Pairing: Eight/Romana (ii)
Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who.

A/N: This is rather crack-ish, really.


Romana and the Doctor sat side by side on the hour hand of a great clock at the very top of a clock tower, somewhere, sometime, on Earth. The hand was certainly wide enough to sit on and actually quite comfortable in a solid metal kind of way. The minute hand moved with a screeching that was very loud when one was very close, but Romana had tuned it out (well, she'd been forced to after the Doctor had looked in all of his pockets and not found a drop of oil).

Then there was also the buzz of a force field that shielded the clock-face and, in effect, kept them from falling down. (It also kept her from dangling her feet quite as fiercely as she would have wanted, but she couldn't be bothered to tinker with it.) The view was magnificent enough to make up for the noise; all sprawling city with a little bit of forest-y green and a little bit of water-y blue.

Ten minutes earlier, the Doctor had produced a tiny bottle of wine, "from some hotel", and they had passed it between them and sipped and admired the city. The bottle was empty now, and sat next to her on the smooth metal of the hand.

Romana had certain suspicions about the Doctor carrying just this bottle — the label bore a crude facsimile of the Mona Lisa. The Doctor claimed it was a coincidence; she was more inclined to believe it a manifestation of his usual blundering subtlety. She hadn't the hearts to call him on it, because she was comfortable enough and the wine hadn't been that terrible.

"I have the oddest sensation," she said. "It feels as if I'm not supposed to be sitting here."

"Because sitting on the hands of a clock is usually frowned upon," the Doctor said, with conviction.

"I rather think it's because I have responsibilities someplace else." She glanced at him.

"You're imagining things." He conjured a pen seemingly from thin air and gingerly placed it behind her ear. "Give Mona some eyebrows and try not to think about it."

"I must go eventually."

"We can at least stay until the hand has moved round once."

"All right."

He beamed at her.

She picked up the bottle and ran a thumb over its label. "The minute hand."

The Doctor almost pouted but didn't; instead he reached into a pocket and withdrew his customary bag of sweets.

The world shuddered beneath them as the great hour hand gave a lurch and moved a bit. They were at the tiniest angle now, and Romana's body was pressed ever so slightly closer to the Doctor's.

"You're too good at your job," the Doctor muttered. "You're too good for the job."

"I know." Romana untangled the pen from her hair and hefted the bottle. "And you would have made an unparalleled president," she said, with just the tiniest hint of a smile.

"Oh, I know." The Doctor smiled and dangled his feet, his toes sparking a reaction from the force field with every swing. "Which colour jelly baby?"