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Title: Eclipse
Rating: R
Pairing: Ten/Donna (Friendship)
Word Count: 2,089
Summary: The Doctor waits anxiously as Donna fights for recovery. Spoilers for Doctor Who 4.13 - Journey’s End.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. Story title inspired by The Frames.
Author’s Notes: Two bits of writing posted in less than 12 hours - I feel rather productive at the moment. This bit’s rather focused on emotional development, sort of a plot carrier - but I kind of like it, myself. I sincerely hope you all do, as well :) Comments are full of win, and I appreciate them like you wouldn’t believe.
Part One: Eulalie
Part Two: Desperate Moments In Linear Time
Part Three: Ontological Subjectivity
Part Four: Better Than One
He can’t get her screams out of his head.
The image of her twitching, writhing in sheer agony - it’s inescapable; her jaw dropped impossibly low as she howled with the torment of it, of every cell in her body changing, mutating - every organ twisting and contorting as they rearranged themselves, every bone stretching and cracking only to fuse again at just a slightly different angle. He can barely recall what it felt like, and he imagines that this had to have been worse - the tears on his face as he relives the endless moments of her suffering only pale reflections of the sobs he succumbed to as he watched her fight the torture he’d subjected her to; that he willingly surrendered her body and mind to endure.
The teacup balanced precariously in his grip, his eyes fixed viciously at the Chameleon Arch where he’d left it to lay on the ground, he tries to focus on her vital signs, watching them as they changed every few minutes, the terrible hours dragging by like a rake in the sand, gouging at his resolve as he battles with himself, wondering how long it will take him to forgive himself for this, for doing this to her.
The next thought to pop into his mind revolves around whether Donna will ever be able to forgive him, and the misgivings he has on the subject make him immediately nauseous; he can’t stomach the tea anymore.
He remembers little about the early hours of his last regeneration, knowing that the sweat on Donna’s brow shouldn’t worry him as much as it does, knowing that the scans can’t be lying when they tell him the Arch has done its job - that her brain waves, her circulatory system are no longer human, knowing that the fact that her second heart, the one that he’s carefully imaging and watching like a madman with a predatory intensity - he knows that the fact that it isn’t breathing yet doesn’t mean anything. He can’t help but feel nervous though, as she remains still; too still. It’s not right, not for her; his Donna was never one for stillness.
He almost falls asleep at one point, hypnotized by the image of the woman lying near him. He had long before fallen to her side, seated next to her and stroking her damp hair with idle hands, touching his lips to her cheeks, her forehead at random, testing for himself what the monitors are telling him - she’s cooling down, she’s leveling out; she’s going to be alright.
He’s skeptical; his chest is too tight for him to trust to hope just yet.
“Donna,” he breathes suddenly, tensing as he watches her stir, something unnatural in it, something wrong.
She’s twitching, her breathing labored, and his eyes scan the displays lining the walls, trying to discern what’s gone amiss. Her neural activity is spiked, and he frowns as he leans down to stroke her cheek. “Donna,” he asks tentatively, gently. “Donna, can you hear me?”
She moans incoherently, shuddering beneath his touch, and he feels her start to tremble, notices when that’s the only motion moving her, can feel instantly when her lungs give out and she’s choking, strangled by her own anxiety, her own subconscious fear.
“Donna, listen to me!” he yells, trying to get her to open her eyes, trying to convince her to look at him. It’s an uphill struggle, but he manages, her gaze wide and bleeding with confusion, with an innocent panic that breaks him in two.
“Breathe, Donna,” he urges slowly, his hands heavy on her, his eyes flicking to the screen imaging her newly-developed right heart, watching as the picture seems to flicker, seems to shift just the slightest bit. “You need to breathe.”
He presses his hands against her, feeling the erratic throb of her first heart - the left one - rather out of time with the right, which seemed at the present to be struggling on uneven footing as it jolted to life beneath her breast, its first beats pulsing beautifully - cautiously - just beneath his hands.
He closes his eyes, focusing on both rhythms, breathing deeply and concentrating, trying to remember all the useless things he’d failed miserably at as a child, all the training in meditation and synchronization he’d never quite managed to master; grasping tight at Donna’s shoulders as he found the beat, as he let his own hearts keep the same time as hers, and adjusting to the speed and force with every breath around them, the transition smooth with the practice of centuries.
“Breathe,” he murmurs into her, gathering her hands between them and pressing up against her, catching their wrists against their chests. “Watch me.” He inhales, staring down the terror in her gaze and stealing it, adding it instead to his own and giving her all of the courage he as left as he wills her to trust him, begs her silently to do as he asks. “Breathe with me,” he pleads as she continues to gasp inefficiently, the tinge of blue on her lips not quite just a figment of his paranoid imagination anymore. Uncertain, he twists her fingers into his right hand and cups the back of her neck with his left, reaching out on a whim with his mind as he presses their foreheads together, trying to sense something he hasn’t felt in far too long, grasping at the darkness for a shadow, a sign -
He nearly breaks down as he feels the warmth that fills the lonely emptiness, the chasm of his mind that was once buzzed with the life of his people, his family - the echoing void that had been abandoned, bereft for so long by his own hand now flooded with frantic, joyous light. His breathing falters and he latches on to the sign, the soul of a Time Lord shining bright in his mind, and he wraps himself around it, ready when Donna gasps again in his arms. He clutches her hands harder to his chest and presses his psyche against the bond in his mind, letting her feel him, letting his pulses resonate through her entire being, the rhythm of his lungs seeping through the connection. “Here,” he whispers, encouraging her with his thoughts. “Focus.”
“It’s okay,” he murmurs finally, framing her face with his hands as she manages to mimic him, breathing in the proper time to accommodate her new physiology. He smiles at her, and she can’t quite return the gesture, but her chest’s heaving less desperately, and that’s good enough for him.
“What... what...” she smacks her lips, glancing frantically about at her surroundings, slowly taking in the equipment that normally wouldn’t have cluttered up the TARDIS’s medbay. She shivers, a tear escaping her eye as she lowers her head, her posture slumping along with.
“Shh...” he soothes and wraps his arms around her, mentally caressing her consciousness, clinging to the precious bond he’d so missed, so desperately needed, like a lifeline.
“It hurts,” she whimpers into his collar, and his arms tighten around her as he feels a wave of shame consume him.
“I know,” he chokes into her hair, stroking it slowly and dropping a kiss on her brow. “What can I do?”
She winces, burying her head in his shoulder as she mumbles with growing incoherence; “Hurts...”
“Donna...” He attempts to clear his throat, trying to sound certain, but the guilt is too much. She’s in pain, she’s hurting, and it’s his fault entirely. “I couldn’t...” he tries, only to fail once more. His tone drops and he pulls her closer as his voice breaks. “I’m sorry.”
He takes a deep breath, trying to control it, the flood of emotion, in order not to disturb her. “If I’d let it go long enough to take away the memory of the pain,” he tried to explain, knowing it was not justification - knowing there was no justification for this. “If it had gone that far, it would have taken everything.”
She nudges him with her head just a slightest bit, and he wants so badly to believe it’s a nod - some sort of understanding, a balm to his aching conscience, his tattered soul.
“Hold me.” Her words are simple, her voice so small; his chest feels sore and far too tiny as he lowers himself to lay along her side, stretched long against her, his arms wrapped around her waist and her back to his front.
“I can do that.”
The tea grew cold, left forgotten on the ledge of the shelving near the door, but it hardly mattered anymore.
----------------------------------------
Hours passed - seeped, like honey, like venom, into one another as time drew forward and continued moving whilst the pair of them remained still. The intermittent coughing was of some concern, given the way her features strained and her body shook as the golden clouds of energy escaped her with every wracking fit. Still, with his body wrapped protectively around her, she seemed to be on the mend, all things considered.
She falls into wakefulness gracefully, and his water-bright gaze is trained upon her as her eyes flutter open, his face close enough that she can feel his breath. “How are you feeling?” he asks, and it takes her a moment to realize that the terrible discomfort she seems to have been steeped in for some time now isn't quite her natural state.
She swallows, and even that small motion is painful. “Like shit.”
His brow furrows in reply, and she feels herself tense in response to a flush of indistinct emotions that aren’t her own, tingling somewhere nondescript near the back of her skull. “Better, though,” she tacks on hastily, and it’s not a total lie; it serves its purpose in softening his features either way. “Than before.”
He lifts himself onto his elbow and watches her intently, his knuckles brushing the hair from the side of her face. “How’s your head?”
She takes careful stock, trying to find the right words. “It feels... stuffy. All fuzzy-like.” She shakes it a tad, and instantly regrets it. “Like I’ve got a cold?”
He nods, and his expression tells her that her response is not surprising to him. “Your hearts still bothering you?”
As if she could forget. She brings her hands slowly to her chest, her joints and muscles working on a delay, and pushes her breasts to the side as she lines her fingers over the two very distinct, very separate beats. “It’s...” She’s speechless, and that’s a bit of a foreign country for her. “How can you possibly stand it?”
He grins softly at her, maneuvering his own hands to touch over hers as close as he can without venturing into the untoward, seeming to marvel at the dual rhythms just as deeply as Donna is herself. “You’ll get used to it,” he assures her softly. “I promise. Might even learn to like it.” His grin turns cheeky as he winks halfheartedly, and she manages a weak chuckle before her energy gives out again.
“Stay still for me?” he asks, and it doesn’t take much for her to comply. She hears a hum, makes out the small rectangular device he grabs for and aims at the center of her torso, near the bottom of her rib cage, and sighs as her eyes drift closed again, focusing what’s left of her consciousness for the time being on just listening to him, just hearing his words.
“Well,” the Doctor declares from somewhere beyond her darkened eyelids, “from the looks of things, uncomfortable though it may be, you’re in tip-top shape, Donna Noble.” His weight’s next to her again, and she instinctively curls into him as he presses a tender hand to her upper arm. “Good as can be expected. Better, even.”
He draws her body in, nestling her head beneath his chin as he mumbles down at her. “You’ve got about three more hours left in your regeneration cycle. After that, you’re out of the woods.”
She breathes in deeply, catching his scent before her exhaustion wins out, the sound of four heartbeats, all very close to her, lulling her back into sleep. “That’s good, then, yeah?” she sighs deliriously, already surrendering to the enveloping urge towards rest.
“Yeah,” she catches his voice in the prelude to her dreams. “Yeah, that’s good.”
Part Five: Ātman
Rating: R
Pairing: Ten/Donna (Friendship)
Word Count: 2,089
Summary: The Doctor waits anxiously as Donna fights for recovery. Spoilers for Doctor Who 4.13 - Journey’s End.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. Story title inspired by The Frames.
Author’s Notes: Two bits of writing posted in less than 12 hours - I feel rather productive at the moment. This bit’s rather focused on emotional development, sort of a plot carrier - but I kind of like it, myself. I sincerely hope you all do, as well :) Comments are full of win, and I appreciate them like you wouldn’t believe.
Part One: Eulalie
Part Two: Desperate Moments In Linear Time
Part Three: Ontological Subjectivity
Part Four: Better Than One
He can’t get her screams out of his head.
The image of her twitching, writhing in sheer agony - it’s inescapable; her jaw dropped impossibly low as she howled with the torment of it, of every cell in her body changing, mutating - every organ twisting and contorting as they rearranged themselves, every bone stretching and cracking only to fuse again at just a slightly different angle. He can barely recall what it felt like, and he imagines that this had to have been worse - the tears on his face as he relives the endless moments of her suffering only pale reflections of the sobs he succumbed to as he watched her fight the torture he’d subjected her to; that he willingly surrendered her body and mind to endure.
The teacup balanced precariously in his grip, his eyes fixed viciously at the Chameleon Arch where he’d left it to lay on the ground, he tries to focus on her vital signs, watching them as they changed every few minutes, the terrible hours dragging by like a rake in the sand, gouging at his resolve as he battles with himself, wondering how long it will take him to forgive himself for this, for doing this to her.
The next thought to pop into his mind revolves around whether Donna will ever be able to forgive him, and the misgivings he has on the subject make him immediately nauseous; he can’t stomach the tea anymore.
He remembers little about the early hours of his last regeneration, knowing that the sweat on Donna’s brow shouldn’t worry him as much as it does, knowing that the scans can’t be lying when they tell him the Arch has done its job - that her brain waves, her circulatory system are no longer human, knowing that the fact that her second heart, the one that he’s carefully imaging and watching like a madman with a predatory intensity - he knows that the fact that it isn’t breathing yet doesn’t mean anything. He can’t help but feel nervous though, as she remains still; too still. It’s not right, not for her; his Donna was never one for stillness.
He almost falls asleep at one point, hypnotized by the image of the woman lying near him. He had long before fallen to her side, seated next to her and stroking her damp hair with idle hands, touching his lips to her cheeks, her forehead at random, testing for himself what the monitors are telling him - she’s cooling down, she’s leveling out; she’s going to be alright.
He’s skeptical; his chest is too tight for him to trust to hope just yet.
“Donna,” he breathes suddenly, tensing as he watches her stir, something unnatural in it, something wrong.
She’s twitching, her breathing labored, and his eyes scan the displays lining the walls, trying to discern what’s gone amiss. Her neural activity is spiked, and he frowns as he leans down to stroke her cheek. “Donna,” he asks tentatively, gently. “Donna, can you hear me?”
She moans incoherently, shuddering beneath his touch, and he feels her start to tremble, notices when that’s the only motion moving her, can feel instantly when her lungs give out and she’s choking, strangled by her own anxiety, her own subconscious fear.
“Donna, listen to me!” he yells, trying to get her to open her eyes, trying to convince her to look at him. It’s an uphill struggle, but he manages, her gaze wide and bleeding with confusion, with an innocent panic that breaks him in two.
“Breathe, Donna,” he urges slowly, his hands heavy on her, his eyes flicking to the screen imaging her newly-developed right heart, watching as the picture seems to flicker, seems to shift just the slightest bit. “You need to breathe.”
He presses his hands against her, feeling the erratic throb of her first heart - the left one - rather out of time with the right, which seemed at the present to be struggling on uneven footing as it jolted to life beneath her breast, its first beats pulsing beautifully - cautiously - just beneath his hands.
He closes his eyes, focusing on both rhythms, breathing deeply and concentrating, trying to remember all the useless things he’d failed miserably at as a child, all the training in meditation and synchronization he’d never quite managed to master; grasping tight at Donna’s shoulders as he found the beat, as he let his own hearts keep the same time as hers, and adjusting to the speed and force with every breath around them, the transition smooth with the practice of centuries.
“Breathe,” he murmurs into her, gathering her hands between them and pressing up against her, catching their wrists against their chests. “Watch me.” He inhales, staring down the terror in her gaze and stealing it, adding it instead to his own and giving her all of the courage he as left as he wills her to trust him, begs her silently to do as he asks. “Breathe with me,” he pleads as she continues to gasp inefficiently, the tinge of blue on her lips not quite just a figment of his paranoid imagination anymore. Uncertain, he twists her fingers into his right hand and cups the back of her neck with his left, reaching out on a whim with his mind as he presses their foreheads together, trying to sense something he hasn’t felt in far too long, grasping at the darkness for a shadow, a sign -
He nearly breaks down as he feels the warmth that fills the lonely emptiness, the chasm of his mind that was once buzzed with the life of his people, his family - the echoing void that had been abandoned, bereft for so long by his own hand now flooded with frantic, joyous light. His breathing falters and he latches on to the sign, the soul of a Time Lord shining bright in his mind, and he wraps himself around it, ready when Donna gasps again in his arms. He clutches her hands harder to his chest and presses his psyche against the bond in his mind, letting her feel him, letting his pulses resonate through her entire being, the rhythm of his lungs seeping through the connection. “Here,” he whispers, encouraging her with his thoughts. “Focus.”
“It’s okay,” he murmurs finally, framing her face with his hands as she manages to mimic him, breathing in the proper time to accommodate her new physiology. He smiles at her, and she can’t quite return the gesture, but her chest’s heaving less desperately, and that’s good enough for him.
“What... what...” she smacks her lips, glancing frantically about at her surroundings, slowly taking in the equipment that normally wouldn’t have cluttered up the TARDIS’s medbay. She shivers, a tear escaping her eye as she lowers her head, her posture slumping along with.
“Shh...” he soothes and wraps his arms around her, mentally caressing her consciousness, clinging to the precious bond he’d so missed, so desperately needed, like a lifeline.
“It hurts,” she whimpers into his collar, and his arms tighten around her as he feels a wave of shame consume him.
“I know,” he chokes into her hair, stroking it slowly and dropping a kiss on her brow. “What can I do?”
She winces, burying her head in his shoulder as she mumbles with growing incoherence; “Hurts...”
“Donna...” He attempts to clear his throat, trying to sound certain, but the guilt is too much. She’s in pain, she’s hurting, and it’s his fault entirely. “I couldn’t...” he tries, only to fail once more. His tone drops and he pulls her closer as his voice breaks. “I’m sorry.”
He takes a deep breath, trying to control it, the flood of emotion, in order not to disturb her. “If I’d let it go long enough to take away the memory of the pain,” he tried to explain, knowing it was not justification - knowing there was no justification for this. “If it had gone that far, it would have taken everything.”
She nudges him with her head just a slightest bit, and he wants so badly to believe it’s a nod - some sort of understanding, a balm to his aching conscience, his tattered soul.
“Hold me.” Her words are simple, her voice so small; his chest feels sore and far too tiny as he lowers himself to lay along her side, stretched long against her, his arms wrapped around her waist and her back to his front.
“I can do that.”
The tea grew cold, left forgotten on the ledge of the shelving near the door, but it hardly mattered anymore.
----------------------------------------
Hours passed - seeped, like honey, like venom, into one another as time drew forward and continued moving whilst the pair of them remained still. The intermittent coughing was of some concern, given the way her features strained and her body shook as the golden clouds of energy escaped her with every wracking fit. Still, with his body wrapped protectively around her, she seemed to be on the mend, all things considered.
She falls into wakefulness gracefully, and his water-bright gaze is trained upon her as her eyes flutter open, his face close enough that she can feel his breath. “How are you feeling?” he asks, and it takes her a moment to realize that the terrible discomfort she seems to have been steeped in for some time now isn't quite her natural state.
She swallows, and even that small motion is painful. “Like shit.”
His brow furrows in reply, and she feels herself tense in response to a flush of indistinct emotions that aren’t her own, tingling somewhere nondescript near the back of her skull. “Better, though,” she tacks on hastily, and it’s not a total lie; it serves its purpose in softening his features either way. “Than before.”
He lifts himself onto his elbow and watches her intently, his knuckles brushing the hair from the side of her face. “How’s your head?”
She takes careful stock, trying to find the right words. “It feels... stuffy. All fuzzy-like.” She shakes it a tad, and instantly regrets it. “Like I’ve got a cold?”
He nods, and his expression tells her that her response is not surprising to him. “Your hearts still bothering you?”
As if she could forget. She brings her hands slowly to her chest, her joints and muscles working on a delay, and pushes her breasts to the side as she lines her fingers over the two very distinct, very separate beats. “It’s...” She’s speechless, and that’s a bit of a foreign country for her. “How can you possibly stand it?”
He grins softly at her, maneuvering his own hands to touch over hers as close as he can without venturing into the untoward, seeming to marvel at the dual rhythms just as deeply as Donna is herself. “You’ll get used to it,” he assures her softly. “I promise. Might even learn to like it.” His grin turns cheeky as he winks halfheartedly, and she manages a weak chuckle before her energy gives out again.
“Stay still for me?” he asks, and it doesn’t take much for her to comply. She hears a hum, makes out the small rectangular device he grabs for and aims at the center of her torso, near the bottom of her rib cage, and sighs as her eyes drift closed again, focusing what’s left of her consciousness for the time being on just listening to him, just hearing his words.
“Well,” the Doctor declares from somewhere beyond her darkened eyelids, “from the looks of things, uncomfortable though it may be, you’re in tip-top shape, Donna Noble.” His weight’s next to her again, and she instinctively curls into him as he presses a tender hand to her upper arm. “Good as can be expected. Better, even.”
He draws her body in, nestling her head beneath his chin as he mumbles down at her. “You’ve got about three more hours left in your regeneration cycle. After that, you’re out of the woods.”
She breathes in deeply, catching his scent before her exhaustion wins out, the sound of four heartbeats, all very close to her, lulling her back into sleep. “That’s good, then, yeah?” she sighs deliriously, already surrendering to the enveloping urge towards rest.
“Yeah,” she catches his voice in the prelude to her dreams. “Yeah, that’s good.”
Part Five: Ātman
Current Music: Jenny by Flight of The Conchords
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