Disclaimer: Nope, don't own Doctor Who. At all.
Author's Note: Hi, Doctor Who fandom. I like to lurk-read here quite a lot. I've wanted to write something for a long time here but I kinda wasn't sure what to write, so I stuck to my home fandom in the land of video games, wondering when I could duck my head in here. All I know is I'm so happy I actually managed to write something for this fandom, even though it was entirely… written on a whim. This was as random as hell, really, so, enjoy.
GRAVITY
She is his Earth.
No, not like that, because the Doctor doesn't love Donna like he loved Sarah way back when, or Rose in the twilight of yesterday – but still, the fiery redhead is his Earth. He couldn't help but always hover around her with skittering steps, laughing at her attitude (because it really was amusing, and he really wanted to peel it away and see the Donna inside), and smiling in ways that he hadn't smiled in years. His hands would be deep in the pockets of his pants, and he'd be clutching at the fabric there, waiting for the next thing she'd say, because he was just so fascinated by it.
He'd study her when she wasn't paying attention, because if Donna caught the Doctor looking at her with slightly pursed lips, she'd definitely turn around and give him a glare that'd strike fear into the very hearts of the Master. And perhaps a kick in the shins for good measure so he could back right off, and a gruff 'watch it, Space Man' – and the implications of that were so much more than she realised. His little Earth Girl, spinning in circles with the moon instinctively gravitating around her.
He wonders if he's her moon.
He's not like the Lost Moon Of Poosh at all, because even though he gets lost, he's always found again – he always comes back. The Last Child of Gallifrey, the wanderer, drifting from here to there in the whole universe, like sparkling dust floating in the wind – a lost little sheep with nowhere to come back to. Nowhere except Donna Noble, his safe haven – heaven? Haven? Heav-aven? – the moon can never break away from the Earth's pull, like he can't break from Donna's hold, and he honestly doesn't understand why.
He gets that it's not love. Yes yes he loves Donna, but he's not in love with Donna, because Donna's only his best friend and that's all it'll ever be. He knows that, she knows that, the TARDIS knows that, so it's all good. After careful deliberation, he deduces that it's because she's important, she's so important to the future. But to what it will hold, the Doctor doesn't know. He can only bide his time and wait and see what happens with their future.
If she's one thing and he's another, then destiny's the thing pulling them together, like gravity holds the moon ever so closely to the Earth. And gravity's needed to keep things together – well, and if destiny or fate or fortune exists too, then it's needed in the general balance of life too, he supposes, because what else would the non-believers believe in? – and if he's the moon – if if if, its such a fickle word – then he's holding onto that gravity or destiny for only one, clear cut reason; and when it strikes him, it feels like the wind's been sucked out of him.
The Doctor needs Donna.
He needs her like they both need oxygen, because he's only just begun to breathe again when she arrived. The situation with Rose left him in such strife, in such heartache, that it felt like he was holding onto every breath he could, just so he could stay closer to his old self when she was with him. He'd been holding on for so long that during his first meeting with Donna, that special little thing had been missed entirely – and Martha had unintentionally placed so much strain on him, because yes he saw her lovesick puppy eyes, that when Donna returned… he saw her for who she was – is – will always be.
The Doctor needs Donna to tell him to stop, because sometimes he can get so angry and so carried away and he'll get so lost that he doesn't know where he is anymore. He can stray so far from his paddock that when he actually finally stops and dares to look back just this one time – only one, because that's all he can handle, he says to himself every time – he doesn't know where he is anymore. He's in so many pieces, and he feels so abstract, like a painting. Splodges of black paint upon the white canvas for his black pain, blue tears streaming down for his loneliness, and one, big, thick streak of red down the middle, for his anger.
Sometimes he's standing in the corner of the TARDIS, all alone with his hands in his pockets and his posture is absolutely terrible, slouching and he really needs to lift his chin up and pull his shoulders back to look anything other than a mess; he misses so many things, but he can't really understand what. The man with all the answers really has no answers at all. Its one of those sad silences moments as he reflects on everything he's done, everyone he's hurt and lost – but there's no reason for it, because he just had such a nice time with Donna exploring the world outside.
And then there's those really rare instances during those 'sometimes' where Donna feels so sad for him and even that little bit stressed out that she ends up sauntering over to 'the lonely corner' whilst feeling helpless and stupid, unable to do anything. So instead, she grabs him by his tie and pulls him into several kisses, because that's the only entirely random thing that she can think of to shock him that much to pull him out of that sad spiral.
Sometimes it works, other times he ends up using her – and he doesn't mean to or want to but he just can't help it – as an anchor, because he needs that right now. He needs her gravity to come back down, and she gives it without question, because she'd do anything for this man, and always and only as a friend. She knows these kisses mean nothing and he knows the same, but that doesn't stop them from coming and that doesn't stop him from cupping her face with one hand just so he can feel a little more grounded to the rotating Earth.
The Doctor needs Donna as a friend – or mate, but the last time he said that to her because of its double implication, he thought she was going to murder him – and she gives that comfort, even if its in a more-than-friendly way, because she doesn't think she's that bright and that's the first thing that always comes to mind and works. Donna never admits that she only ever decided upon that because she saw how his lips were frowning, and she wanted to wipe that off more than anything, and she didn't want to turn away.
But after all of those times, once it's broken by whichever party, the air is awkward only for an hour or two or maybe three at the most. It's solemn and silent, and the Doctor always wants to say 'thank you', but he's not quite sure how, so he merely smiles, and the age in his eyes is seen, because he's still so vulnerable. And then, it's normal without any words – there's only those fragile smiles that show her who he is, and visa versa.
The Doctor is so, so thankful for that silence. It's awkward, but he's still incredibly thankful for it, because he doesn't want to hear those questions of 'what are we?' or 'what do we do now?' or 'what does this mean?' or any of that – he doesn't want to think about any possibilities or maybes. He just wants to get out of that stupid spiral and take her somewhere nice, where they can have fun and forget about pain – his, and hers.
Running, running, always running. The Doctor is always running. To, from, towards and away.
Donna's always close by, because she's always running too – she just doesn't know it yet. But the Doctor knows, because the Doctor always knows, and he hates that she has no belief in herself, because he can see her for who she really is. And together, they'll always travel, because they're paired – no not like that, they're not together, not them, never – but just held by destiny.
And with that tie, the Doctor knows he's going to be okay.
He's always alright.