Chapter Eight
"Go home, Wilfred," he murmured, softly considering the tired, red slant of the old man's gaze. "I can take care of things now." He looked down through the one-way viewer at his baby, who was happily drowsing away in the cubby hole. "It looks like we all could do with a bit of rest."
Wilfred Mott looked deflated as he reached out to touch the Other's arm. "Are you sure, son? I got stuff to do at home, sure, but, I could stay, if you want. If you need me! I won't leave you if you need me."
But the Other just smiled and grabbed Wilfred's arm and squeezed. "You're near hysterics, dear Wilfred, my sweetheart. Go on to your girls and your grandson-in-law. Go on! Get some nice brandy and some proper dinner in you. And don't forget your reindeer hat! If Sylvia asks, tell her the truth, that I've just given birth and the Doctor is probably dying. It's what Donna would have done, you know it, I know it. Now scootch! Shift your bum!"
With a big smile worthy of any child hiding something, the Other watched Wilfred go, certain that he was avoiding the old man's imminent heart attack at what was about to happen.
Little gold flickers of light were spilling from the Doctor's mouth, more and more every time he breathed- it wouldn't be long. He reached down, wiggled his fingers inside the Doctor's open hand, held him, and waited.
