Charted Territory
Title: UnCharted Territory
Characters: The Doctor, Donna Noble
Summary: Just lift your shirt and I can steer us out of here.
Rating: PG for a couple of swear words
Word Count: 1200
Disclaimer: totally mine. Ignore what the lawyers say.
A/N: Grew from a crackpot idea I had when reading The Unrealities of Summer by lilianvaldemyer
UnCharted Territory
“Life support is failing.”
The builders of the spaceship must have thought that giving the computer a personable voice would be uplifting for the morale of the crew. Donna thought that it had no right to sound so bloody cheerful while giving statements of doom.
“Are you intending to do anything about this, Doctor?” she asked between gritted teeth.
The Doctor looked up from where he was perched atop what had once been an impressive bit of machinery but currently resembled a junk heap. “Do what about what?”
The ship’s computer bleeped and repeated with immaculate timing, “Life support is failing.”
“About that,” Donna said and gestured to the walls where lights were blinking and bleeping and possibly doing whatever they were supposed to do in these situations. “Maybe the almighty Timelords can survive without actual air but we puny humans do need to breathe occasionally.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Donna. Timelords need to breathe, too,” the Doctor said and Donna made a note to herself to rake him over the coals for the ‘ridiculous’ later. Much later. When they were back and safe in the TARDIS preferably. She added it to the list of things she wanted to discuss with him. Things like the advisability of stranding them on a disintegrating ship or temporarily displacing the sonic screwdriver and the TARDIS for starters. The Doctor continued unaware of Donna's less than pleased thoughts, “And I’m trying my best here - Aha!” He deftly pulled a few wires out of the junk heap. “There. That should do the trick.”
“Gravity generators are offline,” the computer voice trilled.
Donna rolled her eyes while drifting towards the ceiling. “You’re not saying,” she mumbled.
“Look on the bright side. At least, the life support is going to hold.”
She watched the Doctor zoom around the room like a giant, excited bouncing ball with exploded hair and thought of the myriad of things she could answer. Instead she chose to say simply, “Great.”
The Doctor sobered a bit, perhaps noticing that her levels of enthusiasm were not quite on par with his. “What’s the matter? Don’t you like this?”
Donna just looked at him.
“Oh no, don’t,” the Doctor said. “I promised you somewhere with no running and are we running at the moment?” He continued immediately, not giving Donna time to point out that floating along the ceiling was not much better in that regard. “No, we’re not. I promised you that we’d meet people not intent on killing us and look at them. They positively adore you.”
Donna had to concede that point. The crew of the ship, small furry balls of alien something, had taken one look at Donna and fairly prostrated themselves on the floor, babbling something incoherent about a Ginger Pathfinder which was apparently a legend among their species if she had understood correctly.
Usually, people who’d mistaken her or the Doctor for some legendary character would sooner or later, mostly sooner though, dangle them upside down some tar pit or volcano, so she’d been a bit weary about going along with it. But so far, the furballs had only insisted on anxiously asking her if she felt fine and on giving her food. It was kind of sweet actually. Almost.
“Don’t know why they’re so hung up about you either,” the Doctor mused.
Donna’s list of Things Over Which To Slap The Space Prawn Later grew longer by the second.
*
“Done it. All fixed to fly. I’m a genius, me.” The Doctor crowed in delight. Turning to the highest-ranking furball that was hovering beside him, he said, “We’ll have you home in no time at all.”
The furball looked a bit disappointed and directed a soulful glance at Donna as if it had expected something else from her. “We are grateful for your help, Doctor.”
The Doctor ignored the drooping fur and said, “Right then. Shall we? Allons-y! Computer, plot a course for the homeworld.”
“Unable to comply,” the computer voice chirped. “Sensors are offline.”
“What?”
“Please specify your request.”
“I repaired the sensor grid. What’s wrong? Give me a diagnosis.”
“Unable to comply,” the computer chirped. “Internal sensors are offline.”
The Doctor blinked and stared open-mouthed at the dark computer read-out.
“Don’t just stand there, spaceman. Repair it again,” Donna said.
“There’s not enough time. It’ll be 2 hours and 14 minutes to their homeworld and the ship won’t hold together much longer than that. I can repair the sensors again but it won’t do us any good. It will take too much time. What to do? What to do?” His hands raked through his hair in desperation, making him look like an insane toilet brush.
He swerved to her suddenly and exclaimed, “Donna!”
“What?” The vehemence of his exclamation caused her to take a few surprised steps back. One never knew what hare-brained idea he had cooked up when he was like that.
“Your freckles!”
Whatever Donna had expected, it hadn't been this. “My what?”
“The freckles. On your back.” He seemed frustrated with her inability to see the connection between her freckles and their current situation. “They’re a perfect replication of the star constellations in this part of the galaxy.”
“I’m sorry?” She hoped that didn’t mean what she thought it meant.
“Yes. Isn’t that brilliant?” The Doctor was oblivious to the changing tides. “Just lift your shirt and I can steer us out of here. You’ll be our Ginger Pathfinder.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No, no. I even took some pictures and had the TARDIS run a comparison.” The Doctor exuded glee and pride. “Your back is a perfect star chart for this part of the universe. Marvellous really.”
“You took pictures?”
For the first time, the Doctor noticed that the conversation was probably veering into Careful Here Be Slaps territory and scrambled to salvage the damage, “Erm ... you're a very sound sleeper?”
Which was, all things considered, really the wrong thing to say.
*
Later, after they had safely steered the ship home thanks to Donna’s freckle chart -
Later, after they had stopped the furballs from thanking Donna for being the Ginger Pathfinder -
Later, after they had escaped from their prison cell (comfortable as it was; after all, Donna was a legend) -
Later, when they were back in the TARDIS - Donna had a few words with the Doctor.
The topics ranged far and wide from TARDISes and screwdrivers and the losing thereof to the importance of working sensors on a space ship and why he should have bloody well repaired them and how insulting your companions is not making them like you any better. But mostly she told him off for being a pervy alien voyeur.
*
Much, much later and at the same time long, long ago and incidentally only a stone’s throw away, the Doctor had forgotten all of Donna’s complaints.
Donna sighed in defeat as she surveyed the wreckage that once had been a spacecraft. “Alright, spaceman. You repair the engines and just tell me when I’m to take off my shirt.”
Characters: The Doctor, Donna Noble
Summary: Just lift your shirt and I can steer us out of here.
Rating: PG for a couple of swear words
Word Count: 1200
Disclaimer: totally mine. Ignore what the lawyers say.
A/N: Grew from a crackpot idea I had when reading The Unrealities of Summer by lilianvaldemyer
UnCharted Territory
“Life support is failing.”
The builders of the spaceship must have thought that giving the computer a personable voice would be uplifting for the morale of the crew. Donna thought that it had no right to sound so bloody cheerful while giving statements of doom.
“Are you intending to do anything about this, Doctor?” she asked between gritted teeth.
The Doctor looked up from where he was perched atop what had once been an impressive bit of machinery but currently resembled a junk heap. “Do what about what?”
The ship’s computer bleeped and repeated with immaculate timing, “Life support is failing.”
“About that,” Donna said and gestured to the walls where lights were blinking and bleeping and possibly doing whatever they were supposed to do in these situations. “Maybe the almighty Timelords can survive without actual air but we puny humans do need to breathe occasionally.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Donna. Timelords need to breathe, too,” the Doctor said and Donna made a note to herself to rake him over the coals for the ‘ridiculous’ later. Much later. When they were back and safe in the TARDIS preferably. She added it to the list of things she wanted to discuss with him. Things like the advisability of stranding them on a disintegrating ship or temporarily displacing the sonic screwdriver and the TARDIS for starters. The Doctor continued unaware of Donna's less than pleased thoughts, “And I’m trying my best here - Aha!” He deftly pulled a few wires out of the junk heap. “There. That should do the trick.”
“Gravity generators are offline,” the computer voice trilled.
Donna rolled her eyes while drifting towards the ceiling. “You’re not saying,” she mumbled.
“Look on the bright side. At least, the life support is going to hold.”
She watched the Doctor zoom around the room like a giant, excited bouncing ball with exploded hair and thought of the myriad of things she could answer. Instead she chose to say simply, “Great.”
The Doctor sobered a bit, perhaps noticing that her levels of enthusiasm were not quite on par with his. “What’s the matter? Don’t you like this?”
Donna just looked at him.
“Oh no, don’t,” the Doctor said. “I promised you somewhere with no running and are we running at the moment?” He continued immediately, not giving Donna time to point out that floating along the ceiling was not much better in that regard. “No, we’re not. I promised you that we’d meet people not intent on killing us and look at them. They positively adore you.”
Donna had to concede that point. The crew of the ship, small furry balls of alien something, had taken one look at Donna and fairly prostrated themselves on the floor, babbling something incoherent about a Ginger Pathfinder which was apparently a legend among their species if she had understood correctly.
Usually, people who’d mistaken her or the Doctor for some legendary character would sooner or later, mostly sooner though, dangle them upside down some tar pit or volcano, so she’d been a bit weary about going along with it. But so far, the furballs had only insisted on anxiously asking her if she felt fine and on giving her food. It was kind of sweet actually. Almost.
“Don’t know why they’re so hung up about you either,” the Doctor mused.
Donna’s list of Things Over Which To Slap The Space Prawn Later grew longer by the second.
*
“Done it. All fixed to fly. I’m a genius, me.” The Doctor crowed in delight. Turning to the highest-ranking furball that was hovering beside him, he said, “We’ll have you home in no time at all.”
The furball looked a bit disappointed and directed a soulful glance at Donna as if it had expected something else from her. “We are grateful for your help, Doctor.”
The Doctor ignored the drooping fur and said, “Right then. Shall we? Allons-y! Computer, plot a course for the homeworld.”
“Unable to comply,” the computer voice chirped. “Sensors are offline.”
“What?”
“Please specify your request.”
“I repaired the sensor grid. What’s wrong? Give me a diagnosis.”
“Unable to comply,” the computer chirped. “Internal sensors are offline.”
The Doctor blinked and stared open-mouthed at the dark computer read-out.
“Don’t just stand there, spaceman. Repair it again,” Donna said.
“There’s not enough time. It’ll be 2 hours and 14 minutes to their homeworld and the ship won’t hold together much longer than that. I can repair the sensors again but it won’t do us any good. It will take too much time. What to do? What to do?” His hands raked through his hair in desperation, making him look like an insane toilet brush.
He swerved to her suddenly and exclaimed, “Donna!”
“What?” The vehemence of his exclamation caused her to take a few surprised steps back. One never knew what hare-brained idea he had cooked up when he was like that.
“Your freckles!”
Whatever Donna had expected, it hadn't been this. “My what?”
“The freckles. On your back.” He seemed frustrated with her inability to see the connection between her freckles and their current situation. “They’re a perfect replication of the star constellations in this part of the galaxy.”
“I’m sorry?” She hoped that didn’t mean what she thought it meant.
“Yes. Isn’t that brilliant?” The Doctor was oblivious to the changing tides. “Just lift your shirt and I can steer us out of here. You’ll be our Ginger Pathfinder.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No, no. I even took some pictures and had the TARDIS run a comparison.” The Doctor exuded glee and pride. “Your back is a perfect star chart for this part of the universe. Marvellous really.”
“You took pictures?”
For the first time, the Doctor noticed that the conversation was probably veering into Careful Here Be Slaps territory and scrambled to salvage the damage, “Erm ... you're a very sound sleeper?”
Which was, all things considered, really the wrong thing to say.
*
Later, after they had safely steered the ship home thanks to Donna’s freckle chart -
Later, after they had stopped the furballs from thanking Donna for being the Ginger Pathfinder -
Later, after they had escaped from their prison cell (comfortable as it was; after all, Donna was a legend) -
Later, when they were back in the TARDIS - Donna had a few words with the Doctor.
The topics ranged far and wide from TARDISes and screwdrivers and the losing thereof to the importance of working sensors on a space ship and why he should have bloody well repaired them and how insulting your companions is not making them like you any better. But mostly she told him off for being a pervy alien voyeur.
*
Much, much later and at the same time long, long ago and incidentally only a stone’s throw away, the Doctor had forgotten all of Donna’s complaints.
Donna sighed in defeat as she surveyed the wreckage that once had been a spacecraft. “Alright, spaceman. You repair the engines and just tell me when I’m to take off my shirt.”