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He can’t shake off his unease. He looks at Donna over the kitchen counter and his breath hitches.
“Don’t make that face at me, Doctor.” Donna brandishes a ladle at him. “Don’t you dare.”
“What face?” he asks, morbidly curious.
“Like I’m going to keel over any second.” She turns back to the stove. “I’m not going to die.”
“Right. Yeah.” He scratches the side of his face, fingers skating across unfamiliarly rough stubble.
“Well,” Donna says. She tosses a grin over her shoulder. “I’m not going to die because of you.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, and it feels like a lie.
“Go find Rose, will you?” she asks. “Dinner’s nearly ready.”
He finds Rose in the shed, a needle between her teeth, a semi-sewn plushie splayed on the desktop before her.
“Whatcha working on?” he asks.
Rose glances up, gaze darting from him to the door, and puts the needle down to say, “There’s a keep out sign.”
Nose scrunching, he leans against the one bare patch of wall and tugs idly at an earlobe. “Is there?”
“Yes,” Rose says.
“Well,” he replies. “That’s a bit awkward, then. But oh”—he spots a plushie on a shelf on the opposite wall—“is that an Ood? Oh, that’s brilliant.”
Rose softens. “Yeah. I guess so.”
“How much do you remember?” he asks, curiously peering at the Ood plushie.
“It’s not remembering if they were never my memories to begin with.”
“Right, yeah,” he says, turning to her, mouth pulling in a sympathetic frown. “Sorry.”
She shrugs. “Don’t be.”
“Don’t you want to see them, though? All these fantastically fantastic creatures you’ve made?”
Rose pushes herself away from her desk and plops herself on the floor, settling back against a heap of plushies.
After a moment, the Doctor follows suit, and Rose shifts to the side to make room for him.
“Of course I do,” she says, catching his gaze. Her chin tilts up. “But Mum says it’s too dangerous.”
Good point. He rubs his palm against his chin. “She’s not wrong.”
“I can handle it,” Rose says.
“I’m sure you could,” he replies, smile softening. “I have no doubts, actually.”
“So why can’t we?”
“Well. Your mum, for starters.” He shudders. “Sylvia, definitely.”
Rose waves her hand dismissively. “I can handle them, too.” Her eyes are alight with passion and excitement, and she says, “Please,” and she leans just a little bit forward—for a fleeting heartsbeat, the Doctor envisions the three of them, him and Donna and Rose, travelling the stars together. It would be glorious, it would better than glorious, it would end in abject misery.
“I can’t,” he says finally, and the raw honesty in his voice surprises him.
“Why not?” she demands.
He hesitates, scratches the back of his head. In the end, all he says is, “It’s complicated.”
Rose laughs. “Trust me, I know all about complicated.”
“Yeah,” he agrees.
“But still,” she continues, “I won’t stop asking until you give me a proper answer.”
He arches a brow. “What, it’s complicated isn’t good enough?”
“Nope,” she replies, snapping out the p.
He inhales and scoops a random plushie off the floor. It’s an adipose, he notes.
“This fabric is incredibly soft,” he says, giving it a little squish. Impulsively, he rubs it against his cheek. “Like clouds, if clouds felt the way they look.”
Rose laughs, shaking her head. “You can have it, if you want. That one’s just a prototype.”
“Just a prototype?” He turns to her, beaming, and says, “It’s amazing! Oh, you’re good, you’re good!”
She grins back—just for a moment—before she folds her arms over her chest and glares at him in a way so startlingly familiar it makes his breath catch. “Doctor. Tell me why I can’t go with you.”
“It’s… dangerous,” he says, weak in the face of Donna’s progeny. She gives him a skeptical look, and he rallies himself. “It really is dangerous. People”—he pauses, worrying the corner of his bottom lip—“people get lost.”
“People get lost all the time,” Rose replies. Overhead, the light flickers, casting a trembling gold glow over her face. She has young eyes, the Doctor thinks. He glances up at the ceiling, something clenching tight and hard in his chest. Rassilon, but he’s old. Maybe he is getting too old for this adventure stuff. Maybe he could stay. He could help her, Rose, and watch her grow and live—without being the cause of her death.
“And I’m tired,” he says, without thinking. He stiffens, pushes himself further upright. Had he just said that?
“You’re tired?” Rose repeats.
He stares down at his hands, veins looping across his skin, folds and creases carved by time, and exhales.
“Yeah,” he says finally, and the admission saps his strength. He slumps forward, elbows digging into his knees, fingers cold against his temples. “I’m tired.”
“Oh,” Rose says. Her unbridled disappointment is obvious, and unseen, the Doctor winces. But then, genuinely concerned, she asks, “Why?”
“Ah,” he murmurs, fixated on the multicoloured stripes on his slacks. “It’s… complicated.”
“I know all about complicated,” Rose says, an echo from earlier, and she laughs like she too has been taken aback by a sense of déjà vu.
The Doctor sits up. He glances at her, and the corner of his mouth tugs into a smile. “I’m tired of the cold.”
“The cold?” Rose asks, peering at him.
He gestures around. “The cold. It’s cold in here.”
“It isn’t cold,” Rose says. She rolls her eyes. “There’s literally a heater.”
The Doctor hums agreement. “True, but there are blankets inside.”
“Alright,” Rose says, and she gets to her feet. “But by the way, there is a keep out sign on my door.”
“Right. Yes. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Smirking, Rose adds, “Maybe you can make it up by helping me come up with plushie designs.”
“That would be my honour, Rose,” says the Doctor with an earnest grin. He jerks his head at the door. “How about tomorrow?”
“I’ll hold you to it,” Rose replies, smiling.
He offers his arm and she accepts. Together, they return to the house.
Immediately after entering, the aroma of warm stew overtakes him and he inhales appreciatively.
“Good, isn’t it?” Shaun asks, pushing a bowl and a spoon against his chest. “Here.”
“Oh,” the Doctor says, hastily grabbing them before they fall. “Thank you.”
“Come on, then,” Donna says from the kitchen, still brandishing that ladle. “Dinner’s going to be cold by the time you get up here.”
“What—oh, please,” he says, “I couldn’t possibly go first.”
“You are, and you will,” Donna retorts. “What’s that you always say? Allons-y!”
Shaking his head, the Doctor looks around at the others. “Rose? Shaun? Sylvia?”
“Go on,” Sylvia says, shooing him forward. “You look like a good gust of wind will sweep you away.”
“See?” Donna exclaims, delighted. “I told you so!”
Defeated, the Doctor makes his way to the kitchen, wincing as Donna doles him a generous serving of stew.
“That’s too much, Donna,” he tries to say, but she bats at his arm until he steps away.
In the centre of the table, Shaun sets down a platter of freshly warmed bread.
“Eat up,” he says cheerfully, sitting next to Donna.
The Doctor exchanges a grin with her and opens his mouth to speak. A swift kick to his shin renders him silent.
“Pass the salt,” Sylvia says, glaring at him from the other side of the table, accentuating her request with a second kick.
“Oi, Mum,” Donna retorts. “Be nice.”
Sylvia’s eyes narrow. Mildly, the Doctor grabs the salt shaker and slides it across the table.
“Anyway,” Shaun says. “How was everyone’s day?”
“He”—Sylvia jabs her finger in the Doctor’s direction—“did something to the washing machine.”
Donna rolls her eyes. “Yeah, Mum, he fixed it.”
“It’s probably going to explode it if we use it now,” Sylvia says, and shakes salt over her stew with a viciousness unlike anything the Doctor has ever seen when it comes to seasoning food.
He clears his throat. “Actually, all I did was recalibrate—”
“And there he goes with his space alien jargon,” Sylvia says, sitting back in her chair. She turns a triumphant smirk on Rose. “How long did it take?”
Rose sets her phone on the table. “Fifty-five seconds.”
“No phones at the dinner table,” Donna says, and Rose sheepishly puts her phone away.
“What else happened?” Shaun asks. His persistent effort of trying to get the conversation back on track is admirable.
Rose begins a long and detailed explanation of her day, and Donna nudges the Doctor’s ankle with her foot. He glances over. She taps the side of his bowl with her spoon.
“You should eat something,” she says. “You’ll need all the strength you can get.”
He regards her dead-set seriousness with vague amusement. “Why? This doesn’t seem too bad.”
“It’s Friday,” she replies around a mouthful of stew.
“What happens on Friday?” he asks, arching a brow.
“You’ll see,” she says cryptically.
“Alright,” Shaun says as the last vestiges of soup are mopped up by the bits of bread remaining. “What game shall we play for games night?”
Sylvia sniffs. “Monopoly."
“No,” Donna says immediately, throwing a glance of concern at the Doctor. “Something… tamer.”
“Fine,” Sylvia says. “Risk.”
“Yeah!” Rose agrees. “Risk is fun. Doctor?”
He scratches the back of his head, thoroughly lost, and chances a question: “What’s Risk?”
“So, you roll the dice, and if you score the same numbers as your attacker—Doctor, are you listening?” Donna waves a hand before his face.
“Yeah, yep,” he says, gently guiding her flailing arm out of the way. He adjusts his glasses, quickly scanning the last page of instructions. “I’ve got it. You invade countries using luck and sheer numbers.”
“Right, then. Good.” Donna hands him a set of little figurines and a small stack of cards.
As everyone else gets to work putting their armies on the board, Donna pokes his side with her pinky.
“Truce?” she murmurs.
He nods, linking pinkies with her, delighted warmth feathering through his body. “Truce.”
“Donna!” he cries, aghast. It’s been about an hour or so since they started the game, and tensions are… Well. Tense.
Inexplicably, Sylvia and Rose have teamed up against him—and him specifically—and Donna has just moved a conquest-seeking army into his territory.
“What happened to our truce?” he bemoans, rattling the defence die in his clasped hands.
Donna shrugs, unwaveringly holding his gaze. “A better deal came along.”
“That’s wicked,” he laments.
She releases her roll. Triple sixes. She gives a delighted hoot and folds her arms over her chest, confident in her sure victory.
The Doctor rolls.
“Hah!” he cries. “I got the same roll! And defenders always win ties.”
“Damn,” Donna mutters, sweeping her defeated armies off the board.
“We can truce again, if you want,” he suggests.
“We could. Or”—she grabs another army from a neighbouring country and moves it again into his territory—“I could attack again.”
“But why?” he asks, watching in abject horror as she rolls two fives and another six.
“Because,” she says, and she shrugs.
Shaking his head, the Doctor rolls. All low numbers. Donna smugly moves her army properly into her newly conquered territory.
“Atta girl,” Sylvia says, reaching over the table to pat her daughter’s hand, all the while glaring at the Doctor. “Show him who’s boss.”
“But why?” he asks again. Donna bumps her shoulder amicably against his.
“I can take care of myself,” she says. “I’m not delicate.”
“No,” he agrees, “you’re a force to be reckoned with.”
“Here’s that spare room I was talking about,” Donna says, holding the door open for him.
“That game took longer than I anticipated,” he muses.
She shrugs. “That’s how it goes.”
“But still—several hours?” He shakes his head and steps over the threshold, floorboards whines underfoot.
“I’d ask you to fix that,” Donna says, nodding down at the floor, “but sonic is useless when it comes to wood, right?”
He winces. “That’s a bit harsh.”
“But it’s true, isn’t it?” She joins him in the room and flicks on the light.
“Cozy,” says the Doctor, instead of replying. He glances appreciatively around the room.
“The springs on the left side of the bed are a bit messed up,” Donna says. “I’d sleep on the right side if I were you.”
He nods. “Thank you.” Turning to her, he grins. “No, really. Thank you. I’m so glad you’re back.”
She tilts her head, futilely fighting back a smile. “Me too.”
“It’s all so surreal,” he says, running his fingers through his hair. “You and I…”
“…together again,” Donna finishes.
“And you’re right,” he continues. “You’re right.”
“About?”
“Everything, really,” he says.
She rolls her eyes. “Didn’t we already know that?”
“We did, didn’t we?” he agrees.
They lapse into familiar silence. His gaze lingers on her face, mapping out the new creases, the age-worn wrinkles, the silver flecks in her hair. They’re both old now, and it’s fitting in a way he can’t quite put his finger on.
“I missed you,” he says finally.
“I missed you, too,” Donna replies. The corner of her mouth quirks. “Spaceman.”
He tips his head against the door frame, something ajar deep inside him clicking back into place, and his smile pulls lopsided. “Earth girl.”