A/N: If you recognize it, I don't own it. Another bit of fluff to make the plot bunnies leave me alone. Inspired by something a friend of mine said. Yes, it is another sappy Stolen Earth fix, but that's not why it was written - Stolen Earth just happened to be the best fit for the feel I wanted to achieve.
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Empty Hands

The Doctor never held anything in his right hand. Or, if he did, it wasn't for very long at all. He'd put whatever he'd picked up on the nearest available surface and reach out, half-behind him, fingers wiggling while he talked, looking for the hand that was supposed to be there. It would be smaller than his, feminine, with soft skin and a shape that felt made to fit his.

After a few seconds, he would realize that nothing was coming to the hand he'd offered automatically, and he would shove his hand in his pocket for a while as if that would keep him from ever making the same mistake. Balling his fist inside his pocket didn't make him feel any better, but he carried on doing it whenever he caught himself reaching. The one thing he couldn't take was holding something in that hand, the hand that was made for holding another.

But putting his hand in his pocket never worked, and soon that hand would be out again, reaching to the side, reaching for something that was no longer there. His fingers would wiggle that little entreaty to the universe, and the universe would shrug helplessly and turn away.

xXxXxXxXx

Rose always held something in her left hand. It didn't matter what. Her preferred object was a smooth, palm-sized rock she'd found in a garden shop. She carried that rock with her wherever she went – always in her left hand, never her purse or her pocket. And if she didn't have that, it was something else: a coffee cup, a stack of papers, a handful of pens, anything within reach would do. At meetings, sometimes she had to scramble to grab something. For those seconds when her hand was empty, everyone could see the fear and loneliness on her face, in her eyes.

And when her colleagues asked her why, she told them it was because her hand felt empty. That was the one thing she couldn't tolerate. She had crossed parallel worlds, fought the Cybermen and faced down terrible sorts of aliens without even flinching, but without something in her left hand she was set adrift – lost, alone, and unable to function.

A rock was no substitute for what she really wanted. But it would have to do. She couldn't take having an empty hand.

xXxXxXxXx

And on that day when the Cannon finally began to work, Rose left that rock on her desk. She faced the Cannon and trembled, her left hand clenching and unclenching almost spasmodically. She shook not in fear but in anticipation that soon, very soon now, she would have a hand to hold – a big hand, strong and hairy and just the perfect shape to fit in hers.

And on that day when Donna turned to him and said "why don't you ask her yourself?" the Doctor's hand didn't reach out to his right, his fingers wiggling. Slowly, he turned and saw her. Her peroxide-blonde hair was visible even at a distance and he could never forget the way she walked – it was as unique to her as the back of her hand, and he knew it uniquely well.

She ran to him. He ran to her. His hearts soared and his arms ached to hold her. The Doctor caught himself surprised that he was running, and trying to remember a time when he had ever run before. The next moment he remembered all the times he had run - every day of his life - and realized why this was so very different: this time he was running toward, not away, because there was finally something he wanted with everything in him, something he couldn't wait to have. The two of them reached out with four empty hands, and the first things to touch were his right hand and her left. Then they were in each other's arms, spinning happily. His left arm clutched her close as her right arm clutched him; their hands stayed together, two empty hands now filled.

The next time he wiggled his fingers, he knew, the universe would not have time to shrug because a hand would take his. It would be a smaller hand than his, feminine, with callouses he wasn't used to but still-soft skin and a shape that felt made to fit in his.

The next time her hand felt empty, she knew, she wouldn't have to scramble for something to hold. His hand would be there and she would hold that – his big hand, strong and manly, and just the perfect shape to fit hers.

Their time of empty hands was over.