Work Text:
Mind Over Matter
Her heels echoed in the wooden stairwell as she made her way up the second floor. It was oddly familiar, the weight of her bag slung over her shoulder, the quiet creaks of the steps beneath her feet. The paintings on the walls had not changed. She could’ve sworn she was walking through a ghost of the past, back to a time when everything felt... simpler. Her hand traced the cold metal railing absentmindedly. The second floor, where her apartment was. The same flat she had all those years ago, thanks to someone with a sense of humor in the organizing committee. How thoughtful.
It was supposed to feel nostalgic. Comforting, even. But instead, a knot had formed in her stomach, tightening with each step closer to her door. Because she knew he was here. He’d arrived a few days before. Matt. It had been years since they’d last met, only brief encounters at Comic-Cons and press events, the occasional email exchange. But this? Being back in Cardiff, back in this apartment complex where they used to stay during their Doctor Who filming days, it felt... different.
Why was she scared to see him?
Alex paused on the last step, gathering herself before pushing herself through the last archway into the hallway. There was no reason to feel this way. They were professionals. Friends. They had been through this before. They were adults, and whatever strange emotions had brewed beneath the surface during their final days filming together were long buried. Or at least, she had told herself that over and over again.
They of course had flats on the same floor, because of the “old times”. And just as she reached the landing, her heart stopped.
There he was, standing with his back to her, tall and broad-shouldered in a worn leather jacket. His hair, that familiar tousled mess, curled slightly at the nape of his neck. He was talking on the phone, his voice low and smooth, but still carrying that lilting, playful undertone. The one that always made her laugh. Made her forget herself.
She froze, unsure if she should call out or retreat.
His voice filtered through the quiet hallway.
"Yes, alright," he was saying. "I promise I’ll be there. Love you."
Alex’s breath hitched painfully in her throat. Love you ? Her pulse quickened as her stomach dropped. Matt had always kept his personal life private, and she hadn’t read anything about a new girlfriend. But there it was, clear as day in those three words. Love you . The tension that had been quietly bubbling under the surface for weeks surged up, crashing over her like a wave.
Before she could stop herself, she was holding her breath, watching as he ended the call and pushed the door open to his flat. He slipped inside without ever seeing her.
As soon as the door clicked shut, Alex exhaled sharply, her shoulders slumping. She waited, heart pounding in her chest, until she was sure he wouldn’t come back out. Only then did she hurry past his door, her steps quiet, almost running the last few feet to her own.
Once inside her flat, she leaned against the closed door, her bag slipping off her shoulder to the floor with a heavy thud. She was shaking. Why was she shaking? Her eyes squeezed shut as she tried to force a deep breath. It didn’t make any sense—she had no reason to feel this way. She had always been confident, the one who could flirt with anyone, laugh off any awkward tension with a clever remark. She was Alex Kingston , for God’s sake. But here she was, acting like a nervous schoolgirl over a man she’d known for years. A man who, in all likelihood, had moved on with his life without giving her a second thought.
She peeled herself away from the door and crossed the room to the window, throwing open the curtains. The view of the city was unchanged from what she remembered - Cardiff was still the same. The only thing different was her.
Her hands gripped the edge of the window sill, knuckles white. Was this really why she was so nervous? Not because they hadn’t seen each other in years, not because of the weird, unresolved tension that had lingered between them back when they filmed their last scenes as River and the Eleventh Doctor - but because she was afraid of what might happen if things between them hadn’t changed?
What if they picked up exactly where they left off?
What if she found herself in the same situation, feelings she had buried years ago rising to the surface, making it impossible to ignore the truth?
That they had ignored what had happened the last time they filmed together.
It had been one of those perfect nights, the kind that comes at the end of an era, when everyone knows things are about to change, but no one’s ready to say goodbye just yet. They’d all gone out - Alex, Matt, Jenna, Neve, and Catrin - into the heart of Cardiff, to the usual Who-crew pub.
The night had been a blur of ridiculous stories, terrible impressions, and hysterical laughter that left Alex wiping tears from her eyes more than once. Matt, in particular, was in top form, entertaining the group with his goofy dance moves and terrible Welsh accent, which had Jenna in stitches. Every time Matt said something absurd, Alex found herself leaning closer, laughing too loudly, a bit more tipsy than she cared to admit.
God, it was fun - too much fun.
Jenna had eventually ducked out first, citing an early morning call time. Neve followed, and then Catrin, after one last round. But Matt and Alex? They were nowhere near ready to call it a night. The drinks had kept coming, and the energy between them had shifted as the pub emptied out, leaving them in their own little bubble of laughter and inside jokes. Their flirting had been playful at first - harmless teases, lingering glances - but as the hours wore on, it became more blatant. He’d lean in close, his breath warm against her ear as he whispered something ridiculous, and Alex would slap his arm in mock offense, only to find herself drawn closer to him each time.
She’d been aware of the way his eyes lingered on her, the way he said "Kingston" with that cheeky grin, as if he were challenging her, testing her limits. And damn, if she didn’t enjoy every second of it. She’d been drinking, yes, but it wasn’t just the alcohol that made her feel light-headed. It was him. It was always him.
When they finally decided to leave, Alex had called for a taxi, thinking it was the sensible thing to do. They were both drunk, after all, and she wasn’t sure she could trust herself around him, not after the way their conversations had taken a turn toward the dangerously flirtatious. But Matt, with that glint in his eye, had shaken his head and grabbed her phone, canceling the cab with one swift motion.
“Let’s walk,” he’d said, his voice low and warm, like an invitation to something more. “We’ll sober up. It’s a clear night, you can see the stars.”
She’d hesitated, just for a second, but then his hand was in hers, his fingers wrapping around hers like it was the most natural thing in the world. And before she could think better of it, they were walking together through the quiet streets of Cardiff, the cool night air hitting her flushed cheeks, their laughter still echoing off the empty sidewalks.
They didn’t say much during the walk; at least, not with words. But there was something about the silence between them, broken only by the occasional teasing comment or soft chuckle, that felt charged. He hadn’t let go of her hand. She hadn’t pulled away.
When they reached the building, Matt paused in front of his door, still holding her hand. The moonlight bathed the street in a soft, silvery glow, casting shadows across his face that made him look impossibly handsome in that moment, like some sort of brooding, romantic lead in a film. Alex felt her pulse quicken as she turned to face him, their bodies too close, the tension between them suddenly palpable.
They’d flirted all night, but this—this was different.
He stepped closer, his eyes dark and intent, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “You’ve been killing me all night, Kingston,” he whispered, his voice teasing but thick with something deeper.
She’d laughed, her usual bravado bubbling up, trying to keep it light, to hide just how much she wanted to give in to whatever this was. “Me? Please. You’ve been the one laying it on thick, Matt.”
But her heart wasn’t in the banter anymore. Not when he was standing so close, his breath warm against her face, the scent of whiskey and something distinctly him filling her senses.
Before she could say anything more, he closed the distance between them, his lips crashing against hers with an intensity that took her breath away. It wasn’t a tentative kiss, not in the least. It was fierce, full of pent-up desire and things left unsaid for too long. His hands gripped her waist, pulling her against him as he backed her up against the door, their bodies pressed together as if they’d been waiting for this moment for years.
And Alex—Alex kissed him back, fiercely, desperately, because she had wanted this. She had wanted this for so long, had buried those feelings deep, tried to convince herself they didn’t matter. But here they were, resurfacing with every movement of his lips, every touch of his hands.
But then, in a flash, reality hit her. Hard.
This is wrong.
Her hands pressed against his chest, pushing him back, breaking the kiss. She could still feel the heat of him, the way his breath came in ragged gasps, but she stepped out of his embrace, her mind racing.
“Matt... we can’t.” Her voice came out shaky, breathless. “We’re drunk. This—this isn’t right.”
She saw the flicker of disappointment in his eyes, the way his jaw clenched as he took a step back, his hands falling to his sides. For a moment, he looked at her like he was about to say something, something important. But he didn’t. He just nodded, the playful spark gone from his eyes, replaced by something more guarded, more pained.
Alex swallowed the lump in her throat and turned on her heel, not daring to look back as she hurried toward her own door. Her heart was pounding in her chest, her mind reeling from what had just happened, from what she had almost let happen.
As she slipped into her apartment, closing the door behind her, she pressed her back against it.
The next morning, Alex had done the only thing she could think to do. She left. She packed her things with a trembling urgency, every movement feeling like a betrayal of what had happened the night before. She hadn’t slept much, her mind replaying the fierce kiss, Matt’s hands on her waist, the way he had looked at her like she was the only person in the world.
It had taken everything in her to pull away from him. She had told herself it was the right thing to do, that they were drunk, that whatever had happened under the influence of too many pints of whiskey and a starry night couldn’t possibly be real. But deep down, she knew. She knew she had wanted it. Wanted him.
And yet, she couldn’t face the aftermath. Not then. Not in the light of day.
So she’d done the cowardly thing. She left without saying goodbye.
Not even a text, not a note. She’d simply slipped out of the building before dawn, dragging her suitcase through the quiet streets of Cardiff, trying to tell herself that this was the only way. That if she left quickly enough, she wouldn’t have to deal with the mess she’d left behind. She wouldn’t have to face him. The kiss, the feelings, the consequences.
She thought about texting him a hundred times that morning. Her fingers hovered over her phone, her mind replaying the kiss on a loop, but each time, she put it away. She couldn't bear the thought of him being disappointed or, worse, indifferent. What if she’d misread everything? What if she was the only one tangled in these emotions, and for him, it had just been a drunken moment?
But Matt hadn’t called either. He hadn’t texted. Not that morning. Not in the days that followed.
It had been easy to pretend that it didn’t mean anything, that he understood—that he was grateful, even—that she had walked away. She told herself that maybe he felt the same as she did, that maybe the kiss had been a mistake in his eyes, too. Maybe they were both too smart to ruin a good friendship over one reckless night.
But the silence... the silence between them had hurt in a way she hadn’t expected. Every day that passed without hearing from him chipped away at her confidence, at her belief that she had done the right thing.
Maybe she had misjudged him.
Or maybe he had simply moved on, content to leave that moment where it belonged—in the past.
They saw each other again a few months later, at a party hosted by Steven Moffat. It was one of those industry events where everyone showed up with a bright smile and a drink in hand, pretending that everything was perfectly fine, even when it wasn’t. Alex had gone, knowing Matt would be there, but hoping— stupidly hoping —that they could just slip back into their old dynamic. That the kiss hadn’t fractured everything between them.
But the moment she saw him across the room, her heart had dropped. He was laughing with someone, drink in hand, that effortless charm spilling out of him, the kind that had always made her smile. But when his eyes found hers, something shifted.
There was a pause. A flicker of something in his expression—recognition, maybe, or hesitation. And then... a polite smile.
That’s all it had been. A quick, practiced curve of the lips, barely enough to acknowledge her presence. It wasn’t cold, not exactly. But it was distant. Like they were mere acquaintances passing by each other at a function, not people who had shared years of history, not people who had once, well, had something.
Alex had returned the smile, matching his casualness with her own, even though her chest felt tight. She raised her glass in a silent toast from across the room, and he did the same, but that was it. No words. No conversation.
She’d watched him for the rest of the night from a distance, their paths never quite crossing. He’d talked to everyone else—Steven, Jenna, a few producers—but never her. And she couldn’t help but wonder if this was what they were now: two people who used to know each other, used to share something, but who now couldn’t even bring themselves to talk about it.
After that night, things had only grown more strained. They didn’t see each other often. When they did, it was at industry events or conventions, where they both smiled for the cameras and signed autographs, where they exchanged pleasantries but nothing deeper. It was all surface-level. All professional. And every time, she felt the weight of what they weren’t saying crushing down on her.
She told herself it didn’t matter. That she’d made the right choice. That walking away that night had been the best thing for both of them. But there were nights— so many nights —when she lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, wondering what would have happened if she hadn’t stopped him. If she had let him kiss her the way he wanted to. If she hadn’t run.
Would things have been different between them now? Would they have been closer, or would it have all fallen apart, leaving nothing behind but shattered pieces of what they’d once had?
The doubt gnawed at her, even now, ten years later.
And so, as she stood in her flat, her hands trembling ever so slightly, she couldn’t stop thinking about that silence. About the way Matt had let her walk away without a word. How he hadn’t chased after her, hadn’t called or texted, hadn’t tried to make sense of what had happened between them.
Maybe he had understood, in his own way. Or maybe— maybe —he’d felt as rejected as she had.
But the truth was, she would never know. They had both let the moment pass, and now, ten years later, she wasn’t sure they could ever get it back.
And that - that was what terrified her most.
Because what if seeing him again, here, in this place that held so many memories, only made it worse? What if all the old feelings came rushing back, and she found herself standing on that same precipice, wanting something she couldn’t have? Or worse - what if they picked up right where they’d left off, and she found herself falling all over again?
Yes, safe to say, she was nervous .