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People ask you why you don’t marry your soulmate.
You laugh at them when they even suggest the idea.
Marrying the Doctor? Yes, it’s a lovely thought, and who wouldn’t want to marry their soulmate, it’s every girl’s dream, but your situation is much more complicated than what everybody seems to think it is.
You always tell them that your soulmate is always out and about, travelling, and you always cringe when they ask you if he might be cheating. It’s not possible (he would never do that, he’s not that interested in other women anyway, unless they’re you), and he’s too busy trying to save the universe over and over again.
You don’t tell them that you’re not sure if you can trust him anymore. Of course, you love him. It’s no excuse, he’s your soulmate, but this regeneration… he’s so unlike the eleventh, the one you spent your time with and the one you grew to trust, that you’re not sure if you can even confide to him anymore.
You’re not even sure if he loves you back (he must, because if he doesn’t then what are soulmates for?).
He asks you if he’s a good man and you have to hold back from giving him the answer that’s been on your mind ever since you considered him asking you. It’s “yes”, because you don’t want him to feel bad about himself (the last thing you want is an upset Time Lord) but instead you tell him the truth,
that you don’t know, and you’re not sure anymore.
He’s your soulmate has become a chant in your head. You don’t like it, because you know you care about him. You know you’ve cared for him from the very beginning, ever since you saw his first color in your other eye. But does he care about you?
It’s quiet on the TARDIS, and you’ve grown accustomed to it.
The Doctor is almost always in the console room, and you never go out of the library anymore, just trying to clear your busy mind with a cup of tea and one of your favorite books. You sit in front of a crackling fireplace, that isn’t burning but just pleasantly warm (you could stick your hand in it if you wanted to, but you don’t).
You’re cuddled into a comfy armchair that’s too big for you and the shawl wrapped around your shoulders like an anchor to keep you from standing up and leaving.
On the last of October Don Santiago de los Santos, popularly known as Capitan Tiago, gave a dinner. In spite of the fact that, contrary to his usual custom, he had made the announcement only that afternoon, it was already the sole topic of conversation in Binondo and adjacent districts, and even in the Walled City, for at that time Capitan Tiago was considered one of the most hospitable of men, and it was well known that his house, like his country, shut its doors against nothing except commerce and all new or bold ideas. Like an electric shock the announcement ran through the world of parasites, bores, and hangers-on, whom God in His infinite bounty creates and so kindly multiplies in Manila. Some looked at once for shoe-polish, others for buttons and cravats, but all were especially concerned about how to greet the master of the house in the most familiar tone, in order to create an atmosphere of ancient friendship or, if occasion should arise, to excuse a late arrival…
You hear someone call your name faintly, and you snap the book shut. The Doctor. You close your eyes, hoping that if you ignore him and stay quiet you won’t be seen, but your hopes are dashed when you hear someone settle beside you in the too big armchair.
“Noli Me Tangere?” you hear him say, and his voice washes over you like a wave of calm. His voice is softer and more gentle than you expected, and you nod, your eyes still closed. “Fantastic book. Great subject matter. It’s a shame the author was killed because of it and its sequel.”
You stay silent, not really knowing what to say, and you hear him sigh.
“I know, it’s been hard for you to trust me.” You feel him shift slightly, trying to make more contact with your skin, and his shoulder brushes against your own. “This always happens when I regenerate. I’m new, and my companions never seem to be able to trust me.”
“You’re not new, you’re old,” you shoot back, and that grants you a chuckle. By now you’ve had your head on the Doctor’s chest for a while, your eyes still closed, feeling his double heartbeat through his skin.
“I’m sorry,” he says, no more than a whisper. And all you can manage is a small “uh-huh” because whoa, this is probably the most soothing thing you’ve experienced in a while. Of course it registers, and you’re flabbergasted that the Doctor apologized. This Doctor, apologizing? Must be the end of the world.
You hear him say your name and you resist cracking an eye open to just see his face, look him in the eyes, but you’re tired.
“You know, when I first saw you, after I regenerated, I couldn’t believe it.” He moves again, just slightly, and he has an arm over your shoulders. “I saw my eye on your face, and I couldn’t believe it.”
“It was just your color, Doctor,” you whisper. “That’s how it works. I’m still your soulmate. I’ve had all your colors.”
There’s a silence that falls after you say that. Maybe it was a wrong choice? Maybe you shouldn’t have done that? You know he always would get flustered when you reminded him that you’ve had all his colors, all thirteen of them, but was this incarnation the same?
He speaks up. “I know that.” His accent is thicker somehow. Maybe he’s feeling sick. No that’s ridiculous, Time Lords don’t get sick.
What is he saying?
“I just hope you can trust me one day,” the Doctor says, and you can feel him move his hand to the top of your head. He starts to move his hands through your hair, just like he used to before and – oh no. You could feel tears well up behind your closed eyes.
"Silly Doctor, of course I trust you.” You’re absolutely certain you feel his hearts do a funny little thing. “You’re my soulmate. And I’m sorry too.”
You can only hear the crackling of the fireplace.
“Maybe it’s the eyebrows…”
“Oh, just shut up and go to sleep.”