April in my Arms
Author: shaggydogstail
Title: April in my Arms
Pairing/Characters: Doctor/Donna, Sarah Jane, Martha, Jack
Summary: This could just about be the worst idea the Doctor's ever had. If anyone can fix it, it's Donna.
Spoilers: All of S4 and Torchwood
Disclaimer: Doctor Who and Torchwood belong to the BBC. Title taken from the Ogden Nash poem, Always Marry An April Girl
Author's Notes: Massive thanks to omphalos for invaluable beta-help.
The Doctor never was very good at being on his own.
This time, he's been alone for nearly three months, drifting from one uninhabited planet to another, sightseeing across the galaxies with weary eyes and millennial cynicism. Gazing at thirty-foot waves of solid ice and frothy purple oceans doesn't have the same appeal with no-one to share it with (or show off in front of) and even the prospect of jetting off to find a world in danger, a mystery to solve, and monsters to outwit can't pull him out of his gloom. It's just not the same without a hand to hold when you shout "run!"
He's weary, directionless, spending his days wandering about the TARDIS and staring into the middle distance. Even when the TARDIS lands he can barely muster the enthusiasm to open the door and step outside. He gathers up Donna's belongings - the hat box and the suitcases, the pyjamas from under her pillow, the unread paperback on the kitchen table. Packs them away with a vague idea to return everything to her family that he never quite gets around to implementing. Just when he thinks every trace of Donna has been carefully hidden away, he finds an old hairbrush in a bathroom he scarcely remembered existing. It's messy with red hairballs and smells of coconut. The Doctor considers, briefly, keeping it, or just bursting into tears on the spot, before throwing it down the rubbish chute with a snort of disgust at what a sad bastard he's become.
It's entirely possible that the Doctor may be becoming somewhat unbalanced. Well, more so than usual.
He turns Martha's phone back on and places it carefully on the TARDIS console. There's no point checking the messages, he decides, but next time he'll answer it when it rings and go wherever he's told.
#
The Doctor does indeed go where he's told, and when. The news that aliens of unknown origin have chosen a Saturday afternoon to invade Old Marylebone Town Hall had come as something as a surprise to him, although not half so surprising as the sight of Sarah Jane wearing a posh frock and fancy hat, making small talk with Captain Jack at the foot of a wide marble staircase. The words "stop that" are half-formed on his tongue when Sarah Jane spots him and grabs the Captain's sleeve, making a bee-line for the Doctor with the air of a woman on a mission.
The Doctor's attempts at hugs and friendly greetings are brushed aside as Sarah Jane assures him it's lovely to see you too, Doctor, but hurry up, it starts in five minutes. He's dragged upstairs without being told what "it" is, and the next thing he knows Jack's friend - Ianto, is it? - has materialised out of nowhere to stick a carnation in the Doctor's buttonhole.
The Doctor sniffs the buttonhole and glances around in confusion.
'What's this for?' he asks. 'Not that I don't appreciate the gesture, mind you, but if the Earth's under attack I hardly think we've got time for messing about with carnations. Unless you were hoping that these particular alien invaders suffer from some common Earth ailment like hayfever - bit War of the Worlds, that and anyway, the odd carnation isn't going to make much difference.'
Ianto lifts an eyebrow. 'Alien invasion, sir?'
'Yes, yes, alien invasion, terrible panic, come at once, Doctor, or else.' Martha had been very particular with her instructions, insisting that the Doctor turn up at two o'clock on the dot. The Doctor had been a little offended in fact - he is a Time Lord, after all; he isn't in the habit of turning up late. Well, not very often anyway.
'There is no alien invasion,' Sarah Jane explains patiently.
'But Martha said - '
'She was lying,' Jack tells him. He looks at little too pleased about that. 'There's no aliens - present company excepted - and no threat to global security.'
'So why am I here?' asks the Doctor.
'Oh, Doctor, really, haven't you worked it out by now?' asks Sarah Jane. 'The flowers, the nice building, us all dressed up in our Sunday Best. It's Martha's wedding.'
'Ah.' The Doctor starts to back away. 'I don't do weddings.'
'For heaven's sake, Doctor, no-one's asking to marry you,' Sarah Jane scolds him.
The Doctor's a bit put-out by this, and he's half-debating whether to turn on his heel and make a run for it, but Sarah Jane and Jack are too quick for him. Grabbing an arm apiece they take hold of the Doctor and proceed to frog-march him down the corridor, while Ianto follows behind, quietly bemoaning the lack of time to pop out and buy the Doctor some more appropriate shoes. Really.
No-one pays the least attention to the Doctor's babbled protests until they reach a heavy oak door with a brass plaque bearing the words 'Yellow Marriage Room'. Sarah Jane and Ianto go in, but Jack pulls the Doctor aside.
'Listen,' he hisses in the Doctor's ear, 'this is Martha's big day, and she wants you here. You owe that girl big time, so you're gonna go in there, smile and make nice, maybe even enjoy yourself. OK?'
It's a bit rich being told to behave by Jack of all people, but the Doctor knows that Jack's right. Chastened, he nods and murmurs his assent.
'Atta boy.' Jack slaps the Doctor on the back, and with that he's back to his usual cheeky, charming self, with a toothy grin and a naughty wink. 'Remember, you don't have to be too good - there's still the reception to come, and I'll be making space for you on my dance card.'
The Doctor rolls his eyes and suppresses a smile. Ages pass, civilisations rise and fall, but some things never change.
The wedding's a quiet affair, small and tasteful. Martha looks splendid in ivory silk, her dad pleased as punch and her mum in a new hat. It's the first time the Doctor's seen Tom in the flesh, and he regrets the lack of time to pull the young man aside and check him out, decide whether he's good enough for Martha. Clive and Jack have probably beaten him to it, but still. Can't be too careful about these things.
It's strange watching the woman who saved the world with words stumble over her vows, and those sure hands shaking at the exchange of rings. Nerves aside, though, Martha looks happier than the Doctor's ever seen her, and Tom gazes at her with rapt adoration, eyes wide like he can't believe his luck. The ceremony's so brief the Doctor wonders that it's legally binding, but there's so much love and goodwill it's almost palpable, swelling up and filling the butter yellow room and making the women cry.
'Here,' Sarah Jane whispers, discretely passing the Doctor a hanky as the newly-weds sign the registry. The Doctor accepts with a sniff and a nod of thanks.
Aliens are terribly susceptible to hay fever, you know.
#
It takes a lot of alcohol to get a Time Lord drunk. Really quite staggering quantities, in fact. It's a testimony to Clive and Francine's generosity that the free bar they've laid on just about manages it. The Doctor's plans to quietly slip away during the confetti-and-photos part had been foiled by Martha's gleeful hugs and too many hands to shake, and before the Doctor had known what was happening he'd found himself sharing a cab with Tom's Auntie Glenda and a nice chap from UNIT, crawling through London's traffic to a very pleasant hotel out West. Plied with tasty little snacks on silver trays, a rather nice vintage of bubbly, and some bloody marvellous banana daiquiris, the Doctor's been dragged around the dancefloor by Sarah Jane, Jack, and Jack's friend Gwen in turn. Sarah Jane wore him out; Jack was almost as restrained with his hands as the Doctor expected, and Gwen told him she much preferred him to the aliens she'd had at her wedding.
He's happy enough, pleasantly blurry around the edges and just a little less tightly wound. The Doctor's slumped at a table covered in empties and messy with silly string. Ianto sits beside him, putting on an impressive performance of not noticing the less-than-subtle way Jack's groping him under the table. Gwen's perched on Rhys's lap (lovely bloke, the Doctor thinks, absolute diamond), and Sarah Jane's just won a fiver off one of the waiters, displaying a hitherto little-known talent for magic tricks with coins. It's getting late, and everyone's happy-tired - children are falling asleep on their fathers' laps, and only the hardened party-goers are still up on the dancefloor. Francine and Tom's father cut a dash amongst them, dancing a theatrical tango as the disco plays Wham!
Martha's beaming as she threads her way through the tables towards them, with Tom falling into perfect step beside her, his arm draped around her waist.
'I just wanted to say thanks,' she says, 'thank you all so much for coming. It's been... it's the best day of my life.' She lets out a tiny little bubble of laughter, half-embarrassed, and turns to face Tom. For a moment it's like she can hardly see anyone else at all, and neither can he, both of them wrapped up in each other, tightly ensconced in the protective bubble of love, and security, and forever and ever, amen.
The Doctor's pleased for her, he really, truly is, because Martha deserves all the happiness in the world. Even so, he can't quite suppress an ugly little flare of... something. Not jealousy, precisely, it's more like envy. Yeah, that's it. Covetousness. He wouldn't deny Martha and Tom their happiness for anything, but he can't help wishing he could have some of what they have. What he thinks (believes, hopes) Rose will find with his errant alter-ego. The one adventure he can never have.
Still, there's no time to be maudlin, with hugs all round, best wishes shared, and what the Doctor fervently hopes are jokes about Martha not forgetting to take her gun when with her on her honeymoon. He's normally made his excuses and slipped away long before this part, but it's not so bad after all.
'They do make a lovely couple, don't they?' says Sarah Jane wistfully.
'Oh, yes,' agrees Jack. 'You know, I can just picture - '
' - Stop it,' the Doctor says, on reflex.
'Marriage is a wonderful institution,' says Rhys with alcoholic philosophy, 'but who wants to live in an institution?'
'How about you, you daft great lummox,' says Gwen.
'Fair play,' agrees Rhys. 'But you know I'm mad with love.'
Gwen snorts but kisses him anyway.
'How about you, Ianto?' asks Sarah Jane. 'Ever considered making Jack an honest man?'
There's mischief quirking her lips, but Ianto remains unruffled. 'I'm afraid Torchwood hasn't quite perfected the technology for personality transplants just yet.'
'As though anyone would want to change the first thing about me,' says Jack, to groans and an indulgent "yes dear" smile from Ianto.
'I think I might get married,' says the Doctor.
The assembled company stops rolling their eyes at Jack's ego in favour of gaping at the Doctor. 'What?'
'Did you have anyone particular in mind?' Jack looks as though he'd like to add a few pertinent questions about the Doctor's thoughts on open, polyamorous unions, but a significant look from Ianto is all it takes to pull him into line.
'Well, not yet, no, but be fair. I've only just decided about the marriage part. I'll need a bit longer to decide about the rest.'
'You realise it does usually happen the other way around?' asks Sarah Jane. 'You know, find your perfect partner and then decide to marry them.'
'Yes, well, that might be how you primitive types go about it,' says the Doctor airily. 'I'm a Time Lord, though, I don't have to worry about piffling little things like - '
'Cause and effect?' Ianto cuts in.
'Logic?' offers Jack.
'Reality?' says Gwen.
'Fine lot of friends you are,' says the Doctor. He's not pouting, he's really not. 'Anyone would think you don't want me to be happy.'
'Of course we want you to be happy,' says Sarah Jane, taking his hand and giving it a friendly little squeeze. 'We're just concerned that you might be being a little hasty.'
That's more like it. Ah, Sarah Jane, she's wonderful, isn't she? So smart and caring, still here for him after all this time. And she's got that boy, Luke - lad like that could do with a step-dad.
'Sarah Jane,' he says. 'I could marry you!'
The Doctor ignores the howls of laughter from his so-called friends around the table.
'No, Doctor, you could not,' says Sarah Jane firmly. 'And stay away from my son.'
The Doctor's all set to get himself wound up into a nice little fit of righteous indignation, but apparently Sarah Jane and Jack have decided he's had enough for one night. The Doctor finds himself dragged back to the TARDIS and left with a slice of wedding cake, some party favours, and a friendly but firm warning not to come back until he's learnt not to make such a nuisance of himself.
Which is hardly fair now, is it?
#
Donna smooths down her hair with her hands, straightens her collar, and double-checks that her shiny new Chiswick Telegraph press pass is within easy reach in her coat pocket. Time to go. She takes a deep breath, and gets out of the car. She's not all that familiar with this part of town, but Donna's good at finding her way, and this is her biggest assignment since she started at the local rag two months back. The job itself came as something as a surprise, so much so that Donna wondered if someone somewhere hadn't pulled a few strings to get her in there. Still, the editor swears blind he's not up to anything, and even the mundane school fêtes and grilling Environmental Health Officers about an outbreak of salmonella down the sandwich shop on the High Street are a lot more fun than her usual typing, shorthand, and filing.
The house is easy to find, not smart but well maintained, with crisp white nets hanging in the front window and a cutesy welcome mat at the door. Mrs Anderson, the woman Donna's been sent to interview, seems reluctant to talk, but Donna invites herself in anyway, breezing into the hallway with a broad smile and a flash of her press pass. Donna's got the mark of Mrs Anderson straight off the bat - far too nice and respectable to tell Donna to shove off and mind her own business, she's showing Donna into the sitting room and offering tea and biscuits within seconds. Brilliant. The silly cow's practically eating out of her hand already, so it should be no trouble at all getting her to spill the beans.
And, ooh, what a juicy little story it is. Mr Anderson is - was - a local councillor, generally believed to be a pillar of the community, running a small hardware shop and busy with charitable works. That is until word was about to get out that he'd had his sticky fingers in the till and all over a perky young committee secretary and had done a flit with his mistress, taking the cash out of the business, some misappropriated council tax payers money, and the Lions' Christmas Collection with him. The embezzlement stuff's dry as old bones when you really get into it, but it's the human interest angle Donna's after - how much does the wife know about Anderson's bit on the side and all the cash that seems to have found it's way into some very, ah, specialist boutiques? By the look of the house - clean, sparse, about twenty years out of date - none of the money found its way back home.
Mrs Anderson - Annabel - isn't exactly forthcoming, giving monosyllabic answers for the most part, with none of the colourful language or threats of castration that Donna had been hoping for. Annabel's face is sickly-pale, her expression shell-shocked, and she fidgets silently with her teaspoon when Donna presses her for the gory details.
'C'mon, Annabel, you can tell me,' Donna says, leaning forwards with a smile like she's an old mate. 'We girls know what bastards men can be, right? Now's your chance to have your say, and I bet you've a few choice words to say about your old man, right? Let it all out, it'll do you good. You must be angry as all hell at the cheating swine.'
It's probably not what they teach at journalism college, but Donna's sure that Annabel just needs a push to get her going. It seems to work as well, as Annabel finally puts down her teaspoon and looks at Donna directly.
'Angry?' she says. 'Oh yes, I'm angry all right. Angry, hurt, humiliated, completely devastated: take your pick. But despite what you might think, Miss Noble, I'm not completely stupid, and I'm not going to be tricked into sharing all the sordid details with some jumped-up little muckracker from the local rag.'
Stung, Donna goes straight on the defensive. 'Oi, you, less of that. I'm just doing my job.'
'Fine,' says Annabel coldly. 'I can't stop you printing whatever you like for cheap thrills and tomorrow's chip wrappers, but I can refuse to co-operate in my own public humiliation. You know where the door is - I'm sure you can find your own way out.'
Her expression's stony as she gathers up the tea things and picks up the tray, and you'd think she was tough as old boots to look at her, but Donna knows that look. Oh, she knows it well. It's the look of a woman holding back tears and maybe a minor breakdown through sheer force of will, face hard-set against the world, because nothing could be worse than letting anyone know just how awful she really feels. Yeah, it's a familiar look, that one.
Donna lets herself out.
Funnily enough, the editor of the Chiswick Telegraph doesn't quite share Donna's views on journalistic propriety and female solidarity and doesn't take too kindly to being told to shove his rotten scoop up his arse either. So that's another job down the swanny, then.
Isn't that just peachy? Donna can't wait to tell her mother.
#
It's a clear, cool night, just right for a spot of stargazing. The Doctor quite likes it here, huddling for warmth beneath a battered old blanket amongst higgledy-piggledy rows of root vegetables and piles of broken pots. He listens quietly as Wilf tells him Donna's latest tale of woe, and the flash of genuine pride Wilf shows for Donna doing the right thing can't hide his concern for her.
'So, I take it she's not handling it too well?' asks the Doctor.
'She's not at her best, poor love,' admits Wilf. He turns away, pulling out an old hanky to clean the telescope lens. 'She's made of strong stuff, though; she'll bounce back in her own time.'
The Doctor may not be the world's greatest expert on the subtleties of human emotion, but he knows avoidance and denial when he sees them. Well, two can play at that. He tosses the remnants of his tea of over some straggly old carrots and gets to his feet.
'Wilfred Mott, that telescope is hopeless piece of antiquated old junk,' he says.
'I'll have you know I've been watching this stars with this beauty since you - ' Wilf's indignation trails off as he looks up and sees the grin on the Doctor's face.
'It's no way to see the stars,' the Doctor tells him. He tilts his head in the direction of the TARDIS. 'Shall we?'
'You mean... up in that?' Wilf looks awe-struck. 'Me? Up there?'
'You, up there,' agrees the Doctor. 'Just a quick trip, Orion and back. Least I can do. If you'd like.'
'Just try and stop me,' says Wilf, gathering up his telescope and his thermos, all but dancing with glee.
Wilf's enthusiasm is infectious, and the Doctor's soon bobbing up and down, grinning ear-to-ear. Cos this is what he really likes, what never fails to give him a kick: that kid-on-Christmas-day look people get when the Doctor pulls back the curtains on the universe and invites them to take a peek.
Inside the TARDIS the Doctor cranks up the engines and takes Wilf on a whistlestop tour around Betelguese, Meissa, and Bellatrix, then swoops across to slide down Orion's belt before arcing over towards Rigel and eventually parking up the TARDIS and opening the doors to look out at the brilliant blue clouds of the Witch Head Nebula.
'Good, isn't it?'
'I've never seen anything like it,' says Wilf, eyes wide and his voice full of wonder. 'Course, you must be used to all this, but for a bloke like me? This is amazing. It's beautiful.'
'Ooh, I promise it never stops being amazing,' says the Doctor. 'Or beautiful.'
They don't speak on the journey back to the allotment, Wilf seemingly still bowled over by the experience and the Doctor trying very hard to keep his memories at bay. It's not until the TARDIS lands by the potting shed and Wilf's half-way out the door that he breaks the silence.
'Thank you,' he says. 'For what you did for Donna. Oh, I know it didn't turn out how any of us would've wanted, but for a while there she was really happy. Even if she don't remember it herself, I'm glad I got the chance to see her make the most of herself.'
The Doctor smiles ruefully. 'A glimpse of stars can change anyone.'
'Nah, it's not just that,' Wilf tells him. 'All them other planets and aliens, going off on adventures around the universe - she enjoyed it right enough, but it's more than that. You saw something in Donna that she couldn't see herself, and it did her the power of good. Gave her back a little bit of faith in herself.'
'I'm not the only one who sees how brilliant Donna is,' says the Doctor.
'Yeah, but she don't listen to her old gramps, does she?' Wilf chuckles softly. 'Thinks I'm biased, see.'
'Well, maybe just a bit,' concedes the Doctor. 'Doesn't mean you're not right though.'
He bids Wilf goodnight, then watches him shuffle off down the hill on his way home before turning back into the emptiness of the TARDIS. Wandering from room to room, he plays the conversation with Wilf over and over in his head. What is it that Donna really needs? A chance to prove herself, or just someone to believe in her?
The Doctor ends up in the kitchen, staring into the back of a tragically understocked cupboard. Behind the tube of Rocothian zharl paste and an empty marmalade jar there's a little bag of sugared almonds, a party favour from Martha and Tom's wedding. The Doctor's not fond of sugared almonds, but he didn't like to throw them out, and now he finds himself pulling the little package out of the cupboard and turning it over between his fingers.
'I wonder... ' he says out loud, before shaking his head. It's a daft idea, beyond daft, it's outright ridiculous. Dangerous, unlikely, and awfully silly.
He can't quite stop thinking about it though.
#
'Donna! It's lovely to see you. Do take a seat.'
Dr Milligan's charming as ever, the one man besides her Gramps who Donna thinks is ever genuinely pleased to see her. Oh, she knows it's a bit daft, putting on a push-up bra and an extra coat of lippy just for a check-up, but it is nice to get a bit of attention from a bloke who isn't a sleazeball or a loser, just once in a while. Dr Milligan's gentle concern and boyish smile gives Donna a little frission of excitement that she hasn't had since Lance died. She knows it's not going anywhere, but a bit of harmless flirting never hurt anyone, right?
'Hello, Dr Milligan.' Donna beams at him as she sits down. 'My, aren't you looking handsome today. Looks like you caught a bit of the sun - been anywhere nice?'
'Rome,' he tells her. 'Just a few days.'
'Ooh, I love Italy. How was it?'
'Perfect,' says Dr Milligan, and his face seems to light up as speaks. It doesn't take Donna long to spot the reason why; the tell-tale gold band on his finger, shiny-new and louder than bombs. Looks like it's true what they say - the best ones are all either married or gay. Course, these days it could be both, Donna supposes - there's no photos on his desk to give her a clue.
'Honeymoon, was it?' she says with a conspiratorial smile.
Dr Milligan nods, looking a little embarrassed but still chuffed to bits. 'Right first time,' he says. 'But you didn't come here for an update on my life - let's talk about you. How've you been getting on since your last appointment?'
It's an easy way to change the subject, what with Donna having plenty to tell him about that farrago with the Telegraph, that lemon-faced tosser down the Council not giving Gramps a Blue Badge so he can park up by the Post Office, and Creepy Kevin treating her to a barrage of suggestive text messages. It takes a bit more prodding from Dr Milligan to get Donna to admit that, yeah, she's still having the dreams, still got no idea what they're about and no, she can't remember anything about the accident.
'Do you think I ever will, Dr Milligan?' she asks. 'Will I get my memories back?'
She asks every time, because it's the one thing she's wanted to know ever since she got the letter from HC Clements telling her that their medical insurance covered temps, and she'd been referred to a private specialist. While it's nice enough chatting to tasty Dr Milligan in the fancy TW Medical office once a month, what she really wants is to fill in the missing part of her life. Not that she probably did much with it, if everything she can remember is anything to go on, but it's still hers, and she wants it back.
Dr Milligan smiles like he always does, patient and regretful, and gives her the same answer as always. 'I'm sorry, Donna, but amnesia's very hard to predict. You may recover all, or part of your memories at some point in the future, or you may never recover the missing memories.'
'Yeah, I know,' Donna deflates, resigned. Dr Milligan's nice about it and all, never pulls a here-we-go-again face or reminds her that he's told her all this before. She just keeps hoping, though, if she asks often enough then maybe eventually she'll get a different answer. It's stupid, but she just can't drop it.
'You've had no further incidence of memory loss?' asks Dr Milligan.
'Nah, nothing,' says Donna. 'Few things I wouldn't mind forgetting, but they're all in here clear as you like.'
'That's a very encouraging sign,' Dr Milligan assures her. 'The longer you go without any further memory lapses, the more confident we can be that you're getting better.'
'Oh, I'm getting better all right,' says Donna sarcastically. 'Last week I was all excited about my great career in journalism, and now I'm back to typing letters and answering the phone. For a gardening services company, of all things.'
'They've not got you mowing lawns, have they?'
'I'd like to see them try,' scoffs Donna. 'Nah, it's not so bad really. Or it wouldn't be if the dipshit manager could organise his rotas properly, so I didn't have to spend half the day dealing with phone calls from customers complaining that their roses want watering.'
'Maybe they should put you in charge,' says Dr Milligan.
'This is what I keep telling people,' says Donna. 'Shame they never listen, eh?'
#
'You're kidding, right?' Jack looks at the Doctor as though concerned for his friend's mind. 'Please tell me you're joking, because I don't think I can even begin to list all the things wrong with this plan.'
The Doctor sighs. He knew it was going to be difficult, but he's really not enjoying this meeting. He'd gathered everyone together - Jack, Martha, Tom, and Sarah Jane, not because he particularly wants to tell them what he's doing, but because he has to. They've all banded together in the mission to Keep An Eye on Donna and that means, if he goes ahead with this, they'll be watching him too.
'I'm not joking,' he says, voice deadly calm. And bizarre as his scheme might sound, he's really, really not. The Doctor's given a lot of thought to this, thought about little else since the plan, madcap and fully-formed, popped into his mind weeks ago. Every time he's turned to talk to Donna and remembered again that she's not there, every time he's got another progress report on how Donna's doing from Wilf or Tom, every time he's failed to rouse himself into action with another trip to find somewhere, or something, or someone brilliant. Every time he gives into the realisation that he's just plain tired of it all.
'You can hardly blame us for being sceptical,' says Sarah Jane gently. 'It's not that long since you asked to marry me.'
'I'm not talking about marriage,' says the Doctor.
'No, the whole thing about settling down, leading an ordinary life,' says Sarah Jane. 'You can see where we got that idea from.'
'What makes you so sure she'll be interested anyway?' asks Jack. 'I never got the impression she fancied you as you are.'
The Doctor smiles despite himself. 'She said I was a long streak of alien nothing.'
'You think she'll prefer a long streak of human nothing?' says Martha. 'I'm sorry, Doctor, but I knew you when you were human and, honestly, you're a lot better as you are.'
'I've had enough of being like this,' the Doctor says quietly. 'I've lost everything, my home, my family, everyone I ever loved and I just... I need a break. And if there's a chance I can help Donna too, then I've got to try it.'
Martha's expression softens, and Sarah Jane reaches for his hand across the table.
'If you're sure this is what you want,' says Jack.
The Doctor nods his head. 'I'm sure.'
The hard part over, it doesn't take long to deal with the practicalities. The Doctor's crafted a new fob watch, to be entrusted to Jack on the proviso that he only opens it if the world - or Donna - is in imminent danger or right at the end of the Doctor's (human) life. Rather than relying on the Chameleon Arch's random settings, this time the Doctor's worked out his own cover story; John Smith is a cousin of Sarah Jane's, so she'll be taking him in as a lodger. Tom will continue to monitor Donna under the pretence of treating her for amnesia, and Martha be responsible for keeping an eye on the TARDIS.
He's running away again, of course. Running away from everything he's seen and everything he's done. Running away just like he always does. The Doctor knows this, but he can't quite bring himself to feel bad about it. Well, maybe just a little. Mostly though, he feels relieved, like the weight of responsibility and regret is about to be lifted from his shoulders, and it feels fantastic. Cos that's what running away means - it's freedom, an escape, and even with the nagging clouds of doubt at the back of his mind that's exhilarating.
He's got a brand new adventure before him, and it's gonna be fantastic.
#
Donna's up to her eyeballs in invoices and time-sheets when the door knocks, a tentative rap that she car barely hear over the radio.
'Come in,' she shouts, not bothering to look up until she's carried the figures over and added 17.5%. When she finally manages to tear her eyes away from the thrills of finance, there's a long twig in overalls stood before her, with a shy smile and hair that looks like it's been dragged through a hedge backwards.
'My name's John Smith,' the beanpole tells her. 'I'm supposed to be starting work today.'
Donna gives him an appraising look. 'Don't tell me, you're the new rake.'
The new boy half-laughs, probably more because he thinks he's meant to than because it's really funny. 'I'm the new gardener.'
Yeah, like the bag of trowels in his hand and the grass-stains on his knees didn't give it away. The boss's failure to tell her about this gets added to Donna's mental list of things to bawl him out over (if the useless git ever shows his face) but for now, she'll make do with a much-needed extra pair of hands.
'Course you are, love,' she says. 'I'm Donna Noble, Office Manager and general dogsbody. Right, let's see if we can get you to work. There's a bunch of private jobs on today, plus some landscaping on the hospital contract - how well do you know your way around?'
'Not brilliantly, I'm afraid,' says John. 'I just moved to London for the job - I'm staying with my cousin in Ealing until I find my feet.'
Oh, dear lord, wetter than a haddock's bathing suit, this one. 'Hospital it is, then,' says Donna. 'I take it you can find the Free Royal? You should find Bob and Raj somewhere outside Maternity. Ask Bob to show you the ropes and tell Raj you're relieving him - you'll be his best friend after that 'cos he hates contract jobs - and give him these.'
John takes the work dockets with a nod. 'Thanks,' he says. 'Lovely meeting you, Miss Noble.'
'Oh, please, just call me Donna,' says Donna. 'Oh, and don't forget to pick up a fork and spade from the shed on the way out - that's if you're up to lifting them, anyway.'
John's halfway out the door by the time he answers, 'I think you'll find I'm much stronger than I look.'
Was that a wink? Donna leans back in her chair and smiles. Maybe the lad's not such complete lost lamb after all.
#
Martha and Sarah Jane generally spend a couple of hours chatting on the phone each week in the line of protecting the Earth, keeping an eye on the Doctor, and making sure the universe doesn't rip itself apart every time they turn their backs for five minutes. The fact that it gives them a nice opportunity for a good old gossip is purely incidental.
'So,' asks Martha, after she's finished filling Sarah Jane in about the squid-being in the cells and Jack's efforts at seducing the latest alien invaders, 'how's your new lodger settling in?'
'Surprisingly well,' Sarah Jane tells her. 'He's a lot less high-maintenance these days - I never thought I'd get through an entire month with the Doctor without the world nearly coming to an end somehow.'
'Wonders will never cease,' says Martha with a smile. 'And how's Donna reacting to the all-new John Smith?'
'Ooh, that's the best part,' says Sarah Jane. 'By the sounds of things, she's barely registered his existence, while he's developing a whopping great schoolboy crush.'
'No!' Martha laughs. 'Seriously?'
'I wouldn't go so far as to say he's actually started writing poetry about her,' continues Sarah Jane. 'He does get this faraway look in his eyes whenever he mentions her, and he blushed scarlet when Luke asked if Donna was his girlfriend.'
'If only you'd had a camera,' says Martha. 'I'd pay good money to see that.'
'It's sort of sweet really,' says Sarah Jane, 'in a vaguely ridiculous and pathetic way.'
'Sarah Jane, you secret romantic. Have you been encouraging him?'
'Well, I might have suggested that she'd probably appreciate a few flowers,' admits Sarah Jane, 'and gently steered him away from Bella Donna or Giant Noble Spinach.'
'Poor Doctor,' says Martha. 'She could crush him like a grape, you know.'
'She may yet,' agrees Sarah Jane. 'Although, to be frank, he'd only have himself to blame.'
#
It's an unkind not-quite-spring morning, chilly and damp, and Donna's already running late - no time for breakfast and a ton of work waiting for her. She swears under her breath as she kicks dirty sleet off her boots, fingers numb with cold and fumbling with the key to the draughty outbuilding that houses Osbourne Garden and Landscape. There's been a wicked frost overnight, and she'll most likely be doing the filing in her overcoat for the best part of an hour before the paraffin heater gets the office any warmer indoors than it is out.
Donna's not expecting to feel a welcoming puff of warm air when she opens the door; she's really not expecting what she sees. Her office, which is normally home to nothing more exciting than battered old box files and cheap furniture, is filled with daffodils. Not just a couple of straggly bunches picked up at the supermarket and rammed into jam jars either, oh no. The filing cabinet is crowned with an enormous bowl full of Golden Trumpets, grand and bright. There are pots planted with miniature daffodils around her desk - buttermilk-and-white Segovia, brilliant orange-cupped Jet Fires, and delicate, buttery Baby Moons. There are windowboxes overflowing with fragrant white Actaeas, delicate and fresh. The staff expense forms Donna'd planned to get filed once she'd had a coffee have been cleared away - in their place between her PC and and the telephone sits an enormous vase of magnificent ivory-and-apricot Eudoras.
At first, Donna wonders if this isn't some bizarre late April Fool's Day prank, though it seems unlikely that any prankster would go to the trouble of putting the heating on and doing a spot of filing. It's not her birthday, and she's sure she's done nothing to deserve it and yet... The glorious seas of yellows, and the knowledge that someone (and she's pretty sure she knows who) thought she was worth the trouble, puts a smile on her face that no amount of grumbling customers or double-entry bookkeeping can take off for the rest of the day.
#
'Time Lord science.' If Mickey's grin grows any wider, he'll be in danger of swallowing his own ears.
Martha picks up the box, her eyes saucer-wide as she peers inside. When she puts it back down, she's got a smile to match Mickey's. 'It's bigger on the inside.'
'It's amazing,' says Mickey, awestruck by the most exciting find to come out of the Rift in any universe. 'Imagine the things we could learn from it - the things we could do.'
'We could build entire cities in a garden shed,' says Martha. 'Solve the housing crisis overnight.'
'Or, on an more local and immediate level, we could at least expand the cells,' says Mickey. 'I'm sure the weevils would be glad to get away from Dr Zoidberg.'
'I wonder how it works.' Martha turns the box over and over in her hands, searching for clues. 'If we could only speak to the Doctor.'
'You think he'd let us keep it?'
'Probably not,' says Martha. Then she looks up at Mickey, her eyes sparkling. 'He'd probably rather not be disturbed.'
'You did tell me he only wanted to be woken up in case of absolute emergency,' agrees Mickey roguishly.
'So all in all,' concludes Martha, 'I think it's best that we try and work this one out for ourselves.'
'To the laboratory, Doctor Jones?'
'To the laboratory!'
Martha grabs the box, and the two of them race across the Hub, laughing like over-excited children.
#
'Thank you,' says Donna, her tone soft and warm, 'it's the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me.'
John shuffles on the spot, knocking clods of mud off the tips of his boots. 'How'd you know it was me?'
Donna smiles, enjoying the sweetness of John's embarrassment and the brilliant colours of the daffodils filling every available space of the office. 'It wasn't hard to work out - even if any of the miserable buggers here could be bothered to come up with something like this, there's no way any of them could resist boasting about it.'
'Well, I'm just glad you liked it,' says John. His face is flushed, but he looks pleased.
'Very much,' Donna assures him. 'I've never seen anything like it. Although, if you don't mind my asking, why so many daffs?'
'Flowers all have different meanings, you know,' says John. 'Daffodils symbolise... regard.'
'Regard?'
John nods. 'Regard. Like, esteem. I esteem you.'
'That's... nice.' For once, Donna's not sure what to say.
John beats a hasty retreat after that, smiling and not quite managing to meet Donna's eye. The moment the door closes behind him, Donna's right back at her desk and onto Google. Ten seconds later she's letting out a little gasp of surprise as she reads some florist's website: daffodils do signify regard, apparently, and also You're the only one; Unrequited love; The sun shines when I'm with you.
'Soppy git,' Donna mutters under her breath, but she takes another sniff of the flowers and on her desk and doesn't stop smiling for the rest of the day.
#
John sits alone in the dark at Sarah Jane's kitchen table, nursing a mug of hot chocolate and rubbing his temples. He can't sleep - his dreams were especially vivid tonight, dark and bizarre, waking him up in a cold sweat with a pounding headache. It's quiet and still, the three-o'clock silence broken only by the hum of the refrigerator, but John call still hear the sounds of his dreams within his head - shouting, screaming, running feet on long corridors and - and the click of the front door opening.
'Who's there?' he calls, wary in the darkness, mind suddenly full of axe-murderers and desperate drug addicts, all set to bludgeon Luke and Sarah Jane in their beds for the chance to make off with the DVD player and enough valuables to pay for their next hit.
'Sorry, didn't think you'd still be up.'
It is Luke and Sarah Jane. 'What were you doing out at this time of night?'
'Star-gazing,' says Sarah Jane quickly.
'School project,' adds Luke. 'Thanks to Mum, I'm sure to get an A for this one.'
John frowns - it seems a bit odd that any school would expect students to traipse out in the middle of the night to complete a project, and neither Sarah Jane nor Luke look like they'd intended to be out so late. They're only wearing lightweight jackets, and they haven't even got a telescope with them. They might have left it in the car, he supposes, but they could at least have told him what they were doing beforehand.
Sarah Jane packs Luke off to bed with a few short sharp words; she looks dead on her feet, and John can't find it in himself to stay annoyed with her. 'Hot chocolate?' he offers. 'I was just having one myself.'
'That would be lovely,' she agrees with a grateful smile, and she follows John into the kitchen.
He's glad she's back, John realises as he pours hot chocolate from the saucepan and sets the mug down in front of Sarah Jane. Nice to have a bit of company, stops him brooding over his strange, terrible dreams.
'Trouble sleeping?' asks Sarah Jane, as though she's read his mind. Or maybe it's because it's nearly dawn, and she can read him like a book.
'Yeah. The dreams...' He's not really sure what to say about them. 'I dreamt about Donna.'
Sarah Jane raises an eyebrow - it's obvious what she's thinking, but it's not like that. Well, OK, maybe it is a bit like that, but that's not all it is.
'Did she like the flowers?'
'Yes.' John brightens. 'She said it was the nicest thing anyone'd ever done for her.'
'Good! So, did you ask her out?'
'What, like on a date?' John's suddenly flustered. He can't just ask Donna out. She could say no. She might laugh at him.
'Just ask her,' says Sarah Jane, getting up and taking her now empty mug to the sink. 'She might say yes, and if you don't ask you'll never know.'
John takes in a gulp of air and nods, mentally steeling himself already. Sarah Jane ruffles his hair and gives him a quick kiss on the forehead before going upstairs, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
#
'Mission completed, Sarah Jane?' The dulcet tones of the supercomputer greet her as she drags herself into the attic.
'I think so, Mr Smith,' says Sarah Jane. 'Everything OK here?'
'Global traffic satellite monitoring reports the Sensorite ship has left the Earth's atmosphere,' Mr Smith informs her. 'Scans indicate no further disturbances. May I assume our guest remains unaware of tonight's events?'
'Oh, John?' says Sarah Jane. 'Yes, he's just as clueless as ever.'
#
'The Natural History Museum?' says Donna when they finally emerge from the South Kensington subway. 'Well, you certainly know how to show a girl a good time.'
'Sorry, I thought you might...' John falters. 'We can go somewhere else if you like.'
'Nah, it's OK,' says Donna. 'I've not been here in years - Gramps used to take me every holiday when I was a kid. Let's see if I can still find my way around, yeah?'
John beams as Donna takes his hand, leading the way through the milling crowds of tourists and chattering children. Truth be told, she's a bit dubious about the place as a first date outing, but that all changes the moment they set foot in the Central Hall and gaze up at the massive diplodocus skeleton. God, it's amazing.
' Hocus pocus, I'm a diplodocus,' John whispers in her ear, and they're off; charging around the displays hand-in-hand with every bit as much enthusiasm as any of the kids. John reads out loud from the information cards in front of the exhibits while Donna drags him bodily out of the Creepy Crawlies section, insisting that she hears enough about aphids and worms at work, ta. They position themselves strategically behind a passing family to sneak into the science centre for under-14's, and John has to rescue an unfortunate member of staff when Donna subjects him to the sort of cross-examination usually reserved for murder trials or doctoral defences. By the time they reach the gift shop they're both exhausted, but that doesn't stop them stocking up on a menagerie of plastic dinosaurs, eco-friendly penguin torches, dinosaur wellie boots, and assorted books, prints, and gizmos for various friends and relations.
'I hope you had a good time,' says John as he carries Donna's bags to her front gate, 'I know it was a bit of an odd choice.'
'Oh, I did, really,' Donna tells him. 'I did think it was a bit odd at first but once we got going it just felt sort of... right. I had fun exploring.'
'So did I.' John smiles as he hands Donna her bags, then leans forward to press a chaste kiss to her cheek. 'Thank you. Goodnight, Donna.'
'Night,' says Donna, but she's thinking is that it? She's got her standards all right, but even on a first date a peck on the cheek is taking the whole gentleman thing a bit far. 'John, wait up!'
She catches him half-way across the road, grabbing his elbow and spinning him around to face her. Donna knows exactly how to get a proper kiss, with bodies pressed close, the taste of John's tongue on her lips, and a quick squeeze to see if there actually is any flesh on that pert little arse of his. They attract catcalls and tooting horns by holding up the traffic, but Donna couldn't give a rat's chuff what anyone else thinks; it's worth it to see the dazed look on John's face as she pulls away, and his soppy great daft bastard grin. He's looking at her like she's the most fantastic thing he ever saw, and Donna thinks she'd better call it a night before she starts to giggle, or swoon, or do something else to really embarrass herself.
'Dinner, tomorrow night,' she calls over her shoulder as she head back to the house. 'Pick me up at eight.'
#
Dinner's followed by further days out, picnics in the park and a ride on a riverboat. Clubbing doesn't go so well, but the cinema's nice, and Donna wipes the floor with John at bowling. A succession of dates leads to rising phone bills, narrowly-avoided embarrassment in one of the tool sheds at work and, eventually, the all-important first weekend away together.
Which leads to all sorts of trouble.
'They would have to book into a hotel right in the middle of the investigation area,' says Martha. 'I was going to ask Tom to come up and join me on Sunday, but I daren't risk him running into Donna in case she starts asking questions.'
'Go ahead and call him,' says Jack. 'They're on a dirty weekend - I bet they wouldn't notice if a Dalek fell out of the sky and landed right outside their bedroom window.'
Which, as a matter of fact, they didn't. No, far too busy. Caused plenty of trouble, though.
#
Donna wakes with a start, sitting straight up in bed and breathing hard. She's disoriented in the darkness, confused by the strange shadows of an unfamiliar room, and the arm around her shoulders makes her jump.
'Hey, hey, you're all right. Just a bad dream, everything's fine.'
Donna relaxes: it's OK, she's with John, nothing to worry about. She leans into his embrace, breathing heavily. 'Sorry,' she says. 'Did I wake you?'
'I was already awake,' says John. 'I get them too. Nightmares. You want to talk about it?'
'There's not much to say,' Donna tells him. 'They aren't about anything really. I just have this terrible fear - dread. Like something awful's gonna happen, and it's getting closer and closer but I never know what it is.'
'It sounds horrible,' John murmurs sympathetically. He's still holding Donna close, stroking her hair and pressing tender kisses to her forehead.
It's nice; the fear drains away from Donna as John touches her, soothing her worries and warding off the invisible monsters. She twists in his arms. tilting her head to kiss John on the mouth, soft and slow, all memory of her nightmares fading in the warmth of his embrace and the slick slide of his tongue against her's.
'Mmm, feeling better?' asks John when she finally lets him up for air.
'Much, thanks,' says Donna, between kisses. 'And since we're both awake, I can think of a few things that can make us feel even better still.'
'Oh real - oh! Donna!' John gasps as Donna grabs on tight, pulling him on top of her. 'You're insatiable, you know.'
'You complaining?'
'Hell, no.' John laughs into Donna's neck between kisses, until his breathing becomes laboured and fast as Donna wraps her legs around his waist. 'Oh, no complaints at all. God, I love you.'
'Love you too, babe,' replies Donna. 'Now stop gassing about it and show me.'
And that's just one time when John is more than happy to do exactly as he's told.
CONTINUE TO PART TWO
Title: April in my Arms
Pairing/Characters: Doctor/Donna, Sarah Jane, Martha, Jack
Summary: This could just about be the worst idea the Doctor's ever had. If anyone can fix it, it's Donna.
Spoilers: All of S4 and Torchwood
Disclaimer: Doctor Who and Torchwood belong to the BBC. Title taken from the Ogden Nash poem, Always Marry An April Girl
Author's Notes: Massive thanks to omphalos for invaluable beta-help.
The Doctor never was very good at being on his own.
This time, he's been alone for nearly three months, drifting from one uninhabited planet to another, sightseeing across the galaxies with weary eyes and millennial cynicism. Gazing at thirty-foot waves of solid ice and frothy purple oceans doesn't have the same appeal with no-one to share it with (or show off in front of) and even the prospect of jetting off to find a world in danger, a mystery to solve, and monsters to outwit can't pull him out of his gloom. It's just not the same without a hand to hold when you shout "run!"
He's weary, directionless, spending his days wandering about the TARDIS and staring into the middle distance. Even when the TARDIS lands he can barely muster the enthusiasm to open the door and step outside. He gathers up Donna's belongings - the hat box and the suitcases, the pyjamas from under her pillow, the unread paperback on the kitchen table. Packs them away with a vague idea to return everything to her family that he never quite gets around to implementing. Just when he thinks every trace of Donna has been carefully hidden away, he finds an old hairbrush in a bathroom he scarcely remembered existing. It's messy with red hairballs and smells of coconut. The Doctor considers, briefly, keeping it, or just bursting into tears on the spot, before throwing it down the rubbish chute with a snort of disgust at what a sad bastard he's become.
It's entirely possible that the Doctor may be becoming somewhat unbalanced. Well, more so than usual.
He turns Martha's phone back on and places it carefully on the TARDIS console. There's no point checking the messages, he decides, but next time he'll answer it when it rings and go wherever he's told.
#
The Doctor does indeed go where he's told, and when. The news that aliens of unknown origin have chosen a Saturday afternoon to invade Old Marylebone Town Hall had come as something as a surprise to him, although not half so surprising as the sight of Sarah Jane wearing a posh frock and fancy hat, making small talk with Captain Jack at the foot of a wide marble staircase. The words "stop that" are half-formed on his tongue when Sarah Jane spots him and grabs the Captain's sleeve, making a bee-line for the Doctor with the air of a woman on a mission.
The Doctor's attempts at hugs and friendly greetings are brushed aside as Sarah Jane assures him it's lovely to see you too, Doctor, but hurry up, it starts in five minutes. He's dragged upstairs without being told what "it" is, and the next thing he knows Jack's friend - Ianto, is it? - has materialised out of nowhere to stick a carnation in the Doctor's buttonhole.
The Doctor sniffs the buttonhole and glances around in confusion.
'What's this for?' he asks. 'Not that I don't appreciate the gesture, mind you, but if the Earth's under attack I hardly think we've got time for messing about with carnations. Unless you were hoping that these particular alien invaders suffer from some common Earth ailment like hayfever - bit War of the Worlds, that and anyway, the odd carnation isn't going to make much difference.'
Ianto lifts an eyebrow. 'Alien invasion, sir?'
'Yes, yes, alien invasion, terrible panic, come at once, Doctor, or else.' Martha had been very particular with her instructions, insisting that the Doctor turn up at two o'clock on the dot. The Doctor had been a little offended in fact - he is a Time Lord, after all; he isn't in the habit of turning up late. Well, not very often anyway.
'There is no alien invasion,' Sarah Jane explains patiently.
'But Martha said - '
'She was lying,' Jack tells him. He looks at little too pleased about that. 'There's no aliens - present company excepted - and no threat to global security.'
'So why am I here?' asks the Doctor.
'Oh, Doctor, really, haven't you worked it out by now?' asks Sarah Jane. 'The flowers, the nice building, us all dressed up in our Sunday Best. It's Martha's wedding.'
'Ah.' The Doctor starts to back away. 'I don't do weddings.'
'For heaven's sake, Doctor, no-one's asking to marry you,' Sarah Jane scolds him.
The Doctor's a bit put-out by this, and he's half-debating whether to turn on his heel and make a run for it, but Sarah Jane and Jack are too quick for him. Grabbing an arm apiece they take hold of the Doctor and proceed to frog-march him down the corridor, while Ianto follows behind, quietly bemoaning the lack of time to pop out and buy the Doctor some more appropriate shoes. Really.
No-one pays the least attention to the Doctor's babbled protests until they reach a heavy oak door with a brass plaque bearing the words 'Yellow Marriage Room'. Sarah Jane and Ianto go in, but Jack pulls the Doctor aside.
'Listen,' he hisses in the Doctor's ear, 'this is Martha's big day, and she wants you here. You owe that girl big time, so you're gonna go in there, smile and make nice, maybe even enjoy yourself. OK?'
It's a bit rich being told to behave by Jack of all people, but the Doctor knows that Jack's right. Chastened, he nods and murmurs his assent.
'Atta boy.' Jack slaps the Doctor on the back, and with that he's back to his usual cheeky, charming self, with a toothy grin and a naughty wink. 'Remember, you don't have to be too good - there's still the reception to come, and I'll be making space for you on my dance card.'
The Doctor rolls his eyes and suppresses a smile. Ages pass, civilisations rise and fall, but some things never change.
The wedding's a quiet affair, small and tasteful. Martha looks splendid in ivory silk, her dad pleased as punch and her mum in a new hat. It's the first time the Doctor's seen Tom in the flesh, and he regrets the lack of time to pull the young man aside and check him out, decide whether he's good enough for Martha. Clive and Jack have probably beaten him to it, but still. Can't be too careful about these things.
It's strange watching the woman who saved the world with words stumble over her vows, and those sure hands shaking at the exchange of rings. Nerves aside, though, Martha looks happier than the Doctor's ever seen her, and Tom gazes at her with rapt adoration, eyes wide like he can't believe his luck. The ceremony's so brief the Doctor wonders that it's legally binding, but there's so much love and goodwill it's almost palpable, swelling up and filling the butter yellow room and making the women cry.
'Here,' Sarah Jane whispers, discretely passing the Doctor a hanky as the newly-weds sign the registry. The Doctor accepts with a sniff and a nod of thanks.
Aliens are terribly susceptible to hay fever, you know.
#
It takes a lot of alcohol to get a Time Lord drunk. Really quite staggering quantities, in fact. It's a testimony to Clive and Francine's generosity that the free bar they've laid on just about manages it. The Doctor's plans to quietly slip away during the confetti-and-photos part had been foiled by Martha's gleeful hugs and too many hands to shake, and before the Doctor had known what was happening he'd found himself sharing a cab with Tom's Auntie Glenda and a nice chap from UNIT, crawling through London's traffic to a very pleasant hotel out West. Plied with tasty little snacks on silver trays, a rather nice vintage of bubbly, and some bloody marvellous banana daiquiris, the Doctor's been dragged around the dancefloor by Sarah Jane, Jack, and Jack's friend Gwen in turn. Sarah Jane wore him out; Jack was almost as restrained with his hands as the Doctor expected, and Gwen told him she much preferred him to the aliens she'd had at her wedding.
He's happy enough, pleasantly blurry around the edges and just a little less tightly wound. The Doctor's slumped at a table covered in empties and messy with silly string. Ianto sits beside him, putting on an impressive performance of not noticing the less-than-subtle way Jack's groping him under the table. Gwen's perched on Rhys's lap (lovely bloke, the Doctor thinks, absolute diamond), and Sarah Jane's just won a fiver off one of the waiters, displaying a hitherto little-known talent for magic tricks with coins. It's getting late, and everyone's happy-tired - children are falling asleep on their fathers' laps, and only the hardened party-goers are still up on the dancefloor. Francine and Tom's father cut a dash amongst them, dancing a theatrical tango as the disco plays Wham!
Martha's beaming as she threads her way through the tables towards them, with Tom falling into perfect step beside her, his arm draped around her waist.
'I just wanted to say thanks,' she says, 'thank you all so much for coming. It's been... it's the best day of my life.' She lets out a tiny little bubble of laughter, half-embarrassed, and turns to face Tom. For a moment it's like she can hardly see anyone else at all, and neither can he, both of them wrapped up in each other, tightly ensconced in the protective bubble of love, and security, and forever and ever, amen.
The Doctor's pleased for her, he really, truly is, because Martha deserves all the happiness in the world. Even so, he can't quite suppress an ugly little flare of... something. Not jealousy, precisely, it's more like envy. Yeah, that's it. Covetousness. He wouldn't deny Martha and Tom their happiness for anything, but he can't help wishing he could have some of what they have. What he thinks (believes, hopes) Rose will find with his errant alter-ego. The one adventure he can never have.
Still, there's no time to be maudlin, with hugs all round, best wishes shared, and what the Doctor fervently hopes are jokes about Martha not forgetting to take her gun when with her on her honeymoon. He's normally made his excuses and slipped away long before this part, but it's not so bad after all.
'They do make a lovely couple, don't they?' says Sarah Jane wistfully.
'Oh, yes,' agrees Jack. 'You know, I can just picture - '
' - Stop it,' the Doctor says, on reflex.
'Marriage is a wonderful institution,' says Rhys with alcoholic philosophy, 'but who wants to live in an institution?'
'How about you, you daft great lummox,' says Gwen.
'Fair play,' agrees Rhys. 'But you know I'm mad with love.'
Gwen snorts but kisses him anyway.
'How about you, Ianto?' asks Sarah Jane. 'Ever considered making Jack an honest man?'
There's mischief quirking her lips, but Ianto remains unruffled. 'I'm afraid Torchwood hasn't quite perfected the technology for personality transplants just yet.'
'As though anyone would want to change the first thing about me,' says Jack, to groans and an indulgent "yes dear" smile from Ianto.
'I think I might get married,' says the Doctor.
The assembled company stops rolling their eyes at Jack's ego in favour of gaping at the Doctor. 'What?'
'Did you have anyone particular in mind?' Jack looks as though he'd like to add a few pertinent questions about the Doctor's thoughts on open, polyamorous unions, but a significant look from Ianto is all it takes to pull him into line.
'Well, not yet, no, but be fair. I've only just decided about the marriage part. I'll need a bit longer to decide about the rest.'
'You realise it does usually happen the other way around?' asks Sarah Jane. 'You know, find your perfect partner and then decide to marry them.'
'Yes, well, that might be how you primitive types go about it,' says the Doctor airily. 'I'm a Time Lord, though, I don't have to worry about piffling little things like - '
'Cause and effect?' Ianto cuts in.
'Logic?' offers Jack.
'Reality?' says Gwen.
'Fine lot of friends you are,' says the Doctor. He's not pouting, he's really not. 'Anyone would think you don't want me to be happy.'
'Of course we want you to be happy,' says Sarah Jane, taking his hand and giving it a friendly little squeeze. 'We're just concerned that you might be being a little hasty.'
That's more like it. Ah, Sarah Jane, she's wonderful, isn't she? So smart and caring, still here for him after all this time. And she's got that boy, Luke - lad like that could do with a step-dad.
'Sarah Jane,' he says. 'I could marry you!'
The Doctor ignores the howls of laughter from his so-called friends around the table.
'No, Doctor, you could not,' says Sarah Jane firmly. 'And stay away from my son.'
The Doctor's all set to get himself wound up into a nice little fit of righteous indignation, but apparently Sarah Jane and Jack have decided he's had enough for one night. The Doctor finds himself dragged back to the TARDIS and left with a slice of wedding cake, some party favours, and a friendly but firm warning not to come back until he's learnt not to make such a nuisance of himself.
Which is hardly fair now, is it?
#
Donna smooths down her hair with her hands, straightens her collar, and double-checks that her shiny new Chiswick Telegraph press pass is within easy reach in her coat pocket. Time to go. She takes a deep breath, and gets out of the car. She's not all that familiar with this part of town, but Donna's good at finding her way, and this is her biggest assignment since she started at the local rag two months back. The job itself came as something as a surprise, so much so that Donna wondered if someone somewhere hadn't pulled a few strings to get her in there. Still, the editor swears blind he's not up to anything, and even the mundane school fêtes and grilling Environmental Health Officers about an outbreak of salmonella down the sandwich shop on the High Street are a lot more fun than her usual typing, shorthand, and filing.
The house is easy to find, not smart but well maintained, with crisp white nets hanging in the front window and a cutesy welcome mat at the door. Mrs Anderson, the woman Donna's been sent to interview, seems reluctant to talk, but Donna invites herself in anyway, breezing into the hallway with a broad smile and a flash of her press pass. Donna's got the mark of Mrs Anderson straight off the bat - far too nice and respectable to tell Donna to shove off and mind her own business, she's showing Donna into the sitting room and offering tea and biscuits within seconds. Brilliant. The silly cow's practically eating out of her hand already, so it should be no trouble at all getting her to spill the beans.
And, ooh, what a juicy little story it is. Mr Anderson is - was - a local councillor, generally believed to be a pillar of the community, running a small hardware shop and busy with charitable works. That is until word was about to get out that he'd had his sticky fingers in the till and all over a perky young committee secretary and had done a flit with his mistress, taking the cash out of the business, some misappropriated council tax payers money, and the Lions' Christmas Collection with him. The embezzlement stuff's dry as old bones when you really get into it, but it's the human interest angle Donna's after - how much does the wife know about Anderson's bit on the side and all the cash that seems to have found it's way into some very, ah, specialist boutiques? By the look of the house - clean, sparse, about twenty years out of date - none of the money found its way back home.
Mrs Anderson - Annabel - isn't exactly forthcoming, giving monosyllabic answers for the most part, with none of the colourful language or threats of castration that Donna had been hoping for. Annabel's face is sickly-pale, her expression shell-shocked, and she fidgets silently with her teaspoon when Donna presses her for the gory details.
'C'mon, Annabel, you can tell me,' Donna says, leaning forwards with a smile like she's an old mate. 'We girls know what bastards men can be, right? Now's your chance to have your say, and I bet you've a few choice words to say about your old man, right? Let it all out, it'll do you good. You must be angry as all hell at the cheating swine.'
It's probably not what they teach at journalism college, but Donna's sure that Annabel just needs a push to get her going. It seems to work as well, as Annabel finally puts down her teaspoon and looks at Donna directly.
'Angry?' she says. 'Oh yes, I'm angry all right. Angry, hurt, humiliated, completely devastated: take your pick. But despite what you might think, Miss Noble, I'm not completely stupid, and I'm not going to be tricked into sharing all the sordid details with some jumped-up little muckracker from the local rag.'
Stung, Donna goes straight on the defensive. 'Oi, you, less of that. I'm just doing my job.'
'Fine,' says Annabel coldly. 'I can't stop you printing whatever you like for cheap thrills and tomorrow's chip wrappers, but I can refuse to co-operate in my own public humiliation. You know where the door is - I'm sure you can find your own way out.'
Her expression's stony as she gathers up the tea things and picks up the tray, and you'd think she was tough as old boots to look at her, but Donna knows that look. Oh, she knows it well. It's the look of a woman holding back tears and maybe a minor breakdown through sheer force of will, face hard-set against the world, because nothing could be worse than letting anyone know just how awful she really feels. Yeah, it's a familiar look, that one.
Donna lets herself out.
Funnily enough, the editor of the Chiswick Telegraph doesn't quite share Donna's views on journalistic propriety and female solidarity and doesn't take too kindly to being told to shove his rotten scoop up his arse either. So that's another job down the swanny, then.
Isn't that just peachy? Donna can't wait to tell her mother.
#
It's a clear, cool night, just right for a spot of stargazing. The Doctor quite likes it here, huddling for warmth beneath a battered old blanket amongst higgledy-piggledy rows of root vegetables and piles of broken pots. He listens quietly as Wilf tells him Donna's latest tale of woe, and the flash of genuine pride Wilf shows for Donna doing the right thing can't hide his concern for her.
'So, I take it she's not handling it too well?' asks the Doctor.
'She's not at her best, poor love,' admits Wilf. He turns away, pulling out an old hanky to clean the telescope lens. 'She's made of strong stuff, though; she'll bounce back in her own time.'
The Doctor may not be the world's greatest expert on the subtleties of human emotion, but he knows avoidance and denial when he sees them. Well, two can play at that. He tosses the remnants of his tea of over some straggly old carrots and gets to his feet.
'Wilfred Mott, that telescope is hopeless piece of antiquated old junk,' he says.
'I'll have you know I've been watching this stars with this beauty since you - ' Wilf's indignation trails off as he looks up and sees the grin on the Doctor's face.
'It's no way to see the stars,' the Doctor tells him. He tilts his head in the direction of the TARDIS. 'Shall we?'
'You mean... up in that?' Wilf looks awe-struck. 'Me? Up there?'
'You, up there,' agrees the Doctor. 'Just a quick trip, Orion and back. Least I can do. If you'd like.'
'Just try and stop me,' says Wilf, gathering up his telescope and his thermos, all but dancing with glee.
Wilf's enthusiasm is infectious, and the Doctor's soon bobbing up and down, grinning ear-to-ear. Cos this is what he really likes, what never fails to give him a kick: that kid-on-Christmas-day look people get when the Doctor pulls back the curtains on the universe and invites them to take a peek.
Inside the TARDIS the Doctor cranks up the engines and takes Wilf on a whistlestop tour around Betelguese, Meissa, and Bellatrix, then swoops across to slide down Orion's belt before arcing over towards Rigel and eventually parking up the TARDIS and opening the doors to look out at the brilliant blue clouds of the Witch Head Nebula.
'Good, isn't it?'
'I've never seen anything like it,' says Wilf, eyes wide and his voice full of wonder. 'Course, you must be used to all this, but for a bloke like me? This is amazing. It's beautiful.'
'Ooh, I promise it never stops being amazing,' says the Doctor. 'Or beautiful.'
They don't speak on the journey back to the allotment, Wilf seemingly still bowled over by the experience and the Doctor trying very hard to keep his memories at bay. It's not until the TARDIS lands by the potting shed and Wilf's half-way out the door that he breaks the silence.
'Thank you,' he says. 'For what you did for Donna. Oh, I know it didn't turn out how any of us would've wanted, but for a while there she was really happy. Even if she don't remember it herself, I'm glad I got the chance to see her make the most of herself.'
The Doctor smiles ruefully. 'A glimpse of stars can change anyone.'
'Nah, it's not just that,' Wilf tells him. 'All them other planets and aliens, going off on adventures around the universe - she enjoyed it right enough, but it's more than that. You saw something in Donna that she couldn't see herself, and it did her the power of good. Gave her back a little bit of faith in herself.'
'I'm not the only one who sees how brilliant Donna is,' says the Doctor.
'Yeah, but she don't listen to her old gramps, does she?' Wilf chuckles softly. 'Thinks I'm biased, see.'
'Well, maybe just a bit,' concedes the Doctor. 'Doesn't mean you're not right though.'
He bids Wilf goodnight, then watches him shuffle off down the hill on his way home before turning back into the emptiness of the TARDIS. Wandering from room to room, he plays the conversation with Wilf over and over in his head. What is it that Donna really needs? A chance to prove herself, or just someone to believe in her?
The Doctor ends up in the kitchen, staring into the back of a tragically understocked cupboard. Behind the tube of Rocothian zharl paste and an empty marmalade jar there's a little bag of sugared almonds, a party favour from Martha and Tom's wedding. The Doctor's not fond of sugared almonds, but he didn't like to throw them out, and now he finds himself pulling the little package out of the cupboard and turning it over between his fingers.
'I wonder... ' he says out loud, before shaking his head. It's a daft idea, beyond daft, it's outright ridiculous. Dangerous, unlikely, and awfully silly.
He can't quite stop thinking about it though.
#
'Donna! It's lovely to see you. Do take a seat.'
Dr Milligan's charming as ever, the one man besides her Gramps who Donna thinks is ever genuinely pleased to see her. Oh, she knows it's a bit daft, putting on a push-up bra and an extra coat of lippy just for a check-up, but it is nice to get a bit of attention from a bloke who isn't a sleazeball or a loser, just once in a while. Dr Milligan's gentle concern and boyish smile gives Donna a little frission of excitement that she hasn't had since Lance died. She knows it's not going anywhere, but a bit of harmless flirting never hurt anyone, right?
'Hello, Dr Milligan.' Donna beams at him as she sits down. 'My, aren't you looking handsome today. Looks like you caught a bit of the sun - been anywhere nice?'
'Rome,' he tells her. 'Just a few days.'
'Ooh, I love Italy. How was it?'
'Perfect,' says Dr Milligan, and his face seems to light up as speaks. It doesn't take Donna long to spot the reason why; the tell-tale gold band on his finger, shiny-new and louder than bombs. Looks like it's true what they say - the best ones are all either married or gay. Course, these days it could be both, Donna supposes - there's no photos on his desk to give her a clue.
'Honeymoon, was it?' she says with a conspiratorial smile.
Dr Milligan nods, looking a little embarrassed but still chuffed to bits. 'Right first time,' he says. 'But you didn't come here for an update on my life - let's talk about you. How've you been getting on since your last appointment?'
It's an easy way to change the subject, what with Donna having plenty to tell him about that farrago with the Telegraph, that lemon-faced tosser down the Council not giving Gramps a Blue Badge so he can park up by the Post Office, and Creepy Kevin treating her to a barrage of suggestive text messages. It takes a bit more prodding from Dr Milligan to get Donna to admit that, yeah, she's still having the dreams, still got no idea what they're about and no, she can't remember anything about the accident.
'Do you think I ever will, Dr Milligan?' she asks. 'Will I get my memories back?'
She asks every time, because it's the one thing she's wanted to know ever since she got the letter from HC Clements telling her that their medical insurance covered temps, and she'd been referred to a private specialist. While it's nice enough chatting to tasty Dr Milligan in the fancy TW Medical office once a month, what she really wants is to fill in the missing part of her life. Not that she probably did much with it, if everything she can remember is anything to go on, but it's still hers, and she wants it back.
Dr Milligan smiles like he always does, patient and regretful, and gives her the same answer as always. 'I'm sorry, Donna, but amnesia's very hard to predict. You may recover all, or part of your memories at some point in the future, or you may never recover the missing memories.'
'Yeah, I know,' Donna deflates, resigned. Dr Milligan's nice about it and all, never pulls a here-we-go-again face or reminds her that he's told her all this before. She just keeps hoping, though, if she asks often enough then maybe eventually she'll get a different answer. It's stupid, but she just can't drop it.
'You've had no further incidence of memory loss?' asks Dr Milligan.
'Nah, nothing,' says Donna. 'Few things I wouldn't mind forgetting, but they're all in here clear as you like.'
'That's a very encouraging sign,' Dr Milligan assures her. 'The longer you go without any further memory lapses, the more confident we can be that you're getting better.'
'Oh, I'm getting better all right,' says Donna sarcastically. 'Last week I was all excited about my great career in journalism, and now I'm back to typing letters and answering the phone. For a gardening services company, of all things.'
'They've not got you mowing lawns, have they?'
'I'd like to see them try,' scoffs Donna. 'Nah, it's not so bad really. Or it wouldn't be if the dipshit manager could organise his rotas properly, so I didn't have to spend half the day dealing with phone calls from customers complaining that their roses want watering.'
'Maybe they should put you in charge,' says Dr Milligan.
'This is what I keep telling people,' says Donna. 'Shame they never listen, eh?'
#
'You're kidding, right?' Jack looks at the Doctor as though concerned for his friend's mind. 'Please tell me you're joking, because I don't think I can even begin to list all the things wrong with this plan.'
The Doctor sighs. He knew it was going to be difficult, but he's really not enjoying this meeting. He'd gathered everyone together - Jack, Martha, Tom, and Sarah Jane, not because he particularly wants to tell them what he's doing, but because he has to. They've all banded together in the mission to Keep An Eye on Donna and that means, if he goes ahead with this, they'll be watching him too.
'I'm not joking,' he says, voice deadly calm. And bizarre as his scheme might sound, he's really, really not. The Doctor's given a lot of thought to this, thought about little else since the plan, madcap and fully-formed, popped into his mind weeks ago. Every time he's turned to talk to Donna and remembered again that she's not there, every time he's got another progress report on how Donna's doing from Wilf or Tom, every time he's failed to rouse himself into action with another trip to find somewhere, or something, or someone brilliant. Every time he gives into the realisation that he's just plain tired of it all.
'You can hardly blame us for being sceptical,' says Sarah Jane gently. 'It's not that long since you asked to marry me.'
'I'm not talking about marriage,' says the Doctor.
'No, the whole thing about settling down, leading an ordinary life,' says Sarah Jane. 'You can see where we got that idea from.'
'What makes you so sure she'll be interested anyway?' asks Jack. 'I never got the impression she fancied you as you are.'
The Doctor smiles despite himself. 'She said I was a long streak of alien nothing.'
'You think she'll prefer a long streak of human nothing?' says Martha. 'I'm sorry, Doctor, but I knew you when you were human and, honestly, you're a lot better as you are.'
'I've had enough of being like this,' the Doctor says quietly. 'I've lost everything, my home, my family, everyone I ever loved and I just... I need a break. And if there's a chance I can help Donna too, then I've got to try it.'
Martha's expression softens, and Sarah Jane reaches for his hand across the table.
'If you're sure this is what you want,' says Jack.
The Doctor nods his head. 'I'm sure.'
The hard part over, it doesn't take long to deal with the practicalities. The Doctor's crafted a new fob watch, to be entrusted to Jack on the proviso that he only opens it if the world - or Donna - is in imminent danger or right at the end of the Doctor's (human) life. Rather than relying on the Chameleon Arch's random settings, this time the Doctor's worked out his own cover story; John Smith is a cousin of Sarah Jane's, so she'll be taking him in as a lodger. Tom will continue to monitor Donna under the pretence of treating her for amnesia, and Martha be responsible for keeping an eye on the TARDIS.
He's running away again, of course. Running away from everything he's seen and everything he's done. Running away just like he always does. The Doctor knows this, but he can't quite bring himself to feel bad about it. Well, maybe just a little. Mostly though, he feels relieved, like the weight of responsibility and regret is about to be lifted from his shoulders, and it feels fantastic. Cos that's what running away means - it's freedom, an escape, and even with the nagging clouds of doubt at the back of his mind that's exhilarating.
He's got a brand new adventure before him, and it's gonna be fantastic.
#
Donna's up to her eyeballs in invoices and time-sheets when the door knocks, a tentative rap that she car barely hear over the radio.
'Come in,' she shouts, not bothering to look up until she's carried the figures over and added 17.5%. When she finally manages to tear her eyes away from the thrills of finance, there's a long twig in overalls stood before her, with a shy smile and hair that looks like it's been dragged through a hedge backwards.
'My name's John Smith,' the beanpole tells her. 'I'm supposed to be starting work today.'
Donna gives him an appraising look. 'Don't tell me, you're the new rake.'
The new boy half-laughs, probably more because he thinks he's meant to than because it's really funny. 'I'm the new gardener.'
Yeah, like the bag of trowels in his hand and the grass-stains on his knees didn't give it away. The boss's failure to tell her about this gets added to Donna's mental list of things to bawl him out over (if the useless git ever shows his face) but for now, she'll make do with a much-needed extra pair of hands.
'Course you are, love,' she says. 'I'm Donna Noble, Office Manager and general dogsbody. Right, let's see if we can get you to work. There's a bunch of private jobs on today, plus some landscaping on the hospital contract - how well do you know your way around?'
'Not brilliantly, I'm afraid,' says John. 'I just moved to London for the job - I'm staying with my cousin in Ealing until I find my feet.'
Oh, dear lord, wetter than a haddock's bathing suit, this one. 'Hospital it is, then,' says Donna. 'I take it you can find the Free Royal? You should find Bob and Raj somewhere outside Maternity. Ask Bob to show you the ropes and tell Raj you're relieving him - you'll be his best friend after that 'cos he hates contract jobs - and give him these.'
John takes the work dockets with a nod. 'Thanks,' he says. 'Lovely meeting you, Miss Noble.'
'Oh, please, just call me Donna,' says Donna. 'Oh, and don't forget to pick up a fork and spade from the shed on the way out - that's if you're up to lifting them, anyway.'
John's halfway out the door by the time he answers, 'I think you'll find I'm much stronger than I look.'
Was that a wink? Donna leans back in her chair and smiles. Maybe the lad's not such complete lost lamb after all.
#
Martha and Sarah Jane generally spend a couple of hours chatting on the phone each week in the line of protecting the Earth, keeping an eye on the Doctor, and making sure the universe doesn't rip itself apart every time they turn their backs for five minutes. The fact that it gives them a nice opportunity for a good old gossip is purely incidental.
'So,' asks Martha, after she's finished filling Sarah Jane in about the squid-being in the cells and Jack's efforts at seducing the latest alien invaders, 'how's your new lodger settling in?'
'Surprisingly well,' Sarah Jane tells her. 'He's a lot less high-maintenance these days - I never thought I'd get through an entire month with the Doctor without the world nearly coming to an end somehow.'
'Wonders will never cease,' says Martha with a smile. 'And how's Donna reacting to the all-new John Smith?'
'Ooh, that's the best part,' says Sarah Jane. 'By the sounds of things, she's barely registered his existence, while he's developing a whopping great schoolboy crush.'
'No!' Martha laughs. 'Seriously?'
'I wouldn't go so far as to say he's actually started writing poetry about her,' continues Sarah Jane. 'He does get this faraway look in his eyes whenever he mentions her, and he blushed scarlet when Luke asked if Donna was his girlfriend.'
'If only you'd had a camera,' says Martha. 'I'd pay good money to see that.'
'It's sort of sweet really,' says Sarah Jane, 'in a vaguely ridiculous and pathetic way.'
'Sarah Jane, you secret romantic. Have you been encouraging him?'
'Well, I might have suggested that she'd probably appreciate a few flowers,' admits Sarah Jane, 'and gently steered him away from Bella Donna or Giant Noble Spinach.'
'Poor Doctor,' says Martha. 'She could crush him like a grape, you know.'
'She may yet,' agrees Sarah Jane. 'Although, to be frank, he'd only have himself to blame.'
#
It's an unkind not-quite-spring morning, chilly and damp, and Donna's already running late - no time for breakfast and a ton of work waiting for her. She swears under her breath as she kicks dirty sleet off her boots, fingers numb with cold and fumbling with the key to the draughty outbuilding that houses Osbourne Garden and Landscape. There's been a wicked frost overnight, and she'll most likely be doing the filing in her overcoat for the best part of an hour before the paraffin heater gets the office any warmer indoors than it is out.
Donna's not expecting to feel a welcoming puff of warm air when she opens the door; she's really not expecting what she sees. Her office, which is normally home to nothing more exciting than battered old box files and cheap furniture, is filled with daffodils. Not just a couple of straggly bunches picked up at the supermarket and rammed into jam jars either, oh no. The filing cabinet is crowned with an enormous bowl full of Golden Trumpets, grand and bright. There are pots planted with miniature daffodils around her desk - buttermilk-and-white Segovia, brilliant orange-cupped Jet Fires, and delicate, buttery Baby Moons. There are windowboxes overflowing with fragrant white Actaeas, delicate and fresh. The staff expense forms Donna'd planned to get filed once she'd had a coffee have been cleared away - in their place between her PC and and the telephone sits an enormous vase of magnificent ivory-and-apricot Eudoras.
At first, Donna wonders if this isn't some bizarre late April Fool's Day prank, though it seems unlikely that any prankster would go to the trouble of putting the heating on and doing a spot of filing. It's not her birthday, and she's sure she's done nothing to deserve it and yet... The glorious seas of yellows, and the knowledge that someone (and she's pretty sure she knows who) thought she was worth the trouble, puts a smile on her face that no amount of grumbling customers or double-entry bookkeeping can take off for the rest of the day.
#
'Time Lord science.' If Mickey's grin grows any wider, he'll be in danger of swallowing his own ears.
Martha picks up the box, her eyes saucer-wide as she peers inside. When she puts it back down, she's got a smile to match Mickey's. 'It's bigger on the inside.'
'It's amazing,' says Mickey, awestruck by the most exciting find to come out of the Rift in any universe. 'Imagine the things we could learn from it - the things we could do.'
'We could build entire cities in a garden shed,' says Martha. 'Solve the housing crisis overnight.'
'Or, on an more local and immediate level, we could at least expand the cells,' says Mickey. 'I'm sure the weevils would be glad to get away from Dr Zoidberg.'
'I wonder how it works.' Martha turns the box over and over in her hands, searching for clues. 'If we could only speak to the Doctor.'
'You think he'd let us keep it?'
'Probably not,' says Martha. Then she looks up at Mickey, her eyes sparkling. 'He'd probably rather not be disturbed.'
'You did tell me he only wanted to be woken up in case of absolute emergency,' agrees Mickey roguishly.
'So all in all,' concludes Martha, 'I think it's best that we try and work this one out for ourselves.'
'To the laboratory, Doctor Jones?'
'To the laboratory!'
Martha grabs the box, and the two of them race across the Hub, laughing like over-excited children.
#
'Thank you,' says Donna, her tone soft and warm, 'it's the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me.'
John shuffles on the spot, knocking clods of mud off the tips of his boots. 'How'd you know it was me?'
Donna smiles, enjoying the sweetness of John's embarrassment and the brilliant colours of the daffodils filling every available space of the office. 'It wasn't hard to work out - even if any of the miserable buggers here could be bothered to come up with something like this, there's no way any of them could resist boasting about it.'
'Well, I'm just glad you liked it,' says John. His face is flushed, but he looks pleased.
'Very much,' Donna assures him. 'I've never seen anything like it. Although, if you don't mind my asking, why so many daffs?'
'Flowers all have different meanings, you know,' says John. 'Daffodils symbolise... regard.'
'Regard?'
John nods. 'Regard. Like, esteem. I esteem you.'
'That's... nice.' For once, Donna's not sure what to say.
John beats a hasty retreat after that, smiling and not quite managing to meet Donna's eye. The moment the door closes behind him, Donna's right back at her desk and onto Google. Ten seconds later she's letting out a little gasp of surprise as she reads some florist's website: daffodils do signify regard, apparently, and also You're the only one; Unrequited love; The sun shines when I'm with you.
'Soppy git,' Donna mutters under her breath, but she takes another sniff of the flowers and on her desk and doesn't stop smiling for the rest of the day.
#
John sits alone in the dark at Sarah Jane's kitchen table, nursing a mug of hot chocolate and rubbing his temples. He can't sleep - his dreams were especially vivid tonight, dark and bizarre, waking him up in a cold sweat with a pounding headache. It's quiet and still, the three-o'clock silence broken only by the hum of the refrigerator, but John call still hear the sounds of his dreams within his head - shouting, screaming, running feet on long corridors and - and the click of the front door opening.
'Who's there?' he calls, wary in the darkness, mind suddenly full of axe-murderers and desperate drug addicts, all set to bludgeon Luke and Sarah Jane in their beds for the chance to make off with the DVD player and enough valuables to pay for their next hit.
'Sorry, didn't think you'd still be up.'
It is Luke and Sarah Jane. 'What were you doing out at this time of night?'
'Star-gazing,' says Sarah Jane quickly.
'School project,' adds Luke. 'Thanks to Mum, I'm sure to get an A for this one.'
John frowns - it seems a bit odd that any school would expect students to traipse out in the middle of the night to complete a project, and neither Sarah Jane nor Luke look like they'd intended to be out so late. They're only wearing lightweight jackets, and they haven't even got a telescope with them. They might have left it in the car, he supposes, but they could at least have told him what they were doing beforehand.
Sarah Jane packs Luke off to bed with a few short sharp words; she looks dead on her feet, and John can't find it in himself to stay annoyed with her. 'Hot chocolate?' he offers. 'I was just having one myself.'
'That would be lovely,' she agrees with a grateful smile, and she follows John into the kitchen.
He's glad she's back, John realises as he pours hot chocolate from the saucepan and sets the mug down in front of Sarah Jane. Nice to have a bit of company, stops him brooding over his strange, terrible dreams.
'Trouble sleeping?' asks Sarah Jane, as though she's read his mind. Or maybe it's because it's nearly dawn, and she can read him like a book.
'Yeah. The dreams...' He's not really sure what to say about them. 'I dreamt about Donna.'
Sarah Jane raises an eyebrow - it's obvious what she's thinking, but it's not like that. Well, OK, maybe it is a bit like that, but that's not all it is.
'Did she like the flowers?'
'Yes.' John brightens. 'She said it was the nicest thing anyone'd ever done for her.'
'Good! So, did you ask her out?'
'What, like on a date?' John's suddenly flustered. He can't just ask Donna out. She could say no. She might laugh at him.
'Just ask her,' says Sarah Jane, getting up and taking her now empty mug to the sink. 'She might say yes, and if you don't ask you'll never know.'
John takes in a gulp of air and nods, mentally steeling himself already. Sarah Jane ruffles his hair and gives him a quick kiss on the forehead before going upstairs, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
#
'Mission completed, Sarah Jane?' The dulcet tones of the supercomputer greet her as she drags herself into the attic.
'I think so, Mr Smith,' says Sarah Jane. 'Everything OK here?'
'Global traffic satellite monitoring reports the Sensorite ship has left the Earth's atmosphere,' Mr Smith informs her. 'Scans indicate no further disturbances. May I assume our guest remains unaware of tonight's events?'
'Oh, John?' says Sarah Jane. 'Yes, he's just as clueless as ever.'
#
'The Natural History Museum?' says Donna when they finally emerge from the South Kensington subway. 'Well, you certainly know how to show a girl a good time.'
'Sorry, I thought you might...' John falters. 'We can go somewhere else if you like.'
'Nah, it's OK,' says Donna. 'I've not been here in years - Gramps used to take me every holiday when I was a kid. Let's see if I can still find my way around, yeah?'
John beams as Donna takes his hand, leading the way through the milling crowds of tourists and chattering children. Truth be told, she's a bit dubious about the place as a first date outing, but that all changes the moment they set foot in the Central Hall and gaze up at the massive diplodocus skeleton. God, it's amazing.
' Hocus pocus, I'm a diplodocus,' John whispers in her ear, and they're off; charging around the displays hand-in-hand with every bit as much enthusiasm as any of the kids. John reads out loud from the information cards in front of the exhibits while Donna drags him bodily out of the Creepy Crawlies section, insisting that she hears enough about aphids and worms at work, ta. They position themselves strategically behind a passing family to sneak into the science centre for under-14's, and John has to rescue an unfortunate member of staff when Donna subjects him to the sort of cross-examination usually reserved for murder trials or doctoral defences. By the time they reach the gift shop they're both exhausted, but that doesn't stop them stocking up on a menagerie of plastic dinosaurs, eco-friendly penguin torches, dinosaur wellie boots, and assorted books, prints, and gizmos for various friends and relations.
'I hope you had a good time,' says John as he carries Donna's bags to her front gate, 'I know it was a bit of an odd choice.'
'Oh, I did, really,' Donna tells him. 'I did think it was a bit odd at first but once we got going it just felt sort of... right. I had fun exploring.'
'So did I.' John smiles as he hands Donna her bags, then leans forward to press a chaste kiss to her cheek. 'Thank you. Goodnight, Donna.'
'Night,' says Donna, but she's thinking is that it? She's got her standards all right, but even on a first date a peck on the cheek is taking the whole gentleman thing a bit far. 'John, wait up!'
She catches him half-way across the road, grabbing his elbow and spinning him around to face her. Donna knows exactly how to get a proper kiss, with bodies pressed close, the taste of John's tongue on her lips, and a quick squeeze to see if there actually is any flesh on that pert little arse of his. They attract catcalls and tooting horns by holding up the traffic, but Donna couldn't give a rat's chuff what anyone else thinks; it's worth it to see the dazed look on John's face as she pulls away, and his soppy great daft bastard grin. He's looking at her like she's the most fantastic thing he ever saw, and Donna thinks she'd better call it a night before she starts to giggle, or swoon, or do something else to really embarrass herself.
'Dinner, tomorrow night,' she calls over her shoulder as she head back to the house. 'Pick me up at eight.'
#
Dinner's followed by further days out, picnics in the park and a ride on a riverboat. Clubbing doesn't go so well, but the cinema's nice, and Donna wipes the floor with John at bowling. A succession of dates leads to rising phone bills, narrowly-avoided embarrassment in one of the tool sheds at work and, eventually, the all-important first weekend away together.
Which leads to all sorts of trouble.
'They would have to book into a hotel right in the middle of the investigation area,' says Martha. 'I was going to ask Tom to come up and join me on Sunday, but I daren't risk him running into Donna in case she starts asking questions.'
'Go ahead and call him,' says Jack. 'They're on a dirty weekend - I bet they wouldn't notice if a Dalek fell out of the sky and landed right outside their bedroom window.'
Which, as a matter of fact, they didn't. No, far too busy. Caused plenty of trouble, though.
#
Donna wakes with a start, sitting straight up in bed and breathing hard. She's disoriented in the darkness, confused by the strange shadows of an unfamiliar room, and the arm around her shoulders makes her jump.
'Hey, hey, you're all right. Just a bad dream, everything's fine.'
Donna relaxes: it's OK, she's with John, nothing to worry about. She leans into his embrace, breathing heavily. 'Sorry,' she says. 'Did I wake you?'
'I was already awake,' says John. 'I get them too. Nightmares. You want to talk about it?'
'There's not much to say,' Donna tells him. 'They aren't about anything really. I just have this terrible fear - dread. Like something awful's gonna happen, and it's getting closer and closer but I never know what it is.'
'It sounds horrible,' John murmurs sympathetically. He's still holding Donna close, stroking her hair and pressing tender kisses to her forehead.
It's nice; the fear drains away from Donna as John touches her, soothing her worries and warding off the invisible monsters. She twists in his arms. tilting her head to kiss John on the mouth, soft and slow, all memory of her nightmares fading in the warmth of his embrace and the slick slide of his tongue against her's.
'Mmm, feeling better?' asks John when she finally lets him up for air.
'Much, thanks,' says Donna, between kisses. 'And since we're both awake, I can think of a few things that can make us feel even better still.'
'Oh real - oh! Donna!' John gasps as Donna grabs on tight, pulling him on top of her. 'You're insatiable, you know.'
'You complaining?'
'Hell, no.' John laughs into Donna's neck between kisses, until his breathing becomes laboured and fast as Donna wraps her legs around his waist. 'Oh, no complaints at all. God, I love you.'
'Love you too, babe,' replies Donna. 'Now stop gassing about it and show me.'
And that's just one time when John is more than happy to do exactly as he's told.
CONTINUE TO PART TWO