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The Doctor is silent on the walk back to the TARDIS, actually silent, which makes Donna worry more than she lets on. She thought he'd relaxed a bit while they were sitting by the pool, but now he's all wound up again.
The TARDIS is parked in one of the maintenance areas, inconspicuous for once, and when he unlocks the door she sees that his hands are shaking. Oh, this is no good at all. She's been with him in Pompeii, and when Jenny died and after the bloody Library and all sorts of other things, going right back to the bloody Racnoss, and she's never seen him react like this.
He throws over the dematerialization switch and just stands there, looking more than a bit lost. It's not a good look on him, Donna thinks, not at all. And definitely not when he's standing right in the middle of his own ship, where he usually prances about like the proverbial cock of the walk.
She can't really imagine what it must have been like, to have something enter your head and use it. The closest she's come was when he showed her the song of the Ood, and that almost broke her, gentle as he had been. If she's really honest with herself, this is a bit frightening. She won't get him away with anything, true, but he is the strong and knowledgeable one, not that she'll ever tell him so.
There is one thing she can think of immediately. "Do you want a cuppa?"
He focuses on her slowly, too slowly. "What? Oh, no, thanks, I'm all right."
It's a laugh a minute with him, really. "Yeah. 'course you are." Another idea presents itself. "Come on, then. I know just the thing."
He frowns at her. "Donna, really, this isn't necessary."
She shrugs, going for the unconcerned look. "Maybe not, but it'll make you feel better." She takes his hand then, and, remembering what he'd told her, carefully doesn't pull, just waits for him to follow.
The palatial bathroom is her second favourite place in the TARDIS and, she supposes, somewhat of a present from the ship: she first found it right after Pompeii and spent a few blissful hours in there. There are furnishings to equal the spa they've just left: a huge shower, a sauna, benches, massage tables — and a humongous bath the size of a small swimming pool, which is where she's guiding him.
The Doctor freezes when he sees where they are. "Donna," he begins, but she cuts him off.
"Don't even start. You stink of sweat and you're covered in dirt." She turns the taps to a temperature that she thinks will feel warm to him, even if it's way too cool for her, then looks back at him. "Go on. I'll even scrub your back."
He shifts, looking entirely too embarrassed for an ancient bloke who isn't even human. "Donna, I really don't think--"
"Yeah," she says firmly. "I know. Oil or bubbles?"
He wavers for a moment, and she wonders if she's gone too far, but then he sits down and starts unlacing his trainers. "Is there any blue stuff left?"
The blue stuff is a hotly coveted item on board, even more so than the good chocolate. The bubbles it produces change colour and keep one's skin soft for hours.
When Donna comes back with the bottle he's with his back to her, folding his clothing meticulously, which is a bit of a waste considering that most of it needs to be laundered anyway. He is so thin it makes her wince, ribs and hip bones looking sharp enough to cut through skin. "It's not too hot for you, is it?" she asks a bit uneasily. Bloody aliens and their body temperature; what's wrong with your normal thirty-seven degrees?
Without turning he bends down and tests the water, giving her a good view of his surprisingly nice bum. "No, it's fine," he says eventually, and gets in without further ado.
He closes his eyes, tipping his head back and she pours some blue stuff in and gets a sponge, watching his face. His eyes are sunken, dark circles underneath them, and the skin is stretched tight over his cheekbones. She wonders when he last slept.
The bubbles rise up in piles and clouds around them as she rolls her sleeves up and draws the sponge slowly over his chest. He starts a little, then relaxes back into the water, which Donna takes as permission to go on.
She washes him slowly, carefully, even tenderly. Chest first, to get him used to the feel of the sponge, then shoulders and arms. Unhurried, even movements, and his hands unclench, falling open. She squeezes his fingers gently and his lips twitch in a brief smile. His stomach and hips next, and what's between his legs looks pretty normal to her, which makes her feel a bit relieved and then annoyed with herself for wondering in the first place. She brushes the sponge over his bits and he shivers, making her grin. A normal bloke, then, in many aspects. His legs last and he squirms when she gets to his feet; as ticklish as a human.
Finished, Donna sets the sponge aside and reaches for the shampoo. It's some kind of weird alien make, but it smells nice. "Lift your head a bit," she tells him quietly and pours fresh water over his hair when he complies. She works up a thick lather, massaging his scalp slowly and thoroughly. It might be her imagination, but she thinks he looks a bit more relaxed, especially once she spends a few minutes stroking his temples and his neck. If his sighs are anything to go by, he's quite in favour.
She rinses the shampoo off, covering his eyes, and when he sits up she scrubs his back, as promised. Eventually they are done and he lies back, freshly clean and a lot more at ease.
She could leave now, let him soak a bit while she makes tea, but there's a niggling thought at the back of her head, and his reactions so far make her think that it just might work.
Slowly, ever so slowly she strokes her bare hand across his chest and rests it on his belly. When he doesn't react other that sighing and shifting a little she reaches down and wraps her hand around his soft cock.
His eyes fly open instantly and he tenses up. "Donna, what are--?"
"Shh," she murmurs softly. "It's all right. Just relax."
The is a long uncertain moment when she wonders if he will kick her out of the room, but in the end he settles down, looking at her sideways like a wet, suspicious chicken. "Close your eyes," she orders and, amazingly, he does.
She begins to pump him with long, leisurely strokes, watching his face closely. He gives in after a moment, leaning back again and relaxing his death grip on the sides of the bath. His cock begins to harden, but very slowly, and she settles in more comfortably herself, wrapping her other hand loosely around his neck. Surprisingly, that makes his cock twitch and she raises her eyebrows, brushing her thumb deliberately under his ear. He sighs and shivers, his erection firming up.
Oh, well, different strokes and all that, quite literally in this case.
After a while she gets him to the point where he's sprawled bonelessly, rocking into her hand, his neck twisted to the side, like a cat's, for easier access. A few strokes with her thumb over the glans and he comes, silently, just his stomach muscles tensing and his lips falling open. Donna won't admit it to anyone, but she secretly thinks it's a bit sexy.
She dries her hand and watches the steady rise and fall of his chest. He looks better now, nowhere near as haunted as he did on Midnight. He also looks absurdly young.
He deserves a nice, quiet evening, Donna decides right there. Anti-gravity restaurants can wait. "Get some rest," she tells him quietly. "I'll make us some dinner."
Without opening his eyes he catches her hand and squeezes it. "Thank you, Donna Noble," he says a bit hoarsely. She's pretty sure he means neither the handjob nor the upcoming casserole.
By the way of an answer she leans down and presses her lips briefly to his forehead. "Don't fall asleep in the bath," she replies mock sternly. "Most household accidents happen in the bathroom."
His chuckle, the first genuine laugh of his since they spoke on the phone, follows her out of the door.