![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
Title: Eclipse
Rating: R
Pairing: Ten/Donna (Friendship, UST)
Word Count: 2,858
Summary: The Doctor and Donna attend an intergalactic ball, and run into an unexpected friend. 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: I’m not one for fluff, normally - but it was too tempting not to write the ball - and true to form, it didn’t turn out as fluffy as it could have. Plot carriers abound, but I do hope it’s still enjoyable. And if you’re sufficiently pleased with this part, I might just post the rather long Part Eight for tomorrow. My sincerest thanks to everyone for the comments thus far - they’re what have gotten me through to finishing up to this point, and are what continue to make me want to work on this :)
Part One: Eulalie
Part Two: Desperate Moments In Linear Time
Part Three: Ontological Subjectivity
Part Four: Better Than One
Part Five: Ātman
Part Six: Only
Part Seven: Two To Tango
She feels odd, wearing this dress. It’s a common enough cut, in a gorgeous amethyst shade, with a neck that looks suspiciously like the swoop of some high-end style drapes and a plunging back that she’s not entirely sure she’s comfortable with, considering the need to forgo her bra. She can’t have herself flouncing and bouncing about here and there amongst respectable folk, after all.
It’s not really the perky rounds of her bare nipples through the silky fabric that’s bothering her though, and she knows it, even as she searches desperately for something to attach to the inside of the gown for some support. She knows full well what’s actually bothering her, and it’s that knowledge which plagues her as she tries to bend the underwire of her bra so that it follows the much-sleeker line of the dress; that knowledge which nags at the back of her mind as she sorts through the luggage she’d packed a lifetime ago, searching frantically for a stray pin or something, anything to fix this minor wardrobe hiccup, making her stomach turn as she glances in the mirror, thinking that her hair looks a bit too full for her liking, too much body.
The fact is that this is all so much - too much - and she’s due for a minor breakdown, really; because if nothing else, beyond all reason, her human hormones seem to be in classic form, and her emotions are still one-hundred percent homo sapien.
Or maybe Time Lords are emotional wrecks, too. That’d be her luck.
She presses the heels of her palms just below her eyes, careful not to smudge her mascara (waterproof only goes so far), hoping to stall the torrent of irrational tears from flooding her eyes. She can’t do this, not now; besides, she’s stronger than this. She’s endured so much, overcome so many things is so short a time, when she thinks about it - a silly little dress is nothing, the insignificance of it is stifling, in fact. And furthermore, there is absolutely no consequence in the fact that the elegant shoulder of her dress falls just where his hand had found her skin when she’d been ailing, lost in a fog of torment as she recovered...
She shakes her head forcefully, tossing the wisping, flowing curls tumbling down past her ears with the back of her hand as she sighed, holding her breath deep and letting it out slow, trying to calm the nerves threatening to consume her. She couldn’t do this to herself, or to him. She was his best friend. She was his partner in crime. She was -
“The verdict?”
He’s wandering towards her in a tuxedo, all black, with his black and white trainers the only hit of a variation that she can spot. He wants to know what she thinks of the dress he’d procured for her out of nowhere, and she knows this, but all she wants is to ask him if this is it; if this is what they’re going to do. She’s an alien, for fuck’s sake; she’s become an alien, only the second living specimen of a lost race. She can feel his mind, for all the control over it he has and the dampening of the sedatives; she’s different, because of him, and she needs to know if they’re going to continue on as if so little has changed. Part of her wants them to - part of her wants to just be the Doctor and Donna again, traipsing the galaxies like a favorite pastime; smiling at each other as the world ends, or from across a pool of gold, all of it in good fun.
But the rest of her cannot stand the fear, the unidentified intensity that permeates his eyes when they mention it; when she so much as casually brings up the fact that she’s become something more than what she was. The rest of her can’t help but wish, can’t help but know, that they could do something more now. They could be something more.
“Formal wear doesn’t change much in the future?”
It frustrates him when she answers a question with a question, normally, but she doesn’t much care just now; because damnit, he’s unreadable, and it’s infuriating. With him, nothing is certain - and it’s that uncertainty which keeps her up at night, keeps her listening close to him in the room across the way, makes her wonder into the early hours of the dawn, stomach in knots, just what the future holds; just what she means to him.
“Human formal wear?” he asks, seeming to completely overlook her inner turmoil - she wonders if she’s naturally gifted in filtering whatever it is he feels of her in his consciousness, or if he’s ignoring her deliberately as a courtesy. “No, not really.” He makes that face that she adores, the one where his features slide at an angle, and his nose crinkles up as he prepares to contradict himself. “Well, not until the turn of the 78th century, but things just get very strange at that point, all around. Swapping gowns for pinstriped bikinis at dinner parties is just the cherry on top, there.”
She blinks dumbly, her mind instantly overcome with the notion, infused with his buoyancy as her concerns fade into the backdrop of her thoughts; she hates that he can do that to her, distract her so well, but she loves it at the same time - desperately so. “Bikinis?”
“Just the cherry,” he winks, bending his elbow and stretching his forearm expectantly out towards her, “like I said.”
Unbidden images of neon colored foam integrating in high fashion make her actively block those pesky borrowed memories from surfacing any further as she takes his proffered arm and follows him out of the TARDIS without any more questions.
----------------------------------------
She's standing by the refreshments, admiring the splendor as she watches the couples - sometimes triads - glide across the dance floor before her in such colors, such varied species, that it’s all she can do to stop herself from gaping openly at the spectacle. She takes a bite of some strange hors d'oeuvre that looks like a wrap and tastes a bit like goat’s milk, swirling the glass of sunshine-colored drink she’s holding expertly - no one could accuse Donna Noble of having wasted an invitation to a party in her life, that much was certain.
She smiles coyly across the room at some fuzzy looking, bipedal bird specimen that she really hopes is male as they make eye contact, trying to forget that the Doctor has left her here on her own, without even a dance to her name, to chat up some politician about a newly developing temporal anomaly outside the lower Cassiopeian Ridge. She tries not to laugh as the feathers of her bird-man ruffle and he shyly hides his face; she averts her own eyes politely in return before jumping, startled, at the feel of a very human hand on her shoulder. Spinning blindly, almost knocking into her visitor upon meeting his eyes, she recognizes him immediately - how and why he’s there, she doesn’t know, but she’s glad for it, nonetheless.
“Jack!” she gasps in surprise, returning his brilliant, not to mention mildly salacious grin as she turns to face him, to take in his appearance - so little change from their last meeting, except for in his eyes. It’s been a while, she surmises, and time’s taken more than its toll. “What are you doing here?”
“The free drinks, of course,” he hugs her, and they both squeeze tighter than they mean to, though neither minds. “Donna Noble,” he breathes, eyeing her up with such genuine glee that she can’t help but giggle at him like a love-struck teenager. “I knew that was you! You’re a sight for sore eyes, beautiful.”
She blushes, and his grin deepens, if possible - she wonders if the flush of her cheeks compliments her gown. “Flatterer. The Doctor did try to warn me about you.”
Something in Jack’s eyes changes, darkens, and she tries to fight the force of gravity threatening to work its magic on the corners of her lips. “He’s here, too?”
She sighs, glancing around the room to catch a glimpse of where he’s gotten off to, but to no avail. “Somewhere, he popped off a bit ago.”
“And left a ravishing partner like you standing here all alone with your vitamin nectar?” he asks, stealing the cocktail glass of sweet liquid from between her fingers, taking a sip, and setting it down near the punch bowl at the corner of the serving table as he licks his lips seductively. “Poor form, that,” Jack chides the absent Doctor with a subtle frown, his eyebrows arched judgmentally. “Very poor.”
Donna snorts in reply, rolling her eyes a bit. “And I suppose you’d do me one better?”
“Of course,” Jack insists, sounding almost offended that she’d think any less of him. He sticks out his hand, palm up, as he asks her in a low tone that makes her blood run a bit warmer, and bit faster; “May I have this dance?”
“That has to be outdated by now...” she murmurs as she takes hold of his hand, but keeps her heels planted firmly against the marble flood. “Where is now, exactly?” she asks suddenly, glancing cautiously about her for some indication she may have missed. “He didn’t quite say.”
“39th Century,” Jack answers with a flourish as he pulls her closer, pressing a kiss to the top of her hand as he leads her onto the dance floor. “And the classics never grow old.”
He positions them so that they're chest to chest, his arm snaked about her waist as he whisks them about, weaving in between couples that lack his finesse, teaching Donna’s feet to do things that they never knew they were capable of before. “So, you’re here...” he picks up the conversation after three turns about the room, “after Davros, if you recognized me.”
“Yes.”
“How many times have we met since?”
“Uh, none,” Donna answers carefully, wondering what she’s missing. “Just the one time.”
“Oh, are you in for a treat, then.”
His smile makes her nervous, and she tenses under his hold. “How d’ya mean?”
“Can’t say,” he shakes his head, but the grin remains in place. “Gained some respect for the integrity of timelines in my old age.”
Donna nods, wondering if Jack’s predicament with immortality has something to do with the years that glow painfully behind his eyes. “You’re wearing well,” she comments, and to her surprise he laughs aloud.
“Now who’s the flatterer?” he asks with a wink, but quickly sobers, his mouth a simple curve upwards, as if mimicking the reflection of a memory.
“Besides,” he whispers, leaning down to brush his lips against her ear with more innocence than she expected he was capable of. “I wouldn’t want to spoil the fun for you.”
“When you say fun,” Donna says warningly, “I think I’ve got the right to be nervous.”
Jack laughs again, though quieter - more private now. “I always did like you, Donna,” he speaks softly, brushing her hair delicately from her face. She wonders at his tenderness, and her jaw drops as she pulls away a bit, caught only on the backslide by his arms around her as a mortifying possibility enters her mind.
“Oh God,” she moans, the hand that was resting on his shoulder flying to cover her mouth in shock. “Don’t tell me I end up in your bed.”
He spins her around, trying not to fall over as he barks out a sharp chuckle, lowering his tone and narrowing his eyes sensually as he flirts shamelessly; “Now that’s one thing I’d be willing to risk a paradox for.”
She steps angrily on his left foot as they resume their normal sway, and he gets the point. “No. Not my bed,” he says, and she doesn’t miss the note of regret as he admits it. Worse still, she can’t help but appreciate it - at least someone wants her. “I’ve got somebody of my own by the time you get back. Which...” Jack trails off, his pace slowing, missing the rhythm of the fading music by just a hair as he loses himself in thought. “I wonder...”
His eyes snap suddenly into focus. “Where are the two of you headed next?”
“Not sure, really. I hadn’t thought.”
“I think I know where you’re headed,” Jack speaks softly, his voice far away. “Back home.”
“The two of you visit, a few months after things have settled back into routine after the Daleks,” Jack explains, pensive. “The Doctor told me something then, made me change my mind about doing something I wasn’t sure about. It came out of nowhere. I think,” Jack pauses as his face brightens considerably, wonder flooding his expression as enlightenment dawns and they stop moving entirely, still in the middle of the dance floor. “I think I told him to tell me.”
Donna grins warmly at him, disengaging from his arms and nodding in understanding as she begins to to approach the outer edges of the room once more before the next song picks up. “Go on,” she encourages him with a nod. “Go find him.”
“And leave a stunning woman like you all alone without a dance partner?” he asks sheepishly, unable to hide his desire to find the Doctor; and if Donna understands anything about anyone, it’s that.
“I’ll manage,” she insists. “Go on.”
She orders another glass of that delicious nectar - only this time it’s electric blue and tastes a bit like candy floss. She watches the bird-man from before dance with what is assumedly his bird-wife, all the while avoiding her eyes with deliberate care. She’s halfway through her third round of that sugary drink before she sees Jack with the Doctor, two figures somehow so very separate from everyone, even if no one else notices, as they enter through the archway leading from the entrance hall.
The Doctor catches her eye in an instant, smiling warmly as he makes his way towards her - she raises her cocktail glass in acknowledgement and takes another sip as he fights the throngs of people near the dessert spread to reach her.
“And Doctor,” Jack calls, approaching them once more with an afterthought, and he’s at their side in no time at all. “Just a tiny thing to add. Can you tell me that he really wants blue? I’ll understand, and I promise, it won’t change anything important,” he sounds completely honest here, and the Doctor looks almost surprised. “It’ll just cut down on the stress in waiting for the new waistcoats at the last minute.”
“I guessed burgundy, at first,” he shrugs indicatively towards Donna with a helpless sort of grin. “Red’s his color.”
“See you soon, I guess,” he flashes her a final, heart-stopping grin as he disappears into the crowd, mingling effortlessly with the rest of the guests
“Right,” Donna mumbles, both confused and jarred by the fortuitous meeting just as much as the hasty departure, though something in the Doctor’s eyes, as well as the dull hum of his mind in hers tells her that she’s not getting quite the full story.
In trying to determine just what it is she’s missing in the exchange between the two men, she completely misses the Doctor offering his arm wordlessly out to her, only noticing his gesture as he clears his throat and asks, with no small degree of hesitance; “May I?”
She breathes heavily, taking in the note of hope that she prays she’s not imagining in his eyes before she nods and grins softly at him as she wraps both hands around his forearm in assent; “You may.”
He spins her out onto the dance floor expertly, his face alight with an exhilaration she’d be envious of if she hadn’t been feeling the same. It’s different from dancing with Jack, because it wears her out - not because they move faster, or they dance longer (they do both, actually - but it doesn’t matter) - it’s because her hearts are pounding in her chest the whole time, whether they’re two-stepping or tangoing, or if they’re just standing still. His eyes never leave hers, and her feet are killing her by the end of the night; but when he dips her, she feels safe for the very first time in her life, and that alone is more than worth it.
Part Eight: Sonnets To A Dark Lady
Rating: R
Pairing: Ten/Donna (Friendship, UST)
Word Count: 2,858
Summary: The Doctor and Donna attend an intergalactic ball, and run into an unexpected friend. 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: I’m not one for fluff, normally - but it was too tempting not to write the ball - and true to form, it didn’t turn out as fluffy as it could have. Plot carriers abound, but I do hope it’s still enjoyable. And if you’re sufficiently pleased with this part, I might just post the rather long Part Eight for tomorrow. My sincerest thanks to everyone for the comments thus far - they’re what have gotten me through to finishing up to this point, and are what continue to make me want to work on this :)
Part One: Eulalie
Part Two: Desperate Moments In Linear Time
Part Three: Ontological Subjectivity
Part Four: Better Than One
Part Five: Ātman
Part Six: Only
Part Seven: Two To Tango
She feels odd, wearing this dress. It’s a common enough cut, in a gorgeous amethyst shade, with a neck that looks suspiciously like the swoop of some high-end style drapes and a plunging back that she’s not entirely sure she’s comfortable with, considering the need to forgo her bra. She can’t have herself flouncing and bouncing about here and there amongst respectable folk, after all.
It’s not really the perky rounds of her bare nipples through the silky fabric that’s bothering her though, and she knows it, even as she searches desperately for something to attach to the inside of the gown for some support. She knows full well what’s actually bothering her, and it’s that knowledge which plagues her as she tries to bend the underwire of her bra so that it follows the much-sleeker line of the dress; that knowledge which nags at the back of her mind as she sorts through the luggage she’d packed a lifetime ago, searching frantically for a stray pin or something, anything to fix this minor wardrobe hiccup, making her stomach turn as she glances in the mirror, thinking that her hair looks a bit too full for her liking, too much body.
The fact is that this is all so much - too much - and she’s due for a minor breakdown, really; because if nothing else, beyond all reason, her human hormones seem to be in classic form, and her emotions are still one-hundred percent homo sapien.
Or maybe Time Lords are emotional wrecks, too. That’d be her luck.
She presses the heels of her palms just below her eyes, careful not to smudge her mascara (waterproof only goes so far), hoping to stall the torrent of irrational tears from flooding her eyes. She can’t do this, not now; besides, she’s stronger than this. She’s endured so much, overcome so many things is so short a time, when she thinks about it - a silly little dress is nothing, the insignificance of it is stifling, in fact. And furthermore, there is absolutely no consequence in the fact that the elegant shoulder of her dress falls just where his hand had found her skin when she’d been ailing, lost in a fog of torment as she recovered...
She shakes her head forcefully, tossing the wisping, flowing curls tumbling down past her ears with the back of her hand as she sighed, holding her breath deep and letting it out slow, trying to calm the nerves threatening to consume her. She couldn’t do this to herself, or to him. She was his best friend. She was his partner in crime. She was -
“The verdict?”
He’s wandering towards her in a tuxedo, all black, with his black and white trainers the only hit of a variation that she can spot. He wants to know what she thinks of the dress he’d procured for her out of nowhere, and she knows this, but all she wants is to ask him if this is it; if this is what they’re going to do. She’s an alien, for fuck’s sake; she’s become an alien, only the second living specimen of a lost race. She can feel his mind, for all the control over it he has and the dampening of the sedatives; she’s different, because of him, and she needs to know if they’re going to continue on as if so little has changed. Part of her wants them to - part of her wants to just be the Doctor and Donna again, traipsing the galaxies like a favorite pastime; smiling at each other as the world ends, or from across a pool of gold, all of it in good fun.
But the rest of her cannot stand the fear, the unidentified intensity that permeates his eyes when they mention it; when she so much as casually brings up the fact that she’s become something more than what she was. The rest of her can’t help but wish, can’t help but know, that they could do something more now. They could be something more.
“Formal wear doesn’t change much in the future?”
It frustrates him when she answers a question with a question, normally, but she doesn’t much care just now; because damnit, he’s unreadable, and it’s infuriating. With him, nothing is certain - and it’s that uncertainty which keeps her up at night, keeps her listening close to him in the room across the way, makes her wonder into the early hours of the dawn, stomach in knots, just what the future holds; just what she means to him.
“Human formal wear?” he asks, seeming to completely overlook her inner turmoil - she wonders if she’s naturally gifted in filtering whatever it is he feels of her in his consciousness, or if he’s ignoring her deliberately as a courtesy. “No, not really.” He makes that face that she adores, the one where his features slide at an angle, and his nose crinkles up as he prepares to contradict himself. “Well, not until the turn of the 78th century, but things just get very strange at that point, all around. Swapping gowns for pinstriped bikinis at dinner parties is just the cherry on top, there.”
She blinks dumbly, her mind instantly overcome with the notion, infused with his buoyancy as her concerns fade into the backdrop of her thoughts; she hates that he can do that to her, distract her so well, but she loves it at the same time - desperately so. “Bikinis?”
“Just the cherry,” he winks, bending his elbow and stretching his forearm expectantly out towards her, “like I said.”
Unbidden images of neon colored foam integrating in high fashion make her actively block those pesky borrowed memories from surfacing any further as she takes his proffered arm and follows him out of the TARDIS without any more questions.
----------------------------------------
She's standing by the refreshments, admiring the splendor as she watches the couples - sometimes triads - glide across the dance floor before her in such colors, such varied species, that it’s all she can do to stop herself from gaping openly at the spectacle. She takes a bite of some strange hors d'oeuvre that looks like a wrap and tastes a bit like goat’s milk, swirling the glass of sunshine-colored drink she’s holding expertly - no one could accuse Donna Noble of having wasted an invitation to a party in her life, that much was certain.
She smiles coyly across the room at some fuzzy looking, bipedal bird specimen that she really hopes is male as they make eye contact, trying to forget that the Doctor has left her here on her own, without even a dance to her name, to chat up some politician about a newly developing temporal anomaly outside the lower Cassiopeian Ridge. She tries not to laugh as the feathers of her bird-man ruffle and he shyly hides his face; she averts her own eyes politely in return before jumping, startled, at the feel of a very human hand on her shoulder. Spinning blindly, almost knocking into her visitor upon meeting his eyes, she recognizes him immediately - how and why he’s there, she doesn’t know, but she’s glad for it, nonetheless.
“Jack!” she gasps in surprise, returning his brilliant, not to mention mildly salacious grin as she turns to face him, to take in his appearance - so little change from their last meeting, except for in his eyes. It’s been a while, she surmises, and time’s taken more than its toll. “What are you doing here?”
“The free drinks, of course,” he hugs her, and they both squeeze tighter than they mean to, though neither minds. “Donna Noble,” he breathes, eyeing her up with such genuine glee that she can’t help but giggle at him like a love-struck teenager. “I knew that was you! You’re a sight for sore eyes, beautiful.”
She blushes, and his grin deepens, if possible - she wonders if the flush of her cheeks compliments her gown. “Flatterer. The Doctor did try to warn me about you.”
Something in Jack’s eyes changes, darkens, and she tries to fight the force of gravity threatening to work its magic on the corners of her lips. “He’s here, too?”
She sighs, glancing around the room to catch a glimpse of where he’s gotten off to, but to no avail. “Somewhere, he popped off a bit ago.”
“And left a ravishing partner like you standing here all alone with your vitamin nectar?” he asks, stealing the cocktail glass of sweet liquid from between her fingers, taking a sip, and setting it down near the punch bowl at the corner of the serving table as he licks his lips seductively. “Poor form, that,” Jack chides the absent Doctor with a subtle frown, his eyebrows arched judgmentally. “Very poor.”
Donna snorts in reply, rolling her eyes a bit. “And I suppose you’d do me one better?”
“Of course,” Jack insists, sounding almost offended that she’d think any less of him. He sticks out his hand, palm up, as he asks her in a low tone that makes her blood run a bit warmer, and bit faster; “May I have this dance?”
“That has to be outdated by now...” she murmurs as she takes hold of his hand, but keeps her heels planted firmly against the marble flood. “Where is now, exactly?” she asks suddenly, glancing cautiously about her for some indication she may have missed. “He didn’t quite say.”
“39th Century,” Jack answers with a flourish as he pulls her closer, pressing a kiss to the top of her hand as he leads her onto the dance floor. “And the classics never grow old.”
He positions them so that they're chest to chest, his arm snaked about her waist as he whisks them about, weaving in between couples that lack his finesse, teaching Donna’s feet to do things that they never knew they were capable of before. “So, you’re here...” he picks up the conversation after three turns about the room, “after Davros, if you recognized me.”
“Yes.”
“How many times have we met since?”
“Uh, none,” Donna answers carefully, wondering what she’s missing. “Just the one time.”
“Oh, are you in for a treat, then.”
His smile makes her nervous, and she tenses under his hold. “How d’ya mean?”
“Can’t say,” he shakes his head, but the grin remains in place. “Gained some respect for the integrity of timelines in my old age.”
Donna nods, wondering if Jack’s predicament with immortality has something to do with the years that glow painfully behind his eyes. “You’re wearing well,” she comments, and to her surprise he laughs aloud.
“Now who’s the flatterer?” he asks with a wink, but quickly sobers, his mouth a simple curve upwards, as if mimicking the reflection of a memory.
“Besides,” he whispers, leaning down to brush his lips against her ear with more innocence than she expected he was capable of. “I wouldn’t want to spoil the fun for you.”
“When you say fun,” Donna says warningly, “I think I’ve got the right to be nervous.”
Jack laughs again, though quieter - more private now. “I always did like you, Donna,” he speaks softly, brushing her hair delicately from her face. She wonders at his tenderness, and her jaw drops as she pulls away a bit, caught only on the backslide by his arms around her as a mortifying possibility enters her mind.
“Oh God,” she moans, the hand that was resting on his shoulder flying to cover her mouth in shock. “Don’t tell me I end up in your bed.”
He spins her around, trying not to fall over as he barks out a sharp chuckle, lowering his tone and narrowing his eyes sensually as he flirts shamelessly; “Now that’s one thing I’d be willing to risk a paradox for.”
She steps angrily on his left foot as they resume their normal sway, and he gets the point. “No. Not my bed,” he says, and she doesn’t miss the note of regret as he admits it. Worse still, she can’t help but appreciate it - at least someone wants her. “I’ve got somebody of my own by the time you get back. Which...” Jack trails off, his pace slowing, missing the rhythm of the fading music by just a hair as he loses himself in thought. “I wonder...”
His eyes snap suddenly into focus. “Where are the two of you headed next?”
“Not sure, really. I hadn’t thought.”
“I think I know where you’re headed,” Jack speaks softly, his voice far away. “Back home.”
“The two of you visit, a few months after things have settled back into routine after the Daleks,” Jack explains, pensive. “The Doctor told me something then, made me change my mind about doing something I wasn’t sure about. It came out of nowhere. I think,” Jack pauses as his face brightens considerably, wonder flooding his expression as enlightenment dawns and they stop moving entirely, still in the middle of the dance floor. “I think I told him to tell me.”
Donna grins warmly at him, disengaging from his arms and nodding in understanding as she begins to to approach the outer edges of the room once more before the next song picks up. “Go on,” she encourages him with a nod. “Go find him.”
“And leave a stunning woman like you all alone without a dance partner?” he asks sheepishly, unable to hide his desire to find the Doctor; and if Donna understands anything about anyone, it’s that.
“I’ll manage,” she insists. “Go on.”
She orders another glass of that delicious nectar - only this time it’s electric blue and tastes a bit like candy floss. She watches the bird-man from before dance with what is assumedly his bird-wife, all the while avoiding her eyes with deliberate care. She’s halfway through her third round of that sugary drink before she sees Jack with the Doctor, two figures somehow so very separate from everyone, even if no one else notices, as they enter through the archway leading from the entrance hall.
The Doctor catches her eye in an instant, smiling warmly as he makes his way towards her - she raises her cocktail glass in acknowledgement and takes another sip as he fights the throngs of people near the dessert spread to reach her.
“And Doctor,” Jack calls, approaching them once more with an afterthought, and he’s at their side in no time at all. “Just a tiny thing to add. Can you tell me that he really wants blue? I’ll understand, and I promise, it won’t change anything important,” he sounds completely honest here, and the Doctor looks almost surprised. “It’ll just cut down on the stress in waiting for the new waistcoats at the last minute.”
“I guessed burgundy, at first,” he shrugs indicatively towards Donna with a helpless sort of grin. “Red’s his color.”
“See you soon, I guess,” he flashes her a final, heart-stopping grin as he disappears into the crowd, mingling effortlessly with the rest of the guests
“Right,” Donna mumbles, both confused and jarred by the fortuitous meeting just as much as the hasty departure, though something in the Doctor’s eyes, as well as the dull hum of his mind in hers tells her that she’s not getting quite the full story.
In trying to determine just what it is she’s missing in the exchange between the two men, she completely misses the Doctor offering his arm wordlessly out to her, only noticing his gesture as he clears his throat and asks, with no small degree of hesitance; “May I?”
She breathes heavily, taking in the note of hope that she prays she’s not imagining in his eyes before she nods and grins softly at him as she wraps both hands around his forearm in assent; “You may.”
He spins her out onto the dance floor expertly, his face alight with an exhilaration she’d be envious of if she hadn’t been feeling the same. It’s different from dancing with Jack, because it wears her out - not because they move faster, or they dance longer (they do both, actually - but it doesn’t matter) - it’s because her hearts are pounding in her chest the whole time, whether they’re two-stepping or tangoing, or if they’re just standing still. His eyes never leave hers, and her feet are killing her by the end of the night; but when he dips her, she feels safe for the very first time in her life, and that alone is more than worth it.
Part Eight: Sonnets To A Dark Lady
Current Music: Let It Rain by Sarah Brightman
31 comments | Leave a comment
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small}