Title: The Greater Good
Characters: Tenth Doctor, Donna (it's only a romantic pairing in my mind here)
Rating/Warnings: PG-13 for war/dark themes
Status: Complete 1/1
Summary: Not everyone lives. The Doctor and Donna hide from English soldiers during the Napoleonic wars.
In the end, it is one of those hopeless days when everyone doesn’t live. Not even close.
Donna sits at the jump seat, lank hair cascading around and across her face, hands hanging limply at her sides. She doesn’t look at him. Won’t look at him.
The Doctor takes a tentative step towards her, but the closed off look at her face halts him and he stops. He tries to come up with something to say, but witty jokes and vocal mannerisms rhyme badly with what they’ve seen and he’s sure that if he tried to make light of the situation, that, if nothing else, would be impossible for Donna to forgive.
It had been humans. Without asking, he knows that is the most difficult thing for Donna to comprehend. For all her cynicism about the world, she cannot possibly understand this. Shouldn’t have to.
It should have been a light jaunt to Napoleon’s court.
Instead they had ended up in the depths of the Iberian Peninsula, not far from Badajoz. They had come across a small village, hardly big enough to merit the name, just a few farmhouses clustered together as if for company.
They’d hidden together with the villagers, twenty or so men, women and children of varied ages, in a cellar under a trapdoor in one of the smaller houses. A young widow with torn ear lobes, not more than 19, held a newborn baby. The English were coming; their flags had been seen flapping in the distance, waving banners against the wild landscape.
The clapper of hooves, the men’s shouts had cut through the silence leaving a bloody wound. They were searching for food, wine, women.
The villagers, Donna and the Doctor were hidden in the darkness of the cellar, couldn’t see the destruction the soldiers brought, but the sounds painted a vivid picture. The missing villagers made the soldiers angry, the stolen wine made them heated and soon they were shouting threats, egging each other on.
They came closer and closer to the cellar, stepping around the trapdoor, their boots like thunder.
The baby stirred in its mother’s arms. Its eyes opened, still blue, and the mother’s grew dark with remembered fear. She rocked the baby, trying to keep it from waking, from crying, but its moments increased, the beginning of a scream in its throat.
The mother put a skinny, dirty hand over her baby’s mouth.
Overhead the soldiers moved.
The baby’s movements slowed.
Donna stepped towards the mother, a frown on her face. Quick as a snake, the Doctor grabbed her arm, holding her back. She struggled but was no match for his alien strength.
He changed his grip so that he had one arm wrapped around her torso and one across her mouth, mirroring the mother.
The Doctor had seen the cruelty of war.
As Donna’s breathing became harsh and her struggles increased, the noise from the soldiers became unbearable and the room spun for the Doctor and suddenly all was quiet and still again.
Even the baby.
It would never move again.
The Doctor wants to ask Donna if she is all right. Wants to hug her, hold her hand, take away her memories. He wants to explain.
But for once, words fail him, he the great wordsmith, the clever tongue, and so he stands at the console, watching his silent companion mourn a child and a mother and her own innocence.Notes: I’m not sure if it’s true, but I read a novel where many of the women who were raped during the Siege of Badajoz had torn earlobes because soldiers had torn their earrings out. I really know VERY little about the Peninsular Wars, and any factual errors are because I’m far too tired to do research. This was written during half an hour's speedwriting to take my mind of finals.
I've finally made up my mind about whether I would like a female Doctor or not.
And I've realized that, YES, I really really would, but not as long as Steven Moffat is showrunner.
I simply don't have enough faith in him to do justice to a female Doctor, not after the last three seasons lackluster writing of female characters.
As Swedish columnist Hanna Fahl pointed out today, the Doctor is, NuWho nonwithstanding, an essentially asexual character. In the last three seasons, I can think of one example of Moffat writing a non-sexualized female character. (Lorna Bucket.) No, actually, the girl they rescued in "Hide" could also be considered non-sexualized.
I'm not saying that a female Doctor couldn't be pretty or sexy, but it shouldn't be her main quality. Saving the world should be.
I finished college on Tuesday. Had my last final ever. (ok, I have one left in August, but let's pretend.)
Graduation isn't until November (don't ask me why...) but we've been celebrating anyway.
Title: All Else
Rating: R (only for language in this part though)
Warnings: Dub-con or non-con, depending on your view. Shag-or-die. Could be triggering. And a very angsty chapter
Summary: The shag-or-die cliché. The Doctor gets bitten by a Alpyrixian mosquito and will die unless he gets "relief" within an hour.
Word count: 1,479
Status: WIP, 2/3
Author's Notes: I lied. It's taken me ages to write this and there will still be another part (with smut, I promise.) I've had immense problems with the dialogue in this chapter. i just can't get them to talk like real people. I'm also superbusy with thesis defense on Thursday and an exam next Tuesday as well as choir rehearsals and concerts.
I also have a long thing about why I consider this non-con and my reasoning behind the Doctor's reaction in the last chapter, which made more than one person angry. It's explained in the chapter, but I'll write it out more clearly behind a cut after the actual chapter, for anybody who's interested.
Part 1 | Part 3
Donna sat on the console room floor, hugging her knees to her chest. At first, she had tried to pinpoint her feelings but as they scattered all over the place, she gave up and let herself go numb. Her throat burned and her stomach was tied into a thousand knots, but no tears came. Her eyes were completely dry.
Eventually, her legs and bum fell asleep and she heaved herself off the floor. The sharp rise in pain levels from between her legs almost made her gasp, but she pressed her lips together and held it in.
Slower than she would have liked, Donna walked to her bedroom. She half-expected it to have been turned into a sort of cell, because surely the TARDIS would be mad at her, if her master was, but the room was as large and cheerful as ever, brightly colored pillows and rugs lighting up the space. The bathroom door was slightly ajar, and steam was rising from a hot bath.
Donna stripped off her dress, realizing with a flash of shame that her knickers must still be in the console room. She sank into the bath, letting out a hiss as the water came into contact with all the tender spots on her body. Pouring soap onto a bath pouf, she scrubbed away the traces of her and the Doctor’s… Lovemaking? Hardly the right word. And wished she could scrub away the memory from her mind.
After she was cleaned and dried, Donna slipped into a pair of soft pajamas and slid between the soft covers of her bed. She stared at the ceiling and refused to think about anything at all.
It was many hours before Donna fell asleep.
Unlike the stories, where people wake up and have a blissful moment of ignorance, Donna woke up with lead settled deep in her stomach. More out of habit than anything else, she got up and stumbled towards the kitchen in search of tea, hoping it would help break her mood.
The Doctor sat at the table, hands around a steaming cup. His hair was even more rumpled than usual and he wore his blue suit complete with shirt and tie, as opposed to yesterday’s brown t-shirt ensemble. He started when Donna stepped over the threshold. Emotions flashed across his expressive face, too fast for Donna to catch them, before his face settled into cold impassiveness.
Donna crossed her arms across her torso. She almost turned and went back out, before deciding than no, she would not be that cowardly. Without a word, she walked up the counter, pulling out a cup (the Doctor hadn’t left one out for her, like he usually did…) and pouring herself some tea from the pot. She went through the motions, putting milk and sugar in the tea, all while her thoughts were focused on the man at the table.
Making up her mind, she swirled around to face him.
“Doctor, look,” she started harshly but at her sudden voice, he flinched and her heart twisted in her chest. Biting her lip, she tried again, softer this time:
“Doctor, I… I don’t know what you want me to say.” His face twisted in a grimace and he replied in a low but clear voice.
“Sorry might be a good start.” He was using his favorite “humans are clumsly primates”-tone and the lead in Donna’s stomach turned into white hot rage.
“You think it was all fun and butterflies for me, do ya?” she ground out between clenched teeth.
The Doctor’s eyes met hers mockingly.
“You certainly didn’t waste any time before you got down to business.”
Donna’s hand shot out in a arcing motion, a slap even though he was more than a few feet from her, an automatic reaction to a harsh mental blow.
“You fucking pillock! You… Is that what you think of me? That I’m some stupid slag?”
“Evidence certainly seems to point…” And she was at his side in a second, hazy with anger and slammed a palm on the table to shut him up.
“I know I’m not your precious Rose but you bastard, you don’t get to do this to me!”
He shot up from the chair and they were face to face, chests heaving.
“Don’t you talk about her!”
“I’ll say whatever I like, I’m not a slave!” Her hands went to his chest to push him away and his hands went to her biceps, holding her fast. His fingers pressed into the same places as they had yesterday and Donna recoiled, both from the pain and the memory.
Instantly, the Doctor let her go, as fast as if her skin had burned him. He took a step back and breathed in deeply through his nose. Donna wrapped her arms around her waist, her anger replaced by weariness and sadness. As she crossed her arms, the sleeves of her pajama jacket rode up, exposing her wrists.
Donna heard the Doctor’s sharp intake of breath.
“What’s that?!” She followed his gaze to her wrists and saw the dark bruising around them, easily recognizable as finger marks.
Oddly, this hurt her more than any other of his words. How dare he mock her?
He was looking at her expectantly though, clearly awaiting an answer.
“You already know,” she ground out.
“No, Donna, I don’t,” he said in clipped tones.
She stared up at him in disbelief.
“For fuck’s sake, what do you think it is? You put them there, after all!”
His eyes widened in genuine shock and quick as lightening, he reached out for her hand, studying the bruises intently.
She shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny.
“Are there more?”
“What the hell do you think?”
“Donna,” and his tone was so eerily calm and icy that she didn’t dare argue more with him. Wordlessly tugging the pajama jacket to one side, she exposed her bitten shoulder and the dark marks around one of her upper arms.
The Doctor let go of her wrist and his hands fell to his sides. He seemed utterly drained, and glancing up at his face, Donna saw that it was pale as chalk.
“Donna… I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I…” he trailed off and his eyes glittered brightly with unshed tears. Pity replaced her fear and confusion and she knew that something was missing from the story.
“Doctor? What do you remember… About yesterday?”
He sank back heavily into his abandoned chair at the kitchen table. He pushed the heels of his palms into his eyes and rubbed, suddenly seeming all of his 900-years old.
Quietly, he began:
“I was just outside the club when something bit me. I saw the mosquito and knew I had to get to the TARDIS and wait for it to wear off so I went looking for you. I saw you at the bar and it was like I couldn’t see you properly. Everything was hazy, like I was standing in the middle of a fog. It just got worse and worse and I could barely see or hear anything. My blood… I was burning up, every heartbeat felt like it was pumping acid through my veins. I tried to tell you what was wrong but nothing would come out right. And then… “ He shifted, face drawn.
“You were kissing me and I could feel you but I couldn’t do anything. My body wasn’t mine anymore. I tried to stop, several times, but you kept on going and I… It wasn’t… It wasn’t me. And I’d seen you in the club and I knew you wanted… But I had no choice, don’t you see?!” His tone was wild.
Donna felt sick.
“Doctor… I thought you were gonna die. That’s what you said. And you didn’t seem unaware, not like that! Doctor, I’d never done it if… If… I just wanted you to live!”
He looked lost, as if he was miles away in another kitchen on another TARDIS. He continued as if he hadn’t heard her.
“I hurt you. Why would you’ve done it if I hurt you?”
“I thought you were dying! I’d do anything to save you.” Her voice broke. “I’m so sorry, Doctor. I didn’t know. I just wanted to help.” And the tears she had kept at bay since the debacle yesterday finally came, flowing down her cheeks and chin and onto the table. She buried her head in her arms, trying to quiet her desperate sobs. Stupid, stupid Donna, always misunderstand and ruining everything…
She became aware of another pair of arms wrapped tightly around her and a head bent against hers. A soft voice was murmuring into her ears.
“I’m so sorry, Donna. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You’re not stupid, you’re brilliant, you’re always brilliant…” and for the first time since this whole thing had begun, she thought everything might be alright again.
We submitted our thesis today, under the high-brow title of Social media use in accounting graduate recruitment.
(It feels sorta empty.)