At least you know he's alive. On those nights when you wake up in a cold sweat imagining that Utah beach, Rory can remind you that the Doctor didn't really die on that beach. "And I should know, I've had enough near-death experiences."

You laugh, but it's always a bit forced. Rory is your husband, the Lone Centurion who watched over your box for almost two thousand years; he'll always come for you. You know that with every beat of your heart.

But the Doctor leaves. True, he eventually comes back, but one of these times he'll leave forever, and you won't know until it's too late.

From fish custard to Prisoner Zero at the hospital: Twelve years.

From eyeball aliens to the TARDIS in the garden: Two years.

From home to blue envelopes: Two months.

From Red Waterfall to the TARDIS: Thirty-six years, three months, four days.

From wine in the backyard to now: Two years.

God, that sounded like it should be some credit card commercial. She could see the tagline now: The Doctor: worth it.

But he was.

Wasn't he?

You mourned him even though he was still alive. It was so strange to see the seasons in natural order, instead of leaping from winter to summer in two trips, changing from the Renaissance to the Fourth Bountiful Human Empire—or was it the Fortieth? in a fortnight.

When your mum calls the week-long wait for a new episode of Coronation Street "forever," Rory has to nudge you very hard so you don't bite her head off. You never even liked it anyway.

You just can't take another off-key rendition of "I wish it could be Christmas every day," and are about this close to telling them so. "If that is more carol singers, I have a water pistol! And you don't want to be all wet on a night like this!"

You open the door, but only when it's all the way open do you see who's standing there.

Him.

The sight of his face freezes all every neuron in your body.

"You're absolutely sure how long?" He says it all in one sentence, as if there's a connection between carolers and timelines.

"Two years." Your voice trembles just enough to give it an interrogative air, which you atone for with several squirts.

"Okay. Fair point."

"So. You're not dead."

"And a happy New Year!" Does he even think about how ridiculous of a greeting that is?

"River told us."

"Well, of course she did."

He can fuss all he likes about spoilers, did he really want us to think he died? "She's a good girl. Well. I'm not going to hug first."

"Nor am I."

You both stand there for a moment, playing the childish I'm-not-giving-in-game. He keeps looks away, but glancing at you every few seconds.

No. You won't give in.

But that face…

No.

Two years.

You burst out laughing and hug him. "Mr. Pond, guess who's coming for dinner!"

Rory pops his head in the hall. "Not dead then?"

"We've done that."

"We're about to have Christmas dinner. Joining us?"

"If it's no trouble."

"There's a place set for you," Rory blurts out.

You didn't mean to start a tradition. It just happened, but isn't that how most of them start. Rory took you to see Fiddler on the Roof once, and that one line just stuck in your head: You may ask, how did these traditions get started? I'll tell you…I don't know! But it is a Tradition!

It must have started with those champagne glasses on our first day here, because you automatically set three places for supper that day. And the next morning. And lunch…

You just started setting the table for three. Clean plate, cup, silverware at every meal. Hastily shoved them out of the way for most visitors, to avoid questions.

When River came, you added an extra place.

"But you didn't know I was coming…why did you?"

"Because we always do." Things could get sappy very fast, so you cut it off with a short "It's Christmas, you moron!"