces about the room. The walls were made of dark cherry wood and were covered with paintings and photographs of different, beautiful landscapes that were most likely distant planets. A lit fireplace was set on the back wall, and just in front of that was a cream-colored antique couch with a soft-looking blanket thrown across the back.
You gingerly touched the side of the door, smiling softly. You whispered, “Thank you. It’s perfect.”
You placed the throw blanket around your shoulders and got cozy on the couch in front of the fire. You flipped to the title page with your red pen in hand and began reading.
Not even a page in, and your eye was already twitching.
Blue ink took up most of the margins. When you flipped through the rest of the book, many of the other pages got the same treatment. You fought off the temptation to get up and berate the Doctor for leaving you little to no space to write your own opinions. You told yourself that you could make this work. If not for Amy’s sake but for curiosity’s, you could find a way to remedy this.
When you made it about two chapters in, the Doctor had already claimed he knew exactly who the killer was. The moment the main character’s love interest’s dad was introduced, he wrote, “It’s definitely this bloke, I’m positive of that.” You, who hadn’t any clue who the killer was, were very frustrated by his insistence that it was him. You really hoped it wasn’t him so that you could laugh about it later.
At first, you wanted to block out what the Doctor wrote so you could focus on what you wanted to write, but that went against the entire point of this activity. He actually had some funny commentary regarding the heroine and the odd choices she made. There were a few notes about how “curious it was that humans made some of the most stupid decisions in the face of danger.” To that, you wrote a clever remark about his own choices during dangerous situations beneath his comment.
You eventually did manage to make do. With what little room you had, you could jot down your thoughts. You underlined your favorite bits and noted all the hidden details regarding the culprit. The Doctor had beaten you to that, but you still felt smart for finding them too.
You were taken by surprise by the mysterious lack of ink on one page. There had been one marking: a quote from a side character. It had been during a confrontation with the main character who, at this point, everyone in town had discovered was somehow connected to the recent string of murders. While talking to a victim's sibling, she attempted to make the case that it wasn't her fault; she simply wanted to find out what happened to her aunt who died several years prior. The victim's sister said:
"My brother is dead because you wouldn't stop looking into your aunt's death. That's on you. Because, Elena, a t what point do these things stop becoming things that happen to you and things that you do to yourself?"
You read the quote a few times over. You hadn't really known what to expect in letting your eyes roam about it. The meaning wouldn't change just because you looked at it a few more times.
Is this how the Doctor felt? Did he feel as though all the misfortunes he endured were by his own hand? When you thought about it, it didn’t seem totally unimaginable. The adventures you all went on were laden with risk, and there were times where things appeared so dire that things might not turn out alright in the end like he promised. If things did go wrong, he would blame himself. He wasn’t the type of person to turn and point a finger when he was the one who pushed the TARDIS’s buttons.
But there was something about the Doctor that you knew to be true: he never stopped until he made things right. You’d only been on a handful of adventures, but the Doctor was nothing if not persistent. He didn’t give up, and it was clear that he hadn’t for 907 years. Giving up now would be a waste. He would never stop trying to make things right in the end. And if he did, that’s when he could say it was something he did to himself.
With more than enough space this time, beneath the underlined quote, you wrote, “When you stop trying to fix it.”
You watched as the ink dried on the page so you could turn to the next.
“... replaceable…”
You whipped your head around with a force that gave you a slight headache and were met with nothing. Your eyes flitted about the room, attempting to find the source of whatever just made that noise. You didn’t know exactly what you heard, but you were sure you had heard something . It didn’t have any direction; it was just there. And then it wasn’t.
You were able to get back into reading after a while, pushing that bizarre event to the back of your mind as best you could. You figured it was just your brain playing tricks on you since you were reading a murder mystery. The TARDIS was safe, and so were you.
As you neared the end of the book, the killer was unmasked. As per the Doctor’s prediction, it was, in fact, the boyfriend’s father. The Doctor wanted to let you know he had anticipated this outcome by underlining the reveal three separate times and had written, “I TOLD YOU!” in bold letters.
The main character was close to finding out the killer’s motive, something that had been plaguing you for the last couple chapters. And, just as she was about to say what the murderer had told her, you saw it. Or, rather, you didn’t see it.
The last page of the book was gone. It wasn’t a misprint, you were sure of that. You looked at the book’s seam to find jagged edges where the page would have been. It looked as if it had been cleanly ripped from its binding. And, with the Doctor, things weren’t “as if,” they just were, which meant that the bastard had torn out the very last page of the book you were supposed to share!
You were so close! Just as you felt like you were starting to understand him, he had gone and done this. It almost felt like a joke. There you were, thinking you might be able to connect to him on some level, only to remember just who you were dealing with. Perhaps you should've predicted the Doctor's unpredictability, even with a task as simple as writing your thoughts in a book. It might have made you feel less... was betrayed the right word? Or maybe just defining how you felt as angry was the better option.
“You son of a bitch,” You practically growled. You tossed off the blanket, letting it fall to the floor. “You son of a bitch!”
Your feet pounded against the metal floors of the TARDIS as you made your way to the console room. There, the Doctor was fixing some wires on the pillar, his eyes covered with his work goggles. He didn’t notice you enter until you hissed, “Where is it?” while brandishing the book.
“Ah! Finished the story, I see!” The Doctor remarked.
“No, I didn’t, actually,” You informed with a dangerous tilt of your head towards the book. “Because someone decided to tear out the last page!”
The Doctor’s face shifted to that of comic, not genuine, guilt. He bared his teeth while the corners of his lips turned downward, eyes probably containing some semblance of shame still hidden behind his goggles.
“Oh, right,” The Doctor nervously chuckled. “See, forgot to mention! I always throw out the last page of any book I read.”
This man was going to have to pay for your ophthalmologist bill from all the twitching he was causing to your eye. “W-Why?”
“Because I don’t like endings.” He said plainly, then returned to his work on the TARDIS.
Once again, you were in a total state of shock. Your mouth bobbed open a few times in disbelief. You couldn’t find the right words to convey what you wanted to say adequately. When you were able, you asked, “Did you not think that I would want to read the ending maybe? Elena was just about to say why Simon's dad killed her aunt all those years ago!”
“Didn’t you see I knew it was him?” He smirked, very pleased with himself.
Your fingers curled into fists. You knew you couldn’t do anything, so you firmly planted your feet in their spot. “So not only did you leave me pretty much no space to even write in the book and spoil who the killer was twenty pages in, but you also decided to rip out the very last one? You realize that this completely goes against the purpose of this whole thing, right? How the hell are we even supposed to talk about the book together if part of the book is missing?”
The Doctor took off his goggles. He finally understood that this was more than one of your simple bickering matches. He might not have got it to the full extent, but he got there eventually.
“I’m sorry,” He apologized. “Truly. I hadn't realized at the time, didn't consider it.”
At his emotion-filled apology, you felt some of your own begin to wane. You realized that this reaction was over the top, even for a response to the Doctor’s antics. You let out a soul-shaking grunt before collapsing in the chair stationed by the console. You balanced your elbows on your knees, the book falling to your lap. Your hands pressed against your face before raking over your hair. A frustrated, beaten sigh left your body, taking any excess energy you had with it upon your exhale. “I’m sorry too."
You felt awful that this had gone wrong despite knowing that it wasn’t entirely your fault. Sure, he had done it, but you reacted. Reactions could be just as harmful when taken to an extreme as yours just had. And for what? Because of a little book? You should have been better than that. You just felt so disappointed. Disappointed because you expected more and got your hopes up while not being able to live up to someone else's.
Amy was so excited that the two of you had agreed. She hadn’t outright said so, but you knew your best friend well enough to recognize the giddy elation that remained beneath an expression of indifference. You both finally made a step towards resolving your differences, and you blew it. What would you even tell her?
"We’re really bad at this whole ‘getting along thing,’ aren’t we?” You laughed with no humor in your voice, more to yourself than him.
“I don’t think so,” The Doctor’s voice broke through your pity party. It was unnaturally soft. He walked over to your defeated form, leaning against the console so he stood across from you. “We’ve learned something about one another, which is good! You learned that I don’t like endings and I learned that you do! I say it’s a start.”
You gently rubbed your hands across your arms. In your mind, you debated if you wanted to tell him that this statement was incorrect. If you did, you’d have to be open, and open is far more intimidating than closed. The Doctor might have been many things, irritating included, but judgmental wasn’t one of them. You knew he would take your vulnerability with no conviction.
This was a step in the right direction, you knew that. “Who said I like them? I don't.”
The Doctor stopped his tinkering on the console to stare at you. You could tell he hadn’t expected such a soft supply. Maybe he thought you would dispute it, but not at such a volume. It caught him by surprise if his slightly parted mouth said anything. He spoke, “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” You nodded. “I mean, they’re endings. It means things have to end, obviously , and who really likes that? But they…They’re…”
The Doctor remained quiet. He was silently urging you to continue on. It was foreign to you, him deciding not to speak so that you could, but it wasn’t unwelcome.
“They mean new beginnings,” You continued. “Can you really have a new one without an ending? Like, you go to college, you spend four years there and work your ass off, and then it’s over. But then you start to work, and you’ve got a whole new beginning right there. Or! You drop out and you begin to work towards something else you're passionate about that they can’t give you there! You do what you really want. Sometimes… sometimes you have to have endings in order for a new beginning.
“And I know that sometimes the beginnings aren’t kind, and I guess that’s where the scary part comes in. You’re never guaranteed anything. But let’s say you don’t end things and down the line you regret it. Can you really be okay knowing that because you avoided an ending, you missed out on the possibility of a beautiful beginning?”
You tried not to have regrets in your life, but you were human. There would always be things you wished you ended and things you were upset you hadn’t begun. There would always be moments that ended prematurely, leaving you with a hollowed-out feeling. You couldn’t change them, even with a time machine. What you could do was think about what it meant for the next beginning. Because wasn’t that life? A never-ending series of beginnings and endings? If you just avoided the endings, where would you be? How could you live like that? How could anyone?
“I guess what I’m trying to say is that endings are what you make of them.”
The Doctor was quiet for a long time. You didn’t want to look at him. This was the first moment you were somewhat vulnerable in front of him. It was good. Vulnerability was good. Amy would be proud. She’d be happy. But it didn’t make it any less terrifying.
“How about this?” The Doctor finally replied. “Next time we swap a book, how about you read it first? That way, you can read the ending.”
You tilted your head to look at him. He wasn’t full out smiling, just a tiny, warm one. It wasn’t the usual expression he usually had when with you, and for some reason, you were okay with it.
“Next time?”
“If you’d like.”
It wasn’t going to be an easy fix, especially because part of you quite liked messing with the Doctor. You were both flawed in your own ways, and both entirely too stubborn for your own goods. However, you knew that Amy was right: you would better off if this kind of behavior were to continue.
“Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good.”
The Doctor once believed that it was better to just go through books. Flipping through their pages was easy enough, so why go through the trouble of writing in them? It would just take more time. Those were her exact thoughts, and they were the ones she voiced to you that day.
But if one were to go into the Doctor’s room and open one of her many books, they would find the pages, save for the last, which was torn out, littered with annotations written in blue ink with a lot of extra space, as if something else was going to be written there.
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author's note: i love foreshadowing
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