Donna hates this part.
It's nothing to do with him, God, no. It's the tension; the choking sense of discomfort that fills the medbay like a noxious gas. It's that she can never tell whether he wants her to speak up or leave him alone, whether she wants to cry or hold him or scream at him, beg him to listen and understand. It's the fear, making her chest too tight, her hands too shaky, her throat too dry to let words out, if she could even formulate them.
It's the silence.
"'M sorry," the Doctor whispers. It's the third time, now.
For the third time, Donna says, "It's fine."
She doesn't look up from her task, focused on forcing her trembling fingers to steady as she holds the dermal regenerator in place.
"Is it?"
She spares a glance up. He's looking at her with the most horrible expression, desperate and tired and terrified all at once. His eyes are bloodshot, and there are dark circles underneath them. He's shaking more than she is.
It's wrong, but she can't bear to see him like this, so she turns her gaze downwards without a word.
"Are-" His voice catches in his throat, and he has to take several deep breaths before he can muster it up again. "Are you mad at me?"
"Oh, God," Donna breathes, feeling like she's been kicked in the chest. She looks at him now. "No, Doctor, of course I'm not mad. You know I'd never... I'm not mad."
"Are you sure?" There's a guardedness in his tone; she doesn't understand how he could try to protect himself from her even now, sitting sleeveless and bloodied on the examination table.
The device in her hand beeps just then, announcing that it's finished repairing him. She tosses it aside and throws her arms around him, pulling him tight to her. Slowly, he relaxes into her embrace, his head coming to rest on her shoulder. He shudders.
"I'm not mad," she repeats. "I'm... scared." Her eyes sting. "But it's okay now. You're alright, you're safe, and-" she sniffles- "and that's what matters. Okay?"
The Doctor nods. She doubts he has the energy to do much else. He lifts his hands to clutch at her back, tugging her closer, and she feels the hitch and jump of his breaths as he begins to cry silently against her.
"You could've come to me," she murmurs. Please, Spaceman, she thinks, please come first next time. "I could've helped."
He's quiet for a moment, composing himself. Then he whispers, "I didn't want help."
Donna bites her lip, because it's started to tremble and her eyes have started to water, and she can't cry just yet. She clears her throat.
"Thank you," she says, a bit hoarsely. "Spaceman, thank you for letting me help anyway."
"Bit late," he mutters, voice cracking.
"I'm proud of you."
"You-" he sniffs- "you shouldn't be."
"Tough."
The Doctor presses his face into the crook of her shoulder, breathing hard to calm himself. It's a few moments before he can manage a weak, shaky, "Thanks."
Donna releases him from the hug then, pulling back to hold him by the arms. "Will you stay with me?" she asks quietly. "For tonight?"
"Yeah." He nods. "Okay."
"Okay." She closes her eyes for a second, relief rushing through her. "You're gonna get some rest, okay? You'll feel better in the morning."
He nods again, though she knows he doesn't believe her, he never does. It doesn't matter. Just as long as he doesn't run off.
She takes his hand in hers, squeezes it in reassurance, and leads him out of the medbay, trying not to look at his still-bare arms. The silence, she finds, isn't any easier outside.