Donna rolls her eyes when she hears him sneeze.
The Doctor had been in the foulest mood all day, but it wasn’t until she’d heard him stifling a cough that she got a vague idea as to what was wrong.
She’d peered around the doorway, not altogether surprised to find him sitting on the floor of his room, playing listlessly with several items that were usually scattered over his bed. As soon as he noticed her, his previously lethargic movements increased dramatically in speed and pointless activity.
“Are you sick?” she’d asked.
“Of course not!” He glared at her. “Never!”
“Mmm hmm.” She’d nodded. “All right then.”
And she drew back into the shadow of the doorway.
The fact that the TARDIS obligingly dimmed the hallway light so that she didn’t cast a shadow on the floor suggested that both she and the ship were thinking along similar lines.
The Doctor had sighed and leaned back against the bed, his long legs stretched out in front of him. As his head rolled back against the mattress, she watched his eyes slide closed before he forcibly roused himself. When she looked closely, she could see that his cheeks had spots of bright red colour and his eyes, as he opened them, were glassy rather than gleaming.
Turning away, Donna had rolled her eyes, wondering how to persuade a Time Lord with a refusal to concede weakness that it would be better for him to be in bed.
That was when she heard him sneeze.
Now, as she stands in the hallway outside of his room, she tries to come up with a way to make him lie down. In the end, however, she gives it up as a hopeless job and heads for the kitchen, planning to make herself something to eat.
A series of hacking coughs make themselves heard from down the hall and Donna wonders if the TARDIS is being less than subtle because she can’t usually hear sounds from that far away.
And when she opens the fridge to get out the milk and spies a number of new items on the shelves, she understands the hints she’s being given.
“You do realize it’s his turn to cook tonight,” she complains under her breath to the ship, even as she’s carrying various objects over to the bench. “That said, though, if he’s contagious, I don’t really want him breathing nasty spaceman germs all over my food. Or, more than likely, fainting in the middle of it all.”
“Any chance of some tea?” a suspiciously hoarse voice asks from the doorway.
Donna looks up and takes instant note of his streaming, too-bright eyes. She can’t be sure, but she suspects he’s getting a rapidly blocked nose. She’d worry that he isn’t breathing easily, but she guesses that he’s making good use of his respiratory bypass to hide the fact.
“I was about to start making something for dinner,” she tells him. “Hungry?”
He shrugs listlessly and she knows he must be feeling awful because he’s usually eager enough for anything she cooks. Not to mention the lack of reaction to her offering to cook when it’s his turn.
“Well, I’m going to make myself something, but I’ll do some tea first if you’d rather have that,” she says obligingly. “Pop into the library and I’ll bring it along when it’s ready.”
The half-shrug she receives tells her even more, and by the time she sees him sway, only held up by the doorjamb as he turns, she’s starting to wonder if he’s even more seriously ill than she thought.
Switching on the kettle, she prepares a pot of tea, but also fetches the honey and one of the lemons from the cupboard, whipping up a mug of something that will quell his cough.
“Want any biscuits or anything?” she calls through the dividing doorway into the library.
“If you’re doing dinner, I’ll wait for that,” comes the slow, raspy reply.
“All right, if you’re sure!”
She carries the tray into the other room and puts it down on the coffee table, looking up to see the Doctor half-slumped in a chair beside the fireplace, in which flames are leaping. He manages a feeble smile at the sight of her.
“That was quick.”
Donna doesn’t bother to contradict him and wonders if he was dozing while he waited for her.
“There you are,” she says, handing the honey-and-lemon mug to him and taking the chance to feel his hands, which are about as warm as she had suspected, rather than the coolness she’s become accustomed to.
“What’s this then?” he asks, attempting to raise a questioning eyebrow, which flickers for a second before dropping back into its usual position above his left eye.
“Oh, I thought you sounded a bit rough around the edges. Clearly that last planet got to you a bit.”
She busies herself pouring out the tea and pretends not to notice that he’s drained the mug by the time she’s made tea according to both of their usual practices.
“Thanks,” he says as she offers his tea, his voice sounding stronger than before.
She smiles, sipping her tea and wondering what she should do next. In the end, as she stares into the fire, she decides she might as well cook, even if she ends up eating alone. And, she can’t help hoping, he might sleep a bit if she’s not in the room.
That hope is dashed when he gets up as she does and picks up his mug, following her back into the kitchen.
“What are you doing?”
He shrugs, leaning in a would-be casual manner against the bench. Donna isn’t fooled. She knows he’s only just holding himself upright.
“Helping you,” he suggests unevenly.
You could help me by going to bed and keeping your germs to yourself, she can’t help thinking, but the miserable look in his eyes keeps her from saying it aloud.
“Why don’t you do the lunch dishes then?” she suggests.
“What are you making?”
She can’t help comparing this incredibly stilted conversation with the way speech usually flows so easily between them. The worst part is that she can almost see him thinking and it’s so agonisingly different from the way he normally is that she wants to march him into his bedroom and lock him in so he has no choice but to sleep.
“Chicken soup,” she tells him, turning towards the door as an idea strikes her. “Going to wash my hands and tie my hair back. If you could do the washing-up, that’d be great.”
He gives her a grin that is a pale shadow of its usual self and puts in the plug before starting the tap running as she leaves the room.
Donna scrambles her hair into a pony-tail, fastening it with an elastic band she had around her wrist — she’s going to regret it later, but never mind — and then stops short outside his bedroom door.
It’s standing ajar and she knows this is the TARDIS at work again. He always closes his door, just as she does. It gives each of them a private space away from each other…
…A space she knows she’s about to invade, but she only feels the tiniest bit guilty because she knows it’s for his own good.
Going inside, she briskly stacks the piles of paper and notebooks on the desk (which is surprisingly the only clear surface in the entire room) and finds a bag (bigger on the inside) into which she stores all of the numerous bits and pieces lying all over the bed and much of the rest of the floor.
From her own room, she fetches the three hot-water bottles she’s so glad she packed and fills them from the hot tap in his bathroom, tucking them in between the sheets of his bed. Beating the pillows, she piles them and most of those from her own room at the head of his bed and turns on the bedside lamp.
Having done all she can, she heads back to the kitchen, increasing her speed when she hears the sound of rushing water. Entering the hall, she realises that the air is denser in the corridor, as if there’s smoke or something similar pouring out of the kitchen.
She dashes into the room to find him still propped up against the bench, his head hanging down and lips parted, breath rasping between them. His arms are loosely folded over his chest, but with each slow, even breath, they drop a little further towards the floor.
Next to him, water is gushing over the edge of the sink and onto the floor, steam rising from the frothy cascade as it pours down the cupboard and onto the tiles.
“Doctor!” she shrieks as she runs across to turn off the tap, seeing as he lifts his head, blinking sleepily, a bewildered look in his dark eyes.
Shutting off the flow of water, she plunges a hand into the sink, breath hissing between her teeth at the temperature before she finds the plug and manages to yank it out, flinging it away and wringing her hand before snatching up the cloth to dry her fingers.
Then she turns to look at him and sees that he really hasn’t taken in what happened, his confusion obvious as he looks at her.
“Bed,” she snaps. “Now!”
He tries to glare at her, but he can’t get truly worked up about it. His shoulders are bowed with exhaustion and his breathing is unsteady. She can see that it’s an effort for him to remain on his feet.
Placing a hand on his shoulder, she pushes him several steps away from the sink until they’re standing in the middle of the room, face to face and out of the water. Tendrils of steam rise around them and the Doctor’s hair is clinging damply to his forehead. Donna’s not sure if it’s the hot water or his obviously rising temperature and the effort he’s making not to reveal how he’s feeling that is making him perspire that much.
“Bed,” she says more gently. “Come on, I’ll tuck you in.”
He shakes his head, and then she has to reach out a hand to steady him as he sways on his feet. Now she can feel the heat coming off him and thinks it’s a wonder he hasn’t passed out yet.
Taking his hand, she passes it around her shoulder and then slides her arm around his back to hold him upright. He stumbles forward as she guides him in the direction of his room.
“Don’t want to,” he tries to protest, but the voice her honey and lemon drink helped to rescue is fading again.
“I don’t care what you want,” she retorts. “You’re going and that’s that. Here we are!”
She pushes open the door and guides him inside, stopping in the middle of the room and turning him to face her. He’s almost falling asleep as he stands there.
“Right,” she says briskly, “into bed for you, mate. Got any PJs?”
He opens his mouth, perhaps to argue, but then yawns and waves a feeble hand in the direction of a chest of drawers in the corner.
“There somewhere,” he admits grudgingly.
“Good boy,” she says approvingly. “Now go sit down and take your suit off. Shoes, too,” she adds as she crosses to the tallboy and begins opening drawers.
Finally she finds bundles of pyjamas and shakes out a red pair, dotted with little blue TARDISes. Smiling, she turns back to find him still standing in the middle of the room.
“Oi,” she says gently, seeing him start as if she’s woken him up again, “what did I say about getting undressed?”
When he gives her a helpless look in return, she drapes the flannel objects over her shoulder and comes over to take his hand, gently guiding him over to the bed. Turning back the covers, she sits him down and peels the suit coat back over his shoulders.
“Just mates?” he says in what she knows is meant to be a teasing voice.
“You better believe it,” she retorts with a grin. “You could help me here though.”
“I’m trying,” he tells her, and looks up with a beseeching expression that makes his eyes look enormous in his pale face. His freckles look huge and far more numerous than usual against his white skin.
“I know you are,” she says gently, easing off his tie and then kneeling down so that she can undo the buttons on his shirt. “You feel awful, don’t you?”
Clearly he’s too sick to argue now because he simply nods. She gently strokes his damp cheek before undoing the buttons on his cuffs and peeling the clammy shirt off him.
“All right, here we go,” she says as she drapes the red jacket around him. “One arm in. And the other,” she adds, suiting the action to the word. “And the buttons.”
“Mm.” There’s a small smile on his face when she looks up at him again. “Nice.”
“I bet.” Donna remembers when she was small and how much better it always felt to be in flannel PJs. If she’s honest with herself, it still is sometimes, even if she’s not sick.
“Right, shoes,” she says when the last button is done up.
She’s undone one set of laces when she feels increased warmth close to her neck and looks up just as the Doctor’s head sinks down to rest on her shoulder, his eyes closed. He snuggles against her as if she’s a pillow.
Shaking her head, she lets him sleep like that as she undoes the other set of laces and eases off his shoes. Peeling off his socks, she drops them on top of the growing pile of clothes before reluctantly shaking him to wake him up.
“We’ve got to get your pants off,” she reminds him. “Then you can get into bed.”
“Mm,” he mutters again, and she’s not sure if he agrees, or if he’s even heard, but she gives him no chance to argue, pulling him to his feet and then switching off the bedside lamp, which plunges the room into darkness.
“’S dark,” he says in sleepy surprise, and she chuckles.
“Aren’t you on the ball today?” she teases, somewhat hesitantly undoing the fastenings on his pants and letting them drop to the floor before reluctantly removing his underpants.
Letting him sit down again, more so that he doesn’t fall over than anything else, she lifts his feet out of the puddle of fabric and flings it away before checking that the pyjama bottoms are the right way around and placing first one and then the other foot into the correct legs.
It’s more difficult to do in the dark, but she gets there in the end and, one hand pulling the pants up to his knees, slides the other arm around his shoulders and finally gets him back to his feet.
“Nearly there,” she urges, feeling him sway and using her body to hold him upright.
“Mm,” he murmurs again, and she can feel as he starts to relax against her again. In a final motion, she pulls the pyjama pants up and then catches him as he begins to topple forward.
“Come on, Doctor,” she says sharply to rouse him, “stay awake for another moment so I can get you into bed.”
Turning on the light again, she looks down at the head resting on her shoulder to see that his eyes are closed. She shakes him and he blinks drowsily in the light.
“Lemme sleep,” he mutters.
“In a minute,” she says, prodding him gently so that he wriggles and shuffles his feet in the direction of the bedside table.
Finally she lets him drop down onto the bed, watching him fall against the large pile of pillows, his eyes closing immediately. She lifts up his feet onto the mattress before pulling the sheet and blankets over him.
Fishing around under the covers until she finds the hot water bottles, she tucks one in by his feet and the others at either side of his chest before tucking the sheets in firmly to keep him from escaping
She’s about to head back to the kitchen when she sees that he’s looking at her, his eyes pleading beneath drooping lids, and she sits beside him with a sigh.
“Oh, Doctor,” she murmurs sympathetically, stroking the damp hair back from his face. “You poor thing.”
“Stay,” he begs hoarsely, trying to wriggle over to give her room, but clearly lacking the strength to move.
“For a while,” she agrees, stretching out beside him, one arm sliding in behind his neck, and she hears him sigh with what she suspects is relief as he rests his head against her shoulder, his eyes falling shut again.
His arm works its way across to find her hand and his hot fingers tuck into her cool ones. It’s a strange reversal of their usual situation, where she’s the one who feels so warm, but she suspects her relative coolness is a relief for him. His head slips down as he relaxes until it’s laying against her chest.
She knows he’s been half-asleep since he lay down, but now she can slowly feel the tension dissolving away until he’s more relaxed than she thinks she might ever have seen him before.
The other thing that becomes more noticeable is the heat coming off him. The beads of sweat on his face have dried and Donna can’t help grinning as she sees his hair springing back, bit by bit, into its usual uncontrolled style. However the smile dissolves as she sees that his cheeks are still violently flushed with fever and his lips are pale. She can hear his breathing becoming ever more laboured and wonders if Time Lords can get pneumonia.
Even as she thinks this, however, there’s a hum from the TARDIS that she takes as a contradiction of her suggestion. After all, she reasons, even if he did get it, that handy back-up breathing system of his would mean that it wouldn’t be as dangerous for him as it would be for a human.
For almost half an hour, Donna lies there, gently smoothing the hair on the nape of the Doctor’s neck and watching as the bright spots of colour on his cheeks slowly begin to fade. However he’s still a long way from looking anything other than sick when she hears her stomach give a faint grumble and decides that she’s kept her promise to stay for long enough.
Easing her hand out of his limp grasp, she holds up his head as she slides her other arm free. Gently rolling him onto his back, which she’s certain can only help him breathe more easily, she slowly gets up off the bed and then pulls the blankets up to cover his chest and shoulders. Tucking his hands into the warm places beside the hot water bottles, she gives a sigh of relief at being away from his too-warm body and then heads for the kitchen.
“Oh, thank you!” she exclaims in relief to the TARDIS as she enters the room to find that the flood has already been cleaned up. In fact, even the dishes the Doctor was meant to have been washing are upended on the draining board, gleaming brightly.
Most of the vegetables are still on the bench where she put them an hour or so earlier, but the chicken has vanished and Donna suspects it’s back in the fridge so that anyone eating it won’t get a nasty bout of food poisoning. Ignoring all that for now, however, she gets a banana out of the fruit bowl and eats it to satisfy her hunger.
As she throws out the peel, she stops short as an idea strikes her and then turns back to the fruit bowl, collecting the remaining bananas there and putting them on the bench before heading for the cupboard where various machines are kept.
It takes some searching but she finally identifies the ice cream maker. Thanks to the Doctor, it’s a bit more sonic than it was when he first got it, but at least she knows it works and it’s fairly safe.
Making up the mixture (she’s not surprised to find cream and milk in the fridge in just the right amounts when she goes hunting, and even some fresh vanilla pods beneath the bananas) and pouring it into the machine takes almost no time and she leaves it to get on with making the ice cream before turning her attention back to the soup she had originally planned to make.
She cuts up the boneless chicken and sets the pieces to boil in the large pan of water before she begins preparing up the vegetables. Peeling the potatoes, parsnips and carrots, she chops them into small pieces before doing the same with the onions and pumpkins. She’s pleased to see that the TARDIS has even provided celery and slices it before adding all of the vegetables and some frozen stock into the mix.
Ten minutes later, the kitchen is full of thick, brothy, rich smells and Donna’s mouth is watering as she stirs the contents of the deep pot to help the water evaporate more quickly. A beep from the ice cream maker announces that it has finished its work and Donna takes a moment from the soup to scoop the frozen confection into a plastic container, which she seals and puts into the freezer before cleaning out the various parts of the ice-cream maker and reassembling it.
“Hmm, what else?” she says to herself. “Oh, I know! Some nice, crusty bread to go with it.”
And with that she fishes out the breadmaker, which, thankfully, the Doctor has left alone, and gathers the ingredients she’ll need. Measuring out the flour and yeast, she adds a pinch of salt and the water before securing the lid and turning the machine on.
Leaving the kitchen, she checks that the Doctor’s still asleep — he is — and then heads for the library. Halfway there, though, she stops short and heads back to her own room.
After all, if the Doctor gets to be nice and comfy in his pyjamas, why shouldn’t she wear hers? It’s not as if they’re going anywhere until he’s better anyway, and she can curl up in front of the fire and enjoy one of the movies she knows the Doctor would tease her mercilessly for if he caught her watching it.
Half an hour later, having indulged in a long, hot shower, she returns to the living room attired in flannel pyjamas, fluffy slippers and a dressing gown. In her hands is a tray which she puts down on the coffee table before moving one of the small folding tables up to the arm of the couch where she always sits.
“Hot chocolate, biscuits, a crossword book and tissues,” she declares in satisfaction. “Oh, yes, all the necessities!”
Setting into a corner of the couch, she tucks a blanket over her legs and then turns on The Notebook before picking up her pencil.
She actually pauses the movie at the end of the first scene, listening for sounds from the Doctor’s room, because she can’t quite believe she’s going to get this time all to herself.
And then she remembers the soup and leaps up to turn it off so it doesn’t overcook. Checking on the bread, she goes back to the couch and settles down once more.
Picking up the remote control, she presses the ‘play’ button and picks up her pencil.
Incredibly, the silence continues, even through the opening credits and the first few scenes of the older couple at the nursing home.
Disbelieving, Donna pauses the movie again, so unnerved that she gets up and goes to check that the Doctor’s still alive.
He is, and he’s sleeping soundly and starting to look a bit more like himself.
Donna heads back to the couch, turning off the lights as she enters the living room to add to the mood, and starts the movie again, becoming engrossed in both that and the crosswords. She’s thankful enough for the tissues and very grateful that no one else — particularly the Doctor — is there to see her in a teary mess as the movie continues.
Pushing away the table with the empty jug and the crossword book, she pulls up her knees, cradling the tissue box on her lap, dabbing at her eyes, as Allie remembers. And she sobs aloud as Duke sits on the bed and cries. By the end of the film, as the credits roll, she’s reduced to sniffing heartbrokenly.
“I thought I was the one with the cold.”
Donna yelps loudly and leaps several inches into the air, turning to find the Doctor, wrapped in the blanket from his bed, watching her with an mildly concerned expression.
“Do you mind?” she snaps.
“I woke up and you weren’t there,” he says meekly, leaning against the doorjamb. “You promised to stay!”
“I said I’d stay ‘for a while’ and I did,” she says, getting up off the couch and flinging the blanket away as she storms past him into the kitchen. The impact of her stomping is greatly reduced by fact that’s only wearing slippers, and is further decimated by the fact that she has to fish for tissues in the pocket of her dressing gown to wipe her nose and eyes.
The breadmaker beeps and she turns it off before putting on an oven mitt to remove the baking tin, sliding the crusty brown loaf out onto the bench.
The Doctor, meanwhile, has dropped into a chair and is watching her, the blanket held around his shoulders.
“You’re not sick,” he says in relieved tones.
“No,” she agrees curtly. “It probably won’t be long before I am though, right?”
“Doubt it.” He shrugs and stifles a cough. “If I’m right about what’s wrong with me — and I think I am — I mean, I usually am! — then it’s not contagious.”
“How did you get it then?” she asks with some point.
He summons up a weak shadow of his usual grin, but it’s better than it was the last time he tried. “Just lucky, I guess. But if you haven’t come down with it, considering that humans have a weaker immune system than Time Lords, you probably aren’t going to.”
“Well, you asked.” He gets up and comes over to peer into the pot on the stovetop as she removes the lid. “Ooh, that looks good!”
“Oh, you’re hungry now, are you?” She rolls her eyes. “Funny how, as soon as I cook, you actually want to eat again.”
He chuckles and nudges her with his shoulder. “Because you’re so good at it,” he says happily. “Much better than me!”
“That’s only because you try to sonic everything and wind up burning it or blowing it up.”
“Ooh!” Ignoring this comment, he points in delight at the ice cream maker standing in lonely grandeur on the other bench and rushes across to peer inside it, but there’s an expression of disappointment on his face when he turns back to her. “No ice cream?” he asks sadly.
Donna smirks, deciding that this will be the perfect revenge for the fright he gave her. “I had to move it to get the breadmaker out. I’ll put it away.”
And she suits the action to the word, chuckling inwardly at the unhappy look on his face. Then she gets out two bowls, ladles soup into them, and begins to slice the bread into large pieces.
“Spoons,” she tells him, pointing at the relevant drawer.
“Isn’t that what the bread’s for?”
“Oi, I’m not washing your PJs when you drip it everywhere, mate,” she snaps. “And I’m certainly not undressing you again!”
He grins and obediently gets out the spoons.
“Eating in front of the telly?” he suggests. “It’s warmer in there. And,” he promises, “you can watch whatever you want. Even girly stuff that makes you cry. And I won’t tease you. Well, not much. Well, maybe a bit.”
“Delighted to hear it!” Donna puts the bowls on the tray the Doctor brings back from the living room and gives him the bread to carry. “But I think I’d rather watch some funny stuff now,” she tells him. “Maybe some Monty Python?”
“Ooh, yes!” he agrees eagerly, settling into his seat on one end of the couch as Donna sets up the other folding table and tucking the blanket that was around his shoulders over his knees.
“Right then,” she says, putting in Holy Grail and taking her seat beside him as he begins eating.
“Pepper,” he suggests before she can start her own meal. “For you, not me. I know you like it.”
“Thanks!” She leaps up and grabs the pepper grinder, glad he reminded her.
“And maybe a drink,” he voice follows her into the other room.
She comes back with the pepper and a jug of juice as well as two glasses and finally settles down beside him to watch the movie.
“Are you suggesting coconuts migrate?” she says along with the film as it reaches that line.
“Oh, I’d forgotten you could quote this line-for-line,” the Doctor groans. “Must you?”
“If you try to say you’ve got a headache, I’ll sing along with Prince Herbert when it gets to that part,” she warns, adding, “You can always go back to bed!”
“I’ll be good,” he says quickly. “Anything but you singing!”
“’Cos you’re such a tuneful bugger yourself,” she retorts. “Especially with your head full of — ”
“Eating!” he reminds her, the spoon halfway to his mouth. “Please, no mention of what my head’s full of right at this moment.”
She chuckles and turns her attention to her soup in silence, but can’t help herself when the Black Knight appears.
“Just a flesh wound!”
“Donna Noble, if you’re around when I next regenerate, I’m so going to quote that back at you,” the Doctor threatens, pointing his spoon at her. “Now hush!”
However, he chimes in with her for some of the better-known parts, particularly the scenes with the Knights Who Say Ni.
“We are now the Knights Who Say Ecky-ecky-ecky-ecky-pikang-zoom-boing,” they proclaim together, and then the Doctor rolls his eyes.
“It’s impossible, of course, but anyone would think that they were transcribing the phonetic alphabet of…”
“Okay, now I know you’re feeling better,” Donna breaks in. “Just promise me that you aren’t going to take me to wherever it is that they have that particular alphabet. I’d never be able to keep a straight face!”
He grins. “Yeah, could be a bit of a struggle for both of us,” he admits. “Particularly when the natives all look rather like the Knights Who Say Ni. Great big tall people dressed in black with horns and wild hair.”
“Maybe one of the Python crew is an alien,” she suggests.
“Oh, they all are,” he tells her obligingly as he finishes his soup and pushes the tray away. “Just not from that particular galaxy. At least, I don’t think so. Although — I’ve always been a bit suspicious about that Gilliam bloke. You know, different accent and all that.”
“He’s American,” she tells him flatly, “which,” she adds a moment later, “does seem like a different planet sometimes.”
He chuckles, but then starts to cough, and it takes several minutes before he manages to recover. Pausing the film, Donna tops up his glass and offers it to him when the bout ends.
“Okay, so maybe you’re not that much better,” she suggests. “Drink!”
“Thanks,” he says hoarsely, before draining the glass in several large gulps and doing the same thing again when she refills it.
Rolling her eyes, Donna hands him the jug instead and gets up to collect the soup bowls, carrying them into the kitchen. Then, checking he’s not following her, she gets out the ice cream and scoops a generous serving into a bowl, fetching a spoon before putting the rest away so it doesn’t melt.
“Shall we keep watching then?” Donna asks as she carries the dessert into the living room and sits down, picking up the remote control.
Pressing the ‘play’ button to hear Arthur explaining the Knights’ quest to Tim the Enchanter, she scoops up some ice cream and is about to spoon it into her mouth when she glances at the Doctor out of the corner of her eye.
He’s staring at her, his mouth hanging slightly open and a pitiful look in his eyes. She can almost hear him whimpering. Chuckling, she brings the spoon closer to her parted lips so that a drop of melting ice cream falls onto her bottom lip and she licks it off. Now he actually is whimpering.
“Banana ice cream,” she announces by way of rubbing salt into the metaphorical wound.
She holds the spoon up so that the ice cream slides down between her lips.
“Yum,” she adds, licking her lips and scooping up a second mouthful.
And then she suddenly leans over and slides the loaded spoon between the Doctor’s parted lips. He stares at her for a fraction of a second in apparent confusion before grinning and taking the handle from her fingers, pulling the spoon out of his mouth and swallowing the ice cream with an audible gulp.
“What an eccentric performance,” he proclaims as he takes the bowl and gleefully digs in.
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