Fourteen days passed before the Doctor tried in earnest to sleep again. He'd been keeping busy in the meantime—very busy, in fact. He hardly stopped for a moment, either working somewhere deep in the TARDIS or taking Donna on short little trips. He barely ate and barely rested; he would disappear for hours on end and go days without speaking more than a sentence at a time. There were no tangential ramblings, no joking around, none of the usual mirth that was omnipresent around him. He didn't praise and stroke the TARDIS like he usually did, and if she hadn't known better, Donna would've thought he was avoiding the both of them. She'd never seen him act so unlike himself, and it scared the hell out of her.

He hadn't talked about it yet (that was what she called the trip to Midnight in her head now: it, for lack of a better descriptor) and she hadn't asked him to. It pained her, watching him struggle through his days and try to pretend otherwise, but she knew he would talk when he was ready. Until then, she resigned herself to giving him the small comforts he needed: settling into whatever routine he liked, reminding him to eat or take a break when he went too long without, alternately staying with him and giving him his space. She couldn't claim to understand what was going on in his head, why he was so reluctant to talk to her, but she knew he was trying, in all the ways he knew how. She wasn't known for her patience, but it seemed she had found an untapped reservoir. Honestly, she had needed it.

Donna had eventually gotten a rough idea of the limits of a Time Lord's physiology, with the help of some snooping in the library, and she knew two weeks was much too long for the Doctor to go without sleep. Like a human, he couldn't survive without a bare minimum amount, and he hadn't been getting it. He was falling asleep on his feet by the time he finally agreed to come to bed, quite literally: he'd passed out on the floor of the console room for a few seconds before waking up again, and once more on the way to his bedroom. It just about broke her heart; in all their time together, he had never gotten this bad. He must have been so terrified.

But he did, finally, get to sleep, and in his exhausted daze Donna had discovered something new and thrilling about him: he loved being the little spoon. She was currently trying to reconcile the instinct to tease him relentlessly for it and the fact that it was really quite adorable. Being an alien who didn't need as much sleep as she did, as well as a frequent insomniac, he usually didn't let them get all tangled up together when they slept in the same bed, preferring to keep separate so he didn't wake her when he got up. Tonight, he'd been willing to try anything, and after some lighthearted mockery Donna had been more than happy to oblige.

It was so very him that she couldn't help but smile against the back of his neck, tightening her hold around his middle. The TARDIS was late in her night cycle and Donna was beginning to doze off. She'd tried to stay awake for when he needed her again—they both knew he probably wouldn't be able to sleep through the night, even in his half-dead state—but she was exhausted too. She'd had her fair share of nightmares in the last two weeks, mostly involving him.

She had only just fallen asleep properly when the Doctor tensed up in her arms, his hands making fists in the sheets. It took her some time to struggle back to awareness and realize that he was no longer sleeping soundly. His hearts had picked up to an alarming rate, although they still felt slow compared to hers, and his breathing had grown ragged. She blinked away the drowsiness, rubbing at her eyes as she sat up.

The Doctor was lying on his side, one knee bent towards his chest, his face smushed into the pillow. His hair was a mess, damp with sweat and flattened on one side, and she ran her fingers through it to smooth it down. His brow was knit and his jaw clenched in an expression of pain; occasionally he would mutter something in a language she didn't think was English. Then the mutters turned to quiet shouts, muffled by his pillow, and she knew she couldn't let him stay inside his head.

"Hey, Spaceman," she said, shaking him by the arm. "C'mon, Doctor, wake up. 'S just a dream."

She stroked his hair again, her fingers just brushing across his forehead and temple, and he woke with a cry and a jolt, struggling for a moment against the confines of the sheets before he managed to throw them off and sit up, gasping. Donna put a hand on his shoulder, steadying him, until he realized where he was.

"Donna," he breathed. He slumped forward, all the tension leaving his body at once, and let his forehead fall on her shoulder. "Oh, gods, it's you."

She wrapped her arms loosely around him, rubbing his back. "You alright?" she asked after a moment.

His only response was to hug her, a shudder running through his body. Patches of sweat darkened his shirt, and he was trembling. Donna had gathered that his relationship with sleep had never quite been healthy, but lately—since she'd begun joining him—he'd been much more willing to work at it. Besides that first night after the incident, he hadn't woken up like this in a while. Weeks, in fact.

She realized that he wasn't calming down like he usually did; she could feel the pounding of his hearts against her chest, and hear his laboured breaths. She drew back, holding his arms, and he grasped hers in return, head bowed as he struggled to take in enough air.

"Hey, hey," she said, brows knit in concern. "Easy there. It's alright, you're safe. You're in the TARDIS." Instinctively, she moved her hand to gently brush her thumb over the sensitive spot in his left shoulder, and he relaxed a bit at the familiar gesture. (The library had an abundance of books on Time Lord physiology, and although she had little interest in the biological sciences she had read the ones she could make sense of, in case he was ever injured and unable to talk her through his own treatment. And if she found herself some blackmail material in the process, well, she considered it her reward for looking after his stupid arse.)

"Alright, now just breathe," she murmured. "Respiratory bypass?"

He shook his head, focused on his task. "Hard to… to switch," he panted. "When I'm…"

"Don't worry about it," she reassured him. "Just breathe. Everything's okay, you're safe."

It took a few minutes, but he did manage to calm himself down, bit by bit. (He'd been doing that a lot lately, Donna reflected.) He started to shiver as the sweat cooled on his skin, and Donna got him to sit back against the pillows, pulling the covers over him. She sat next to him in silence for a while, holding his hand, before she finally spoke again.

"I think it's time to talk about this."

The Doctor's eyes darted to her and away again. "No," he said shortly.

Donna opened her mouth and closed it again, taken by surprise. "Doctor, I–"

"I said no," he snapped. His expression hardened. "I don't want to."

There was an uncomfortable moment of silence, while Donna tried to decide whether to press the issue. She didn't want to upset him. But then again, no matter how ardently he denied it, he was already upset.

She sighed, steeling herself. "You can't keep doing this," she said quietly. "You always do this, you keep it all in and it gets to you." He glanced at her. "What, you think I don't notice? It's not healthy. I don't know what's bothering you about this whole thing but you can't just– just ignore it for a week or two and hope it goes away."

To her surprise, she saw tears gathering in his eyes. He turned away and sniffed, trying unsuccessfully to keep his composure. It was a moment before he managed to muster up a response.

"I can't," he said hoarsely, shaking his head. "I– I can't talk about it. I just–" He broke off, letting go of her to lean his head in his hands, hiding his face.

"I promise you can," she said, imploring. "You can talk to me about anything, you know that."

"'S not you," he muttered.

"Then what?" All the turmoil of the last couple weeks, all the concern and desperation and anger that she'd been trying to hide seemed to burst out of her right then. "What, Doctor? What could possibly be so bad that you can't tell me?" She distantly recognized that her voice was growing in volume, but she couldn't bring herself to care. "Don't you realize what you're doing to yourself? It's been two weeks, Doctor, two weeks since you last slept, you are killing yourself! Don't you get it?"

He didn't respond. Donna bit her lip, fighting back a sob as tears of frustration burned in her eyes. She took a shuddering breath.

"Is it something I said?" she asked, her tone carefully measured.

"No," said the Doctor.

"Something I did?"

"No!"

"Then why?" she cried. "Please, please, just talk to me! Don't do this!"

He stared at her, mouth slightly agape as he struggled for an answer. She could see him formulating responses, thinking them over and discarding each one. In the end, he settled on saying nothing; with a little shake of his head he rocked forward and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. She didn't realize he'd started crying until she saw the shake of his wiry frame, and guilt twisted at her stomach.

"Oh, God…" she whispered, reaching out a tentative hand to rest on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Doctor, I wasn't thinking, I didn't–"

He stopped her with a shake of his head. "You…" He sniffed, wiping quickly at his eyes. "You're right," he admitted with a crack in his voice. "You're right, and I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"No," Donna protested gently. "Don't be sorry, okay? I just want you to be alright."

He took a deep breath to calm himself, redirecting his eyes towards the ceiling. "S'pose I should be thanking you, then."

She ran her hand idly down his arm, taking his hand in hers. "Can we talk?" she asked softly.

The Doctor's eyes wandered back to meet hers. "You sure you're alright with this?" he mumbled. "You don't have to look after me."

She shuffled down the bed and rested her head on his chest with a sigh, laying one arm over his body. She figured he might find it easier not to look at her. "Tell me what you're feeling," she said. "What do you need?"

The Doctor was silent for a long time. Donna wasn't sure whether he was still reluctant or just searching for the right words.

"I… I feel…" He paused. "Unclean," he said quietly.

That gave her pause. A sickening pause. "What d'you mean?" she asked.

He drew a deep breath. "There's… there's something wrong with me," he said. "I don't want to be in my mind. Doesn't feel like it's mine, not anymore. It's like I've lost control." He shuddered. "I thought it would stop once I moved on but I can't. I can't stop thinking about it."

Donna glanced up at him. "Why not?"

"Because it…" He cleared his throat. "It was uncomfortable. It made me afraid. I keep feeling the same things that I did in that moment, over and over, and yes, I know, I should know how to deal with that. Dunno why I can't, this time," he muttered.

Again, she got the horrible feeling that she was missing something vital about this whole situation. "Doctor…" she said hesitantly. "I know there's something you aren't telling me. Or maybe you have, and I just didn't understand."

The Doctor went quiet again, except for the occasional sniffle.

"Tell me," she murmured. "Tell me what happened. What did that creature do to you?"

He took her hand and squeezed it as he steeled himself.

"It– uh…" He blew out a breath. "It used one of the other passengers, Sky, to get inside the bus. It was watching us, learning from how we reacted to it. It was smart, not like you or I, but smart. Sentient. It chose me. It knew I could stop it and it got into my mind and overpowered my consciousness, and…" His voice wavered, and he swallowed hard. "It was so strong. I couldn't move, I couldn't speak–"

"Alright, easy," she said soothingly, sensing that he was hurtling towards a breakdown. She pushed himself up to look at him. "It's over. It's okay now."

"No!" he shouted. "No, bloody hell, no it's not!" His eyes widened and he drew away as if startled by his own reaction. "I'm sorry," he breathed. "I– I didn't–"

"It's okay," she assured him. "Keep going."

The Doctor took a deep breath. "Two people are dead because of me. Because I failed. Oh, I couldn't help myself, I just had to try to talk to the thing. Had to be the hero. No wonder it–" He stopped suddenly with a choked little sound. "No wonder it forced its way into my head. When will I learn?" He laughed. Then, just as suddenly as it had come, all trace of humour was gone from his face. He looked so lost and so afraid with his tear-filled eyes wide, jaw set so his lower lip wouldn't tremble. He redirected his eyes to the ceiling, rubbing a shaking hand over his mouth.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "Oh– Donna, I'm sorry. I hate how I've let this get to me. Since it happened, I can hardly think about anything else. I still can't believe that thing just… stole so much control from me. And now I don't– I don't have it back, and I don't know why. I want it back. I want…" His breath stuttered as he fought to remain calm, but the tears were already spilling down his cheeks. "I just want to feel like myself, Donna," he said wretchedly. "How come I don't?"

Donna wanted to say a million things in that moment, but she couldn't muster up a single word. She just stared at him, speechless, because she knew those words. She had heard them far too many times in her life; she knew the pattern, she knew how people said them, she knew what people said them about. Never in a million years would she have expected to hear them from the Doctor. From her best friend.

She thought back to the books in the library, and to the few times she had managed to coax a Time Lord fact out of the Doctor. She knew they were a telepathic race, that they could form mental bonds with each other that would allow them to communicate. The Doctor had implied, once, that it was the ultimate act of trust and affection to bond with another Time Lord—like how she spoke with the TARDIS, they would be able to feel each other's emotions, even hear each other's thoughts to an extent—but he'd gotten that bleak look on his face and changed the subject before Donna could inquire further. To a being like that, having something force its mind upon theirs must be horrific.

She realized, then, that she had to ask. She had no idea if it was out-of-bounds, or taboo—it was hard, navigating a relationship with an alien who didn't like to talk about his species—but she had to know.

"Doctor– God, please don't hate me for this," she whispered. "On Midnight…" She swallowed, blinking away tears. "That was… that was like rape, wasn't it? To a Time Lord."

The Doctor flinched back at the words. He averted his gaze, searching the room for anything interesting enough to latch onto, anything to distract him and keep him from breaking down. Settling for his own hands, he laced his fingers together and started fiddling with his thumbs.

He cleared his throat. "I– I'm not… In human terms, I suppose, um, you could…" He trailed off, his gaze defocusing. An odd look came over his face; a cold resignation. "Yeah," he said shortly. "To the best of your understanding, yes."

Donna felt as if the breath had been knocked from her lungs. Her brain, apparently, was unable to produce an appropriate reaction to this news, and certainly not one that the Doctor would find helpful, so she found herself doing nothing at all. She wanted to cry, or yell, or be sick; for a second she thought she might, but instead she took several deep breaths, bringing herself back to the present. Her heart was pounding in her ears, her hands trembling furiously, and she wrung them together to hide it. She desperately wanted to get her hands on the being that had done this to him. But she was sure he wouldn't approve, and he really didn't need any more outbursts from her right now, so she shoved those thoughts into the back of her mind. Then she was left alone with a suffocating, aching grief, and she wondered, not for the first time, how the Doctor could ever bear to let go of his anger.

She slowly drew him into her arms and he sat up to meet her, tentatively returning the hug. With a sudden rush of desperation she tightened her hold on him until she thought it surely must be painful, one hand moving to tangle in his hair, cradling his head against her shoulder. His body shook with silent, heaving sobs as it finally got too much for him to take, and she rocked him back and forth ever so slightly, her vision swimming with tears.

"I'm so sorry," she said, voice cracking. She didn't know what else to say, so she said it until she couldn't get the words out around the lump in her throat. He didn't respond, didn't say a word, and she just held him closer.

When she finally let go of him, reluctantly, his gaze was distant. It was like he wasn't even in the room with her, as if he were seeing the inside of the shuttle bus in his mind's eye.

"Doctor." She sniffed and used her sleeve to dry her cheeks, putting her other hand on his shoulder. "Look at me?"

He seemed to take a moment to process this, before his eyes slowly wandered up to meet hers.

"Stay with me, okay?" She cupped his cheek. "Don't run away. Please. You have to work through this."

He shut his eyes, a shudder running through his skinny frame, and when he opened them again she saw genuine fear there. It was not a good look on him; subconsciously, Donna had always thought of him as the kind of person who wasn't supposed to be afraid of anything, because if he got scared then the rest of the universe was screwed. That was selfish of her, she knew, and he probably got enough of that from everyone else already. And now that she could see how scared he was—scared of talking to her, of reliving it, scared that it would never stop hurting so badly—she wondered how she could have ever let herself fall into that illusion.

Time to change that, she supposed. Somehow.

"Are you happy?" she asked.

He blinked, caught off guard. She was surprised herself, and wasn't quite sure where she'd been going, but she continued.

"I mean… are you happy now?" she said. "After everything you've been through, everything you've seen. After all the times you– you thought you'd never be happy again…" She swallowed, almost afraid to hear his response. "Are you happy?" she whispered.

The Doctor was silent for a long time—or maybe it was mere seconds, Donna couldn't tell. She could practically see his mind racing, going back through his life, compiling, comparing. God, she hated that he had to think about it. She hated the universe sometimes for what it had done to him.

"I know what you're asking," he said softly. "You want me to say it was worth it, to put in the effort. To keep living. You want to hear that I'm glad I haven't–" He stopped abruptly, drawing a shaky breath. "Please, Donna, don't worry about me."

"Of course I'm gonna worry about you," she said, distressed. "I wouldn't worry if you weren't such a worrying person!"

The Doctor looked up at her. His eyes were sad, but she saw that spark in them that she knew so well, that she hadn't seen nearly enough of these past weeks. A smile quirked at the corners of his lips.

"Yeah," he said. "I'm happy."

Donna felt some of the tension unravel in her chest, and she let out something halfway between a sob and a sigh of relief. "You're going to be alright," she promised. "You've made it through so much. You're the strongest person I've ever known, you just need a reminder every now and again, that's all." Her hands moved down to grasp his. "And I'm here for you through all of it, okay? I swear."

The Doctor sniffled, gaze falling to their joined hands. "Oh, you're right, Donna," he said. "Course you're right."

Donna kissed his forehead and wrapped her arms around him again. "I love you," she whispered.

"Love you too." His voice broke on the last word, and he hugged her close to him, hiding his face in her hair. He chuckled after a moment, his breath tickling her neck.

"What?" Donna asked.

"I'm an idiot," he said, his shoulders shaking a bit with laughter.

"Well, I knew that," she teased. She drew back. "What d'you mean?"

"I just–" He swallowed, reaching out to rub her arm gently. "I forget, sometimes, how different you are from me. And not in a bad way," he added, "no, that's your best quality, frankly. But you humans… for all we look alike, I forget that we aren't the same."

Seeing her blank look, he continued, "What I mean is, you– of course, you wouldn't understand the implications of this. For me, I mean." He fidgeted, suddenly uncomfortable under her gaze. "I should've told you sooner. I just…" He squeezed his eyes shut. "I didn't want you to think badly of me. Should've known better, but I didn't think I could handle it if you… reacted how my people would have."

It took Donna a moment to understand. "Oh, Doctor…"

"I know, I know," he muttered. "Stupid old me." After a moment, he sighed. "On Gallifrey, in my time, power was everything. Power and control. The Time Lords were a proud race, secure in the knowledge that we were—supposedly, of course—superior to all other species. And it was the same amongst ourselves, class structure was very important. 'Course, I was never very good at any of that." He gave a lopsided smile. Then his expression turned somber. "Always was a disgrace to my species."

"Don't say that," Donna implored.

"If they knew…" he continued, as if she hadn't spoken. He took a shaky breath. "It's not so much about having something else in my mind with me—this wouldn't be the first time that's happened, it's an occupational hazard for a telepathic traveller. Though not a terribly enjoyable one. No, it's about the dominance." His voice seemed to drip with acid. "They would think it's shameful, to be used as a– a vessel. To be rendered helpless by a lesser being."

Donna regarded him for a moment, the pain and anger—or could that be self-hatred?—written across his drawn features. "Is that why you didn't tell me?" she asked quietly. "You were scared that I'd judge you? That I'd think you were weak?" She couldn't help but feel a little hurt by that. It wasn't his fault, she knew, but… Did he really believe she would do that to him?

"I don't know," he muttered. "I really don't." He blew out a breath, shaking his head. "I'm having trouble looking at this objectively," he admitted. "I would never, ever tell another person the things I've been telling myself. I don't believe them. I know they aren't true, I do. But it feels like they are, and…" Swallowing hard, he said in a wavering voice, "And it feels wrong to tell myself otherwise. As if I'm abandoning my people, I– I don't know."

It was hard to remember, sometimes, just how different their lives were. She'd never considered that he might feel guilty for letting go of certain parts of his life on Gallifrey, however messed up they might have been, however badly they hurt him. He seemed so human, so much of the time; it was easy to forget that he didn't have the kind of support the rest of the universe took for granted. He didn't have anyone who truly understood him. And now, facing an issue unique, in part, to his species, he was alone.

Donna refocused herself, gathering her resolve. Neither of them could afford to think like that right now. "And what is it that you're telling yourself?" she asked hesitantly. She didn't want to know the answer—she knew it would break her heart—but he needed to say it. There was a lot he still needed to say.

As if sensing her trepidation, his expression shuttered. "It, ah… it's not important," he muttered.

She levelled him with a firm stare.

After a moment of silence, during which he seemed to be judging how much secrecy he could get away with, he gave a shaky exhale. "This, all of this… It's really hard to talk about," he admitted. "I know you're trying to help and I, well, I really appreciate it. But I can't answer that question." He swallowed hard. "I'm sorry. I can't say that."

Oh, if that didn't make her concern climb exponentially. She wanted to press him, reassure him that he could tell her, that she wouldn't be mad or upset or anything. But he had really, really tried, and perhaps it would help more if she didn't push his boundaries. They could talk about it another time.

"Alright," she said. "That's fine. Don't worry about it." She watched the tension drain from his body, and realized just how much that had meant to him. She must make a note of that. "Well either way, you of all people should know that you can't always trust what you feel," she said lightly, hoping that he would welcome the opportunity to leave behind this train of thought.

She hadn't made a misstep, it seemed; he chuckled weakly, ducking his head to wipe away tears.

"Yeah," he said. "I know. Thank you." Then he bit his lip. "I'm sorry. You've been so patient and brilliant, and I've just been… just sulking, really. I've really messed this up, and I've made it hard on you too and you don't deserve that. You shouldn't have to put up with me."

Donna sighed patiently, her heart aching for him. "I'm not putting up with anything, you daft Martian. We're in this together. And honestly," she added, "you've been way less of a pain in my arse than usual."

He laughed, flashing her a proper smile the likes of which she hadn't seen from him in too long, even if she knew it was more out of relief than anything. She shifted her position, wriggling downwards under the covers to lie her head on his chest, and wrapped an arm around his middle. He hugged her, resting his chin on her head. For a moment, it was just like any other night on the TARDIS.

"I like you better when you're a pain in the arse," she murmured. His hearts beat a soothing rhythm under her ear, and she caught a whiff of his soap—a lovely herbal scent, distinctly alien and familiar at the same time. Her smile grew wider, and a sudden rush of fondness made her heart ache in an entirely different way; he'd managed to shower that day. Funny, she reflected, how much those little things could mean.

"Donna…" The Doctor hesitated, and she moved to look up at him. "I'm not, um– I don't know if I can sleep again," he confessed.

Donna let go of him to roll over on her side, pulling him with her. "Don't sleep, then," she said, as he lay down to face her. "Just lie down and rest, long as you like. There's no rush." She knew he would fall asleep eventually; he was dead tired. It was just a matter of getting him used to it again.

"Alright." He yawned. "But we can't lie in all day."

"Why not? You've got a time machine," she pointed out.

He gave a soft sigh, letting himself relax against the pillows and his eyes fall closed. "Quite right," he murmured.

Donna reached out to clasp his hand, already feeling the exhaustion overtake her again. "You gonna be okay?" she asked, the words softened by drowsiness.

"Course."

She gave a grumble of disapproval.

The Doctor opened one eye to look at her, and his expression, mournful and tired and oddly peaceful all in one, suddenly made him look…

Time Lord, she decided. He looked very Time Lord.

"I'm nine hundred years old, Donna," he said quietly. "I've survived a lot, and I know it doesn't look like it right about now but I've been around too long to really believe this is going to do me in."

Donna felt tears prickle at her eyes again, and she pulled him closer until they were little more than a tangle of limbs and bedclothes, his head tucked under her chin and her arms around his body. "Love you," she whispered.

He hummed sleepily in response.


The Doctor woke suddenly, several hours later, with a sharp inhale and a slight jolt. His hearts quickened for a second before he realized—with surprise—that he wasn't panicked. He was actually quite calm, funny enough. Confused, but satisfied that he needn't worry, he pushed himself up on his elbows and looked around.

He was up first, as usual. Donna lay beside him, sound asleep, half-curled under the bedclothes like a cat. She always did that; she found the TARDIS too cold to sleep without blankets, although he often found it a bit warm to sleep with them. Her hair was strewn messily over the pillows and over her eyes, shining a reddish bronze in the morning light, and her mouth was slightly agape. He smiled fondly.

The sun (an artificial light source, really, generated by the TARDIS to make his more linearly-inclined friends comfortable) was just peeking through the blinds (the window was no more real than the sun, but it was still nice), casting a soft golden glow in stripes across the headboard of the bed and the adjacent wall. The whole room seemed so peaceful. So domestic. It almost felt like he could forget everything that had happened last night, two weeks ago, ever, really.

But with that thought, it all came flooding back to him. An uncomfortable slew of remembered emotions made him wince, embarrassment first and foremost. He fought against the instinct to consider it a mistake, convince himself he'd been an idiot to talk about it and go back to his routine of suffering silently. All the usual thoughts ran through his mind—he was a Time Lord, he didn't need her help, he was being weak, he should be ashamed of placing such a burden on her… but somehow, in the morning light, they didn't hold so much weight. They dissolved into the air, leaving behind the simple fact that he felt better having gotten it all off his chest.

Not all, he reminded himself with a twinge of guilt. He knew that his refusing to answer Donna's question must have worried her, but even as he thought back on it, the idea of telling her the truth made him feel sick. He had surprised himself by spilling just about everything else, but he simply couldn't stand saying this aloud. The truth would be worse, he decided, for the both of them.

It was escapism, really, and he recognized that he would have to face both the incident and the unanswered question eventually. The knowledge cast a dark cloud over his otherwise idyllic morning. But he was very good at running from that feeling—pretending it wasn't there was one of the few respites he could get, sometimes—and he was too tired to ponder it now. He felt good; the rest could wait.

That was two surprises so far, and he hadn't even been awake five minutes. It was a bit brilliant, really. He had an unfortunate tendency to forget how good things could be whenever they got bad, and he adored getting little reminders like this. A warm contentment spread all through him like poured honey; these mornings were all too rare, and right then the bed, with Donna curled up beside him, was looking like the best place in the universe. Suddenly, his fear of trying to sleep seemed a distant memory. Funny how that happened, he reflected. Everything felt easier in the morning.

Yawning, he lay back down and nestled into the pillows, gazing at Donna's sleeping form. It wasn't long before he dozed off again. But as his mind wandered, he couldn't help wondering once more when he would be forced to stop running away.