Chapter Text
There's a breeze in the air.
It's swift, and moves through Amara's hair like a hot spring's liquid. She weaves a string around her pointer finger, glances down at something in her lap, and then unweaves the same string from around her finger. She holds two metal sticks between her digits with a long strand of 'yarn' tangled up amongst them.
Amara is knitting. She glances down at the book in her lap once again to read the 'instructions', and then sighs defeatedly, looking out at the dry, red desert around her. She sits in a 'rocking chair', the rags of her skirts brushing her legs every time she leans back. Chewing on her lip, she looks back down at the booklet in her lap to study the pictures. It cannot be that hard, can it?
Amara is making something for someone. That 'something' is supposedly called a 'scarf', which is admittedly a silly term to the girl. Though, she'll take the Stranger's word for it. The 'someone' is the Stranger himself. She knows he hates when she calls him that, but the name he goes by is also silly to her.
Today, that man is going to ask her a question. Same question, different times—almost never ending. Today, Amara might have a different answer.
A familiar warping sound disrupts the breeze, but Amara couldn't be filled with more glee. A smile overtakes her face.
The blue box lands at her side, just under her lazy, open tent, and her Stranger comes out. His brown curls are disheveled, but his silk cravat is neat. She disregards the tools she had been busy with prior. He smiles brightly.
"Hello, Amara."
—
The black haired girl blinks her eyes open. She's on the bus, like she had been since she left work. She dazedly lets her gaze stray to the window at her side, searching for street signs. Her stop is next. Amara sighs, rubs at the side of her nose as she blinks the haze of her doze from her consciousness.
Sleep is usually accompanied by dreams. There are myths and legends across the world, theorizing about what dreams really are and what they mean. Some say they are tales of your future, tales of your past, stories from a parallel world—and so much more. Things you've already experienced all tied into one single glimpse into the mind. Dreams, they say, are the closest thing to the soul itself. Who you are as a person is hidden in your dreams, lurking amongst the shadows.
Which is good and all, but Amara doesn't dream.
When Amara sleeps, she remembers.
Except the things she sees aren't her memories. They can't be. She never lived them.
Little to long glimpses of a life not her own. Stories of travels and loss and laughs—all surrounding this character called the Doctor. Amara dreams it all. Oh, how she dreams of it.
She calls him her Stranger. 'Her' because she's walked the pathways of his life, storing it in her brain until the day she dies, and 'Stranger' because she's never met him. It's a strange combination, but it's the only thing that even remotely makes sense.
The bus pulls to a stop, doors opening to reveal the front of Amara's apartment. She stands from her seat, and tiredly descends the narrow steps. She flashes a quick, grateful smile at the driver as she leaves. He's driven her home every weekday for three years now. Amara imagines his name is Louis. He barely spares her a glance.
The hike up the steep stairs to the 5th floor is as drawing as ever, but Amara's had three years to master its creaking, trippable steps. Just one at a time. Run, and you'll probably faceplant into a splitter of wood or shaving of metal, leading to an early death. One step at a time, Mara.
The lock of her door is on its last hinge, but she still puts the key in to open her apartment, mostly for the aesthetic and the sake of her own sanity. Normal, human life, that's what this is. A normal, human life full of normal, human-y things. She turns the key, careful not to jam it in the lock. Then, opens it.
Her apartment is as bland as ever, and Amara doesn't know why she expected anything else. Must be the dream she had earlier. The question, the question—what was the question? The answer's on the tip of her tongue, and she can't spit it out. The answer...
Amara throws her keys down onto the kitchen counter and promptly plops down onto her cheap sofa. It's a sort of teal color—or, that's what it was when she first bought it—and ugly, too. Ultimately, it doesn't fit with any of her other decor. Or her walls. Yikes, yeah, it certainly doesn't match with her deep maroon walls. Amara cringes, and it's almost a normal tuesday.
Almost.
The girl feels a tugging in her gut, an insidious nagging. Her brows furrow, and she runs her hands over the fabric of the sides of her sofa, searching for her phone to see if it's vibrating. She feels nothing but the strange feeling. It begs her for something, yet she can't decipher what.
Amara stands, dropping her bag onto the cushion beside her, and crosses the room. The tugging grows as she nears the silver-edged mirror at the end of her slender hallway. She tilts her head, curiously studying her reflection. Red eyes trail the span of the glass, taking in her figure. Nothing out of the ordinary. The not-so-teal sofa sits a ways behind her, and the light on her ceiling above it casts a dim, yellow light across the room.
But, then, a different light invades the space.
It starts out slow, and Amara takes a tentative step toward the mirror to see it more clearly.
It's a crack.
It shows in the reflection behind her, but when she turns to view it bare, nothing is there. She looks back to the mirror. The crack is growing, now, and Amara steals another gap of distance between her and it. She notices now that the crack was never behind her, but in the mirror. All jagged and rough lines—and it glows. She squints her eyes as she draws closer. A harsh white light emits from it, one that whispers doom into her ear. Part of Amara wants to bathe in it.
She doesn't know what compels her to do so, but Amara finds herself reaching out towards it—literally. The light feels cold and blazing at the same time as she sinks her fingers into it, and she's amazed to find that, yes, her fingers are going through the mirror in her hall right now.
The next moment is a blur. She vaguely recalls warping and compressing and being sucked into a void, like a vacuum had just inhaled her. It's dizzying and disorienting, and Amara tries to scream but finds that she can't. She wants to scream.
She makes the strange connection somewhere in the back of her mind that yes, the crack spouting light in her mirror really had just swallowed her whole. When the warping stops, and she's been spit out onto something metal, Amara's vision is blurry and indescribable. A mix of yellows and browns swim in front of her, and she can't tell if her eyes are closed or open.
"Amara?" A faint voice asks from somewhere, but she can't tell if it's real or just her imagination. It's too muffled, and she can barely comprehend the three syllables on their own.
She attempts to stand, but then the colors bleed, but maybe that's just her eyes. She stumbles forward, and she's going to fall, but she doesn't. Something warm and secure wraps her up, keeping her upright.
They're arms.
Her head beats with the rhythm of her heart, and it seems to not be working correctly because how is there another person here with her? She was just in her apartment and...
The Crack.
She's seen that crack before. She knows that crack. She knows it like the back of her hand, yet she's never felt it beneath her finger tips.
She's dreamt of it.
Awareness slowly seeps back into her, kissing her mind like that'll make it better. She vaguely takes in the scent of linen and sweat, and the feel of cotton beneath her palms. She shakes her head slightly, as if to clear the fog.
"That's it," the voice says again, and that was certainly real, right in her ear. It's a man.
"How... How can it be here..." Amara breaths, a lame attempt at understanding.
"Is she alright?" a woman asks from somewhere to her left, presumably to the man who's holding her right now.
Man... who's... holding her...
Amara flinches back like she's been struck, sending her stumbling once again until her back hits a solid surface. She blinks rapidly, trying to access her surroundings, brows furrowed with a mix of concentration and perplexity.
Perplexed. That's one way to describe how she's feeling.
"Amara," the man calls with caution and concern laced through his words like a... scarf. "Are you alright? Where've you just been?"
The girl finally looks up to scrutinize his face, but stops dead in her tracks when her eyes meet his. She pales.
He has warm brown eyes that call danger and insanity, but draw her in. His hair is a ruffled brown, tufted at the roots. His brows express his caution and his eyes flicker down to her hands for a brief moment. He wears a brown pinstripe suit and dirty white converse and—
And he's the Doctor.
His tenth incarnation, but the Doctor nonetheless. And Amara seems to be in his Tardis.
"You're—no," she swallows like she's ingesting the realization. "Oh my stars."
"Doctor, what's happening?" the girl to her left asks again. Her voice sounds like hearing a song on the radio you haven't heard in a while, and Amara feels tears coil in the base of her throat.
Rose.
Why does she feel like crying? She's never even met them, and yet her tears are reaching for air?
"I—I don't—" the Doctor fishes for words but comes up with none. He's still watching Amara with attention. She rips her gaze away from Rose and back to her Stranger like the blonde is fire itself. Poisonous, like the grief Amara's held for her. "Mara, where have you just been?"
She looks at him incredulously.
"My apartment? I—I don't know what you mean," she confesses, shaking her head slightly. Her voice feels small, curdled in fear. "The Crack—it just... Why is it here?"
It's a double question. She's too early in the Doctor's time stream for the Crack to appear yet. Especially since he's still with Rose. Also, why did it come for her? Two points in space and time that should have never collided, caused by the Tardis exploding, happening everywhere and at every time all at once, following the Doctor and Amy through Time and Space, and it came for her. It's simply not possible.
"Two points in time and space that should have never touched..." she echos her thoughts, thoroughly baffled. Then, the Doctor freezes. His face changes from cautionary to awe in the span of a millisecond. He regards her with an emotion she can't quite decipher.
"Oh," he says.
"Oh, what?" Rose asks, needing more elaboration. Amara, too, honestly. She tilts her head a little as she studies him curiously.
"This is the first time," he says, eyes breathing in every detail of her like he needs it to live. Like he's seeing her in a brand new light than before.
Perplexity.
"You mean—what, the actual first time?"
"Yes, Rose, there's only one first time," he lets out a shaky breath. Rose turns to gape at her. "And she chose me."
Amara choses then to break the sentimentality. "Right, what do you mean the fir—"
And just like that, he's the Doctor she knows again. He jumps into action.
"Alright, not another word out of you!" He claps his hands together, moving swiftly around the Tardis console. He glances up at her quickly, seeing her apprehension. "Don't worry, I'm just putting us in park." Then, he's back in front of her, guiding her into a lone seat. He crouches down in front of her, putting his hands on either side of her head to check her over like a doctor. Well, a medically professional person who goes by the title 'doctor'.
"Now, I understand that you must be very confused and scared right now, but judging by the fact that you haven't smacked me to bits yet proves that you know me, like always," he says, swiveling her head around to see if she can keep her eyes trained on him. His gaze turns mystifying. "You just haven't met me."
"Doctor, how do you know me?" Amara asks, trying to shake her head in bewilderment. The Doctor doesn't let her, and pulls out his sonic screwdriver to check her vitals.
"Oh, Mara," he halts in his motions, tone dripping with cheekiness. "I always know you."
Rose snickers, leaning on the console behind the Doctor.
"But," he pats Amara's cheeks lightly before tearing himself away from her, moving to lean on the console across from her and next to Rose. "I know that doesn't really help you right now." He turns his head to the blonde. "Could you give us the room? There are some things I need to explain to Amara here." She smiles, salutes him, and leaves the room, but not before shouting out a quick, Later, Amara! in her stead. When she's completely gone, the Doctor resumes giving her his full attention and smiles brightly.
"Hello," he greets with a goofy grin on his face.
"...Hi."
Amara thinks 'perplexed' is a little too insipid of a word to describe how she feels at this point.
The Doctor sort of... stares at her for a long moment, grin still plastered on his features. Then, he sobers, and his eyes turn more serious.
"Now, I think you understand the concept of spoilers, right?" he asks.
"I'm not dull," she lays out flatly.
"Oh, I know you're not," he says without humor or reassurance. "Just be careful not to go giving them out."
"Right, you see, that's not something I'm much worried about here, seeing as a crack in my mirror opened up and swallowed me whole," she says, and he thins his lips. "And now I'm... here... with you..."
"That sounded distasteful," the Doctor almost laughs.
"How am I here, Doctor?" Amara ignores the obvious invitation for banter. She has no idea what's going on or how she got here or how the Doctor knows anything about her at all when an hour ago for her, he was just a story in her dreams.
"Time doesn't like you," he tells her, regaining his deepness. "I don't know how, I don't know why, but I know that you do—in the future. Apparently, there's a crack in time and space in my future. I've guessed over the years that this 'Crack' is the same Crack that slurps you up and spits you out at different points in my time stream."
"You mean, this is a recurring thing?" Her stomach churns just thinking about experiencing the warping of her very being again—multiple times even. "Also, how come Time doesn't like me? What have I ever done to it?" she shouts up accusingly.
"I don't know," he tells her honestly. "I do know that it's something we learn together in the future, and I do know that it has something to do with however you know things about me."
"My dreams?" She retreats back into herself protectively.
The Doctor makes an 'O' face. "They're dreams. Interesting."
Anger bubbles up in Amara's gut.
"I don't care if you're my Stranger or not; I will not be treated like a puzzle. This is my life. And I was just ripped away from all of it! Everything I've ever known is gone, and you're telling me this is going to be the rest of my life?" the words erupt from within her. "No, Doctor. You don't know anything about me. I know everything about you. Do not put my knowledge to the test. You will not like the answers."
She's left heaving when the tangent is over and feels minorly guilty for it. She knows she would never use her knowledge of his life against him, or at least she hopes she doesn't. But does he know that?
In the blink of an eye he's in front of her, carefully taking her wrists from her sides from where she'd been balling her hands into fists and holds them in his own delicately.
"Amara, listen to me when I say this because I can guarantee you I will never say anything more true," his eyes search hers. "You are the only puzzle that I refuse to force pieces into. That's your job. It is your life, and I have never and will never take that right from you. It's going to be hard, I can promise you that, but I can also promise that I will be by your side for every single second of it."
Oh. It seems he does know that.
Amara gazes into his eyes, searching for any hint of mistruth, but eventually finds none. Only sincerity.
"I believe you."
"Good," he confirms. "Never doubt it. Now, about these dreams of yours, what are they like?"
After a moment's hesitation, she answers, "They're not really dreams. Or, well, they don't feel like it. It's like—" she stops, blindly reaching for words to describe what it's like to walk the life of someone you've never met. Then, it clicks. "It's like a book I've never read. I know all these things and I see them when I sleep. About you. I'm never there, really; it's always just you and whoever you're traveling with at the time."
The Doctor grimaces at the bluntness of her words. "Never there... really?"
She shifts uncomfortably. "Sometimes... Sometimes I dream that you're visiting me. That I've been waiting for you. Your eighth incarnation, specifically. But that's it."
He frowns, absorbing the information. Then, "Silk cravat and all, huh?"
Amara lightly hits his shoulder, a smile of her own playing on her lips. There's a question she needs to know the answer to, though she's not sure she'll like it.
"Is it always like that? The traveling through the Crack, I mean. Is it always that painful?" she asks apprehensively.
"You grow accustomed to it over time. You've told me before that you know when you're about to 'jump', as we call it, when you feel the tugging. You say it's like the Crack is calling you. Just know that wherever you'll be, I'll always be there to catch you. Eventually." Red eyes widen at that, but the Doctor is quick to change the subject. The gleam in his eye tells her, Spoilers. "But pain wise, it grows easier over time. It's disorienting, I'm sure, being ripped through time and thrown into different places across my timestream." Amara stares at him blankly. "But don't worry, it's like riding a bike!"
"I can't ride bikes. I don't know how."
The Doctor stares at her silently for a good three minutes, then promptly explodes with laughter. It's loud and joyful, and so him. Amara finds herself smiling, and then giggling along with him. She looks up at him, amazed.
"You really are my Stranger, aren't you?"
He sets his gaze on hers once again, and Amara knows she will never get used to him looking at her like that. Like she's as big a part of his life as he is for her.
"As long as you'll have me."