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“Isn’t this nice?” Donna says, and she’s holding her cup carefully, by its handle, and even out of the corner of his eye, the Doctor can see her hand trembling.
He flicks a few more switches, runs his hand down the console. The metal is smooth and cold and so gloriously new.
“Isn’t it?” says Donna.
“Y-yeah,” he replies, and he pulls his fingers through his hair, rubs his palm across his chin. “Yeah, yeah.”
“Look at me, will you?” she asks.
He turns slowly, and there she is: Donna Noble, the pale white light glinting off her hair, rimming her shoulders. His breath catches.
“Donna,” he says.
She tilts her cup. “The coffee is nice. You should try some.”
He hums. “Not sure I’m into coffee, yet.” He throws a sideways glance at the TARDIS, gnaws on his bottom lip. Is the machine for him? Or for Donna? With the TARDIS, anything's possible.
“You could stay,” Donna blurts.
He looks up at her. Her hands are still trembling. She balances her cup precariously on the edge of the console.
“You could,” she continues. “Once the house is fixed up, of course—and UNIT better fix it—you could stay in the extra room, or you could—”
“Yeah,” he says, and he smiles, and muscles tug, skin pulls, eyes crinkle—it’s so familiar, like something from a dream, or a distant memory. He scratches the back of his head. His hair is different. Coarser.
“Would you?” Donna asks. She's different, too, and it makes his hearts twist.
“I…” He trails off. This isn’t the kind of thing he does, not since what happened to the Ponds. Friends, sure. Staying stagnant, not so much. Still, there’s a second time for everything. Donna’s staring at him with open-faced hope, and his arms tingle with the phantom weight of her body. She’d died, then. He was near certain of it. She’d died, and he’d killed her, and—
He shakes his head, tries to clear his thoughts, focus.
“Well?” she prompts.
“Yeah,” he says finally, helplessly, hands jerking in a futile attempt to explain the unexplainable. “That sounds nice.”
And Donna—she smiles. He can see the age in her eyes, light and love and life, and he remembers how her head lolled against his shoulder, how she slackened, how—
He clenches his fist, digs his fingernails into his palm. “We could try,” he says, and it comes out rough, all clip-edged hope and tentative longing, and she nods, because she understands, she understands, she understands.
“Come on,” she says, smile tugging lopsided. “Dinner’s probably burnt by now, but we could go somewhere.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. He swallows around the tightness at the back of his throat, the sharp prickling, and she steps closer.
“You saved us," he says, and she rolls her eyes fondly.
"Well,” she says, somehow both smug and genuinely sincere, "I couldn't have done it without you." She holds out her hand, an invitation, an offering, and the Doctor reaches for her and hesitates.
“Are you sure—” he starts.
“You twat.” Donna grabs his hand, squeezes it tight. “Of course I’m sure.”
“You nearly—you died,” he says.
“Well,” she replies, shrugging a shoulder. “I came back.”
“Yes, you did,” he agrees, and he grins at her, love-soft and relieved, and places a tentative touch on her shoulder.
The understanding cracks right through her gaze, and she pulls him forward, and he lets her—falls against her, more like—and her arms wrap firmly around him, holding him close, holding him together.
“You died,” he mumbles. He’s shaking, he realizes. Sobbing. Heaving gasps tear from him, shuddering through his whole body, and he clutches at Donna’s back, fingers clawing at her coat.
“I came back,” she repeats. He can feel the hum of her voice, and it twins with the TARDIS’ low rumble. “You hear me, Doctor? I came back.”
“I love you,” he blurts. He swallows, bites his lip. Is that the kind of thing he says, now? It’s not a bad thing, really. He tucks his tear-wet face into the crook of Donna’s neck, breathes in the scent of her, and it’s different from how he remembers her, but it’s good, and she’s here, she’s here, she’s here.
“I know,” Donna murmurs.
He sniffles, pulls away, clasps a hand to the side of his face.
“I got your shirt wet,” he says, wiping away the tear tracks with the cuff of his sleeve.
Donna shrugs. “I’ve had to deal with Rose’s poop, pee, and puke—nothing, and I mean nothing, will ever top that.”
The Doctor laughs shakily. “How was it? Parenting?”
“How is it, more like,” Donna says, mouth setting into a weary line. She reaches for her coffee and downs the rest of it in a single gulp.
“Rose seems like an amazing kid.”
“Oh, she is.” Donna smiles down at her cup, tracing her finger around its rim. “It’s been amazing, Doctor. Amazing.”
“I’m glad,” he replies earnestly. He leans back against the console, relishing the sight of Donna—Donna!—back in the TARDIS, alive and well, memory intact. “I’m so very glad.”
“How about a celebratory dinner, then?” Donna suggests. “Nothing too big to commit to, and what could possibly go wrong at a restaurant? What do you think?”
“Oh, Donna,” says the Doctor, and he grins, pushing himself away from the console. “Donna, I’d love that.”