A/N: I finally had a go at Midnight! Be warned, this is rated M for the fact that I explore the incident with the creature as essentially rape. I'm going for some pretty strong parallels (at one point I will outright state that a Time Lord would see this as rape) so this may be quite triggering to some.
The Doctor wasn't alright.
Donna figured that out pretty quickly. She always did, and he always pretended that he was fine. Leave it to him to run from his own vulnerability like he ran around the universe, like he could stop the light from touching the darkest corners of his mind if he fled fast enough. It was a game for them: he ran until he was ready to turn and face whatever was bothering him, and then he went romping off all over again.
But this felt different, somehow. This time, he wasn't making a show of it. His charades drove her bloody mad sometimes, but they were predictable and constant, one of few sources of stability in amongst the chaos of their life together. Donna couldn't recall a time when he hadn't been able to muster up the strength to pretend he was alright, but here he was in front of her, looking more openly, utterly defeated than she'd ever seen him. And now that he was too far gone to play, she was surprised to find herself missing the game dearly.
He hadn't been able to get the door of the TARDIS open, when they'd finally gotten away from the authorities in the leisure palace. His hands were shaking too hard to line up the key. When Donna had stepped forward to help, taking it gently from between his clenched fingers and turning the lock for him, he had entered without a word and without a glance. That had scared her, perhaps more than his brief account of what had happened on the shuttle bus. That was when she'd known the nightmare wasn't over.
"Going to take a shower."
Donna looked up at the Doctor from her spot on the jumpseat. He said it so quietly she wasn't sure she'd heard right. He was leaning heavily on the edge of the console, his back to her, one hand fiddling absently with a series of switches. If she hadn't already made sure he wasn't injured, she might have thought he was in pain.
He didn't give her time to respond before he went for the hallways, off to get lost in the never-ending maze that was his ship. She stood suddenly, grabbing his wrist, and he stopped in his tracks without turning around; she hadn't even realized she didn't want him to leave until she did it.
"Doctor…" she began. She'd meant to say something, something important. Anything to get him to stay. But nothing came to her.
Her shoulders sagged, and she let go of his hand. "Call if you need me," she muttered, and sat back down.
The Doctor nodded shortly and left the console room.
Running again, she thought. Now they had left the leisure palace, the adrenaline-fueled strength seemed to have abandoned her and exhaustion was setting in. She rubbed her hands over her face, swept her hair out of her face, and smiled when she realized what a Doctor-ish gesture it was. The smile was gone almost as soon as it appeared.
It was clear to her that she hadn't gotten the full story of his ordeal; she knew him well enough to recognize that he'd been deeply disturbed by whatever had happened on Midnight, and although she could certainly understand why, she couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more to it. He had the same routine, every time something went very, very wrong, and this was supposed to be the phase where he lied to himself for as long as possible. It seemed he had skipped right over that and gone straight into… well, she didn't know yet. Something bad.
The Doctor had gotten quite good at processing stuff like this over the centuries—he had to be, to do what he did every day—but she was still worried about him. The way he'd told her about it, how he hadn't been able to look her in the eye at first, had initially made her think he would end the tale by admitting he'd killed the creature. Instead, as she'd discovered, he'd nearly been killed himself. He felt guilty for what had happened (as usual, Donna couldn't fathom why) and that was never a good place for him to be. He could rationalize fear, and pain, and grief; guilt, he didn't take so well.
If only she'd been there. The Doctor had practically begged her to come with him, and she'd refused in favour of, what, sitting by the pool? Why hadn't she just gone?
Could that be why he was upset? Was he mad at her, for not being there? She couldn't help but wonder. She knew she could have stopped half the events he'd recounted; no bloody tourist would have tried to throw him out an airlock on her watch.
But just as soon as the thought occurred to her, it was discarded. He'd never hold that against her. She was the one who was really mad at herself for not going, and it wasn't fair to project that on him. Blaming herself wasn't going to help either of them.
Donna was torn out of her train of thought by a pained, shuddering noise from the TARDIS. The lights in the console room flickered briefly, off and on again, and a tremble passed through the floor. She stood up, looking around the chamber.
"What is it, girl?" she asked aloud. She still had difficulty talking with just her mind.
She felt the tickle of the ship's consciousness brushing her own—a weak sensation, due to her lack of a Time Lord's telepathic ability—and a distinct sense of mourning washed over her. Need you, the ship murmured. Go.
By now, Donna was used to the way the TARDIS spoke in her mind, more in impressions than words, and she knew she meant the Doctor. The Doctor needed her.
Worry trickled into their bond, and Donna wasn't sure whether it was hers or the ship's. "Is he alright?" she asked.
The TARDIS gave a hum that felt distinctly negative.
She shut her eyes. "Can't he ever just ask for help?" she said imploringly. Though her tone was rather exasperated, the words held little weight. She knew the answer, and she couldn't bring herself to be upset.
A low keening, humorous and sad at once, rumbled around the room. Afraid,she supplied. Ashamed.
"Yeah." She sighed. "He in his room?"
The TARDIS gave her mental equivalent of a nod.
"Right. Thanks, love."
Apologies.
Donna paused, wondering what she meant, before she exited the console room through an open door, leaving the ship's mind behind to watch from afar. She walked quickly through the twisting halls along the familiar path to the Doctor's bedroom, almost dreading what she would find. That was new too, she realized, and her dread only multiplied.
The Doctor fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, growing more and more desperate as he struggled to get it off. He was shaking all over; he felt like he couldn't breathe. He knew the symptoms all too well, but right then he couldn't remember ever having less control over them. He was spiraling, and he knew it. All he needed was to undo his collar, loosen his tie, and—when had his clothes gotten so tight?—and then he would be alright. He just needed to breathe.
But when he finally managed to get his tie off and unbutton his shirt, feeling again that gut-wrenching feeling of claustrophobia every time the tight sleeves caught on his shoulders or wrists, he found no relief. He yanked his undershirt over his head, stepped out of his shoes and trousers and stood there, next to his bed, his breaths coming in rapid pants that sounded uncomfortably loud in the silence of his darkened room.
Shower, he reminded himself. Need a shower. Something normal.
He turned to the en suite—a bit too fast, apparently, because the room spun around him and his knees went weak, pinpoints of grey prickling at the edges of his vision. He fell to the floor, grabbing at the nightstand in front of him to keep himself steady, and tried to catch his breath.
Then it wasn't his nightstand in front of him, it was the face of Sky Silvestry; and he wasn't in his room, he was crouched at the back of a Crusader shuttle bus. The seats had been torn up and people were shouting and she was staring at him and he couldn't move, couldn't talk, couldn't save himself…
A choked sob escaped him. He turned and sat with his back against the bed frame, his legs half-folded under him. His hands went to his face, swept over his mouth, pinched the bridge of his nose like he had a headache. He carded his fingers through his hair, just to prove he could.
Moving: check! he thought, and it brought a weak smile to his face. It sounded properly like him, not like the creature. That was his thought. He held onto it, and it was just enough to give him back some semblance of control.
Right. Okay. Next, breathing.
He swallowed hard, trying to wet his mouth, and slowly forced himself into his routine. Twelve seconds in; twenty-one holding; twenty-four out. He counted out each increment in his head, painstakingly, refusing to think of anything but the rise and fall of his chest and the feel of the air filling and leaving his lungs. It took several long, horrible minutes before he felt any better, the feeling of suffocation slowly fading. His throat seemed to relax, the knot in his chest loosen, and he let his head fall back against the mattress, drawing deep, slow breaths.
He wasn't calm, not by a long shot, but the worst of the panic attack appeared to be over. He got the feeling it wouldn't be his last of the day—he'd been fighting this one back for hours, while he'd dealt with the authorities on Midnight—and it hadn't been the first. A shudder ran up his spine, just remembering the time during which that… that creature had been inside his mind, picking its way through his thoughts and memories like a spider searching its web for a juicy bit of prey, seizing control in a way he wouldn't have thought possible. He was a Time Lord, used to having complete control over his telepathic abilities. He should have been able to fight it off.
He should have been able to do a lot of things, but he had been so helpless, so trapped, so very, very scared. To say it had bothered him would be an understatement. He'd never felt a fear like that; for all the times he'd been imprisoned in his life, he'd never had the comfort of his own mind stolen from him so completely. He wondered when he would get it back. It was a very strange sensation, to feel uneasy within his own consciousness, as if he didn't quite own it anymore. Like someone else was lurking there, just waiting to take back the wheel. He was hardly a control freak, but he couldn't handle losing his autonomy. (Now, didn't that just about sum up his life?)
And how cruel was that? He wasn't even sure the creature on Midnight could comprehend the consequences of its actions, despite its obvious intelligence—every species saw the universe a bit differently, after all—but he couldn't really bring himself to care. Every species had its own version of what that creature had done. Every species could understand the need for a place where they didn't have to worry about their own safety and security. To a Time Lord the mind was a sanctuary, and now he didn't get to have that. He needed somewhere he could let his guard down, somewhere in a universe filled with fear and suffering where he didn't have to be scared, and he didn't get it. It wasn't fair.
It's not fair!
The Doctor pressed a hand over his mouth, taking a shuddering breath to try to force the thoughts away, into the back of his mind. A quiet whimper escaped from behind his fingers as tears welled in his eyes, hot and stinging. He didn't want to cry over this—he wanted to forget about it, go back to the console room and fly off somewhere fun—but he didn't seem to have a say in the matter. He drew his knees up to his chest and crossed his arms over top, burying his head in the crook of his elbow. Suddenly, the TARDIS's questioning presence in his mind was far too much to bear; he pushed her roughly out of his consciousness and built up every psychic barrier he could, turning his mind into a fortress. She let him, drawing away, running off to some other part of the ship. He felt a pang of guilt, knowing he'd hurt her, but he couldn't stand sharing his mind right now.
The Doctor didn't detect Donna's presence, when she appeared several minutes later, until she said his name. He looked up sharply, hearts skipping a beat before he realized who it was, to find her standing just inside his bedroom.
"Donna," he rasped, surprised to find his voice so rough and raw.
"Looks like you almost got to your shower," she teased, nodding at the clothes scattered all across the floor.
He remembered that he was only wearing his pants and he muttered an apology. He sniffled, wiping tears from his cheeks.
Donna sighed softly, and walked over to his bed. She sat on the floor next to him and slipped an arm around his bare shoulders, her other hand moving over his hearts as if taking his pulse. The Doctor had to choke back a sob, his resolution dissolving under her warm human touch, so different from the icy grasp of the creature on Midnight.
"It's alright," she whispered, rubbing his chest soothingly. "You're safe now. It's over."
For some reason, that was what did him in. He turned towards her and curled into her embrace, hiding his face in the crook of her neck as he broke down, his whole body shaking with the force of his silent sobs. With trembling hands he pulled her tight against him, and she hugged him back even harder.
It was a long time before they moved.
Finally, Donna helped the Doctor up off the floor and sat him on the bed. She wrapped the sheets around his bare shoulders and filled him up a glass of water from the bathroom, which he drank like he'd gone without for a week; she refilled it and placed it on the nightstand for later.
Looking down at the Doctor's slumped form, she pursed her lips sadly. "You said you were fine," she said softly. "At the leisure palace, you said you weren't hurt."
Fresh tears pricked at his eyes. Almost too quiet to hear, he said, "I am fine."
He wasn't. He wouldn't even try to deny it to himself, not this time, but Donna was another story. She could not know the truth of what had happened. Oh, of course she would never deliberately hurt him, but he knew how people reacted to things like this and he knew how she would look at him, if he told her. It would break him.
Sorrow crossed her features, quickly hidden under a mask of calm empathy; she knew he didn't like to feel pitied. She walked around the other side of the bed, tossed her outerwear on the floor and climbed under the covers, shifting to face him as he sat with his back to her.
"Doctor." She reached out to touch his arm. "Doctor, come here. Lie down. C'mon."
Avoiding her gaze, the Doctor let the blankets fall from his shoulders and crawled underneath, relaxing a bit at the feeling of heavy warmth pressing down on his body. Donna rolled onto her back, pulled him to her side, and he rested his head on her shoulder with a shiver. He draped an arm over her, fingers clutching at her shirt, and she wrapped hers around him. One hand moved to play with his hair.
"Get some rest," she whispered. "You'll feel better in the morning."
He squeezed his eyes shut and nestled closer to her. He couldn't bring himself to tell her that he didn't think he would. But this was something. It was nice. She was so good to him.
You really expect her to help you now?
The thought came unbidden and sent a fresh jolt of fear into his chest. He wasn't entirely sure why. Then came the guilt, once again, and that he understood. He went back to focusing on his breaths, if only to avoid thinking about anything else, and eventually drifted into a fitful sleep, his mind filled with the prickling of the creature's consciousness pressed against his.
He woke up, gasping, not an hour later, and he wasted no time in untangling himself from the sheets and Donna's arms and getting into the shower. He turned the water as hot as he could take and stood under the spray, letting it run down his face and body, washing away all the dirt and sweat that had accumulated over that six hour trip. He wanted so badly to feel clean, and distantly he knew that water and soap wouldn't make a difference, but he was tired and spent and not quite thinking right. He scrubbed at his skin until it was too painful to keep going, and gave up with tears in his eyes.
When he finally got out and finished drying off, Donna was sitting up in bed. She must have been disturbed when he'd gotten up, or perhaps by the sound of the water. Mumbling his apologies, he climbed back into bed, wincing visibly as his raw skin brushed against the sheets, wincing again at the look on Donna's face.
Then she covered his hand with hers, too tired to hide the concern on her face, and asked why he'd done it. He opened his mouth to respond before he realized he had no answer.
