Chapter Text
“You’re going to have to be really strong, you lot,” the Doctor announces, tone wavering, breaths coming out more panicked than Yaz or indeed the rest of the group had ever encountered from their usually calm and controlled friend. “Yaz?” She motions to the engineered metal headpiece propped against the console at her best friend’s side, wetting her lips in a nervous twitch.
As Yaz passes the accessory over, mindful of the wires connected to its interweaving steel, she fixes her with her misty gaze. “Are you sure about this?” She prompts, strong brows creasing at the bridge of her nose in open concern. “Are you sure this is the only way?” then, quieter, “What if you don’t remember us?”
“Oh, Yaz,” the Doctor smiles, but it’s tinged with wariness, with doubt, with undeniable sadness. She didn’t want to have to do this again ever in her lifetimes. “You lot would be pretty hard to forget.”
Assured, but not comforted, Yaz drops her gaze.
Behind her, Graham sets a hand over his grandson’s shoulder, who watches on as though he’s just exited his video game without pressing save.
“C’mon, fam. Don’t look at me like that.” The Doctor steadies the headrest over blonde locks, dishevelled from running, and swallows audibly at the mix of hopeful, but wary expressions which greet her. “I’m not dying. I’m just not going to be me for a little while. Plus —” she meets their gazes in turn, imploring them to see sense. “When have I ever let you down before?"
“You’re right, Doc. We’ve got your back, right, cockles?” Graham directs the question towards the youngest two of the group, who nod because he’s right — they’ll always have her back.
“Whatever happens,” Yaz murmurs quietly, just loud enough for the Doctor to hear.
She reaches out, offering Yaz’s shoulder a squeeze. “I’ll see you soon, alright? And remember — don’t let me open it until the timer stops or we’re in danger.” She motions towards the pocket watch still clutched tightly in Yaz’s hand, then rocks on her toes. “Think I’m ready now. Graham — the switch, please?”
Graham takes a step towards the console, the pad of his index hovering over the yellow switch, which connects up to the device sitting on the crown of the Doctor’s head.
“Should be fine,” the Doctor nods her confirmation when Graham double-checks, meeting Yaz’s gaze with a quick wink. Within seconds, though, blinding light and searing, burning pain singes at the vessels running through her brain and she clutches at her temples with a piercing scream.
It’s been a week.
A week of early starts so she could scour the streets before work, and late finishes to retrace her steps and then some.
A week of sleepless nights, of dreams obscured and pulled apart by each and every scenario her best friend could have found herself in, each one more morbid, more distressing than the last.
Yasmin Khan hasn’t slept for more than four hours at a time for a week and it’s beginning to show.
“Not looking too great, Yaz,” Afia announces the minute Yaz slips into the patrol car beside her, earning a glare from dark-rimmed eyes. “You can’t avoid telling me forever, you know? If you’re not taking care of yourself, It’s my duty to tell the chief. You’re no use walking around like a zombie every shift.”
Flummoxed, Yaz slumps back in her seat like a chided teenager. “I’m fine.”
“If that’s the case, stop being a grumpy arse.” Afia sets the engine running and pulls away from the station in a smooth manoeuvre, heading out onto dark, late evening streets. “I’m getting us coffee.”
Disposable coffee cup cradled between her palms, Yaz gazes into the middle distance as her long-term, chatterbox colleague raves about her most recent boyfriend; Harry, she thinks she hears her say. Apart from offering up the occasional hum in question and in agreement, she can’t find it in herself to tune in properly, not when there are matters more prominent on her mind.
A flash of blonde hair sweeps past the window of the patrol car and Yaz lurches slightly, splashing searing liquid over her trousers. She’s lucky the material is thick and her co-worker is too distracted by her phone, where she answers a text from the man of her dreams.
When the woman pauses at the crossing, Yaz deflates at her unfamiliar features and noticeably longer hair.
“Yaz, you wanna see how big his —” As though someone above has a telepathic link to Yaz’s brain, Afia is interrupted by the blare of their radios.
“Khan. Mahir. Incident reported at Bad Wolf Inn, Broadchurch Street. Drunk and disorderly. Attendance required as soon as possible.”
They exchange a knowing look before the car slips back onto quiet streets, the journey silent while they individually prepare themselves for the onslaught of slurred shouts and flailing, aimless limbs.
By the time they reach the busy pub, a hen party of women in their mid-thirties stumble and dance and sing in heels which threaten disrepair to their jellied limbs.
“Ten quid one of them chunders over your boots again,” Afia chimes as the car comes to a stop, drawing the handbrake up and slipping her cap atop meticulously groomed dark locks.
Yaz grimaces at the prospect, shooting her colleague a chiding glare. “You said you wouldn’t bring that up.”
“Oh, don’t be a spoilsport, Yaz. C’mon, we’ve got a hen party to tame.”
Taming would be the operative word, Yaz finds, when an inflatable phallus is handed over upon asking the most intoxicated of the group for their name.
Leaving Afia to round up and chatter away to the swaying women, Yaz steps inside the bustling bar to consult the barwoman who had the incident called in.
Tucking her cap under her arm when the warmth from the populated room leaves her sticky and rapidly heating up, she’s blind to the blonde eyeing her from behind a till. “You here about the hen party, officer? To be honest, I thought they were a bit of a laugh until one of them jumped onto the table and thought crowd surfing would be a good idea. Had to stop them there, really.”
From her spot a mere few feet from the bar, Yaz freezes.
It had been a week. A week of trawling and searching and worrying, and yet, when Yaz glances up to meet familiar deep green eyes, it suddenly feels worth the wait.
“You alright?” the blonde quips in a fashion so alike, but unlike her, that Yaz has to swallow a lump in her throat. Her features are soft, but the dark rings around her eyes match Yaz’s own and leave concern to clutch and twist at her most vital organ. “Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Yes. Sorry, ma’am. Long day, that’s all,” Yaz lies, stepping forward, posture exuding confidence her voice lacks. “You phoned in?”
“Oh, tell me about it,” she replies, leaning against the bartop, her tight-fitted vest leaving faintly toned arms on display. There’s a plaid shirt tied around her waist, cuffed, ripped blue jeans hugging her hips. “I did, yeah. Kinda glad I decided to, now, seeing as though they sent someone as gorgeous as you.”
Yaz chokes on the remnants of coffee at the back of her throat. Is this the same woman who eats soil and trips over her own feet when Yaz so much as looks at her?
“Can I get your name, ma’am?” Yaz slips her notebook from her vest pocket, popping her brows when the blonde smirks — because there’s a blush to Yaz’s cheeks now, and she knows her words have made their impact.
“Jenny. Jenny Smith. It's a pleasure to meet you, officer.”