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"What happens next?" Donna asks.
The Doctor blows lightly over a spoonful of soup. "What do you mean?"
"Now that you're a permanent tenant," she replies, jabbing a half-eaten slice of toast in his direction. "And for the that matter, yes, I do expect you to pay rent since you won't get me another lottery ticket."
"You gave it away."
"Only because of your metacrisis!"
The Doctor snorts. "Bit rich to call it mine."
"It was your hand," Donna says, and she takes a bite of toast and sends crumbs skittering across the tabletop.
"Anyway." The Doctor sips at his soup and hums appreciatively. "Sylvia made this?"
"Yeah. She insists on bringing food every other day even though"—Donna throws up her hands, exasperated—"I've told her hundreds of times that this isn't a bloody food bank."
"It's good soup," the Doctor replies, loud enough to reach Sylvia in the kitchen, and Donna shoots him a glare.
"Don't encourage her," she mutters.
He shrugs. "Anyway, as you were saying?"
"About?"
"What happens next?"
"Yeah, yeah." Donna leans back, puts her toast on her plate, dusts the crumbs from her fingers. She pauses. "Yeah."
"Yeah?"
"Will you—are you going to—"
He arches a brow, scoops up another spoonful of soup.
"Your face," Donna says finally. She peers at him as if he can read her mind; he stares blankly back.
"Your face," Donna repeats, gesturing at her own. "The wrinkles. The grey hairs."
"They're signs of wisdom," he retorts, grinning in spite of himself.
"What I'm trying to say is…" She gnaws on her bottom lip. "Are you… getting older?"
He snorts a laugh. "Every day, Donna.
"No, but. Your face."
"Oh," he says, realization dawning at last. "Oh."
"Well? Are you?" she presses. "Because I don't want to be hobbling around London as an old woman with you still looking like... you."
He smirks and shrugs and gives his soup a stir, spoon clinking against ceramic. "I guess we'll find out."
"Guess so." She picks up her toast and tips it in his direction. "To us."
"To us."