Work Text:
It’s a cold, cold night when Wilf answers the door to find a ghost standing on his doorstep, clad in a brand-new suit.
The old man offers the ancient a shaky smile, tempered by relief and curiosity.
"What’d I tell you? All that... blatherin’ on, how you’d change..." Wilf scoffs. "You haven’t changed a bit, have you?"
His old friend lowers his head, clenching his jaw and scuffing the ground with his shoes.
"Have you?" Wilf asks, insistent.
"I'm sorry," is what the Doctor offers up in lieu of any reassurances.
Wilf’s hand flies up, cupping his trembling jaw before his brain even has the chance to register the act.
The fresh wave of grief drags him into the depths and swallows him whole.