The sound of the tea kettle was the only sound made after entering the house. Craig busied himself with making the tea, wringing his hands, and stealing quick glances over his shoulder toward his friend.
Bizarre was the word that rang through Craig's mind. Bizarre and unbefitting. The situation to reduce such a glorious figure into such a literal mess surely did not have the rights to exist.
Craig finally braved a long stare at the Doctor even though his sneaky attempts to study the other man were for naught as the Time Lord seemed quite apart from the current reality. The pathetic excuse of a once exuberant man sat on the couch, his back to Craig's concerned gaze.
Although once seemingly lifeless when Craig found him, the Doctor was now stiff, shoulders held squarely and uptight, like a statue placed in the wrong setting. It was evident that the alien was uncomfortable in his current position, and Craig ached at his urge to rid his companion of the feeling. He was Craig's friend after all. Craig's home was the Doctor's home as well, and he was determined to show nothing less than the genuine hospitality of a friend.
"Milk and sugar, Doctor?"
Only silence. Craig added a sufficient amount of the ingredients anyway and gingerly paced to the lounge, a steaming mug of tea in each hand. He stopped before the Time Lord, holding out a mug, half expecting to not earn a response but trying nonetheless. With a certain shocked curiousness, Craig watched as the Doctor took the steaming cup in both hands. His head remained bowed and he refused to meet Craig's gaze. However, he took a shallow yet long sip, and satisfied that he was making some form of progress, Craig took a seat beside him, taking a sip from his own tea.
"Nothing like a nice cuppa, eh?" he prodded quietly.
The Doctor kept the mug held to his face, as if he were reveling in the sweet smell, Craig thought. In honesty, though, he had no clue what to interpret as his companion's face betrayed not an emotion. The stillness may in fact just have been an inability to find the heart to simply move. If the Time Lord's expression earlier in the TARDIS were one of utter loss and pain, his expression now was one of a complete dejection.
It was a few beats before the Doctor lowered the cup to his lap, stone face still intact. Craig lowered his gaze to the carpet.
"Yes."
The answer was so quiet and brief, that Craig didn't bother looking back up. He awkwardly tapped his fingers on the ceramic in his hands and sifted through his mind for the right words to project. It was a few minutes before he found the courage to speak again.
"Do you… Do you want to talk?" He paused, hoping for an answer but received none. "Is that why you came here? To talk… because I'm here… to talk to… if you need it." He mentally slapped himself as the words slipped out. There was no reason for him to be nervous, yet here he found himself with sweaty palms, wanting only to do the right thing yet having no clue as how to accomplish such a task.
"I didn't come here," the Doctor answered sharply, and Craig felt a sting inside as he caught a flash of bitterness in that rigid face, a face that seemed to finally sport the many years of the man wearing it. It took all of Craig's courage to voice a response.
"But… you are here."
He paused, taking a moment to once again study the Doctor's appearance. The dress shirt lay open, revealing a white undershirt; there were no buttons on the dress shirt, only tiny threads that hung loosely where buttons once were. The Time Lord's trousers weren't even buttoned closed.
Craig shook his head and continued.
"You're here. Maybe you need to be… here… right now… to talk."
When he was met with another silence, Craig warily turned his gaze back to the Time Lord's face, hoping to catch his eye, striving to project the concern that he felt. He placed a hand on the other's shoulder, concern growing when the Doctor's posture stiffened even further at the touch.
"I'm here, Doctor. Talk to—"
"No," the Doctor snapped, hands suddenly clenching his mug in a seemingly numbing grip, lips pulling back to reveal a tight and pained grimace. "I can't… can't..." His voice then seemed to wither from its sudden raised volume, diminishing into a bereft whisper. "… can't… no… no," were the last words Craig caught before the Doctor's mutterings became indistinguishable. Throughout it all, the Time Lord refused to meet Craig's gaze.
With a sigh, Craig placed down his tea, lifted himself from the couch, retrieved a throw from a nearby chair, and reached over to drape the blanket across his friend's shoulders. While he was met with no protests, the alien's rigid posture remained. Craig gently took the mug from the Doctor's hands, once again met with no protest and no response, and turned to leave the lounge. He paused at the threshold.
"We have the guest bedroom down the hall," he stated; however, he didn't bother to continue as he knew the information would be disregarded. Without another word, he left the Time Lord to bask in the silence.
If he were to be frank, he wasn't expecting the Doctor to stay. He expected to see an empty couch and a lack of blue time machine and sullen alien. However, a mere time span of twelve hours had had Craig see each of his expectations proven wrong, and this morning was no exception, beholding a sleeping alien on the sofa.
Although asleep (though Craig thought that "passed out" would be a more fitting expression), the Doctor had not budged from his position on the sofa. His rear was still plastered to the side of the sofa where he was the night before, and the throw was still draped over his shoulders. However, he was slumped over with his head resting on the armrest at a rather uncomfortable-looking angle. Craig could hear the soft, airy breaths of deep sleep.
Taken back by the sight, Craig could not help but pause at the threshold. He took in the image of the sleeping Time Lord and saw a deep sense of vulnerability within the alien. It looked so incredulously… human.
After a few moments of pondering over what to do, Craig gingerly stepped over to his friend. He wished he didn't have to wake the Doctor, fearing the response it would garner and simply just not wanting to disturb the alien, but he wasn't about to attempt to carry a full-grown man to bed, no matter how seemingly skinny and light said man was.
"Doctor," Craig whispered lightly, gently nudging the alien's shoulder. "Doctor. Wake up."
Slowly, the Doctor cracked his eyes open and somehow still managed to have an expression of sorrow plastered to his face even upon awakening.
"Let's get you to the bed. Can't be comfortable here… on the sofa."
Craig was once again a little shocked to see the Doctor slowly sit up without a protest. Though slow and seeming to somewhat force his body, the Doctor stood up and walked in the direction Craig prodded, throw still draped over his slumped shoulders. Not a word was spoken, and all Craig could make himself do was to put a hand to the Doctor's back, if only to reassure and comfort.
They entered the guest bedroom, and the Doctor unceremoniously dropped down on top of the covers of the queen-sized bed. He lay on his side with his back to Craig, silence being the only thing exchanged between the two. Craig stood to the side, pausing for a few moments if only because he had no idea as to what to do next. Should he pull the covers over the man? Tuck him in? Turn off the lights?
He continued to watch the Doctor's unmoving form, and for a moment he thought the Time Lord had drifted off to sleep once again. He wasn't expecting him to speak.
"It's empty."
Craig's eyes widened as he was taken aback by the words. It was the first time in this strange encounter that the Doctor initiated conversation. "Wh-what do you mean, Doctor?"
It was few seconds before there was a response.
"The bed," the Doctor replied, back still facing Craig so that he could not see the Time Lord's face, "It's been so long… since I've realized… remembered… how empty it can be… the bed."
The Doctor's slender frame only covered a small fraction of the queen-sized bed, and Craig watched as the Doctor's arm slowly slid out before him to the empty space of the mattress, as if he were reaching out to touch someone. Of course, there was only an empty set of sheets.
Craig wanted to say something, but what could one say?
"I'm so sorry, Doctor," he finally stammered, feeling like a sorry excuse for a friend. When he was met with no response, he flicked out the lights, stepped out, and shut the door.
Craig was determined to help his friend; however, he knew what the man needed was time for rest alone. The man dreaded to think what kind of horrid adventure it was the Time Lord had just left.
However, between tidying the house and tending to Alfie, Craig couldn't help but walk by the Doctor's door and pause every moment or so. Most of the time he heard nothing, only the silence of either deep sleep or meditation…
… sometimes he thought he heard words, single words, muttered ramblings. Something to do with music… and rivers? It made no sense most of the time.
Sometimes he heard what he thought were sobs. Quiet, but drawn-out, sometimes heaving sobs.
He wanted to ask. He wanted to help.
He knew it was best he came in later. Not now.