Work Text:
“Don’t watch the clock.
Do what it does.
Keep going.”
~Sam Levenson~
The night withdrew only slowly, and the dawning of a new day crawled sluggishly into the land.
Pale sunlight found its way through semi-transparent curtains, casting the living room in a diffuse twilight.
On a mattress, tucked into the farthest corner, lay the Doctor, tightly huddled, his gaze fixed on the wall.
Motionless, with eyes wide-open, he listened to the deep breaths and occasional snores of Donna and Shaun, who were still sound asleep on the sofa at the other side of the room. Tightly entwined. Peaceful. Secure.
He, however, was wide awake.
Well, not wide awake; the Doctor was aware that he was dead tired, but sleep had not been kind to him during the night.
He had actually tried to sleep for once, but every time sleep reached out its tendrils and began to dredge up half-baked, terrible, terrible dream images from his subconscious, the Doctor forcefully resisted.
He knew that if sleep were to overcome him, the nightmares would not be far away, and given that he was pretty sure he shouldn't be sleeping in the same room with two people at the same time. Especially not when those others so desperately needed their own sleep. But he had rested. Just as he had promised. No one could accuse him of anything else. He hadn't run away, hadn't even gotten up, but had spent the whole long night on the soft, clean-smelling mattress.
And it had almost killed him.
That boredom. Those endless, chronological minutes he had to endure doing nothing.
Hour after hour, minute after minute, second after second, while burning adrenaline still raced through his restless body and screamed to be used.
But he had promised Donna. He had promised her that he would try to rest, and deep down, he knew she was right, that he needed it.
Yet, as the pattern of the wallpaper in front of him became clearly visible in the semi-darkness, he decided that he had done his best for this night.
Carefully, so as not to make any noise, he unfolded his arms and legs and sat up. The blanket Donna had coverd him with the night before slipped from his shoulders as the Doctor slowly got to his feet. On tiptoe, he slipped out of the room and quietly closed the door behind him.
In the hallway, he stretched his stiff limbs, let his head circle from one shoulder to the other, and cracked his ankles. "Well then, " he said to himself. "What’s next?"
He had no answer to that.
The damp cold pierced his feet as he left the house and leaned the door shut behind him. He breathed in the fresh morning air as he strolled over to the TARDIS.
"Hello, you," he greeted her softly and gently stroked the blue wood with his fingertips. "You okay?"
The day before, he had parked the TARDIS next to a hedge near Sylvia's garden gate. She stood unchanged, somewhat out of place like a lighthouse in Chiswick's front garden.
"I'm so sorry I was so rude to you," the Doctor apologized to her. "I was just...a bit overwhelmed. Please forgive me." She didn't make a sound. The Doctor pursed his lips. Yesterday, in a fit of blind panic, he had lashed out at the TARDIS because she had refused to let him in.
Refused to help him run away.
The Doctor regretted his outburst deeply. He loved his TARDIS. He never wanted to hurt her.
"Will you let me in again?" he asked, gently patting her, and snapped his fingers hopefully.
Nothing happened.
His restlessness returned instantly.
He rummaged through his pockets for the key, inserted it into the lock, and tried to turn it. But the TARDIS wouldn't unlock.
The restlessness turned into barley contained fear.
"Oh, come on. Don't be so stubborn."
He tried to jiggle the key in the lock. He shook a little more frantically.
It didn't work.
"I'm really sorry," he pleaded earnestly. "And I don't want to run away. I swear, just please let me in. Would you do that? Just let me in?"
She remained silent. She remained closed.
The Doctor sighed and hung his head. Firmly he pressed his forehead against the window in the TARDIS door. "Sorry," he whispered. "Sorry. You're right. You're probably right." He remained in his position, taking deep breaths through his nose and trying to calm his hearts, which had started pounding wildly again. "I know you're right," he whispered again. "It's just..."
"And what exactly are you doing there?!"
The Doctor spun around in alarm and spotted Sylvia Noble standing in the doorway, wearing her dressing gown, arms tightly crossed.
"Oh...um. Sylvia." His voice sounded hoarse. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Hello. Good morning. Sorry, I didn't realise you were here."
"I noticed," she said coldly. Disdainfully, she let her piercing gaze slide from the Doctor to the TARDIS. "What the hell are you doing out here at this hour?"
"Um...Well…"
She didn't give him time for explanations. "You want to sneak away, don't you? Like a thief." The Doctor nervously licked his lips and shook his head.
"No," he tried to explain. "No, I just wanted to get some clean clothes. And shoes. Especially shoes."
It was the truth, but Sylvia seemed to distrust his words.
She raised her eyebrows and scrutinized the Doctor's figure from head to toe. Her eyes lingered for a few seconds on his bare feet. "I see," she said curtly. "Well then, go get your stuff. I'll wait."
She leaned against the door frame and looked at him expectantly.
"I, uh, can't." The Doctor scratched his stubbly cheek self-consciously and looked away.
"And why not, may I ask?" Sylvia didn't let up. She looked at him like a hungry vulture. Always ready to pick at his entrails with its beak.
"She won't let me in." In response to her questioning look, he hastily added, "The TARDIS. She won't open the door. She's sort of locked me out."
"What? What do you mean she won't let you in. She?" Sylvia seemed momentarily stunned, even forgetting to look angry. "What does that even mean? Is this thing..." She pointed horrified at the TARDIS. "Alive?"
"Yes." the Doctor shrugged. "Of course she is."
"Ah...Of course…” Sylvia's voice sounded strangely high. “That’s, good to know." She seemed unsettled, as if her worst fears about the spaceship in her front yard had come true. It took a moment for her to regain her composure, then she straightened up to full height. "Well?" she asked imperiously. "If this...this thing won't let you in, then there's no sensible reason to linger in my garden, is there? Will you come back inside, or do you prefer to freeze out here?"
The Doctor was about to say that he would rather stay outside and take the risk, but he reluctantly admitted that it probably made no sense to continue bargaining with the TARDIS. Crestfallen, he separated himself from his pig-headed spaceship and nervously, with his arms tightly wrapped around himself, headed towards Sylvia, who impatiently waited for him in the doorway. He stopped three steps away from her, maintaining a safe distance.
"Are you still planning to hit me?" he asked suspiciously, and Sylvia raised her already raised eyebrows even higher.
For a brief second, something like shame flickered across her features, but it quickly hardened again. "Don't be ridiculous," she snapped irritably and turned away. "And come inside already. It's drafty."
The Doctor followed her into the house, and she quietly closed the door behind him.
"The others are still asleep, so be quiet and try not to wake anyone," Sylvia whispered, one foot already on the staircase leading to the upper floor. "I'll be upstairs. You can go to the kitchen already. And for heaven's sake—" she raised a finger to her lips and hissed as the Doctor accidentally stepped on a creaking floorboard. "—be quiet."
The Doctor nodded and silently shuffled into the small kitchen at the end of the hallway.
He carefully closed the door behind him and stiffly took a seat on a bench at the table. Then, he looked around with cautious interest. The room was tiny and evidently often in use. The surfaces and counters looked worn but meticulously clean, a faint scent of cleaning product lingered in the air, and floral curtains hung in front of the window. Heavy pans and pots had been attached to hooks on the wall, and two faded children's drawings hung on the refrigerator.
The Doctor examined them. One showed a colourful meadow with butterflies and oversized bees, and the other an amorphous blue box framed with yellow stars on a dark background. Rose must have painted them when she was younger and didn't yet know why she sometimes had these vivid images in her head.
A queasy feeling came over the Doctor, and his gaze quickly returned to the door.
Above it hung an old tin clock.
Its delicate hands told him it was just before six o'clock in the morning, and its soft ticking, along with the hum of the refrigerator, was the only thing to be heard in the otherwise early morning silence.
He watched the second hand with fascination as it crept leisurely over the dial.
Second after second after second after second. Always obediently in order. Never breaking out. Always moving forward. Second after second after second after second.
The terrible feeling of being trapped came over him, which was not only due to the suffocating narrownes of this kitchen.
Linear time. He had to get used to it somehow now.
Second after second after second after second.
He tried to tear his gaze away from the relentlessly slow-moving hand, but the regular ticking pierced his skin like needles, pressure weighed on his chest, and there it was again, the rushing in his ears.
Suddenly, the kitchen door was swung open, and the Doctor was snapped out of his trance. He flinched as Sylvia entered the kitchen with an indefinable bundle of fabrics.
"You’re pale. Looks like you've seen a ghost," she said disdainfully as she closed the door behind her. The Doctor blinked and shook his head.
The ticking and rushing echoed in his ears. Hollow, arrhythmic.
"I'm fine." His voice sounded oddly muffled. He sniffed.
"Is that so?" Sylvia gave him a sceptical look.
"Yes, I'm always fine," he muttered unconvincingly.
“Uh-huh.” She didn't pursue the matter further but dropped the bundle she was carrying onto the table in front of him. "Well, anyway, stand up," she ordered brusquely.
"Um, why?" The Doctor shifted uncomfortably on his bench. Sylvia's hands had suddenly come dangerously close to him again. She obviously interpreted his concerned tone correctly because she rolled her eyes.
"Don't look at me like that. I don't want to hit you," she retorted. "I just want to know how tall you are."
"What!?" This statement was by no means reassuring. Confused, the Doctor stared up at the intimidating woman standing opposite him.
"Why?"
"Because I want to have the measurements for your coffin ready if you keep bothering me with your stupid questions!" she answered dryly. "What do you think? Those here—" She pointed aggressively at the bundle in front of her. "—are clothes."
"What?"
Sylvia sighed. "You sound like a broken record." Irritated, she pulled a dark green sweater out of the pile and presented it to the Doctor with outstretched arms. "See? This is clothing. To wear. For you." she explained decidedly. "So would you please stand up now?"
The Doctor stared at her from below with half-open mouth, then quickly closed it again and got up.
"There you go." Sylvia clicked her tongue. "Spread your arms."
With a critical expression, she held the sweater up to his body, nodded, and did the same with a few shirts and two pairs of trousers.
Tense and stiff, the Doctor endured the procedure.
"The length is fine," Sylvia furrowed her brow thoughtfully. "But they're all too wide."
In a high arc, she threw the last shirt she had tried onto the pile and put her hands on her hips. "You're too skinny," she complained.
He lowered his arms, ready to give a snappy retort, but she impatiently waved him off.
"Oh, don’t look so upset. All right, I know, it's not your fault, isn’t it?" she generously conceded, but still seemed rather dissatisfied.
Disapprovingly, she first looked at him, then at the pile of clothes in front of her. "But it’ll do." she decided reluctantly. " You'll have to stay a bit patient until you can wear them, though. They've been buried in a chest for years and when I just opened it, it was full of dust and mothballs. Disgusting. They really need to be washed first “
She quickly grabbed the bundle and carried it to a washing machine at the back next to the sink. And the Doctor watched her in amazement.
He hadn't expected Sylvia Noble, of all people, to do something nice for him. But this? This just now? Giving him clothes without being asked? That was really very nice.
"Thank you," he said sincerely when she opened the flap.
She shrugged irritably. "They're just lying around anyway. Better you wear them than let you keep walking around like that. I mean, what if the neighbours see you?"
The Doctor ignored the pointed comment and carefully took a seat on the bench again. There he pulled his knees up towards him as he watched thoughtfully as Sylvia gradually threw the washing into the machine.
"Whose clothes are these?" The Doctor finally asked after a short silence.
"They belonged to my husband," Sylvia replied without looking up. "Before he died, he lost a lot of weight, he'd been barely more than skin and bones at the end, so I thought his clothes might fit you, but possibly—" She slammed the drawer shut a bit too hard. "—possibly, I was mistaken. You'll need a belt or braces. There are still a few of those damn things lying around somewhere...but I don't know where I put them..."
She avoided looking at him while she reached for the detergent and scooped a few spoonsful into the drawer.
"What was he like?" the Doctor asked.
"Pardon?" Sylvia had just reached for the fabric softener.
"Your husband," the Doctor repeated softly. "What was he like?"
"Oh." She froze for a brief moment before resolutely reaching for the bottle. "He was a fool, to be honest. Always had his big dreams and goals. Wanted to save the world," she shook her head incredulously. "Once he wanted to start his own foundation to build schools for, I think, Nepalese slave children, or something like that. A foundation! I mean— " She poured the fabric softener into the machine. "—the man never had so much as a penny to spare, and he? He wants to start a foundation. Ridiculous." She roughly pushed the drawer shut. "And then in the end? Cancer took him down, that stupid old donkey. I kept nagging him to quit smoking, but did he listen? No, of course not!" She pressed a few buttons and started the program, then rubbed her hands on her dressing gown. "Well, in the end, he got what was coming to him, didn't he?" she said in a seemingly casual tone and glanced at the Doctor.
Patiently he had listened, his full attention on her.
"You miss him," he pointed out tenderly. It was not a question and unusually affectionate expression came into her eyes.
"Every single day," she confessed.
"Of course," he nodded in understanding.
"We were married for over twenty-four years."
Something painful stirred in the Doctor's chest.
Long-dismissed memories stirred in his consciousness,
like a Song from days gone by.
"That's a long time," he murmured.
"Yes." She confirmed thoughtfully. "And most of it was good. He was a good man." Her face brightened as she continued. "And a good father too. He was completely enamoured with Donna, spoilt that girl rotten, always granted her every wish. He and his big, stupid heart. He was a mechanic and wanted a foundation? Can you believe it?" She put her hand to her forehead and laughed briefly. The laughter suited her, but it immediately faded, and her gaze turned sad and lost in emptiness again. "I just wish he hadn't..."
She stopped abruptly, blinked, and then made a dismissive gesture. "Oh, whatever, what are these old stories? All water under the bridge." She went to the sink and turned on the tap.
"What? What do you wish for?" The Doctor had his chin resting on his knees as he listened, gently rocking back and forth.
Sylvia didn't respond immediately. She thoroughly washed her hands, then hesitantly remarked, "He died alone. Back then in the hospital. He had to go there because his blood levels were so poor, but the doctors thought he was improving and could be discharged the next day. He passed away that following night."
She stopped rubbing her hands together, but let the water continue to run as she leaned against the edge of the sink. "And sometimes I... I keep wondering if he felt lonely. If he waited for his wife, or his little girl to come to him, to be with..." She didn't continue. Then she blinked again and angrily turned off the tap with a single forceful twist.
"Nonsense," she said sharply. "I'm talking nonsense."
"No," the Doctor shook his head. "No, you're not."
"Well, thank you very much for your opinion. It means a lot to me," Sylvia retorted bitterly.
The magical moment when she had opened up to him was quickly overtaken, as swiftly as it had come. Grumpily, she began rummaging in one of the upper cupboards for teacups and set a kettle on.
"I'm making tea," she announced. "It's far too early for such gobbledygook. Why are you even awake?"
"Why are you?" he retorted.
"Don't get cheeky," Sylvia scolded him. "I'm old, I don't need as much sleep anymore."
"Well, I'm older," the Doctor reminded her with a wry smile. "I don't need any at all."
For a moment, she seemed to consider if that might actually be the truth, then she inquired curtly, "So, you didn't sleep at all last night?"
"No," he replied in a matter of fact.
"Hmm," she lit the gas flame on the stove and gave him a fleeting glance. "You better should have. You look awful."
"Well, thank you very much," the Doctor replied dryly, recalling the endless hours he had spent staring at the wall.
"Well, it's the truth, no reason to act insulted. Anyway, I would offer you a cuppa, but only if you're going to drink it. Better tell me straight if you plan to just leave it untouched like last night; then I'll save myself the trouble," she said harshly, causing the Doctor to involuntarily tense up again.
"I could do with a cup of tea," he tried to respond with forced nonchalance, but it sounded stiff.
The air suddenly became thick and uncomfortable again.
"You know,—" said the Doctor after a few moments of tense silence, "—if you want to, you could. Be with your husband in the hospital, I mean."
"What the hell do you mean?" Sylvia was now standing in front of her fridge, rummaging around. She sounded lacklustre, as if she found their conversation already terribly tiresome by now.
"Well. I have a time machine." The Doctor said quickly, making an indistinct gesture. "I mean, I can't get in right now, but if..."
No, not ‘if’, but ‘when’. She would let him in again. Of course, she would. Breathe. He had to breathe.
He hastily corrected himself and scratched his neck awkwardly. "...when she lets me back in, technically speaking, I could take you to your husband, the night he died in the hospital…of course, only if you want too... But if you’d like you could be there with him. You could be with him until the end."
He didn't continue speaking as Sylvia suddenly whirled around, facing him with a furious expression.
"What did you say?" she hissed quietly and then louder she forthrightly demanded: "WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?!"
"I..." The Doctor felt like he was shrinking under her gaze. He took his legs off the bench, straightened up, and just starred at her, alarmed by her intense reaction.
Accusingly, Sylvia pointed her index finger at him, her voice dripping with contempt. "You're a cruel man, Doctor. A cruel, cruel man. I hope you know that."
"I... well... no, I'm not..." The words got stuck in his throat. He couldn't say them. Quickly, he lowered his gaze.
"But you are!" Sylvia snapped at him. "How dare you? How dare you to offer me something like this?"
"I didn’t think..." Dazed, he stared at the tabletop, and when he couldn't come up with a better response, Sylvia made a disparaging noise.
"Exactly! You didn’t think. You never do, do you? Tell me, has it ever crossed your stupid mind that not everyone wants to mess around in the past? Has it ever even remotely occurred to you, in your long, cursed life, Doctor, that most of us just try to get through each day and don't have the time or tendency to wallow in old wounds? My husband is dead, Doctor! He died a long time ago, and I am eternally thankful that time is over. I don't want it to come back, crashing on me all over again. I'm here now, and I definitely don't want to go back to that horrible night to see him die all over again!"
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..." the Doctor said weakly, but she didn't let him finish.
"But you did!" And now she shouted. Distraught, she threw her hands in the air. "You DID!"
The Doctor fell silent. Sylvia shook her head and abruptly turned away from him. She grabbed a few things from the fridge, slammed them on the counter, and reached for a few pans. The Doctor shifted back a bit, pressing his back firmly against the unforgiving wall behind him.
"And what do you think of me, anyway?" Sylvia continued her tirade. "That I didn't stay with my husband until the very end?"
She brutally cracked an egg. The shell crunched.
"That I wasn't there for him until just before his death?"
Another egg cracked. It crunched.
"That I didn't take care of him?"
A third egg. Crunch.
"I was there for him. I've always been there for him, except these few hours. But except from that, I stayed until the very end, until I lost him!"
She threw bacon into the hot pan. It sizzled. It crackled.
"Now, tell me, Doctor, can you say the same about yourself? How many have you lost, and how many of them have you stayed with until the very end?"
The blood drained from his face, pulsating loudly in his veins. There it was again, that never-ending pain. That never-ending shame. His ears buzzed, and before his mental eye, painfully sharp images of endless bookshelves loomed, where man-eating shadows lurked, and ominous raven wings mingled with the stone tears of an angel.
And it hurt. It hurt so much.
"There have been some," he muttered, his mouth dry.
"Some, huh? And tell me, Doctor, how many have you abandoned and dumped somewhere as if they were rubbish?"
He said nothing. He couldn't. The weight of his guilt kept him firmly rooted to the spot. His hearts beat an irregular rhythm. One too fast and one too slow.
"Fifteen years, Doctor! Fifteen years! Do you have the slightest idea how she felt about it? Do you even know what you've done to her?" Sylvia raged.
"I think so," he whispered, but she shook her head decisively.
"No, you don't," she said, taking a large, sharp knife and began cutting thick slices from a loaf of bread. "You have no idea how lost she had been back then and how terrible it felt for her that she didn't even know why. How lost she still is! And now your back, reappeared out of nowhere and everything fell apart again, sank into chaos, hardly back together again. You know nothing! You hurt my little girl, Doctor, and that—", she rammed the blade firmly into the crust. "—I'll never forgive you."
For a moment, it was quiet.
The clock ticked unbearably slowly, asynchronously with his uneven heartbeats, and the blood in his veins roared and roared and roared. The Doctor couldn't bring himself to look at the woman in front of him and still didn't make a sound. He didn't dare.
"And then, as if that wasn't bad enough—,” she barked, swinging the wooden spoon. “—she gave away the whole lottery money! All the damned money, even though they needed it so badly. There was nothing left for her, for Shaun, for Rose. They had it so hard, and why? Because she wanted to emulate you in some twisted way, you damned, ignorant... little... space... twat!"
Without warning, Sylvia slammed a plate onto the table and pushed it roughly in front of the Doctor. He flinched back in shock and stared at her wide-eyed.
"Eat!" she growled.
He blinked, puzzled, but otherwise didn't move a muscle.
"You shall eat this!" She ordered, her tone like that of a seasoned drill sergeant.
"But..." The Doctor frowned and looked at the heavily laden plate in front of him, growing increasingly fearful. "But...I... Why?" he croaked.
"Because even the clothes of my late husband, who died of cancer, are too big for you," she snapped at him. "Honestly, you look like you're about to collapse. Don’t you ever eat?"
"Well...yeah, 'course I do...Occasionally," The Doctor replied awkwardly.
"Then you'd better make it a habit. For heaven's sake."
The Doctor first looked at her expressionlessly, then at his plate. He wasn't sure how to handle this unexpectedly sudden change of subject, but the rushing in his ears seemed to increase.
"Right," he said stiffly. "I mean, yes, I'll try."
He tentatively picked up the fork and nervously poked at the scrambled eggs. His stomach revolted heavily again at the mere sight. Sylvia glared at him, then sat down with two cups at the table. She placed one not less abruptly next to his plate. The tea in it sloshed. The Doctor swallowed hard. She was too close. And the kitchen was too small, and he fidgeted restlessly with his legs up and down. With legs made for running away. Not for sitting still. In a too narrow kitchen. With a much too close Sylvia.
"Stop that," she scolded him as she felt the slight tremor under the table. "You're making me nervous. And for heaven's sake, stop poking at the food. It's not poisoned."
"Right." He cleared his throat, then forced his legs to stillness. Uncertainly, he weighed the fork in his hand and then, after a brief hesitation, placed it back on the table. He pushed his plate aside, closed his eyes, took a deep breath. Then he looked openly at the woman sitting opposite him.
"I'm sorry," he said seriously, and he meant it. There was no way to express how much he meant it. Every fibre of his being meant it. "Whatever that may be worth. I'm truly, so, so sorry, Sylvia."
Her expression became unresponsive. Without blinking, she stared back.
"For what I've done to Donna."And Adric and Amy and Rory and Nardole and Clara and Jack and Bill and Martha and half the universe... He closed his eyes again. "And to your family. What I've done to you, I may not know exactly what it was like, but I can imagine that you've had a hard time, and I'm sorry for that. I understand if you're angry with me, and it's your right. I wish..."
"Now stop it," Sylvia interrupted him tersely. An emotion difficult to discern flickered across her features. Her next words were almost whispered. "Just stop it."
The Doctor obeyed. He closed his mouth and looked away. He braced himself for the next wave of her anger, which would soon wash over him and drag him down into the depths. But he would endure her anger. He deserved it.
Sylvia scrutinized him for a few long moments, then suddenly it seemed as if the air was escaping her. She slumped, ran her hand over her face, and sighed heavily. "You make it too easy," she then said. It sounded accusing and almost a bit sad.
"What exactly?" the Doctor muttered cautiously.
"To blame you."
"Uhm…I am Sorry?" The Doctor furrowed his brow and guardedly peeked at her face.
"That's exactly what I mean!" She snorted frustratedly. "Sorry, sorry, sorry. Seriously, can't you say anything else than 'sorry' like a goddamn parrot?"
"What…What do you want me to say, then?" the Doctor asked suspiciously.
"I don't know. I really don't. But not that. Not—" She gestured at him. "—Not like...sitting there looking like a beaten dog. And taking all the blame. I mean you just…take it and take it and take it. Why?! Why don't you defend yourself? Just…defend yourself! Tell me that I'm wrong!" She became louder again, and her words made little sense to him anymore. Carefully, he looked directly into her face again. And he could clearly see her conflict, her resignation, her anger, her pain, and her worry. All the emotions she had probably buried within herself for a long time, had to hide them, especially from her daughter, and now burst out of her uncontrollably. The Doctor felt like he was walking on very, very thin ice. One wrong step, and he could break through.
"I—" he said thoughtfully. "—won't defend myself. You're right. You can blame me."
He could take it if she needed to blame someone. He deserved it.
"I could, couldn’t I? Oh, and believe me, I would love to." Her snorting now almost sounded like a sob, and it felt worse than any slap. She tensely touched the bridge of her nose. "But no," she contradicted herself then, taking a deep breath. "No, I can't... Not for everything... It's just..." She looked him resignedly in the eyes. "Too easy."
She looked at him, but this time there was no sharpness in her gaze. It was something else, almost like reluctant compassion. The Doctor wondered, disturbed, what she must have read in his face that had triggered this sudden change of emotions in her.
"I'm sorry," Sylvia said finally, drained. "I shouldn't have tried to hit you yesterday, and—" She seemed to have to force herself to say that. "—I'm also sorry for the slap from the other day, and I'm also sorry for yelling at you just now. I shouldn't have done that."
The Doctor opened his mouth, then closed it again and bit his lip. "It's okay. I probably deserved it," he murmured, trying to smile reassuringly.
But Sylvia shook her head unhappily. "No, I don't think so. Not really."
She took her cup and took a small sip. The Doctor lowered his gaze and stared into his own cup. Both fell silent. And time wouldn’t pass.
"So, you really are staying here," Sylvia said after a painfully long while, speaking softly, changing the subject.
"I guess so. I mean, yeah, if that's all right with you?" the Doctor said. The smooth surface of his tea shimmered in the light of the kitchen lamp.
Sylvia took another sip. "It must be strange for you," she replied instead of giving a direct answer. "Trading the whole big universe for a terraced house in Chiswick."
"You have no idea," murmured the Doctor.
"No, I suppose not," she said slowly. Calculatingly. "But I can imagine why you're doing it. You have that look."
"What look?" he asked cautiously. But it wasn't a genuine question. He knew what she meant. He just wasn't sure if he wanted to hear it.
"The look people have when they return from war. I know that look from my father."
Her expression became absent, lost in memories. "Sometimes, he got exactly that look, the one you have now, and when he got it, he always disappeared for a few hours. Often in the middle of the night. He armed himself with his silly telescope and went out to look at the stars. Sometimes he was out there for nights on end. As a child, I always wondered why the hell he is doing that? What did he think he would find up there that he didn't have down here?"
It sounded bitter and hurt and vulnerable and then, there she was. For a fleeting moment, the Doctor clearly could see the little girl who didn't understand. The little girl who couldn't possibly comprehend why her father had the horror in his eyes and disappeared, fled, with that horror, instead of staying by his loved ones, being safe. Why he wouldn’t stay with her. Maybe bring her to bed and read her a bedtime story.
"I mean, how could it really help him to deal with all the things he went through?” She continued. “You... you come from up there, from the stars and you have the same look. How could watching them possibly help?"
He just smiled sadly at her, with old, so very, very old eyes, that shone knowingly, mirroring knowledge that must never be told. But Sylvia asked anyway.
"What's up there, Doctor?" Her voice was steady, and it was as if the echo of the little girl and the old woman sitting before him were speaking simultaneously across the years. "What can you find up there?"
"Everything," the Doctor replied gently. "Up there is everything. Everything you can and cannot possibly imagine. Up there you can see everything. Experience everything and live through everything “.
Everything. So simple as that and she shuddered. "That sounds dreadful."
"Oh yes, yes. It absolutely is. It's terrible and frightening," The Doctor quickly agreed, with a sad, longing smile. "But it's also beautiful and breathtaking and incredibly exciting."
She nodded thoughtfully and lifted her cup to her lips again. She thought for a while, but then she shook herself, and the little girl disappeared for good.
"Well, that's not for me. For my father, yes. For Donna, apparently it is the most wonderful thing too, but I find it exciting enough when Mrs. Morris across the street wants to host another one of her awful neighbourhood parties. That gets my pulse going enough; I certainly don't need an all-encompassing universe."
A faint grin crept onto the Doctor's lips. "That sounds like an interesting party. Maybe I'll take a look next time she is hosting."
Sylvia snorted and drank her cup in one go. "He told me, by the way," she then stated bluntly. "My father. What you did to save him. With the radiation chamber."
Her expression was dead serious now, and the Doctor immediately stopped grinning. "Oh.” Uncomfortably, he scratched his head and fidgeted nervously on his narrow bench. “Did he, yeah?"
"Yes, he did," Sylvia confirmed. " He said you sacrificed yourself for him. He said you died to save his life because he made some stupid mistake. "
"It wasn’t stupid and…Well, technically... no, I didn't really die... not like he would’ve died, anyway."
"Yeah, I noticed," Sylvia looked at him firmly. " You appear to be at least half alive. But still, what you did was a big sacrifice. You took the radiation for..."
"It was fine," he hastened to interrupt her. His hands were trembling slightly. "I was happy to help. Really it—" It's not fair! "—It was an honour. I love Wilf. I wouldn't have been able to live with it if he had died, even though I could have saved him. I—" I could do so much more. "—I just couldn't."
He ended firmly and grimaced. "Please, let's not talk about it anymore. It was fine. I'm fine."
First Sylvia said nothing in response. "No," she then finally said, and it sounded much softer than the Doctor was used to from her. "No, I don't think you are, but you are right, we don't have to talk about it now. We've already talked too much, I reckon, and please don't take this the wrong way, but I find you quite exhausting." She took her empty cup and tried clumsily to stand up, letting out a pained groan.
"You alright?" the Doctor asked worriedly.
"Ah, my knees are just particularly stubborn again," she wheezed but made a dismissive gesture when he tried to rush to her aid. "No, stop that. Stay seated. I just need to stretch them a bit." Sylvia cautiously shifted her weight from one leg to the other, then cast a scrutinizing look out of the window. "By now, it's bright enough; I guess I'll take a walk now. It helps clear my head and lubricates my knees. You should try it sometime."
"Lubricate my knees?"
She gave him a sideways glance. "No, you, idiot. Taking a walk. Not always running around like a madman. Just walking for once."
"Oh. Oh! Sure, yes, I can try that." The Doctor nodded overly enthusiastically. "Walking. Yes, that sounds fun."
She rolled her eyes again, but this time it almost seemed friendly. The resemblance to her daughter was stunning in this moment. "Do it or don't. It was only a humble suggestion of mine. But it'll do you good."
"I..." he interrupted himself and thought. He felt desperate to get out of this cramped, tiny kitchen, with the constantly slow ticking clock.
He wanted air and wind, and his legs begged to be used. To do, what they've always done. But he had no reason and no opportunity to sprint through time and space right now, to run through the universe, to flee. He was here now, maybe even safe and sound for once and maybe he didn’t need to run. Shouldn’t run. Maybe, just maybe 'walking' was what he could, should, do right now.
"Can I come with you?" he asked quickly, before thinking it through.
"Come with me?" Sylvia cried out, looking at him incredulously. "Oh no. Definitely not!"
Her obvious rejection was like a little punch in the gut. Even if it wasn't necessarily surprising, it was hard for him to hide his disappointment. "Oh, sure.” He sniffed. “Yeah, of course. Sorry."
Sylvia sensed it. "Don't look so dejected. I'm not trying to be mean," she said and folded her arms. "But the day has just started, and my head is already spinning. I need time for myself now."
"Sure. Yeah, I understand," he assured her quickly.
She looked thoughtfully at him. Her gaze wandered to his feet again. "But… if you want to go for a walk later, I still have a pair of shoes upstairs for you. They're not running shoes, but they should be enough for walking," she said slowly.
And the Doctors bitter disappointment immediately turned into amazement again. He also looked at his cold toes and then back at Sylvia.
"That would be...very kind," he said, noticing that his voice sounded hoarse.
"Don't mention it." She nodded curtly. "But I'm leaving now, and you? You stay here."
She said the last sentences loud and she said it clear.
And he understood.
She didn't just mean he should stay in the kitchen.
She also meant; stay here on this planet.
Here in England.
Here in this unremarkable terraced house in Chiswick, where he might even find something, he wouldn't find among the stars.
Here with her family.
He understood.
It meant everything.
And suddenly this small space and this drawn-out time seemed not so constraining as they had just mere moments ago.
"Yes…alright, Sylvia, I'll stay here for a while longer, if you’ll have me." The Doctor said softly, smiling.
"Good, then we're both done for now," Sylvia replied gruffly, purposely destroying the tension of the moment. Then, she pushed his plate back towards him with a brisk movement. "And, for heaven's sake, eat finally!"
The Doctor obediently reached for his fork.
"Thank you," he said. Also meaning everything with those words.
Sylvia raised their eyebrows unimpressed, and then she left the kitchen without another word. She closed the door behind her, but this time left it ajar.
The Doctor could now hear sounds and muffled voices. Apparently, the house was coming to life.
He began to eat tentatively. His stomach still felt quite cramped, but it tasted good, and as his empty belly slowly filled, he had to admit to himself that it did indeed do him good to eat. The nervous energy coursing through his body became a bit less sharp, gained fewer edges. His hearts beat somewhat more evenly. The buzzing subsided. Deliberately, he took one bite after another, and eventually, he noticed that even the ticking of the clock above the door didn't sound as unbearably slow as before.
It was as if time had found a gentle rhythm for now. Step by step.
Always one step at a time.
Fin