"Could have gone worse," the tenth Doctor found himself saying, tone mild, almost dismissive as he set to rummaging in the various supplies that he kept on hand and only rarely used. It felt safer to be as emotionally distant as possible from his future self, at least while they were in such close company. He was too tired for a proper row just at the moment, though he expected one would happen eventually. It generally did, whenever he was faced with his former or future incarnations. At least this time it was only the two of them.
"You've been here with her longer than I have," he went on. "I'm sure you know better than I do how she feels about me." The Doctor felt strange, discussing Rose with the man he would one day become. A part of him was jealous of the time they had spent together, while another part of him was afraid of what had been said, and still another was grateful that at least Rose had had one of him to depend on. She seemed comfortable enough with the idea of his future self. Was she, truly? Was there something about the eleventh Doctor, floppy hair and all, that was more appealing than the battered man who had come before him?
The Doctor grimaced as he reached for one of the diagnostic tools and his shoulder informed him, in no uncertain terms, that he might not want to move his arm that way again for a good while. No more jumping from spaceships, he told himself, gritting his teeth and grabbing the scanner despite his body's protests. He wondered how deep the damage had gone. Clearly not deep enough to trigger a regeneration, but with the amount of pain he was in, he thought, for the first time, to worry about how much radiation he'd actually absorbed before he found himself in Kansas.