The two of them both hate Christmas.

But they sit in the cosy library, his absolute favourite room in the Tardis, and sip slowly at mugs of tea from China. His arm is around her shoulders; her head nestles against him, and her legs, stretched out straight, cross over his. It's not Christmas, they're just cuddling on the 25th. Because they both happened to want a cuddle just then.

It's the first time Donna's dislike of the holiday is born out of loss. To a certain extent, it's the memory of Lance and everything about him and them that failed. On a deeper level, it's the residual regret of turning down the Doctor that first time. But most of all, and worst, it's her dad, gone now, the dearest man she'd ever had in her life, more precious even than her sweet old gramps and far more precious than the Doctor could ever be. That's the pain that burrows deep like a splinter. It hurts vaguely all the time, like a constant dull throb, but when she touches it, the most feather light of touches, it's agonising.

She hates Christmas. But at least she's not bitter.

The Doctor, of course, sighs and thinks of Rose, of dead people and lost friends, people that truly strove for peace on earth. And time lord or no, these sorts of things weigh heavily upon two hearts, time lord always fine invincible defense mechanism or no. He and Donna have both lost, at high cost and heartbreak to spare, so they cuddle companionably on a mutually disliked day of memory, just holding each other up.