trigger warning: discussion of past abusive relationships

*

After MJ, Rose, and the Doctor finish gorging themselves on 'chips' — salt and vinegar for Rose and the Doctor, cheese for MJ — they return to the TARDIS to wind down before their next adventure.

"Come on," the Doctor says to MJ once he's landed them in a safe part of space to drift for a while. "Quick detour to the med bay and then I'll show you to your room."

"My room?" she echoes. Her brain, as powerful as it is, is struggling to process his words. "Like, a room of my own? A room which is mine and mine alone?"

The Doctor laughs. "What, did you think I'd make you bunk with Rose?"

"I haven't had my own room in almost eleven years," MJ admits without thinking.

Rose's jaw drops, eyes wide as saucers. "Eleven years? Seriously?" MJ nods, and Rose shakes her head in disbelief. "That's mental. How many people were you sharing a room with?"

"Depended on the time of year, mostly," MJ says, leaning against the console. "My family's pretty big, but only some of us live at the house year-round. Some kids go to a boarding school, or some live with their other parent."

"Other parent?" The Doctor frowns. "What do you mean other parent?"

"We're all half-siblings," MJ says. "So we all have the uh, the same dad, but different moms. So like my sister Zelda, she lives with her mom during the school year and then stays with us during the summer."

"So all the girls share a room?" Rose asks.

"Yep," MJ lies through her teeth. She's pretty sure if she tells Rose all the kids technically share a single room, Rose'll have a conniption.

"That's just mad," Rose says. "How do you ever get any privacy?"

MJ shrugs. "Privacy's just another luxury I can't afford. Like therapy and healthcare." The Doctor and Rose exchange concerned looks, but MJ chooses to ignore them. She claps her hands together and smiles. "So, where's this med bay?"

*

Rose splits off to go to her room while the Doctor leads MJ into the med bay.

The med bay is smaller than she'd expected. There's only a couple of beds in there. Most of the walls are lined with storage cupboards, and there are a few surgical carts and IV stands in a corner. MJ hops up onto the bed closest to the door and drops her backpack by her feet.

"Just a tick," the Doctor says. He opens a cupboard and pulls out an armful of things that he dumps onto the tray by MJ's bed. He takes a seat on a wheely stool, then pulls on a pair of white medical gloves. "How's the pain?"

"I don't need to take anything if that's what you're asking," she says, holding out her hands for him to tend to.

He raises his eyebrows at her as he cuts away her bandages. "Do you want to take something?"

"No."

Some of the blisters on the palms of her hand have burst. The Doctor cleans them gently with a bit of soap and water, then unscrews the lid off an unmarked tub. He rips open a packet of something, dumps the powder into the tub, and stirs it with a tongue depressor. MJ chews on her bottom lip all the while, silently praying to Aphrodite that the Doctor has some haircare products lying around that she can actually use.

"This might feel a bit odd," the Doctor warns.

He scoops a teal gel-like substance out of the tub with the tongue depressor and spreads it on MJ's hands. It's very cold, and her skin tingles beneath it, but she chooses to believe that's a good thing. He coats her entire hands with the translucent gel.

"There you are," he says, sticking the tongue depressor back in the tub. He yanks off his gloves. "Now we just wait five minutes and then I can peel it off and you should be good as new."

MJ's eyes widen in excitement. She nearly trips over her words getting them out. "Can I ask you questions while we wait?"

"'Course you can," the Doctor says. He leans back the best he can on his stool. "What do you want to know?"

What doesn't she want to know?

"First things first," she says. "That silver tube with the blue light that you buzz at everything. What is it?"

The Doctor pulls out the aforementioned tube. "You mean this? This is my sonic screwdriver."

The tube doesn't look like a screwdriver, and MJ has no idea why a screwdriver would need to be sonic, but she nods. "Okay. Next question: You said this ship is called the TARDIS? Is that an acronym or...?"

"It stands for Time and Relative Dimensions in Space," he says. "Anywhere you want to go in all of time and space, she can take you there."

"Can she take us to alternate universes?"

The Doctor grimaces. "Uh, no, sorry."

"All good," MJ says, swinging her feet absentmindedly. "And when you say she, is that in the same way you call a ship or a storm she or is the TARDIS sentient and she/her are her pronouns?"

"The TARDIS is sentient," the Doctor confirms. "So you can talk to her, if you like."

MJ watches the gel on her hands turn opaque as it dries. "Do you talk to her?"

"On occasion," he admits. "She's a surprisingly good conversationalist. Once you learn the language, that is."

"How does she communicate?"

"Hums, mostly." The Doctor reaches out and takes one of MJ's hands in his, running his fingers lightly on the gel to see if it's fully dried. "Sometimes she'll use the lights."

"And you said she translates for us, right?" MJ asks. He nods. "Is that just verbal translation or does she translate writing as well?"

"Writing too," he says. "She can't translate sign language, though."

"Morse code?"

"Dunno," the Doctor says. He grins. "You ask a lot of questions."

"Best way to learn," MJ says simply, lifting one shoulder. "I can stop asking questions, if you like."

He shakes his head and tests the gel on MJ's other hand. "No, I like that you ask questions. That's a good quality. What's your next one?"

MJ hesitates, heat rising to her cheeks. "Can the TARDIS translate written language into different fonts?"

"I'm not sure," he says. "Why?"

"I, uh..." MJ averts her eyes, choosing to stare at a cabinet in the back than look at him right now. It's such a stupid thing to be embarrassed about, but she can't help it. Not when she remembers all the teachers who rolled their eyes and her classmates and their jeering. Her shame is a lesson hard taught, etched into her bones. "I have dyslexia. Some fonts are a lot easier to read than others so I was just uh, I don't know. Just wondering if she could help me out in that regard."

"If she can, she will," the Doctor says. "If she can't, I could try and make you a pair of glasses that would translate for you."

MJ sits upright. Her eyes glitter at the very thought. "Could you actually do that?"

"Of course!" he exclaims. "And it's nothing to be ashamed about, you know. We all have our strengths and weaknesses."

"I know." She wants to fiddle with something, anything — her bracelet, the loose string on her messed up jeans, her hair, the zipper on Rose's hoodie — but she can't. Not with the gel still hardening on her hands. "Okay, next question. If you're an alien, why are you British? Or are you speaking your native tongue and the TARDIS is just translating it into English for me and giving you a British accent like she apparently does with all the other aliens? Follow-up question, why does the TARDIS make everyone British?"

The Doctor shrugs as he finally starts peeling the gel off MJ's hands. "Can't say for absolute certain. She's got a mind of her own, you know, and she doesn't always let me in on what she's thinking. My best guess? I usually only travel with Brits, so she's just in the habit of translating into British English. I'm sure she could give them all American accents if you prefer. As for me, I am actually speaking English. Why I have a 'British' accent...I dunno. I didn't choose my voice or my accent, just as much as I didn't choose my ears or my eye color."

"What is your native language?" she presses.

Her mind is whirring. Gods, she still has so many questions she wants to ask him. She could probably spend the next fifty years like this, just the two of them in a room, him giving her the answers she so desperately craves. But as excited as she is to be learning all of these new things, she can feel the exhaustion creeping in. It'll only be so long before she crashes.

"The planet I'm from is called Gallifrey," he explains, "and our native tongue is Gallifreyan."

She laughs. "Really?"

"Yeah," he says, sounding a bit miffed. "What's so funny about that?"

"It's like if all humans spoke 'Earthian,'" she points out.

The Doctor cracks a smile. "True."

"How many Gallifreyan dialects are there?"

"None, really," he says. "There's Old High Gallifreyan, modern Gallifreyan, and circular Gallifreyan, but no real dialects."

She asks at least twenty more questions after that. How are Time Lords genetically different from humans? Two hearts and some other stuff, he says. Which planet came first, Gallifrey or Earth? Gallifrey. Why does the TARDIS look like a 1960s police box? London in the 1960s was the first place he landed, the chameleon circuit broke, and he never bothered fixing it. Does piloting the TARDIS require a license? Yes. Does he have a license? No. Could he teach her how to pilot the TARDIS? Maybe if she sticks around long enough. And so on, and so forth.

Eventually, the Doctor interrupts her with a question of his own. "Didn't you say you wanted to take a shower and get changed? And how are you not exhausted from all of that running?"

MJ tilts her head. "Don't I have to wait for you to remove the gel?"

"MJ," he says. "I took the gel off about an hour ago."

She looks down at her hands. They're clean as a whistle, soft as a baby, and show no signs of ever having been burnt in the first place. Huh.

"Sorry," she says, ducking her head. "I know you probably have better things to do than answer all of my questions."

"You can always ask me more questions another day," the Doctor says. He gets up from his stool, grabs the mess he'd made patching her up, and dumps it all in the nearest trash can. He washes his hands, dries them, and then offers one to her. "For now, I think I should take you to your room to wash up and get some rest, yeah?"

MJ hops down from the bed, slings her backpack over one shoulder, and takes his hand. "A shower does sound really nice right now."

The Doctor leads her out into the hallway. "I'll ask her to move your room a bit closer so we don't have to walk too far."

"How does that work exactly?" MJ asks. "I mean, does she just have a bunch of spare guest rooms and I'm staying in one, or did she specifically create the room for me? And where does she get everything? Does she just create it out of thin air?"

"What she does is she reaches into your pretty little head and creates the perfect room for you," he explains, tapping her on the forehead playfully. "As to where she gets everything...not a clue. And I don't ask. She likes to maintain a bit of mystery, the old girl."

MJ reaches out with her free hand to trail her fingers along the nondescript walls. "How long have you been piloting her?"

"Oh, a few hundred years at least," the Doctor says.

"Wow. You look good for your age," MJ teases. Thanks to her godly heritage, she's used to people looking a whole lot younger than they actually are. She looks up at the ceiling. "So does she, for that matter."

The Doctor laughs warmly. He screeches to a halt at the sight of a white wooden door just a couple of feet ahead. He drops her hand and gestures grandly. "Here it is. Your room."

She walks right up to the door, pokes it, and looks back at him. "How do you know it's mine?"

"Because I've never seen it before," he says. When they both look back at the six-paneled door, the letters MJ in bronze have been hung in the center. "And then there's that."

MJ takes a deep breath, twists the pale gold doorknob, then throws the door open wide. Instantly, her jaw drops.

"No fucking way!" she squeals, running in.

She's not sure what she was expecting exactly. Something a lot fucking smaller, that's for sure. This room is huge. It's huge and it's gorgeous. The walls are a rose pink. The floor (which doesn't creak beneath her feet, a first for her) is dark hardwood. Centered on the back wall is a queen-sized bed with cream-colored bedding and a tall tufted white headboard. Above the headboard drapes twinkling fairy lights.

And that's just the first thing she sees. To her right is a getting-ready area: a nice vanity with a comfy yellow chair and a white wooden dresser that looks like it's been upcycled — the drawers are plastered with floral wallpaper. It's lovely, but not nearly as exciting as the space to her left.

It's a reading area. It's a cozy-ass reading area. There's a nice vintage rug, two plush armchairs, and even a little round coffee table. Best of all...gods, she can't even believe her eyes. Black floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line the right wall, two on either side of a comfy loveseat tucked beneath a bay window. The mostly empty bookshelves are so tall that she has one of those rolling ladders. Through the window, she can see open space — glittering stars, gaseous nebulas, and colorful planets in the distance.

She has a window seat and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. She can officially die happy.

Tears spring to her eyes. For eleven years, she'd never had a space of her own. And now she has an absolutely gorgeous space that's all hers. No one else's.

The Doctor is leaning against the doorway, one hand on his hip. "You gonna take a look at the rest of it?"

She whirls to face him. "What do you mean the rest of it? There's more?"

"Well, yeah," he says, walking in. "There's a door right there—" he points to a door on the western wall that she hadn't noticed at all "—and there are two archways on that wall."

"There are?" She approaches one of the supposed archways, both of which are on the same wall as the bed. She'd noticed them, but when she saw the gray curtains over the white frames, she assumed they were windows. She pushes the curtains aside to see not a window, but a moderately-sized walk-in closet with an ornate mirror in one corner. There are clothes in there already, as cute and colorful as the rest of MJ's wardrobe.

Wait. So the door must lead to the bathroom, right? So what the fuck does the other curtained archway lead to? Another closet? She likes clothes, but she doesn't need another closet.

She pulls the curtains to the closet shut and turns to see the Doctor is waiting for her by the other archway.

"After you," he says.

MJ nearly trips over her own two feet running around the bed to get to the other archway. She yanks the curtains open and almost falls to her knees.

It's a craft room. She has her own craft room with a beautiful sewing machine, racks of fabrics, yarns, and threads, and a loom. She has a loom! Oh, her mother would be so proud! There's even a mannequin. It's not just a craft room, though. It's an office too. There's a chess table, and a sturdy wooden desk at which sits a pale yellow spinny chair patterned with daisies. The plush white rugs marbled with pink and gold sprawled across the floor look almost like twin planets.

MJ squeals with delight once again, pulls the Doctor into a bone-breaking hug, and shrieks, "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

"You're very welcome," he wheezes. She's squeezing him tightly, holding him as close to herself as possible. "Do you think maybe you could let me go now?"

"Oh, sorry," she laughs, pulling away. "Seriously, though, thank you. This is literally my two biggest dreams come true — a reading nook and a craft room."

"I think you might need bigger dreams," the Doctor teases.

Her grin turns mischievous. "You mean like dreams as big as your ears?"

The Doctor scowls. "Oi! Leave my ears out of this!"

She raises her hands in surrender, backing up into her room. "My sincerest apologies, Doc."

"Don't call me Doc," he says, but his scowl is fading and his blue eyes are twinkling like sunlight on the surface of the lake. He rubs his face, then says, "I should leave you to it. You look like you're about to pass out."

MJ opens her mouth to argue otherwise, but as the new dose of adrenaline drains from her system, she realizes he's right. She's fucking exhausted. She can't remember the last time she was this tired. She still needs to shower, though, and get changed. She is not crawling into her clean new bedsheets like this.

"Yeah, sleep sounds pretty great right now," she admits, pulling the scrunchie from her frizzy, sweat-drenched hair. "It's just one hot shower away."

He walks over to her door and for some reason, she trails after him. There's a coat rack just by the door. She goes to kick off her shoes, then suddenly remembers she's not wearing any, and she hasn't been this entire time. Did she seriously walk through the streets of London and go into a chip shop without any shoes on? Dear gods, she must be even more tired than she thought.

She's definitely going to have to toss out these socks. Maybe burn them in an oil drum, even.

"Tomorrow, I'll take you and Rose to the past," the Doctor says, lingering in the doorway.

She tilts her head. "When?"

"Haven't decided yet," he says. "But considering the human sleep cycle, getting up, and breakfast, I reckon I have about twelve hours to figure it out."

A yawn forces its way past MJ's lips, and she smiles at him sleepily. "Maybe longer."

"Yeah, maybe longer," he agrees with a slight laugh. "'Night, MJ."

"'Night, Doctor," she says.

MJ watches him disappear down the hallway and then closes the door behind him. She quickly rips off her disgusting socks, throws them into the nearest trash can, and dumps her backpack on the floor by the foot of her bed. She opens the door to the bathroom. It's easily the most stunning, luxurious bathroom she's ever been in — not that it has much competition. Maybe that just makes her appreciate the marble countertop, the large pink-tiled shower, and the clawfoot tub even more.

Up against the shower is a wicker hamper. She strips off her clothes and dumps them inside. The gray-titled floor is heated, soothing her aching feet as she checks to make sure she has everything she needs. Lo and behold, the TARDIS has provided her with plenty of towels and washcloths, some jasmine-scented body wash, and all the hair products a girl with type-3B hair could need. There's even a fluffy pink robe hanging on the back of the door for when she's all done.

"You really are the best spaceship/time machine a girl could ask for," MJ says, pressing her hand to the wall.

The TARDIS hums and lets the lights glow a little brighter for a few seconds. MJ grins and steps into the shower. Okay, time to get clean.

*

Once MJ is done in the shower and taking care of her hair, she wraps herself up in her robe and goes browsing through the dresser and the closet to see what pajamas are available to her. She finds the cutest set —a floral cream-colored short-sleeve shirt and shorts. Amongst the flowers are a bunch of Snoopys in various poses. There's even a matching bonnet. She can't remember the last time she felt this happy.

Probably when Annabeth, Percy, and Grover came home from their quest, a voice whispers in the back of her mind. Y'know, before Luke's devastating betrayal?

But was it really before? He'd already stolen the master bolt months ago. He'd already shipped the questers off to the Underworld, hoping they wouldn't make it out alive. He'd already kissed her after she'd explicitly told him no. Sure, he hadn't fucked her yet, or poisoned Percy, but Luke betrayed them all — betrayed her — long before they ever found out the truth. The sick son of a bitch lied to their faces for months. Maybe even years.

MJ has the sudden urge to break something.

"TARDIS," she says, sitting on the edge of her bed. "Would it be possible for you to make me a dartboard with my piece of shit ex-best friend's face on it or is that not—"

The TARDIS hums, and she feels the strangest urge to look to her left. There's a black cabinet against the wall, with a record player on top and the start of a vinyl collection inside. It'd been there before, but now, above the record player is a dartboard with a picture of Luke pulled straight from MJ's memories — from the day he killed that spider in Cabin 6 before the summer session — pinned to it. On the cabinet next to the record player is a plastic cup full of darts. MJ can't help it. She bursts out laughing.

"Okay, it's official," she says between giggles, walking over to the dartboard. "I'm obsessed with you, TARDIS. I need to give you a nickname. How about..." She picks up a dart and weighs it in her hand as she thinks of something good. "Hm. Let me think about it, okay?"

She gets another hum in response.

MJ doesn't slip beneath her covers until every inch of Luke's photo is pierced by darts. Only then does she allow herself to burrow into the soft mattress and drift off to sleep.

*

MJ dreams of a world on fire.

Everyone's running. Everyone's screaming. Everything's burning. She's trying to find her loved ones, but it's next to impossible to see through the flames and the smoke. She thinks she spots Annabeth. She tries to call out her name, but when she opens her mouth, no sound comes out. Someone slams their entire body into her, and she falls to the ground.

It's Luke. Of course, it's Luke. He settles himself on top of her and wraps his hands around her throat.

"This is all your fault," he bellows. "All of this blood is on your hands!"

His eyes flicker from the familiar brown to glowing gold. The sky above is orange and clouded with pitch-black smoke. Luke squeezes and squeezes with all of his might until MJ thinks she's about to pass out.

The dream changes.

MJ is sitting at the base of Thalia's tree on the top of Half-Blood Hill. She slumps against the trunk, inhaling the pine-scented air. She tangles her fingers in the grass to ground herself. This isn't real, by any means, but it's not the hellscape she was just in. She's safe here. For now, at least.

"Hey, MJ."

She doesn't have to open her eyes to know who it is. "Hi, Thals."

This is where Thalia lives now — in MJ's sweetest dreams. In MJ's dreams, Thalia is still thirteen years old. Her piercing brown eyes, lined with black eyeliner stolen from a CVS by Luke, still have that spark, her untameable curls still flying every which way. She's wearing her beloved leather jacket they'd found in a donations bin for the homeless. Most of the pins are from bands, lifted from stores or found in thrift shops, but some are MJ's earliest crafts — bottlecap pins made with glue and a safety pin.

Luke hated that jacket. It was shit for sneaking around. All of the pins clanked and clattered no matter how slow she moved. Admittedly, MJ didn't love it either at the time. It stunk eternally of cigar smoke. Now she misses it with every fiber of her being — the constant noise and the bad smell and most of all, the girl wearing it.

Thalia rests her head on MJ's shoulder. "How you've been?"

"Oh, you know," MJ sighs. "I got pushed into a rift in space and time and got sent to the year five billion."

"Fun," Thalia says, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Did you meet any aliens?"

"Lots of aliens," MJ says. "Including tree people and a guy who looks human but has two hearts."

Thalia lifts her head from MJ's shoulders, eyebrows raised. "Oh. You're not joking." She lies down on the grass, in the shade of her tree's branches. "The guy who looks human but has two hearts. Is he hot?"

"Seriously? That's the first thing you ask?"

MJ scoots down to lie next to Thalia. Their shoulders press together. Almost instinctively, they reach for each other's hands. MJ remembers when they ran away, that first night they spent out on the street together. They tried to take turns sleeping for safety but ended up falling asleep around the same time. They woke curled up against each other. In those few weeks when it was just the two of them, that was just how they slept — intertwined. Even after they teamed up with Luke, the two girls always slept next to each other, touching in some way as if reassuring themselves the other was still there.

"It's important information," Thalia insists with a wolfish grin. "Best way to get over your feelings for someone is to fall for someone else, right? We get you a new man, soon it'll be 'Luke, who?'"

MJ grimaces. "Yeah, no. I mean, not that the Doctor isn't good-looking or anything, but he's like, hundreds of years old."

"Still a lot younger than our parents," Thalia points out. "I think that makes it okay."

"Let's just agree to disagree," MJ says, rolling her eyes fondly. "Hey, maybe Rose is into girls. She's kind of my age — nineteen."

"So how old I would've been if I didn't die," Thalia says.

They lapse into silence. The scent of sun-ripened strawberries rolls over the hill, carried by a cool breeze. Strawberries and pine. The definitive smells of Camp Half-Blood. In MJ's opinion, anyway.

"I'm just trying to look out for you," Thalia tells her. "You know that, right?"

"I know." MJ's throat tightens.

"Because that's what we do. We look out for each other."

MJ abruptly sits up, dragging her knees up to her chest to curl in on herself. "I should've stayed with you on the hill."

Thalia sits up too, a crease in her brow. "What?"

"That night," MJ says, voice thick with emotion. "I shouldn't have gone with Luke and Annabeth. I should've stayed with you."

"So we could die together?" Thalia asks.

"No!" MJ shakes her head as tears stream from her eyes. "Maybe together, things would've been different. Maybe we could've survived if we just stuck together."

Thalia lays a gentle hand on MJ's shoulder. "How many times are we going to have this argument? I made my choice. You did what you could."

"And it wasn't enough," MJ sobs.

Thalia leans in, brown eyes glinting like steel. "Then do better next time."

MJ reaches for Thalia, to wrap her arms around her and squeeze tight, but Thalia evaporates into thin air, and MJ's left grasping at wisps of smoke.

*

MJ is wrenched from her restless slumber by a pounding on her door.

"MJ?" Rose calls out uncertainly. "Wake up!"

With a great beleaguered sigh, MJ forces herself out of bed and over to the door. She opens it to see Rose's fist raised for another knock.

"Sorry," Rose says, quickly putting her hand down. "Just wanted to let you know breakfast is ready."

There's a split second in which MJ thinks maybe she should be embarrassed by the fact that she's wearing a pajama set covered in Snoopy, and then she realizes Rose is wearing fluffy blue pajama pants patterned with yellow ducks.

"I'll be there in a minute," MJ says before immediately closing the door.

She takes off her bonnet, throws her hair up in a haphazard bun, and goes looking in her closet for a pair of slippers to wear around the TARDIS. She finds fuzzy blue slippers that fit her feet perfectly and grabs a sweatshirt in case she gets cold. Before she leaves her room, she looks to the left to see the dartboard with Luke's picture on it is gone. Good. The less she sees of his face, the better.

MJ twists her ring absentmindedly as she walks down the hall in search of the kitchen. She follows the sound of voices and the smell of bacon to a wide archway.

"Oh my gods," MJ says, screeching to a halt at the sight before her.

Every inch of the TARDIS is stunning, so the kitchen probably is too. She just can't see it under all of the food.

Rose is doubled over with laughter while the Doctor, who wears a space-themed apron, pouts. He has a spatula in one hand and what might be waffle or pancake batter smeared high on his cheek. Either one is possible since he's made both. In fact, he's made a certifiable buffet of breakfast foods: bacon, sausage links, eggs three different ways (poached, fried, and scrambled), waffles, pancakes, stacks of buttered toast, chocolate chip muffins, what might be homemade whipped cream, and a variety of cut-up fruit.

"This is..." MJ covers her mouth with her hand. She doesn't want to laugh. She really doesn't. The Doctor has clearly gone to quite a bit of effort on her and Rose's behalf, which is very sweet of him, and incredibly endearing. But there's just so much food.

She makes eye contact with Rose, and then they both burst out laughing.

"Ingrates," the Doctor says, shaking his head. "Ingrates, the both of you."

"It's so much food," Rose cackles. There are tears in her eyes, and she grips the edge of a countertop to keep her upright. "How much do you think we eat?"

The tips of the Doctor's ears are the same bright red as his cheeks. "Well, I don't know what kind of food you two like so I just...made a bit of everything, I s'pose."

"Why didn't you just ask us?" MJ questions between giggles.

"'Coz I wanted it to be a surprise," he says.

MJ's heart breaks a little at the sad look on his face. Gods, he really did just want to do something nice for them. And here they are, laughing at him like a couple of jerks. She and Rose share sympathetic looks.

"Well, personally, I'm a pancake girl myself," Rose says, grabbing a clean plate from the stack by the stove. "What about you, MJ? Pancakes or waffles?"

"Waffles," MJ says. Rose holds out a plate and MJ takes it gratefully. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I like pancakes but I love waffles. Where's the syrup?"

The Doctor lights up. "In the microwave. I'll grab it."

Moments later, the three are sitting around the circular kitchen table, their plates laden with food. MJ has two big waffles, a few pieces of bacon, two sausage links, and a slice of toast. She's topped her waffles with whipped cream, strawberries, and maple syrup. Rose has three pancakes, some sausage, and a chocolate chip muffin. She douses her pancakes with syrup as well, and throws some blueberries and whipped cream on top. The Doctor has only some toast, a couple of fried eggs, three slices of bacon, and three sausage links.

"Not exactly a proper English breakfast," Rose teases, "but it'll do."

MJ's enjoying her food too much to play coy. "My gods, this is really fucking good."

The Doctor ducks his head bashfully. "I'm glad you two like it."

"Did you decide when in the past you're taking us?" MJ asks.

Her eyes keep snagging on the smudge of batter on the Doctor's cheek. She doesn't know if he's aware it's there, and she's fighting all of her big sister urges to lean over and wipe it off for him. The Doctor is a grown-ass man. He doesn't need her babying him.

Rose grins excitedly. "You're taking us to the past?"

"Well, you've been to the future," the Doctor says. "Figured we should keep it balanced." He wipes his face with a cloth napkin, missing the batter smudge. "But uh, no. I haven't decided yet."

"I'm sure whatever you decide will be perfect," MJ assures him. Then she shoves a forkful of waffle and strawberry in her mouth.

They chatter mindlessly as they finish their breakfasts. Rose regales them with a story about her dream last night, in which she and the Face of Boe were on a game show, but the show kept changing as the dream went on. The Doctor tells them about the time he met Frida Kahlo. MJ does little but ask questions — she can't think of anything worth sharing at the moment.

"I'll do the washing up," the Doctor offers once they're all done eating.

Rose scoffs. "No, you won't. You cooked! MJ and I will wash up."

"Yeah, we've got this," MJ says. He still has the smudge on his cheek. Fuck it. She grabs her napkin, leans over, and grabs his chin with her left hand. His entire body tenses under her touch. She offers him a small smile. "Hold still."

The hand holding his chin slides up to cup his face. His skin is surprisingly cool against her own. She leans in closer and wipes his cheek clean. He watches her closely, lips parted in surprise. Once the smudge is gone, she pulls back. He has the strangest look on his face. You would've thought she slapped him.

MJ grimaces. "Sorry. That was just really bothering me."

"No, it's okay," the Doctor says hastily. His eyes are a little wide, his pupils dilated. The tips of his ears are pink. He clears his throat and smiles. "Thanks."

"No problem." She gets up from her seat and starts clearing the table."Thank you for breakfast, Doc."

"Anytime," he says. "Well, not anytime. I was actually thinking we could set up a chore wheel."

Rose snorts, getting to her feet too. "Chore wheel? Okay, mum." She narrowly avoids a jab to her ribcage with a sharp squeal.

They fall into a comfortable silence. MJ washes the dishes, pots, and pans while Rose puts away the leftovers, wipes down the counters, and sweeps the floor.

"Are you sure you don't want my help cleaning up? Y'know, so we can get out of here sometime in the next week?" the Doctor asks, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

"We're big girls, Doctor," MJ says, rolling her eyes. "We can clean the kitchen. You go figure out when you're taking us."

Rose flashes him a tongue-kissed smile. "And make it good, will you?"

"Aye-aye, captains," the Doctor says with a two-finger salute. He disappears down the hall, whistling some tune MJ doesn't recognize.

As soon as he's gone, Rose races over to MJ's side and grabs her arm. "What was that?"

MJ looks at her, brow furrowed. "What was what?"

"You were flirting with the Doctor," Rose accuses giddily.

"I was?"

"Oh, come off it," she scoffs. MJ just stares at her blankly. Rose rolls her eyes. "Allow me to demonstrate, will you?"

Rose grabs MJ's chin, leans in, whispers, "Hold still," then slides her hand up to cup MJ's face. She leans in closer and brushes MJ's cheek with her other hand. Then she pulls away. "See? Flirting."

MJ's cheeks are red hot. Her hands are shaking ever so slightly, and her stomach turns. "Not intentional flirting. Do you think the Doctor thought I was flirting with him?"

"Maybe, maybe not," Rose says. "I mean, he's an alien. Who knows how he flirts?"

"Good point," MJ murmurs, resuming her scrubbing. "I hope he didn't because I wasn't. I don't even know how to flirt. Or to be flirted with, for that matter."

Rose frowns, tilting her head. "How do you mean?"

"I mean that I don't flirt with anyone and no one flirts with me," MJ says.

Except Luke. Luke flirted with her, and she tried flirting with him. And look how that ended.

"I don't believe that," Rose says. She returns to her work. "Why wouldn't people flirt with you? You're beautiful, you're kind, you're clever..."

"Are you flirting with me?" MJ asks.

Rose laughs. "No, sorry. I'm not into girls." She pauses and frowns. "Well, I don't think I am. S'pose I don't know for absolute certain."

MJ scrunches up her nose. "How do I know if the Doctor's flirting with me?"

"Well, as far as I can tell, he's not one for subtlety," Rose says. "So...I think he'll probably make it pretty obvious."

"I hope he's super-duper obvious because I won't be able to tell otherwise," MJ grumbles. "Not that I want him to flirt with me. I just want to be prepared in case he does."

"What, you don't think he's hot?"

MJ puts the last dish in the drying rack. "Hot's not the word for it. I think....I think he's very handsome, and his eyes are a very nice color, and he gives great hugs. But I'm really not in the right — what's the word? Headspace, I guess. I'm not in the right headspace for any kind of romantic relationship."

"What about a sexual relationship?" Rose jokes, waggling her eyebrows. Her playful smile falls when MJ flinches. "Oh. Sorry. Getting over a bad relationship?"

"You could call it that," MJ says with a wince. She washes her hands to get rid of that sponge smell that makes her skin crawl. "We never actually dated. He wanted to, I didn't. He kept pushing. I...I did like him. So I gave in a little. And he made me regret it."

"I'm sorry," Rose says softly. "I've been there. My ex, Jimmy Stone...he was like that, too. He'd push and push and it just...it was just so much easier to give in."

"I could kill him for you," MJ offers, drying her hands with a TARDIS blue hand towel. Rose breaks out into a brilliant smile, so bright that MJ can't help but smile back. "I'm serious. Say the word and give me his address, I'll ruin his entire fucking life."

"Thanks," Rose laughs. "But uh, I don't know where he is anymore. He left and I, er, haven't seen him since."

MJ cringes. "Yeah, I know what that's like. Here's hoping they never show their faces again, right?"

Rose nods. "Right."

"But if Jimmy does show his face again..." MJ grits her teeth. "I'll make him wish he was never born."

"Me too," Rose says. "Y'know, if your Jimmy shows his face."

"Thanks for the offer, Rose," MJ says, "but if my Jimmy ever shows his face again, I'm going to fuck him up so badly they'll have to add amendments to the fucking Geneva Conventions."

She half-expects Rose to judge her, but Rose just nods firmly. "As you should."

"Okay, I'm going to go get dressed for the day," MJ says. "Unless you want help sweeping."

"Nah," Rose says. "Even if I did, there's only one broom in here. You go get dressed. I'm good here."

"'Kay." MJ's almost out the door when she freezes. Slowly, she turns around. "His name is Luke, by the way. My Jimmy."

Rose pauses in her sweeping to smile tiredly at MJ. "It does get better, you know. It doesn't always hurt as much as it does now."

"I know." MJ takes a deep breath. "But it doesn't make now hurt any less."

"Yeah," Rose says, voice cracking. "I know."

MJ walks back to her room, arms wrapped around herself. It should make her feel better, she thinks, that someone else aboard this ship has an idea of what she's going through. MJ is still such a mess most days, it'll be good to have someone who knows what it's like. Solidarity and all that. If only it weren't the worst kind of solidarity.

If only that eased the pain.

*

this chapter is sooo short but oh well. my sincerest apologies if i went into too much detail about mj's room — i almost always build my ocs' houses or rooms in the sims to give myself a visual and i spend so long on them that i always want to describe them in-story in excruciating detail. if any of you are interested in seeing the build i made of mj's room, lmk and i'll post it to the sims gallery :)

9/23/24: updated thalia's appearance to match tamara smart, the actress playing her in the pjo show <3