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“Doctor,” she says, leaning against the frame of the door, backlit by the flickering hallway light.
He glances up from the book he’s been idly flipping though—he’s read it before, too many times to count, to the point that every word has been permanently picked into his memory—and pushes his reading glasses up his nose. “Donna. Still up?”
“It’s not that late.”
He smirks at the poking tease in her voice and puts the book quietly on the bedside table.
“Good book?” she asks.
“Oh, excellent.” He rubs the corner of his eye, fights back a yawn. It takes the impact out of his statement, bleeds it dry of importance. Well. No harm done, really. It’s a good book, but only to someone who appreciates the intricacies of theoretical multidimensional subquantum particles.
“I was wondering if you’d want to go somewhere,” she says, breaking his chain of thought.
He quirks a brow at her and leans against the headboard. “In the TARDIS?”
“In a car.”
“A drive?”
“Yeah.” She lifts a shoulder, tilts her head, shifts her weight to one side. “What do you think?”
“I think it sounds good,” he agrees, and he hauls himself to his feet.
They turn the radio off, and it’s quiet. The roads are empty. They wind a slow-trailing path through the city, all the way back to a hill he remembers like a gut punch.
“Does he still come here?” he asks, rapping his knuckle against the window. “Wilf, I mean.”
Donna shakes her head, eases the car into neutral. “Bad joints. The cold makes his arthritis worse.”
“Ah.”
“The telescope is still up there, though.” She parks the car, pulls out the keys, glances over at him. He can just barely make out the edges of her face in the starlight, and the sight of her will never not make his breath catch. She jerks her chin at the hill. “Shall we?”
He spreads a blanket out on the frost-tipped grass and they sit together in the cold until Donna mutters, “I’m going to get hypothermia out here,” and makes her way back to the car to grab a second blanket from the trunk. When she comes back, she wraps it around the two of them and leans against the Doctor’s shoulder.
“How are you?” she asks.
He hums, tilts his gaze to the star-strewn sky. “Doing better.”
“Yeah?”
And he lets his gaze slip to her, feels a smile curl his mouth. “Yeah.”
She rests her head against his. “Me too.”
“How’s your head?”
“Not as empty.”
“In a good way?”
“Yeah, for the most part.”
He exhales. A soft cloud wisps out in front of him and fades into nothing. The city stretches out all around them, a sprawling mess of lights and shadows. It’s—it’s not quiet, not exactly. Or, better put, it’s not the quiet he’s used to. Still, it’s nice. Donna grazes the back of his hand, and he rolls his palm up, threads his fingers through hers.
“This is nice,” he murmurs.
“It is,” Donna agrees. “We should’ve brought snacks, though.”
“Next time.”
“Next time.”
“You know,” he starts. He scratches his chin.
“Yeah?”
Here, the stars are dimmer than the ones he's used to, but he wouldn't trade this moment for any other view. His fingers tighten. Donna's hand is so warm. On impulse, he brings their intertwined hands to his mouth and presses a kiss to her knuckles.
"I've never been good at this," he says against her hand. "Feelings. Well, talking about them."
And she watches him, faint silver light catching in her eyes, spinning out into a gentle coalescence of love, and love, and love.
"But—I'd try." He turns to her, and they're so close he can feel her exhales brushing against his face. "I'd try, Donna, because—you, I—" He flounders. Runs his tongue across the roof of his mouth. "Because you're my best friend, Donna."
She smirks, a fire-witted quip undoubtedly ready, and he hastily forges on before he can get sidetracked into banter.
"You're my best friend. I don't want to lose you again, Donn. I want to travel the stars with you, or at least London. I want to go to Rose's play"—he breaks off into a laugh, scrubs his palm against the corner of his eye—"and yeah, you're right about her."
Donna nods solemnly. "She oughta stick to plushies."
"But," he counters, "the passion is there. She loves it."
"Yeah," Donna agrees. She's staring at him, and he keeps having to haul his restless gaze back into her line of vision.
"And it's—it's been fun, staying with you." Cold air stings his lungs as he inhales. "It's been fun."
"Are you staying longer, then?" she asks.
"I can't promise forever."
She rolls her eyes, bumps her shoulder against his. "Some Time Lord you are."
"But I can promise now," he says.
"And another lottery ticket?"
"Well." He wrinkles his nose, glances back out at the city with a smile. "Maybe not a lottery ticket."
They lapse into silence again, love-soft and natural, and he rests his head against her shoulder.
"I really love you," he murmurs into the night. "I really do."
Donna doesn't reply, but her fingers tighten around his, and it's enough of an answer for him.