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Bill pushed the door open, shifting two small parcels into one arm as she did. As per usual, the Doctor was waiting not-quite-patiently at his desk, tapping his finger to a beat that Bill was fairly certain belonged to a song—though not one she knew.
“Hi, Doctor. Sorry I’m late,” she said.
“You don’t sound sorry,” the Doctor said. “Why are people always saying they’re sorry when they’re not?”
“I dunno,” Bill said, sitting down across from him. “People just do that.”
“Yes, but I haven’t noticed it in everyone, so,” he paused for dramatic effect, “why is it so common to say you’re sorry when you aren’t?”
Yeah, that sounded like his Spontaneous Lecture Voice. She’d have to distract him before he got on a roll. “Doctor!” He turned. Good. “Weren’t you wondering why I had presents?”
The Doctor suddenly seemed to notice the parcels she’d left on his desk. “First date? Congratulations.”
Bill snorted. “No!” She paused. “Wait. Do you think you bring presents on a first date?”
“Well, do you?”
“No,” she said. “It seems a bit desperate, doesn't it?”
“I see.” He looked almost contemplative. “I haven’t had a normal love life. On my first date with my wife, she died.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
The Doctor threw up his arms. “There’s the ‘sorry’ again! What are you sorry for?”
“You just said your wife died on your first date!”
“To be fair, we met out of order,” he said.
Bill took a deep breath and leaned back in her chair. “The more I learn about your life the weirder it gets.”
“The more I learn about my life the weirder it gets,” the Doctor said. “You're not special. Now, why do you have those parcels?”
Bill smiled and unveiled her surprise. “Happy birthday!”
Bill had never seen the Doctor so shocked. He looked like a big, grumpy fish, opening and closing his mouth. She half expected little bubbles to come out of his mouth by the time he spoke. “Bill,” he said. “I don’t have a birthday. Time Lords don’t do birthdays.”
“They do now.”
“You couldn’t figure out my birthday. I don’t even know how old I am.”
“And I definitely don't. Honestly, I just chose a random day and went with it.”
The Doctor gave her a bemused look. “I see. Should I ask Nardole to make a cake?”
“Oh, just open the presents!”
The Doctor’s face split into a wild grin. Bill had imagined him unwrapping presents the same way as her mom: easing the tape off and carefully removing and folding the wrapping paper to reuse it later. Instead, he tore into the parcel, tearing the wrapping paper off in seconds and leaving shreds all over the floor.
“Guitar picks!” the Doctor said. “And they’re TARDIS blue!” Bill didn’t remember the Doctor standing up, but he was out of his seat and was doing a little dance. Not for the first time, she wondered if he had some spacey version of ADHD; he never seemed to stop moving.
He pocketed the picks and ran over to the TARDIS. “Be right back!”
“Not so fast,” Bill said. The Doctor stopped and turned around. “You’ve got one more present.”
"Right!"
The Doctor flew back to his desk and unwrapped the second present with just as much gusto as the first. His mouth turned into a little ‘o’.
“Bill,” he said. “This is ginger tea.”
“Um, yeah,” Bill said. “Is that bad?” A thought occurred to her. “Oh my gosh, I didn’t just accidentally give you poison or something, did I?”
“No,” the Doctor said. “No, you didn’t. It’s just that, well, ginger makes me drunk.”
Bill snorted a bit too loudly. “Wait, this doesn’t mean that you’ll be, like, stumbling around the office, wrapping your arms around Nardole like–” she slurred her speech and put on her best Scottish accent, “‘Oh, Nardole, buddy, you’re my—hic—you’re my best friend in the whole—hic—the whole wide—hic—wide universe–’”
“No, it doesn’t.” She could’ve sworn she saw a hint of red on the Doctor’s cheeks, but it might’ve been her imagination. “Not unless I’ve had a good few. Besides, it becomes very hard to hiccup without lungs.”
If Bill had been drinking tea, she would’ve spit it all over the desk, but since she didn’t have any drinks, she had to settle for choking on her own spit.
“You don’t have lungs?” she said once she finished coughing. “Like, no lungs at all?”
“None.”
“How do you breathe?” she asked, a large grin stretching across her face.
“Through my nose, like anyone else.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I have tracheal tubes,” the Doctor said. “They’re a bit like what bugs have, but more efficient.”
“Okay, note to self: research… bug tubes,” Bill said. “So, what now? We could make cakes or watch a movie! Or go to some, I don’t know, cosmic theme park." She paused at the Doctor's face. It was hard to tell if he was angry or if that was just his normal face. "Or just sit here and do our lessons, I guess. What do you want to do?”
“We’re not doing a lesson; it’s my birthday!” the Doctor said. “You've just given me new guitar picks and my personal equivalent to a bottle of whiskey! What do you think I’m gonna do?”
“I dunno. Get drunk at a party?” Bill guessed.
The Doctor smirked. “I’m gonna make it Nardole’s problem.”