Disclaimer: I blame Sandra Bullock for this one. And Ryan Reynolds. I don't own them either.
A/N: this was meant to be a birthday present. Oops! A little bit late, shall we say….
Chapter One
.
It was time to make a home visit so after recuperating from the effects of Midnight on the near deserted planet of Haffiox, the Doctor steered the TARDIS towards Earth. The peace and quiet of the last few days had calmed his fears enough for him to be even able to suggest making such an excursion; but faithful Donna had remained by his side, offering support and comfort without any unnecessary gush.
He could love her for it. Anyway.
A hop, skip and jump later, the TARDIS landed outside the 1930s built semi Donna used to call home, with a very satisfactory bump. The Doctor spun the monitor towards him and announced to no one in particular, "Chiswick, London, England, Great Britain, Europe, Earth, Sol System."
"Give over, you tart. Never mind all the faff," Donna had playful chastised him before she grinned up at him from the console in triumph. "How did I do?"
He nodded warmly. "Nice piloting skills. Brilliant, as always, Donna Noble," he complimented her. "We avoided that meteor shower around Jupiter wonderfully well. Now, the only stormy weather we might face will be from your mother's direction."
She immediately saw through his bravado, reached out and placed a comforting hand on his arm. "Don't worry about her. She's merely a storm in a teacup and I'll be there to veer her off onto other topics should things go even a little bit pear-shaped."
His smile said his thanks for him, and he held out his hand in invitation. "Come on. Let's see how we fare."
o0o
"Hello Donna. I see you've got him with you again," Sylvia commented when she opened her front door to them minutes later. "I hope you haven't come to blow the car up this time," she aimed towards him as they stepped into the hallway.
"No, Sylvia. Everything is a one off with me," he cheekily pronounced.
"We'll see," she replied, determined to be unimpressed by his antics despite guessing he had had more than a hand in clearing the sky from all those fumes weeks beforehand. "Go on through and I'll put the kettle on. No doubt you are gasping for a cup of tea."
"Not half, Mum," Donna readily agreed as she led the way to the kitchen.
After having acquired a seat at the table in there, it didn't take too long for mugs of tea to be produced for their consumption, along with the offer of a biscuit. Sylvia obviously had something on her mind as she sat down with them. She leaned over to a nearby countertop and picked up a piece of mail.
"Oh, while I think of it, there's a letter for you," Sylvia sneered at the Doctor, passing him an official looking brown envelope as if it contained the Ebola virus. "It came the other day."
"For me?" he gasped out in surprise as he took it from her reluctant clutches.
"That's what it says," she sniffed haughtily. "Although gawd knows why they've got my address as your contact one. Why on Earth did you go and give it out like that?"
"I didn't," he denied, his attention more on the envelope in his hand than on her points scoring contest. "Donna, any idea why this would have come here?"
"No idea," she admitted as she sidled up to peer at the writing. "I don't know. Perhaps you have been in an accident, you qualify for a government loan for solar panels, you aren't satisfied with your electricity supplier, or you were mis-sold a PPI with a mortgage. It could be any number of things they are trying to sell you."
"A mortgage?" he questioned, scrunching his face up in disgust.
She merely shrugged back at him, unrepentant. "Not many people have even known you've been at Mum's, let alone think you might be contactable here. Well go on! Open it, you prawn. You'll never know until you read whatever's inside."
With a flourish, he ripped the flap up, and joked, "I now declare this envelope open!" He playfully waggled his eyebrows. "Have always wanted to do that."
Donna merely rolled her eyes in mock exasperation. "It must have been killing you to wait this long."
"You could say that," he responded.
"Never mind all that! What does it say?" Sylvia demanded, clearly frustrated by waiting.
"I think your mum wants to know what it says," he cheekily murmured to Donna.
"She'll also flatten you if you don't hurry up and read it out," Sylvia grumbled a threat.
Making a great show of pulling out his spectacles and placing them carefully on his nose before squinting at the letter contained within the envelope, the Doctor scanned through the contents and then exclaimed, "What!"
"What does it say, Doctor?" Donna queried, trying to sneak a decent peak over his shoulder.
He flourished the paper in the air in front of her nose. "It says," he began, "that in line with the current Brexit policy, all known immigrants and refugees resident in the UK must prove their connection to the country or face deportation. UNIT insists that I either prove I am British or leave."
"You what?!" Donna floundered and took the letter from out of his hand.
"Does it say that?" Sylvia asked, watching Donna frown as she read the letter several times.
"Not half it does," Donna fumed. "They're threatening to chuck the Doctor out of the country unless he can prove he's a British citizen. Of all the cheek!" She turned her attention on the Doctor. "How can they do this to you after all the times you've saved our bacon? Talk about ungrateful; the scumbags! They don't deserve all the things you've done to stop this country going to the dogs."
"Well, I've done a few things," he tried to modestly admit.
"A few!" Donna raged. "A few per year you mean. Where's Colonel Mace's phone number? I bet it was him and that UNIT lot that are behind this. I'm going to give that jumped up pipsqueak a piece of my mind. Just you wait."
The more she raged, the wider the smile grew on the Doctor's face.
"And what's got into you, Time boy? Anyone would think you're enjoying this," she spat at him. "Why aren't you annoyed?"
He gently placed a hand over hers to stop her fervently thumbing through a copy of the Yellow Pages. "Oh, I'm angry, I assure you. But for now, I'm also enjoying you get so annoyed on my behalf."
"Well of course I would," she blustered. "You're my mate."
"And very glad of that I am," he cheerily agreed.
Wanting to break into this touching scene, Sylvia sneered at him. "All this chumminess won't stop you being kicked out. What are you going to do?"
"I have no idea what I'm going to do about this letter. Sue the backside off them?" he suggested in Donna's direction.
"Hey you, that's my line," Donna joked. "But it's not such a daft idea. Perhaps we could contact the Queen and remind her how you stopped her being blown to smithereens last Christmas. Along with the rest of us."
"I'm not sure that would be the way to go," he pondered. "This needs tea."
"Talking of which, any chance of another cup, Mum?"
"A tea making service, that's all I am to you," Sylvia grumbled, and huffed all the way to the kitchen sink before switching the kettle back on.
o0o
It wasn't until they were alone back in the TARDIS that the Doctor returned to the subject that was worrying him. "What am I going to do about that letter, Donna?" he softly wondered, stepping away from the console after dematerialisation.
"Go back in time and fill out a British passport application form," she suggested; quite reasonably, to her ears.
"I can't do that!" he insisted.
"Surely your old mate the Brigadier could rustle you up a passport, for goodness sake," she maintained. "Or failing that, Jack could fake you one."
"It has to be done legally," he argued. "This calls for desperate measures," he pondered, grabbing hold of his chin in order to think. "I'll have to marry a British citizen."
"What. Like that film 'Green Card', with the French bloke. Gerard Depardieu?" she reasoned out. "Sounds possible. Shame we haven't got your Professor Song to drag out and drop loads of hints about your wedding," Donna idly noted.
"She isn't my Professor Song, and her death makes the whole argument moot," the Doctor retorted. "Perhaps there is a much better alternative."
After a few seconds, Donna murmured, "Well… There's a very likely candidate, of course, if you want to."
His jaw dropped in surprise. "You don't mind?"
She frowned. "Why would I?"
"Because it'd affect you personally," he carefully explained.
"I don't see why it would," she argued, "since it wouldn't stop me travelling with you."
"I meant in other ways," he stressed.
Her eyebrows narrowed in confusion. "What 'other ways'? Unless I don't get to be bridesmaid or best woman, I suppose."
He moved nearer to check her eyes, to see if she was on drugs. "You wouldn't get to be either, you do realise that? It isn't exactly a one woman show."
"Are you saying you wouldn't even have me as your best wo-man?" she seethed. "That is mean! Meaner than the meanest you've ever been. And I've been friends with Nerys for years, so I know meanness when I see it."
"Okay," he slowly said. "A little bit confused now. How would that be mean of me?"
She huffed, "Because I thought our friendship was special."
"It is!" He glared at her in frustration.
Tilting her head like a confused puppy, she wondered, "Then why can't I play a greater part in your wedding to Martha?"
"Because….," he started to expound but his explanation ground to a halt with a visible crash. "With who now? Martha?! Why would I marry Martha?" he spluttered.
"Give me strength," she muttered in exasperation. "The whole being deported for not being British so needing to marry a British woman thing. Surely you haven't forgotten already?"
"As if I could!" he near raged. "I'm being threatened with being kicked out of the country and you're blathering on about me marrying Martha."
"Well excuse me for caring!" she sarcastically retorted. "If you won't marry Martha, who will you walk up the aisle with?"
His manner went quieter as he moved even closer. "This might come as a complete surprise, but I was thinking of… you."
She stood stock still for some seconds; staring at him. "Me?! But… Why me?"
"Oh, I don't know," he pretended to ponder. "Convenient, companion, best friend; all of the above. I just thought you might prefer the position of bride rather than bridesmaid or best man-type person. You're ideal, when you think about it."