a/n: This is a departure for me, because I am no poet, and I frankly know nothing about poetry beyond a college level poetry class I took a million years ago, but She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron got stuck in my head this morning, and this is the result. Obviously, Lord Byron's poem, which I've quoted here, does not belong to me. The Doctor's opinions on Lord Byron's works are his own, and are not necessarily shared by the author.

This is intended as a one-shot, and I'm marking it complete, but I may change my mind. Who knows.

In Dreams She Comes

She comes to him in dreams, more often now than she has for centuries. No, that's a lie. He's very good at it, lying, particularly to himself; it's a skill he's honed over millennia after all. In truth, not a day has gone by that he hasn't thought of her, at least once or twice, sometimes with the twinge of nostalgia brought on by fresh loss and old age, sometimes with a terrible longing he hadn't believed this incarnation capable of. It was an ironic gift of the blindness, the ability to see her face more clearly now than he had for centuries: on a space station, glowing with the energy of the Vortex; under a black hole, kissing the helmet of his space suit; lying on the floor of the console room, laughing with the sheer joy of living; and most often, in a darkened, war-torn street her lips slowly curling up into a smile, her light blonde hair falling loose upon her shoulders, her brown eyes twinkling as she spotted him.

In his dreams that scene ended differently, with a long-awaited kiss, exuberant because that was who he had been in those days, a kiss filled with the joy of reconciliation and passion for the girl whom he'd believed he'd never see again.

He shut his eyes for a moment, savoring the false memory, and absently traced a finger over his lips. Different lips to be sure, but still his own.

"'She walks in beauty as the night,'" he quoted softly.

"That's Shakespeare, isn't it?" Bill asked from somewhere to the left and slightly behind him.

He started, startled by the sound of her voice. He'd thought himself alone.

"Nah, that'll be Robert Browning," Nardole responded. Ahead of him, six paces. Other side of the console? Possibly. When had they come in, and how had he not noticed? Too lost in his thoughts, he expected. "All that lovey dovey stuff's a bit too sentimental for my taste."

The Doctor reached into an inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out his sonic sunglasses. He slipped them on with an air of nonchalance.

"You're both wrong. It's Lord Byron," he corrected. "One of the greatest poets who ever lived." With the aid of the sunglasses, from his position sitting on the stairs in the TARDIS control room, he could now *see* in front of him the console, its glowing time rotor reaching up to the ceiling, and two humanoid life forms, one standing on the side of the console nearest the door, the other walking across the room towards the console. As he had predicted, Nardole was the one on the far side of the console, his life readings humanish rather than strictly human.

As Bill came to a stop in front of the monitor, the Doctor stood. He tugged at his jacket to straighten it before crossing unerringly to join her. He was getting better at this, he thought, pretending to not be blind. Of course, the glasses helped.

"One of the greatest human poets, maybe," Nardole responded, the skepticism heavy in his voice clearly indicating he didn't think much of Lord Byron, or of human poets in general. Given his attitude on humans in general, it wasn't surprising.

"One of the greatest poets, and not just of humans," the Doctor corrected.

"If you say so," Nardole said dubiously.

"I do say so, and I am the world's utmost authority on poetry."

Beside him, Bill let out a distinctly unladylike snort of derision. "You? The world's utmost authority on poetry? Yeah, right. Monsters and creepy-crawlies, maybe, but poetry?"

He ignored her. "Lord Byron wrote about the universal constants of truth and beauty, heartbreak and loss. His words transcend the boundaries of time and space and species; they speak to all peoples, in all times.

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impaired the nameless grace

Which waves in every blonde tress...

"Shouldn't that be raven tress?" interrupted Nardole.

"That's what I said, raven tress," the Doctor answered sharply, cross at being interrupted.

"No, you didn't," Bill told him. "You definitely said 'blonde'."

The Doctor frowned. "Blonde, raven, what does it matter?"

"It matters because Byron was comparing the woman to the night," Nardole stated flatly. Know-it-all, thought the Doctor crossly. "Black hair, black night. Blonde hair, black night..." Nardole shook his head. "Just not the same. Doesn't work from an artistic standpoint."

The Doctor rolled his eyes. "And I suppose you're the final authority of all things artistic?"

Nardole thought for a moment. "Yes," he said finally. At Bill's hoot of laughter, he continued, "Well, it certainly isn't either of you."

Bill threw up her hands. Or at least that's what it looked like she was doing. It was hard to tell. "No arguments here. I haven't got an artistic bone in my body, not for poetry at any rate. Can't make heads nor tails of what they're saying half the time. Totally beyond me."

"Don't put yourself down, Bill," the Doctor said. "You like music, don't you? Poetry's a bit like that, using words to paint a picture and evoke an emotional response."

"Like you'd know what an emotional response is," Nardole said, not quite under his breath.

"Shut up, Nardole," he said automatically and turned back to Bill. With the glasses, he could only see her shape, he couldn't see her clearly but he imagined she was looking at him. He reached down and took one of her hands in both of his. "Bill, in some ways poetry is the truest form of communication. It speaks from the heart, and you have the biggest heart of anyone I know."

She didn't answer immediately, and he imagined her biting her lip as he had seen her do many times in the past.

As she had done when feeling uncertain.

"Tell me another one," Bill said in a rush. "From someone else."

"Oh, no, I can't..." the Doctor protested.

"Please? Pretty please, with a cherry on top?"

"I don't remember any..."

"Sure you do," Nardole interjected. "You were quick enough with the Byron a minute ago. You must have thousands of poems in that gigantic brain of yours. Give her one."

The Doctor shot him a dark look, or at least shot a dark look in Nardole's general direction, and heard Bill laugh quietly, like she was trying to hide it. He wished he could have seen Nardole's response. It had probably been a good one, knowing the Doctor couldn't see it, full of rolling eyes or a tongue sticking out or something.

"Please, Doctor?" Bill pleaded, and he sighed in resignation. He was never able to say no to her, just as he'd never been able to say no to her.

He thought about reciting a sonnet by Shakespeare, and then just as quickly discarded the notion. No, something by Robert Burns, he decided. With his voice, his accent, Burns would suit. But when he opened his mouth, something far different came out.

"She comes to me in dreams

Wearing an ancient T-shirt and faded jeans

Bottle-blonde hair piled high atop her head

She is loveliness itself

Her countenance outshone only by the beauty of her heart.

She comes to me in dreams

On plimsoll-clad feet she barges in

She turns my empty house into a home

With just one touch she steals my heart

With a single kiss, I die and am reborn

She comes to me in dreams

An avenging angel glowing far too brightly

In her light, my darkness recedes

With the wave of a hand she saves my life

With just two words, she saves my soul

Only in dreams she comes to me

Since in life she can come no more

Yet, despite her absence, she is with me still

And will be evermore."

His voice trailed off, and in the quiet he heard Bill's breath catch.

"That," she said, "That was beautiful. Who was that, then? Not Lord Byron, I'm assuming, and the language is far too modern for Shakespeare."

"Woo hoo hoo!" Nardole exclaimed. "Look at you!" Inwardly the Doctor winced.

"What?" asked Bill, puzzlement clear in her voice.

"Don't you get it? He wrote it, himself, and just now I expect. Could do with some polishing, but nice first try. Very nice." Nardole chuckled. "Who would have thought. You, a poet. River never said."

"Who's River again?" Bill asked.

"The missus."

"Oh, you mean the woman in the photo on his desk?"

"Yep."

"So, the poem's about River then?"

"Expect so," answered Nardole. "Although I must say I never saw her wear, what was it, an ancient T-shirt and faded jeans?"

"The poem's not about River," the Doctor interjected.

"Woo hoo hoo!" Nardole and Bill cried in unison.

The Doctor groaned. "This is getting out of hand. The two of you are acting like a couple of gossipy schoolgirls."

"I, uh, am a gossipy schoolgirl," Bill said.

"That's no excuse!" he snapped. "And Nardole certainly isn't one!"

"So, if it wasn't about River, who was it about?"

"It's unimportant."

"I'd say it's very important," Nardole interjected, "if you wrote an entire poem about her."

Nardole and Bill fell silent, and in his mind's eye he imagined they both stood in front of him frowning, arms crossed across their chests in identical poses, waiting for him to continue.

He could never win when they ganged up on him like that.

"Oh, all right, her name was Rose. Satisfied now? Have I answered all of your urgently burning questions?"

"Not yet," Bill answered. "So, what happened to her? From the way the poem ended, I assume she died."

"No, she's still alive, or at least I expect she is. She always will be, to me at any rate."

"So, if she's not dead, what happened?" Bill urged. "You know, gimme the dirt. I want the juicy details."

"You want the…" He turned to Nardole. Or at least he assumed it was Nardole. "I suppose you do too."

"Hell, no. None of my business. I know far too much about your private life as it is."

"See?" the Doctor said triumphantly. "Nardole doesn't need to know. You should be more like Nardole. And believe me that's something I never, ever dreamed I would say. Nor ever intend to say again."

"Nardole," Bill wheedled. "Doctor, please?"

Nardole let out a heavy sigh. "Humans," he muttered. "Well, all right. Spill. Nothing good on telly tonight anyway."

"All right, short answer is, I married her," the Doctor said. "Or at least I think I did. That's certainly the direction it was headed when I left."

"What do you mean, you think you married her? You either married her or you didn't."

"Well, I can't be completely sure, can I? I wasn't there at the time."

"What do you mean, you weren't there?"

"You humans and your limited, linear, four-dimensional thinking," the Doctor snapped. "I think you'll find life can be a bit more complicated a tad farther along the evolutionary ladder."

"Oi!" Bill protested.

Nardole groaned. "Bill, don't even bother. He's getting in one of his moods again. Probably hungry I expect. Come on, help me make tea. I've got some little biscuits hidden away that I save for when he gets cross. Currant jam filling. Perks him right up. That and a cup of tea will set him to rights."

"Oh, all right," Bill said. "But don't put coffee in the tea this time. It tastes nasty when you do that."

Nardole sniffed, affronted. "Humans. Not a single decent taste bud amongst the lot of you."

They made their way up the ramp, headed towards the TARDIS's door, when Bill suddenly stopped, causing Nardole to bump into her. She whirled around.

"Doctor, one last thing. In that poem, you said she said two words that saved you. What were they?"

He hesitated, just for a moment. Words had power, and those more than most. He tried never to utter them unnecessarily. But perhaps this one time… "Bad Wolf," he said softly.

"Bad Wolf? Seriously? As in, who's afraid of the?"

He could sense her staring at him, waiting for a response, but he didn't, couldn't answer.

"Ow!" Bill cried out suddenly, jumping to one side. Another foot and she'd have fallen off the ramp. The Doctor realized Nardole had poked her. He was never as grateful for Nardole as he was at that moment.

"Told you," Nardole said. "A mood."

"Yes," the Doctor agreed, nodding. "I'm in a mood. Fetch me some of those delicious artificially flavored currant biscuit things. And maybe some Jammie Dodgers. Perk me right up." He flashed them a quick, false grin that seemed to appease Bill, because they left with no further questions.

After the TARDIS door shut behind them, he pulled off his sunglasses and vigorously rubbed his forehead. Using them the way he was, to bypass his damaged optical nerve and send data straight to his brain, inflamed and irritated his nerve endings, causing massive headaches and risking further, permanent damage, but he had no choice. It was worth it, to protect Bill from the knowledge of his blindness.

The pain slowly subsided, and he closed his eyes. "To sleep, perchance to dream," he murmured. His mouth twisted into a small smile, and as he drifted off he uttered two words. The words of her summoning.

The words of his salvation.

"Bad Wolf."

And she came.