A/N: Hello! Don't have much to say, other than I hope you enjoy!
CW: Light talk about trans related struggles towards the end, nothing transphobic or anything heavy, but mentioning just in case.
The crowd thinned as they got further and further away from the Globe.
"So how do we go about finding out about a missing play?" Martha asked her new friends, whose joined hands swung loosely between them.
The Doctor shrugged one shoulder. "Well, asking Shakespeare himself about it seems to be the best place to start, I mean, it's not as if we've got any other leads."
"So asking the locals?" Ryan grinned slyly. "Or in other words, the domestic approach?"
The Doctor ran his free hand though his hair. "Shakespeare isn't exactly local – you heard his accent. He's from Stratford-Upon-Avon, in Warwickshire."
"Yeah, and? We're still gonna be asking him. And where're we going, anyway?"
"Yeah," Martha piped up. "Where are we going? You seem to be leading us somewhere."
"The Elephant. It's the inn where Shakespeare stays when he's in London," the Doctor replied, pulling on his ear.
"Hmm, sounds pretty domestic to me. What do you think, Martha?"
"Erm, yeah, sure."
Ryan shifted closer to the Doctor as they walked, tilting his chin up to rest it on the Doctor's shoulder as best he could. "See, told you, domestic. Martha agrees."
"I never argued otherwise! And now I'm being ganged up on!" The Doctor sniffed. "Fine. You win, et cetera."
"Aww, you're so gracious in admitting defeat."
"Can't admit defeat if there was no fight in the first place."
"You literally just said I won!"
"That was just to keep you happy!"
Beside them, Martha couldn't help but giggle at their antics.
Once they arrived at the Elephant, the innkeeper – who introduced herself as Dolly Bailey – directed them upstairs to find Shakespeare, once the Doctor had lied about their identities with the help of his psychic paper.
The Doctor knocked on the open door at the top of the stairs. "Hello! Excuse me, not interrupting, am I?" He strode in, uninvited, with Ryan and Martha trailing after him. "Mr Shakespeare, isn't it?"
The man in question was sat at a table covered with tankards of ale and numerous sheets of paper. He was accompanied by a couple of men that Ryan recognised as actors from the play they had just watched.
"Oh no," groaned Shakespeare, pinching the bridge of his nose. "No, no, no, who let you two in? No autographs. No, you can't have yourself sketched with me. And, please, don't ask where I get my ideas from. Thanks for the interest. Now be good boys and shove…" Shakespeare trailed off when he spotted Martha step out from behind the Doctor.
"Hey nonny, nonny… sit right down here next to me," Shakespeare said flirtatiously, indicating at a spot next to him on the bench. "You two, get sewing on them costumes, off you go," he dismissed the two actors.
"Come on, lads," Dolly wandered in, patting the shoulder of each actor in turn. "I think our William's found his new muse." She grabbed a tray from the table and took it away, and the actors left with her.
"Sweet lady," said Shakespeare to Martha as she shuffled onto the bench with him, while Ryan and the Doctor took the recently vacated chairs. "Such unusual clothes, so… fitted."
Martha smiled awkwardly. "Um… verily, forsooth. Egads."
"No, no, don't do that," the Doctor said quietly. "Don't."
Ryan shot Martha a sympathetic smile; after all, he had made the same mistake in Scotland.
The Doctor whipped out his psychic paper and showed it to Shakespeare. "I'm Sir Doctor of TARDIS, and this is Sir Ryan of the Powell Estate and our companion, Miss Martha Jones."
"Interesting. That bit of paper, it's blank," Shakespeare retorted.
The Doctor's eyes widened. "Oh, that's… very clever. That proves it. Absolute genius."
"No, it says right there, Sir Doctor, Sir Ryan, Martha Jones, it says so," Martha argued.
"And I say it's blank."
"It's psychic paper, shows people what you want them to see," Ryan quickly explained to Martha. "Unless they've had psychic training or are a genius, apparently."
"'Psychic'? Never heard that before, and words are my trade. Who are you, exactly?" Shakespeare asked. He turned his intense gaze to Ryan. "Though I must say, Sir Doctor, you do keep some rather interesting company. Especially this boy with his rather exotic shade of hair."
Ryan scoffed. "'Scuse me, but I'm twenty-one! Not exactly a boy, am I?"
"Ah yes, forgive me, but you have only just reached your manhood," countered Shakespeare.
"Excuse me! Hold hard a moment!"
Ryan twisted around in his chair to see that they had been interrupted by a bearded man in rather expensive-looking clothing.
"This is abominable behaviour, a new play, with no warning! I demand to see a script, Mr Shakespeare! As Master of the Revels, every new script must be registered at my office and examined by me, before it can be performed!"
"Tomorrow morning first thing; I'll send it round," Shakespeare replied, evenly.
"I don't work to your schedule; you work to mine! The script, now!" the Master of the Revels demanded.
"I can't!"
"Then tomorrow's performance is cancelled."
"It's all go 'round here, innit," Martha commented.
"I am returning to my office for a banning order! If it's the last thing I do, Love's Labour's Won will never be played!" the Master of the Revels spat, before storming out the door.
"So who's he, then?" Ryan asked, as Dolly came in with four tankards of ale.
"Lynley, Master of the Revels," Shakespeare replied, taking a swig.
"And Master of the Revels, what's that?"
"He licences theatres and censors publicly performed plays," the Doctor explained. "Basically, just checks that a play is suitable for performances, amongst other duties."
Ryan nodded in understanding and took a sip at his ale.
"Well then, mystery solved. That's Love's Labour's Won over and done with," Martha said. "Thought it might be something more, y'know, more mysterious?"
All of a sudden, they heard a loud groan and screaming coming from outside. They all leapt out of their chairs and bolted down the stairs, with the Doctor leading the way.
Outside, they found Lynley choking and spluttering water.
"What the hell?" Ryan exclaimed.
The Doctor dashed towards Lynley. "Leave it to me, I'm a doctor," he told the terrified bystanders.
"So am I, near enough," Martha added, as she helped the Doctor brace Lynley, who continued to cough up water at regular intervals. Ryan knew he couldn't do anything other than stand back and watch, so he did, scanning the small crowd for anyone who was looking particularly shifty.
Lynley gave one last groan and abruptly slumped to the floor, lying back on the hay. The Doctor jogged over to Ryan as Martha checked over Lynley.
"Have you seen anything?" the Doctor muttered to him.
"Not yet."
"Come on." The Doctor took Ryan back with him to see Lynley. As they crouched over him, another lot of water gurgled from Lynley's mouth.
"What the hell is that?" Martha hissed.
"I've never seen a death like it. His lungs are full of water, he drowned," the Doctor said in a low voice. "And then, I dunno, like a blow to the heart? An invisible blow."
He stood up to address Dolly. "Good mistress, this poor fellow has died from a sudden imbalance of the humours. A natural, if unfortunate demise. Call a constable, have him taken away."
"Yes- "
Dolly was stopped by a maid who had been with them in Shakespeare's room earlier. "I'll do it, ma'am."
The maid quickly walked away, and the Doctor rejoined Ryan and Martha.
Ryan frowned. "Sudden imbalance of the humours?"
"And why are you telling them that?" Martha asked.
"This lot have still got one foot in the Dark Ages. If I tell them the truth they'll panic and think it was witchcraft," the Doctor quickly explained.
"Right, so what was it?" Ryan questioned.
"Witchcraft."
"How many rooms would you like, Sir Doctor?" Dolly asked, once they were back upstairs in Shakespeare's room.
"Erm…" the Doctor began, scratching the back of his head.
"Could we have two?" Ryan said quickly.
"Of course, you'll have the two across the landing."
"Thanks."
Dolly nodded and left.
"Poor Lynley," Shakespeare said, from behind his desk. "So many strange events. Not least of all, a woman who is a doctor? Where are you from?"
"Martha's from, um, Freedonia," the Doctor fibbed.
"Where a woman can do what she likes," Martha added.
"And you, Sir Doctor. How can a man so young have eyes so old?"
"I do a lot a reading," the Doctor answered in a monotone.
"A trite reply, yeah, that's what I do." Shakespeare turned his attention to the youngest man in the room. "But you, Sir Ryan, you intrigue me the most. There's something different about you, something I cannot quite place. You say you are twenty-one years of age, but your self was born far more recently."
Ryan swallowed. "I think we should get to bed," he said nervously, before leaving the room. Martha followed him.
He glanced into the two bedrooms on the other side of the landing. They were similarly decorated, both with small double beds.
"I'm guessing you're going to be sleeping with the Doctor," Martha said, before clapping her hand over her mouth. "Shit, sorry, didn't mean to phrase it like that."
"S'okay," Ryan mumbled, trying to stop his face from reddening further. "We'll take the right, and you the left?" he suggested. "They're both the same, pretty much."
Martha nodded, then the Doctor appeared behind them.
"Right then, team meeting," he announced, placing a hand on Ryan's shoulder. "Which is ours?"
Ryan indicated to the room on the right, and they entered it, with the Doctor making a beeline for the bed. Ryan joined him, sitting down, whereas Martha chose to stand at the foot of the bed.
"So, magic and stuff, that's a surprise. It's all a bit Harry Potter," Martha said.
The Doctor shrugged. "Suppose it is."
"But is it real though? I mean, witches, black magic and all that, it's real?" Martha speculated.
"'Course it isn't!" the Doctor scoffed.
Ryan swatted his leg. "Doctor, you're being rude. Again." He turned to Martha. "Sorry, he sometimes forgets that not everyone knows the whole universe inside out."
"It's fine," Martha reassured him. "Think I'm going to bed – do you happen to have a toothbrush on you?"
The Doctor patted his pockets, and produced a toothbrush, much like the one he had given to Ryan the previous night. "Venusian spearmint," he told Martha, handing her the toothbrush.
"It's a bit weird, but tastes nice enough," Ryan added, when he saw Martha's doubtful look.
Martha smiled. "Thanks. See you both tomorrow."
And then Ryan and the Doctor were left alone in their room. Ryan got off their bed and went over to a corner. "Doctor, could you, um, turn around?"
"'Course."
Ryan heard the shuffling of fabric behind him as he pulled off his jacket, t-shirt and binder.
"I'm guessing that's why you wanted to have separate rooms."
"Yeah, it is," Ryan replied, putting his t-shirt back on. "Not sure how I'd explain it otherwise. I mean, I want to come out to Martha at some point, just not now."
"Yeah, of course. I could do it for you, if you like, or…?"
Ryan turned back around and smiled. "I'll do it myself. But thanks, though."
The Doctor's jacket and tie lay on the foot of the bed, and his trainers were strewn haphazardly across the floor. He had pulled back the blanket and was laid back, patting the other side of the bed in invitation. Ryan joined him, kicking off his trainers on his way and placed his removed articles of clothing next to the Doctor's, and blew out the only candle, leaving the room illuminated by only the dim moonlight.
"What do you think's going on?" Ryan asked in a hushed tone, as he pulled the blanket over them and settled down onto his side, facing the Doctor.
He didn't reply at first, instead holding an arm out, opening himself up. Ryan manoeuvred himself towards him, accepting the Doctor's silent request for a cuddle. The Doctor spoke again, once they were wrapped in a comfortable embrace.
"There's such a thing as psychic energy, but a human couldn't channel it like that, not without a generator the size of Taunton, anyway, and we'd have spotted that."
Even though Ryan wasn't looking at the Doctor's face, he could still see his frown.
"Well earlier, that maid, the one who offered to take away Lynley's body, she seemed a bit… smug? And I don't know if you noticed, but in the theatre, when Shakespeare announced Love's Labour's Won, he seemed to go stiff and wooden, like a puppet. Only for a moment though."
"Ooh, I didn't! Good work, Lewis," the Doctor said proudly, giving Ryan a quick squeeze.
Ryan grinned. "Thanks, Sarge. Any idea how it all fits together?" he whispered.
"Dunno. Not enough puzzle pieces. Not yet, anyway."
They fell into silence. Ryan considered just going to sleep, but something was still bugging him.
"What do you think Shakespeare meant?"
The Doctor took a deep breath. "I think he meant what you think he meant. How he knew… latent psychic ability or no latent psychic ability, he's a very perceptive man."
"Suppose so. I'm sorry about earlier," Ryan mumbled.
"What about?"
"I feel bad; I know how much you hate domestics, and- "
The Doctor hushed him, trailing his fingers up and down his back. "I don't mind doing domestics. So long as it's with you."
"Really?"
"Yep."
Ryan tried to ignore the rapid drumming of his heart, and let sleep claim him.
A sudden scream shook Ryan from his doze. Beside him, the Doctor shot out of bed and bolted out the door. Ryan was about to follow him, but then he remembered that he had taken his binder off.
He debated going without it, but even after a few hours of being there, he was still feeling anxious about presenting male in the past for the first time - hence decided he was stay put. Although, if there was more noise, or the Doctor didn't come back in about five minutes, he would head out.
However, the Doctor came back a couple of minutes later, looking solemn.
"What happened?" Ryan asked as the Doctor settled back under the covers.
The Doctor rolled onto his side to face him. "Dolly Bailey died. Of fright."
"Oh my god, that's awful..." Ryan trailed off. "I didn't think that was a thing, dying of fright."
"Well, a sudden spike of too much adrenaline isn't very good for the human heart... so it can happen. Oh, and er, Martha saw a witch."
Ryan frowned. "How d'ya mean, 'a witch'? Like cackling on a broomstick?"
"I'd assume so." The Doctor paused and scratched his sideburn. "How come you didn't come along?" he gently asked. "You usually spring into action at the first sign of trouble."
Ryan ducked his head down. "Was gonna, but then I realised I'd have to put my binder back on," he mumbled. "I was gonna follow if you didn't come back after a bit."
"Oh, that didn't occur to me. Sorry."
Ryan mumbled something indiscernible in response.
The Doctor fumbled for Ryan's hand under the blanket and grasped it. "What's wrong?"
Ryan shook his head in frustration. "Fuckin' 'ate bein' trans sometimes."
"Want a hug?" the Doctor quietly offered. Ryan wordlessly accepted, shuffling towards the Doctor, who wrapped his arms around him. Ryan appreciated the Doctor asking, as sometimes the extra physical contact could make him feel worse if he was feeling particularly dysphoric.
The Doctor spoke again after a few moments. "D'you want to talk about it?"
Ryan sighed. "'S just so exhausting, feeling like I have to risk assess everything. Like how I couldn't share a room with Martha without basically outing myself, or how I couldn't come along straight away, just now."
The Doctor didn't respond, but lightly rubbed Ryan's back, encouraging him to continue.
"An' this is my first time in the past being, well, me, I suppose. Presenting male. Even though I haven't had any problems in other time periods, I was still very anxious and still am."
He felt what could have been a kiss being pressed to his hair, before the Doctor held him closer, tucking his head under his chin.
"I think you're incredible," the Doctor whispered. "Being unashamedly and unapologetically who you are, rebelling against your society's rules on gender conformity, and sticking it up to those who say you shouldn't exist. You, Ryan Tyler, represent the very best of humanity. And if even the littlest, tiniest, most miniscule thing is making you feel uncomfortable, please tell me and I'll do absolutely everything in my power to fix it."
Ryan's breath hitched. "Thank you," he murmured. "But you don't have to do all that for me."
"But I want to," the Doctor gently insisted. "You're my best mate. And if anyone ever says anything remotely transphobic to you, I will fight them."
Ryan smiled into his chest. "As much as I'd like to see you try hold your own in a fist fight, I can handle people myself, Doctor. I don't need you to, I dunno, defend my honour."
"I never said you couldn't handle yourself, Ryan. But you don't have to face everything alone; better with two, like you said, remember?"
Ryan nodded, even though he wished the Doctor would take his own advice. "Yeah. 'Night, Doctor."
The Doctor kissed his hair, only this time, Ryan knew - without a doubt - that it was a kiss.
"Goodnight, Ryan."
A/N: Thanks for reading!
