𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧
𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐬
𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐱

from the eyes of
— 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐒 𝐉𝐀𝐃𝐄 —

The shower had been long and hot, thank fuck, steam all around me as I stood under the spray, letting the water pound against my back. It wasn't just about washing away the grime of Romulus or untangling the leaves and twigs that had stubbornly clung to my hair—it was about thinking. About trying to force my brain to make sense of something that, no matter how I sliced it, would never have a clear-cut answer.

The pros and cons list had formed in my mind, unbidden, as I scrubbed my tan skin raw.

Cons:
- I was lying to him. Like hella bad.
- I was bound to break his hearts.
- He could never truly understand nor forgive me for everything I had done, for everything I intended to do.
- A relationship between us was a burning star on the verge of collapse. Impossible to end well.

But the one pro, the single, undeniable, earth-shattering truth that made all those cons feel like flimsy excuses?

- I love him. A shit ton.
- And he loves me. I hope.
- And in some misshapen, backwards, completely absurd way, we do kinda fit together.

I exhaled sharply, pushing my dripping hair back from my face as I shut the water off and stepped onto the cool tile.

When I finally emerged from the bathroom, my skin was warm from the shower, damp hair hanging loose around my shoulders. I threw on the first thing I found—a tee that hung off one shoulder and even looser shorts that barely brushed mid-thigh. Comfortable. Casual. Nonchalant.

Like I hadn't just been having a minor existential crisis.

I really did wonder where this guilt was coming from—that's not to say that I didn't usually feel guilty about lying, but this was just crushing.

It seemed the longer I went without the full force of THE POLARIS JADE, the more prone I was to softer emotions.

Padding barefoot across my room, I absently tugged open a random drawer while searching for socks.

Instead, my fingers brushed against something bulky and plastic. Brow furrowing, I pulled it out, only to find myself staring at a retro-looking Walkman and a pair of equally as old-school headphones.

It dawned on me that the drawer I pulled it from was one of the few drawers I had yet to look through. The drawer was full of miscellaneous things, but I pursed my lips and purposely looked away once I saw the package of extra bright and extra colorful condoms. The 'rainbow pack' is what it was labeled as, in a size 'large' to be exact.

My mouth hung open for a moment and I scoffed at my future self before slamming the drawer closer.

I turned the Walkman over in my hands, confused. While it looked ancient, like something straight out of the late 20th century, there was no way it actually was.

My heart gave an odd little thump as I noticed the back of the device, a white piece of tape was stuck to it scrawled in messy handwriting.

Thought you might like this :)
- Space Lord X

My fingers tightened around the walkman.

A gift. From him. To me.

Or, rather, to future me.

But it was mine now. And it will be mine again at some point.

Curiosity buzzed under my skin as I slipped the headphones on. I pressed play, wondering what the last song future me had been listening to. I was expecting—well, I didn't know what I was expecting.

Sabrina Carpenter, maybe? Big Glo, potentially.

But no, the speakers crackled for half a second before bursting to life with an explosive brass section and a funky bassline.

"Hand me down my walkin' cane... Hand me down my hat..."

My eyes widened slightly as The Spinners filled my ears, the bright, rolling groove of The Rubberband Man instantly infectious.

Before I knew it, my foot had started tapping. My shoulders rolled. My arms moved on instinct, snapping outward, crossing back in—there was no stopping it.

Grinning, I gave in completely, my body falling into light, rhythmic steps as I swayed, bounced, spun—hips shifting, arms moving fluidly, feet quick and precise. The music carried me, my movements unplanned but effortless, a joyful, carefree groove that felt like it had been waiting inside me all along.

I was so caught up in the music, so lost in the pure delight of movement, that I didn't hear the soft knocking on my door.

Didn't notice the way it creaked open.

Didn't see him standing there, head tilted as he watched, a slow, delighted smile spreading across his face.

And when I twirled around, arms swinging happily, I nearly jumped out of my skin.

Because there the Doctor was—matching my steps almost perfectly, hips shaking, arms moving, his expression absolutely beaming as he danced right behind me, completely unbothered by the fact that he had just barged into my room and joined in my dancing.

I couldn't be sure how long he'd been dancing behind me, following my movements—movements I was only pulling because I thought I was alone.

I yelped, stumbling back a step, my face flushing against my will.

"Eleven!" I scrambled to yank the headphones down.

He merely grinned, stopping mid-move to lean back against my closed door, arms crossed over his chest, smug amusement twinkling in his gaze. He was missing his tweed jacket, clad only in his button-up, suspenders stretched over his shoulders, his bow tie slightly askew.

"Hello, dearest," He greeted, his voice positively dripping with teasing charm. "Have a nice shower?"

I scowled. "Is there a reason that you have popped up in my bedroom unannounced?"

"I did announce myself, you just couldn't hear me over my gift—you like it, I presume?" He casually questioned. "Got it for you a while back—during my tenth incarnation..." He trailed off thoughtfully. "Still all me; of course, just a bit different back then. More brown," He motioned to his hair and eyes. "Longer coat too... and I was a bit of a sucker for sand shoes..." He trailed as though stuck in a memory before clearing his throat and clapping his hands, "But now I suppose I know why you reacted so happily back when I gave it to you—you were probably waiting ages for me to give it to you!" He motioned to it.

My face was turning a deeper shade of red by the moment, myself slowly looking at the gift. I swallowed, clutching it tighter and desperately hating the way that my heart was beating. Because the truth was that I would appreciate any gift from him, even if it was something stupid, but this was something I truly did like.

"It's..." I cleared my throat, looking up at him and trying to appear playful. "As you British say: quite lovely, thank you, dear!" The British accent caused my voice to turn naturally higher in pitch—the melodic noise coming out softer.

The Doctor grinned so wide I thought his face might crack.

"Anything for you, angel," He spoke, but to my surprise, his voice came out rougher—slightly deeper as the American accent tends to be.

It was easy to forget sometimes, especially with how human he looked, that the Doctor was not human. Nor is he really British. It's just that when he speaks Earth English, he prefers to talk in a British accent because he likes it the best. It's the most natural for him.

But the reality is that he can speak in almost any cadence and language of Earth that he so chooses.

I had not heard him speak with such pronunciation until now, and admittedly, it caused shivers to roll down my spine. My bottom lip found its way between my teeth, my lips quirking up against my will as I shyly looked to my feet and smiled like a loon.

For obvious reasons, I prefer it when he talks like he normally does, like a proper Brit, because it's just so him. However, this was also quite nice—and for inexplicable reasons, maybe because it's new—it left me blushing like a schoolgirl.

"Don't talk to me like that..." I finally breathed, not daring to look up, even as he stepped across the room, stopping only when he was inches away from me.

I knew because his feet came into my view, and I could feel his breath hitting the top of my head.

"Why?" The Doctor asked, back to his normal way of speaking as he brought a hand to my chin and tilted my head up until I was looking at him. "Because you like it?"

"No," I said stubbornly.

"Really, angel?" The Doctor said, easily shifting back into an American accent.

I tilted my head, bringing a hand up and stroking his cheek mockingly. "Is this the part where I say I'm no angel?" I asked with a pout and a dramatic stomp of my feet. "Or perhaps I should lie to you some more and say that I am an angel...?" I asked once more, trying not to smile like the fucking devil at the way his eyes darkened at my insinuation.

I dropped my hand from his cheek, turning away from him and intending to walk somewhere else. The Doctor, however, was fast—grabbing my hand and lacing our fingers together as he spun me back into him.

His other hand came up, cradling the back of my head, and he held me close to him. He leaned down, his nose brushing against mine.

We stared into each other's eyes for a long moment. His so old and holding so many secrets—my own no doubt reflecting much the same to him. It's a wonder he hadn't realized that my eyes were certainly not the eyes of a woman in her 20s; they were the eyes of someone much older.

He moved, nose brushing against my cheek as he brought his lips to my ear.

"I love that I can do this now," He breathed, voice low and back to his typical British cadence.

The proper way for him to speak rather than the admittedly hot but cheesy American accent.

"Do what?" I quirked a brow as he moved his lips away from my ear.

"This," He said simply, before leaning forward and bringing me into a kiss.

His lips met mine, and it was soft—softer than I expected, like the first moments of sunrise bleeding into the horizon, warm and slow and new.

The Doctor kissed the way he did everything else—completely. No hesitation, no half-measures. Just him, pouring himself into the moment like he was memorizing it, like he was learning the shape of me by feel alone.

His hand cradled the back of my head, fingers threading through the damp strands of my hair. The other, still twined with mine, squeezed gently, reassuringly, like he was grounding himself in the reality of this. Of us.

I melted into him.

How could I not?

It was different from the first time we kissed. This one was not rushed or heated—we were not acting like starved animals.

His lips moved against mine, a slow, exploratory rhythm that sent electricity dancing along my spine. I tilted my head, parting my lips slightly, letting him take what he wanted—what we both wanted.

He still tasted like the fucking cupcakes I had made, salty and spicy and slightly bitter. But I didn't care. He was too addicting to care about such a thing. Besides, I probably tasted like the mint toothpaste I had just used to brush my teeth.

If it was anyone else, he would no doubt be cringing and gagging. Talking about gross, carnal, and archaic displays of nasty affection. Much too primitive for his liking.

However, in this moment, he seemed careless to that, choosing to slide his tongue into my mouth easily, as though it belonged there, and stroking my own with it.

The space between us ceased to exist as his arm moved from my head to wrap around my waist, pulling me flush against him.

He was warm. So warm.

My free hand found its way to his collar, gripping it like a lifeline in the storm he had become. My heart pounded, my skin burned, but it wasn't enough.

I wanted more.

I pressed closer, swallowing the quiet gasp that slipped from his throat, feeling the fluttering tremor of his breath against my skin.

He continued to kiss me like I was something precious, something he had been afraid to touch for too long, and now that he had me, he wasn't letting go.

And I let him. Because how could I not?

For one blissful, reckless moment, I let myself sink into him. Into the press of his lips, the way his nose brushed against my cheek, the way his thumb traced soft, absentminded circles against the small of my back.

I let myself believe that this could last. That we could be something long term. Maybe even forever.

Eternity—being immortal—it didn't seem so daunting with the thought of doing it side-by-side with the Doctor.

But then the guilt crashed down.

I am lying to him. I will break his heart. He will never forgive me.

It started as a whisper at the back of my mind, then roared through me, setting fire to the warmth he had lit in my chest. My body tensed before I could stop it, the ache of remorse settling into my bones like an old, familiar poison.

This wasn't right. This wasn't real.

And yet—he was right here. Pressed against me—mouth against mine.

We broke apart, breathless, foreheads resting against each other, his grip still firm but gentle.

His eyes—oh, his eyes.

They were filled with wonder, with adoration, like I was something rare and magnificent, like he had discovered a new planet that had been hiding just outside his reach.

I wanted to shatter under that gaze.

He let out a soft, breathless chuckle, his thumb grazing my cheek. "That was—" He shook his head, laughing a little, like he couldn't find the words. "Well, brilliant. Better than brilliant. That was incredible."

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to look at him—to truly see him.

Excitement buzzed beneath his skin, an impossible, boyish joy.

I should have felt the same.

Instead, all I felt was the crushing weight of knowing I would ruin him.

A small part of me—an ugly scary part—kind of wanted to ruin him. Just a little.

At that moment, I knew what I had to do.

Make him stop wanting me.

Make him realize, once and for all, that I was not some happy adventure.

That I was not the woman he should waste his powerful love on.

Because if he loved me—truly loved me—then one day, he would hate me just as much. And, selfishly, I can't handle that.

The decision settled in my chest, cold and certain.

I had to make him stop this, stop wanting me in this way—and this time, I had to do more than just some shitty cupcakes.

The Doctor's smile faltered as he noticed the shift in my expression, the way my shoulders squared with determination.

"Dearest—?" He started, voice laced with confusion.

"I know where I want to go next," I told him firmly.

His brows furrowed. "What?"

I forced a tight, unreadable smile. "You've wanted a truth from me—about me—for a while. It's time I give you one."

That got his attention.

His eyes flickered with eagerness, intrigue overtaking the softness of a moment ago. He had been searching for answers since the day we met, since the first time he had looked at me and realized I didn't fit into the messy little puzzle of the universe the way I should have.

And now?

I was finally offering him something real.

"Okay," He said immediately, nodding, straightening slightly. "What is it?"

I swallowed, shaking my head. "No. I can't just tell you." I glanced at the door, then back at him. "I need to show you."

The Doctor frowned, his excitement dimming with hesitation. "What do you mean—?"

I smiled, but it was thin. Tired.

"Doctor," I murmured, eyes heavy with the weight of what I was about to do.

He watched me closely, searching my face for answers I wasn't giving.

I inhaled deeply. "How about a trip to 1945?"

Silence.

The Doctor didn't react at first, his mind working at rapid speed, gears turning, calculations forming. Then, slowly—carefully—his head tilted.

"Why?" His voice was quieter now, more guarded. "You hate the 40s..."

I didn't blink.

"You want to know a truth? You want to see why I hate the 40s?" My hands formed into fists at my sides. "Then let me show you."

The Doctor studied me, his expression unreadable. But it became apparent that he was debating if he wanted to know—wanted to see a truth.

He was incredibly smart, and he was calculating the risk. He knows the things I hide from him are anything but small, and he knows that there is a chance that what I am about to show him could—probably would—ruin what we have right now.

And he was deciding if this was worth the risk.

But the downside to it was him saying no and ignoring it. Continuing on his merry way with a woman of mysteries by his side.

Could he do such a thing? Turn away from the truth when I finally presented it so openly to him?

For a moment, I feared that he could. That he was going to say no and take us somewhere else, somewhere fun and happy.

But this is the Doctor, and the Doctor can never turn away from something like this. Finally, with a nod, he whispered one word. "Alright."

The Doctor lingered for a moment, his eyes locked onto mine, searching.

There was no trace of that wide, boyish grin anymore—no teasing glint, no amusement. Instead, his expression was laced with something quieter. Sharper.

Curiosity, yes. But beneath that—worry.

His face, so often animated and full of movement, was still. His lips slightly parted, his breath just a little uneven, like he wasn't sure if he should press me for more or if he was afraid of what he'd hear if he did.

His gaze flickered between my eyes, trying to read something in me that I wasn't giving away. His fingers twitched at his sides, as though resisting the urge to reach for me, to hold onto whatever it was he could feel might slip away when the truth was unveiled.

Then, with a slow, deliberate inhale, he nodded to me and turned on his heel.

"Get dressed—I'll tell Amy and Rory where we're going. Meet me in the console room whenever you're ready..." He paused before adding quietly, his voice full of as much reassurance as he could muster, "My dearest PJ..."

His boots made a soft thud against the floor as he left, closing the door gently behind him and leaving me in a silence that was much too loud.

My stomach twisted, my pulse pounding, beating so fiercely in my ears that I almost didn't hear my own breath hitch as I exhaled.

I had done it.

I had set it in motion.

My hands clenched into fists, nails biting into my palms. Don't waver.

My body moved before my mind could catch up, propelling me toward my closet. I chose my clothing with care—a rare thing for our travels. Normally, we didn't dress to impress, but this time... this time, it felt necessary.

Even if the others wouldn't bother.

A long, deep blue skirt hugged my waist and fell just below my calves, paired with a matching fitted blouse. The silver buttons ran neatly down the front, keeping everything in place, the collar crisp, the sleeves snug against my arms.

The black heels were a nuisance but doable, given the circumstances.

I worked quickly, pinning my hair back into something neat, even if it didn't match the fashionable short styles of the '40s. It would have to do.

Where we were going—it wasn't worth catching extra attention because we were dressed out of place. Especially for me, I had to be very careful with how I go about this, and that meant not catching any extra curious gazes.

I paused, frowning at my reflection.

Staring back was perfection; what most would deem as an ideal-looking woman of the 40s. Sure, there was a bit more muscle than most were probably used to—my body was not as soft as other woman and my skin was considered a bit too dark for the popular taste of the America back then, but it mattered not.

Because the truth was undeniable—I looked beautiful. Too beautiful. Inhumanly perfect. And that wasn't arrogance; it was simply a fact. A fact I hated.

My beauty was a reminder.

A glaring reminder that I am not human. Not completely.

Full-blooded humans were seldom born this flawless, this symmetrical. It was a wonder the Doctor hadn't caught on to that alone. Hadn't truly stopped to consider why my eyes are so vibrantly blue—why I can smile so heavenly that it's alarming. Hadn't realized that these were huge indicators of me not being entirely human.

But I did well in hiding it. The clothing I chose—the way I held myself. Purposely slouching, rarely giving attractive smiles or picking clothing that didn't always make my figure stand out.

My throat tightened as I tore my gaze away, forcing down the memories clawing their way to the surface. Memories of what I had done.

Of what I had knowingly involved myself in 30-something years ago. Of what I chose to do because it sounded interesting and fun.

With a deep breath, I strapped my Vortex Manipulator onto my wrist, adjusting the leather snugly before pulling my sleeve over it. My built-in escape route—a precaution I wasn't willing to go without. No matter what happened, I needed the ability to leave on my own terms.

Finally, I grabbed my backpack, securing the straps over my shoulders. A quick check confirmed everything was still inside, still hidden.

I could not tell the Doctor an actual big truth. Nothing about the unloved little girl who turned into an experiment. Nothing about the halfbreed child turned into a multiversal entity—the ultimate player of the ultimate game.

He could not know about how THE POLARIS JADE was in his universe. Could not know what she was doing here.

Not unless I wanted to risk everything I was striving for, not unless I wanted to put him and the ones he loved in immense danger—not unless I wanted to chance crumbling the very fabric of his world.

But I can give him a much smaller truth. Something still important, something still terrible and reminiscent of the kind of person that I am under it all. Something that would easily turn someone as good as him away from someone like me.

And it hurt to know that it could. That it probably would.

But a naked truth is an ugly truth, and an ugly truth is the most honest we come.

———————

author note:

hey guys!! let me know what you think, hope you like it so far! :)

i'm really having a fun time writing space jam, i can't remember the last time i've been this locked into writing a story! i appreciate you ALL for reading!

also make sure you check out my tiktok page, it's dedicated to edits of all my fanfictions and has lots of space jam edits posted!

https://www.tiktok.com/@theclockworkghost?_t=ZT-8vEgy9PPhv8&_r=1