Title: Marvellous Night For A Pooshdance
Series: A TARDIS's Guide To The Galaxies
Rating: G
Characters: Ten, Donna
References: Fires of Pompeii, misc other
Summary: Sequel to Make Me A Match (straight after Partners in Crime) and Drops Of Gallifrey (straight after Make Me A Match). This part comes after Fires of Pompeii. Sorry it took so long, but it's longer than the other parts and I wanted to make it up to par. I hope it’s worth the wait. Great fun writing it!
Word count: About 5600

1. Make Me A Match
2. Drops Of Gallifrey


Donna closed the doors of the TARDIS. Behind the blue-painted wood, Pompeii vanished.

The Doctor wandered wearily over to the console, sticking one hand in a pocket and twiddling a few switches that didn’t need at all to be twiddled with the other. He tried very hard not to look at Donna. Still wearing that blasted floaty purple dress; a walking reminder of their adventure. Truthfully, he felt angry and ashamed of his behaviour, even if he had relented to Donna’s tearful pleas, and he didn’t know quite what to say.

Donna said it for him.

“Thank you.”

He glanced up.

“Yup,” he said nonchalantly, looking away and continuing to tweak switches at random. Idly he noticed the TARDIS tweaking one of them back with an annoyed click, and when touching the next switch resulted in an ever so slight sensation of electrocution, he knew what his ship was trying, not very subtly, to tell him. He looked up.

“You were right,” he told Donna stiffly, and watched her mouth fall open. Well, she was right. He swallowed and pressed on. “Sometimes I need someone.” The words caught in his throat – words that he’d once declared passionately to someone else, centuries and centuries ago. His eyes dwelled on Donna, silently begging her not to leave him alone again like – like ...

Perish the thought.

“Welcome aboard,” he managed to say. Hardly able to get the words out; absolutely terrified of what the reaction might be. In blowing up at her, he’d crossed a line from which there was no return. Was the apology for nothing? Would she demand to be taken home anyway? But as he watched her carefully, her eyebrows knitted – sympathetically? – and her mouth pursed into a little wry smile.

“Yeah,” she said.

A single syllable. Yet the Doctor thought he’d never heard a nicer sound. His hearts thumped painfully and he wondered if he’d actually just felt them try to zoom across his chest towards each other for a squidgy cardiovascular embrace. Solemn though the moment was, he couldn’t help a tiny smile flitting over his face, and Donna’s own smile widened as she exhaled. He realised with a start that she’d been just as worried about what he’d been going to say. Well, he supposed he couldn’t blame her; not after flying off the handle like he had done.

Speaking of handles …

He pulled down the ignition lever with a flourish, relieved that his ship seemed to find his sort-of-apology to Donna adequate enough to not try killing him again. The engines roared into power, the floor shuddered, and then the TARDIS was spinning off into great swirls of no time at all.

Inside, the Doctor dropped his hand from the lever and moved it into his pocket as he gazed up at the pumping time rotor. From the corner of his eye he was aware of Donna wandering over to the jump seat and plonking herself down. He tried to delay joining her for as long as possible, but when it got to the stage where the TARDIS evidently decided if he twiddled any more switches she’d be sending him to the medical bay all frizzled in a body bag, he scuffed his way over to the jump seat and lowered himself down, glancing at his ginger-haired companion. She returned the look. In a sudden flash they weren’t in the TARDIS at all – they were back in Pompeii. Spending their last moments alone, together. Hot rocks steaming around them. Faces smeary with ash. Gazes burning with the intensity of invisible laser bolts. Having to say goodbye just nearly as soon as they’d met.

Then Donna snatched her eyes away, and the Doctor blinked in confusion, and they were back in the familiar junky surroundings of the console room.

For a moment the memory was too vivid - they couldn’t look at each other – but then the Doctor heard a very definite sniff. His hand blindly groped, quivering, for Donna’s fingers. It found and gripped them. He dared a look back, to see that so had she, and that her eyes were red and dribbly again. But this time not because of him. They lunged for each other at the same time.

“Oh my god, we could have died,” Donna told his shoulder, teeth clacking out the words like a typewriter.

“I know – I know,” he said, his voice deep and raw as he folded his arms even tighter around her and rocked her a little. “Shhh. You’re in shock.”

“Duhhhh,” she intoned into his ear, shaking like a piece of machinery. His mouth quirked against her cheek.

Ah, Donna Noble.

He tried to juggle the fabric of her long purple gown, managing to pass up the hem and fling it helpfully over his shoulder where Donna unceremoniously blew her nose into it. They sat there, swathed in purple, neither bothering to untangle themselves.

Slowly, Donna’s shudders became an occasional tremor.

Idly, the Doctor’s hands creepy-crawlied their way up Donna’s back and began braiding her tresses into a nifty sort of balloon-style K9.

“Soooooo,” said Donna, her head making no effort to lift from his shoulder.

What did one say after a near death experience like that? Offer to make a cup of tea? Maybe not quite the right thing, thought the Doctor; still, there was always Ho Wo Slug Fug tea from Shan Shen, which actually was something akin to a near death experience, and was guaranteed to put you into a mild hallucinatory full body coma for at least a day or two. Great stuff.

“So,” he repeated, eyes skimming the peacefully humming room over Donna’s spanking new K9 bouffant.

“Know what we need right now?” said Donna, evidently deciding that the hugging had gone on more than long enough and shoving him gently away.

“Therapy?”

“Yeah,” said Donna sarcastically, swinging her arm around his shoulders and hoisting them both to their feet; he let her. “A special sort of Earth therapy – it’s called alcohol and it’s very, very good.”

He was convinced. She could actually read his mind. He was about to launch enthusiastically into the praises of Ho Wo Slug Fug tea, when an even better thought occurred to him.

“The Dancing Moons of Poosh!”

“The dancing moons of what?”

“Poosh, Donna, Poosh. It’s a planet – well, I say planet; more like a big … thing of ballish … gas thingy … stuff.”

“Talk it up a bit more, why don’t you; you make it sound so intriguing,” scoffed Donna, folding her arms and regarding him as one might a small child.

“Biggest orbit of moons anywhere in the universe,” said the Doctor enticingly, twirling his fingers and grinning. “Totally different and random they go round, bit like ping pong balls. Love ping pong – brilliant!”

Donna sighed, but the Doctor could see a hint of a smile on those pursed lips.

“Ping pong,” she repeated flatly.

“There’s even one that does a sort of jitterbug,” he promised, with an air of producing the clincher.

“Oh, well, if it jitterbugs that’s got me convinced,” said Donna in tones that – if the Doctor knew human women (which he suspected he probably still didn’t) – might have meant the complete opposite.

“Did I mention there’s a twenty-seven-hour-a-day bar?”

He’d hardly finished speaking before Donna was already at the console.

“How’d you turn this TARDIS thing of yours on?”

* * *

After picking themselves up from Donna’s bang of a landing (after the mention of bars the Doctor hadn’t been able to prise her away from the console even with flinging both arms around her waist and bracing himself against the console with a foot; he was already resolving to teach her the basics of TARDIS navigation) the Doctor shrugged on his overcoat and opened the door in gentlemanly fashion. Donna ignored the gentlemanly fashion bit of it and took one step out. Then one step back in.

“What, not coming?” asked the Doctor in surprise. “I thought you wanted a drink.”

“This is a posh place, you moron,” she hissed at him. “I’m a mess. People are looking.”

“No they’re not,” he said, in not completely convincing tones. “You look … lovely.”

“Oh, shut up,” said Donna in annoyed tones that brooked no argument, picking off a clod of mud as she re-emerged. “Yick.” He hid a smile; evidently she’d decided they were past mere niceties now. Fine by him. “I tell you,” she continued, “if my mum could see me now – actually she’d probably strip me off and dump me in the bath like back at school. Terror of the Sandpit, that was me … ooh look, drinkies.”

He chuckled as she made a bee-line for the menu while completely ignoring the roped chains of Pooshes gliding past in the star-studded distance. Much like a giant pearl necklace in a black velvet jewellery box – but a necklace that in parts jitterbugged and zigzagged and cartwheeled and hopped and did all manner of strange things that necklaces generally aren’t supposed to do.

“You could be as filthy as a – a … well, as a pig and I wouldn’t care,” declared the Doctor stoutly, following behind with his hands pocketed.

“Inspiring loads of confidence,” replied Donna dryly, eyes scanning the card. She cocked her head at the waiter. “Oi! You over there – Jeeves. Bring us whatever you’ve got that’s strongest. Lots of it. Buckets of it.” She took another look at the list of prices and her eyes narrowed. She pointed at the Doctor. “He’ll pay.”

The waiter looked questioningly at the Doctor. The Doctor waggled his eyebrows humorously.

“Very good, modommmmm,” the waiter told Donna, leading the way to a booth and scribbling away on page after page of his order pad with enthusiasm before leaving, proffering many bows. Donna blew out a sigh. She drummed her fingers on the table and watched Poosh-009 bounce past the window before turning her smile towards the Doctor. He eyed her critically and licked his finger, reaching for her cheek. Her smile disappeared. She swatted his hand away.

“Whatchoo doing? Stop it.”

“Hold on, you just got a bit of …”

He stuck his tongue between his teeth, concentrating as he tried to wipe away some of the ash marks. He had to admit that his handiwork wasn’t very good. What he mainly seemed to be accomplishing was turning a small dark smudge into an even larger, darker smudge.

“Better?” asked Donna in female concern.

“Much!” promised the Doctor brightly, and when Donna craned her head to admire the famed polka of Poosh-242424, he took the opportunity to extend a finger and slide a stripy Verangian pot plant in front of the mirrored seat back, which at the moment was reflecting the breakdancing of Poosh-5938. Fortunately Donna was far too busy staring at all the aliens in the bar to notice her own appearance. A smirk settled at the corner of the Doctor’s mouth as he watched. After a while, though, aliens were beginning to stare back. The Doctor’s smile faded. He stretched out his sneaker under the table and tapped on Donna’s shoe.

“Knock knock.”

Her head snapped back.

“Oi! What?”

“Stop staring.”

“But see that person over there – he’s got five arms,” she said in a strained whisper, swivelling to gaze again.

“Yeeeep. So?”

“No, I don’t think you heard me, I said he’s got five arms. Oh god. He’s seen us. Don’t look! Why’s he staring? Is he dangerous? Does he have fangs? If he opens his mouth will it have fangs in it?”

“Don’t be silly, Donna. Probably he’s never seen anyone with two arms.”

Donna made a little noise like “Oh!” and her mouth popped closed like a fish. She turned around, much to the Doctor’s relief. After a moment, though, he began wriggling, and wasn’t completely sure why. Until he realised that he’d become the object of Donna’s fascination. She was staring steadily, her chin propped in her hands, eyes roving unashamedly over him.

“Oi!” he said, wriggling uncomfortably again.

“Sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “It’s just … you know what? I forgot you were an alien. Until you –”

She broke off and bit her lip, not quite meeting the Doctor’s eyes. He coughed hurriedly, knowing she had been about to refer to his outburst after Pompeii. “You … you don’t look like one, is what I mean,” she finished; and then eyed him, suddenly suspicious. “You’re not pulling my leg, are you? You’re not really some nerdy sci-fi geek who built a spaceship in his garage?”

“Nerdy sci-fi geek? Me? – the Doctor? A Time Lord?”

“Oh yawn yawn – yes you, your high and mightiness. You’re telling me no one ever thought you weren’t an alien before? I mean, you wear flipping glasses. That’s dodgy to begin with. No laser surgery in the ten billionth century or whatever it is then?”

The Doctor unbuttoned his jacket, taking Donna’s hand and placing it on the thin cotton. She looked at him sceptically. Quietly he took her other hand and placed it on the other side of his chest. After a moment her eyes widened and she promptly folded forward over the table to drop her face to his chest, pressing her ear against the double heartbeats. He looked down at her messy red hair spread over him and snickered in amusement.

“Wait for it,” he promised; and, squeezing his eyes shut, struck up a rendition of Forty-Seven Ginger-Headed Sailors in perfect time with the Charlestoning of Poosh-23. Donna seemed mildly impressed.

“Though don’t think this means you’re gonna start groping at me, you hyper-spaced-up Casanova,” she warned him, lifting her face to bestow one of the special glares he’d already gathered were reserved for him. “I’m not a flipping alien. Regular heart. One.” She tapped on his chest with a grubby fingernail. “Not a jukebox.”

“Ah – but don’t you realise you’re alien to me too, Donna? Too warmish, you humans are. Bit like a hothouse orchid from Nebblebobbula Five; quite interesting how they flower really, they open up and let a beam of sunlight penetrate them …”

Here he paused, eyeing Donna curiously as she really did begin to resemble a blushing Nebblebobbulan hothouse orchid, her cheeks clashing with her hair.

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?” he said, mouth hanging open.

“Stop talking like that.”

“Like wha – oh!” His eyes bugged and he swallowed. “Yup.”

They tried not to look at each other and stared instead out the window with great interest at Poosh-6969.

The Doctor made a comment about the weather. Donna agreed that there was such a thing as weather, and that sometimes it rained. Sometimes it didn’t. It depended on the atmospheric pressure. The Doctor agreed with this too, and then they caught each other’s eye and blushed again and stopped talking altogether. Luckily at this juncture their drinks arrived (wheeled to their table in an enormous ice-filled tub) and both made sure to select far too many bottles and to slurp very loudly to make up for the lull in conversation.

Gradually, the faint tinges of colour left their cheeks and with a little help from the drinks the conversation returned to its normal pitch. And how they could talk! In the space of ten minutes, they’d covered Donna’s views on religion (by the time she’d blown off a bit of steam the Doctor gathered it amounted to believing in nothing except the sanctity of chocolate), clothing stores (she called them evil, twisted conglomerations – he couldn’t argue with that, although from a completely different perspective), art (according to Donna some of it wanky but some of it quite good), and electric toothbrushes (she even had one in her pocket, and he hadn’t even known she’d had pockets in that dress, or where she’d gotten her hands on an electric toothbrush in ancient Pompeii, but he kindly offered to sonic it for her; she said no.) They also covered his own views on bubblewrap (brilliant), sushi (despicable), nanocomputers (despicable), wind-up clockwork monkeys (brilliant), and bananas (here he must have glazed over a bit because he came hurriedly to with Donna threatening to pour his glass of Hokey Cokey Cola over his head.)

“I had a banana aversion at one stage,” he remarked in disbelief. “Mind you, it was a couple hundred years ago. Didn’t last. Knew it wouldn’t. Bananas are good.”

“So, this age thing,” said Donna, pointedly ignoring him and latching onto the different tack. “If you’re how old you say you are, you must’ve had … I dunno, hundreds of people travelling with you.”

That was true. Constant company without getting too close to anyone. He’d had heaps of friends. Some of them he’d picked up solely for their Intergalactic Snooker playing skills and they’d spent weeks on end playing snooker on the TARDIS console in their rolled-up shirtsleeves, arguing over how many quadromils of chalk to use and whether it was an infringement to start using pieces of the console that fell off as makeshift cues. Stuff like that was a brilliant distraction.

“What am I saying?” added Donna suddenly, gesturing at the alien-populated bar. “Even aliens with you.” He nodded. “Got any insider info for me? Oh I know, tell me about Time Lords. You’re one, you must have flitted round with some. Unless you’re all hermits. Or like those germs that split into two and keep replicating.” She paused uncertainly. “You – you don’t … do you?”

“Course we do! … Nup, just kidding.”

He fielded the hit well – probably deserved it, that one – and waited for the next question.

“Come onnnn, Doctor, tell me! Any weird little habits I should know about? Eating insects, bleeding green blood, hogging the shower – you know, that sort of thing. Who’d you travel with out of your lot?”

His jaw tightened. He stared mutely.

“I did it again, didn’t I?” said Donna in evident self-annoyance. The Doctor lowered his head. “Sod me and my big mouth,” she went on, taking his response quite rightly as agreement. “Don’t answer. Please, don’t.”

“No, I want to,” he choked out, instantly. He trusted her. “I – yes, I did. Travel with some of them.”

“And … oh. But you lost someone, didn’t you,” said Donna in such gentle tones that he wouldn’t have thought they could come from the same person who could holler like no other. He looked askance at her for a long time, debating whether to say it. Whether he could even bring himself to talk about it, after so long spent trying to forget.

“My – my wife,” he finally got out with an effort, gazing out the window as Poosh-1001 waltzed past, its pale surface veiled in light silvery mists. And then he wasn’t quite sure if that was the moon, or his eyes getting blurry.

“I’m sorry,” he heard Donna say, and in the next moment a hand was laid over his. He gripped it tightly. “You have to travel with someone, don’t you,” she continued with uncanny insight. He glanced up. She wasn’t watching him. Her eyes were fixed on the rocky brown crater of Poosh-8 catching up with Poosh-1001 and spinning them off together. “Because you lost her. And you can’t be alone.”

She was right, of course. Was she ever not right about him?

“Stuck with me now,” she added self-disparagingly. “Must be a bit of a let-down from hanging around with Time Lords.” She waggled her fingers. “Super powers. And then normal boring Donna.” She waggled her drink and flashed a cheeky grin. “Biiiit tipsy.”

He sighed. Appreciated the attempt to cheer him up, but it made him feel worse. She wasn’t “normal boring Donna.” Why didn’t she believe that? She’d said he needed someone. And she was right. Now he had her. That seemed right too.

“Not normal or boring at all,” he told her, managing a grin. “You’re brilliant. Brilliant as any of them. Brillianter, in fact.”

She snorted and slurped through her straw.

“Yeah right. Bet you say that to all the girls.”

“Not all,” he told her meaningfully, and she blushed a little, but kept sipping.

“What was she like? Your wife.”

“Oh – she was beautiful,” said the Doctor earnestly, leaning back with his legs idly crossed at the ankles. A sympathetic half-smile puckered the corner of Donna’s mouth, encouraging him on. “Well! – more than beautiful, really,” he bragged with assurance. “Stunning.” He threw Donna a sidelong look under his lashes. “Everyone at the Academy wanted her.”

“I just bet they did,” said Donna in innocent tones that somehow managed to insinuate a whole lot more.

He couldn’t help but blush; but he grinned anyway, a huge, bright grin like a megawatt.

“And she picked you. Can’t see why,” teased Donna, leaning over the table to pick a loose bit of cotton from his collar. “I could seriously thread a needle with you … oh, but I forgot. You had a different body. So you say. Still not gonna actually believe that till you do your – your morphy thing bang in front of me, sunshine.” She paused, and her eyes narrowed. “You’ll have clothes on, though – right?”

He grinned, choosing not to answer that directly.

“Yeah, you’d have liked me back then,” he promised cheekily, and could have sworn that she went a bit pinker. “Buff,” he enunciated, wickedly.

She gave him another of those special reserved-for-him glares, but evidently saw enough past his jokey demeanour to scoot around the booth and put her head comfortingly on his shoulder. His arm went around her, and they sighed together. Both exhausted; the Doctor’s mind occupied with his wife, but his memories somehow not so sad any more.

Presently there was a noise above them like a pair of nail-clippers. Their heads swivelled upwards in unison.

The waiter hiccoughed politely again.

“Closing time,” he said, making many deep and apologetic bows.

“Thank god,” said Donna with a yawn that threatened to unhinge her jaws. “Need bed.”

“Whaaaat?” whined the Doctor. “But we just got here.”

“Need I remind you that you said it was open twenty-seven hours,” scolded Donna, poking him.

“Yeah, but forty-four hour day, Donna. Keep up!”

“Oh, course,” said Donna with sarcasm. “Forty-four hours. Cos that’s completely normal. Don’t know why I didn’t think of that.”

The Doctor cradled his drink sulkily and pouted at the waiter.

“I’ll fix this,” Donna told the waiter with assurance. She turned to face the Doctor. He eyed her with trepidation as she pointed firmly at his glass.

“Little drinking game. Every time you think of your planet and feel depressed about it, take a sip.”

The Doctor shrugged. Why not? He screwed up his face in thought.

“Citadel,” he finally decided, nodding his head with certainty; and obediently drained his drink with a smack of his lips. “Look, Donna, it’s the boogieing moon!” he added, squinting at Poosh-50 through his glass. “Fantastic!” He bobbed his head with enthusiasm, rocking out to its orbit.

“You’re completely mad,” said Donna, snorting as she watched him.

“If I’m doing this,” said the Doctor cunningly, “then you have to take a drink whenever you think about …” He crossed his eyes in thought. “Aha. Lance.”

“Really, really bad in bed,” said Donna casually, and the Doctor nearly sprayed his Hokey Cokey Cola back over the table.

“Don-na!”

“He snored,” said Donna, rolling her eyes.

“Bad boy Lance,” said the Doctor, heaving a sigh of relief.

“Yeah, digest in peace,” said Donna, watching Poosh-02 jitterbug past the window. “Though he was bad at other stuff too,” she continued reflectively, picking up her drink, and the Doctor moaned in protest, his face dropping onto Donna’s shoulder with a gentle thud.

“Do we really have to talk about this?” he mumbled into her neck.

“Not been getting any? Prude,” said Donna with equal measures of crudity and affection, poking his shoe with hers under the table as she watched the five-armed alien down ten drinks in quick succession. “What am I gonna do with you?”

Evidently she decided just a fragment of a moment later, because there was an outraged squeal in his ear, and then something was whacking him hard, and continually. He couldn’t see for sure (because he was too busy trying to shield himself) but he thought that the thing doing the whacking might be Donna’s hand.

“What’d I do?” he protested blankly under the blows.

“My. Hair,” she told him, eyeing herself in horror in the mirrored back of the seat just vacated by the five-armed alien. “You’ve turned it into a dog!”

The Doctor somehow escaped from the booth and bolted, sure that he’d never hightailed it faster back to the safety of the TARDIS.

Though come to think of it, he’d never shared the bedroom next to his attacker before.

Apart from that one time on Nebblebobbula Five.

And whatever happens on Nebblebobbula Five, stays on Nebblebobbula Five.

* * *

“Night, Donna!” called the Doctor, bedsheets drawn up to his chin.

Donna’s head appeared around the gaping doorless frame separating their rooms. After the Doctor had been found hiding and had apologised and un-braided her hair, they’d discovered that the TARDIS had removed the door and any attempts to put it back up resulted in the Doctor’s hands being porcupined with splinters (but not Donna’s, which the TARDIS seemed to want to remain splinterless enough to apply balm to his.)

“Sleep tight, spaceman,” said Donna cheerfully.

“Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” they chorused, and then gave each other surprised looks, and then grinned.

Donna’s face suddenly took on proportions of immense suspicion. Her mouth opened, a finger already waggling.

“No bedbugs in the TARDIS,” cut in the Doctor. Donna closed her mouth and then opened it again. He forestalled her with: “Earth ones or intergalactic space weevils, or whatever it is you were about to say. Promise.”

She pursed her lips in a smile.

“Yeah yeah, all right, you little banana in pyjamas. Don’t start thinking you all know me.”

“Oh … I think I do,” he said cockily, enjoying her annoyed pout.

She strode over and snatched one of his pillows out from under his back, delivering him a faceful of goosedown. He snatched up the closest thing to hand (it was his tiny potpourri eyepillow) and had just joined in the battle with no less enthusiasm when there was a series of rattling clinks and a ceasewallop by mutual accord.

Five steaming cups and saucers were stacked enticingly on the spindly-legged Renaissance table beside Donna.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed,” said Donna to the TARDIS, waving the pillow sternly and scattering feathers everywhere. The Doctor listened in surprise. “I’m not interested in whatever little quarrels you two are up to, all right? You feed me, you feed him too, or take it elsewhere, boxy.”

There was a silence, followed a moment later by a dull clatter on the Doctor’s bedside table as a cup of Ho Wo Slug Fug tea materialised.

“I seriously love this ship,” gushed Donna. The Doctor smiled weakly and eyed the foamy sludge. It bubbled, and noxious fumes suddenly wafted his way, helped by a little battery-powered fan silently protruding from the TARDIS wall. He looked pointedly up at the ceiling.

This meant war.

“Oh … lovely jubbly,” he said over-cheerfully, gingerly prodding away the delicate rose-patterned teacup with a fingertip in case of spontaneous combustion. “Might have it a bit later.”

When Donna didn’t answer, he looked over his shoulder in puzzlement. She was perched beside him on the bed, eyes closed and hands folded neatly in her lap.

“Donna?” he said uncertainly.

“Don’t mind me. Just resting my eyes,” she said, eyes still shut.

He nodded, and then waited a minute before prodding her. She swayed like Poosh-1001, but as he’d suspected, made no reply. Carefully he manoeuvred her into a lying-down position, grinning to himself as he noted their near-matching pyjamas – his blue and pinstriped, hers green and candystriped. He considered for a moment and then draped his well-darned quilt over her, feeling a bit like he was tucking in an enormous living Victorian doll for the night. He shuddered, banishing the thought; that had been a particularly scary experience that he didn’t want repeated any time soon.

The TARDIS lights were already dimming. The Doctor heard a sound like rr—ii—p and looked at the wall. A piece of Edwardian wallpaper was hanging loose, a nozzle emerging through the wall with bits of plaster crumbling around the edges. A little blue puff of perfume erupted from the tip of the spout and floated through the room, dispersing like smoke. A second pink puff followed the first.

“Oh, don’t get ideas,” the Doctor told the TARDIS irritably. “This isn’t what it looks like. She’s just tired.”

The nozzle twirled a little and then retreated, creaking sourly.

The Doctor leaned on his elbow, chin on his palm, and looked down at Donna, considering her intently in the near-dark. She stayed asleep, her hand curled peacefully by her chin. A half-smile snuck across his features.

“Night-night,” he said in low tones, long fingers stroking back her errant red fringe. Then he rolled to the other side of the bed, sinking into the mattress with relief.

After a moment he scratched his head and flicked on his ultra-sonicked candelabra – the one he’d nicked as a memento from the Last Supper. A Last Supper which had been brilliant, thanks to him toting along a clanking selection of wines from Louis XIV’s chateau, and laying on an entertainment which included dragging along a reluctant Houdini to perform a double act. Although getting Jesus up to be the assistant in the magic act turning water into wine – yeah, something had gotten a bit lost in translation there. Anyway, things had gone from merry to quite wild, and by the time they’d been chucked out of the inn (poetic irony) they’d ended the night completely drunk and in high spirits, him leading them all in a rousing chorus of Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life on his recorder, and conducting with a half-eaten challah breadstick (bopping Judas on the head a few times).

He suddenly remembered something else. Him and Jesus, slumped against each other in the street, giggling. Both very drunk, and him staring into Jesus’ eyes and saying: “Hicc! But heresh the thing, Jesus – great love. You laying down life and all. Brilliant. Go – hicc! do that. See, you love your friends. I love mine. Love ALL my friends. Love ‘em. I’d die for them. Love you too, Cheesus. Mates – that’s us. See this breadstick? See it? Would you – hicc! sign it for me. For souvenir. Use this – pen, sonic – oh nevah mind that. Thaaaaaat’s it. Aw, nice big loopy signature … greatsh.”

Then he’d passed out. By the time he’d woken up, his arms wrapped affectionately around a surprised-looking donkey with bits of breadstick hanging out of its mouth, they’d gone. He’d heard afterwards that Jesus had nicked what he’d said, paraphrasing without so much as a credit – he apparently wasn’t so saintly he was above doing that – but the point still stood. Donna had been willing to die back on Pompeii with him to save all those people. He looked down at her again, marvelling. They were so alike. A proper team.

“My brave, brave girl,” he said with deep feeling, gazing at her peaceful countenance.

An eagle eye cracked open.

The Doctor froze, nerves electrified. Yeah. He really shouldn’t have used the prefix my. He was done for. Now the only question was, which part of him would she hit first?

“Dumb Martian,” murmured Donna thickly.

Was that a faint smile?

The Doctor uncringed. He gave Donna a tentative poke and her eyes closed like at the press of a button. Grinning madly away to himself, he reached over and switched off the candelabra. Darkness flooded the room. He lay back, propping his hands behind his head. It had been a long and tiring day, and his mind was still busy whirring and computing. He shifted a couple of thoughts around, swept a little memory by-product away, turned off a few synapses for the night, and mentally prodded at the bit that artificially induced sleep – carefully avoiding the fascinating little bit he’d discovered one day that made him unable to stop cranking up heavy metal Judoon FFFFFFM on the old console radio and practicing the limbo under the ramp rail.

His eyes closed.

Donna rolled into him with a flomp, and snuggled up to him in her sleep.

In his sleep, an arm snaked its way under her back.

That night he dreamed about Gallifrey. His wife was there, as always; but this time when he went to her, she only smiled and pushed him away warningly, pointing behind him. He turned and peered through the hanging drupes of the orchards. Something was different. And then he relaxed, and waved, and stuck his hands in the cavernous pockets of his frankly ridiculous Time Lord robes and strolled over, and felt someone tug off his headdress and tell him he looked like a complete dunderbrain, and to get his eyes lasered.

And all he could do was grin foolishly.

Because in his dreams he was there with Donna Noble.