Title: Drops Of Gallifrey
Series: A TARDIS's Guide To The Galaxies
Rating: G
Characters: Ten, Donna, the Graske
References: Time Crash, Music of the Spheres, The Runaway Bride, Partners in Crime
Summary: Sequel to Make Me A Match, set after Music of the Spheres and Partners in Crime, and before Fires of Pompeii. For the uninitiated, the previous story was about Donna’s first night in the TARDIS. Much to the Doctor’s chagrin, the TARDIS was starting to act “shippy” in more respects than one. The Doctor was having none of it. This follows straight on.
Word count: Bizarrely, about 4700. Same as MMaM – though I didn’t plan it that way!

1. Make Me A Match


The Doctor flung open the door with a bang and eyed the occupant of the room with a baleful glare.

“I don’t care,” he cut in warningly before they could open their mouth. “Get. Out.”

“Not hurting anything,” whined the midget Graske, sliding nonetheless from its makeshift bed onto stumpy feet, its three tentacle-like crests tucked into a nightcap. A nightcap that – now that Doctor thought about it, his forehead furrowed – resembled one of his Victorian-needle-pointed pillowcases.

“Read my lips – I don’t care,” repeated the Doctor, folding his arms and raising his eyebrows. “I kicked you out just last week after your water pistol shenanigans – now I know who’s been nicking all my biscuits! – how’d you even get back in? – no, you know what? Not interested. I’ve just spent the worst part of two hours looking for a bedroom. I want this one vacated and you back where you crawled from by the time I say Raxacoricofallapatorius.”

“Your ship let me in,” protested the Graske, trying to sweep a pile of biscuit crumbs under the bed.

The Doctor snorted profusely.

“Yeah. Right.”

“True!” insisted the Graske. “Like last time. Space portal opened and your ship teleported me up here – whoosh!”

“And why would it do that?” asked the Doctor in dangerously patient tones, leaning his lanky frame against the doorway. The Graske shrugged.

“Graske doesn’t know. Maybe your ship wanted to let something in.”

“Like you?” suggested the Doctor mockingly, withdrawing his sonic screwdriver and flicking the setting to Temporary Tempestish Temporal Instability. With it he outlined a large, lazy circle in the air. A glowing purple portal appeared; miniature amber threads of lightning crackling across the surface. The Doctor pointed the screwdriver at the hole.

“Out. Now.”

The Graske muttered something under its breath and pottered towards the fizzling hole. Near the opening, it hesitated.

“But … what if there’s Something on the other side?” it said, peering through. “With teeth. What if it likes eating Graske?”

“Only one way to find out,” said the Doctor cheerfully. “Go on, quick – hop in.”

The Graske took a deep breath.

It disappeared.

“Oi, come on now, no sneaky tricks,” said the Doctor impatiently. “I can see you hiding behind that force field.”

His trainered foot extended around the portal and met with the Graske’s behind; his hand reaching over and whipping the pillowcase from its head at the same time. With a startled shout the Graske tipped head-first through the hole, limbs flailing puppet-like before it vanished for good. The Doctor triumphantly zipped the portal shut and twirled his screwdriver before tucking it into his breast pocket.

A couple of minutes later he was lying stiffly on the Graske’s tiny makeshift bed – really nothing more than a plank propped up on bricks – with his legs sticking well over the end, arms pinioned to his sides, the small pillowcase spread unsatisfyingly across his torso. Trying not to move a nanocentimetre in case he fell out. He decided that the first thing he was going to do before taking Donna on a trip was to cause a small, perfunctory explosion in the engine room. Nothing too drastic. Just to black out the lighting system long enough for him to stick on his night-vision goggles and rewire the mapping controls without the TARDIS getting hold of what he was up to. Oho, just let her try and swap his room around then.

His mind occupied with these pleasant thoughts, it wasn’t long before he drifted into slumber.

When he woke up, it was still dark, and cold. He forgot that he wasn’t in his Edwardian four-poster. He shifted a little and crashed onto the floor with a thud, stiff as the plank he’d been lying on.

“Right,” he muttered under his breath, scrambling to his feet and dusting himself off.

He froze. His fingertips prodded tentatively at his chest.

Oh no.

Oh no no no.

Was that Graske droppings he’d landed on? He shuddered.

The very last straw.

He firmly palmed open the door and strode down the corridor, mentally trying to place where he’d left his laser pliers. Out of all his tools they were the ones with maximum destructive properties. Not that they were meant to be like that; he just hadn’t managed to not explode them every time he used them. And for once this was going to come in excellently handy. Oh yes.

He was going to melt every blasted TARDIS shape-shifting wire he could get his hands on.

On his way through the museum wing, passing suits of exotic alien armour, he overtook Donna at bullet-train pace. Compared to him she seemed a steam engine shuffling down the corridor in stripy green pyjamas, hair all on end like flames from a funnel.

“Hello-busy-bye-talk-later,” said the Doctor, too intent on his TARDIS-crippling mission to stop.

When there was no reply, he threw a curious glance over his shoulder. Donna was still shuffling along. She didn’t seem to have noticed him. Her hand flopped out and hit the wall. It trailed over a beaked helmet visor, and a Kakavookian throwing star, and then a squid-shaped breastplate. If the Doctor didn’t know better, he’d have thought that she was still asleep. Intrigued, he stopped and watched the orangey-pinkish corridor flex and creak. There was a whirring sound and a jet nozzle emerged from one of the walls. It sprayed a fine mist over the opposite wall; spongifying it as it ate itself away, replaced by buds branching out around the edges. They solidified into hard coral just in time for Donna’s fingers to curl involuntarily around the new doorway. She passed blearily through.

A smile cracked across the Doctor’s face as he caught on to what was happening. Forgetting all about the pliers, he stuck his hands in his pockets and noiselessly followed Donna through a warren of corridors and grand halls and temperature vents (and at least four bedrooms with double beds, but the Doctor pretended not to notice these.) At last a familiar pillar-box-red door swung open. The floor tipped down to a gentle slope. Donna’s slippers scuttled through the doorway and the TARDIS creaked in relief. Without warning the corridor lights flickered off and the Doctor found himself in pitch darkness, the only light filtering from the open door. Evidently the ship had powered down to restore her ion fluids, having practically tied herself in knots to deliver a half-asleep Donna to the kitchen.

“Morning,” remarked the Doctor with a grin, sauntering in. “Sleep well, did we?”

Donna dropped hard into a wooden chair and looked up at him through tangled red strands of hair. She blinked. She looked as though she were about to say something. Her mouth opened.

The Doctor waited.

After a few moments of silence, he began to grow impatient. Her mouth was still hanging open, stretching wider.

Oh. A yawn.

A very long and silent yawn. The Doctor watched Donna’s gaping jaws in fascination.

At long last her teeth clicked shut.

“And who,” mumbled Donna, her eyelids drooping shut and springing open before doing the same thing again, “are you?”

His grin faltered at the edges.

“The Doctor,” he said uncertainly, scratching his neck.

“Doctor who?”

“You – you mean you don’t know?”

Donna squinted an eye as though trying to remember.

“Right,” she said resignedly, slapping her palms flat on the tabletop. “Talk me through it. How drunk was I? Had we just met? Was Nerys there? At any point – and be quite clear about this – at any point did I get up on a table and sing Ain’t No Mountain High Enough?”

The Doctor gaped. His hand plunged into his pocket in search of his screwdriver, with the intention of bleeping Donna’s head for damage. Or just plain insanity. There was always that.

“Oh!” said Donna suddenly, seeing the metal tube. Her hands flapped tiredly in the air. “Click. Doctor, and Adiposes and all that. Sorry. Just a tad …” she yawned, “ … sleeeeepy. Had horrible dream. About a chocolate volcano – sounds good, but wasn’t. Cocoa everywhere.” She shuddered. “I remember cake. Did we have cake? We did, didn’t we. There was a lot of cake. Don’t ever give me cake before bed.”

She got up. The Doctor eyed her unsteady progress around the kitchen with amusement. He sat down and relaxed back, folding his arms. This was something of a novelty. His mind cast itself back to his former companions. Leela had always been up at the crack of dawn to roll away her sleeping mat in the TARDIS garden before sharpening her poison darts and practicing the cut of death on his prized joojoojooj trees. Harry was a military man, always up early to do a brisk morning round of the ship. Martha had sashayed around in satin pyjamas and kimono. Rose had bounded out at a random hour every day – but always fully showered and bubbling to go. He couldn’t remember anything like this flannel-half-buttoned-up, messy-haired creature padding blearily about his kitchen, totally at ease with her surroundings.

And with him.

Proper mates.

It was oddly endearing, but at the same time he couldn’t understand it. He didn’t do domestic. He didn’t like domestic. Of that, at least, he was convinced.

He watched as Donna, having exhausted the non-contents of the cupboards, turned around and found a cup of tea smoking invitingly on the tiled bench.

“God, just what I needed. You made me tea? Watch it, spiky. A girl could get used to this.”

The Doctor pouted and his eyes crossed as they shot up to gaze at his tuft. Spiky? He shook his head, annoyed that he hadn’t had the tea idea first.

“Wasn’t me.”

“Then who …?”

The Doctor lifted his shoulders and eyebrows, his gaze travelling around the TARDIS.

Donna’s mouth parted in a perfect O.

“She did …?” she said in a hushed whisper, stabbing her fingers in the air, as though afraid of the TARDIS hearing. “Your ship made me tea? Actually made it? – what, popped in the little spoon and everything? That’s – well, that’s nice.”

The light in the room flickered a little; like a wink, the Doctor noted in surprise, and Donna darted an unsure glance at the ceiling. The light flickered again. As the Doctor breathlessly watched the exchange, Donna made her way to the table. She paused, stroking the backs of her fingers gently over the wall as she slurped from her mug.

“Thanks darling.”

An innocuous little gesture, but one that made the Doctor freeze, his hearts suddenly crackling and sending warm ripples coursing through him.

None of his companions – not one in all his hundreds of years – had ever treated the TARDIS like that. Like – well, like he did. His friends just laughed at him when he patted the console, or humoured him when he talked to the engines. Some of them rolled their eyes. Sarah Jane had been a particularly champion eye-roller. But Donna …

He looked at her more intently than he had before. She wasn’t paying him any attention at all, engrossed happily in a second cup of tea that had materialised on the table. He, on the other hand, couldn’t for the lives of him tear his gaze away from her. He was beginning to think that “mate” really wasn’t a word that he should have used at all in connection with Donna Noble, because now it was bringing all sorts of other potential relationships to mind – ones that he hadn’t considered ever since –

His eyes slammed shut before painful memories could resurface.

But with one of his senses cut off, his hearing was more acute. He could detect the gentle clink of Donna’s teaspoon in her mug, and the soft slurp as she drank her tea. He felt his hearts beating delightfully flighty little rhythms in ways they really really oughtn’t. Somewhere in the darkness, too, he became aware of the TARDIS cheekily creaking along in time. He performed a quick cardiac tripass to thump some sense and order back into his inner workings. The TARDIS mechanisms sourly ground to a halt with a series of hollow bangs.

“What’s wrong?” said a voice.

He opened his eyes to Donna’s concerned expression. He unscrunched his face and wondered how to phrase things.

“Er. Nothing.”

Beautifully phrased.

He noticed that Donna was now tucking into a plate of bacon and eggs that the TARDIS must have procured from somewhere, because there was no way he had any. He looked around hopefully for another plate. None appeared. Grumpily he ignored his rumbling stomach and got up to inspect the biscuit tins. Oh, the Graske had done a proper job on them. Not a crumb left. The Doctor shifted the last tin back into position, and as he did so a tiny speck on the shelf caught his eye. He pressed his finger to it and lifted it to his eye.

A raisin.

Well, that was better than nothing, even if it was grey and shrivelled and the Graske obviously hadn’t even wanted it. The Doctor carried it back to the table and set it down in front of him. He looked at it.

“Fantastic bacon,” said Donna in oblivious ecstasy, slicing away even faster. She licked a bit of yellowy-orange yolk from the corner of her lip. “You not having any?”

“Not hungry,” replied the Doctor pettishly. He bit into his raisin.

Donna scoffed and pushed back her plate.

“No wonder you’re a twig. How you have any energy to bounce around like you do I’ll never know. We’re going somewhere today, yeah?”

The Doctor nodded, chewing on his toothful of raisin.

“Right,” said Donna, swinging her arms and stretching. “I’m off to get ready. Where we going?”

“Ah,” said the Doctor in enticing tones that he hoped didn’t indicate that he hadn’t thought that far ahead. “It’s a surprise.”

“You know, some women don’t like surprises, Doctor,” said Donna pointedly. He swallowed. “Fortunately,” she continued after a pause, “… I’m not one of them.”

His face relaxed.

“See you in a bit,” said Donna with an easy grin.

“Bye,” he said, smiling.

Once he was sure she was gone, the Doctor dropped all pretence of diffidence and grabbed her plate, hungrily mopping up the rest of her yolk with his raisin. Why didn’t the TARDIS feed him? It was his ship, after all. And just who was it who had nursed her through crippling bouts of oil depletion and chameleon-short-circuitry? In his opinion the situation was calling for some serious retaliation. He rested his jaw dreamily on his fist and considered. Possibilities flickered intriguingly through his mind, but he dismissed a few of them out-of-hand as too undestructive. Then it hit him. Oh yes. She’d be humming a different electromagnetic pulse when he changed the console room desktop theme from metawattiancoralfishies9.5 to jailhouserock1.2. No more Mr Nice Timeguy. Iron bars and balls and manacles everywhere.

This settled to his satisfaction, he decided to get ready himself. He pushed back his chair and wandered into the corridor – lit almost painfully brightly now, he noticed.

“Oh, going to start being helpful, are you?” he remarked, strolling along. He supposed his ship had taken his mental threat seriously, because almost at once he found himself in front of his bedroom door.

Still wedged in next to Donna’s door. He could hear running water and the sound of singing.

All right, not entirely helpful then.

Reluctantly he opened the door, and after some lengthy consideration in his mirror … changed his shirt. Satisfied with this, he dipped his fingers into his pot of Melamaquian styling wax and, after indulging in a bit of a lick of the contents, squinted at his reflection, his fingers working busily to form floppy spikes. He was so occupied with his task that he barely noticed when the singing stopped. A door in his wall opened and he whirled around to see a head of wet red tendrils appearing around the corner, followed by a pair of bare shoulders. The Doctor swallowed and tried very hard not to notice these.

“Oh – hello!” said Donna in apparent unconcern. “Fantastic hot water in there. Seriously, you could drown a massive slug or something.” She froze at her own words and shuddered, involuntarily stepping further into the Doctor's room to reveal a towel clutched around her body. “You haven’t ever, have you? Drowned a giant slug in there? Cos if you have …”

He hastily assured her that he hadn’t. Donna looked around.

“Thought this was my wardrobe. Didn’t know you were in here … what’s this room?”

“Mine,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “The TARDIS must have moved it here.” He eyed Donna nervously, but she didn’t seem to suspect anything untoward on his ship’s part.

“Reminds me of being at school with Nerys,” she said, grinning at him. He grinned back. This might be fun after all. “Little midnight snack parties,” she continued, “popping in to borrow the hair straightener … speaking of, have you got one? With a non alien plug, I mean. Forgot mine.”

“Catch,” said the Doctor, digging around in a box and tossing it across the room. Donna caught it neatly.

“Had just a bit of an inkling you might have one,” she said teasingly, casting an amused glance at his pot of styling gel. He blushed.

“Now now, off you trot,” he said in lightly warning tones. “Got to get all ready for our first trip, haven’t you?”

“What to wear, what to wear …” mused Donna with at least as much deliberation as though she were attending an intergalactic political convention. She shot the Doctor an accusing look. “Still haven’t told me where we’re going.”

His mind was currently occupied with that very question. Where should they go? A suggestion was running through the back compartment of his mind. He rummaged mentally through the layers of thought processing busily in his head. A tune emerged – nothing as nice as his transcription of the Music of the Spheres – he really had to see about getting that published. It would look brilliant on the cover. Music of the Spheres, by The Doctor.

He shook his head. Focus. (And not on Donna’s shoulders.) This tune was something else; something human. Stars and Stripes Forever, he thought it was. What were the words running along to it?

Oh.

Roman baths, Roman baths, Roman baths. Roman baths, Roman baths, Roman baaaa-aaa-aaaaaths.

So much for not noticing the shoulders.

“Told you,” he said, trying not to look at Donna. “It’s a surprise.”

She rolled her eyes; even not looking at her, he could see that much.

“Fine – just tell me, should I dress up or down?”

The Doctor thought for a minute.

“Downish,” he ventured tentatively, “… but sort of uppish …” He flung his hands in the air. “I’m a bloke, Donna – I don’t know!”

She huffed and retreated back into her room, murmuring something about hopeless men.

The sheer squeal that assaulted his ears two seconds later had him pulling out his water pistol, ready to roll in, spy-like, for the attack. But then a red-headed towel-wrapped blur was rushing back into his room and attacking him. With a massive hug. Just as quickly it released him and disappeared back inside. The Doctor stared after Donna in open-mouthed surprise. Judging by her reaction, and the spiralling clothing racks he could glimpse through the open doors, the TARDIS had installed a direct passage for Donna straight to his giant wardrobe room. He stuck his hands in his pockets and his expression slowly stretched into a goofy grin.

Then his nostrils widened and fluttered, taking in a delicate sniff of the perfumed air lingering in Donna’s wake. The smile faded. His knees went weak. He actually staggered. His vision became blurry, and he thought he felt something wet trickle down his cheek and jaw.

Memories hurtled flashing and unbidden through his mind as though playing in fast motion; sights and sounds and smells that he had kept suppressed for eternities.

Mountain drupe orchards in autumn, lit up by a flaming sunset.

A sundial, the twin shadows slowly making their way across weathered purple stone.

Lolling in the grass beside a laughing Time Lady with grey eyes and hair that gleamed under orange skies.

And nearby, a tow-headed little Timelad, trying to tug himself up into a gnarled silvery-leafed tree …

“Hey. HEY! Where’d you drift off to, spaceman? You all right?”

How long had he been standing there, fists clenched? His surroundings swam back into focus, and through a filmy blur of tears there she was. Wearing a loose blue-patterned tunic, her hair tied up in a gleaming ponytail. Her hand gripping his arm in concern. So close – the scent far stronger. Where had she found that bottle? Actually – no, he had a pretty good idea; he looked up at the tall ceiling and took a deep steadying breath. His gaze lowered to the woman in front of him, noting her anxious expression.

Donna Noble. Her name … like his own … like theirs. His family’s. That was just a cruel twist, wasn’t it. The icing on the proverbial. No wonder he’d felt so drawn to her.

How had she even been beamed up into the TARDIS, anyway? Even taking the Huon particles into account, it shouldn’t have happened. He’d avoided thinking about it at the time, and now he had a niggling feeling at the back of his mind that he knew why. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to make sense of it. Donna had been pulled into the ship. TARDIS defences down had done it, but that had just been an oversight … hadn’t it? True, they’d landed awfully near Donna’s car the second time …

It hit him like a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster.

The Graske. Teleported up not just once, but twice.

The TARDIS had been aiming for something else. Someone else. And when she couldn’t, she’d gone straight to the source and bloody well parked in front of it.

His eyes darted threateningly from wall to wall, but for once there was no answering creak from the TARDIS. She stayed almost painfully silent, like a small child being caught in the wrong. He was furious. And she could sense it. He felt the age-old anger bubbling up, and tried to keep it under control. But to his surprise this didn’t seem as difficult a thing to do as usual, because Donna was still there, her hand on his arm; and something in the gentle, sympathetic pressure of those fingers was squashing down his anger towards his ship and replacing it with something else quite unexpected and painful and wonderful as it spread throughout his chest, sticking in his throat.

Maybe – just maybe – the TARDIS had gotten it right this time.

“Donna,” he said, his voice cracking ever so slightly, “that – that perfume.”

“Yeah? Oh! Was I not supposed to use the shampoo and stuff in there?” said Donna in alarm. “Is it toxic for humans? Oh my god, it’s going to leak through my head and shrivel up my brain, isn’t it?” She shrieked and batted at her hair in panic. “Get it off!”

The Doctor swallowed and reached out, stilling her frantic hands and linking her fingers with his own before Donna could dash off and do something just a little bit rash, judging by the look on her face; like unmethodically shaving that red head he was already becoming too fond of.

“No,” he confirmed. “The TARDIS must have put it there for you. Course you can use it. It’s not dangerous.”

Except, of course, it was.

Very, very dangerous. More dangerous than the Huon particles, really – though not in the way Donna might imagine. This was dangerous for both of them. It was of paramount importance he find that bottle of Gallifreyan perfume and lock it away where his meddlesome ship couldn’t get to it. And then he would simply compose himself and put a charming smile on his face and take Donna on a shopping trip, just as she’d asked him last night. To Ancient Rome. That way he could ditch her for a while at the baths and duck back to spend some nice personal quality time, all alone.

Leisurely banging dents into the TARDIS console with a mallet.

He noticed that his hands felt empty, and it was with a tiny sensation of loss that he realised Donna had gently but firmly withdrawn the warmth of her fingers from his.

Then he felt a pair of thumbs pressing softly against his cheeks.

“Dusty as anything in there,” said Donna lightly, flinging away her wettened fingers and jerking her head over her shoulder at the wardrobe door. The Doctor’s eyes followed. “Some alien. You really are such a bloke. You should get the vacuum out once in a while – that’s if you lot even have vacuums and not … I dunno, all weirdo super suction blasters or something.”

“Oi, lot to be said for super suction blasters,” returned the Doctor with a watery version of his usual grin. That half-smile on Donna’s face … oh, she knew it wasn’t the dust making his eyes well up – even if she didn’t know what it was – but he also understood that she wasn’t going to say anything. Protecting him yet again. Loud as she had proved she could be on occasion, he was grateful for her tact right now. Just how was it that the woman was so perceptive? That she already understood him instinctively? He almost thought that he could possibly lov –

With a snap he shut off the neural synapse of that thought, and configured his cerebral response to burn the nerve endings for good measure.

Suddenly Donna's eyes widened.

“Doctor,” she said in a strained whisper. “Don’t … move.”

The Doctor felt a chill run down his spine. Then he caught sight of it in the mirror.

The Graske.

Never had the Doctor been so happy to see that ugly little face. It really couldn’t be more perfect timing. This time he could be the knight in shining armour. Although, wait; did that mean he’d been Donna’s damsel in distress before? He didn’t know that he particularly liked that idea. Well, in any case, it only steeled his resolve.

“Don’t panic, Donna,” he said in low, urgent tones. “That thing’s a Graske. Deadly, they can be.” Donna nodded, gulping.

Stealthily the Doctor tiptoed backwards, keeping a careful eye in the mirror and making all sorts of complicated hand signals to Donna. Yes, good, that was it; he looked quite dashing.

There was a cough behind him, and he felt something tugging on his sleeve. He whirled around.

“Pardon,” said the Graske.

“Yup?” said the Doctor enquiringly, feeling Donna’s curious eyes on his back. He lowered his voice. “Pretend you’re a thief.”

“I am a thief,” said the Graske out loud, sounding puzzled. “That’s why I returned. I forgot to give you my calling card.”

“Your … calling card?” said the Doctor in perplexed tones. He heard a snort behind him.

“Yes,” continued the Graske earnestly. It pointed to the name on the card. “If you have need of my services. Contact details there.”

“Well – thank you,” said the Doctor blankly, and heard an even louder snort. The Graske bowed and vanished.

The Doctor stared down at the card. Then a nasty thought occurred to him and he patted his breast pocket.

“Donna, he got my screwdriver!”

Donna burst into raucous laughter.

The Doctor felt quite weak, and looked around for a helpful cup of tea from the TARDIS.

He wasn’t entirely surprised when none appeared.

Continued in Marvellous Night For A Pooshdance