Chapter Eight: Family Traits

The Doctor slept a long time. Unable to fight his hunger any more, Wilf returned to the kitchen and ransacked it for food. Really, he should have asked the Doctor what he kept where while he was still awake, but admittedly he had had his mind on other things.

Wilf returned to the medbay with a sandwich, and went back to his quiet vigil. It was too quiet; he didn't like it. There were too many things running through his mind. Too much sorrow for what had been. Too much fear of what came next.

He tried to take his mind off the bigger things by wondering how he was going to get the Doctor to eat something. Goodness knows how long they'd been in the TARDIS. For a time machine, the ship was rather light on clocks. And Wilf's watch had stopped around the time he'd come on board.

The Doctor didn't sleep soundly. Several times he tried to turn over, wincing as he aggravated his wounds even asleep. The expression on his face became more and more pained, and his breathing less and less even. Wilf wondered if he was having a nightmare. It wouldn't have surprised him.

He dared reach out and place a light hand on the Doctor's unhurt shoulder, hoping the contact would help. It seemed to, a little, although it might have been wishful thinking. Wilfred wondered about singing. It had always helped calm Sylvia. Though he didn't know—what would Pennine have sung him? Something Gallifreyan. The Doctor probably didn't know any Earth lullabies.

Mind you, what did that matter? A lullaby was a lullaby.

"Twinkle, twinkle, little star," Wilf began, smiling slightly as he realised the significance of the song his subconscious had picked out. "How I wonder what you are …"

After a couple of rounds, the Doctor quietened, and he became stiller. Wilf continued, however, not wanting the nightmare to come back. He was still singing, by his guess a couple of hours later, when two sleepy brown eyes opened.

Wilf stopped abruptly. "Morning," he said softly, though he had no way of telling if it really was.

"Morning," the Doctor replied, frowning slightly. "Have you been doing that all night?"

"Er … not sure," Wilf said honestly. "What's the time?"

The Doctor paused. "No idea." He swallowed, looking anxious. "I should know. I always know. The prison messed it up."

Wilfred had no idea what he was talking about, but the Doctor's distress was clear. He gently took hold of the Doctor's hands and squeezed them. "Is there—anything I can do?" He left the question intentionally open.

The Doctor slowly sat up. He still looked exhausted, Wilf thought uneasily. Donna had said the Doctor hardly ever slept, but obviously now he needed more than he was getting.

"Actually, yeah … there is," the Doctor said quietly, pulling his hand out of Wilf's and avoiding his eye. Wilf withdrew his hands, slightly hurt. "You … you should go."

"What?" Wilf couldn't believe his ears. "Why?"

It sounded like the next sentence took a lot of effort. "Because—because we both know you have to at some point, and—and I'd rather get it over with."

Wilf tried, and failed, to formulate a response, shocked. "I …"

"Please. The longer you stay the harder it's gonna be. I can't take another goodbye," the Doctor finished in a whisper.

Wilf's heart broke, but he didn't know what to say. The last thing he wanted to do was cause his son more pain, but he couldn't do as he asked. He just couldn't.

"I can't leave you, Doctor," he said eventually. "Not now. You know I can't."

"Wilf, please. I'll be fine. Back on my feet in no time."

Liar, Wilf thought, though he didn't say it out loud. Even if the Doctor could physically recover so quickly, he could see clearly that it was going to be a different story emotionally. The man was traumatised and devastated. Donna had once said, that the Doctor needed people by his side. Leaving him alone now, would surely push him over the edge. Wilf couldn't leave him in this state, and live with himself for it.

"No. I'm sorry. But I can't leave you on your own, not like this. I'm staying." And there's nothing you can do to stop me, Wilf silently added.

The Doctor turned his head and stared at him, making eye contact for the first time in minutes. "What about your family?"

"Not a problem," Wilf said, crossing his fingers behind his back.

"Not even Sylvia?" The Doctor sounded understandably incredulous.

"I explained why I have to stay." Not that she was happy about it, but he didn't mention that.

"Well … you don't have any of your things," the Doctor said, changing tack.

Wilf immediately pictured the Doctor doing a runner while he was packing a suitcase. "You've got a giant wardrobe," he pointed out. "No clothes needed. I'm sure you must have a spare toothbrush somewhere in a place like this. And I can manage without my books and things for a while. Nice try," Wilf added. "Donna told me about the time she invited you to Christmas dinner."

The Doctor opened and closed his mouth for a few moments, obviously searching for more excuses.

"Will you stop trying to push me out the door," Wilf said gently. "You're not going to change my mind, whatever you say."

"Wilfred Mott," the Doctor said, sounding half-amused, half-exasperated. "In all my nine hundred years I have never met a man as stubborn as you!"

"You've obviously never looked in a mirror."

After a pause, they both laughed. It was the first time they'd laughed properly since the execution, and it considerably lightened the atmosphere.

"I guess," the Doctor said after a moment, "we know where I get it from, then."

"Definitely runs in the family," Wilf agreed.

"Yeah."

Silence fell for a moment, but Wilf changed the subject before the Doctor could start arguing again. "You need to eat, Doctor. Something other than biscuits. What do you want me to get you? I warn you I'm not a brilliant cook, but I can do basic stuff."

The Doctor opened his mouth, closed it again and sighed, closing his eyes. "There's some pasta in the freezer. Third shelf down on the left. It's all labelled with defrosting instructions. I fancy the cheesy one."

Relieved that he'd given up the fight, Wilfred returned to the kitchen and raided the walk-in freezer. The Doctor had a lot of frozen meals in Tupperware containers—probably useful at the end of a long day of world-saving, Wilf thought fondly.

He found the cheesy pasta, heated a portion for each of them and took them into the medbay. The Doctor was sitting up properly now, looking at the medical scanner's readings, frowning.

"Something wrong?" Wilf asked, stopping in the doorway.

The Doctor looked up, and the frown magically vanished. "No. I was just seeing how bad it was." Wilf got the distinct impression he was lying, and vowed to take another look at the readings himself when he got a chance. "Thank you, Wilf."

Once he started eating, it came as no surprise that the Doctor was famished. Wilf made three more trips to the kitchen before he finally declared himself full.

"Sorry," the Doctor said as he discarded his banana peel. "I'd get it myself, but … well. And I need the energy."

"It's fine, you don't have to apologise," Wilf said with a smile. "Anyway, that's what I'm here for; to help."

The Doctor looked like he wanted to say something else, but was interrupted by a half-stifled yawn.

"Do you need more sleep?" Wilfred asked immediately.

For a moment it looked like the Doctor was going to shrug off his concern with a dismissal, but he appeared to change his mind.

"My body's still trying to heal itself. The more sleep I get, the quicker the process."

"In that case, sleep. I'm right here if you need me."

The Doctor looked reluctant, but laid back down and didn't even object when Wilf, without thinking, tucked him in. In fact, he could have sworn the man smiled slightly, though it also looked sad.

"Sweet dreams …" Wilf waited until the Doctor was clearly out, before whispering, "… son."

TBC …