Chapter Text
The house is quiet.
Belinda isn't used to quiet. Quiet is a concept that just doesn't exist when you're the mother of a toddler, especially one as inquisitive and adventurous as her daughter. Days are filled with shrieking laughter, tearful meltdowns, and the cacophony of too many ill-advised Christmas and birthday gifts. Nights are filled with the anticipation that, any moment now, a tiny little head is going to pop up over the arm of the sofa, asking for another drink of water, another bedtime story, another lullaby.
Belinda wouldn't miss it for the world, but even she can't deny that it can be exhausting. So when her mum offered to take Poppy for the night to give her a little bit of a break.
She should be grateful for the time to herself. A chance to just be Belinda instead of Poppy's mum.
If only she knew how to do that.
Belinda stands in the middle of the living room, wringing her hands together. Wasn't she thinking about watching a movie just the other day? There's an entire shelf of books that she swears she's going to read someday.
Instead, she gravitates towards the toys scattered across the floor. She moves methodically as she tidies up, putting all of the toys back into their bins, picking up the blanket that Poppy likes to play on.
How did all of this happen?
Belinda gasps and shakes her head as if to dislodge the thought. "Don't be silly," she says. She knows her life. She knows how she ended up here. She knows that she met Poppy's father when she was twenty-one. She knows that they dated for a while. She knows he left soon after Poppy was born. She knows that she moved into this house back in—
Belinda frowns. When did she move in? Where did she meet Poppy's father? What was his name?
Why does she keep forgetting things?
"No, stop this," she says. "Just sit down. Relax. Read a book."
She changes into some joggers and an oversized t-shirt, then grabs her own blanket and a book and curls up in an armchair.
She can't focus. She can only read a few sentences before she finds herself distracted by the silence.
"What are you up to?" she finds herself saying more than once, before remembering that Poppy isn't here.
She's just gotten the hang of reading when the house is filled with a blinding white light and a resounding boom rattles the walls.
For a moment, Belinda is frozen, memories of giant red robots and spaceships and a planet called Missbelindachandra One running through her mind. Possessed cartoons in the 1950's. An alien planet haunted by an entity that fill everyone with terror. A barbershop on the back of a massive spider. The 803rd Interstellar Song Contest.
And then, Poppy.
No, not then Poppy. Poppy was always there.
Poppy was always there.
Another boom shakes the house.
Belinda sets her book aside and gets up, rushing to the window overlooking her back garden.
There's a shed in her garden. There are two odd things about this.
One, it's a completely different shed to the one that's already there.
Two, it's currently wedged about a metre into the ground, tilted at an angle that makes it seem like it was dropped from a great height.
"That's not right," Belinda mutters. She grabs a jacket and a pair of shoes and darts through the back door.
The air around the shed seems to shimmer, distort, like the shed itself is trying to hide. Eventually, it gives up, releasing an absurd amount of smoke.
Belinda is torn. Part of her wants to run back inside, slam the door, pretend that none of this is happening.
But part of her needs to know.
And so, she steps forward.
As soon as her feet touch the grass, the strange shed starts to groan and warp, shifting from a generic shed into—
—a blue police box.
Belinda stops moving. Stops breathing.
"It can't be," she says.
It's been months since she saw the Doctor. Almost an entire year. She never expected to see this again.
A pained groan distracts her. She shines a torch across the grass and her heart jumps into her throat when she finally finds the source: a woman, lying facedown on the ground. Judging from the angle of the doors and her position, she must have been thrown from the ship on the way down. "Oh, my God," Belinda whispers, pushing her shock aside as she runs to the woman's side. "Hello? Can you hear me?"
She sweeps the torch over the woman. Dark skin, blue coat, a broken pair of glasses hanging from one ear. She's so alarmingly still that for a moment, Belinda fears the worst. She rests a hand on the woman's shoulder and shakes her gently. "Hello? Can you hear me?"
The woman's eyes fly open, and she tries to get to her feet, but only manages to fall backwards. Her back hits the TARDIS with enough force to make Belinda wince.
"Hey, it's okay," Belinda says, holding up her free hand to placate her. "My name is Belinda. "What's your name?"
The woman stares at her for a long time, clearly struggling to focus. "…Doctor," she finally answers.
Belinda's eyes flicker from the woman to the TARDIS. "Doctor," she says. "As in the Doctor?"
The woman's head falls back, her eyes flickering closed. "The one and only," she says, before wheezing out a faint chuckle. "Well, not really, but you get the point."
Despite her best efforts, Belinda recoils. The Doctor. She can't be the Doctor. Unless—
I hope you'll see me again. But not like this.
"Are you hurt?" Belinda asks. As soon as the words leave her mouth, she notices the blood trickling down the side of her face, as well as the bruised knuckles.
The Doctor coughs, and the sound sends a chill down Belinda's spine. "No hospital," she mumbles.
Belinda starts to protest, but then she remembers a crucial detail. She reaches out and presses two fingers to the Doctor's wrist. Sure enough, she finds a dual pulse there. "Two hearts," she says. "Right. No hospital."
The Doctor opens her eyes, squinting at Belinda. "You don't seem fazed by this," she says.
"I'm not," Belinda replies. "I've met another one of you."
The Doctor groans. "Oh, no. Please tell me it wasn't a blonde woman."
"No," Belinda says. "But that sounds like a story. Why don't I get you inside so I can check you out, and you can tell me all about it."
The Doctor shakes her head, winces, and groans. "I'm fine," she mumbles. "Just gotta get back in my TARDIS and go—"
Right on cue, the TARDIS groans and belches a cloud of smoke into the air.
"I don't think your TARDIS is up for it," Belinda says. "Can you walk?"
The Doctor rolls her eyes. "Of course I can walk. Just need the ground to stop moving first."
"I don't think that's the ground," Belinda says. She holds out a hand. "Here. Let help you."
The Doctor eyes Belinda's hand suspiciously. Finally, she reaches out and takes her hand. She only manages a single step before her legs give out and she sags heavily against Belinda. "Getting too old for this," she mumbles.
Belinda pulls her arm across her shoulders and half-drags her into her kitchen, setting her down in a chair before going to look for her first aid kit. She comes back to find the Doctor holding her broken glasses, staring at them like one might look at a photo of a lost love. She opens the kit and pulls up a chair. "What happened?" she asks.
The Doctor doesn't answer. Her gaze has gone distant, unfocused.
Belinda wonders if moving her was a mistake. She wouldn't have considered it with a human, not until she'd cleared the possibility of a head injury, but she's seen her Doctor take worse damage and shrug it off. She waves her hand in front of her face. "Hi, hello," she says. "Did you hit your head? You're bleeding."
The Doctor scowls, as if the concept of bleeding is offensive to her.
Belinda puts on her best kind-but-firm nurse's voice. "Turn your head for me," she says. "I want to look at this cut."
"It's fine," the Doctor mutters. "Probably already healing."
"No, I'm not having that," Belinda says. "I'm a nurse. I can help."
The Doctor scoffs. "I don't need help, I need to—" She tries to stand up and sways dangerously on her feet.
Belinda jumps up and braces a hand against her chest to stop her from toppling forward. "Doctor," she says. "Sit. Let me help you."
"I don't need—"
"I get it," Belinda says. "You think you're too tough to need help. But you're hurt. Your TARDIS is messed up. It's not going to kill you to let someone help."
The Doctor sighs and sits back down.
Belinda moves her chair closer and gets to work. It's a shallow cut, but head wounds tend to bleed more. She carefully cleans the wound and bandages it up. "Anything other bleeding I should know about?" she asks, turning her attention to the bruised knuckles, checking to make sure none of her fingers are broken.
"Nothing on the outside, at least." The Doctor laughs, then groans, clutching a hand to her midsection.
Bruised ribs, probably. Maybe broken. "What happened?" Belinda asks as she cleans the scrapes on her hands.
"TARDIS malfunctioned. Tried to snap her out of it, but…"
Belinda hears her voice break and looks up to see her staring out of the window. Is it a trick of the light, or are there tears in her eyes?
The Doctor notices her looking and clears her throat. "Old girl's gettin' older," she says. "Reaction time's a bit shoddy."
Finally satisfied that the Doctor isn't about to die in her kitchen, Belinda sits back, trying to think of what to do next. "When did you come from?" she asks. "You can't be after my Doctor, or you'd remember me."
The Doctor chuckles. "Not necessarily," she says. She sighs at Belinda's confused expression. "No, I haven't been him yet. Still trying to figure out the rest." She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees and her face in her hands.
"You should rest," Belinda says. "I have a sofa in the other room. I don't think you'd fit in my daughter's bed, given that she's a toddler."
The Doctor stares blankly at her. "You have a daughter."
Belinda can't tell if it's a question or a statement. "Yeah," she says as she helps the Doctor to stand up, steering her towards the living room sofa. "Her name's Poppy. She's staying with my mum for the night. I'm supposed to be taking a break."
"Hmmm. Sorry to crash the party. Literally."
Belinda laughs. "It's all right," she says. "I wasn't doing a very good job of relaxing, anyway. Feels strange, not having her here. It's like…I don't know who I am without her."
The Doctor goes still.
Belinda glances over to see the other woman gazing at her intently. "What?"
"Tell me about her."
"Who, Poppy?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
The Doctor answers with a groan and half-sits, half-collapses onto the sofa. She buries her face in her hands again. She doesn't say anything else.
Belinda knows she should take the opportunity to drop it, because she has the feeling she won't like where the conversation goes. But she can't. "Doctor?"
"Hmm?"
"Why do you want to know about my daughter?"
The Doctor doesn't respond for a long while. And then her head snaps up, eyes laser-focused on Belinda. "Something's wrong," she says.
Belinda instinctively steps back, alarmed by the sudden change in demeanor. "What do you mean?" she asks. "What's wrong?"
"You," the Doctor replies.
And then she's out cold.
Belinda rushes forward to catch her before she hurts herself, easing her onto the sofa. She grabs a blanket and pillow to make her more comfortable. She watches her for a few minutes, making sure her breathing is stable.
She takes a step back, and gasps as she steps on one of Poppy's toys. She picks the toy up, staring at it.
The fuzzy memories. Her Doctor's cryptic words. And now this.
What is going on?