A/N: Okay, so this is my second ever Who fic. I've always loved the show, and I grew up watching Ten and Rose. It's only recently that I discovered Classic Who, and I was instantly enthralled by the relationship between the Second Doctor and Jamie. This is my attempt at deciphering it, and I hope whoever reads it enjoys it.

Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who (only a Dalek keyring).

There had been a question on his mind for the past few minutes, hours, days. For as long as he could remember. And it was a most persistent question. The The Doctor had saved him from a life of servitude, from humiliation, and from a great many other threats that he couldn't even count. He cared for the man deeply, more than he ever thought he would, and that was why he hated himself for not being able to speak the truth.

The room was quiet, cold, undisturbed. He alone was there, and it was at this time of night – so far from the light of the day – that he felt that loneliness. He knew that the Doctor's room was somewhere in the same corridor as his, but whether it was a few steps away or a long walk away, he did not know.

He sat up in the bed, looked down at his hand, his right hand, and wondered if he could feel a sort of tingling, a sense of longing. His gaze travelled up to the ceiling, to the white painted walls, and he shook his head. Then he closed his eyes and was surprised when he woke up some time later and realised that he must have slept.

He glanced at his watch, saw the indentations that the band had carved into his wrist, and groaned. 3 o'clock. The wheezing of the TARDIS was heavy and load in his ears as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, the metal of the frame cold against his skin.

He switched the light on, blinking momentarily, and realised that he was naked. His mop of brown hair, his pale skin, his toned chest, stared back at him from the mirror. And so he pulled on his kilt, and his shirt, and neglected to put anything on his feet.

He was a heavy sleeper; when he had been in Scotland, the howling of the wind, the calls of animals on the Moors, the rustling of the fire in the hearth, had always occupied the back of his mind rather unobtrusively. He had also gotten used to the groaning of the TARDIS' powerful engines.

So he decided that it was a different sound that kept him awake. There was the chink of metal, the clunk of wood, and the... the whir of a sonic screwdriver.

The door slid open, he stepped through the doorway; the floor was cold and smooths against his bare feet. His brow knitted in confusion, his lips pursed in curiosity, he followed the noise, the chink, the clunk, the whir.

Despite the TARDIS' great size, its secret passageways and powerful systems, Jamie knew that he could find no place in which to hide away his feelings.

He finally came to the door; it was the next one down from his room, but it was many dozens of metres along the corridor. It was strange. So close and yet so far. But then he smiled, for that was the Doctor. Jamie thought he knew the Doctor, thought he knew the man he was, thought he knew how he felt.

He knocked on the door, and he heard a harrumph come from the other side.


He cleared his throat. "... Aye, Doctor, it's me. How did ye know?"

The door opened, and Jamie saw that the Doctor was smiling. He put down his screwdriver and the piece of metal that he was tinkering with. "Oh, it was a guess." He waved him over. "You can come in, you know. There's no need to hover in the doorway."

Jamie's mouth curved into a slight grin. "Och, Doctor, I dinnae hover."

"Of course you don't."

Jamie came into the room and sat himself down on the edge of the desk, hands on his kilt, playing idly with the frayed edges of the fabric. "What are ye doin'?" He gestured to the unruly pile of wire, circuit boards and tubes on the table.

"Oh, nothing important." A pause, a smile. "I think a more pressing question is, what are you doing here?"

Jamie knew he couldn't escape the man's gaze, and so he didn't try. "I, uh, heard noises and I couldn't get back to sleep."

"I woke you? Oh, I am sorry, Jamie." For a split second, he looked Jamie in the eye and his lips parted slightly, as if he were trying to think something through, as if perhaps he wanted to say something else.

Jamie felt his cheeks grow warm, and fought down the blush. He cleared his throat. "I dinnae mind."

"Well, feel free to stay if you want. But I don't think you'll find it very interesting." He paused, his attention wandering to his screwdriver. But then he grinned, slapped his thighs and stood up.

There was silence for a moment.

"Doctor..." His voice sounded so very loud amongst the quiet. "I wanted to... Och, I dinnae ken what I'm sayin'."

The Doctor, apparently, hadn't heard much of Jamie's words. Either that or he had heard but didn't know what to say by way of a reply.

Jamie parted his lips, looked across the room, ran a hand through his thick hair. "Doctor, are ye listenin' to me?"

"Hmm?" He span around. "Ah, yes. Of course I am, Jamie."

"A few days back... well, last week, when ye... held my hand…"

"When I mistook your hand for young Victoria's," the Doctor finished fluently, fluidly. Too quickly.

"Did ye... well... did ye really mistake my hand for Victoria's?"

The Doctor seemed caught, fraught. His eyes dropped down to the floor, over to the desk where his sonic screwdriver lay, and then slowly, finally, across to Jamie.

"'Cause I wouldn't mind if ye didn't. If ye were lookin' to hold my hand, ye ken." He waited for the Doctor's response, waited for the silence to stop, and managed to hold back a swear.

"Jamie, I'm not sure I understand." His voice was not wavering, but it was unsure.

"Och!" Jamie moaned. "Doctor, ye really don't ken my meanin', do ye?" He pressed a hand to his forehead, then took a breath, and before he knew it, he had crossed the distance between himself and the Doctor. He also barely realised that he had taken the Doctor's hand, cold as it was, into his own.

He sighed, and he prepared himself for regret. "I suppose I ought to tell ye, then, ye daft chappie." But then he thought he perceived the glimmer of curiosity, of hope, in the Doctor's brown eyes. And that was enough to make him say it. "I think... I'm in love with ye, Doctor."

The Doctor was wordless, the room was still, Jamie's heart was thumping a thousand times a minute and he feared that it would burst from his chest.

"Oh, Jamie," he began, his words soft and deliberate. He did not take back his hand; he let it remain in Jamie's hold. "You can't-–"

No sooner had he said that than Jamie had backed away, shaking his head, his brow furrowed furiously. "I knew I shouldn't have said anythin'! What was I thinkin'?" He rubbed his eyes, and when he drew his hands back, he saw that his fingertips were wet. "I ken it's wrong; I couldn't e'en tell ye how many times I've seen men taken to the gallows for this sort of thing!"

The Doctor stepped forward swiftly, holding him by the shoulder, knowing that he could not look for one moment longer upon Jamie's flushed face and pained eyes. "Jamie, please, calm down." A hand strayed to Jamie's cheek, to still him, to calm him.

"Doctor, are ye even listenin' to me? I said I'm in love with ye."

"Jamie, oh, my dear Jamie, you're so very young."

"Now, don't ye be sayin' I'm immature or suchlike."

The Doctor smiled, honestly. "I would never say that. You're one of the most intelligent, most noble people I know, and I have come to respect you, to enjoy your company. And I... well-" He broke off, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, I suppose I am pleased by what you've said. But... I'm too old for you."

He scoffed; he had barely taken in the Doctor's words. "Och, you're no' that old."

"I'm older than I look."

Then a smile – a happy, delighted, relieved smile – broke onto Jamie's face. He suddenly became very aware of the Doctors grip on his shoulders. "Does that mean…"

"Yes, Jamie, I-" A frown darkened his features, but it was for the briefest of moments. "My goodness, I'm not much good at this sort of thing. But I suppose... I believe I'm in love with you, too." He found himself looking at Jamie in a different way, now that he knew what the lad felt. He saw the glistening light in his blue eyes, the outline of his firm chest through his shirt. But he also saw that which he always saw; the kindness, the loyalty, the intelligence.

Jamie took to holding the Doctor's waist, and then he brushed that tendril of hair that was always so unruly, always so untidy, out of the man's eyes. "Can I kiss ye? I mean do ye even do that?"

A mischievous smile broke out onto the Doctor's lips. "Not often. But I wouldn't mind trying."

Jamie returned his smile, and felt a warmth growing in him. He hesitated, then settled his hands on the Doctor's waist, holding firmly. Then gently, slowly, gingerly, he pressed his lips to the Doctor's. He felt the Doctor's fingers in his hair, stroking softly, and he felt better than he had ever felt. They were feeling each other for the first time, savouring every touch, every sensation. In one swift movement, Jamie pulled off the Doctor's jacket, and then yanked him closer, and the Doctor leant into his caresses.

Then Jamie realised that his gaze had travelled over to the bed in the corner of the room, with its immaculate sheets and pristine pillows. Then he noticed that the Doctor had followed his gaze.

The Doctor seemed concerned, anxious, but Jamie lowered himself onto the edge of the bed and hiked up his kilt. His hands were holding the Doctor's firmly, and he looked him in the eye. "Please. I want to." His voice was a tight, urgent whisper.

He was so young, so innocent, and the Doctor tried to compose himself, to take out his handkerchief and mop his brow, but he knew that his attempts would be in vain. So he stopped trying, their eyes met desperately, and he let Jamie pull him into his lap.