Title: Starcrossers
Author: Me, janeausten4ever/Dori
Characters, Pairings: Donna, Ten, Ten/Donna friendship, Wilf, Sylvia
Warnings: Other than the fact that Donna's fate at the end of "Journey's End" was tragic and unfair, none.
Rating: G/PG
Notes: Written for the Drabble Challenge #7, "baking," over at who_contest. The rules were it has to be 300 words or less, and I do have an edited-down version, but I figured I'd post the whole thing here. I'm still deciding whether or not to post this at who_contest, as I don't feel it's very good. Feedback much appreciated for that matter!
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The first pie was rubbish, that was for sure.
"Wha'd you bake that with, vinegar?" Donna shrieked, spitting out her first and only bite theatrically. She took a large swig of some nearby eggnog for extra dramatic effect.
"No," replied the Doctor, obviously bewildered. "Just the usual—flour, water, sugar, Prazolian war fruit, butter—"
"Wha'd you say?" Donna interrupted.
"Butter?"
"No, the other one. The whatchoomacallit."
"Prazolian war fruit?"
"Yes, that. It's rubbish. Makes for rubbish pie."
"Oh," replied the Doctor, obviously bewildered.
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The second was better. "Better" meaning this time Donna chewed for two seconds longer before spitting it out with a familiar Blech!
"Wha'd you do wrong now, eh, Spaceman?" she probed. "D'you mix up the salt and sugar shakers again?"
"No—I couldn't have!" the Doctor insisted (though perhaps lacking sufficient conviction). He leaned over, seized Donna's fork and took a bite of the banana cream contraption, chewing the pie with concentration. He swallowed.
"Now that's just nasty," he proclaimed, grimacing. "Putrid, even."
"Told ya, didn' I?"
The third pie—ah, the third—was just about as perfect as a pie could get. It was pumpkin spice, rich, thick, and savory, like the scent of a crisp autumn morning, like Christmastime, like memories in the making. The Doctor explained that the Head Gallifreyan chef (called, rather unoriginally, "the Chef"), had traveled the universe, reaching across time and space to meet with everyone from the Sou Chef at the famed intergalactic gourmet restaurant The Starcrosser, down to the lonely old grandmother who broke out her mother's wrinkly recipe at Thanksgiving each year and made the pie special for her grandsons. The Chef had been in search of the most flawless pumpkin pie recipe that ever had been or ever would be. And he'd found it.
"Why'd you save it till now?" Donna demanded.
The Doctor smiled. "Christmas present," he said.
He told her that he and his brother used to wander through the fields cutting the pumpkins from the vines for the Winter Festival each year. They had the honor of bringing the very best of the best to the Chef himself, but they always had to leave the kitchen before he began the pie-making process, else the secret recipe get out.
He said her hair matched the color of the pumpkin fields, and the setting of the suns over Gallifrey.
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On Christmas afternoon, after all the presents were opened and Donna's mum was long done whining, the Nobles heard a knock at their door.
"But it's just a pie!" screeched Donna's mum when they found no caller but the Christmas treat.
"I wonder who it's from!" Wilf exclaimed cheerfully.
"I bet it was that Sally Henson down the street, always bragging about her service work-I'll have her know we're no charity case, she ought to think before she..."
"It's not just a pie," whispered Donna.
"I mean, going around dropping PIES off like she's some Christmas angel-who does she think she is? She ought to..."
"What's that, sweetheart?"
"I always knew she thought she was better than us. I could just tell."
"It's not just a pie."
"Donna, sweetheart, what did you say?"
"What?"
"Sylvie, shut up a moment, would you? Donna said something."
Donna looked up, blinking. "I did? No I didn't."
"Yes you did, darling. What was it?"
As her mother and grandfather stared at her expectantly, eyes wide and the chill of the winter morning creeping across their arms, Donna realized she hadn't the slightest idea. And she was afraid.
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The pie tasted like smoke on the wind in the morning, like the holidays after everyone's gone, like straining for something you can't quite reach. Donna took one bite and spat it out.
THE END