Make Me A Match
Title: Make Me A Match
Series: A TARDIS's Guide To The Galaxies
Rating: G
Characters: Ten, Donna
Summary: Donna’s first night in the TARDIS. Conversation and food ensues.
Word count: 4700 or thereabouts I think. Just warning you in case you need a coffee or something to make it through. Well, I know I did ;)
The takeout boxes stood open and messy on the kitchen table. A glowing fire was crackling in the oven, casting weird chopsticky criss-cross shadows all over the room.
“First tea in the TARDIS, Donna Noble,” said the Doctor with a grin. “Verdict?”
“Verdict would have to be … any more of that kung pao dodo left? There’s a sentence I never thought I’d say.”
“Loads of dodo,” he answered cheerfully, opening the boxes to check. “Incoming!”
He squinted an eye shut and with a flick of his fingers sent a box skimming over the table towards her. It missed its target and flew onto the floor, bursting open and splattering pools of sauce everywhere. The Doctor winced, daring a glance at Donna.
She was pointing an unimpressed chopstick at him.
“What are you, two? Shouldn’t you be off playing with your little toy soldiers?”
He gave her a meek grin, leaning over and pushing the second box more gingerly.
“Yummy,” said Donna, whetting the tips of her fingers together and opening the box flaps. The Doctor cracked a smile as she eyed the contents and stabbed a piece of dodo with her chopstick, sighing blissfully as she shoved it in her mouth.
“I still can’t - mmm, this’s good - can’t get over the whole thing, really.”
“Oh, I know,” he agreed, “it’s pretty good stuff. All sort of noodly -”
“Not the tea, you dumb alien. Though it’s good too.” She swallowed. “No, you know, how you can just order takeout from in here.”
“What? Do it all the time.”
“I know it must seem all run-of-the-mill everyday to you, but really. Going through the takeout window in a spaceship? Did you see the look he gave you?”
The Doctor grinned and shovelled more noodles into his mouth, recalling the cashier’s face.
“It was a takeout in another galaxy,” he said after a moment, through a mouthful, “give me a bit of credit.”
“True,” said Donna, dinging her water glass with her fingernail and grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Oh, I’m gonna love this travelling malarkey.”
Her enthusiasm was irresistible. The Doctor felt a prickle of excitement run from the base of his neck down his spine.
“Want to go somewhere?” he asked in would-be casual tones, his trainer-clad feet hopping about in anticipation under the table.
“Nah,” said Donna, shrugging dismissively. “I’m all right.” The Doctor felt his face droop, then noticed that she was laughing at him. “You’re a dodo yourself. I scour the whole of bloody London looking for you cos I want to see the universe, and when I finally do find you, it’s nup, can’t be bothered? Fat chance. Much as I’m dying to go somewhere, can it wait till tomorrow, though? I’m really tired.”
She yawned.
“Oh fine, fine,” he said easily. “Sorry. I forgot you humans have to sleep so much. Waste of time, sleeping.”
“What, you don’t have to?”
“Not much,” he replied, feeling smug, then ruined it by being infected by her yawn.
Donna laughed. She looked into her box of dodo.
“Ordering takeout on my first night here. This your way of letting me down that you can’t cook? Might have known, really.” She scoffed a little. “Typical male.”
“What?” he exclaimed, putting on the hurt face of a typical male. Secretly he was enjoying her snarkyness, but he wasn’t going to let her know that. “I can cook! I’ve had proper lessons and everything. From your Louis the Sixteenth’s pastry cook, no less.” He bobbed his head, grinning with pride. “Oh yes, that’s right.”
“Yeah,” replied Donna, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “And so not surprising either. Cos all I see in here is biscuits. And more biscuits.” He saw realisation dawning on her face as she swivelled in her chair and craned her neck, her eyes scanning the kitchen. “Oh my god. You’ve got nothing but biscuits …”
“Oi, what’s wrong with biscuits?” he retorted indignantly. Biscuits were good, and he was fully prepared to argue the point. He wiped his fingers on his jacket, ignoring Donna's look of disgust. “In fact, I was going to save this for later, but seeing how my culinary reputation’s at stake ...”
He got up and pulled open the fridge door with a flourish.
“Oh, you didn’t,” groaned Donna in pained ecstasy.
The Doctor nodded, grinning goofily.
“I did, I did. While you were looking round. Call it a little welcome to the TARDIS.”
“Little?” said Donna, eyeing the sheer chocolate mountain of cake. He had to admit that she had a point. He’d never been one for actually measuring ingredients, which was why he’d gotten kicked out of Louis XVI’s pastry cook’s kitchen in the first place. Probably something that Donna didn’t need to know.
She was rummaging around in the kitchen drawers. The Doctor wondered whether it was a generally human thing about not digging into cake with your hands. He supposed it must be, seeing as they all told him off. He honestly didn’t see why they got so hung up about it; you could fit much more cake into your hands than you could a piddly little spoon.
He felt something hard tap him on the head.
It was a spoon.
“Found them!”
“You’re good,” he replied, staring at the cake.
Donna said something else.
“What?” said the Doctor distractedly.
“I said, you were just talking to the cake, weren’t you?”
His spoon had already found its way to his hand.
“Well, I promise it is a very good cake,” he managed to get out before falling upon it. Donna hesitated for a moment, then followed with no less enthusiasm. Silence fell over the kitchen as they both wallowed greedily, pausing at intervals only to grin chocolate grins at each other over the top of the gradually eroding mountain.
Donna was first to lower her spoon, sighing. The Doctor had to hand it to her. She could put it away with the best of them - well, maybe except him. She splayed out her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her folded hands, her eyes fixed on him. He smiled.
“What?”
“Feels like I’ve known you for ages,” said Donna dreamily, picking up and licking her spoon.
The Doctor looked back steadily, jaws working on his mouthful of cake as he wondered what she was getting at. He’d learnt pretty early on that copious amounts of cake tended to be an inhibition-lowerer for humans.
“But,” she went on, “at the same time I’ve only known you for a - well, a couple days. I don’t really know anything about you.” She paused and looked around again. “Except you apparently live on biscuits and cake. How’d you get to be so blooming skinny?”
A snort escaped him, and he felt himself relax.
“What d’you want to know?”
“Oh, I dunno. Anything. Everything.”
“Aw, go on then,” he agreed, feeling indulgent. “Ask away. Allons-y.”
Donna grinned and folded her arms, leaning back in her chair.
“Right then. First question - I’m feeling generous, I’ll make it an easy one.”
“Oh, you’re too kind, really.”
“Watch that backchat.”
The Doctor obediently shut up by shovelling in more cake, and saw Donna's lips twitch.
“So, let’s see,” she mused. “Oh, I know! Favourite colour.”
“Ginger,” he replied promptly, crumbs trickling out of his mouth.
Donna narrowed her eyes.
“Flatterer. Suppose your favourite colour changes with the scenery - blonde, brunette …”
“What?” he asked, scrunching up his face in confusion. Her meaning suddenly dawned on him, and he nearly choked on his cake. “Oh, no, no - not that! Just I’ve always wanted to be ginger.”
“What, like dying it?” She was considering him in a very female way, lips pursed. “Might work. Haven’t you ever tried it?”
“Once.”
“Really?” she said gleefully, latching on to this fresh tidbit.
He laughed, feeling a bit foolish. “Yeah, yeah, all right. Don’t go harping on about it now. Long long time ago, when I had a different body. My friend - Sarah Jane, her name is - got bored and dyed it for me.” He paused and grimaced in reminiscence. “While I was asleep. That was … fun.”
Donna didn’t seem to be listening.
“What was that little crack there about a different body …?”
“Ah. Did I not mention to you that I can regenerate? I’m sure I did …”
“Yeah, somewhere between all the frantic window waving and blobbies of fat … No, you bloody alien, no, you didn’t. So, you mean like you can just - I dunno, change your body? What you look like and everything?”
“Mmm,” said the Doctor slowly. Donna was staring at him as though he was about to sprout an extra head, right then and there. He wondered what was coming next.
As it happened, it didn’t take long to find out.
“Could you change right now? Could you look like Brad Pitt? Can you do that - look like all sorts of famous people? Go on, do it, turn into Brad.”
“Hold on! Um, no - maybe - haven’t tried it - and nope. I only regenerate when I’m, well, mortally wounded.” He took another spoonful of cake. “And the thing is, I can’t change back. At least, I wonder …? Nah, don’t think I can.”
“Oh,” said Donna uncertainly. She blinked a couple of times. “So, does that happen often? The changing thing?”
“Weeeeell …” he stalled, not wanting to alarm her.
“How often?” she prompted again, leaning forward and propping up her chin on her palm. He bit his lip. She really wasn’t going to let this go. He scratched his jaw, umming and ahhing a bit.
“Doctor, tell me! How often?”
“Okay, okay! This is sort of my … tenth body.”
She sucked in her breath.
“Your tenth? Oh my god. You’ve been killed - actually killed - ten times?”
“Nine,” he corrected her, feeling an unexpected lump grow in his throat at her horror on his behalf. Everybody - all his other friends, that is - had always treated his regenerations with comparative indifference. Oh, they’d been shocked and upset that he’d changed, of course, but he could see that they thought it was just a typically alien thing to do.
Apparently not Donna Noble.
“Can you just keep on doing it?”
“Not really,” he admitted, feeling the nasty little nag in the pit of his stomach that he usually got when he tried not to think about his own eventual mortality. “A couple more times. Maybe.”
Donna didn’t say anything, just reached across the table and placed her hand firmly over his. His eyes travelled down and saw that under her fingers, his knuckles were clenched and white.
“I suppose you sort of saved me once,” he pointed out, swallowing. “Back with the Racnoss.”
“Just as well you’ve got me around again now,” said Donna lightly. He glanced up, meeting her eyes. “Maybe I’ll save you again … only if you take me out shopping once in a while, of course. Otherwise I might just leave it.”
He could tell that she was only half joking. Her eyes were very, very concerned.
“Shopping it is,” he answered with a weak grin, hoping that his eyes were half as grateful. He wiggled his eyebrows feebly. Anything to get that look off her face. “Though if not - you never know, might end up with Brad Pitt on your hands.”
Donna sniffed a little. “Nup, I’ve changed my mind,” she told him flatly, withdrawing her fingers from his. “Brad can go stuff it.”
The Doctor tried not to smile, and didn’t quite succeed.
“Right,” said Donna cheerfully, with only a hint of a wobble in her voice. “Next question? Hum … oh, I know, course! What’s your name?”
“You know it,” he said patiently, his voice guarded. “Just the Doctor.”
“Come off it. No one’s called just the Doctor.”
He knew she thought they were still just mucking about, but his snappy response tumbled out, as it always did, before he could think the better of it.
“It’s not important, Donna. Leave it. All right?”
She blinked in surprise at his tone.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, getting up from her chair and reaching out to clear some of the boxes, not looking at him. Oh god oh god oh god. He felt awful.
“No, wait,” he said desperately, his fingers drumming on the table edge in frustration. “I didn’t mean to get tetchy. You don’t understand. I haven’t told anyone. It’s not just you.”
She nodded slowly, but didn’t take her seat.
“I - I don’t mean to nag away at you, Doctor. You know that, yeah? Just don’t know when to stop, I s'pose. People always telling me that. Just make sure you tell me whenever I start annoying you. I know when to shut up.”
Her tone was light but her eyes were sad. The Doctor felt sadder for being the one to make them look that way. He wondered who had been telling her that she was annoying? He certainly didn’t want to be one of them, because from what he’d seen of Donna she was brave and adventurous and bright and a bit insecure, but certainly not annoying. How could he make her understand that there were very good reasons why she couldn’t know his name?
Looking at her closed-off face, he suddenly made a decision quite surprising to him - to tell her something that he could tell her; something that he didn’t really tell people.
“Noble.”
She looked up, fingers pausing over the takeaway boxes.
“Huh?”
“You’re not annoying in the least. And it’s Noble.”
Her face screwed up in disbelief.
“You what?”
“That’s my name. Weeeeell - last name, technically.”
“Oh, stop trying to be all clever clogs.”
“I’m being serious, Donna.”
“Pull the other one. You’re actually telling me that your last name’s Noble?”
“Yep. Well, sort of. Old family name, and that’s just what the word translates into in your language, and no one actually ever calls me that - mainly cos I don’t tell them, as such - but yeah. Completely one hundred per cent true. Funny, though, I haven’t used that name since … well.” He blew out a sigh and puckered his lips in thought. “A good long time. Must’ve been … yup. My third regeneration.”
Something in his words or face must have convinced her, because she sat abruptly back down, forgetting all about the boxes.
“Oh my god! That’s - that’s barmy, that is!”
He nodded, grinning.
“Oh, I know.”
“Doctor Noble,” she said, trying it out and shaking her head. “Seriously, what are the odds, though? Bizarre.”
“Bizarre it is, Donna Noble,” he replied in mock decorum, “bizarre it is.”
He supposed that his smile was just a little too like the cat that got the cream, because she frowned back at him.
“Yeah - and just cos our names is the same, don’t go getting any ideas, mate.”
She punctuated her warning with a shake of her finger, and the Doctor widened his eyes innocently.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He knew that her bluster was only an act - he didn’t know why she was so insecure, because she was brilliant - and as they broke into twin conspiratorial grins, the Doctor actually felt glad that he’d told her about his name. It was beginning to dawn on him that it was easier being honest with Donna than not, and he also knew that he was so secretive by nature that this whole honesty thing might take some getting used to. He wasn't sure what it was about Donna; it was true that they barely knew each other in some ways, but he already felt so at ease in her company. Had he ever felt this comfortable with anyone so quickly? He rather thought not. They seemed to share a common bond - apart from the name thing, which he’d thought was only an amusing little coincidence when they’d first met.
Donna was eyeing him archly.
“So then. Still not going to tell me your proper name?”
He shook his head, smiling. He didn’t need to snap at her.
“Nope. I’d only tell you, probably, if - if - well, don’t worry,” he finished, his hearts feeling a little hollow. “That’s not going to happen.”
She looked puzzled, but she was smiling.
“All right, all right. I get it, I really do. I know when to stop.”
She did stop, scooping out another spoonful of cake before leaning back in her chair with a sigh, her eyes travelling curiously around the kitchen. The Doctor eyed her to make sure that she really had finished her interrogation before taking the opportunity to continue ploughing his way through the mountainous cake. He was quite enjoying picturing himself as an intrepid explorer. Maybe Indiana Jones? Yes, he quite liked that idea. Sadly it wasn’t too long before he had to own himself conquered. Oh, it wasn’t for lack of sheer willpower. He blamed the fried dodo.
“There’s a bit of cake left, if you want it, Donna … Donna?”
He peered over at her. She’d tipped forward and was spread across the table, her head plonked on her folded arms, shoulders rising and falling peacefully in slumber.
The Doctor stared, his mouth open in surprise. Then he shook himself and sprang around the table, rescuing her spoon of cake where it was teetering from her limp fingers. He looked down at Donna for a moment, absent-mindedly popping the spoon into his own mouth. Before he knew it, he’d pulled his arms from his jacket sleeves and was draping the brown pinstripes carefully over her slumped back and shoulders; the action flooding him with memories of the day they’d first met and sat on a rooftop together. Donna snortled incoherently in her sleep, murmuring something about skinny rats.
He bit back a chuckle at their thoughts running along similar lines - well, subconsciously, in her case - and couldn’t for the lives of him resist delicately trailing his fingers over her copper hair. Halfway down, he blinked in surprise and snatched his hand away as though it were touching hot coals. He looked at his fingers and then back at Donna, now smiling in her sleep. A moment later he was treading noiselessly as a cat across the tiles, deciding to make a start on lugging her possessions - at the moment piled up in the corridor - to a room for her.
Before he left, he peeked over his shoulder, taking in the glint of firelight playing on Donna’s hair, her peaceful jacket-covered slumber in the middle of his kitchen, the room warm and glowing from the licks of the oven flames. His hearts pulsed a little harder. She looked like - well, like she belonged. He was suddenly so very glad that she’d agreed to travel with him. People were usually eager to come with him, but she hadn’t been, and then when she’d finally agreed, he’d been elated. Still was. Somehow it felt like it meant more.
Reluctantly he turned away and rubbed his nose as he looked down at her pile of luggage. With a couple of great heaves he managed to drag off everything at once, shuffling in mincing steps down the corridor like some sort of cardboard yeti. He wasn’t looking forward to the stairs, that was for sure.
It seemed an eternity of wheelie cases and overhanging hatboxes before he reached the end of the corridor and automatically lifted his foot to place it on the first step. But his foot pedalled wildly in nothingness and he barely managed to stamp it back down lest he overbalanced and became the first Time Lord to die by suffocation under a pile of luggage.
He looked up, still struggling under his burden.
“But that’s a lift,” he said blankly, out loud. “I - I don’t have a lift. What’s happened to my stairs?”
He paused. Was his ship actually trying to make things easier for him? Another thought followed.
Could it be that the TARDIS liked Donna?
But … surely not. His ship had always been jealous of his friends. Rose, for instance; she’d always ended up at the furthest perimeters of the ship and it had taken her hours to wend her way back. And Martha? One time she’d been just walking along the corridor and he’d had to fling himself on the floor and prostrate himself to stop her falling down a service hatch that he was sure he hadn’t left open. Oh, the TARDIS got used to his friends in time, but it was always a hazardous few weeks at first while she acted like a spoilt brat trying to get rid of the new step-parent.
Suspiciously he dumped the collection of bags outside the nearest door, wondering what was behind it. The TARDIS always tried rattily to put his guests into the closest boxroom or broom cupboard until he started whacking her walls with a handy broom (though it was getting tricky to find brooms now that she’d started hiding them from him) and even then she only ever seemed to harbour mouldy rooms with broken heating.
He turned the handle and pushed open the door with trepidation.
To say that he was shocked to see an actual bedroom beyond the door was an understatement. Moreover, it was a nice bedroom. Much nicer than his, really; the walls patterned delicately in lace-like coral, plushy green carpet … was that a little bathroom leading off it? Even he didn’t have a little bathroom.
“So - you like Donna just a bit then, do you?” he commented dryly to the TARDIS.
The coral creaked innocently.
“Donna’s not interested in me - not like the others were,” said the Doctor slowly, struggling to let those sorts of thoughts pass even briefly through his head, let alone get the words out. He sighed, then wondered why he was sighing. “It’s a relief,” he added firmly. “Anyway, is that what this is about?” He waved his hands vaguely about the room. “Don’t mind her coming with us? None of your jealous fits?”
He strained his ears, but couldn’t hear any answering creak. After a bit, though, the ever-present background hum of the engines increased in volume a little, and the sound seemed to become sort of … suggestive. The Doctor’s eyes widened.
“What?” he spluttered. “No! Absolutely no. I’m not - no. Not at all. Never in a million years.”
The walls creaked again, sorrowfully - if such a thing were possible.
“Donna’s just my mate,” said the Doctor in warning tones. “That’s all. Look, where're you getting these ideas? After the - oh, let’s face it - completely stupid fuss you’ve always kicked up about my friends. Go on, give her a leaky old boxroom too if you want. Didn’t get rid of the others, did it?”
He slammed the door shut and glared, waiting a moment before opening it again. At first glance the room hadn’t altered. Then the Doctor realised that the bed had been changed pointedly from a single to a double, and his fingers itched for a broom, or something equally whack-worthy.
“Who’re you talking to?” said a sleepy voice behind him. He jumped around in surprise to see Donna looking at him oddly, still clutching his jacket around her shoulders. Just seeing her, he felt his temper melt away.
“Oh hello,” he said, sticking one hand in his pocket and waving awkwardly with the other. Donna yawned, unslinging the jacket and draping it over his waggling fingers.
“Thanks for that. Sorry, didn’t mean to fall asleep back there.”
“Fall asleep wherever and whenever you want,” he told her firmly. “It’s your home too now.”
The enormous smile she gave him in return made him feel happy all over again, and the feeling only intensified at the expression on her face when she caught sight of her bags in the doorway.
“This gonna be my room?” she asked, looking around in wonder. “Your ship is beautiful, you know. I mean, really beautiful. This is miles better than any posh hotel.”
The TARDIS made a low rumbling sound somewhere in her engines and the Doctor wondered if Donna knew that with those words she’d just won herself a devoted semi-sentient slave.
“Where’s your room?” continued Donna.
The Doctor scratched his nose.
“Erm …”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the outline of a door crackle into the wall, bits of coral around the edges crumbling off onto the floor. While Donna was busy dragging in her bags, he surreptitiously opened the door, peering through. He banged it shut at the sight of the familiar Edwardian blue striped wallpaper and his unmade poster bed strewn with bits of cogs and screws.
“My room’s further away,” he lied, feeling quite malicious towards his ship and making a mental note to disconnect some of the console wires in retaliation. Oh, it was childish, he knew, but - well, she’d started it.
“So …” said Donna, puffing a bit as she finally stood up beside her mountain of bags, her hands balling and hitting idly on her legs, a little smile on her face.
“So …” said the Doctor, looking down and concentrating very hard on his trainers. He heard Donna exhale.
“Oh, c’mere,” she said bossily, though he could tell that she was a bit unsure too, and only putting on a brisk front for both their sakes. His feet carried him forward and before he knew it he’d been wrapped in a hug. He placed his hands awkwardly on Donna’s back. Their mutual hesitation lasted only a moment and then she was relaxing fully in his arms, and he in hers.
“Thanks for letting me stay,” said Donna softly.
“Thanks for coming with me,” he answered immediately, meaning it with all his hearts. He closed his eyes briefly, savouring the feel of her arms around him and her hair tickling under his chin. The coral walls creaked in sly satisfaction, but apart from grinding his heel viciously into the carpet, the Doctor ignored his ship. Though this was very nice, he had to admit; he’d missed having a proper pal to hug. He gave Donna a final - hopefully just matey - squeeze and released her, stepping back and scuffing his trainers.
“Right. I’ll leave you to get - you know, settled in and all that. Yell out if you need anything. I’ll just be …”
He pointed at the door.
“Yeah,” said Donna, eyes and mouth distinctly amused, if tired. “Don’t look so nervous, alien boy. I’m not gonna make you be at my constant beck and call.” She elbowed him. “Well, not at first.” A smirk lifted the corner of her mouth. “Give it a day or two.”
“Cheeky,” he admonished, poking her shoulder and receiving a retaliatory prod in the sternum. He stumbled back a few steps, grinning, and continued backwards through the door before changing his mind mid-step. He poked his head back around the door. Donna had kicked off her heels and was kneeling, unzipping a suitcase.
“Donna?”
She swivelled, brandishing a hairdryer at him.
“What?”
He beamed.
“Oh, nothing. Nighty night.”
“Yeah, whatever, night. Now for goodness sake get lost and go do whatever you Martians do, so I can get changed and get some sleep.” She pulled a pair of pyjamas from her case and shook them briskly out. “Dunno if you can get by on nothing, but us Earthlings need our forty winks.” She paused and yawned. “Second thoughts, better make it eiiiiiiiiiighty.”
The Doctor wrinkled his nose playfully and caught Donna poking her tongue out just as he drew the door shut behind him. His smile faded to a twisted pout as he looked at his own door, still squished in next to hers. Blowing out a moody sigh, he kicked the corridor wall before turning and sticking his hands in his pockets as he trudged off in search of one of the other bedrooms.
It took him two hours and fifteen broom cupboards to find one.
He nearly fell down an open service hatch on the way.
Continued in Drops Of Gallifrey
Series: A TARDIS's Guide To The Galaxies
Rating: G
Characters: Ten, Donna
Summary: Donna’s first night in the TARDIS. Conversation and food ensues.
Word count: 4700 or thereabouts I think. Just warning you in case you need a coffee or something to make it through. Well, I know I did ;)
The takeout boxes stood open and messy on the kitchen table. A glowing fire was crackling in the oven, casting weird chopsticky criss-cross shadows all over the room.
“First tea in the TARDIS, Donna Noble,” said the Doctor with a grin. “Verdict?”
“Verdict would have to be … any more of that kung pao dodo left? There’s a sentence I never thought I’d say.”
“Loads of dodo,” he answered cheerfully, opening the boxes to check. “Incoming!”
He squinted an eye shut and with a flick of his fingers sent a box skimming over the table towards her. It missed its target and flew onto the floor, bursting open and splattering pools of sauce everywhere. The Doctor winced, daring a glance at Donna.
She was pointing an unimpressed chopstick at him.
“What are you, two? Shouldn’t you be off playing with your little toy soldiers?”
He gave her a meek grin, leaning over and pushing the second box more gingerly.
“Yummy,” said Donna, whetting the tips of her fingers together and opening the box flaps. The Doctor cracked a smile as she eyed the contents and stabbed a piece of dodo with her chopstick, sighing blissfully as she shoved it in her mouth.
“I still can’t - mmm, this’s good - can’t get over the whole thing, really.”
“Oh, I know,” he agreed, “it’s pretty good stuff. All sort of noodly -”
“Not the tea, you dumb alien. Though it’s good too.” She swallowed. “No, you know, how you can just order takeout from in here.”
“What? Do it all the time.”
“I know it must seem all run-of-the-mill everyday to you, but really. Going through the takeout window in a spaceship? Did you see the look he gave you?”
The Doctor grinned and shovelled more noodles into his mouth, recalling the cashier’s face.
“It was a takeout in another galaxy,” he said after a moment, through a mouthful, “give me a bit of credit.”
“True,” said Donna, dinging her water glass with her fingernail and grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Oh, I’m gonna love this travelling malarkey.”
Her enthusiasm was irresistible. The Doctor felt a prickle of excitement run from the base of his neck down his spine.
“Want to go somewhere?” he asked in would-be casual tones, his trainer-clad feet hopping about in anticipation under the table.
“Nah,” said Donna, shrugging dismissively. “I’m all right.” The Doctor felt his face droop, then noticed that she was laughing at him. “You’re a dodo yourself. I scour the whole of bloody London looking for you cos I want to see the universe, and when I finally do find you, it’s nup, can’t be bothered? Fat chance. Much as I’m dying to go somewhere, can it wait till tomorrow, though? I’m really tired.”
She yawned.
“Oh fine, fine,” he said easily. “Sorry. I forgot you humans have to sleep so much. Waste of time, sleeping.”
“What, you don’t have to?”
“Not much,” he replied, feeling smug, then ruined it by being infected by her yawn.
Donna laughed. She looked into her box of dodo.
“Ordering takeout on my first night here. This your way of letting me down that you can’t cook? Might have known, really.” She scoffed a little. “Typical male.”
“What?” he exclaimed, putting on the hurt face of a typical male. Secretly he was enjoying her snarkyness, but he wasn’t going to let her know that. “I can cook! I’ve had proper lessons and everything. From your Louis the Sixteenth’s pastry cook, no less.” He bobbed his head, grinning with pride. “Oh yes, that’s right.”
“Yeah,” replied Donna, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “And so not surprising either. Cos all I see in here is biscuits. And more biscuits.” He saw realisation dawning on her face as she swivelled in her chair and craned her neck, her eyes scanning the kitchen. “Oh my god. You’ve got nothing but biscuits …”
“Oi, what’s wrong with biscuits?” he retorted indignantly. Biscuits were good, and he was fully prepared to argue the point. He wiped his fingers on his jacket, ignoring Donna's look of disgust. “In fact, I was going to save this for later, but seeing how my culinary reputation’s at stake ...”
He got up and pulled open the fridge door with a flourish.
“Oh, you didn’t,” groaned Donna in pained ecstasy.
The Doctor nodded, grinning goofily.
“I did, I did. While you were looking round. Call it a little welcome to the TARDIS.”
“Little?” said Donna, eyeing the sheer chocolate mountain of cake. He had to admit that she had a point. He’d never been one for actually measuring ingredients, which was why he’d gotten kicked out of Louis XVI’s pastry cook’s kitchen in the first place. Probably something that Donna didn’t need to know.
She was rummaging around in the kitchen drawers. The Doctor wondered whether it was a generally human thing about not digging into cake with your hands. He supposed it must be, seeing as they all told him off. He honestly didn’t see why they got so hung up about it; you could fit much more cake into your hands than you could a piddly little spoon.
He felt something hard tap him on the head.
It was a spoon.
“Found them!”
“You’re good,” he replied, staring at the cake.
Donna said something else.
“What?” said the Doctor distractedly.
“I said, you were just talking to the cake, weren’t you?”
His spoon had already found its way to his hand.
“Well, I promise it is a very good cake,” he managed to get out before falling upon it. Donna hesitated for a moment, then followed with no less enthusiasm. Silence fell over the kitchen as they both wallowed greedily, pausing at intervals only to grin chocolate grins at each other over the top of the gradually eroding mountain.
Donna was first to lower her spoon, sighing. The Doctor had to hand it to her. She could put it away with the best of them - well, maybe except him. She splayed out her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her folded hands, her eyes fixed on him. He smiled.
“What?”
“Feels like I’ve known you for ages,” said Donna dreamily, picking up and licking her spoon.
The Doctor looked back steadily, jaws working on his mouthful of cake as he wondered what she was getting at. He’d learnt pretty early on that copious amounts of cake tended to be an inhibition-lowerer for humans.
“But,” she went on, “at the same time I’ve only known you for a - well, a couple days. I don’t really know anything about you.” She paused and looked around again. “Except you apparently live on biscuits and cake. How’d you get to be so blooming skinny?”
A snort escaped him, and he felt himself relax.
“What d’you want to know?”
“Oh, I dunno. Anything. Everything.”
“Aw, go on then,” he agreed, feeling indulgent. “Ask away. Allons-y.”
Donna grinned and folded her arms, leaning back in her chair.
“Right then. First question - I’m feeling generous, I’ll make it an easy one.”
“Oh, you’re too kind, really.”
“Watch that backchat.”
The Doctor obediently shut up by shovelling in more cake, and saw Donna's lips twitch.
“So, let’s see,” she mused. “Oh, I know! Favourite colour.”
“Ginger,” he replied promptly, crumbs trickling out of his mouth.
Donna narrowed her eyes.
“Flatterer. Suppose your favourite colour changes with the scenery - blonde, brunette …”
“What?” he asked, scrunching up his face in confusion. Her meaning suddenly dawned on him, and he nearly choked on his cake. “Oh, no, no - not that! Just I’ve always wanted to be ginger.”
“What, like dying it?” She was considering him in a very female way, lips pursed. “Might work. Haven’t you ever tried it?”
“Once.”
“Really?” she said gleefully, latching on to this fresh tidbit.
He laughed, feeling a bit foolish. “Yeah, yeah, all right. Don’t go harping on about it now. Long long time ago, when I had a different body. My friend - Sarah Jane, her name is - got bored and dyed it for me.” He paused and grimaced in reminiscence. “While I was asleep. That was … fun.”
Donna didn’t seem to be listening.
“What was that little crack there about a different body …?”
“Ah. Did I not mention to you that I can regenerate? I’m sure I did …”
“Yeah, somewhere between all the frantic window waving and blobbies of fat … No, you bloody alien, no, you didn’t. So, you mean like you can just - I dunno, change your body? What you look like and everything?”
“Mmm,” said the Doctor slowly. Donna was staring at him as though he was about to sprout an extra head, right then and there. He wondered what was coming next.
As it happened, it didn’t take long to find out.
“Could you change right now? Could you look like Brad Pitt? Can you do that - look like all sorts of famous people? Go on, do it, turn into Brad.”
“Hold on! Um, no - maybe - haven’t tried it - and nope. I only regenerate when I’m, well, mortally wounded.” He took another spoonful of cake. “And the thing is, I can’t change back. At least, I wonder …? Nah, don’t think I can.”
“Oh,” said Donna uncertainly. She blinked a couple of times. “So, does that happen often? The changing thing?”
“Weeeeell …” he stalled, not wanting to alarm her.
“How often?” she prompted again, leaning forward and propping up her chin on her palm. He bit his lip. She really wasn’t going to let this go. He scratched his jaw, umming and ahhing a bit.
“Doctor, tell me! How often?”
“Okay, okay! This is sort of my … tenth body.”
She sucked in her breath.
“Your tenth? Oh my god. You’ve been killed - actually killed - ten times?”
“Nine,” he corrected her, feeling an unexpected lump grow in his throat at her horror on his behalf. Everybody - all his other friends, that is - had always treated his regenerations with comparative indifference. Oh, they’d been shocked and upset that he’d changed, of course, but he could see that they thought it was just a typically alien thing to do.
Apparently not Donna Noble.
“Can you just keep on doing it?”
“Not really,” he admitted, feeling the nasty little nag in the pit of his stomach that he usually got when he tried not to think about his own eventual mortality. “A couple more times. Maybe.”
Donna didn’t say anything, just reached across the table and placed her hand firmly over his. His eyes travelled down and saw that under her fingers, his knuckles were clenched and white.
“I suppose you sort of saved me once,” he pointed out, swallowing. “Back with the Racnoss.”
“Just as well you’ve got me around again now,” said Donna lightly. He glanced up, meeting her eyes. “Maybe I’ll save you again … only if you take me out shopping once in a while, of course. Otherwise I might just leave it.”
He could tell that she was only half joking. Her eyes were very, very concerned.
“Shopping it is,” he answered with a weak grin, hoping that his eyes were half as grateful. He wiggled his eyebrows feebly. Anything to get that look off her face. “Though if not - you never know, might end up with Brad Pitt on your hands.”
Donna sniffed a little. “Nup, I’ve changed my mind,” she told him flatly, withdrawing her fingers from his. “Brad can go stuff it.”
The Doctor tried not to smile, and didn’t quite succeed.
“Right,” said Donna cheerfully, with only a hint of a wobble in her voice. “Next question? Hum … oh, I know, course! What’s your name?”
“You know it,” he said patiently, his voice guarded. “Just the Doctor.”
“Come off it. No one’s called just the Doctor.”
He knew she thought they were still just mucking about, but his snappy response tumbled out, as it always did, before he could think the better of it.
“It’s not important, Donna. Leave it. All right?”
She blinked in surprise at his tone.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, getting up from her chair and reaching out to clear some of the boxes, not looking at him. Oh god oh god oh god. He felt awful.
“No, wait,” he said desperately, his fingers drumming on the table edge in frustration. “I didn’t mean to get tetchy. You don’t understand. I haven’t told anyone. It’s not just you.”
She nodded slowly, but didn’t take her seat.
“I - I don’t mean to nag away at you, Doctor. You know that, yeah? Just don’t know when to stop, I s'pose. People always telling me that. Just make sure you tell me whenever I start annoying you. I know when to shut up.”
Her tone was light but her eyes were sad. The Doctor felt sadder for being the one to make them look that way. He wondered who had been telling her that she was annoying? He certainly didn’t want to be one of them, because from what he’d seen of Donna she was brave and adventurous and bright and a bit insecure, but certainly not annoying. How could he make her understand that there were very good reasons why she couldn’t know his name?
Looking at her closed-off face, he suddenly made a decision quite surprising to him - to tell her something that he could tell her; something that he didn’t really tell people.
“Noble.”
She looked up, fingers pausing over the takeaway boxes.
“Huh?”
“You’re not annoying in the least. And it’s Noble.”
Her face screwed up in disbelief.
“You what?”
“That’s my name. Weeeeell - last name, technically.”
“Oh, stop trying to be all clever clogs.”
“I’m being serious, Donna.”
“Pull the other one. You’re actually telling me that your last name’s Noble?”
“Yep. Well, sort of. Old family name, and that’s just what the word translates into in your language, and no one actually ever calls me that - mainly cos I don’t tell them, as such - but yeah. Completely one hundred per cent true. Funny, though, I haven’t used that name since … well.” He blew out a sigh and puckered his lips in thought. “A good long time. Must’ve been … yup. My third regeneration.”
Something in his words or face must have convinced her, because she sat abruptly back down, forgetting all about the boxes.
“Oh my god! That’s - that’s barmy, that is!”
He nodded, grinning.
“Oh, I know.”
“Doctor Noble,” she said, trying it out and shaking her head. “Seriously, what are the odds, though? Bizarre.”
“Bizarre it is, Donna Noble,” he replied in mock decorum, “bizarre it is.”
He supposed that his smile was just a little too like the cat that got the cream, because she frowned back at him.
“Yeah - and just cos our names is the same, don’t go getting any ideas, mate.”
She punctuated her warning with a shake of her finger, and the Doctor widened his eyes innocently.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He knew that her bluster was only an act - he didn’t know why she was so insecure, because she was brilliant - and as they broke into twin conspiratorial grins, the Doctor actually felt glad that he’d told her about his name. It was beginning to dawn on him that it was easier being honest with Donna than not, and he also knew that he was so secretive by nature that this whole honesty thing might take some getting used to. He wasn't sure what it was about Donna; it was true that they barely knew each other in some ways, but he already felt so at ease in her company. Had he ever felt this comfortable with anyone so quickly? He rather thought not. They seemed to share a common bond - apart from the name thing, which he’d thought was only an amusing little coincidence when they’d first met.
Donna was eyeing him archly.
“So then. Still not going to tell me your proper name?”
He shook his head, smiling. He didn’t need to snap at her.
“Nope. I’d only tell you, probably, if - if - well, don’t worry,” he finished, his hearts feeling a little hollow. “That’s not going to happen.”
She looked puzzled, but she was smiling.
“All right, all right. I get it, I really do. I know when to stop.”
She did stop, scooping out another spoonful of cake before leaning back in her chair with a sigh, her eyes travelling curiously around the kitchen. The Doctor eyed her to make sure that she really had finished her interrogation before taking the opportunity to continue ploughing his way through the mountainous cake. He was quite enjoying picturing himself as an intrepid explorer. Maybe Indiana Jones? Yes, he quite liked that idea. Sadly it wasn’t too long before he had to own himself conquered. Oh, it wasn’t for lack of sheer willpower. He blamed the fried dodo.
“There’s a bit of cake left, if you want it, Donna … Donna?”
He peered over at her. She’d tipped forward and was spread across the table, her head plonked on her folded arms, shoulders rising and falling peacefully in slumber.
The Doctor stared, his mouth open in surprise. Then he shook himself and sprang around the table, rescuing her spoon of cake where it was teetering from her limp fingers. He looked down at Donna for a moment, absent-mindedly popping the spoon into his own mouth. Before he knew it, he’d pulled his arms from his jacket sleeves and was draping the brown pinstripes carefully over her slumped back and shoulders; the action flooding him with memories of the day they’d first met and sat on a rooftop together. Donna snortled incoherently in her sleep, murmuring something about skinny rats.
He bit back a chuckle at their thoughts running along similar lines - well, subconsciously, in her case - and couldn’t for the lives of him resist delicately trailing his fingers over her copper hair. Halfway down, he blinked in surprise and snatched his hand away as though it were touching hot coals. He looked at his fingers and then back at Donna, now smiling in her sleep. A moment later he was treading noiselessly as a cat across the tiles, deciding to make a start on lugging her possessions - at the moment piled up in the corridor - to a room for her.
Before he left, he peeked over his shoulder, taking in the glint of firelight playing on Donna’s hair, her peaceful jacket-covered slumber in the middle of his kitchen, the room warm and glowing from the licks of the oven flames. His hearts pulsed a little harder. She looked like - well, like she belonged. He was suddenly so very glad that she’d agreed to travel with him. People were usually eager to come with him, but she hadn’t been, and then when she’d finally agreed, he’d been elated. Still was. Somehow it felt like it meant more.
Reluctantly he turned away and rubbed his nose as he looked down at her pile of luggage. With a couple of great heaves he managed to drag off everything at once, shuffling in mincing steps down the corridor like some sort of cardboard yeti. He wasn’t looking forward to the stairs, that was for sure.
It seemed an eternity of wheelie cases and overhanging hatboxes before he reached the end of the corridor and automatically lifted his foot to place it on the first step. But his foot pedalled wildly in nothingness and he barely managed to stamp it back down lest he overbalanced and became the first Time Lord to die by suffocation under a pile of luggage.
He looked up, still struggling under his burden.
“But that’s a lift,” he said blankly, out loud. “I - I don’t have a lift. What’s happened to my stairs?”
He paused. Was his ship actually trying to make things easier for him? Another thought followed.
Could it be that the TARDIS liked Donna?
But … surely not. His ship had always been jealous of his friends. Rose, for instance; she’d always ended up at the furthest perimeters of the ship and it had taken her hours to wend her way back. And Martha? One time she’d been just walking along the corridor and he’d had to fling himself on the floor and prostrate himself to stop her falling down a service hatch that he was sure he hadn’t left open. Oh, the TARDIS got used to his friends in time, but it was always a hazardous few weeks at first while she acted like a spoilt brat trying to get rid of the new step-parent.
Suspiciously he dumped the collection of bags outside the nearest door, wondering what was behind it. The TARDIS always tried rattily to put his guests into the closest boxroom or broom cupboard until he started whacking her walls with a handy broom (though it was getting tricky to find brooms now that she’d started hiding them from him) and even then she only ever seemed to harbour mouldy rooms with broken heating.
He turned the handle and pushed open the door with trepidation.
To say that he was shocked to see an actual bedroom beyond the door was an understatement. Moreover, it was a nice bedroom. Much nicer than his, really; the walls patterned delicately in lace-like coral, plushy green carpet … was that a little bathroom leading off it? Even he didn’t have a little bathroom.
“So - you like Donna just a bit then, do you?” he commented dryly to the TARDIS.
The coral creaked innocently.
“Donna’s not interested in me - not like the others were,” said the Doctor slowly, struggling to let those sorts of thoughts pass even briefly through his head, let alone get the words out. He sighed, then wondered why he was sighing. “It’s a relief,” he added firmly. “Anyway, is that what this is about?” He waved his hands vaguely about the room. “Don’t mind her coming with us? None of your jealous fits?”
He strained his ears, but couldn’t hear any answering creak. After a bit, though, the ever-present background hum of the engines increased in volume a little, and the sound seemed to become sort of … suggestive. The Doctor’s eyes widened.
“What?” he spluttered. “No! Absolutely no. I’m not - no. Not at all. Never in a million years.”
The walls creaked again, sorrowfully - if such a thing were possible.
“Donna’s just my mate,” said the Doctor in warning tones. “That’s all. Look, where're you getting these ideas? After the - oh, let’s face it - completely stupid fuss you’ve always kicked up about my friends. Go on, give her a leaky old boxroom too if you want. Didn’t get rid of the others, did it?”
He slammed the door shut and glared, waiting a moment before opening it again. At first glance the room hadn’t altered. Then the Doctor realised that the bed had been changed pointedly from a single to a double, and his fingers itched for a broom, or something equally whack-worthy.
“Who’re you talking to?” said a sleepy voice behind him. He jumped around in surprise to see Donna looking at him oddly, still clutching his jacket around her shoulders. Just seeing her, he felt his temper melt away.
“Oh hello,” he said, sticking one hand in his pocket and waving awkwardly with the other. Donna yawned, unslinging the jacket and draping it over his waggling fingers.
“Thanks for that. Sorry, didn’t mean to fall asleep back there.”
“Fall asleep wherever and whenever you want,” he told her firmly. “It’s your home too now.”
The enormous smile she gave him in return made him feel happy all over again, and the feeling only intensified at the expression on her face when she caught sight of her bags in the doorway.
“This gonna be my room?” she asked, looking around in wonder. “Your ship is beautiful, you know. I mean, really beautiful. This is miles better than any posh hotel.”
The TARDIS made a low rumbling sound somewhere in her engines and the Doctor wondered if Donna knew that with those words she’d just won herself a devoted semi-sentient slave.
“Where’s your room?” continued Donna.
The Doctor scratched his nose.
“Erm …”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the outline of a door crackle into the wall, bits of coral around the edges crumbling off onto the floor. While Donna was busy dragging in her bags, he surreptitiously opened the door, peering through. He banged it shut at the sight of the familiar Edwardian blue striped wallpaper and his unmade poster bed strewn with bits of cogs and screws.
“My room’s further away,” he lied, feeling quite malicious towards his ship and making a mental note to disconnect some of the console wires in retaliation. Oh, it was childish, he knew, but - well, she’d started it.
“So …” said Donna, puffing a bit as she finally stood up beside her mountain of bags, her hands balling and hitting idly on her legs, a little smile on her face.
“So …” said the Doctor, looking down and concentrating very hard on his trainers. He heard Donna exhale.
“Oh, c’mere,” she said bossily, though he could tell that she was a bit unsure too, and only putting on a brisk front for both their sakes. His feet carried him forward and before he knew it he’d been wrapped in a hug. He placed his hands awkwardly on Donna’s back. Their mutual hesitation lasted only a moment and then she was relaxing fully in his arms, and he in hers.
“Thanks for letting me stay,” said Donna softly.
“Thanks for coming with me,” he answered immediately, meaning it with all his hearts. He closed his eyes briefly, savouring the feel of her arms around him and her hair tickling under his chin. The coral walls creaked in sly satisfaction, but apart from grinding his heel viciously into the carpet, the Doctor ignored his ship. Though this was very nice, he had to admit; he’d missed having a proper pal to hug. He gave Donna a final - hopefully just matey - squeeze and released her, stepping back and scuffing his trainers.
“Right. I’ll leave you to get - you know, settled in and all that. Yell out if you need anything. I’ll just be …”
He pointed at the door.
“Yeah,” said Donna, eyes and mouth distinctly amused, if tired. “Don’t look so nervous, alien boy. I’m not gonna make you be at my constant beck and call.” She elbowed him. “Well, not at first.” A smirk lifted the corner of her mouth. “Give it a day or two.”
“Cheeky,” he admonished, poking her shoulder and receiving a retaliatory prod in the sternum. He stumbled back a few steps, grinning, and continued backwards through the door before changing his mind mid-step. He poked his head back around the door. Donna had kicked off her heels and was kneeling, unzipping a suitcase.
“Donna?”
She swivelled, brandishing a hairdryer at him.
“What?”
He beamed.
“Oh, nothing. Nighty night.”
“Yeah, whatever, night. Now for goodness sake get lost and go do whatever you Martians do, so I can get changed and get some sleep.” She pulled a pair of pyjamas from her case and shook them briskly out. “Dunno if you can get by on nothing, but us Earthlings need our forty winks.” She paused and yawned. “Second thoughts, better make it eiiiiiiiiiighty.”
The Doctor wrinkled his nose playfully and caught Donna poking her tongue out just as he drew the door shut behind him. His smile faded to a twisted pout as he looked at his own door, still squished in next to hers. Blowing out a moody sigh, he kicked the corridor wall before turning and sticking his hands in his pockets as he trudged off in search of one of the other bedrooms.
It took him two hours and fifteen broom cupboards to find one.
He nearly fell down an open service hatch on the way.
Continued in Drops Of Gallifrey