Fic: Same Mistake (1/1)
Title: Same Mistake
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Eleven/Donna, implied Ten/Donna
Word Count: 965
Summary: He knows best how to break his own rules. ”Spoilers” for Doctor Who Series Five/11th Doctor.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. Story title inspired by James Blunt
Author’s Notes: So I’m jumping on the Eleven!Fic bandwagon, though this doesn’t really count as a fic, I suppose, more just a little drabbley, angsty snippet sort of thing. I do suggest listening to the song “Same Mistake” whilst reading if you can - if you are unable to stomach James Blunt’s voice, however, do look up the lyrics. I think they’re quite fitting.
For those of you who follow ‘Eclipse’ (if indeed anyone still does, it’s been such a while...) - quick question: the chapters in this half of the story are frequently much shorter, simply because there is a lot of time-jumping going on and the breaks are necessary; as such, would you prefer single, small chapters posted one after the other, or groups of small chapters posted all at once but less frequently?
Same Mistake
He knows best how to break his own rules.
“You’re a traveler?” she asks. He doesn’t think long on the way his hearts speed in terror at the question dropping from her lips, poisoning her tongue; he looks instead to her eyes and sees the complete lack of recognition, the playful curiosity there that does not speak of having seen the truth reflected in his eyes - the only place it still resides that she can ever see.
“Of sorts,” he replies almost coyly, raising the bottle clenched in his hands, sweating with the heat of his grasp, to lips he’s not sure he likes just yet - they’re a little bit longer than he’s used to, and can’t open quite as wide. They still want desperately to kiss hers though, long and sweet and passionate, so he figures he can’t really complain.
“Always wanted to travel,” she comments dreamily, and his hearts twist at the idea of her forgetting that, of all the people on the planet, she’s seen the most extraordinary things. He aches with the knowledge that it was he who robbed her of those memories; even if he’d had no choice, he’s just a little bit grateful that the hands he holds his drink in aren’t the hands that committed that foul treachery - his soul is blackened enough from it as it is.
He reaches up to fiddle briefly with his glasses; frames that are slightly less square than he’s used to, because his eyes are slightly more narrow than they had been before. “You should come with me,” he says before he can think, and it’s most certainly the final straw: he hates this new mouth of his. It has absolutely no restraint.
Swallowing hard as he sees her features brighten, her nose turn up just a tad, her jaw shift and her teeth bite a hard, ruby line into her lip; he knows that his mouth isn’t the only part of this new self that completely lacks restraint.
“Should I?” she asks, and her eyes are so wide that he feels the absurd desire to place his hands against her cheeks to hold them in place, to make sure they don’t fall out, though he’s more than a little suspicious that this may just be a clever excuse to touch her again, to feel her beneath his fingertips. “That’s rather forward, you know.”
He smiles softly at her, his eyes folding in a bit as his high-set cheekbones shrug upwards, crowding his face just a tad. He wishes this were easier, but knows this is the only way. “I do.”
She sighs, and he revels in the recollection of the familiar sound from her, something she was very prone to every time he broke a handle off the TARDIS console, every time he sat in front of her, breathless with excitement; every time he cut things just a little too close. He’s always loved the way she sighs. “I like you, Jonathan.” He cringes; he’d given her his name before he could stop himself - so thrilled to see her the he nearly tripped over is own feet, which were a bit wider than they once were - had saved the John lamely with a surname of West; anything, anything but Smith. “But we’ve only just met,” she continues, curling a strand of her perfect ginger hair around her ring finger, promising things she can;t possibly know with just her eyes as she searches for the appropriate words. “I...”
She sips just a little bit uncomfortably at her highball - a Harvey Wallbanger, he notes with a grin - and he wants to see her drink that on a beach. He wants to see her spread out on a lounger just shy of the shore, her milky skin radiant in the sunset, tangy with sweat and the salt of the sea. He wants to drink Long Island Iced Teas with her on a balcony overlooking Manhattan, or better yet, in Brooklyn itself; he wants to treat her to a banana daiquiri in Paris, even if it must be in this century, and not another. He wants to take her someplace where it snows like dust, to spend lazy days in a library where the shadows are not only safe, but welcoming; he wants to kiss her atop a volcano that won’t explode.
“We don’t have to go now, Donna,” he assures her with a smile, something that’s a bit cheekier than it used to be, but nonetheless sincere. “All the time you need, love,” he takes her hand in his, stroking her knuckles lovingly with his thumb. “Take all the time you need.”
He needs her, and as she squeezes her fingers around his, smiling gently across the table in the low lighting of the pub, he thinks maybe there’s a part of her - something deeper than he could touch, than he could take from her - that needs him, too.
He realizes, suddenly, that changing his face is the best thing that could have happened to him. To them. And he has all the time in the world to show her that, to give her the time of her life. He can take her across the globe as well as anyone, and if he can no longer give her the stars, he can still give her the ground beneath their feet; the wonders of planet Earth, of humankind - he can give to her himself, fully and completely, both of his hearts and all of his soul, for as long as she’ll let him.
After all, he hasn’t changed that much, really. He just continues to make the same mistakes.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Eleven/Donna, implied Ten/Donna
Word Count: 965
Summary: He knows best how to break his own rules. ”Spoilers” for Doctor Who Series Five/11th Doctor.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. Story title inspired by James Blunt
Author’s Notes: So I’m jumping on the Eleven!Fic bandwagon, though this doesn’t really count as a fic, I suppose, more just a little drabbley, angsty snippet sort of thing. I do suggest listening to the song “Same Mistake” whilst reading if you can - if you are unable to stomach James Blunt’s voice, however, do look up the lyrics. I think they’re quite fitting.
For those of you who follow ‘Eclipse’ (if indeed anyone still does, it’s been such a while...) - quick question: the chapters in this half of the story are frequently much shorter, simply because there is a lot of time-jumping going on and the breaks are necessary; as such, would you prefer single, small chapters posted one after the other, or groups of small chapters posted all at once but less frequently?
Same Mistake
He knows best how to break his own rules.
“You’re a traveler?” she asks. He doesn’t think long on the way his hearts speed in terror at the question dropping from her lips, poisoning her tongue; he looks instead to her eyes and sees the complete lack of recognition, the playful curiosity there that does not speak of having seen the truth reflected in his eyes - the only place it still resides that she can ever see.
“Of sorts,” he replies almost coyly, raising the bottle clenched in his hands, sweating with the heat of his grasp, to lips he’s not sure he likes just yet - they’re a little bit longer than he’s used to, and can’t open quite as wide. They still want desperately to kiss hers though, long and sweet and passionate, so he figures he can’t really complain.
“Always wanted to travel,” she comments dreamily, and his hearts twist at the idea of her forgetting that, of all the people on the planet, she’s seen the most extraordinary things. He aches with the knowledge that it was he who robbed her of those memories; even if he’d had no choice, he’s just a little bit grateful that the hands he holds his drink in aren’t the hands that committed that foul treachery - his soul is blackened enough from it as it is.
He reaches up to fiddle briefly with his glasses; frames that are slightly less square than he’s used to, because his eyes are slightly more narrow than they had been before. “You should come with me,” he says before he can think, and it’s most certainly the final straw: he hates this new mouth of his. It has absolutely no restraint.
Swallowing hard as he sees her features brighten, her nose turn up just a tad, her jaw shift and her teeth bite a hard, ruby line into her lip; he knows that his mouth isn’t the only part of this new self that completely lacks restraint.
“Should I?” she asks, and her eyes are so wide that he feels the absurd desire to place his hands against her cheeks to hold them in place, to make sure they don’t fall out, though he’s more than a little suspicious that this may just be a clever excuse to touch her again, to feel her beneath his fingertips. “That’s rather forward, you know.”
He smiles softly at her, his eyes folding in a bit as his high-set cheekbones shrug upwards, crowding his face just a tad. He wishes this were easier, but knows this is the only way. “I do.”
She sighs, and he revels in the recollection of the familiar sound from her, something she was very prone to every time he broke a handle off the TARDIS console, every time he sat in front of her, breathless with excitement; every time he cut things just a little too close. He’s always loved the way she sighs. “I like you, Jonathan.” He cringes; he’d given her his name before he could stop himself - so thrilled to see her the he nearly tripped over is own feet, which were a bit wider than they once were - had saved the John lamely with a surname of West; anything, anything but Smith. “But we’ve only just met,” she continues, curling a strand of her perfect ginger hair around her ring finger, promising things she can;t possibly know with just her eyes as she searches for the appropriate words. “I...”
She sips just a little bit uncomfortably at her highball - a Harvey Wallbanger, he notes with a grin - and he wants to see her drink that on a beach. He wants to see her spread out on a lounger just shy of the shore, her milky skin radiant in the sunset, tangy with sweat and the salt of the sea. He wants to drink Long Island Iced Teas with her on a balcony overlooking Manhattan, or better yet, in Brooklyn itself; he wants to treat her to a banana daiquiri in Paris, even if it must be in this century, and not another. He wants to take her someplace where it snows like dust, to spend lazy days in a library where the shadows are not only safe, but welcoming; he wants to kiss her atop a volcano that won’t explode.
“We don’t have to go now, Donna,” he assures her with a smile, something that’s a bit cheekier than it used to be, but nonetheless sincere. “All the time you need, love,” he takes her hand in his, stroking her knuckles lovingly with his thumb. “Take all the time you need.”
He needs her, and as she squeezes her fingers around his, smiling gently across the table in the low lighting of the pub, he thinks maybe there’s a part of her - something deeper than he could touch, than he could take from her - that needs him, too.
He realizes, suddenly, that changing his face is the best thing that could have happened to him. To them. And he has all the time in the world to show her that, to give her the time of her life. He can take her across the globe as well as anyone, and if he can no longer give her the stars, he can still give her the ground beneath their feet; the wonders of planet Earth, of humankind - he can give to her himself, fully and completely, both of his hearts and all of his soul, for as long as she’ll let him.
After all, he hasn’t changed that much, really. He just continues to make the same mistakes.