The Doctor sat in an antique Earth chair that was curiously out of place in his stark white, technologically advanced TARDIS. The old man looked like an Earth antique himself. He was tired. Already he was old. Vicki, his bright, peppy young companion, bounced in.

"Would you like some tea, Doctor?" He hardly heard her. Looking at her, he felt a deep pain, physical, but caused by sadness. At the same time, hope glimmered in him. Hope was always to be found where the human race was concerned.

"Hm? Yes, yes please my dear." He decided to tell her exactly what she meant to him. Rehearsals of the oncoming conversation leapt about in his head. Vicki delivered the tea and sat next to him, necessarily speeding up his thought process.

"My dear, I have a confession to make." His mouth was turned down, solemnly, not arrogantly as usual. Vicki at once sensed the seriousness and tilted her head thoughtfully.

"What is it, Doctor?"

The Doctor looked at Vicki. In a flash, he thought of Susan, his beloved granddaughter. She had been so like him—so stubborn and curious. He had been cross with her far too many times. Being kinder to Vicki alternately made him feel as though he were making up for it and being unfair to poor Susan. She'd threatened to leave before, but when it came right down to it, the dear girl couldn't bear to think of him all alone. Well, he couldn't bear to see such a bright, questioning young mind stuck living his life, fighting his old demons. He had to make her go. Had to. She was so young, but the young can love, and she'd been through so much with that man. The man would care for her; only the Doctor could do a better job. But then, she had two hearts; the human had one. Would they want children, or be able to have them? In some far off place he promised himself he'd one day visit, he could be a great-grandfather. He'd missed her so much until Vicki came along. Susan was still missed, but Vicki filled the void. In some ways she was almost more pleasant, though he, honestly, didn't love her as much. She was gently curious, kind, laughing—a sparkling young girl. She needed him as Susan had once needed him. If Vicki hadn't come along...

"Doctor?" Her head was still tilted, the vague concern of one who knows everything will soon be well in her eyes. The Doctor's mind processed thought much more quickly than Vicki's; only a few seconds had gone by while he'd thought. He almost spoke, but did not. He knew one day that she too would have to leave him. The Doctor would tell her before then. Right now, he tilted his chin up, pointing his nose in the air mockingly. His frown once more held all it's condescension and pride. Sentimentality would simply not do.

"I take sugar in my tea," he balked. She giggled at him.

"Oh, Doctor. You are funny." She took his cup and went to add sugar. The Doctor got up and started his machine. It was time to move on.