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The icy wind bouncing off of the cave walls still chills you to the bone, despite the warmth of the fire. You try to fold your legs a little closer to your torso, trying to keep as much body heat as possible, and pull the Doctor’s coat tighter around your shoulders.
Seeing him be without it in an environment like this bothers you despite his assurances that Gallifreyans are much less sensitive than humans when it comes to extreme temperatures. You still keep searching his skin for any signs of frostbite, just in case. As expected, there’s nothing there. It’s not enough to ease your mind.
Maybe it would be better if he was doing anything else but sitting on the cold cavern floor near you. If he paced from one wall to the next, for instance, he’d at least keep his muscles working. But as of right now, he’s only staring into the fire, throwing some more wood from the slowly shrinking pile into it once in a while to keep the flame from going out.
He doesn’t talk, and neither do you. The howling of the storm outside and the crackling of the campfire are the only sounds filling the air.
Had this happened at the beginning of your travels with him, you probably would have been upset with his silence. Angry that he doesn’t ask enough questions about your well-being, that his face remains stuck in that everlasting scowl, leaving you wondering if he is ever scared or worried, if he even really cares. But you know better now.
You see his worry in the way he sits much closer to you than his usual comfort zone, and the side glances he gives you whenever he thinks you aren’t looking. You see his fear in the way he can’t look you in the eye, desperate to keep up his tough front.
He always feels the need to stay strong for you. For everyone. And as much as you admire his ability to be (or at least seem) well put together in the most dangerous situations for the sake of the people he helps, you wish he’d let others help him, too.
Your mind is blank right now, ready to accept anything that life gives you. But how much is on his mind? What horrors is his brain cooking up for him this time?
A distraction, that’s what he needs. Something new to focus on. You can give him that much.
“Doctor?”
“Hmm?”
“Can you tell me a story?”
Finally, he looks at you.
“A story? Now?”
“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do when you’re sitting by the campfire? Besides, you’re a thousand-and-something-year-old time traveller. I’m sure you’ve got enough stories to fill up a library.”
He hums in response, thinking for a moment.
“I suppose I do.”
You feel him shuffle a little closer to you.
“Alright then. Listen.”
He begins to tell a tale of how he once landed on a planet where stories were outlawed and any sort of creativity was punished. Where the only media the inhabitants interacted with were news and documentaries. All facts, no fiction. Stifling. Boring. He speaks of the rebel frequency that showed stories, and how the person responsible for it was hunted by the government. How he (the Doctor) and his companions put an end to all of that. And when that’s done, he moves on to the next. And the next. And the next…
Stories of stumbling into an adventure or seeking it out, alone or with others, of helping people in need or getting into trouble for no reason, of exploration and danger and beauty and wonder coming to life through his words and your imagination. He gets more and more into it with each one, his descriptions becoming more lively and engaging, sometimes even including commentary regarding his own past actions or the actions of others, which adds a whole new layer of entertainment. His own worries and fears are melting away right in front of you, and you’re delighted to see a spark return into his eyes.
You could’ve listened to him for ages, but sitting in front of a fire inside of a somewhat wind-protected place has warmed you immensely, and the sound of the Doctor’s voice and his comforting presence at your side are slowly lulling you to sleep. Soon, you can’t focus on what he’s saying. Your eyes grow heavy and flutter closed, allowing you to drift off to sleep.
The Doctor keeps going for a short while after that, but stops when he notices that you haven’t commented on anything he’s been saying. (It’s weird that you wouldn’t, considering its contents. If there’s anything worth commenting on, it’s shenanigans involving Jack and an undercover op gone wrong. Especially since it happened after he became immortal, allowing him to be even more recklessly unhinged than when he was a normal human.)
“Are you liste-” he begins to ask, but then sees you slumbering in a very uncomfortable-looking hunched over position that looks like it’ll give you back pains in the morning, so he carefully manoeuvres you to lie down, trying his best not to wake you. He succeeds. “There you go,” he mutters after setting you down. “Much better.”
He adjusts his coat to cover you a little more and gives you one last fond look before turning back towards the fire. And that’s how he stays all night: guarding your sleep, stoking the fire, and listening for the sound of a fading snowstorm outside.