A/N: Serving up some (very meandering) hurt/comfort. Hope you enjoy!

Full chapter title is "The Thing You Need Most of All to Get Across This Universe" (too long for FFN, apparently)


A blood-curdling scream echoed through the TARDIS; jolting Ryan awake. He leapt out of bed, throwing on his dressing gown as he left his room.

Directly opposite his bedroom was a door that he didn't recognise. It was a rich mahogany colour, the complex circles and lines of the Doctor's native language etched in gold.

Patting the wall in thanks, he pushed the door open, and spotted the Doctor thrashing about on his bed, sheets discarded. The dim light from the hallway illuminated him, highlighting his pale visage and mussed hair, both damp with sweat, his face screwed up in pain. Ryan quickly moved to the Doctor's side, kneeling on his bed. He took hold of his shoulders and tried to gently shake him awake.

"Doctor, wake up!"

"Don't leave me!" the Doctor cried out.

Ryan felt his heart break for him. "Doctor!" He shook him again, more desperately.

The Doctor's eyes snapped open and he sat upright, nearly knocking heads with Ryan. He gently took hold of the Doctor's hands, who squeezed them tight, taking rapid, shallow breaths.

"It's okay Doctor," Ryan said quietly. "It was just a dream; you're safe and I'm here."

The Doctor's breaths slowed, and recognition flickered briefly in his eyes. He shuddered violently and dropped Ryan's hands, wrapping his arms tightly around Ryan's waist and buried his face into his neck. Ryan responded in kind, holding the Doctor close and rubbing his back slowly.

The Doctor shook again. "They're all gone," he choked out. He broke out into a sob. "It's all gone."

Ryan didn't have a doubt in his mind about what the Doctor was talking about – there was no point in saying it was just a dream when he was being haunted by memories.

He felt his neck grow damp with the Doctor's tears. "I know, and I'm sorry," he whispered comfortingly, trying to tell the Doctor that he was loved and cared for, without saying the words.

"It's all my fault," the Doctor sobbed.

"It's not," Ryan murmured, bringing a hand up to sift through the Doctor's hair. The Doctor pulled back slightly to look at Ryan – his eyes bloodshot from crying, with tear tracks painted down his cheeks.

"It is," the Doctor bit out. "I pressed the button! I ended it all!"

Even though he had never said it outright, Ryan had always been working with that assumption. But it properly sunk in when the Doctor had admitted it. He was dealing with a centuries old, deeply traumatized veteran of war, buried deep inside the body of deceitfully youthful man. A man who had committed genocide against his own people for the sake of every other nameless, faceless being in the universe. A man who Ryan loved unconditionally.

"You said the war was fought for the sake of all creation," Ryan began, choosing his words carefully. "So I think you did the right thing. Saving all of creation."

The Doctor was unable to meet his eyes. "Not all of it," he mumbled.

Ryan tugged the Doctor back towards him and the Doctor settled against his shoulder. Ryan continued to simply hold him.

After an indeterminable length of time, the Doctor had stopped his occasional shivers and his breathing had slowed to its usual pattern. Ryan started to shift off the bed, but his progress was halted by the Doctor grabbing the sleeve of his dressing gown.

"Don't leave me," the Doctor mumbled, uncharacteristically timid. Ryan turned to him, giving him a slight smile.

"I'm gonna come back, just getting us some tea – chamomile."

The Doctor's grip on him changed, sliding down Ryan's arm to take his hand. "I'm not going back to sleep."

Ryan glanced down at their joined hands and rubbed his thumb against the Doctor's. "Never said you had to." He looked back up. "Just thought it might help you relax a bit, that's all."

The Doctor considered this for a moment, before shrugging and swinging his pyjama-clad legs out of his bed. He shuffled over to a set of pegs on the wall, grabbing his (formerly Howard's) dressing gown, in slipping into it. He then wriggled his feet into a pair of Converse slippers, because of course he had Converse slippers.

"What?" the Doctor asked upon seeing Ryan's amused expression.

Ryan shook his head, grinning. "'S nothing, just you're very consistent with your footwear."

The Doctor smiled for the first time since New Earth. "It's a timeless design classic."

"Ready?"

The Doctor nodded and they left his room hand-in-hand. They soon discovered that the TARDIS had helpfully moved the galley closer, so it was just a short distance down the corridor.

Once they got there Ryan busied himself with getting out mugs and teabags and setting the kettle to boil. He quickly sussed out that the Doctor was unwilling to let go of his hand, making his task more difficult, but thankfully the Doctor had the habit of holding Ryan's left hand in his right, leaving Ryan free to use his dominant hand.

As soon as Ryan had switched the kettle on, the Doctor pulled Ryan into another hug. Again, the Doctor silently refused to let go of his hand, forcing Ryan's left shoulder to internally rotate. He could cope with the mild pain.

"I'm sorry," the Doctor murmured against Ryan's temple.

"What for?"

The Doctor leant back, moved his left hand from Ryan's back to cradle his jaw. "You had something you wanted to tell me," he said gently.

"Oh, right." Somehow, Ryan had almost forgotten about that already. "I came out to Martha."

The Doctor smiled, a full smile that caused crinkles to appear in the corners of his eyes. He leant in, and delicately pressed a kiss to Ryan's forehead. "Well done. Did it go okay?"

Ryan tried his best to ignore the furious blush on his cheeks. "Yeah, it went well. Is it okay if she watches when I have my shot? Just thought it might be good experience for her."

"Yeah, 'course." The Doctor pulled him back into a hug. "I'm so proud of you."

Ryan smiled against his chest. "Thanks. I'm proud of you too."

"I haven't done anything," the Doctor mumbled.

"I know you find it hard, talking about Gallifrey," Ryan began quietly. "But you managed to say all of that earlier. And I'm so proud."

The Doctor squeezed Ryan's hand in thanks. They then heard the unmistakable click of the kettle, and Ryan reluctantly slipped out of their embrace to make their tea.

They each grabbed their full, steaming mugs. Ryan sat at his usual place at the table, but the Doctor sat to his left, rather than the usual opposite. He still hadn't let go of Ryan's hand.

They sat in silence, taking small sips of their tea. Ryan tilted his head to rest it on the Doctor's shoulder, and a moment later, he felt the Doctor's head on his.

"I thought going to sleep would help," the Doctor began, raw and vulnerable. "Because that's when I can switch my brain off the most. Some kind of escape. But then there's the nightmares."

Ryan was hesitant to interrupt his monologue. "Do you get nightmares every time you sleep?"

The Doctor paused. "No… that was the first time in months."

Before Ryan could ask what had changed, he continued.

"But every time, I hope they might not come. But they always arrive when I want them the least.

"The definition of insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Often misattributed to Albert Einstein. But maybe that's me, just trying to escape even though I know I can't. Am I going insane?"

Ryan squeezed his hand and rubbed his thumb. "You wouldn't be you if you weren't a little bit mad. Not in a bad way, though. I can't explain it."

The Doctor fell quiet. He picked up his half-empty mug of tea and swirled it around, creating eddy currents in the lukewarm liquid, before setting it back down.

"How did you find me?" he questioned.

"I heard screaming, and I opened my door to see yours directly opposite," Ryan answered.

The Doctor sighed. "My room was supposed to be sound-proofed. And no one else should be able to find it. But it seems the TARDIS wanted you to."

"Is that okay?" Ryan gently asked.

"There's never a time when I don't want to see you."

Ryan nuzzled closer to him and finished off his tea. He noticed that the Doctor hadn't touched his in a while and was bouncing his knee, either out of impatience or anxiety. Knowing what the rest of night potentially held, Ryan suspected it was the latter.

"Have you had enough?" Ryan murmured.

The Doctor stopped bouncing his knee. "Enough what?"

"Tea," Ryan clarified.

"Yeah. I guess." The Doctor gripped his hand tighter, and Ryan could sense his reluctance to go anywhere. The Doctor sighed. "You should go back to sleep," he said, his words at odds with his actions.

"Do you want me to stay with you?" Ryan asked, ignoring what the Doctor had just said.

"You need your sleep."

Ryan rolled his eyes and shifted to look directly at the Doctor. "Just answer the bloody question."

The Doctor looked down, his gazed fixated on his knee, which had resumed its bouncing. "Yes," he admitted quietly.

"Well," Ryan began, choosing his words carefully. "Maybe we could go back to bed – together – and then I can get some sleep, and you can do your Lapras transforms or whatever you like to do to keep your brain occupied when I'm sleeping." He paused. "Is that okay?"

"Laplace transforms," the Doctor corrected. "And is that okay with you?"

Ryan nudged the Doctor's shoulder with his own. "'Course it is. I was the one who suggested it after all."

The Doctor perked up a little. "Oh. Right. You know you're very clever, Ryan, have I ever told you that?"

It was now Ryan's turn to glance down. "Maybe once or twice," he mumbled.

"Hmm," the Doctor considered. "I should tell you that more often. Bed?"

"Yeah," Ryan agreed. They slid out of their chairs, leaving their mugs to grow cold on the table. They could be dealt with tomorrow.

They left the galley, and made their way back up the corridor. Their rooms sat opposite each other, and they had to decide on whether to go left or right at the crossroads.

"Yours," Ryan decided for them, knowing the Doctor would just ask him anyway or be incredibly indecisive. This was about the Doctor's comfort, not his.

Wordlessly, the Doctor tugged on Ryan's hand, leading him into his bedroom. The TARDIS had turned on a few lights in the Doctor's room, and Ryan could see its contents far more easily. Much of the Doctor's furniture was crafted from the same rich mahogany as his door, but there were plenty of TARDIS blue accents; from the bedding to the plush upholstery on an armchair by an unlit fireplace. On the far side of the room sat a large desk, covered in bits of gadgetry and rolls of paper. A haphazard stack of books rested on the floor next to a wardrobe, which had one door half closed, and Ryan could see racks of shirts messily hung up on hangers. Two and half pairs of Converse (Ryan could only see one black trainer) had been kicked off at the foot of the bed. The whole room was very Doctor.

Ryan felt the Doctor's eyes on him. He turned around and saw that the Doctor had taken off his dressing gown and slippers, and was looking at him expectantly. Ryan slipped out of his dressing gown and hung it on a spare peg next to the Doctor's. In that time, the Doctor had made his way back to his bed. The corner of the duvet was flipped up in invitation.

Ryan crawled into the bed, tugging the covers over them. The lights dimmed as they rolled over to face each other.

"Hold me?" the Doctor requested, his eyes shining with affection. "If that's okay?"

Ryan tried to match that affection with a smile. "'Course." He rolled on to his back, opening his arm out. The Doctor shuffled into the open space at his side, resting his head on Ryan's shoulder. As Ryan wrapped his arm around him, the Doctor reached for his opposite hand and pulled it to him, fiddling with Ryan's fingers.

Ryan didn't quite understand the Doctor's fascination with his hands. Whether he was simply intrigued by his anatomy and was trying to feel for a tiny difference between human and Time Lord hands; or was bending his digits into indiscernible patterns and shapes – Ryan didn't know. He didn't mind, either. In fact, he was quite content with being a fidget toy for the Time Lord.

He sighed happily, lifting his other hand to lightly stroke the Doctor's hair. The Doctor shifted closer to Ryan's neck, away from his hand. He paused. Did the Doctor not like the hair stroking…?

"Keep doing that," the Doctor murmured. Ryan resumed his ministrations, quickly realising the Doctor was just nuzzling closer to him, not necessarily away from his hand.

They laid there in silence for a few minutes, simply enjoying the feeling of closeness they shared. It was then that Ryan noticed another unique feature of the Doctor's room. The projection of stars on his ceiling, like a skylight.

"You know," Ryan began in a quiet whisper, continuing to stroke the Doctor's hair. "When I was a kid, maybe about five or six, me and Mum went on holiday to Cornwall for a few days. It was all we could afford, 'cos money was really tight and she couldn't take much time off work. Getting there and back was a right pain in the arse – we didn't have a car and had to take the train all the way – don't think I'd ever been so bored in my life.

"So we stayed in this tiny cottage. During the day we'd go down to the beach – making sandcastles and eating 99 Flakes. We'd get fish and chips every evening on the way back to the cottage."

"Is this the origin story of your fried potato addiction?" the Doctor asked in a gently teasing murmur.

Ryan giggled softly. "Now you mention it, probably."

The Doctor chuckled. "Sorry, what were you saying before I ever so rudely interrupted you?"

"Oh right, yeah. At night, I'd go out into the tiny garden to look at the stars. And they always fascinated me, 'cos you couldn't see them in London, and they looked so magical. Mum wouldn't let me stay out for long, being little, so I had to go in at eight.

"And then that Christmas, I got some of those glow-in-the-dark plastic stars and spent two hours sticking them to my ceiling with Blu-Tac. I'd stare at them every night before I fell asleep. But you, you've got the real thing," he said, nodding at the projection of stars on the Doctor's ceiling.

The Doctor's grip on his fingers got tighter. "It's how they looked from Gallifrey," he whispered.

Ryan held him closer. "Oh?"

The Doctor took a shaky breath. "Much like you, as a kid, I was fascinated by the stars, and all the planets that orbited them, and the people that inhabited those worlds. I was mocked, because Time Lords have a strict policy of non-interference, and aren't supposed to go out there and get involved with the matters of other species."

Ryan didn't miss the usage of the present tense. Neither did the Doctor.

"Had, weren't… I don't know," he sighed.

Feeling brave, Ryan kissed the Doctor's hair. "You don't have to continue if it's too… difficult."

"No… I want to," the Doctor said. "When – when I was eight, I started at the Academy. It was massive – a boarding school in its own self-contained city. You couldn't get a clear view of the sky, so I would sneak out every night, just to watch the stars."

"Did anyone ever find out?" Ryan asked.

"No, not to my knowledge. Not until now, at least," he laughed lightly.

Ryan smiled. "Don't worry – I won't tell anyone." He lightly scratched the Doctor's scalp, before continuing to run his fingers through the Doctor's thick hair. "Thanks for telling me," he said sincerely.

"No probs," the Doctor mumbled. "It was nice to tell someone. After all that time…" He stopped playing with Ryan's fingers, changing his grip to hold hands. "You should go to sleep."

"But what if – "

"I'll be fine."

Ryan shook his head. "You can't promise me that, Doctor. Wake me if you need me, please. You're more important to me than my eight hours of sleep,"

"More like ten," the Doctor muttered dryly.

"Shut up," Ryan responded, poking the Doctor in the shoulder. "And I mean it. Seriously."

"I know you do. Now go back to sleep."

"Fine. G'night, Doctor."

"'Night, Ryan."

Ryan's hand slipped down to the Doctor's shoulder, holding him closer as he drifted back to sleep.


The Doctor felt a slight squeeze on his lateral deltoid as he heard Ryan's breathing slow, indicating that he had indeed fallen asleep. He noted that Ryan had only taken forty-six seconds to doze off, but considering it was quarter past three in the morning EHT (Earth Human Time), that was perfectly reasonable.

He hadn't told Ryan that he'd moved on from calculating Laplace transforms to solving fifth order ordinary differential equations. He also hadn't told Ryan that recently, he only really slept when they were sharing a bed. Not that he slept every time they did, hence the need to do some relatively simple mathematics.

But right now, the Doctor didn't fancy solving differential equations. He was very distracted by things he could feel, as he so eloquently phrased them.

Things he could feel covered a wide range of, well, things. Both sensory and emotional. The Doctor felt a strange obligation to list them all, probably because they were far too distracting for his brain to be able to fixate on anything else. But where to start?

He supposed he could list everything alphabetically. But even then, what was that? A permutation of a set of characters chosen arbitrarily. And when you knew billions of languages, and hundreds of millions of character sets, they were all just too arbitrary.

He thought about what Ryan would tell him what to do. Just start with whatever's most important, he could almost hear him say. So that's where the Doctor decided to start. The five basic human senses.

Touch. He still had hold of Ryan's hand. When he had first taken hold of Ryan's hand in this body, barely a few minutes after he had regenerated, it amazed him how perfectly they fit together. But even though Ryan's hands had grown a little larger, he found that they fit together even more perfectly. Which of course, didn't make sense, as you couldn't get more perfect than perfect. The Doctor supposed it didn't really matter too much and decided not to dwell on it. He changed his grip on Ryan's hand again, tracing the now more prominent veins with his fingertips.

Sight. Other than the light from the projection on his ceiling, it was pitch black. He could still see, but there wasn't anything of any real interest. He glanced up. The angle was awkward, so all he could see was Ryan's neck and jaw. He stopped to count his new terminal hairs. Not long enough yet to necessarily need shaving.

Hearing. It was never truly silent on board the TARDIS. The background whirring of machinery, the slight buzzing of electronics, the telepathic humming. But compared to this, Ryan's breathing was so much louder. The gentle inhales and exhales harmonising with the rhythmic drumming of his singular heart.

Smell. He sniffed just once. There was the usual suspect – laundry detergent – and others that he enjoyed, but only smelt on occasion. Human sweat – something he didn't consider to be unpleasant – which was mostly masked by a deodorant body spray that Ryan claimed to be using ironically. The Doctor didn't understand what was ironic about smelling of what was supposed to be vanilla, geranium and cedar – as they smelt lovely – but it seemed to amuse Ryan, and that made the Doctor happy.

Taste. From what the Doctor could tell from the last seven hundred odd years of travelling with humans, they generally don't appreciate being licked without permission. He decided to make a pass on that one.

He felt incredibly thankful that there had been someone there to console him. He was even more thankful that that person had been Ryan. He didn't want it to be any other way.

He felt safe. Which was odd, considering he was in his TARDIS, drifting in the Time Vortex. It wasn't as if they were in any danger at all. It was more to do with the fact that Ryan was holding him close to his broadened, more muscular frame. The Doctor was relishing in this moment greatly. He'd almost be willing to have nightmares every night if it meant he could be held like this. Of course, they could switch around positions. He could be supine on his back, with Ryan draped over him like a blanket. With one hand, he would write words in Gallifreyan he didn't dare speak on Ryan's back. With the other, he would stroke Ryan's hair until he fell asleep. And then keep stroking him.

Or Ryan could be holding him again, but instead Ryan would wrap his arms around him from behind. They'd be pressed together, and the Doctor would tangle his legs with Ryan to bring him closer.

Scratch having nightmares. He was sure he could persuade Ryan to share a bed with him every night – he had the charm and charisma. He didn't need to sleep every single night, but he could put aside a few hours to spend some more time with Ryan. A flawless plan: he congratulated himself on his genius.

He was fantasising. Again. He'd always been content in Ryan's presence, right from the start. But ever since he'd regenerated into this body (and especially since almost losing him at Canary Wharf), the Doctor was constantly craving Ryan's presence. He longed for the feeling of closeness, not unlike how allosexual people longed for sexual relations with their partner(s).

Partners. Relationships. Another thing he wanted but couldn't have. Not that he hadn't sort of been pretending, inside his head, where the universe couldn't rip things away from him. He supposed he could just ask Ryan, but that would involve admitting his feelings (scary) and potential rejection (terrifying). He had nearly inadvertently told Ryan he loved him three times now. Two of those times had been before everything had changed. And the third, most recently… emotions had been running particularly high.

After all, it was his fault that Ryan now had an increased lifespan of an unknown length. And it was his fault that Ryan had lost Jackie. He wasn't religious by any means, but he prayed that Ryan wouldn't realise this and leave him. And if they were in a relationship, losing him would just hurt so much more.

He had fallen head-over-heels in love. Ridiculously so. He was willing to admit that much to himself.

He shifted from his sideways position, propping himself up on his elbow. He looked down at Ryan. He looked so peaceful in his sleep, and the Doctor hoped that maybe one day he could share that peace. He reached up with his other hand, brushing Ryan's sleep-tousled hair out of his face. He leant down and pressed a lingering kiss to his forehead. He shifted again, so their foreheads rested against each other.

He wanted to stay like that forever. Close enough for their breaths to mingle. But like everything else, he couldn't.

He settled back down on Ryan's shoulder, wrapping an arm around his waist. He had said he wasn't going back to sleep, but he felt the drowsiness creeping up on him.

He sighed. Another couple of hours wouldn't hurt.


A/N: Just so you know, the Doctor is demisexual in this series. Also, the first chapter of Daleks in Manhattan might be up by the end of the week, if we're lucky.

Thanks for reading!