Chapter Text
It was another sleepless night, although for once not because of nightmares but because next-doors teenagers were having an unsupervised party.
Donna Noble turned over in her bed, annoyed by the thudding music and her inability to get comfortable in any position. Beside her, Shaun snored softly, oblivious to the beat.
“It’s alright for some,” Donna muttered. “I’d have more chance sleeping at Heathrow. On the runway!”
In search of company, or peace, she climbed out of bed and wrapped herself in her purple dressing gown, and crept downstairs. It was just after midnight and the sofa, the Doctor’s bed in the overcrowded house, was empty. Donna was not surprised. If she found the noise overwhelming, his sensitive Time Lord hearing must have had enough of this hours ago.
She crossed the living room and opened the back door, stepping out onto the patio. Funny, she thought, how quickly she had got used to just popping out to the TARDIS. She padded across the slabs and knocked softly on the TARDIS door.
There was no answer, but the door swung open and Donna remembered the Doctor saying something about setting the locking protocols to “Family”. Closing the door behind her, Donna enjoyed the sudden, blissful silence, closing her eyes and inhaling deeply.
She scuffed up the ramp in her slippers and gave the console an affectionate pat.
“Where is he then?” she asked the ship.
The TARDIS obligingly illuminated the appropriate corridor.
“Thanks, sweetheart.”
Donna wondered when it had become natural for her to talk to the TARDIS. It had felt so strange at first, but now a conversation with the old time machine was just part of her day.
Instinct told Donna where to look, although the TARDIS helpfully guided the way to the observatory. The door was shut, but Donna tapped on it three times and pushed it open without waiting.
As she got used to the dimness, Donna gazed in awe at millions of pinpricks of light that hung throughout the room. They swam in an ocean of black and amongst wisps of neon nebula, the holographic interface spilling into the body of the room with suns, worlds, galaxies, all within Donna’s reach.
At the centre of the room stood the Doctor, back to the door. He was staring at the stars, lost deep within them, shoulders sagging low, sleeves rolled up, hands deep in his trouser pockets.
Tugging her dressing gown into place, Donna braced herself for the intense surge of empathy that threatened to overwhelm her. She crossed the room, careful not to engage the gestural interface and accidentally move any of the stars with an errant flick of her hand.
She knew the Doctor had heard her from the way he stiffened, but he didn’t turn. Donna walked to his side, close enough that he could feel her presence, but not touching. She followed his gaze into the star field and watched as a tiny cluster of lights faded away.
A small crystalline box at the Doctor’s feet flashed once.
Donna turned her head to look at the Doctor. In profile she could see the deep lines around his eyes, the taut jaw, and the rigid muscles standing out on his neck. Another constellation blinked out of existence and the Doctor swallowed hard.
The light at the Doctor’s feet pulsed again.
Donna looked from the stars to the box and back again. Another light flickered and vanished. She looked at the Doctor, her expression gentle but curious.
The Doctor took a deep breath and pursed his lips, forcing words to form.
“Updating the star charts. For navigation,” He said in a tight voice. “First chance I’ve had since... The Flux.”
Donna watched a brighter light snuffed out.
“That’s...” she gestured to the vanishing lights, appalled. “These are all the worlds that were...”
She trailed off, not wanting to finish the sentence.
“Burned.”
The Doctor’s voice was distant and bitter. He looked down at the box for a moment.
“I’m preserving their memory.” His breath shuddered, and he looked back at the stars. “In time, they will all just be forgotten. In a few thousand years, no-one will remember those worlds ever existed.”
He looked at Donna, his face creased with pain.
“I couldn’t let them pass unnoticed.”
Donna extended her fingers and brushed the Doctor’s wrist, offering contact. At first he didn’t respond, but then slowly took the hand from his pocket and gathered her fingers into his tightly.
“I started counting,” he said, his voice quiet and distant. “Populations… worlds… galaxies...”
He let go of Donna’s hand and stepped away, looked up at the shrunken universe
“Half the universe, remembered as a meaningless number.”
The Doctor stared upwards into the new, dark hollows amongst the stars.
“It’s all so futile!” His voice turned cold and furious as he ground out the last word.
He turned back to Donna, arms wide, his expression etched with pain, brow twisted in failed comprehension.
“How can that be enough?”
Donna closed her eyes at the crack in his voice and shook her head. No-one could understand that much death. Not even a Time Lord.
“It can’t,” she said. “I don’t suppose anything can.”
The Doctor’s arms dropped, cold fury dulled by Donna’s empathy. He slipped his hands back into his pockets and looked up. Where stars had once been now lay great wastes of black, desolate space. The vast emptiness pressed down on him.
“They created the Flux because of me.”
Donna looked across at him, watching the muscles in his jaw twitch. She forced her voice to stay steady.
“That doesn’t make it your fault.”
“I know,” he said, feeling his voice break.
The Doctor tilted his head to face the darkening skies, Adam’s apple ratcheting up this throat. Silent tears pricking his eyes.
Donna stepped closer to his side, letting their shoulders touch.
He couldn’t tell her who had done this. Couldn’t tell her why. To think of the Ravagers brought up other connections, memories lost, and memories he would rather forget. Things he wasn’t ready to share. Division. The crooked house. That woman.
That woman. He balked at the memory of her name. Of who she was to him.
Donna took his hand. Half the universe was dark now, and they stood in the dimming light, shoulder to shoulder, watching the last stars flicker and die.
There could be no more running, no diversions, no sudden distress calls to save him from awkward conversations. And so he held her hand, and together they let the rest of the stars go out, in silence.