Author's Note: I love Twelve. I love Bill. I love chips. That is all.
Say It With Chips
Even though the Doctor heard Bill's trainer squeak on the floorboards outside three-and-a-half minutes ago, there are no knocks on the door until 6 o'clock sharp. Good girl, the Doctor thinks with a fleeting smile, the image of Bill counting down the seconds as she leans against the door popping into his head. Pushing papers on his desk to the one side to make way for Bill's textbook, he calls, "Come in."
The strap of her bag is digging into her shoulder, making her jacket sit awkwardly on that side. She has something wrapped in white greaseproof paper in her hand. "I hope you don't mind," she says as she walks into the room, "but I got myself some chips. Only I had to cover for Charlotte and I missed lunch—in a canteen, I know, bonkers!—and I'm starving."
The Doctor blinks at the barrage of words, used to being the fastest talker in the room. "Chips are fine," he says, and she sighs in relief.
"Thank God," she says, shrugging the bag off her shoulder and sitting down at the desk. "I thought for a moment there I was going to have to take these and run. Like, no offence, but I need chips." She giggles lightly, but the Doctor knows she's not joking. She unwraps the greaseproof paper and the smell of salt and vinegar fills the room. She opens her textbook and the lesson begins.
Bill munches happily as he talks; the Doctor can't tell if it's his lecture or the chips that is causing the contented smile on her face. They are beautiful chips—golden, crispy and piping hot...
He must be drooling or something, because in the middle of one of his elaborate and frankly brilliant sentences about hot air balloons, she pushes the remaining chips halfway across the desk.
The next week she buys a portion of chips for each of them, and the week after that she makes them herself.
The Doctor glances at the clock again and his frown deepens; Bill is late.
For months now they've had their routine—Bill comes at 6 o'clock sharp and brings textbooks and chips.
At thirteen minutes past six Bill barrels through the door without knocking. Her bag has fallen from her shoulder in the rush, caught in the crook of her elbow and bumping the floor. She isn't wearing a jacket and she's out of breath like she's been chased by a horde of Daleks. "Sorry, sorry, sorry," she pants, pausing for breath now that she's across the threshold and has technically arrived. "This took way longer than I expected."
She has a plate in her hand, a utilitarian white one from the canteen, and upon it sits one chip, but not just any chip—this one is crudely shaped like a guitar. She sets it on the desk in front of him like a peace offering. "I'm sorry the Zarbi broke your guitar, Doctor," she says.
"I found this great plate in the charity shop down the road, it's, like, the most perfect TARDIS blue ever, don't you think? And I made the chips star-shaped, for extra fun."
Great, the Doctor thinks, somewhat bitterly. More stars I can't see.
The chips smell wonderful, as always, his senses heightened with the sudden absence of sight, and not for the first time he marvels at her talent for deep-frying the humble Earth potato. He listens to the scraping as she pushes the empty mugs of Nardole's tea-coffee hybrid to one side and sets the plate on the desk. He adjusts his sonic sunglasses on his nose and is careful as he reaches for where he thinks the plate is with only green outlines to go on. He manages, though, and both of them start munching on Bill's perfectly cooked chips.
In a contemplative mood, the Doctor asks, "Is this what stars taste like, then? Deep fried potatoes?"
There is a pause as Bill swallows her latest star-chip. "Hmmm, maybe! That would be awesome!"
A few star-chips later: "I always thought they'd taste like candy floss."
"Oh, wow, now that is even better," she says, and he can hear the smile in her voice—it makes him wistful to see it. A textbook slams shut—he jumps at the unexpected sound and hopes she hasn't noticed—and she says, "We should go find out. Let's go find out!"
"No!" he exclaims without thinking and he calls himself an idiot in several languages. "No," he repeats, carefully quiet now. "Sorry, Bill, but no. I've, uh, got marking to do..."
A disappointed, "Oh."
Hating that tone of voice, he offers, "Perhaps another time."
"Okay." Quiet.
The Doctor calls himself an idiot in several more languages. He imagines her expression, her wide eyes and slumped shoulders—Stupid Doctor. "Anyway," he says with a mental gear-shift, taking another star-chip from the plate, "we were talking about quantum theory..."
"Hi," Bill says.
"I made some chips," says the Doctor.
THE END