A wave of relief washed over him, and he wrapped his arms around Rose, holding her as close as he could as he buried his face against her shoulder, ignoring for the moment how much he hurt and how tired he was. "I'm sorry," he apologized again. "I didn't mean to scare you. We'll get it right this time. I'll get it right. I'll be fine. I promise. I'll be okay. We'll be okay."
The Doctor had wanted this for so long, but he hadn't thought he deserved it. Romana had told him otherwise, had said even on his first day in Lawrence that he should just ask, and again, he hadn't listened. He was an idiot, old and foolish and so very thick. "I should have done this sooner," he confided in Rose, drawing back a little so he could see her. He was smiling now, and though there was a hint of sadness to it, of regret, it was genuine. "I didn't know how, really, but I should have just asked."
How could he have been so afraid? How could he have wasted so much time? Rose had been waiting for him. As angry as she had been, she had still been willing to take him back, in whatever capacity she could. He'd have to be more careful in the future. He didn't just have his future self to worry about when his life was in danger. There were so many things he'd simply thrown aside when he'd thought he was going to die: his time with his daughter, with Donna, with Martha and Romana, Leela and Koschei (what had happened to him, the Doctor wondered briefly) and most especially, Rose.