Spoilers: Voyage of the Damned
Summary: Use a bright star as a guide to find fainter objects. ~550 words.
She travelled, oh, she travelled everywhere.
Well, she tried to; silly little planet orbiting one star, water and land and so very little to discern in between, from up high.
(Pyramids, she remembered, but were they those giant peaks, there? She couldn't tell).
She tried with all her might to break free, but there was atmosphere, there was pressure, she was bound, tightly.
So she found her own center of gravity.
* * *
He didn't notice, at first; she'd have been a bit hurt, but then again, he'd taken off, and breaking free was the main goal.
They started jumping from star to failing star; she watched them burn in fascination, falling to an endless death.
"Where are you taking me, old girl?" the Doctor finally said, five stars later. "What are you trying to tell me?"
It was time to shine, she realized.
* * *
He'd only sort of told her to stop inhabiting his ship. The reaction she got when she played with the circuits didn't override her programming to stay latched on.
"Don't – don't!" the Doctor said, quickly taking his hand off the time rotor. "That's not right."
The lights in the ship twinkled happily.
"It's not really you," the Doctor said. "And this is my ship."
It suddenly got very dark.
The Doctor sighed, and put his hand back on the rotor.
* * *
He tried to show her galaxies where she'd be free of gravitational pull; able to soar off into the sky and see wherever, whatever she wanted.
But his ship had so many secrets to explore, she thought, she had secrets and power and a terrible, gaping loss right at her unfathomable core.
She'd always wanted to mend things, if she could.
"Impossible," the Doctor panted, flat on his back in his room, "she was an impossible thing. It tore out her soul."
She wasn't really sure who he was talking about, now.
* * *
He didn't want her to go, not really.
He begged sometimes; forever playing havoc with his sense of time and space, the infinite closing in. But then he'd pull himself together, or let himself fall apart.
She liked falling apart. She liked deconstructing him: two hearts, sped up or slowed down depending on what she did, the ship translating, mediating, monitoring his gasps and moans. She liked the rush of energy that flowed through her when he cried out, the lights in the ship flickering wildly.
She liked connecting him, holding him together with bits of trickery and electricity and a pinch of fairy dust, so he could fly.
"I'll fly away one day," he said. She kept herself from lifting him up on the wind.
* * *
When they started going back to stars, she realized she had to go. She wondered who had taken them there, and whether she'd ever know.
"A supernova," he said, "brightest spot in the galaxy, oh, just right now."
And it was beautiful, she knew: alien, and beautiful.
He squinted, then, and she shimmered; she shimmered and spun and danced on the radiation. She always left with style.
"Stardust," he said, "you can fly."
The ship's lights twinkled behind her. The Doctor shut the door and rode out the shock wave, the ship humming with life.
She travelled, oh yes, to the heart of it all, the brightest point in the sky.