The thing about travelling with the Doctor is that there's always, as he'll put it, an awful lot of running to do. Be it running from aliens, running to the chipper round the corner before Mum realises we've landed in London again, or running around the TARDIS because he's done something daft and left the kettle on. Not that I mind. He's daft like that, and I love it. And he's good at running, so I have to get good at running, too, and I guess that keeps me young, yeah? Not that that matters, either, I mean, loads of women are into older men, yeah, but nine hundred years older? My friends would laugh if they could see me now. Bet they'd be jealous, though.
It's the aliens, this time – can't remember what they're called, and I don't think I could pronounce what they're called even if I tried. I'm new to all this time and space stuff, and the Doctor's wrong, it's not as easy as it looks, it's as hard as it sounds. But whatever these guys are called, they have two heads and they talk even more than Mickey after he's been down to the pub for a couple of drinks with a couple of drunks and they don't exactly listen to that Shadow Proclamation thing the Doctor threw at the Sycorax on Christmas Day. Nah, these guys are more into... Shooting first, and asking questions later. Asking permission later, too. If ever. Like those kids on the Estate, the ones who collected ASBOs like most people collect bottle caps or stamps or whatever. And the Doctor was being nice until they started shooting people and that's when he got angry, then got that look in his eye, and grinned at me and told me to run.
I've never been able to say no when he tells me to run for my life. Go figure.
But we got back to the TARDIS, so we're alright – the Doctor's slamming the door now and I'm almost doubled over laughing as he throws himself at the console and slams the door in the same breath. He's always like that, never sitting still. Even though we're safe now he's still running, slamming his hands into buttons and pulling levers like he has absolutely no idea what he's doing. Daft old Doctor; wouldn't be surprised if he doesn't know what he's doing but, you know, I don't argue, he's knows what he's doing better than I do, or Jack does. He's always managed to get the two of us out of trouble in the past, Mickey too, and Adam that one time when he went and got his head full of metal. Worst boyfriend ever. Not that I'm doing much better these days. I mean, I'm still single, now. Or maybe I'm not, I don't know. That's the thing with the Doctor, brilliant mind, brilliant man, awful boyfriend. If that's even what he is. You can't really write to Cosmo and ask if a guy's into if you asks you to move into his time machine and travel through time and space if you really want to be taken seriously.
He turns and grins to me and I almost melt. When he speaks, it takes real concentration to work out what he's saying. Like when the till broke at work, and I had to do all the counting myself with these weirdos leering at me over the counter... God, I'm glad the Doc got me away from all that. But I pay attention again, tipping my head to look at him and catching my breath as he speaks. "Well, that's the last time I try and take you to Barcelona!" I laugh, and the Doctor's grin gets wider, and I run up the set of stairs to throw my arms around him, hug him closer, leaning into his back as I tell him that if that was Barcelona then I'm never letting him navigate again! He pouts, and I would relent, but then he'll start thinking he can get anything from me and hey, he can, but I'm not supposed to let him know that, eh? My Doctor... My mad Doctor.
I can feel it when we take off, because that's how the Doctor flies. He's said in the past that other Time Lords don't fly so shaky as him but then, in his own words, other Time Lords were never as fun as he is. I think it upsets him, talking about the Time Lords... I felt the same way when he took me to the end of the world and the only person left to relate to was bloody Cassandra. So I don't push it, and I think, quietly – well, loudly – but in his eyes he's grateful. He squeezes my arm, now, and I realise that I've stopped paying attention. Or maybe I'm holding him too tight, it's hard to tell. "Where do you want to go next?" So eager, like a puppy dog, the Doctor is! I always wanted a dog but Mum said no, it was one more thing to clean up after in the house. Not that she cleaned up after either of us much, not really. I get the idea that maybe Dad was more the cleaning type 'cause all the old photos before I was born, the house was cleaner. Or maybe Mum gave up after he died. But the Doctor's talking again and he's more important than Dad. He's still here. "Singing Towers, Abydos, Iphitus – Greatest Show On The Universe, ooh, no, we're not going there – Rh'yleh, or we could try Barcelona again-!" I put my hand over his mouth and then we both laugh, me shaking my head, the Doctor grinning like a loon. I tell him just once it'd be nice to sit around the TARDIS where nothing's gonna chase us.
The idea of sitting still seems to be alien to the Doctor. No pun intended, I swear. But he frowns, confused, before looking straight at me, very serious. "We could go for chips." Which, apparently, isn't going out to the Doctor. Or... Maybe it is. My laugh is cut off, and I plunge my hands into the pockets on the front of my dungarees, straightening down my purple t-shirt and looking right at him, chewing my bottom lip. Are Time Lords or Time Ladies meant to ask these things first? Am I breaking some huge intergalactic etiquette if I ask him out on a date or tell him that I like his hair? I let my hand escape and brush it through his hair, tipping my head to one side. I ask him if that means he's asking me out on a date. He blushes, too, and at least we match, a little, vain part of my mind points out. I shush it; the Doctor could dress in drag and me like Jack of all people and I wouldn't care so long as we're together. Cheesy, I know, but... Shut up.
"Do you want it to be a date?" The Doctor pauses, clearly thinking things over even as he wriggles back into his converses and pulls his coat off of his shoulders to wrap it around mine. "Cardiff's cold. Should it be a date?" I hold onto the coat, smelling the collar, smelling him, before I answer. I'd like a date, I point out, teasing him lightly. If he wants one, that is. But only if he pays. The Doctor grins that mad grin again and pulls me close too, hugging me back, and then grabs my hand and pulls me to the door. I don't realise he'd already guessed what I'd say and taken us to a good old chipper that Jack once pointed out to us until he opens the door and his coat comes in handy, the chilly winter air blustering through the door. "Allons-y?"
I squeeze his hand and break into a run just as he does. Allons-y.