Disclaimer: Doctor Who is not mine.
AN: This is my (and my editor-in-chief older sister's) favorite chapter. It is very sad and very sweet and I (as always) hope you wonderful readers like it.
Far
Every night, at exactly nine-thirty, Mr. Mott got out his telescope, and went up on the hill next to his house. He would put up a picnic blanket and gather some star charts, and place the telescope right on top of the cloth on that mound.
He would spend a long time up there, every single day; no matter if he was sick or going to be away, he would always get home to look in his telescope. Sometimes he would spend two hours outside, until a chattery Donna with a funny look on her face would see him, and her mother would tell him it was late, and that he should come inside.
Mr. Mott didn't really care that he had to go in. He knew that tomorrow, at exactly nine-thirty PM, he would be set up outside like a traveler in the desert. He would look in his telescope until it got late, and sometimes, he might even see a tiny blue dot and a bright white blinker float across the midnight plains.
He made sure not to miss one day, and he would always be there to make sure that little blue box didn't crash somewhere on a deserted island in the sky. You could taste the determination in Mr. Mott's eyes as he looked out his telescope at the universe above, at exactly nine-thirty each night. He would always be watching that blue box, no matter how far away.
And every day, just before nine thirty, the Doctor would think to himself, somewhere in the back of his mind, he would tell himself, 'He'll be watching; he always does.'