(no subject)
Who: Donna, the Doctor, Rose
Where: Mostly the TARDIS
When: Evening in the UK, Afternoon in the US.
Status: Incomplete
It was over. Really over, not like the times when she'd thrown her engagement ring at Lance, or at the just-slammed door, or the toilet, once. Nope, this time when he'd started bitching about the wedding, her 'nagging,' her mother--she'd simply taken the ring off and jammed it in the box she'd been carrying with her for a week (wondering why, but not wondering, too).
"You're right, Lance--'cause you know what? you don't want a wife, you want a bloody mute sex toy, and I think you've noticed how much I don't quite fit the bill!" she'd said, shoving it into his chest. He'd almost dropped it, he was so shocked, but Donna hadn't stuck around to hear what he'd come up with this time.
Five hours later, as she sat in the park sipping absently at the now-tepid coffee that had been Lance's last gift to her, she winced at the words. Lance always told her how much he needed her, in between trying to duck out on wedding plans and table arrangements and everything, but Donna had told herself that was man stuff, right? Typical, and she'd have wondered if he hadn't have acted that way. The sex hadn't been mind-blowing, but it hadn't been terrible either, but now she wondered if her own impulsive words hadn't have had some deeper meaning.
"Or I could just be wallowing in self-pity, and how ugly is that?" Donna said aloud, making a face as she realized just how stale her coffee really was. Stale and old and needing to be gotten rid of. Wasn't that the truth? She stood up and rolled her neck a bit to get rid of the kinks, let out a sigh, pressed her lips together, and nodded. It was over. Past time to throw out the trash.
"Oh, and another thing. You don't get to complain about my mother!" she let herself shout at offending coffee cup as she spiked it in a nearby bin. "That's my job."
The bin was empty, and there was still a good half cup of liquid in the cup, which just about exploded on impact, splashing up onto Donna's hand. She caught a glimpse of something sparkling (probably a reflection, and wouldn't it just figure she'd have to go home and wash off the stink of her time with Lance, and not just figuratively?), and then all of a sudden, she was Somewhere Else.
"Wha--" she started to say, her jaw dropping open. She was in a room with a… a… contraption, surrounded by strangely shaped walls with things jutting out of them and--
"If this is supposed to be some kind of psychological effect of grieving, I'd like to point out you have to actually be grieving for that, yeah?" Donna said in a voice that didn't sound at all as defiant as she'd felt when she'd started talking.
Where: Mostly the TARDIS
When: Evening in the UK, Afternoon in the US.
Status: Incomplete
It was over. Really over, not like the times when she'd thrown her engagement ring at Lance, or at the just-slammed door, or the toilet, once. Nope, this time when he'd started bitching about the wedding, her 'nagging,' her mother--she'd simply taken the ring off and jammed it in the box she'd been carrying with her for a week (wondering why, but not wondering, too).
"You're right, Lance--'cause you know what? you don't want a wife, you want a bloody mute sex toy, and I think you've noticed how much I don't quite fit the bill!" she'd said, shoving it into his chest. He'd almost dropped it, he was so shocked, but Donna hadn't stuck around to hear what he'd come up with this time.
Five hours later, as she sat in the park sipping absently at the now-tepid coffee that had been Lance's last gift to her, she winced at the words. Lance always told her how much he needed her, in between trying to duck out on wedding plans and table arrangements and everything, but Donna had told herself that was man stuff, right? Typical, and she'd have wondered if he hadn't have acted that way. The sex hadn't been mind-blowing, but it hadn't been terrible either, but now she wondered if her own impulsive words hadn't have had some deeper meaning.
"Or I could just be wallowing in self-pity, and how ugly is that?" Donna said aloud, making a face as she realized just how stale her coffee really was. Stale and old and needing to be gotten rid of. Wasn't that the truth? She stood up and rolled her neck a bit to get rid of the kinks, let out a sigh, pressed her lips together, and nodded. It was over. Past time to throw out the trash.
"Oh, and another thing. You don't get to complain about my mother!" she let herself shout at offending coffee cup as she spiked it in a nearby bin. "That's my job."
The bin was empty, and there was still a good half cup of liquid in the cup, which just about exploded on impact, splashing up onto Donna's hand. She caught a glimpse of something sparkling (probably a reflection, and wouldn't it just figure she'd have to go home and wash off the stink of her time with Lance, and not just figuratively?), and then all of a sudden, she was Somewhere Else.
"Wha--" she started to say, her jaw dropping open. She was in a room with a… a… contraption, surrounded by strangely shaped walls with things jutting out of them and--
"If this is supposed to be some kind of psychological effect of grieving, I'd like to point out you have to actually be grieving for that, yeah?" Donna said in a voice that didn't sound at all as defiant as she'd felt when she'd started talking.