Disclaimer: The BBC owns Donna (and the Doctor), but the following imagining of her internal monologue belongs to me.

Changing

After reading the same sentence for the tenth time and still not taking anything in, Donna finally realised that she was somewhat distracted and put down her book.

She couldn't stop thinking about the Doctor kissing her hand as they had sat and talked by the pool the other night.

Despite her previous adamant refusal to "mate" with him and her strict 'no hands!' policy when they first started travelling together, they had still been quite free and easy in the way they touched each other. Invading each other's personal space seemed as natural as breathing.

So why had that kiss thrown her for a loop?

Every time she thought about it she felt all warm and every-so-slightly giddy.

What was wrong with her? She wasn't supposed to feel like that about her Doctor.

We're just MATES, for crying out loud!

But mates DO NOT KISS LIKE THAT.

Her eyes widened as realisation hit her.

Would-be lovers kiss like that.

In fact, so intimate and sensuous had his gesture been that she could almost still feel the press of his warm, soft lips on her hand.

No matter how many times the denials and justifications kept going around in her head, they always came back to the same, inescapable truth: something had changed.

She felt blindsided.

When on earth had THAT happened?

Had it been during their time on Midnight?

When he had finally returned from the harrowing trip where his voice had been stolen and he had almost died, she watched him walking towards her, his face ashen, and the relief had washed all over her.

She had never been so thankful for anything in her entire life.

At that moment, she had silently dispensed with the 'no hands' edict. She just wanted to hold him and never let go.

Because I was scared almost out of my mind for him, petrified that he might not come back to me.

Now that she thought about it, though, her feelings towards the Doctor had actually been evolving for quite some time.

She thought back to the library, how she had been transfixed by how close and familiar River Song was being with him. At the time, she'd put on a big front, teasing him about being a "pretty boy" and maintaining an unaffected, 'don't care a jot' tone.

But in truth she had been anything but, her insides in unexpected and unsettling turmoil, and….oh my gosh, she was jealous. Jealous of the way the professor had touched his face in the quiet dark as she had looked on, her heart beating faster. Jealous that River had got to stay with the Doctor, while she had been sent back to the TARDIS, even if it had been to keep her safe.

And at the end of their time in the Library, when she and the Doctor had stood side by side in a mutual state of alright-but-not-really-alright-at-all, each mourning what they had lost, she had wondered why the man of her dreams had at once been so much like the Doctor (tall, gorgeous…..adores me) and yet was hardly able to say a word.

Most of all, though, she remembered the unexpected, delicious thrill that had shot through her when they'd sought comfort in each other by joining hands, for there had been something different this time, as if easy companionship had somehow transcended into need and deeper understanding and…is it okay if we do this more often, because, because…..well, your hands are so soft, and warm…and …what exactly ARE we to each other now?

With a slightly startled jolt, Donna realised that it was not even then that the change had happened. It went further back.

Much further back.

Back before they had kissed in the kitchen, all walnuts and anchovies and I'm just trying to save your life, here, and the Doctor looking at her, hearts beating wildly and eyes flashing, declaring adamantly that he would HAVE to detox more often.

Back before their time on Messaline, when she had helped him to open up his heart to his daughter, listened as he shared his sorrow over the family he had lost so long ago, and virtually offered to become, with Jenny, his new family, to try to ease his pain by nurturing life anew.

Back before the ATMOS and the poison gas and So sweet that he's given me my own key to the TARDIS and How touching that he's a little panicked at the thought of us not travelling together a while longer and Oh my gosh, I almost lost you, don't you dare do that to me again, and I'm going to smack you just to drive that point home and then keep holding your arm because I'm afraid you'll disappear on me again…

If she were really honest with herself, she would admit that it was even back before he had given her the incredible gift of hearing the Ood's song, before they had together shouldered the terrible burden of letting Pompeii die under clouds of ash, and before their miraculous and joyous reunion amid Ms Foster's flying fat babies.

In fact, she could have said it was the very first moment she ever laid eyes on him, but that wasn't strictly true. The moment things had changed was when she had really and truly seen him for the first time, drenched and dark and itching to destroy, and she had pulled him back from the edge. It was then she had realised what he needed and what they could be to each other, what they had to be to each other, even if she had been too scared to really acknowledge it back then, and so instead had run away from it, covered it up with her usual bravado and brashness.

She wondered when he had started to see through all of that. And it occurred to her that maybe he always had.

Fat lot of good all this revelation is, though. He's still in love with her, the mystery blonde I've never met. She struggled momentarily to suppress the rising bitterness.

But then she remembered him holding her hand as they sat beside the glittering water, and the quiet ecstasy of his kiss and most of all, the look in his eyes.

For she knew that whatever was, or wasn't, or was yet to be, his eyes could never lie to her. They always told her the truth.

And the truth was that he had changed too.