Fic: Time for Tennis
Title: Time for Tennis
Author: lemon_pencil
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Yeah, like the BBC would hand them over to my pen. Not mine.
Characters/Pairings: Ten/Donna
Spoilers: None.
Author's Notes: In case anyone was thinking it, having noticed certain similarities, I didn't get the idea for this from time_converges's 'Just Relax', I swear! The resemblance is a weird coincidence. Wrote this a while back and hadn't got round to posting it. For some reason, I've found myself going all shippy - what is the world coming to when I, a self-proclaimed vehement non-shipper, start writing this kind of stuff? =)
"Never mind, that was close that time," the Doctor said kindly.
Donna stamped her foot in frustration, her glossy red tresses bouncing around her shoulders. Why had she thought that a game of tennis would be a good idea? Sure, the Doctor had tempted her by promising to find her a perfect summer’s day, and strawberries and cream for afters. But even that wasn’t compensation enough for having to stand here taking wild swings at the ball in vain, flushing with embarrassment when each one sailed straight past her.
She watched him bounce a ball on the court, deftly catching it with ease. There’s something very sexy about a man who can play sport, she thought idly. Oh - but not him though, obviously, she checked herself. He’s just a long streak of alien nothing. That had become her mantra, and she reminded herself of it every time she experienced strange thoughts regarding a certain timelord who she was not attracted to.
"I can’t play tennis, I’m rubbish at it," she huffed. "I’ve gone off the idea now. Can’t we do something else instead?"
"What, after we’ve made the effort to get all dressed up?" he asked, grinning at her as the red crept into her cheeks once more.
He’d suggested, for a laugh, that they wore full tennis gear courtesy of the TARDIS wardrobe. Donna had only agreed on the basis that she was intensely curious about what he’d look like in something other than his customary suit (or pyjamas, obviously. She’d seen him in those.) Unfortunately, she’d gotten a rather rum deal - while he looked reasonably ordinary in traditional tennis whites (and a headband, at her insistence, from which his hair stuck up quite amusingly), she was standing on the court, unusually self-consciously, wearing a very short white dress and looking as though she very much regretted consenting to this plan.
Meanwhile, he was fairly sure that he shouldn’t secretly be so pleased at managing to persuade her to don this particular outfit. And that he shouldn’t keep feeling compelled to take sly glances at his best mate’s exposed and, let’s be honest, pretty fabulous legs. Wait, no, not fabulous! Where had that come from? You shouldn’t be noticing any qualities that her legs do or do not possess, the Doctor told himself firmly. This is Donna we’re talking about. You just wanted a mate and here she is.
Bringing his thoughts back round to the game, he made her an offer. "Do you want me to help you with your swing?" She nodded.
He came to stand behind her. Reaching around her on either side of her curvaceous form (but he wasn’t looking at that, of course, he was focusing his full attention on correcting her technique), he placed his hands over hers on the racket and repositioned her fingers in the right place.
"Like this, see."
Guiding her through the motion, he brought the racket upwards in a smooth swing. Still positioned in front of him, she turned her head to look at him and they were suddenly both conscious of the close proximity of their bodies to one another. She was acutely aware of the cool sweat on his palms and he, of the warmth of her bare skin on his where their arms were touching, making his pulse quicken totally inappropriately. She looked into his eyes and, without thinking, leaned in to brush her lips against his. After a second, they broke apart, both looking shocked.
"I - I’m sorry, I don’t know why I -" she stammered. At the same time, the Doctor muttered something nonsensical and flustered that she was pretty sure didn’t mean anything coherent in any language. They now stood slightly apart, face on and gazing helplessly at each other as though trying to find an explanation for what had just happened. He attempted to speak again, but still seemed incapable of communicating anything comprehensible.
"Werbhurgnuwah -"
She cut him off, deciding all at once that it was time to take the situation in hand. "Oh, shut that alien mouth of yours and kiss me again," she murmured.
It was his turn to agree to one of her ideas. This time, the kiss was deep and fervent, and it seemed as though all of the confusion they’d been feeling lately concerning their feelings for one other was melting away into the sweetness of the moment. The racket fell to the floor but neither of them noticed, so wrapped up were they in the embrace. He revelled in the softness of her mouth and she grasped at his hair, needing him as much as he needed her.
There would be time for tennis later.