RPF > Matt/Karen > Safety in Numbers
(the prompt for this fic was a picture of Karen on the bus tour watching "Doctor Who" on her laptop.)
She’s running up a never-ending hill, expectations chasing her, ghosts of those who have come before both a barrier and evanescence that falls into her mouth when she tries to scream for notice, for help -- it tangles around her vocal cords, strangles and mutes her, and they become puppeteer and marionette.
They are her constant companions; she sees them in the steam of her shower or looking back at her in the mirror. They encroach on her, blackness that seeps into her soul, and she’s drowning in quicksand, desperately wanting to give up -- but something keeps her head above oblivion, wading her through every day.
They are in every line she reads as Amy, every step she takes around the TARDIS set. Every laugh is weighted by the burden she carries; they are deep and throaty, so opposite the rest of her light, effervescent personality.
But in truth, she doesn’t know who’s haunting who -- when she got the call that she’d been cast, she was aware of the adoration of previous companions -- those that had set the bar so high. She bought each series since the reboot on DVD, and watched. Watched what had come before, watched how the series kept building on itself -- the highest tower, and now she was teetering at the top, preparing to fall into a net of nothingness.
She watches even after she starts her own filming, and it feels like they mock her. Another ginger girl? Trying to be sexy? On Doctor Who? Blasphemy.
She keeps running up that hill -- through that hell -- even as they start promoting the series. She takes herself away from the rest of the crew, terrified her demons will jump from her to them, and then they’ll all be uselessly dancing among flames hissing are you good enough? Should you be here?
She’s watching “Journey’s End” for the hundredth time on her laptop during the bus tour, watching Billie, Freema, Elisabeth, John and Catherine -- the sails tied to the Doctor Who ship, who help keep things running, and of course she’s crying when they’re in Norway; sobbing when the DoctorDonna is no more.
And of course, in an turn of events so obviously associated with Davies, Matt finds her, damaged goods curled up in self-preservation, tears navigating the plane of her freckled face.
He kneels beside her, terror in his eyes, as though he were the cause of her problems. She’d never tell him, but he is, in a very small way; he’s so good, so at ease being the Doctor that it makes her wonder if she’ll ever be worthy of acting with him.
She doesn’t pause the episode, nor does she take her earphones out. She just looks at him, wide-eyed and vulnerable and still running, forever running.
He glances at her screen and sighs, dropping his chin to his chest. Her entire body clenches in interminable emotion as she watches him work through why she’s so upset.
He covers her hands on the laptop and eases it out of her grasp. The earphones follow, and then she’s open to him, still silently crying -- for all this must be done in secret, or it will be her undoing -- and she can’t breathe, her chest is too tight, and she’s gasping, fighting against the running and the altitude…
And then he cradles her face and kisses her gently. So, so gently; a feather-light promise that if she shatters, he’ll be there to pick up the pieces. A soft reminder that she’s not in this alone; that if she can’t run, he’ll carry her. A delicate assurance that he’ll hold the torch to light the dark corners of her mind; that the two of them are a team, and he’ll take a shift of ghost hunting now and again so she can get some rest.
She rests her forehead against his, but doesn’t speak, because this time it’s not evanescence or expectation that mutes her; it’s gratitude, and it’s so foreign that it’s a contextual minefield, and one she doesn’t know how to navigate.
He brushes her hair behind her ears and kisses her forehead before rising to his full height. She wants him to stay, wants him to know she appreciates safety in numbers, especially when that number is him.
But he doesn’t leave. Instead, he finds and open spot on the long section of seating she’d declared her own, and hoists himself up and over. She feels his right hand cup under her waist, turn her on her right side, and scoot her closer to the edge. She complies, only because she trusts him -- an inexplicability she knows as well as the ghosts that chase her, but one she’s not afraid of -- and then he’s behind her, not lanky, uncoordinated, inexplicably-breaks-things-he’s-ten-feet away-from Matt she takes the mickey out of, but wonderful, gentle, patient Matt she saw with Caitlin. His left arm snakes around to the front of her, and she catches his left hand with her own, kissing his knuckles in thanks.
He whispers in her ear, protective but firm. “Don’t you ever doubt how brilliant you are.”
She has to go for the banter; it’s the only life preserver she has as she drowns. “Well, opposite you, a tortoise could be brilliant.”
He pulls her tighter against him in fervor; his words are forced through gritted teeth as he raises her from the quicksand; pulls her to shore not because he has to, but because she deserves it. “Karen. They chose you. I chose you. You’re here because you are the best. And God help you if you ever forget that.”
She swallows around blocks of uncertainty -- and surprisingly, hope. “Why’s that?”
“Because I will then be forced to remind you. Every day. Possibly with a song. And choreography. And a fog machine.”
When she laughs, it’s unnerving; it’s a sound she hasn’t made in quite a long time. She keeps tight hold of his hands and says, so quietly there’s a great possibility her words will be crushed beneath the rotation of the bus’ wheels, “You ever worry?”
He kisses her cheek, and it warms her; lights a path out of the dark forest she’d been running through since casting. “Every bloody day.”
She sighs, and the weight of the exhale pushes the ghosts and demons back just enough to let her finally, fully catch her breath. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He chuckles, causing strands of her hair to dance. “You never asked.”
She shakes her head, and then a thought steamrolls through the ones that have been on repeat for so long. “Am I keeping you from something?”
He laughs again, more throatily this time. “Yes, because there’s so much to do on a 600 mile trip home.” He kisses her again, behind her ear this time, and the shiver that sprints up her spine is not unwelcome in the least; she finally feels partially alive again. His next words complete the transition. “I’d much rather be back here with you.”
Boldness has apparently come with rescue. “Might’ve bet you’d prefer your own seat.”
He tightens his hold on her and for all her confusion, all her worries, this is one thing she understands implicitly: he’s not going anywhere, and she doesn’t have to run anymore.
They lie like that for minutes, hours -- she doesn’t know, nor does she care. She thinks he’s fallen asleep behind her, and she’s got a wicked crick in her neck from laying on her folded arm for so long, so she moves slowly, reaching down for the laptop.
Her fingers are barely brushing the top when his hand comes out of nowhere and stills her movement. “And what exactly are we doing?”
We, like there’s a two-headed, four-armed, four-legged “MazKaz” monster.
Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if there were. A united front. No secrets. Support -- physical and mental -- whenever needed.
It’s a great idea, one she’ll have to work on later.
She looks over her shoulder and puts aside his adorable sleepiness for future recall -- one step at a time; she needs to deal with her own insecurities before acting on the impulses charging through her like lightning -- and replies, “We’re“ (he smiles at this) “getting a movie.”
He relaxes against the back of the seats and runs a hand through his hair so it’s sticking every which way, and she has to fiddle with the volume adjustment thirty-eight times so she doesn’t give in and run her hands through it.
They’re silent the rest of the ride back to Cardiff, save for a hug as they prepare to go their separate ways. He kisses the top of her head and whispers, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
It’s a promise as tangible as her ghosts had been -- probably would be, too, while she worked on the show. But instead of it being a burden -- instead of running away from it -- she decided to try and see it as a blessing; a useful tool of what worked and what didn’t.
Something to make her good, not remind her how bad she could be.
And if she faltered, she’d have Matt there to keep her from falling -- failing -- completely.
When she turns away from him, it’s with a full heart, functioning lungs, and a spring in her step -- one that refuses to run any more.
She’s running up a never-ending hill, expectations chasing her, ghosts of those who have come before both a barrier and evanescence that falls into her mouth when she tries to scream for notice, for help -- it tangles around her vocal cords, strangles and mutes her, and they become puppeteer and marionette.
They are her constant companions; she sees them in the steam of her shower or looking back at her in the mirror. They encroach on her, blackness that seeps into her soul, and she’s drowning in quicksand, desperately wanting to give up -- but something keeps her head above oblivion, wading her through every day.
They are in every line she reads as Amy, every step she takes around the TARDIS set. Every laugh is weighted by the burden she carries; they are deep and throaty, so opposite the rest of her light, effervescent personality.
But in truth, she doesn’t know who’s haunting who -- when she got the call that she’d been cast, she was aware of the adoration of previous companions -- those that had set the bar so high. She bought each series since the reboot on DVD, and watched. Watched what had come before, watched how the series kept building on itself -- the highest tower, and now she was teetering at the top, preparing to fall into a net of nothingness.
She watches even after she starts her own filming, and it feels like they mock her. Another ginger girl? Trying to be sexy? On Doctor Who? Blasphemy.
She keeps running up that hill -- through that hell -- even as they start promoting the series. She takes herself away from the rest of the crew, terrified her demons will jump from her to them, and then they’ll all be uselessly dancing among flames hissing are you good enough? Should you be here?
She’s watching “Journey’s End” for the hundredth time on her laptop during the bus tour, watching Billie, Freema, Elisabeth, John and Catherine -- the sails tied to the Doctor Who ship, who help keep things running, and of course she’s crying when they’re in Norway; sobbing when the DoctorDonna is no more.
And of course, in an turn of events so obviously associated with Davies, Matt finds her, damaged goods curled up in self-preservation, tears navigating the plane of her freckled face.
He kneels beside her, terror in his eyes, as though he were the cause of her problems. She’d never tell him, but he is, in a very small way; he’s so good, so at ease being the Doctor that it makes her wonder if she’ll ever be worthy of acting with him.
She doesn’t pause the episode, nor does she take her earphones out. She just looks at him, wide-eyed and vulnerable and still running, forever running.
He glances at her screen and sighs, dropping his chin to his chest. Her entire body clenches in interminable emotion as she watches him work through why she’s so upset.
He covers her hands on the laptop and eases it out of her grasp. The earphones follow, and then she’s open to him, still silently crying -- for all this must be done in secret, or it will be her undoing -- and she can’t breathe, her chest is too tight, and she’s gasping, fighting against the running and the altitude…
And then he cradles her face and kisses her gently. So, so gently; a feather-light promise that if she shatters, he’ll be there to pick up the pieces. A soft reminder that she’s not in this alone; that if she can’t run, he’ll carry her. A delicate assurance that he’ll hold the torch to light the dark corners of her mind; that the two of them are a team, and he’ll take a shift of ghost hunting now and again so she can get some rest.
She rests her forehead against his, but doesn’t speak, because this time it’s not evanescence or expectation that mutes her; it’s gratitude, and it’s so foreign that it’s a contextual minefield, and one she doesn’t know how to navigate.
He brushes her hair behind her ears and kisses her forehead before rising to his full height. She wants him to stay, wants him to know she appreciates safety in numbers, especially when that number is him.
But he doesn’t leave. Instead, he finds and open spot on the long section of seating she’d declared her own, and hoists himself up and over. She feels his right hand cup under her waist, turn her on her right side, and scoot her closer to the edge. She complies, only because she trusts him -- an inexplicability she knows as well as the ghosts that chase her, but one she’s not afraid of -- and then he’s behind her, not lanky, uncoordinated, inexplicably-breaks-things-he’s-ten-feet away-from Matt she takes the mickey out of, but wonderful, gentle, patient Matt she saw with Caitlin. His left arm snakes around to the front of her, and she catches his left hand with her own, kissing his knuckles in thanks.
He whispers in her ear, protective but firm. “Don’t you ever doubt how brilliant you are.”
She has to go for the banter; it’s the only life preserver she has as she drowns. “Well, opposite you, a tortoise could be brilliant.”
He pulls her tighter against him in fervor; his words are forced through gritted teeth as he raises her from the quicksand; pulls her to shore not because he has to, but because she deserves it. “Karen. They chose you. I chose you. You’re here because you are the best. And God help you if you ever forget that.”
She swallows around blocks of uncertainty -- and surprisingly, hope. “Why’s that?”
“Because I will then be forced to remind you. Every day. Possibly with a song. And choreography. And a fog machine.”
When she laughs, it’s unnerving; it’s a sound she hasn’t made in quite a long time. She keeps tight hold of his hands and says, so quietly there’s a great possibility her words will be crushed beneath the rotation of the bus’ wheels, “You ever worry?”
He kisses her cheek, and it warms her; lights a path out of the dark forest she’d been running through since casting. “Every bloody day.”
She sighs, and the weight of the exhale pushes the ghosts and demons back just enough to let her finally, fully catch her breath. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He chuckles, causing strands of her hair to dance. “You never asked.”
She shakes her head, and then a thought steamrolls through the ones that have been on repeat for so long. “Am I keeping you from something?”
He laughs again, more throatily this time. “Yes, because there’s so much to do on a 600 mile trip home.” He kisses her again, behind her ear this time, and the shiver that sprints up her spine is not unwelcome in the least; she finally feels partially alive again. His next words complete the transition. “I’d much rather be back here with you.”
Boldness has apparently come with rescue. “Might’ve bet you’d prefer your own seat.”
He tightens his hold on her and for all her confusion, all her worries, this is one thing she understands implicitly: he’s not going anywhere, and she doesn’t have to run anymore.
They lie like that for minutes, hours -- she doesn’t know, nor does she care. She thinks he’s fallen asleep behind her, and she’s got a wicked crick in her neck from laying on her folded arm for so long, so she moves slowly, reaching down for the laptop.
Her fingers are barely brushing the top when his hand comes out of nowhere and stills her movement. “And what exactly are we doing?”
We, like there’s a two-headed, four-armed, four-legged “MazKaz” monster.
Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if there were. A united front. No secrets. Support -- physical and mental -- whenever needed.
It’s a great idea, one she’ll have to work on later.
She looks over her shoulder and puts aside his adorable sleepiness for future recall -- one step at a time; she needs to deal with her own insecurities before acting on the impulses charging through her like lightning -- and replies, “We’re“ (he smiles at this) “getting a movie.”
He relaxes against the back of the seats and runs a hand through his hair so it’s sticking every which way, and she has to fiddle with the volume adjustment thirty-eight times so she doesn’t give in and run her hands through it.
They’re silent the rest of the ride back to Cardiff, save for a hug as they prepare to go their separate ways. He kisses the top of her head and whispers, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
It’s a promise as tangible as her ghosts had been -- probably would be, too, while she worked on the show. But instead of it being a burden -- instead of running away from it -- she decided to try and see it as a blessing; a useful tool of what worked and what didn’t.
Something to make her good, not remind her how bad she could be.
And if she faltered, she’d have Matt there to keep her from falling -- failing -- completely.
When she turns away from him, it’s with a full heart, functioning lungs, and a spring in her step -- one that refuses to run any more.