The first time they meet it's in a darkened greenhouse, the air thick with the scent of earth and humidity. She's snipping and pruning and watering as any diligent gardener would. Here, in the quiet of her greenhouse, Jean Beazley can escape the noise of a mundane life. A perfectly fine life, certainly. But not the one she dreamed of once upon a time; no adventures, nothing exciting, nothing out of the ordinary.
And then, just as she's rounding the corner, ready to check on her newest addition-a thick, green pod she had come across in the market from a mysterious seller-he's there.
The man before her is tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a three-piece suit and a thick, heavy patchwork coat. There's a manic grin on his face and a screwdriver-like device in his hand and before she can ask what on earth he thinks he's doing in her greenhouse, he's grabbing her hand and leaning in close and he whispers one word: Run.
And they're off as the green pod behind her erupts into a-and there's no other word for it-creature. It's slimy and she thinks she spots teeth and the man, still pulling her along, is rambling about krynoids and the best way to get rid of them and she can't stand listening to him ramble about this nonsense anymore. And she truly detests running.
Ripping her hand from his, she turns around and squares up against the plant-creature. The man is lifting his screwdriver up and she hears a high-pitched whirring. Pushing his hand back down and ignoring the incredulous look he shoots her, she reaches over onto her work table and plucks the weedkiller up, taking aim at the creature before her.
With just a few well-aimed squirts of the herbicide, the creature is already browning and curling in on itself, the teeth falling out and rendering it harmless.
For a moment, there's just silence and the sound of heavy breathing as she turns to the strange man next to her. She wipes her hands on her apron and dusts them off, crossing her arms over her chest, eyebrow raised.
"Now, do you want to tell me who you are and what the bloody hell that," she points to the plant, "is?"
"You can call me the Doctor," he answers absentmindedly, simply staring at her, mouth open, eyes darting from the creature to Jean. She feels distinctly as if she's being sized up and she straightens herself, standing tall. Jutting her hand out, she introduces herself. "I'm Jean. Jean Beazley."
And then a slow smile spreads over his face and he's taking her hand in his again and staring at her in wonder. "Oh, bravo, Jean. Bravo."
They settle inside her home and he's all nervous energy, bouncing from room to room as if simply trying to reacquaint himself with day-to-day baubles and materials. Tea is happily steeping in a pot on the table in front of them and she's rather had enough of his rambling.
"Doctor!" He stops mid-stride and spins, his coat flaring behind him and his hands resting on his stomach, answering her with a raise of his eyebrows and a small hum.
She shakes her head, still trying to wrap her head around what he's telling her. Alien, spaceship, time travel, far off distance universes and planets. It's thrilling and she's a little ashamed of how quickly she believes him, how desperate she is to be whisked away.
"So, to be clear, you'd take me away in your spaceship-"
"TARDIS," he corrects, absentmindedly, vision still roaming about her house and taking everything in: pictures of her sons and her Christopher, memories of a life long ago.
She purses her lips but nods. "Right, your TARDIS. And we can go anywhere? Any time?"
He nods, eyes suddenly focused on her, desperate and intent and she feels her breath catch at the weight of emotion in his blue eyes. She wants to say that there are stars reflecting and shining in his eyes, that there's a galaxy swirling amidst the hue, but she can't quite manage the words.
Jean tilts her head. "Why 'The Doctor'? Don't you have a real name?"
He laughs, the intense man disappearing and evolving into lighthearted wonder once more and the change leaves her reeling. He leans back and shrugs. "Why Jean?" He waves her off before she can answer and he leans forward. "I want to make people better, make people happy. And 'The Doctor' sums me up, so," he sits back again, arms spread wide, grinning. "Here we are."
"But don't you have a given name? One your mother gave you?"
Again, his face seems to shift and darken and Jean wants to reach out and cup his face, smooth away the deep hurt that seems to have taken residence. Someone, something has hurt him and she wants to heal him.
"I do. Maybe one day, I'll tell you what it is, Jean Beazley." He stands then, smoothing the non-existent wrinkles from his waistcoat and pulling his patchwork coat around him as if protecting himself against the world.
He offers her his hand with a grin. "So what do you say, Jean? Fancy seeing a universe or two?"
In the end, there isn't any hesitation, no decision to make. She slips her hand in his and lets him pull her up until they're standing toe-to-toe and grinning at one another.
His grip on her hand tightens and he pulls her along, dashing out the door, and throwing a soft, please, grateful smile at her. There's no bags to pack-just the clothes on her back and a thirst for adventure.
"Bravo!"
The Doctor, she learns, is a complicated man-well, alien. And she forgets sometimes he is an alien. He's just as warm, just as human as she.
But when she wraps her hands around his wrist and feels the dual thumpthump-thumpthump of two hearts, she remembers. When his eyes take on that special cold, hardness-the look of an alien soldier trying to make amends and prevent devastation-she remembers. When she gets a glimpse of the darkness within him-a man capable of violence-she remembers.
For all his alienness, though, he's remarkably human. For all his darkness and violence and brokenness, he is kind and compassionate and good. Jean has seen it firsthand: a protector at heart, using physical affection and humor to disguise his shortcomings.
With every watery smile and desperate hug, Jean finds herself falling more and more in love with him. He gave her the universe, more than one-how could she not?
Late one night, she makes a promise to the stars her Doctor travels amidst: I'll protect him.
Jean had never been one overflowing with riches and excess income. Her clothes were secondhand or sewn herself. Perhaps it is this background that makes the TARDIS wardrobe room so awe-inspiring to her: an entire wardrobe of clothes designed specifically for her body, everything looking impeccable upon her. It's more clothing than she's ever seen and she takes great delight in indulging herself with a small fashion show.
After settling on a rather practical skirt and blouse, she seeks the Doctor out, a heat flushing her cheeks pink, eager to show him her chosen outfit (and trying to convince herself it wasn't about ensuring he saw her legs in something other than trousers, for once).
But the Doctor, when she finds him, is passed out at the kitchen table, face first in a plate of scones and a warm cup of tea beside him. She shakes her head fondly at him. He rarely sleeps, simply running, running, running until his body shuts down. Silly man.
She's just turning to leave him to his nap when her eye catches sight of his patchwork coat and she frowns. It's thinning in the elbow, holes peppered the fabric, and the patchworks peeling off-the thread weak and breaking.
Biting her lip, unsure, she hesitates before grabbing his beloved coat and dashing back to the wardrobe room, an idea forming in her head before she can second-guess herself.
The sewing kit is easy to find and she sets to work immediately, the needle and thread like an extension of herself. The holes are sewn together, the buttons clinging to the coat by a mere thread secured more firmly to the coat. The patchwork fabric squares were unsalvageable and she peels them away carefully, frowning.
She certainly doesn't want to cut up any of the TARDIS' beautiful clothing, but she needs something to replace the gaping holes in his coat. And then, from the corner of her eye, she sees it: her apron.
The same apron she had been wearing all those months-days? weeks? years?-ago. Time on the TARDIS is a fickle thing and she isn't sure how long they've been running together.
The apron is white and green, swirling with leaves and vines and the occasional purple flower. There's still dirt from her garden embedded in the pockets and she grins. It's perfect.
She sets to work tearing and ripping the apron apart and sewing the newly created patches into his coat, humming to herself as she works. The Doctor sleeps for only a short while and she wants to be done before he awakens.
There's something special about this. She thinks back to the promise she made to herself and the stars: I'll protect him.
Perhaps even if she can't be there, a part of her can be, here woven within his coat. With a bite of the thread and a shake of the completed coat, she stands, rushing back to the kitchen, hoping to leave it for him to find as a surprise.
Instead, she runs head-first into him, stumbling back. He steadies her with a warm hand at her hip and she fights the urge to swoon forward into his arms. The Doctor catches sight of the coat in her arms and his brow furrows, tilting his head. "Is that mine?"
She blushes and offers it to him, explaining. "I noticed it needed some repairs. I-I hope you don't mind." Jean is rarely unsure of herself but she realizes, as much as she cares for him, she doesn't know much about him. Perhaps he is deeply attached to that coat and she's ruined something precious.
But she sees the way he holds the fabric in his hands, like it's made of glass and not cotton and wool. His long, clever fingers dance over the newly sewn patches of green and white, his lips moving soundlessly.
He looks up at her, eyes suspiciously wet and her heart clenches in her chest. "Doctor?"
His eyes drop back to the coat and he dons it, straightening the lapels with a flair, his fingers once more tracing the fabric provided by her apron. "Thank you," he whispers, low and intimate.
It makes her heart pick up speed and she covers it by waving him off. "It was nothing, Doctor."
The Doctor's head snaps up and he reaches out quickly, hand cupping her cheek. "Don't," he says quietly. "Don't say that, Jean. This is everything." It seems as if his thumb moves of its own accord, stroking over the soft skin of her cheek. His eyes are locked on hers, intense and focused.
She squirms under his gaze, desire coiling low in her belly and she works hard to keep her breathing even and her desire hidden. He seems to catch himself and he pulls his hand away. It takes everything in her not to reach back out to him.
He grins at her, mischievous and light-hearted once more. "It's like I'm carrying a piece of you wherever I go. Thank you, Jean."
And just like that, he's gone, dashing back down the hall and yelling back at her that they're due to land for their next adventure any moment, leaving a stunned and breathless Jean behind.
Most of their adventures are like stories out of a fairytale. She and the Doctor appear, they get into mischief while hand-in-hand, and save the day. They often end up holding hands (he always seeks her hand out, a desperate, seeking grip) and collapse against each other, breathless and laughing. Another crisis averted, another day saved.
But sometimes, their stories are tales told to children at night to tell them to be wary of the boogeyman. Sometimes, she and the Doctor don't succeed. The good guys don't save the day, love doesn't conquer all, and the villain has their day.
Today is one of those adventures. The screams of the Ood fill her ears still and no matter where she turns in the TARDIS, it follows her. Even the walls of the spaceship seem to pulse in sympathy and she follows the series of pulses into the console room.
He stands there, hands resting on the railing, eyes dark and focused on the energy tower in the middle of room. Jean's never been one to shy away from someone in need and the Doctor-her Doctor-is no different.
She steps forward, taking her place next to him. There's a glass of something purple and viscous and foul-smelling. The odor is on his breath and she assumes it's an alien equivalent of whiskey-a means to dull the pain.
Her hand slides over his and squeezes, "Doctor, we did everything we could." She offers what little comfort she can.
He turns to her, anguished and rasps out, "They needed us, Jean. And we failed." The failure chokes him and he turns away, throwing the glass against the TARDIS wall in a fit of anger and despair before collapsing onto the captain's chair, a bench-style chair they had spent many an evening on, simply staring out into the void of the universe.
She bites back the rebuke on her tongue and sends up a mental note to the TARDIS, promising to clean it up-or make the Doctor do so. Instead, she slides next to him and pillows her head on his shoulder, the patchwork coat rough on her cheek. He reaches for her then, so easily and pulls her close, resting his chin on her head, inhaling the scent of her-warm and alive and Jean.
He's met millions of creatures-humans and aliens alike-but no one is like Jean. No one makes him feel the way Jean does. And so he takes his chance, risks his hearts once more, on a fleeting, fragile love.
The alcohol and grief have loosened his tongue and he speaks, unloading a burden carried for too long. "Jean, I have something to tell you. Something about my past..."
She listens carefully about a war, a great Time War, and a lost wife and an entire race destroyed save for a single, lonely, broken man. Jean hears his story and doesn't run or hide from him, simply burrows close and holds him tight.
For the first time in a millennia, his hearts beat in sync with another and he finds the courage to whisper his name-his real name-to her.
"Lucien," he whispers. "My name is Lucien."