Fic: To Err is Human (4/?)
Fic: To Err is Human (4/?)
Author: Lilac Summers
Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating: PG (R in later parts), sexual innuendo, language
Category: Humor, angst/drama
Characters: Donna/John Smith/Doctor
A/N: This was originally a much longer chapter, but it was getting so unwieldy and hard to pace that I cut it into two. Bad news is...this chapter isn't as sexy as intended. Good news is, next chapter shouldn't take too long to be out! This is more of a build-up to the next. Hope you all are enjoying it so far.
Part 1 here
Part 2 here
Part 3 here
Part 4:
Days passed, Donna did not make some horrendous faux pas and the universe did not come to an end. Donna started to think, with wary optimism, that they would manage to get through this.
True to his word to "give her time", the Doctor didn't try out any sexy moves on her during the day. He confined himself to hand-holding, hugs and barely-there kisses on forehead, cheek, or (if he was feeling particularly adventurous) lips. He would not have kissed her before, in any way, nor would his hugs have been quite so...enthusiastic. But she allowed it, arguing with herself that all in all, it wasn't so different than when she and the Doctor were on the TARDIS.
Which led, of course, to a startling realization for Donna: she and the Doctor touched a lot. She would have said that it was just what friends did, except she didn't recall ever being quite so touchy-feely with anyone else. Why hadn't she noticed? Why hadn't it bothered her? She fretted about this for a full afternoon and then filed it away under "things Donna didn't want to think about" (which was becoming rather full, but she didn't want to think about that, either.) And anyway, she'd never gotten a hint that all those touches were anything other than platonic, before now.
They'd settled into such a comfortable routine, and he played the gentleman so well, that Donna was almost lulled into a sense of complacency. Almost.
The only speed-bumps were at night. However, they were humongous, towering, wreck-the-car type of speed-bumps that she had not yet learned how to avoid.
Because at night the Doctor's control wavered.
He had refused to use his bedroom ever since their first day in 1913, and spent his nights in her bed, curled around Donna as if he feared she'd be snatched up by ninjas during his sleep. She'd grown used to being his human security blanket rather quickly -- surprisingly so. After all, it was...pleasant. He was so warm and solid and he needed her and why she liked that, she wasn't going to think about either.
Anyway, it would have been innocent enough but...
But his hands -- oh, those hands that behaved themselves so well during the daylight hours -- at night, when sleep took over, those hands wandered, became fervent and demanding. Donna often woke, aroused and flustered, to fluttering fingertips on her skin and the Doctor's lips murmuring into her neck as he slept.
He was asleep; she knew that for sure. She would lay awake at night, counting his breaths and feeling the calm thudding of his heart against her back as those sly hands inched their way across her skin. And he was dreaming, because if she didn't wake up at his touch then she was waking up to his cries during the night. Mumbled words: Gallifrey, Daleks, Cybermen. Or names whispered in sadness: Master, Martha, Rose. But most often, her own name, Donna, groaned breathily or calling out in fear.
There wasn’t much she could do about his wandering hands other than try to squirm away, at which point he usually tightened his hold on her like a limpet and began to shout her name in his sleep. However, she could stop wearing that stupid nightgown. After a few nights of waking to find herself pretty much straddling the doctor with his hands gripping her bare hips, and that ridiculous nightgown doing absolutely nothing to preserve her modesty, she had decided she could at least control that much. So she had appropriated a set of his pajamas, soft linen drawstring bottoms with an oversized sleep shirt.
Let's see you get your hands under these, she'd challenged internally when she first donned them. It was her first act of rebellion in 1913 -- wearing men's clothing to bed. She wondered if this was considered very scandalous for the times, and walked into her bedroom looking forward to shocking the Doctor. However, his appreciative and somewhat proprietary air when he'd seen her walk in wearing his sleep-clothes made her doubt her choice.
Oh well, anything was better than a nightgown that had a worrisome habit of working itself up to her armpits.
But those clever fingers still wandered, dipping just past the waist of the bottoms, skimming under the sleep shirt to settle warmly on her stomach or brush the underside of a breast, or clutching and smoothing the soft linen over her thighs. And all the while the constant movement of his lips against her neck, her throat, her cheeks, her hair...murmuring names and locations, sometimes in languages she didn't always recognize.
Thus Donna became an early riser rather quickly, untangling herself from his grasp before he woke fully each morning. At first she did so indignantly. But after days of falling asleep and waking to his touch, now she did so almost hesitantly. Because as much as she hated to admit it, she was NOT unaffected.
It's just been so long, she argued with herself. She'd had no time for romance after Lance, not while looking for the Doctor. And no wish to find anyone to fill that basic human need after beginning her travels. Nothing killed your sense of romance quite like having your fiancee try to feed you to giant spiders. She assured herself that her body was just catching up with her, that was all.
She refused to admit to herself how heady it was to have the Doctor's affection focused so squarely on her. Of course, she knew the Doctor cared for her -- she was his best friend. But she always imagined him with a big “DO NOT TOUCH” scrawled over his forehead, his hearts already spoken for. And it's not as if he would ever fancy Donna, even if he didn't love another. He'd made it very clear he just wanted a mate. And that was just fine, she repeated to herself on those nights when she stayed awake, feeling his fingertips grazing over her. She didn't want anything else either.... Right?
Whatever. It didn't have to be a big deal. As long as he remained asleep and unaware of what he was doing, and she continued to hold him at bay -- well, what did a few sleepless nights matter, anyway. She hadn't come up with any excuse to kick him out of her room. Honestly, she hadn't tried that hard to think of one. Regardless of the mounting, uncomfortable frustration she was experiencing, she felt better knowing where he was, safe and sound beside her in the dark.
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Donna was sleepily eating her breakfast (watery, flavorless porridge) and staring daggers at the Doctor, who seemed to have no problems shoveling in the porridge (okay, maybe more like gruel, really) and telling her all about his lesson plans for the day. And well of course he was all cheery and awake, she mused grumpily, since he hadn’t been up most of the night fending off hands hell-bent on clamping on to his arse.
This was always how mornings went now; she’d scramble out of bed at the earliest opportunity, try to make something edible, and then listen to him with half an ear until he left for classes, counting the seconds until she could return to bed and fight to fall back asleep.
With a quick kiss to her hair he set the plate on the counter and dashed for his hat and robe before exiting the flat. Donna waved him off, then eyed the rest of her breakfast before deciding to dump it. If anything good came out of this little “vacation”, it was that she was losing weight. Having to eat her own cooking was torture. She didn’t understand how the Doctor could wolf it all down, and without a word of complaint. She wanted to complain about her own cooking, for godssake. It took her forever to make anything, and the end result was often tasteless, soggy, or burnt (often all three.)
She washed the dishes halfheartedly and then crawled back into bed. This was the time when she could catch up on the sleep she missed at night, warding against Mr. Happy Hands. Mostly she rarely did more than toss and turn. In a few hours she’d have to get up, get dressed and go into town to buy groceries, then fumble for a recipe that looked doable for when the Doctor got home. Ack. Why hadn’t they landed in a time that had microwaves and instant food and little packets of sauce and …
She sat up, hair flying in her face. Oh my god, she was an idiot! Days now she’d been making things from scratch, like a big stupid moron! And LAUNDRY! Dear lord, she’d been washing things by hand! What was she thinking?!
She scrambled up, dragged on a dress that wasn't quite ripe, and grabbed a big carpet bag out of the closet. She stuffed all of her and the Doctor’s dirty clothes in there - she’d been putting off the wash for a while now - and then dashed out of the flat with a smile on her face, the first genuine one in days.
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She let herself into the TARDIS, huffing slightly from her quick dash there. The TARDIS hummed smugly at her, happy for the company but obviously rubbing in her failed attempt to re-Doctorize John. Donna snapped out a quick, "oh, shut up" at the TARDIS, then moved on to the laundry room.
The great thing about space-age laundry machines was that you didn’t need to sort a thing. She just shoved all the clothes into a hamper-looking receptacle and let the TARDIS do the rest. She stripped off her dress and dumped that in too, for good measure, wrapping herself in her favorite terry robe in the meanwhile. Then she continued on to raid the pantry. Hell if she was going to continue cooking from scratch for months.
She managed to stuff several boxes of instant rice, some type of intergalactic Hamburger Helper, and ramen noodles into her bag. Then came the canned soups (to think she’d tried doing a tomato soup with actual tomatoes a few days ago! Crazy!) and some tins of biscuits for good measure. Now all she needed was a quick trip to the grocers to round out some fresh ingredients and she was set for another few days. Oh, happy days! She would have to be careful, hide everything in her room and make sure to pack up the trash to dispose of during a restocking trip. She was NOT going to have the Doctor accuse her of causing some type of paradox because she'd inadvertently left behind a box of Rice-A-Roni, even if she was doing all of this only to ensure they didn't starve.
She whiled away a bit of time in a steamy bath. The big iron-foot club in the flat wasn’t bad, but it took forever to fill and the water pressure didn’t compare to that on the TARDIS. Not to mention the lack of hair dryer, straightener, assorted lotions…sigh. Donna gave a fleeting thought to packing some other modern luxuries she hated going without, but didn’t want to risk anything else. Besides, she could always come back if necessary. Not that she could make this a habit -- she couldn't trust the Doctor to be left alone in that school for very long -- but if she really needed something the TARDIS would be here waiting.
The laundry dinged at her helpfully, and off she went to pull out clothes. They were clean, softened, fluffed, and wrinkle free. She chortled to herself as she folded everything up and added it to the top of her overstuffed bag. It’d be heavy to carry, but worth every step.
Time had passed rather quickly; she only barely realized the Doctor would be done with classes soon. She changed into her clean dress and lugged the bag to the door. As she reached for the handles the lights dimmed briefly; she imagined this was the equivalent of a TARDIS wink. “Yeah yeah,” she replied cheerfully, patting the blue doors. “Thanks for the help. Still, though, you’re not forgiven!”
She imagined the TARDIS would have laughed at her if she could.
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Feeling flush with all the goodies stolen from the TARDIS, Donna walked into the flat with a jaunty step.
To abruptly halt as she was greeted with the most atrocious sight ever: Nurse Redfern with her hands on her Doctor's hair!
Donna almost stumbled at the unexpected yet fiercely stinging jab of jealousy she felt. Why the hell should she be jealous?! It sure wasn't her business whose mangy paws the Doctor allowed on him, was it? Donna fought down the completely irrational and uncalled-for urge to hurl a shoe at Joan, and then the accompanying shoe at the Doctor, and instead walked inside with an air of unconcern.
"Well, hello there, Nurse Redfern. I didn't know you had planned to call on us today."
The Doctor looked up from his ever present journal and beamed at Donna. "Love, you're finally back! Couldn't find you earlier."
"I took a quick walk into town," explained Donna, setting her bag full of pilfered TARDIS food down behind a chair.
"Oh, I assured Mr. Smith you would have to return quickly, seeing as you left without a maid and would barely have time to begin dinner preparations if you dallied much longer," came the prim response from Joan.
I can assure you that I will slap that smug smile off your face if you don't get your hands off him right now, thought Donna. She huffily tossed back her hair, trying to control her rising ire. Why was the Doctor just sitting there, like a big lump?!
“And your hair has come unpinned, Mrs. Smith. Do you not think it is rather unseemly?”
“Oh, that’s all right,” drawled Donna, smiling with teeth. “John likes it this way. Don’t you, darling?”
She swiveled her gaze towards John, who jumped at the sudden attention before gazing back at her fondly. “Yes, it's beautiful.”
Donna’s own smile softened at that admission, before she remembered that Joan was still in the room.
"So what's all this then?"
"Haircut!" beamed an oblivious Doctor. "It was becoming quite ragged, I must admit. The headmaster asked me to get a little trim and Nurse Redfern was passing by and offered."
Didn't she just.
"Ah, well, isn't that nice of her," replied Donna with such treacly sweetness that it was a miracle Joan didn't drop from diabetic shock then and there. "But I'm back now and we don't need to take up any more of your time. I'll finish up from here, thanks."
"Oh, I'm almost done. I do this for quite a few of the younger students. It'll be no bother--"
Donna walked up to Joan and deftly snatched the scissors from the nurse's hand. She was very proud of the fact that she didn't then turn the scissors on the mealy-mouthed blonde. Instead she just gripped an elbow and frog-marched her to the door.
"Madam, I must pro--"
"Thanks! Ta!" Donna sang as she slammed the door shut.
The Doctor was staring at her with surprised pleasure on his face, which turned a bit uncertain as Donna stomped over to him with scissors in hand.
She stood behind him without a word, surveying the (admittedly skilled) trimming that the nurse had already completed.
The Doctor craned his head slightly to try to glimpse her over his shoulder. Eyes Bambi-wide, he mustered up the courage to ask, "Sweetheart? Are you upset that Nurse Redfern was cutting my hair?"
"Nah," she said disdainfully. "It's completely okay for me to walk in and see some floozy with her hands on my husband!"
The Doctor recoiled slightly at the volume of that comment, before looking absurdly delighted.
Donna, however, was a little shocked at her outburst. She'd called him "husband." Willingly! That had come out rather quick, hadn't it?
Well, it was her job to make sure the Doctor didn't do anything stupid! Falling into the clutches of the desperate nurse would definitely count as that, wouldn't it?
Donna looked at the hair before her and considered giving him a mohawk for not knowing any better than to let some hard-up woman, who obviously had designs on his string-bean body!, near him. God, it was like the Library and that River Song all over again. Oblivious, dim BLOKE.
She would have to come up with some suitable retribution. Perhaps next time she went to the TARDIS, she would pick up some pears.
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That evening passed, like so many others, with Donna and the Doctor sharing the small living room after their meal. The Doctor had praised her new and “improved” cooking, asking with enthusiasm what she called this dish. She demurely replied “Japanese style noodles”, at which point he’d rhapsodized about his clever, cosmopolitan wife.
Who knew some instant ramen with a handful of vegetables thrown in could make her the household hero.
They sat side by side now, she with a book she was forcing herself to read and he with his journal. He would often tell her all about his strange dreams, and how he documented them in his little book. Not that he had to tell her, she knew what he dreamed well enough; she'd had each story whispered into her skin every night.
The first night he had first shown it to her he had begged her not to think ill of him for imagining the fair-haired girl and the dark woman who’d traveled with him. They were just friends, he assured her. And besides that, imaginary. Donna had tried very hard not to roll her eyes at him.
If she was surprised at how often her own image was captured on those pages, she didn’t let it show.
That night in bed he held her as tightly as ever. Donna found herself running her hands through his newly-trimmed hair, only realizing what she was doing and stopping immediately when she felt him smile and purr against her shoulder. When his body relaxed into slumber against her, she stared into the dark and thought that the months couldn’t pass quickly enough.
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Part 5 -- Donna has a melt down