A few days pass in relative silence. We share meals and pass each other in the library, exchanging the odd few words. My conversation with Sarah Jane offered me some comfort but I'm still left with so much to think about and no clue as to how I even begin to speak to the Doctor again. After so long spent apart from each other, I don't quite know if we can go back to how we used to be, or if we should. Maybe a change would do us good. Maybe we just can't pretend like none of it happened.

On the fifth day I venture out of my room with a toolbox, praying that there will be something in need of fixing. Most of the repair panels remain shut for me. It proves my suspicions: the Tardis holds grudges. We had gotten along perfectly fine before, I'm fairly sure most of the issues I tried to repair were simply created by her to give me a distraction, but not anymore. Leaving the way I did must have upset her, so much so that she treats me like a complete stranger.

It's only after an hour of aimless wandering that I finally give in, dumping the toolbox on the floor. "Come on, Old Girl," I sigh to thin air. "I left and I shouldn't've and I'm sorry. Okay? I'm really sorry. Gods know it was a mistake even thinking it would have worked. But I'm back and I guess I'm here to stay. I'm just... sorry."

A hatch in the wall swings open. It creaks softly, understanding. In her way, I suppose it is almost like an offered hug, an extension of an olive branch.

I give the wall an affectionate pat and a quick press of my lips before setting to work. Under my breath I begin to hum an old Capitian tune. I have sung it a million times before to her but this time she seems far more receptive. Down the corridor I can hear the rushing of the pistons and the hum of the engines, almost in tune.

One bolt on the inside of the repair hatch is particularly hard to unscrew. I try again and again, putting all of my strength onto the wrench in the hopes of getting it to budge.

"Oh, don't start now."

Giving it a second, I twist it again as though truly expecting the element of surprise to help. It does. The bolt moves with a loud squeak and I stumble. Only, the sound doesn't stop. I can hear it echoing all the way along the passage, picking up in volume. The mesh floor quakes and something hisses. I wheel around just in time to see the door on one side of me shut.

I race over but it's too late. The sheet of metal won't move, sealed into place. Another low hiss is enough warning for me to sprint out of the way of the next door.

There's no time to hesitate. If I do, I will likely find myself trapped. I don't want to know what happens then. Already, I can see the lights flicker, a siren rising from the distance. My next thought is of the Doctor, if he knows, if he's searching for a solution, or for me.

That keeps my mind silent for a moment. I brush it off and keep running. Of course he would be more concerned with stopping whatever this is. Only, now I wonder if I can find him - for the purpose of getting out of there, I remind myself.

I reach a fork in the path - right or left. There's no chance I'm going back the way I came with the doors still closing. Memories of this place still rebuilding, I wrack my brain for an idea of where each direction might take me.

The other night the Doctor and I went right to get to my room. Left would lead me down a few more twists and turns and then, I recall, the Archives. Of course. The Archives store all of the rooms that once belonged to his previous companions. That means that they should be offline and separate from rest of the systems. If I hide there, I can take my time to figure out what on earth is wrong with the Tardis without risking some system failure depriving me of oxygen or simply vacating me from the ship.

Left it is.

Every turn puts me more on edge. I glance back a few times but the doors keep closing, rapidly catching up.

I round another corner, colliding with a flailing figure coming the other way. We both shout out, reaching to steady each other. The Doctor finally stops wobbling, his hand still on my shoulder, and glances over my shoulder. Another slam shakes us off our balance. I grab onto his hand without thinking and drag him after me.

The doors to the Archives close behind us and he holds his sonic against the ornate handles until they click. "Right, then. That was a bit weird."

I curse, leaning against the cold panels to stabilise myself. My breath takes a while to return to normal.

As if sensing my residual anxiety, he takes a step closer. Then he remembers that we haven't had a real conversation in days. He stops himself, offers an awkward grimace and scratches the back of his neck. His focus moves to our surroundings. "Blimey, this takes me back."

Eager for a distraction, I look around the room. It is almost entirely white, including the tessellated triangles panelling the walls and the sheets of a brass bedstead. Bookshelves sport all sorts of contraptions and an impressive rock collection. A poster on one wall shows a constellation map with stars I have never seen before.

I watch with quiet curiosity as he picks up what looks like a textbook with its page sides painted gold. There is something in the way he turns it over, not daring to open it but reluctant to let go just yet.

Maybe this is an opportunity to test the waters. "Didn't think you took kids with you." He lets out a little hum, urging me to elaborate. I point to a small picture showing a young, dark-haired boy dressed in yellow, a single square on his chest blazing bright red. His eyebrows arch downwards in a permanent frown.

"That one didn't exactly give me a chance - stowed away. Had some cheek, that one."

I don't ask for a name. I know better than to push it that far. Instead, I clear my throat and find his immediate attention on me again, attentive and anxious. The words have gone. I shake my head and look for something else to focus on.

Another door catches my eye in the corner of the room, which I'm almost certain hadn't been there the last time I looked. I stride over to it and open it only to be met by an all too familiar sight of faded, forties wallpaper and folded blankets. Even with most of his belongings cleared I can picture him lying on the bed, beckoning me into the warm embrace of a brother. Jack.

The door closes again. Not by my hand but by the Doctor's.

We stand perfectly still for a moment, his fingers still splayed out over the wood, just beside my head. His gaze has grown sharper but, seeing my surprise at his apparent frustration and the shock of seeing that room again, it softens just as quickly.

My eyes burn. Not giving him the chance to see it, I brush past him and sit on the bed with my back to him. A few gasps for air burn my lungs and I resort to holding it in a desperate attempt not to let anything on. I don't want to know what he'll think of me if I do.

"What happened?"

I let my head lean down onto balled fists, drawing in a shaking breath. "I messed up. Forgot that repair panel was all back-to-front."

"It's all right," he replies with an air of nonchalance, "I forget all the-"

"Don't lie!" My shout comes as a surprise to us both. Before I can stop it, all my tension unravels, escaping me in a loud sob. Any attempts to stop my tears are futile. In a matter of seconds I have been reduced to a huddle, gasping for air.

He doesn't do anything at first. I don't blame him. This is the first time he has ever seen me cry quite like this. Usually, I have the strength to bottle it all up and keep it until I am alone, only letting the odd tear slip out. That strength has left me now.

The bedframe creaks as he lowers himself onto it, shuffling closer. The first touch is too light to really notice. Then he tries again, still cautious but more determined to find a way to get my attention, fingertips trailing up my arm and down my back. The muscles ease a little in their wake. Next, he slowly wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me to him. My head falls against his chest and instantly takes refuge there as another cry shakes me. Hushing me, he runs a hand through my hair.

"It's all right. I'm here. It's okay." He says it quietly, so much so that it's barely audible. But I hear it. With my head against his chest, his hand in my hair, I hear it as clearly as it would be if I had spoken the words myself, the sound resonating throughout my body in waves of comfort. Another while passes before he asks, "Do you want to tell me what's going on?"

Sniffing loudly, I go to rub at my nose with my hand but he presses a tissue into my palm before I can. "I f-forgot. I've been away for so long."

At that, he nods and holds me tighter. "I know."

No matter how much I wish to remain this close, I find myself shifting back, shaking my head. "Do you? I was away for five years! I changed so much and when I came back I found out you'd barely had the time to miss me!"

If he is surprised by the outburst, he doesn't show it. Sadness weighs on his brow. "I missed you."

His answer somehow isn't what I expected. "Really?" I shyly utter.

Even when he smiles at me the heavy frown doesn't disappear. To make up for it, he moves to wipe away my tears with the edge of his sleeve. The action startles even him but when his pause is met by no complaint from me, he continues, finishing by moving my head further up to face him with a gentle nudge from his index knuckle. "I missed you the second you were gone."

A comfortable silence follows his words. Searching his eyes only to find their warmth, no sign of the deception I naturally look for, I settle back into his arms. My nose scrunches up with the effort not to ruin his suit but he takes the sound as evidence of further upset. Unsure of how else to rectify it, he presses his lips to my forehead and remains like that for some time.

He smells like olive groves and hot chocolate and time - of nostalgia and anticipation; old books and new dresses; like a holiday morning, so sweet and bitter and open for anything to happen even though you know, at its core, it will always be the same and it will always be yours. Every time I take it in it will feel exactly as it does right now, past and present combined just as we combine, as the seeker and the runner. I don't need to see the future to know that we will be intertwined for the rest of our lives in some way or another.

I draw in a long, deep breath to get as much of his heady scent as possible. Still curled up, I stretch my limbs like a cat and sink back into the warmth and the beating of two hearts. My hand reaches up to twist at one of the buttons on his trench coat. "It feels like I spent so long away. Like- Like I lost you but didn't know exactly what I was missing. You know, every birthday felt... flat, which is ridiculous because I don't even know when yours is."

"Eighth of November."

My fidgeting ceases. "What?"

"Well, thereabouts. It's a bit difficult to tell when you're rarely in a fixed time period, and working with a different calendar. Haven't celebrated in years."

My initial surprise is quickly overcome with newfound purpose and I declare, "Then let's do it." I offer him my hand. We both know he doesn't need the help to stand but he takes it anyway. "Come on, then. Whatever's got the Tardis in such a state, we'll figure it out and then you can pick a year and a place - anytime, anywhere. We can even dress up for the occasion."

A little dazed, he watches me with what I gradually realise is growing fondness. I lower my gaze. "You're kidding," he chuckles.

"Why would I?"

"I don't know."

"Then come on!"

------

Oddly, the solution isn't hard to find. It's almost as if the Tardis had no actual problem and simply decided to shut down. I'm just relieved that we both decided to come to the Archive or I'm not sure what would have happened.

When I arrive in the console room, the Doctor awaits. He has swapped out his usual trench coat for a navy suit and tie. He hasn't seen me yet, still moving restlessly around the various controls, tousling his already untidy hair and switching from having all the buttons of his suit done up to just one, to none, to all again and over and over until I have to butt in just to stop his worrying. "Fancy seeing you here."

He almost jumps out of his skin, wheeling around to face me properly. His attention travels from my newly curled hair to his pinstriped jacket draped over my shoulders, then to the sage satin dress that flows to my mid-calves and matching, pointed shoes. I wait awkwardly for his reply but all he says after a great deal of gawping is, "You're wearing heels."

I had been cautious to choose a thicker support so that I don't end up twisting my ankle on the mesh floor before we even make it out of the door. Rolling my eyes at the comment, I approach. "Yes, well, this time I'm hoping you won't go running off."

"No promises. You look..." He doesn't seem able to find the right adjective so just gestures to me again.

I decide to play it off, doing the same to him. "And you look... too."

"Yeah. Um, sh-should we go?"

"Lead the way. Your birthday, after all."

The doors open, allowing amber light to flood in. He steps out and lets his head fall back to soak up the rays of the setting sun. It has barely touched the horizon yet but paints long shadows from the twisted trunks of the stone pine trees. They stretch out in perfect parallel lines, framing the intricate, distance-hazed dome of St Peter's Basilica.

Startled, I look at him to find the growing smile he still tries to hide. "Rome? You brought us to Rome?"

He shrugs and digs one hand into his pocket, the other reaching out to beckon me. "Yeah. That all right?"

"More than 'all right', it's fantastic!" I praise, linking my arm with his.

-

Gravel tracks eventually translate into bustling roads and then cobblestones. The sky above is almost void of the coral pink tracks that led us further into the city, just periwinkle now. Our arms are still linked and we move between easy silence and brief conversations about nothing of importance.

The thoughts of that young boy in the photograph keep coming back to haunt me. Determined to be rid of it and possibly open things up between us, I clear my throat. His attention is torn away from the other pedestrians around us. "So... those rooms."

He hums and although it is to urge me on I wonder if a part of it is a warning, a plea for me to turn back and leave it behind us. I resolve to avoid eye contact unless necessary. "Is that where we all end up?"

"Seems like that," he responds with a dismissive air. As if sensing my disappointment, he leans fractionally closer and enquires, "Does that scare you?"

I hesitate. Any idea I come up with to brush it off results in the same realisation: that I can say nothing but the truth. "Yes." The Doctor's hold on me tightens almost protectively. I attempt to brush past the confession, "How often do you visit?"

It's his turn to pause. I sneak a glance, finding him with his head tilted towards the crescent moon still obscured by the last dregs of sunlight. His jaw tenses, his eyes narrowing slightly in thought. "Too much," he finally concludes. Then his face brightens again with relief and he points to a nearby restaurant. The silver chairs set out at the front and the mustard yellow awning glow invitingly. Candles flicker at each table, casting shadows along the checked tablecloths. "Ooh, how about this one? Very 'Lady and the Tramp'."

I don't try to hide how enamoured I am by the sight of its soft charm. "Straight out of a Van Gogh painting."

He glances down at me again, one eyebrow arched in interest. "You're a fan?"

"Oh, absolutely. He had an incredible mind."

We start to approach the restaurant and, seeing a passing waiter nod to an empty table, takes a seat. He stretches out, his long legs crossed to one side so that I can fit in opposite him. I do the same, aware that the table is far too small for either of us to sit properly. "You know, we can go if you want." His head cocks to the side. "How's that for our next trip? You, me, bit of The Gogh?"

Letting out a snort of laughter, I shake my head. "No, I think that might ruin it. Never a good idea to meet your idols, it tends to curb the enthusiasm a bit."

"Fair enough," he sighs before quickly moving on with newfound enthusiasm. "Something else, then! Arcadia, the Silver Cities of Meloxor Prime, the biggest ABBA hologram concert ever on Xantharmon 3 in the year 212 million?"

The options make my head spin. I pass him a menu. "Let's just get some food right now, yeah? I'm starving. We can plan all that over breakfast."

He is content, opening it with a little flourish and smiling shyly over the top at me. "I'll make the coffee."

"I'll make the pancakes."

-

Dusk fades into night and we sit together, eating and drinking and chatting away. I take a swig from my beer bottle but the Doctor takes advantage of the distraction, reaching across to pinch a slice of pepperoni from my pizza. My reflexes act quickly and I give his hand a light slap. He recoils, cradling it to his chest, and stares at me in horror. "What was that for?" he squeaks indignantly after tossing it into his mouth.

"You just stole from me!"

"What, this?" Without hesitation, he points to his open mouth.

I wince in disgust and wave his hand down. "Oh, for gods' sake, put it away! You're a bloody child sometimes."

His eyes widen in mock innocence. "Only sometimes?"

I scoff, "Shocking, I know."

"Sorry. I would give it back but... you know, it's a bit mushy now." Again, my eyes roll in response to his cheek. His plate is pushed towards me, still carrying most of his pizza which he keeps forgetting about as he gets more invested in our conversations. "Go on, then. Mutual theft."

Scrutinising the toppings, I tease him with further disapproval. "You're offering an olive?"

"Minus the branch, I'm afraid."

"Well-" I clear my throat and take another sip "-I'm afraid I can't accept."

His voice rises again in offence and he protests, "Why not?"

My shoulders tense in a dismissive shrug and I open up another bottle for each of us. "Don't like olives."

Tongue darting out across his teeth, he sits back and crosses his arms, surveying me with playful shock. "Oh, come on! Inara Luscinia, the High Priestess of Minerva herself-" he lowers to a scandalised whisper "-doesn't like olives?"

"Is that really so wrong of me?"

He nods firmly as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. "Positively blasphemous."

My body shakes with a bout of laughter and I have to grab onto the table for support. Once I have recovered enough, even more breathless when I find him still watching me with that soft warmth in his eyes, I retort with a playful wink, "I make up for it, though."

He takes a large bite, a slight flush colouring his cheeks when it comes away with strings of cheese that get longer with each pull. When he manages to clear them, he wipes his mouth of tomato sauce and tries to play it off. "Oh, you do, do you? How?"

"Got a tattoo of an olive branch."

Both his eyebrows and his pitch raise once more, "Oh?"

"Don't get too excited," I joke, "it's only on my ankle."

His eyes go comically wide. "I- I wasn't- I wasn't saying it like-" Pausing to awkwardly itch the back of his neck, he tries again, "I wasn't-"

"I know. I know," I quickly interject before he can get any more