Title: Wasteland
(1/?)
Characters: Ten, Martha, Donna
Word Count:
3,883
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine.
sniff
Spoilers: Up to "The Last of the Time Lords,"
and casting spoilers for season four.
Summary: The Doctor
receives the phone call that sends him running back to Martha Jones,
but all is not well with his former companion. What begins as a
reunion for the former travelling partners becomes something far more
sinister, and the two must mend bridges, confront old demons and face
new ones as they struggle to save the Earth (yet again).
Author's
Notes: A warning to all who dare to venture forth: This shall,
very probably, be a very long fic. I have a general outline and I
think I know where it's going (mostly), but I make no promises! And
the only reason this will be at all readable is due to the lovelyeponymousrose (on LJ, AKA StormMedicine on FF), who is amazing and, officially, the Best
Beta Evah ™. All mistakes that remain are mine. Feedback is always
appreciated, and thank you for your time!
--
She's running again, but this time she's got no hand to hold.
She's dressed in black and she's panting. Her lungs feel like they're on fire and she knows that if she dares to stop her legs will collapse.
They'll catch her. They'll catch her or kill her, hurt her to get information, find her family and all of those she loves and use them against her.
And she can't have that.
She keeps running. Dodging behind corners, leaping over sidewalks, ducking behind obstacles big enough to hide her. But she hears the bullets fly through the air, inches away from her left ear. She feels the pieces of debris in her hair, on her shoulders, gets tiny bits of brick in her eyes.
But she never stops running.
Until she comes to a dead-end, and suddenly there's nowhere left to run.
Resigned, terrified but so very tired, she turns, ready to face her pursuers.
Instead he's there, and her eyes centimeters away from her favorite junction, where collarbone meets neck and where, if she's very careful, she can make goose bumps form along his skin with only a brush from her fingertips.
She looks up, smiling, ready to coax those bumps to life, but when she meets his gaze he looks shocked. And she's confused as he stumbles to his knees, as his face becomes pale and as he grasps one of her shoulders with a fierce, but slackening, grip.
Then she sees that his other hand is clenched to his chest, blood running freely between his fingers.
--
Martha Jones woke up in a cold sweat, jerking out of bed and breathing heavily as she looked frantically around her.
It took her several minutes to really believe that she was in her room and not a dark alleyway, and even then she still felt her heart pounding to an unnatural rhythm in her chest.
Well, that was one way to start off the day with a bang.
Slowly forcing herself back to an inner state of calm, Martha dislodged her legs from the tangled blankets and threw them over the side of the bed. Feeling less constricted, she let out a large breath of air and allowed her head to drop, cradled between her hands as she willed her false panic to recede.
She never used to have nightmares. But, she thought with a small snort, a lot had changed since then. Back before she had explored the universe, seen marvels that others could only dream of, before she had loved and long before she had known what real loss was, she'd had no cause for nightmares. And for all of the brilliant things she had seen, in retrospect, she wasn't entirely certain whether the wonders were worth her new demons.
Martha gave her a head a quick shake before she got unsteadily to her feet and slowly made her way to the kitchen. Her whole body seemed to ache and each action she made was met with a small twinge of pain, as if she had been through a grand fight and was still recovering. Such was the case after each of her nightmarish episodes, like a physical blow had been dealt to her while she slept. Had those been the only remnants after each distasteful dream, Martha would have considered herself lucky.
But she wasn't quite so fortunate. What Martha despised most about these nightmares were the thoughts she was left with once they ended. How they forced her to remember a time that was fantastic and ghastly, amazing and yet so very heartbreaking- a time that she had, not so long ago, resolved to forget completely. The fact that these unpleasant dreams compelled her to recall all of those things which she had tried so very hard to erase from her memory put her into a morose mood, one that could take her hours, days, to shake.
The lack of sleep didn't exactly help on that front either, she thought with grim humor, looking to the digital clock on the counter and noting the time. Three AM. She let out a groan.
It wasn't that Martha was unused to function at such hours, or with so little sleep (Martha's particular torturous institution, which liked to cleverly pose as a medical school, expected not only that its pupils learn the particulars of every disease ever contracted by the human race, but also to do it all with little, if any, rest), but an uninterrupted five hours of slumber would have been appreciated.
She wouldn't be allowed such a luxury this evening.
At the thought she flicked on the kitchen light, blinking blearily as the florescent bulbs burst to life. With all of the determination she could muster at the early hour, she turned on the coffee machine and went back to the bedroom, seeking out her books.
Martha knew, just as she did after every episode, there would be no more sleep that night. Not when she could still sense his blood on her hands, still see his widened eyes and still feel his grip on her shoulder.
She gave herself another firm shake as she seized her book bag.
Even so, nightmares were no reason for her to allow the hours before her rotation at the hospital go to waste. Martha had a test in a week and plenty of material to study. And maybe, if she lost herself in her studies, in her work and in her fierce desire to help those who needed her, she could once again forget those horrible, glorious things the dream had compelled her to remember.
Resolved, in ten minutes Martha had gathered her materials and her full coffee mug to the dining table, pushing all thoughts of the universe out of her mind, even as she felt blood under her fingernails.
The Doctor ran headlong into the TARDIS, blindly yanking his companion in behind him (who made a disgruntled shrieking noise as she fell to the floor) before flinging the door shut. He grinned at the sound of bullets thudding uselessly against the ship's exterior and looked to his cohort, who was struggling to her feet with a decidedly murderous look on her face.
Well, the Doctor thought optimistically, the good news was that she didn't appear to be hurt.
The bad news was that the diagnosis of her good health was brought about due to the fact that she seemed perfectly capable of caring out said murderous desires.
And the Doctor was, as a rule, against violence, particularly when it was aimed towards himself.
"Well, wasn't that brilliant?" Donna muttered in a tone that clearly indicated that she did not, in fact, find 'that' brilliant at all.
He gave a nervous gulp, doing his best to ignore the tone and the glare she was sending him as he dashed further into his ship.
See, the Doctor didn't want Donna Noble, his latest traveling companion, knowing that he was slightly terrified of her.
Not to imply that he was scared, mind. No, no no. Just that she had the capacity to unnerve him. After all, throughout his nine hundred years of existence while exploring the ins and outs of the universe, the Doctor had found few creatures capable of shouting quite as piercingly as Donna Noble when in a tiff.
So, in hopes of evading the inevitable, the Doctor focused all of his attention on the flicking and turning of various do-dads on the console. "Yes, quite lovely," he replied agreeably. "Just a walk in the park, really." He frowned, halting in his movements. "Although there weren't any benches." He smiled, giving a slight nod as an idea came to mind. "Must bring that up, next time we drop in on the Vergonities." He reset the coordinates of the TARDIS for a week later at the same location. "Who has a park but doesn't think to put in benches?"
Donna blinked at him. "We've both just been exiled and nearly executed on that planet," she said slowly, appearing to be clenching her jaw in a rather painful fashion.
"Well, yes," the Doctor allowed, only just resting the urge to point out the obvious dental damages to jaw-clenching. It probably wouldn't be wise at the moment to imply that Donna had teeth that were less than sparkling and pristine, given her current temperament.
"And you want to go back?" Donna asked, walking irritably towards him.
He decided, perhaps foolishly, to overlook her annoyance. "Well, notnow, obviously."
She stopped when she reached him, crossing her arms over her chest and scowling. "When?"
The Doctor quickly spun the date dial on the TARDIS. Perhaps a week was a bit too soon for Donna. "Oh, if we give them a month they should be all right," he said glibly. "It was just a little thing, after all-"
He could feel his companion's glare burning a hole on the back of his neck. "You overthrew the government because they weren't taking proper care of the national parks."
He rubbed at the spot (he could almost see the smoke rising from his burning flesh) and turned to her, exasperated. "Now, Donna, I didn't overthrow anything." The Doctor rolled his eyes. "Humans, you always over exaggerate. I just," he waved an arm flippantly. "Lightly chastised them."
"By burning down their senate!"
The Doctor winced, recognizing the screech he had been trying so desperately to avoid.
"Fine." He sighed loudly. "We'll give them a year." He reluctantly spun the dial once more.
Donna raised an eyebrow, arms still crossed in front of her chest.
"A decade?" he tried hopefully.
Her expression remained severe.
"A century?"
She threw her arms up into the air. "That's it, take me home."
"Oh, fine. Two centuries. But then they really do need to put in some benches-"
The Doctor stopped mid-sentence, his mind finally catching up to his mouth.
"What did you say?"
"Home," Donna snapped, she pointed a stern finger at him. "I'm going home and you're taking me." She jabbed him in the chest before stomping around the console, a habit she was prone to when cross with him.
"B-but," the Doctor stuttered before regaining his composure, trying not to sound as devastated, hopeless, as he felt. "Why?"
He couldn't be alone. Not again. Not so soon after he had felt that small void in the back of his skull filled, only to have it emptied once more. Not when all he could hear was the echoing silence in his head, when he stretched his mind out into the universe and felt absolutely nothing reaching back.
I win.
Donna's voice snapped him back to the present.
"I've nearly been executed today!"
Shaking himself, doing his best to keep the pleading note out of his voice, the Doctor addressed her again. "Oh, but that's not so bad. It's not like we were actually executed. Now that would have been unfortunate. But this? This is just good fun."
"For you!" She huffed. "For me it's a series of really bad hair days and lots of screaming."
"That can be fun!"
She stared darkly at him. "The almost dying throws the fun off a bit."
It was that dark look that made the Doctor seriously consider the possibility that Donna would not be swayed. Oh, she was cross with him often enough (more often than the Doctor was completely comfortable with, given the screeching), but that annoyance rarely led anywhere beyond a bit of irritable muttering and a few sloppy insults.
But this was different.
It seemed as if the Doctor had pushed Donna Noble too far.
It had happened to nearly every traveler he had taken along in the past. He'd said the wrong thing, asked too much of them, waited a moment too long, yelled too loudly, acted too late, become too alien for them to handle.
Everyone, the Doctor had learned, had their breaking point, and eventually, they all reached it.
Except for every once in a while, when fate would step in. And then the option of breaking was taken away from them all.
He allowed his mind to wander for an instant (remembering brown eyes and peroxide blonde hair), but then brought himself firmly in check. He couldn't afford to live in the past. Not anymore.
This time, fate would have no hand in the breaking, and it was slowly dawning on the Doctor that Donna had, perhaps, been bent too much by the life he had forced upon her.
"Home it is then," he said at last, doing his best to hide all emotion from his tone, refusing to beg. He looked down at the console, ready to set the coordinates. "When?"
Donna looked at him curiously for an instant before tilting her head in thought. "Easter," she declared after a moment, sitting on the sofa and nodding firmly.
The Doctor frowned, looking up from his controls and furrowing his brow at her. "I thought you don't like the holidays?"
Donna stared blankly at him. "I don't like Christmas, so that means I don't like the holidays?"
"Well, as far as holidays go, Christmas is a big one. Sort of sets the mood for all the others." The Doctor leaned against to console, devoting himself entirely to the conversation. He wouldn't let himself admit that he was trying to make them both forget the coordinates he had yet to set. "I mean, really, a jolly fat man wearing a red suit? Priceless. Now, granted, passing out all of those presents does get rather tiresome, but that costume is just too fun." He smiled happily in retrospect, glancing fondly off into the distance. "Plus the cookies, which are always a nice perk."
Donna was obviously processing something, and as such blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "I'm not allowed to dislike Christmas, then?" she asked accusingly.
She had the tendency, the Doctor had learned, to not always think before she spoke. It wasn't because Donna was thick, although that was an easy and quick assumption to make, one that the Doctor, admittedly, had made himself upon their first meeting. But throughout their time together he had slowly been learning more about this secretary from London, and had found that he had sorely misjudged her.
Not to say that Donna would ever be clever, but she certainly wasn't stupid. Just rather careless with her words and more measured as she went about mulling over details presented to her. Indeed, the Doctor had been surprised time and again by Donna's remarkably perceptive nature, when the situation truly called for it. Although not the best to bring around to a board meeting, during a crisis Donna, in between fits of screeching and hair pulling, was an invaluable asset.
One that he wasn't willing to be rid of just yet.
"You can dislike whatever you'd like," the Doctor said with an innocent shrug, throwing her one more hint and hoping it would be enough to distract her. "Just seems that it's a lot of work gone to waste if you do."
Donna started before blinking pointedly at him. "Are you saying you're Santa Clause ?"
The Doctor sputtered a bit while feigning shock (a beautiful performance, if he did say so himself). "Well, maybe not the Sant-"
"Wait." Donna shook her head suddenly while holding up a silencing finger. "No!" She yelled, pointing the finger at him, yet again. "No, shut it!" She stood up from the sofa, beginning her pacing anew. "I don't care." The finger was still being wagged at him in a decidedly accusatory manner. "You're just trying to distract me." It made another jab at him, and suddenly Donna was stalking towards him, face stern. "I'm going home, I'm not going to be shot at for a few days, and it's going to be Easter when I get there. You got it?"
When she finally stopped she was mere millimeters away from his face and practically spitting on him.
The Doctor tried not to seem wholly intimidated by the woman, but he feared that his small, jerking step backward might have given him away.
Donna noted the movement and a slightly guilty look appeared on her features. She sighed, stepping away from him and running a hand sheepishly through her hair. She began again, this time in a much calmer, far more soothing, voice. "I've been traveling with you for three months-"
"You can't know that," the Doctor interjected quickly.
She snorted. "Oh, yes I can. I've been counting the hours."
The Doctor wasn't completely certain if she was serious or not.
"As I said," she continued, obviously pleased with having silenced him. "I've been traveling with you for three months and have had my life threatened," she paused for a bit, counting quietly to herself before nodding. "Sixteen times."
The Doctor returned the nod solemnly. "Not too bad, that."
Donna's eyes widened and he swore he saw her twitch. "What?"
"That's good," the Doctor reassured her, puzzled over her slightly petrified tone. "Usually it's up to at least thirty by now."
This, apparently, was not the right thing to say.
"Take me home, alien boy!" All calm gone, Donna began stalking around the ship again.
The Doctor let out a long sigh. "Fine, then," he said reluctantly before sending the TARDIS on its way and holding out a hand to Donna. "I suppose I'd best be getting my key back." He twitched his fingers dully, expectant.
Donna stared at the offending hand with a look akin to horror on her face. "What?"
"My key," the Doctor clarified in a monotone voice, his sullen mood showing in his uncharacteristic lack of enthusiasm. "If you're leaving then there's no reason why you should want to keep it."
There was a moment of tense silence, abruptly ended when Donna screamed, "No!"
The Doctor winced and scowled. "What do you mean 'no'?"
"I mean 'no, you may not have it!'"
He raised an eyebrow in annoyance. Of course Donna would be stubborn about such a thing - just to irk him, he was sure.
"And why not?" He demanded, snapping.
Donna remained unfazed, unimpressed or not noticing his temper. "I'm coming back, you twit!" she yelled.
He was reduced to gaping at her in sheer astonishment.
When he had finally regained enough sense to close his mouth, he asked, "You are?"
"Of course I am." She glared at him. "Just because I need a break doesn't mean I'm quitting!"
The Doctor found that processing thoughts was oddly difficult. "What?"
"A few days, a week. That's all." She gave a strained chuckle. "I just want some afternoon tea without getting interrupted by an impending apocalypse, all right?" She hit him lightly on the shoulder, grinning kindly at him. "I'll be back keeping you in check in no time."
And had he been thinking clearly, the Doctor would have been more than a little unnerved by the uncharacteristically cautious way Donna was handling him, would have noticed how she flicked her eyes in a calculating manner over his form, how she seemed to be treading on his emotions with great care.
But, as was usually the case, the Doctor hadn't realized that his companion knew him far better than he would ever let himself admit.
She rolled her eyes and turned away from him. "'Give me your key,' he says," she muttered as she slowly made her way down the ramp to the door of the TARDIS. "You know, it doesn't matter what species, men are always unbelievably thick," she ranted to herself, seeming to ignore him entirely.
So the Doctor thought it best, for his own safety, to nod agreeably and say nothing. Helpful, since he was still too shocked (and relieved) to know he wouldn't be opening up another vacancy to say anything terribly intelligent.
Donna leaned against the railing and looked from the door to the Time Rotor. She raised her eyebrows expectantly before blinking pointedly at him. "Are we there yet?"
"Right," the Doctor shook himself. "Yeah, sorry." He fiddled with some controls on the console, trying to appear occupied so she wouldn't think he had been staring mindlessly at her.
From the indulgent smile she sent him, the Doctor had the feeling that Donna wasn't fooled.
"One week, you hear?" she reminded
him, setting off for the door. "And if I almost die even once
during that week I get to start over, understood?"
He gave a
firm nod, grinning. "Yes, ma'am."
"Good." She opened the door and paused before leaving, looking back to him and smirking. "Don't get into too much trouble without me. Without supervision you'd probably summon the devil or start World War Three or something."
He thought it best not to mention that he had already done both of those, and with supervision.
Instead, he settled for a reassuring, "I won't."
Donna snorted. "Like I believe that."
The Doctor couldn't help but grin.
She sighed and waved a dismissive hand at him, already gleefully eyeing the building that housed her flat across the street. "See you in seven days, Martian." With that she was out the door, striding assuredly into her own world, the Doctor smiling as the latch to his clicked closed.
For now, at least.
Still beaming, the Doctor clapped his hands together and turned away from the exit, looking to the console eagerly. With Donna on vacation and a universe to explore, he had only one question on his mind.
What to do next?
He could always talk to the Vergonities about those benches, or check up on New Earth, or go drop in on some famous person or other. He had always wanted to meet King Louie.
But the thought of doing it all alone seemed unbearably devastating, a sensation that the Doctor was content to trying to ignore completely. After all, solitude brought with it memories and regrets, ones that he had been avoiding for months, years, lifetimes.
And being alone left him time to think those thoughts, deprived him of the distraction, affection, he would never admit was more than just a luxury throughout his travels.
And why should he bother himself with a problem that need not exist?
Determined, he jumped forward and set to work, fiddling with odds and ends on the console, setting coordinates for a week after he had dropped Donna off.
And he was just about to set the TARDIS in motion when he felt something shudder against his chest.
The Doctor tensed, afraid for a moment that the Vergonities had managed to plant an explosive on him. (It wouldn't have been the first time it had happened.) Then the source of the movement began to hum.
Well, if it was a bomb it was certainly happier about it than most.
Frowning, he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, grabbing the source of the vibrations and noises. It took him an instant, but then he saw the name, presented in blue, on the small view-screen of the mobile phone.
Grinning broadly, the Doctor re-set the coordinates, deciding that picking up Donna could be delayed a bit and that he had earned a small vacation of his own.
She always did have impeccable timing, that Martha Jones.
