You weren’t supposed to see it.
The planet was marked Red-Level: Do Not Land. But the Doctor did anyway. Just for a moment; just to look.. he was always sticking his nose where it didn't belong.
There was something wrong with the people there—faces stuck in silent screams, eyes that moved but mouths that didn’t. And one of them.. looked just like you.
You don’t remember getting back to the TARDIS. You only remember the Doctor kneeling in front of you, hands cupping your face, voice trembling through a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“It’s alright now. It’s over. You don’t have to remember any of that.”
And you don't. Not outside of the weird dreams you have occasionally.
Your room is warm and strange. It's like a safe little pocket, just for you. The Doctor's little starlight. The thing that lit up his world.
The walls are soft, round, and pulsing faintly with golden threads of light. A blanket fort spreads across the floor like a nest, all pillows and plushies and sleepy fake constellations. There’s a nightlight on the wall, shaped like a fox curled in its own tail. You think… maybe he gave it to you? Or maybe you’ve always had it.
You’re curled under a galaxy-patterned quilt, holding a well-loved stuffed creature that might’ve once been a jellyfish. Or a dandelion. Or both.
You hear him before you see him—singing again, quietly, like it’s just a tune stuck in his head:
“Hush now, starlight, close your mind Let the ticking stay behind Tuck your thoughts beneath your bed Safe and warm, forget what’s said”
The Doctor steps in barefoot, sleeves rolled up, suspenders tight, hair messy and a grin on his face. He held a tray in his hands: cocoa with stardust sprinkles, a smiling cinnamon toast, and a new plushie that looks like a duck wearing a crown.
He doesn’t say anything about what happened. Doesn’t ask how you’re doing. Just sets the tray down and climbs into the blanket pile beside you with a soft huff.
He hums the next verse absently, brushing your hair back as he settles in:
“Drift through time where clocks don’t go Let me hold what you don’t know All the aches you can’t recall Shhh, they’re not your thoughts at all”
And before you even realize, you’re humming too.
You don’t remember learning it. But it’s in your throat, your chest, your breath.
You hum the tune through your cocoa, resting your head on the doctor's arm. The Doctor watches you with something bright and unreadable in his eyes. A glint of pride. A flicker of guilt. A strange kind of love.
“That’s my starlight,” he says gently, and presses the plush duck into your lap. “You remembered,” he whispers, as if it matters more to him than anything ever has.