Archive of Our Own ^beta

The Doctor is dying. If asked, she’d soften it; would call it regeneration, instead of death. Once, someone (they don’t remember who) had asked how they could be so at ease with it, with dying, and they’d flippantly replied that, like everyone, they’re always dying.

(they’re not. they’re always living. they will always always always—

well.

better not.)

The Doctor is dying. Functions shutting down, organs protesting. Kidneys first, of course. Fickle things, kidneys. They’ve always said so.

She likes this body, is the thing. It’s shorter than usual, and she could’ve had a thousand years and she still wouldn’t be used to the different centre of gravity, but she likes it. It’s good. Good strong lungs, good strong legs. Good strong Doctor.

They’ve always been stronger than they look, but she’d had to fight for it this time. People’s eyes skated past her when she talked, and it had burned in a way they’d never once considered could happen. She doesn’t want that again, not so soon.

Is that cowardly? People think they’re human, think they’re mad, think they’re stupid, but never weak. Being underestimated is powerful, when they mean it. When they don’t, it’s just tiring.

She’s so tired.

The Doctor is dying. Yaz has left.

She watches her go. It’s better, the Doctor has decided, when they’re the one who is left, instead of the other way around. It’s more humane. It’s more good.

It doesn’t count as one of their failures. They can say, they left me, and it isn’t a lie, even if the truth is I was so unbearable they couldn’t stay. It doesn’t count.

The Doctor is dying. She staggers back into the TARDIS. She doesn’t want to die here. Can’t die in the TARDIS, not again.

Can’t let the one after her fall into another train. Wouldn’t be fair, would it?

He hadn’t meant to do that to her. He’d loved her, whoever she would be. Of all of them, he’d been the kindest to the one who replaced him. He hadn’t even wanted to regenerate, and maybe it’d been that guilt that caused him to be so kind. But it was kindness, still.

She isn’t good at that. He’d wanted her to be kind, and she isn’t. Maybe if she was kind, the fam would still—

The Doctor is dying. And she’s selfish, too. She could’ve gone by now. Instead, she trails around the console, leaving regeneration energy in her wake.

One last sunrise. There isn’t enough of the universe left to owe her anything, but. One last sunrise. That's fair, isn’t it?

The Doctor is dying. She stumbles as she reaches for the handbrake, and catches a bright blue sticky note on the panel next to it.

Yaz?

But that isn’t Yaz's handwriting. Isn’t Tegan’s or Ace’s. Kate is too direct to leave notes, and Dan left too long ago.

It’s familiar, but she can’t for the life of her think why. And, she realises, as she plucks it from its surface, it’s a line of space-time coordinates. Not something a twenty first century human would write.

(the master?)

The Doctor is dying. But the Doctor isn’t dead.

“One last trip?” she murmurs, and pretends the TARDIS’ hum isn’t reproving.

—

The ride is smoother than normal, even as her hands shake over the controls. Usually, the turbulence sends her stumbling into a wall several times a week. She winds the regeneration energy back as tight as it’ll go until she’s able to pat the console with a hand that is no longer glowing.

The Doctor is dying. London doesn’t seem to care. Earth is as it always is: loud and bright and smelly. She can’t keep a tight enough leash on her time sense to check if anything’s wrong. All she can feel is herself.

She's in a market. Oh, she loves a market. She’ll miss this.

(no she won’t. she won’t be here to miss it. she hopes they love a market)

She doesn’t trust herself to go too far into the thick of the crowd, not like this, so she stands back and watches. She doesn’t know why she’s here. And then she does.

The Doctor is dying. If she’d come here yesterday, two days ago, a century ago, then they would’ve been dying then, too.

For all that they like to tell themselves they live in the moment, they’ve looked in on past companions often. They’ve been at weddings, at funerals, at graduations. Always at the back, always out of the way, and it’s always been enough.

They've never visited Donna Noble.

Couldn’t.

(shouldn’t, but as much as they don’t want to admit it, that one matters less, doesn’t it?)

Donna Noble's eyes drift past the Doctor like she’s nothing. Like she’s no one. And—

The Doctor is dying. She doesn’t want to die any quicker. She flees.

—

Can’t return to the TARDIS (she knew, she had to have known who was out here, and the Doctor can’t forgive that, not yet) so she turns a different direction and moves to the road. There's a taxi idling there. She gets in.

“Hiya,” the man says. “Where’re you off?”

She knows him? She— Oh, her head. She knows him. She thinks. She isn’t in any state for any of this. She should be resting. Stubborn to the end, hey Doctor?

She's about to ask his name, and then there’s a noise in the distance.

“What the hell is that?”

Explosion. Obviously. Even muffled by the car, it’s hard to mistake it as anything else. So this is why she’s here. Donna’s in danger. Right.

Time to get a shift on.

“That’s where I need to go, actually,” she says. “I need to go, uh—”

Actually, she isn’t quite sure. Things are a little hazy, and they’re only getting worse. Best guess, she can hold the regeneration for a couple of hours at the most.

“Need to go where, love?” He’s distracted too, peering through the passenger side window. Looking for something. Someone?

Right, explosion. Chances are, he knows someone out there. She doesn’t have the time to feel for him.

Yes she does. She’s the Doctor, still. She has to have the time.

“Are you—” she starts, when the other door opens.

The Doctor is dying. And the Doctor is sitting next to her.

“What,” he says. Of course he does.

No guesses needed for who he’s running away from.

It’s the one with the hair, and the regret, and the suits. Not a suit she remembers actually, though he changed them enough that she isn’t all that surprised. He looks worn and ragged in a way that she is all too familiar with. And, though every part of him is broadcasting surprise, there’s recognition there too.

He knows who she is, somehow, even though he didn’t expect to run into her. And he shouldn’t be here either.

“Snap,” she says. Rasps. Her voice hurts.

“But how? How are you—” he waves a hand over her in a vague movement.

She bares her teeth at him. “Had an upgrade.” And then, “shush,” as he mutters that he didn’t mean it like that. “Explosion. Which way.”

“Oh! North.” He turns to the cab driver. and then he blinks, eyes wide as he takes a good look at the man. “Uh. North, please. Need to get to the crash.”

Crash? She wants to ask about it, but she’s distracted by whatever look is currently on her past self’s face.

“Don’t think I can,” the driver says, amicably. “Sat nav says all the roads are closed.”

“Yeah,” the Doctor says, stretching it out. “I know some roads even that thing doesn’t. Here, uh.”

She knows what he’s gonna do before he does. Rolls her eyes and flicks her psychic paper out while he’s still digging in his pocket.

“Grand mistress of the knowledge,” the driver says, slowly, in that way that means he’s either awed or confused or disbelieving (the issue, she’s found, is that so many expressions are too similar) and then he turns to her other self’s paper, and raises an eyebrow. “And so are you?”

“Uh,” he says, flipping it back round to read it.

Whoops. She tries to grab hold of the edges of her consciousness. It’s like holding a rapidly expanding jellyfish: formless and slimy and liable to sting if she holds it the wrong way. They aren’t meant to drag this out for so long.

“Right,” she says. “That’s on me, sorry. Had a bit of a day; leaking a bit. Don’t worry about it.”

“Uh,” he says, again.

“Don’t worry about it,” she says. She drums on the back of the chair in front of her, then has to take a second to breathe through the nausea. “Come on, let’s go! Allons-y!”

“Oui, mademoiselle,” the driver shrugs, as her other self clicks his tongue in annoyance.

“Keep up,” she mutters, because she can.

He repeats her, incredulously, before jerking his head towards the driver. “Don’t recognise him?”

“Should I?”

The Doctor is dying. He hasn’t noticed. She isn’t that worried; they’ve never been the most psychically adept. So long as she keeps herself curled in tight enough, her state shouldn’t twig any alarms. Hopefully.

Still, he clearly can tell that something’s wrong. She should recognise this man. She does. It’s just.

(she doesn’t even recognise herself)

“Shaun Temple,” her other self says, and oh.

Yes. She recognises him. She wishes she didn’t.

“Oh,” Donna’s husband says. “How’d you know that?”

Because they were at the wedding, for a half minute, and even that had been too much to bear.

“Knew your wife,” she says, before she can help herself. Her other self winces.

“You do?” She watches his nose wrinkle in the rearview mirror. “Or, uh, did?”

“Wife’s friend,” he corrects. “We know your wife’s friend. Nerys?”

She almost chokes on her laugh as he hastily tries to construct a narrative. Of course he picked Nerys. Couldn’t go a day without Donna complaining about her. If she’d been anyone else, he would’ve played devil’s advocate, would’ve gently teased the possibility that Donna was being too harsh, or Nerys had any semblance of being in the right, but it was Donna, whose self worth was gossamer thin and riddled with holes. Instead, he’d egged her on as she complained, hissed and booed at her antics like they were in a pantomime. It’d been worth it, watching the surprise on Donna’s face diminish as he continued to take her side.

She could sit in those memories all day (they have done, many times over the years), but then a name snags at her attention.

“Sorry, what did you just say? Did you just say Rose Noble?”

“Yeah?” It’s deeply, intently proud. And then, slowly, “why? What did Nerys say about my daughter?” There’s a thread of warning creeping up under his tone and she doesn’t understand why.

“She didn’t say anything,” he says, placatingly. “Didn’t mention you two had any kids at all. That’s all.”

Hm. There’s something there. Something important, or at least interesting. But her other self shakes his head, so she leaves it be.

Donna’s daughter is named Rose. What does that mean? There shouldn’t be anything left. She’s meant to be safe and normal and untainted by the memories of the stupid alien who once called her their best friend.

Maybe Wilf or Sylvia had mentioned the name in passing, but why would they? Far more likely for them to mention Martha or Jack, who she knows have both kept tabs on her over the years. Rose is different.

(then again, rose has always been different)

Donna’s alive, the Doctor knows that much. Her quick glance didn’t give her much information beyond that, and the fact that she definitely has no idea who she is. But then maybe that’s just because it’s her. Donna never met this face, after all.

She slants a look over to her other self, but he’s busy plotting out a route, brow furrowed in thought. He would’ve said if the lock had broken, wouldn’t he? It’d be written on his face.

It would. She has to believe that.

—

She knows London as well as he does, and wouldn’t exactly pick the same route he has, but for once, she keeps a hold on her tongue. No use in too many cooks, after all. Instead, after a moment, she lets her head rest against the window as her other self directs the car through a winding mess of backstreets.

The Doctor is dying. Her blood is boiling and her insides are squirming and a new person is living right beneath the surface. She looks down at her stomach, and fancies she can see them moving about, even. A better person. A better Doctor. A Doctor who’s kind and good and doesn’t snarl at their friends or play around with humans’ timelines like a child in a sandbox.

The delayed regeneration burns. What she’s doing is unnatural, and her body protests it.

Her arms start to itch, worse than she’s ever felt before. When her eyes dart down to them, it’s to find that the skin has started to crack, golden light seeping through. Like plaster, fault lines splinter and spiderweb across her limbs, quicker than she can clamp the edges back together.

She casts a panicked look to her other self, but he’s still facing ahead, trading conversation with Donna’s husband. He can’t see her. They can’t see them.

There’s something in her ribcage, something dry and hot and climbing up her oesophagus. Even as she starts to choke, she realises that she can feel ten distinct spots of contact moving about as it pushes its way up her body. Fingertips.

“I’m not ready,” she tries to protest, “I need more time,” but the new Doctor isn’t listening.

They keep climbing, millimetre by millmetre up the length of her, trying to find their way out of her corpse. She shouldn’t be here.

She shouldn’t be here.

She blinks awake as the taxi comes to a stop. Her other self has a tight clasp on the cuffs of her jacket, stopping her hands from moving. When he realises she’s conscious, he gently lets her go. Her fingernails are crusted with blood and her collarbone stings.

Right. Not doing that again. They’ve heard of time lords who dragged their regenerations out over days, sleeping during the process. They’ve always thought it sounded a little ghoulish, like moving into a coffin. Turns out that it’s worse.

‘Course it is. Time lords don’t ever do things by half.

“We’re here,” he says. His eyes are cautious, and his concern is bitter and metallic against her tongue.

“Great,” she says, moving back from him. Her voice is very dry. “Brilliant. Let’s get a shift on, then.”

It’s a bit embarrassing, how much effort it takes to push the door open. As she does, Donna’s husband pipes up about the fee.

“He’s got it,” she says, as she hops out.

The landing’s a little rough against her legs, but she weathers it. She takes a moment to settle her breathing, and lets herself lean against the car until it starts to move. As the taxi drives off, it reveals an unamused looking Doctor standing across from her.

“He’s got it?”

“You provided the destination,” she points out, as they start to make their way into the building, “so it was your taxi. I was just having a bit of a sit down. ‘sides, it all worked out fine, didn’t it? Molto bene, yeah?”

“Stop that,” her other self says, practically pouting. “How’d you like it if I said—” Whatever he’s about to say dies on his tongue. He scowls. “Well,” he says. “Don’t really know what you say, do I?”

“Don’t see how that’s my problem,” she says.

“Hm,” he says.

They’re at a steelworks, it turns out. A great big spaceship hangs in the middle of it, looking far less damaged for something that supposedly crashed. Laser burns though, which doesn’t bode well. No idea about the species it comes from, and a quick glance to her other self shows that he doesn’t recognise it either.

Not that he should, being from her past, but their memories are— Well. No need to get into that.

The place is already infested with UNIT. Actually, no, that’s unkind. They really do appreciate them, even if they don’t always agree with the organisation’s methods. Still, her other self has the same idea re: interaction, and they soon find a quiet corner below the ship to duck down into.

“I’m just gonna,” the Doctor says, as he finds himself a chair to drop into.

He uses the sonic to scan the ship and then projects its readings out onto a holographic screen. Show off. And, of course, out come the glasses. Predictable to a fault, this one.

She rolls her eyes, and settles down on the floor next to him.

The hologram is dead neat, she’ll give him that, though it isn’t at the best angle for her. She flicks out her own sonic and takes her own readings. Not all of them need a screen, thank you very much.

What she finds is, well. Not good.

Couldn’t just be a normal ship, could it? Why is it never just a normal ship?

“Thoughts?”

For a second, she isn’t sure which one of them spoke. She grits her teeth and begs her time sense to treat things chronologically again and her mind to stop wandering outside her body.

“About the ship?” she tries.

He doesn’t respond, which means that she was probably the one to speak, and he’s too lost in his own ideas to acknowledge her. Whatever. Like she cares.

Yaz would tell him off for that. Graham too. Ryan would just roll his eyes at her in matching exasperation, and Dan would just cheerfully continue asking questions even as her other self kept mum. Next time they tell someone they’re going to regenerate, they’ll make sure not to mention it until the very last second. Dying alone is boring, it turns out.

“Double-Bladed Dagger Drive,” he says, finally.

“Obviously,” she says, a little peeved. “Notice the laser fire?”

“Obviously,” he shoots back.

“Two parties at war with each other,” they say as one.

“Not good,” he says.

“Been in worse scrapes,” she points out, “and that was when there was only one of us.”

He laughs. It’s a little thin and a little ragged and a little mean. She doesn’t like it one bit.

“Sure, but not when we have to worry about Donna. And not when one of us is—” He trails off, pointedly.

She bites back a snarl. She is done with his sickly concern and grating righteousness.

“When one of us is what.”

For all that she tries to speak calmly, it hisses out between her teeth. Her shoulders stiffen. His do too, even though he isn’t looking at her.

“Too good for us now?” The interruption is bright and cheerful and accompanied by the characteristic shift and slide of a wheelchair. That’s probably why she can’t quite see who’s talking from her position. Whoever they are, they sound inquisitive and softly amused—nothing like the average UNIT lackey (not that she would ever dare to say that in front of Kate).

“Evening,” he says. His eyes dart back to her for a second, rueful, before moving back to the newcomer. “Nice to meet you. Did you get the heat readings and deceleration?”

“Oh, I got everything. Shirley Anne Bingham, UNIT Scientific Adviser number fifty six.”

Ah, that’d be why she sounds different. Kate’s quite proud of her scientists. She has good reason to be (not that the Doctor would ever say that in front of her, either).

“Oh!” he says, delighted. “I was Scientific Adviser number one.”

The Doctor coughs, fake and obnoxious. “Liz Shaw,” she corrects, leaning forwards into the conversation, and watches Shirley Anne Bingham’s eyebrows raise as her eyes flick back and forth between them. The movement makes her ears ring.

He blows out a long breath, reaching up to tug at his earlobe. “Well, technically,” he starts, and he’s interrupted by an excited laugh.

“Two of you?” There’s genuine joy on her face, though it’s tempered with a sort of sceptic caution. “Oh, I should really call this in.”

“Should you?” he asks. “Can’t we just keep this between us girls?”

“Oh, yeah? What’ll you give me for it?”

The scientist’s eyes are wide and bright and entirely and utterly unimpressed, and oh, the Doctor already knows she’s brilliant. Might have to steal her away while Kate’s not looking. Then again, they never managed to succeed with the Osgoods.

Kate has a knack of that, of hiring brilliant people. She’d floated the idea of hiring Clara once, years ago. He hadn’t approved. Maybe if he’d been less possessive then she’d—

No. She’s alive. Better, even, because she doesn’t have them dragging her down with them. The Doctor knows that. It’s just— She reaches up to rub at her eyes.

The Doctor is dying. The world is spinning. The world is always spinning, but they can usually ignore it. It’s a good thing that she’s already sitting down.

“You alright there, Doctor?” the UNIT scientist asks.

When did she get so close? Did the Doctor miss the rest of the conversation again? Her other self’s back to scanning through the hologram. His nonchalance is both obvious and pointed.

“Yeah,” the Doctor says. “’m fine,” and it’s true, if she ignores the fact that she said it instead of him.

She can’t remember the woman’s name, for all that the introduction can’t have been more than five minutes ago. Things are slipping. She hasn’t had the best luck with memory, this face. Nor the last, if she’s being honest.

“Long day,” she says, with what could probably be called a smile. “What‘re we talking about again?”

“Your friend,” the scientist says, concerned. And what a day, that random humans can look at her and read enough to be concerned. “And the people who crashed. Two kinds of them, the other Doctor says, and they might be fightin’.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Dunno if they crashed, though; looks more like they’ve just found an inconvenient parking space to me. He probably should’ve mentioned that.”

He sighs, noisily. “I’m exploring all the options,” he says, annoyed.

“Explore this,” she snips, and his face scrunches up in offence.

“This is,” the scientist says, laughing, “nothing like I thought it’d be.”

“Get that a lot.” He says it just a second out of sync with her, and irritation ripples across his face as her grin widens. “Thought about meeting me a lot, then?”

“‘course I did,” she says, unashamed. “Don’t get this far in UNIT without imagining it.”

“Dreaming about it,” he suggests, cheekily, and the scientist laughs again, a bright explosion of joy.

“In your dreams maybe.” She cuts a look over to the Doctor. “Does it feel any different, swanning around without any of that ego?”

“Oi.”

The Doctor makes her voice low and faux conspiratorial as she says, “makes me more aerodynamic.”

“Oi!”

If he’s about to make a more extended rebuttal, then it’s cut off by the arrival of a soldier, who completely bypasses them both to make a beeline directly to the scientist.

And ooh, an empty escape pod. UNIT wouldn’t mind if they take a peek alongside them, right? She goes to exchange a look with her other self to find he’s already getting up, bouncing on his toes. The scientist waves him off with a laugh.

“Yeah, yeah, not you, mate.” She leans across to meet the Doctor’s eyes. “Nor you, love. I've got this, and I don’t need you two mucking about. Off you pop. Bye-bye.”

He sticks a hand out to her as the scientist leaves, and though she wants to, she doesn’t smack it away. Instead, she lets him pull her up.

It’s always weird, holding another Gallefreyan’s hand (or whatever it is they are, that race that Gallefreyans mimicked so closely). After all these centuries, they’ve become used to humans and their slightly too warm skin. She very carefully doesn’t think about the Master.

Not that it matters. Her other self’s mental barriers are up so high that her own slipping mind actually knocks against them.

He doesn’t say anything about it as she lets go. She doesn’t know what she’d do if he had.

“So,” she says, shoving a grin onto her face, “how are we getting there?”

He mirrors it, and she doesn’t look closely enough to see if there’s cracks. “Reckon UNIT won’t mind if we catch a lift with them.”

“Oh, definitely won’t.”

Nobody stops them as they hop onto the back of a truck, at least.

(well, he hops. she just sort of clambers on and hopes for the best)

They see the scientist as the truck starts to move, grinning at them without a trace of surprise whatsoever. Which is basically approval, if you think about it.

“Did you know her?” he says, squirming about as he tries to make himself comfortable. “I couldn’t tell.”

“Sure,” the Doctor says. Not a lie, if you squint at it the right way. She knows her now, doesn’t she?

He frowns at her. She wonders what he’s upset about now. There’s always something, with that one. Always something to obsess over, to blame himself for. They didn’t exactly hate being him but blimey did it get old fast.

And oh! There it is! Shirley. That’s her name. She knew she’d find the memory if she poked about enough. The Doctor breathes through her nose, and tries not to worry about how long it took.

“‘course I know Shirley. She’s one of Kate’s best.”

“Yeah?” he says. And then he blinks. “Wait, who’s Kate?”

Oh, she so rarely gets a chance to say this. “Spoilers,” she grins and doesn’t think about all the memories it brings.

—

She doesn’t let herself sleep this time. Instead, they pass the time by pointing out different stars and reminiscing on the fun they had on each one. Or the terror. Same thing. It isn’t easy to make the stories age-appropriate (ha!) for her younger self, mostly because they’ve never been great at remembering what exactly happened when. Still, he’ll forget it all sooner or later anyway.

The stories trail off as the truck slows down. They’re not the first to stop, UNIT soldiers already flanking out across the street.

Her other self jumps right off, and he’s about to dart across the road with the other soldiers when he realises that she hasn't moved.

“Doctor,” he says, and she knows right where he can shove his concern.

This time, she doesn’t take his hand.

She jumps down after him, and if she stumbles, then neither of them mention it. It doesn’t matter, not really. If there’s any place they’d never lose their footing, it’s a battlefield.

The two of them run across the street, following the line, when Donna’s voice splits the air.

The Doctor is dying. The Doctor does as they’ve always done, and follows Donna Noble home.

—

“Doorbell,” she murmurs. He ignores her, banging on the door as she leans against the wall. “Could be quicker. Just saying.”

His response is to bang on it harder.

“Brick wall, you,” she says, unable to help herself. “I can see why Martha ended up—” and then she catches sight of movement through the glass. “Hold on,” she says, “is that—”

“Sylvia! Oh it’s so nice to see you again.” He always was one of their better liars. “Could you let us in?”

“Let you in?” At least some people never change. “You said if she sees you again, she’ll die!”

“Well—” he says.

“And who’s she?” She looks up and down the Doctor, mouth pursed. “Don’t tell me you’ve fooled another silly woman into running around with you.”

“Oi,” she snaps, all teeth. “Don’t talk about your daughter like that.”

“I—” Sylvia starts, before she scowls. “I’m trying to protect my daughter. I don’t know what he’s told you, but it isn’t safe for you to be here! Go away!”

And then she’s gone as quick as she’d arrived, off to desperately try and gaslight her family. The Doctor’s fault, like usual.

“Should’ve let me do the talking,” she says. “Great with mums, me.”

“You did talk,” he says, pulling out the sonic and unlocking the door. “I don’t see how you were any better.”

“Didn’t get slapped, did I?” she points out, as she steps through after him. And then, “oh, that is proper cute.”

That is big and round and white and fluffy, with wide eyes and a lost looking expression. Entirely new, and isn’t that fun? Half a inch from death and the universe is still throwing surprises her way.

And next to the creature is Donna.

Her arms are gesturing about furiously, mouth running a mile a minute. Hiding fear with anger, the way she used to. And there’s nothing, again, when she looks at the Doctor. She tells herself that that’s better.

She looks better. That glimpse across the market wasn’t enough to displace the image of Donna slumped on his TARDIS floor but the more the Doctor looks at her, the more she’s able to believe that she’s okay. She’s living. Her eyes are bright for all that there’s no recognition living in them. There’s no sign of that parasitic shard of the Doctor that latched into her brain. Just Donna, in all her human glory.

And next to Donna, is—

Oh. Her daughter.

She’s beautiful. They’re always beautiful, to the Doctor, but she’s beautiful. She’s all Donna, all clever eyes and stubborn mouth and determined shoulders. She’s standing over the creature protectively, eyes darting toward the Doctor and trying to gauge if they’re a threat.

The Doctor loves her, instantly.

Her other self is bouncing between the creature, Syvia rushing between her terrified daughter and righteous granddaughter, stopping every so often to hiss insults at them over Donna’s panicked demands for answers and Rose Noble’s attempts to calm everyone down.

And then Donna’s husband walks in, and the chaos grinds to a halt.

—

The Doctor is dying. Shame on her for thinking it would be quiet this time. Though honestly, she’s not sure she’d ever expect this.

The Doctor dodges Donna’s frantic questions as he bandages the Meep’s hand, gentle in a way that she never quite managed.

And the Doctor kicks her feet against the bottom of the sofa and wishes she was anywhere else. Stupid, selfish Doctor. Could’ve stayed at home, and regenerated with the TARDIS.

Although, she wonders, slanting a look at the Doctor, would he have turned up still? Is he here because of her or just by happenstance? Maybe it requires the two of them to keep Donna alive this time. Or maybe something else drew them in. Something malevolent. They usually try to stick to the time periods of their companions, which means that he’s the one out of place. Whatever could’ve drawn him to this year? Does he even know?

And there’s something else, too, something her other self is too busy to have noticed. Someone missing. She tries not to think about it.

She can’t help it. The moment the thought passes her mind, he stills. Of course he does.

Even without sharing a mind, they’re still the same person, aren’t they?

“So,” he says, slowly, “I just— I was wondering. There’s one person missing. I used to know your grandad, Wilf?”

There’s no reason for Donna to answer them, not really, but her face softens, ever so gently. “He's not with us any more.”

For a second, there’s a sharp flare of too familiar, too alien pain, bright and vast and searing, and then her other self slams his mental barriers shut again.

She’d thought— They’d thought—

There’s never enough time, is there. They always think they can go back, and they always miss it.

He looks to her, a silent question in his eyes, and she shakes her head. They don’t know her. Nobody in this house knows her, do they? What right does she have to give her condolences?

“Right,” he says, instead. He swallows. “Of course. He wasn't young, he was—” Human. He was human. Breath on glass, flare in the dark. “I loved that man. I'm so sorry for your loss.”

Sylvia makes a sharp noise, entirely unconcerned. “He's not dead, you idiot.”

Oh. God. She sags into the sofa. He laughs, wetly.

“‘course he isn’t,” he says, as the Nobles explain. He trades a grin with her, bright and relieved.

This family is going to be the death of her. Again.

He turns back to the Meep, while she drags a hand over her face.

The worst part, the absolute worst part is that they could’ve had this. Misunderstandings and Donna’s teasing and Sylvia’s familiar ire and Wilf. They’d considered themselves too separate for all this, too alien. It wasn’t until the Ponds that they’d let themselves settle, even if only for snatches at a time and only because Amy had refused to let him hide after he’d faked his death.

He’d refused to be domestic and because of that, for Sylvia and Wilf, Donna was gone one day and brain damaged the next.

“Oh,” the Doctor says, shamefaced. She tunes back in, wondering what he’s done now. “Oh, you’re right, I’m sorry. Do you use he or she or they?”

“My chosen pronoun is the definite article. I am always The Meep.”

“Oh, I do that.” they say, together. They make a face at each other.

“Do you?” Rose Noble asks. “How does that work?”

Not well, is the answer, but Donna interrupts before she can start to explain.

“Never mind that,” she says. “What’s happening here?”

What’s happening is what’s always happening: the universe is vast and unkind and cold. Another day passes and another species is hunted for something they can’t control, and the Doctor is tired.

And then bullets start flying.

“Right,” she says. “No rest for the wicked.”

—

“Show off.”

She’s never used the sonic like that before. Then again, she’s never had the chance to. Too busy running around to slow down enough to have to use a shield. Nifty, though.

“Well, you don’t have to use it,” he says. “Feel free to run out through the gunfire.”

She makes a show of thinking about it, face scrunched up. “Nah. Not after you put all that effort into it. After you.”

“Age before beauty,” he says, sketching a mock bow.

“You mean, wisdom first?”

He runs a pointed look over the height of her. “Really? Where’re you fitting it?”

“Same place you keep your hair gel.”

“Ah, of course. Maybe you should start carrying a hairbrush there too.”

“Well, maybe you—”

“Can you two have this argument after people stop shooting at us,” Donna snaps.

—

The travel through the houses is something she’d normally love but it just amounts to another mad scramble that leaves her trying not to so obviously clutch at her aching sides. The constant whirring of his sonic is starting to make her head ring, and the Meep is slow in a way that she has to stop herself from yelling about. All in all, once they make their way to Donna’s husband’s taxi, her nerves are fraying and her legs are like jelly.

She doesn’t even argue with her other self when he snags the keys first, instead letting herself slump into the back. The constant thud of laser fire against the car is almost as grating as the press of bodies against her own. She grits her teeth, and tries not to throw up.

Though, actually, the lasers should be worse, shouldn’t they?

“They hit the car,” he says, catching her eyes in the mirror. And we’re alive, he doesn’t need to say.

Trying not to damage the merchandise? But why are two separate parties after the Meep anyway? Is the Meep worth that much? Or is something else going on?

He doesn’t need to say any of that, either.

—

Instead, he sketches out a whole mock trial. Because of course he does.

She’s being hypocritical, she knows. On any other day, she’d bounce around with him, trading theories and arguments and evidence, grinning madly the whole time. She’d have her own wig, even. But she’s tired, and walking’s started to become a bit bothersome, so she stays propped up against the car. Doesn’t mean she won’t tease him for it all.

“Drama queen,” she throws out as he pauses in between sentences.

“Silence from the jury,” he throws back, before winking at her over his shoulder.

He isn’t half bad at it, she’ll give him that.

No, she realises, as they work it out, him with a show and dance and her silently, they’re entirely too good at it.

Because of course, stupid, stupid Doctor. Don’t they know, of all people, that things can be so much more monstrous than they look?

The Meep is a beautiful creature who ended up twisted beyond the Meep’s comprehension, turned into a warlike being, a situation the Doctor's been on both sides of, far too many times.

The Meep spits threats and all the Doctor can see is handing Yaz a gun, is Amy refusing to talk about huge swathes of the erased timeline, is Rory as his lead general, is Martha and the key. Is Sarah Jane and the warp star. Is River. Is Rose, and—

Rose. Donna’s Rose.

Donna’s family, still in the car, while she lets herself get lost in their memories. They’re in danger, and she’s just standing there, dying.

She tries to step back, and finds herself suddenly flanked by a pair of clearly controlled UNIT soldiers.

“Right,” she says. Normally, she’d have an exit strategy, but these are less than ideal conditions, and she's scraping the bottom of her well of ideas. “Hi, fellas. Yknow, you really don’t have to—”

She’s cut off by a sharp starburst of pain and the distinct sound of her brains sloshing into the side of her skull.

—

The Doctor is dying. She comes to in the back of a moving vehicle, and thinks for a second that she lost her grip on her life. But no, she feels like herself (whoever that is). Just unconscious then.

That’s nice, she thinks, absently. At least it was quiet this time. And, even though her mouth tastes awful, she’s pretty sure that she hasn’t thrown up. It’s the little things, you know?

“Hey,” he murmurs, before she even opens her eyes. “You doing okay? You went down pretty hard.”

“Long day,” she mumbles back, wiping a hand over her face. Isn’t lying.

Understating it, even. Almost adds, ran into the Master, which would answer a lot of his questions, and raise twice as many new ones.

“And what about her?” she hears Donna say. “She your wife, or something?”

“Am I his what,” she says, burning up a few minutes of her short life to snap into alertness. “We’re not married,” she says, at the same moment he does, and Donna’s eyes glaze over.

Right. Bit of a major trigger, there. Damage control needed.

“Brother,” she says, panicked. “I’m his brother.”

“Brother?” the Doctor repeats, in what better not be an offended voice.

Like they haven’t been a brother before. And they were a good one! Probably. Maybe.

Or actually, maybe he was just trying to warn her. Women aren’t brothers, are they?

She huffs out a breath, annoyed, as Donna blinks back into awareness. “Sister, I mean. I’m his sister.”

“That’s okay,” Rose Noble says, earnestly, at the same time that Donna says, “We don’t mind if you’re his brother.”

Oh. People don’t tend to take it that well when she forgets which gender humanity has assigned her. It’s nice.

“Can I ask your pronouns,” Rose Noble offers, and there’s no expectation there at all. Just a soft empathy.

“Tend to use she/her,” she says, because she’s found it to be easier, these past few decades, and it fits just as well as any other English pronoun does (that is to say, it fits as long as she ignores that it doesn't). “‘m not a woman, though.”

“Understood,” Rose Noble says. And, “Cool,” and the Doctor’s pretty sure she means both.

“And sorry,” Donna adds. “For assuming you were married.” Her eyes tip over to the Doctor’s younger self, gaze flicking up and down the length of him. “Honestly, don’t know why I even thought it.”

“Hang on,” he starts, head tilting to the side in mock offence. It then slams into the side of the van as the vehicle comes to a hard stop.

The movement sends her flying, and she isn’t quite sure who helps her up.

The Doctor is dying. The world greys out as they’re led out of the van and narrows into the single aching point where someone’s hand is clamped tight around her shoulder. She bites down hard on her lip to bring it back into colour. It doesn’t stop the high pitched ringing in her ears. She has about an hour, she thinks. Could push it a little longer, maybe, but what kind of effect would it have on her next self?

They’re back at the steelworks. Probably could’ve nipped this whole thing in the bud if they’d just had a bit more of a nose around here in the first place. Still. Live and let learn, hey? Or, die and let learn. Heh.

“Are you even paying attention,” the Doctor says, incredulously.

“Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, obviously.”

There’s a hole in the wall, and Shirley Anne Bingham is waiting in front of them, eyebrow raised. A smattering of UNIT soldiers are splayed out on the floor around them. Just knocked out, hopefully. She may have missed a few things.

“Actually,” she says, scrunching up her face, “could do with a quick recap.”

He throws his hands up in exasperation.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Doctor?” the UNIT scientist asks. “You look a bit knackered.”

“That’s what I thought,” Donna says, indignant. “You don’t look well at all.”

The Doctor is dying. And she isn’t half miffed about it. Didn’t hiding these kinds of things used to be easier? Stupid regeneration. Stupid other self, who isn’t courteous enough to bury his concern when he looks at her.

“Don’t worry about me,” she says, irritated. “Bigger things happening! Go on, you lot, follow Shirley out.” She spins to face her other self, carefully avoiding Donna’s eyes, and beams. “We’ve got this, right mini-me?”

“You’re literally pocket-sized,” he grumbles but he ducks through the hole anyway. He avoids Donna’s eyes too.

—

Though she’d started out in front, he ends up reaching it first.

“Huh,” the Doctor says, as he steps through into the ship. “I thought it’d be harder.”

She groans as she stumbles through, stopping to catch her breath. “What’s wrong with you? Why would you say that?”

Though, when she straightens up, she privately agrees with him. The controls aren’t especially complicated, even if they’d only had the one of them. As it is, this is child’s play. Still. He should know better than to tempt fate like that.

“I’m just saying,” he says, pettily, and then, Donna skids in after them.

They stare at Donna for a moment, mouths wide, and then the Doctor turns round and slugs her other self in the shoulder.

“I told you.”

“Oh, like that was my fault. I don’t see how—”

“Oi!” The interruption is loud and scared and entirely terrifying. “Thought you two were meant to be saving us, not squabbling like children.”

Donna Noble, saving them once again. She doesn’t look all that well. She tries not to think about it.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, voice tight.

Donna shrugs. “Tough,” she says, and then “don’t think I can leave again, anyway.”

What? The Doctor moves over to the door behind her, and gives it a quick scan. For a moment, the readings swim before her eyes. She swallows, and gives her head a shake.

“Deadlock sealed,” she says, once she can read it, and turns to see him pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Great,” he says. “Great. Brilliant. Anything else want to—”

“Deadlock sealed,” the computer says. It isn’t talking about the door this time.

He throws up his hands. “Okay,” he says. “Fine. I’ll take that one.” He does his own scan, and relaxes. “Oh, manual override. That’s not too—” He bites back whatever else he was going to jinx them with.

And then a divider comes down while he’s on the opposite side, splitting the room into two. He jumps back from the glass, eyes wide.

“Oh for the love of— I didn’t even say it that time,” he snaps.

His gaze catches on Donna, trapped in the other half with the Doctor, before he physically pulls himself away.

She knows that it hasn’t happened for him yet, Wilf and the other glass wall, but for a moment, as his face crumples into devastation, she wonders. But the thought is too slippery to hold onto, and then he grins, shoulders slumping in relief.

“Two sides,” he says, cracking his knuckles with an obnoxiously loud sound, “two Doctors. Piece of cake.”

Right. So that’s why she’s here. Earth needs the two of them to save it. Except.

Except.

The Doctor is dying.

“Doctor,” she breathes, tilting over. His grin slips as she does. “Maybe let’s just. Take five.”

She doesn’t hit the floor. Donna catches her.

Of course she does. She’s always catching them.

“Hey,” Donna says, softly. There’s a hand on her forehead, gently checking her temperature, another softly trailing through her hair. She wants to squirm away from them. She wants Donna to never ever let go. “Hey, sweetheart. You’re okay, I’ve got you. What’s wrong with her?”

Around them, the ship continues to rumble along, countdown steadily ticking down. The whole of London. The Doctor needs to get up. The Doctor needs—

“We don’t have time,” she says. He says. She can’t keep track of which one of them is talking.

They’re the Doctor. And the Doctor is dying.

“I can’t,” the Doctor says. And, “we’re regenerating,” the Doctor says. And, “there’s only one way,” the Doctor says.

“What,” Donna says. “What is it? What do we do? Doctor, what do we do?”

“We know how to save them,” the Doctor says. “But it will kill you.”

“Okay,” Donna says.

The Doctor can’t see her face. The Doctor can’t look away from her eyes.

“You'll die.”

“So what?” Donna spits, all fire and stupidly beautiful bravery. “My daughter is down there. My Rose. My family. And the whole of London, too. Who cares about me?”

“I do,” the Doctor says. She reaches up and grabs Donna's hand. He bangs on the glass in frustration. “I do.”

“Why! I’m no one!”

The Doctor is dying. It’s nothing, nothing , compared to the pain in Donna’s voice as she drowns in her self-hate. Fifteen years, and she’s only sunk lower in it. A whole year of self-growth and tentative self-love and the Doctor wiped it away in seconds. The Doctor wants to cry. The Doctor is crying.

“Donna, you’re the most important woman in the universe.”

“Why are you saying things like that!” And oh, they haven’t missed that. That snarling inward rage they’d only started to soften the edges of. “Just do it, whatever it is! You don’t need to convince me into it. I’ll do it, whatever it takes to save Rose. I’ll do it.”

“Donna—”

“Please.”

She doesn’t know which of them starts the code sequence, which one of them gave in first. At first, two voices ring out in unison, one of them thin and wavering, the other flat and low. And then it’s three voices.

And then. And then.

And then, Donna lets her go.

It’s cowardly, to look away. The Doctor looks away anyway.

When they look back, Donna’s eyes are finally, finally, no longer empty.

“Are you okay? Donna?”

And that brilliant, brave, beautiful amalgamation hisses an annoyed breath through their best friend’s teeth and snaps, “I gave away my money because of you.”

“You what?”

The Doctor had known that, had talked about it with Shaun and Sylvia and even Donna herself. The Doctor had missed that, too busy beating off her own death. But of course Donna did, the Doctor thinks. And of course she’s pissed about it. The Doctor’d laugh, if she could.

The DoctorDonna stumbles as their eyes catch on the Doctor, slumped against the wall.

“Right,” they say, faintly. “Two of you.” And then Donna’s mouth twists, not entirely happily. “Three of us.”

“Always been better as an overseer,” the Doctor says, breezily. “Rock a great hi vis jacket.”

She can taste blood. If she focuses on that, she can almost remember which one of them she is. The one the DoctorDonna is looking at, through Donna’s too sad eyes.

“Right,” they say. They crack Donna’s knuckles, like he had a few minutes ago. “Let’s get a shift on, hey?”

The DoctorDonna is a glorious creature, though they don’t hold a candle to Donna Noble. The Doctor watches through lidded eyes as they dance about, reaching up every so often to do what she can with the small amount of controls that are in distance. The Doctor jumps from switch to switch, cancelling the sequence as he tries not to notice their best friend dying. The three of them toss instructions back and forth, and neither of them mention that two of the voices are flickering in and out.

The Doctor is dying. She won’t die in fifty five seconds. It’s too much to bear.

Finally, the DoctorDonna flips a switch with a bright laugh, and the countdown stumbles to a halt. And so do they.

The divider slides up, and the Doctor slumps to the floor, and the Doctor leaps across and catches Donna’s body.

“No,” they breathe. A quick litany of denials, fast and low and catching on their tongues.

She could stay on the floor, if she wanted. She doesn’t have to watch her die again. The only person who will walk out of here is the Doctor, and they’ve never been able to look themselves in the eyes anyway.

The Doctor focuses on her dying body, on her dying mind, and pushes herself up.

The Doctor is dying. Donna is dying. The DoctorDonna is dying.

She could hold her, if she wasn’t dying. She's stronger than she looks, and for Donna she’d even ignore the way that touch still makes her skin skitter uncomfortably, but her blood is boiling and she’s bit through her tongue just keeping herself conscious. It hurts to breathe, but it hurts to everything, so her lungs shouldn’t act like they’re special.

He has to hold her instead.

He always gets to hold her.

(that isn’t fair. even in the sanctity of her own mind she knows that isn’t fair)

She’s propped up against the wall, watching as he strokes Donna’s hair, and she shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t have come here. It’s too much.

“I can’t,” the Doctor says. “I can’t. Please, I can’t. Not again.”

“It’s okay,” the DoctorDonna breathes, with their last. Donna breathes, as the time lord consciousness burns away.

Defending them, once again, even at the end. The Doctor chokes on it, on that unearned kindness.

“You saved them. You saved her. You saved them all.”

“Why are there two of you,” Donna murmurs, stopping his frantic reassurances. “Have you figured it out?” Her head tilts towards the Doctor, and her smile is soft and sad. “The two of you. I saw you, you know? I saw your memories. I still see them. I know what you did, Doctor, and I know what you are.”

And the Doctor recoils, as much as she can, with her limited movement. She can’t. Donna Noble, who calls out injustice with her every breath, who saw them, with the Racnoss, and Jenny, and the Daleks. Who sees the heart of them.

But Donna laughs, a gentle thing that morphs into a cough. “You’re here because you’re the Doctor. Both of you. Do you understand? I lived, Doctor, and so have you. And that’s okay. You’re okay, Doctor. You did what you could. You always do. And I love you for it.”

She reaches a hand up to the Doctor’s cheek, that well-worn gesture, and she keeps looking into the Doctor’s eyes, that new connection, and she says, “Good fun, too.” And her face slackens, and her eyes close. And she stops.

“Donna,” the Doctor says. And, “Doctor.” And.

And.

And.

And then, like an angel, Rose Noble’s voice sings out through the ship.

And then, like a miracle, Donna Noble’s chest starts to move again.

Shared biological metacrisis. The Doctor laughs and laughs and laughs until she’s hacking up her guts, still slumped against the wall.

“Brilliant,” she breathes. And she—

—

The Doctor is dying. She expects the cliff again, and the flickering faces of her last selves. Instead, she’s looking at the underside of the crashed ship.

Her question stumbles out of her mouth as a mess of sounds.

“Oh, here she is. Morning sunshine.”

“Donna?”

She scrunches her eyes up until starbursts start to appear, and then she takes another try at figuring out where she is.

Still under the spaceship. Huh.

Donna’s face is above hers, looking down at her with an uncharacteristically relieved expression. Her eyes are too bright.

She’s warm, almost uncomfortably so, though it isn’t just due to the regeneration. Her hands are cold though, as they flop about in the air. She realises, suddenly, that she isn’t exactly lying down.

“Are you carrying me?”

“‘course I am,” she says, softly. And then, less soft, and rather pointed, “the other you offered, but I told him to shove it.”

She can’t see him, but she hears his mock hurt oi ring out from behind them.

“Knew you’d be light enough for me to manage, and I was right. Eat a real meal once in a while, you skinny twit.”

Golden light wisps out of her mouth as she talks, and the Doctor tries to scramble up. Which doesn’t work, of course. Donna just tightens her hold, eyebrow raising.

“Yeah, I don’t think so. I let you down and you’ll crack your head, idiot.” It’s fond, and less concerned than it probably should be. Less worried for Donna than it should be, too.

“But you’re—”

“Okay. I’m okay, Doctor.”

She looks it. Even as regeneration energy dances in her eyes, there’s no pain. Her face is relaxed and smiling and entirely herself. How.

“How?”

“Well,” her other self says, suddenly appearing over Donna’s shoulder, unable to stop himself from jumping in. “You dozed through the big speech, but—”

“Did something clever,” Donna interrupts. Her gaze moves away, and she grins at someone the Doctor can’t see. “Me and Rose. Brilliant, aren’t we?”

“Utterly,” the Doctor breathes, in unison. “Always.”

Donna’s nose wrinkles. “Oh, I hate that. And about that, you shouldn’t be here, should you? And you’re not well, Doctor. I don’t know why—” Yes she does. Of course she does, but she isn’t saying it in front of UNIT, and her family. The Doctor loves her. “—but I think I can help with that. Held a little back, just for you.”

And then she leans down and places a kiss on the Doctor’s forehead, and a blush of regeneration energy skitters out across her skin and sinks into her veins.

“Oh,” the Doctor says. She jumps down from Donna’s arms and twirls around, delighted. It only hurts a little. “Clever, clever woman.”

Rose Noble doesn’t look fooled, and neither does Shirley, but, well. Can’t get them all, can you?

The Doctor is dying. Donna’s given her another hour at most, enough time to slink back to the TARDIS and regenerate away from all these prying eyes. It’s the kindest thing someone's done for her in years.

That’s the plan, anyway, but Donna’s husband offers to give them all a lift back to the market, and, well. Not like she’s getting there on foot like this, is it?

—

The taxi’s only meant to fit five, but they manage the six of them without too much fuss. Syvia’s up front with her son-in-law, and the rest of them squish into the backseats, the two Doctors by the doors bracketing the Nobles between them. Despite it all, none of the other three are actually touching her. She’s too tired to read into that, into exactly how bad she must still look for them to be treating her so gently.

She doesn’t quite fall asleep during the drive, though she isn’t quite conscious either. Rose Noble’s excited stream of babble reminds her of sipping coffee while Bill drafted her essays out loud, of absentmindedly playing lullabies while Clara muttered to herself as she marked papers. Every so often, Donna says something, and though she can’t make out the words, it heals something long scarred that they hadn’t been brave enough to acknowledge.

She doesn’t fall asleep, but for the first time in too long, something deep inside her uncoils.

—

The Doctor is dying. The taxi comes to a stop and she holds back a hiss at the way her body jostles into the car door. She can’t help it, even though nobody in the car believes that she’s well. She can’t help it. She wonders if the next them will be able to.

“Right, then,” her other self says. “Gotta just—”

He doesn’t bother giving an excuse. He’s out of the car without so much as a by your leave. It’s no more than she expected, even if the abruptness stings.

“Hey!” Rose Noble says, indignant. “Wait up!”

She’s up and out with all the ease of hyperactive youth, and the Doctor finds herself immensely jealous. Still. Not long now until they’re dashing about again. Unless they end up like their last face, all creaking bones and awkward limbs and the persistent tiredness that dogged their every step. She hopes not. She hopes they have an easier go of it, next time.

After Rose Noble, her father and grandmother (and isn’t that strange to think about Sylvia) tumble out after her, worried grumbles cut off by the slam of the car doors.

And then it’s just Donna, who tilts her head to the side and looks at the Doctor unblinkingly.

Great. She’s not entirely sure how gracefully she can get out of this car. Not something she wants witnesses for. Especially not Donna, who is so full of life that she hurts to look at.

“Go on, then,” she says. “I’ll meet you out there.”

Donna doesn’t move. Well, except for her eyebrow.

“Yeah, not so fast, spaceman,” she snorts. “I know what you’re like, and I’m not having it. I hope you don't think you’re swanning off without having a chat first?”

Right. She lets her head drop back against the headrest with a hopefully amused sounding huff.

The Doctor is dying. But when she does a quick internal scan it’s to find that she is not dying fast enough to get out of what will probably be a very painful conversation. Pretending otherwise would be cowardly.

She still really wants to though.

“Oh yeah? What about? Love talking, me. This face could talk for days. Weeks, actually. I timed it once. Well, I say I timed it, I mean Ryan. You’d love Ryan. He’s a great kid. Man. Don’t let him hear you call him a kid, he’d go spare. And actually, he had to time me. See, there’s this planet—”

“Doctor,” Donna says. Doesn’t need to say anything else.

She lets the stream of words dry up with a rueful smile. Never did meet anyone who could call them out as succinctly as Donna Noble.

“Back then, in the ship,” Donna continues, carefully. “Everything was really hectic, and I couldn’t really— I mean, I could half understand what the two of you were saying, but I didn’t really get it. But now I understand you, and. Well. I remember what regeneration means, now. You’re dying, aren’t you?”

She wishes she could tell what emotion is in her eyes.

“We’re all dying,” she murmurs, and Donna reaches out and flicks her ear. It doesn’t hurt. She still yelps. “Hey! Dying here, thanks!”

“I know,” Donna says. It’s soft and fond and very, very sad. “Would’ve punched you, otherwise. You dumbo.”

Donna bites her lip. The Doctor makes herself focus on whatever’s about to come next. On whatever it is that Donna is too hesitant to say outright.

“Was it good, though,” she says, finally, cautiously. “I don’t remember your memories now, but I remember being sad when I did. Did you live, Doctor?”

Did she live? God. When did she ever stop.

The Doctor is dying.

(the doctor wishes that maybe she’d died a little sooner)

“Did my best,” she says, finally. “Made friends. Family. Saw some really cool things. Did some really cool things, too.” She grins at her. “Ran a lot.”

“God,” Donna laughs. The tension melts out of her, and it is glorious. “I’m so out of shape now. Married a taxi driver so I wouldn’t have to walk to the shops.”

She laughs too, and takes pride in the fact that Donna will always know that it’s with her and never at her. “I think you look beautiful,” she says, and Donna rolls her eyes. “No. Listen to me. I think you look beautiful.” She holds Donna’s gaze until it starts to feel itchy, and then for a little after that. “Really.”

Donna smiles, and it is a fragile thing. It is the strongest thing she’s ever seen.

“I think you look beautiful too, Doctor. I think you always have.”

“Always? Even that one?”

No need to specify who. Donna’s always known what they were talking about.

She expects Donna to laugh again but instead her brow furrows.

“You should talk to him, I think. Properly, I mean.”

It’s a little careful, but it’s firm too. A real mum voice. The Doctor is profoundly sad, and profoundly proud.

“Donna, I was him. There isn’t anything he could tell me.”

The Doctor is dying. But she knows better than to ignore the tone in Donna’s voice when she says, “I think you’re wrong.”

“Right,” she says, instead. Scrunches up her face the way she does when she’s trying to get a laugh. “Nice little chat with the matchstick man. Just what I need in my last moments of life.”

“Oi, don’t talk about him like that.”

“Because that’s your job?”

“Damn straight.”

The Doctor, this Doctor, has always been an endless well of quickfire conversation and overspilling energy. She can’t sit still, and she can’t sit silent, and trying to do otherwise hurts. But she sits with Donna and they are still and they are silent. And even though her fingers start to tap along her thigh and a litany of facts start to press on her tongue, it never once stops being comfortable.

“Right then,” Donna says, as the moment lingers. “Up we get.”

Donna gets out first, and the Doctor winces as she hears her knees crack. She moves away from the window, and for a terrifying moment the Doctor thinks that’s the last of her she’ll see. That that’s the last of her she’ll get.

And then the door opens and Donna reaches out and grabs the Doctor’s hand and pulls her up and out in one swift movement. It hurts, but it’s still grounding. It’s still right.

She wobbles a little as she tries to adjust back to standing, and blinks away the black spots at the corner of her vision.

Donna doesn’t let go.

Look at you,” she murmurs. “Look at you.”

The Doctor does, sweeping her gaze from the floor up to her collarbones. Her clothes are a little loose and a little dirty, her body running thin and ragged. The hair that hangs in front of her eyes is unwashed and limp and probably all out of sorts. Her hands are shaking and flecked with her own blood.

“All that pain,” Donna says, “and all that time. And you’re the Doctor, still.” And then, “stop that,” as the Doctor starts to shake her head. “You knock that off, you hear me. I don’t know everything that happened to you, and maybe I never will, but I know you did your best. I know it, Doctor.”

Did she? Have they ever? The Doctor disgusts themselves. All this destruction, all this death, all this blood, and they are drenched in it. Donna knows that. Saw it, even if she’ll never be able to hold the full memories. She should be running away from her, making sure they’re never able to cast this shadow over her family.

Instead, she waits until the Doctor’s hands unclench, and then leans down and presses a kiss to her forehead. Her mental barriers are shot (have been since the Master ripped them apart and reluctantly put them back together, since the Ravagers unspooled her memories again and again and again) and Donna’s mind starts to ghost along her neurons.

Faded pain from the metacrisis and burning smouldering anger over the lost years and concerned anxiety over the state of her and endless uncountable joy over her existence, and so much love that it makes her head spin. Fifteen years, and Donna’s mind is different and the same all at once and the Doctor’s eyes well up at the feel of it.

“Come back,” Donna says, “after you change.”

She’s still holding her hand, and holding it tight. With the other, she gently wipes the Doctor’s tears away, unconsciously wiping away the mental connection at the same time. The Doctor still can’t tell what’s in her eyes.

“Come back, and let me meet the next one, yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says, as she finally ducks out of her grip. She isn’t quite sure whether she’s lying.”I—” She swallows, and turns around.

The Doctor is dying. She doesn’t have time to track her untruths.

She doesn’t look back.

(is that a lie?)

—

The TARDIS Shaun’s parked up by isn’t her own, though she isn’t well enough to feel the difference. She only knows because she landed on the other side of the market. Looks a little cleaner than hers. A little brighter. She wonders when exactly he’s from.

It doesn’t matter, really. He won’t remember this. She might not remember this in a few hours. They’ve never had the best of luck when it comes to regeneration sickness. This whole thing is an exercise in futility.

Still.

The Doctor is dying. He could bother to come see her while there’s still time.

Instead, he’s vanished into his TARDIS, and hasn’t even had the decency to leave. It’s a little rude, honestly. He’s probably waiting for her to fly off before making his way back out to Donna. Waiting for her to die.

(well, aren’t they all?)

She rolls her eyes, and more falls into than pushes the doors open. She takes a step into her younger version’s TARDIS, and—

Ah.

Well.

That’s.

“Oh,” her other self says, hissing through his teeth. “You should not be in here.”

This isn’t a TARDIS she’s ever seen before. It’s a bright, sterile white, with a desktop configuration she’s never once flown. It’s the furthest thing from her soft and yellow crystalline home she can imagine.

It’s a little headache inducing, honestly, though she might be a little unreliable on that front seeing as how she’s been nursing her own death for the past few hours.

“How,” she says, as she makes her way to where he’s leaning against the impossible console, mouth tight. “How is she like this?”

“Well,” he says, drawing it out like they always loved to do.

They’d loved it because it was a great way of stalling. He doesn’t actually have an answer.

The Doctor is dying. She doesn’t have time for him to babble his way into an excuse.

“I don’t remember this,” she insists, hand trailing over the controls. The lights in the walls shift and flicker as she does, white to blue to a pointed mauve and back. She’s a little jealous, actually.

“Right,” he says, “because our memory is so reliable,” and it draws blood. She hears him wince.

Gotcha.

“Future TARDIS,” she says, turning around to face him. “Future Doctor.”

He wiggles his hand in a guilty hello.

“When?”

He shrugs. It isn’t out of confusion.

Ah.

The Doctor is dying. Regressing like this isn’t healthy, but it isn’t surprising, either. The man before her had had huge swathes of his memory carved out, even if it was his own stupid fault, and the one before that had been ripped apart over his own corpse. She isn’t who she thought they were. A few hours ago, they weren’t even themselves.

Donna’s Doctor had suffered, but he’d been himself, for all the good it’s done them. No wonder she’s going to regenerate back into him.

“Right,” she says. The upside of dying is that she doesn’t have to waste time dwelling on how that makes her feel. Instead, she digs the note that brought her here out of her pocket. “Was this you?”

He blinks. Laughs. Pulls out a matching note. Same coordinates, but her handwriting instead of his. “Guessing this was you, then?”

“Not yet.”

“Nor me.”

He pulls a whole stack of them from a different pocket, and a pair of pens.

“Nicked these from Donna’s living room,” he says, unrepentant. Amused, even. “Figured that this,” he wiggles his note in the air, “meant that I’d need ‘em.”

They take one each, dash the coordinates down, swap them. She trusts that he’ll be able to sneak hers into her TARDIS at some point before she says goodbye to Yaz, and she’ll—

The Doctor is dying. Placing the note in her TARDIS will be her last act.

A tremor goes through her, and she winces. If she can get there, that is.

“Doctor,” she says. “Think you could give me a hand?”

His smile softens.

“Doctor,” he says. “I’d be delighted.”

—

He’s careful, as he helps her walk back out. Keeps his hands firmly on her clothes. Doesn’t offer to carry her, even though they both know it’d make things easier. He used to be her, she knows, but it’s still strange to have someone just know.

The journey isn’t far, but it’s long. Now she’s no longer trying to hide it, she allows herself to stop holding such a tight grip on her regeneration, and she coughs out a golden flutter of energy. In between one footstep and the next, one of her heart stops. She staggers, breath catching, but the Doctor doesn’t let her go.

“Got you,” he says, as she flails, lungs refusing to inflate. “Nearly there, Doctor. Nearly time for you to rest.” He thumps his hand onto her chest in a sharp blow, and she wheezes as air rushes back in. “Yeah?” he asks.

“Yeah,” she says. She reaches up and wipes blood from her mouth. “I’m okay. Keep going.”

The Doctor is dying. Every step hurts, but she takes it anyway. They take it together.

There’s a flutter of movement in the corner of her eye. Donna keeps her hand raised until the Doctor loses sight of her again.

—

Like always, her TARDIS is an oasis in the desert.

They stumble across the threshold together, and he guides her to the centre of the room, carefully winding around the objects she always thought she’d have more time to pick up. She wouldn’t let anyone see, normally, but as they reach the console and he gently lets go, she falls against it, visibly allowing it to hold herself up.

“Result,” she murmurs. “I’d high five you, but I think I’d fall over.”

She’s expecting a returning shot, or a glib parting line. Instead he hovers, unsure.

“Letting a draft in,” she says, mouth twitching, and he runs his hand through his hair with a nervous huff.

“Just wondering,” he says. “The TARDIS. Are you good to fly?”

Do you need help, he doesn’t say.

The Doctor is dying. Her ship burbles around her, soft and grieving and delighted all at once.

“Already got the best co pilot in the universe,” she says, tilting her head towards the time rotor, and he relaxes.

“She is,” he says, reaching out to stroke the console in a final farewell before walking back to the door. “Look after her, old girl.” He turns and smiles at her, and for once, there’s no concern, or pity, or sadness. It’s just a smile. “Look after myself, Doctor.”

She shoots a fingergun at him and he tosses a loose salute in response as he lets the door close. She doesn’t need to say it back.

Once he’s gone, she lets herself slump onto the floor. The TARDIS’ concern curls into her mind, and she laughs.

“I know, I know,” she says. “You were right. Worst time to take a side quest. You’ll sort me out though, won’t you, dear? Could you get me to a sunrise I’ve never seen, please?”

She grabs onto the console with a glowing hand and heaves herself back up. Her other hand is pressed tightly against her side as her stomach starts to roil. The TARDIS has already input the destination for her. She just has to pull the lever.

They dematerialise, and it’s the smoothest trip she’s ever taken.

The Doctor is dying. And she’s already starting to forget, she realises, as she tapes the note to the handbrake.

Donna Noble is alive. And she won’t be able to remember that. She’ll die thinking that her best friend doesn’t know who they are.

But they’ll find out, in a few hours. They’ll define their next regeneration by it. He’ll go to her. He’ll be with her.

Donna Noble is alive.

And the Doctor is—

—

The Doctor is dying. It hurts. It really—

The Doctor is dying. The Master killed them. The Master. He violated their body and their mind, he perverted their regeneration cycle. I just want my friend back. He—

The Doctor is dying. She wishes Yaz was here. Ryan and Graham, and Dan. Kate even, though it wouldn’t be fair to do that to her on her second ever trip in the TARDIS. Tegan knows what regeneration means, better than them all. Ace would—

Ace would what? Would sit here and let her waste her last few moments with self pity?

Would any of them?

Straighten up. Pull yourself together, Doctor.

The Doctor is dying. She’s alone. They won’t be. They’ll find people, and they’ll have adventures, and they’ll live. She won’t be there for it, and it hurts, but that’s okay. Pain is part of life. and they are living.

She can’t regenerate in here. She staggers out of the TARDIS, and her breath catches at the sight.

This is her last sunrise, but it won’t be their last. Whoever they are, whoever she’ll be. She spent years holding her friends at a distance, burning with unsaid rage and choking on loneliness, and the next Doctor will have to live with that. They’ll have to carry it. They’ll be born of a broken person with memories too vast for her head, chest still spasming with the forced regeneration, but maybe they’ll deal with it in a way she refused to. Maybe they’ll be at peace with themselves, finally.

They’ll be better. They have to be. They have to be the Doctor.

“Tag,” she breathes, the last one she’ll ever take. “You’re it.”

The Doctor dies.

—

The Doctor lives. They know these teeth.

“What,” they say, and they know that voice, these lungs.

They’re tall again, previous incarnation’s clothes both too short and too loose. Shoes too small, though they’re still too deep in the afterwash of regeneration for it to hurt.

They know this face.

“What,” he says, again.

He?

Well, close enough. They know humans, though. Might as well get used to the pronoun again now.

The TARDIS doors are still open behind him, hum gently reproving. She’s never liked it when they bent themselves to humans’ expectations. It usually doesn’t matter to them. He wonders if it matters to him.

“I know, I know,” he says. “Okay.”

He steps through, into his home. She’ll change too, probably. The Doctor this was for had been quietly uncomfortable with anything that ticked, anything that reminded them of the confession dial. He hasn’t forgotten, but maybe he’s come to peace with it.

Oh.

That’s strange.

They don’t think about the loop so candidly, and all the scars it left. But he is . He can. It hurts, when he presses on it, but he can think about it.

The timeless child, and the Flux, and the forced regeneration, and it hurts it all hurts, but he isn’t burying it like she used to. It hurts, and he breathes through it.

Emotional stability. Isn’t that wizard.

There’s something on the console, he realises. A bright not quite TARDIS blue note, stuck to the handbrake.

He has. No idea where that’s come from. He recognises the handwriting the coordinates it bears are written in, but he doesn’t know how exactly. Could be from anyone. Could be from anywhere. And it’s in his TARDIS?

“Huh,” he says. “Weird.” Feels his new old face stretch into a familiar grin as he picks the note up. “Brilliant. Starting with a mystery, eh?”

He reaches out to flip a switch and notices the way the cuff rides too far up his arm. Right. Priorities.

He laughs, and it hurts, and it’s joyful, and it’s sad. It’s all of those things, and he faces each one, and doesn’t flinch.

“Wardrobe first,” he decides, and tries to remember if Bowtie ever went back to the hospital for his chucks.