A/N: For those of you who commented or thought about commenting on Margaret's lack of a biracial appearance, there was method to that madness. I'm sorry if I offended anyone. Questions will be answered in this chapter.

And no, I don't own pretty much anything in this chapter, including River Song, the TARDIS, the superphone, the Doctor, Donna Noble, and Lee McAvoy. I still own Margaret and the Iaculi. I haven't given them to the BBC.

Yet.

(Just kidding.)

River Song had a superphone.

The Doctor had given it to her as a necessary precaution. But River Song also wasn't big on precautionary measures, so she rarely touched it. Until, of course, it unexpectedly went off in the middle of her bath.

She had practically fallen asleep in the tub, warm water sloshing wavelike over her body, the knots in her muscles deciding at last to come undone. The TARDIS had really outdone herself: lavender soap, perpetually hot water, dim lights, and a convenient cease to her constant whooshing noises. After testing the water and experimentally smelling the soap (was it a wonderful bar of soap, indeed), River had sunken into the warm embrace of the bathwater and vowed never to get out.

An unceremonious beeping shook River from her stupor. Sitting straight up in the water, she glanced around the bathroom in search of the source. Not seeing it within view, she shrugged apologetically and leaned back in the water, trying to ignore the beep.

And yet the beep did not ignore River.

With a sigh, she stood up from the bath and reached for the nearest of several fluffy towels and wrapped herself in it. She shoved aside her clothes—nothing. Reaching for the nearest drawer, she opened it to find nothing more than a vibrating and shrilly ringing cell phone.

So that's where the superphone went. I assumed I'd lost it.

Leaning against the counter, she plucked the phone up gingerly with wet hands, pressing the "talk" button. "Hello, sweetie."

"River, I appreciate the sentiment, but now is really not the time." He spoke in a hushed, if forceful, whisper.

River smirked. "Well, when would be?"

"Later, later." He didn't sound amused. "Listen, are you available to…erm, help me?"

"What kind of help do you need?" She raised her eyebrows, now a little less playful. "And where are you? Why are you whispering?"

"I'm in an Iaculi stronghold in an unfortunate situation."

"The Iaculi?" She sat down on the edge of the bath with a brush, absently running it through her thick, wet curls. "I thought they had gone off the map ages ago. Dead race of snake people, right? Unless you're thinking of a different kind of Iaculi."

"No, that's them. They just…" He released a puff of air that sent static into River's ear. "Apparently, some of them lived. And one Iaculus has captured who he believes to be a four-year-old Donna Noble."

River gasped. "Have they really got her?"

"No, but they've got her little daughter."

"Donna has a daughter now?"

"Key word is 'had,' she had a daughter, named Margaret. But now they've up and captured her. They're laboring under the very unfortunate delusion that she's Donna, and that this little four-year-old most important woman in the world will help their dead race rise again."

"Poor thing." River shook her head, pulling her knees to her chest. "But have you got her?"

"Once again: had." A tide of guilt hovered dangerously behind his words. "I got her free, but I had to let her go."

"You lost a little girl? Donna's little girl?"

"I didn't lose her!"

"But you don't know where she is! That means you lost her!"

"I told her to run away and find somewhere safe!"

"What if she isn't safe, Doctor?" River found herself standing up next to the bathtub, shouting into the superphone. "What if she isn't? You've just set a four-year-old loose in the stronghold of a crazy alien race. Does that sound clever to you? You're a genius, but sometimes you can be a right idiot. Just because you want her to be safe doesn't mean she will be! You can't rely on that? Does that sound at all clever?"

"It doesn't," he replied, exasperated and exhausted, "but now she is lost and I really need your help so if you do or don't mind please come help me."

"I'm in the bath." That was an abject lie; she wasn't in the bath, and she didn't plan on getting back in.

A pause, then he gulped. "Well—ah, hm, can you—um—er—can't you just—"

"I'm out now." She smirked mirthlessly, slipping into her clothes after a brisk dry-down. "The old girl and I are headed over, I suppose. The stronghold is where, again?"

"I never said, but it's on Earth. Big old warehouse in Wrexham. Rather metal-y, rather dark. Probably looks suspicious from the air."

"Don't get lost in there, now, sweetie." She tapped the end call button and dropped the superphone onto her towel. Yanking her curls into a ponytail, River half-chuckled, trying to imagine under what circumstance Donna Noble would have consented to have children.

Donna hadn't supposed most hen night parties went like this, a lot of drinking, a lot of giggling, a lot of gossip, and little to no actual discussion about the wedding. As no one had hosted a hen night for her when she married Lance, she wouldn't know.

But now she sat at the left end of the bar with her third cocktail, and the girls sat at the right end, giggling and gossiping and not talking about the wedding at all. In the back of her mind, she knew it would end up like this, but she had been hoping for the best.

In hindsight, the general idea of a hen night wasn't the best, considering that Donna wasn't a proper bachelorette. Or a proper anything. She was getting a little old to be a bride.

But she loved Shaun, and that was what mattered. She loved him, and in a week, they'd be married. Mrs. Temple-Noble. The name sounded too foreign, like it wasn't going to be a legitimate part of her.

"To life," she muttered to herself, and took a halfhearted sip of her amaretto cocktail.

A loud chorus of "GOAL!" from her left shook her from her amaretto wonderland. A table just off of the bar was surrounded by perhaps the sloppiest looking men she'd ever seen. Each clasped what she assumed was a nearly empty bottle of lager, and each had their eyes glued to the television, airing a football match between Estonia and Basque Country, in which the former was suffering a horrifying defeat at the hands of the latter.

All but one of the men.

Donna blinked. Was he looking at her? The man at the end of the table closest to her, with black curly hair and a drunkard's frown, seemed to stare directly at her, turned around in his chair, slumped against the back.

"Excuse me?" she asked, affronted. "Never seen a ginger before, have you? Bugger off."

He shook his head, as though to clear it. He straightened up. "Oh, s-sorry, Ginge. D-d-didn't mean to st-stare."

He had a stammer, even when drunk. Endearing, Donna thought sarcastically.

"Think you're funny, staring at a woman who's on her hen night? I'm taken, Stammer." She slammed her amaretto to the countertop. "And don't try to call me Ginge."

"Y-you're on your hen night t-too?" he replied. "I mean, I'm n-not, I'm on m-my st-stag night. Obv-viously not my hen night, or I wouldn't b-be surrounded by these b-bastards. They're cheering for B-Basque. I hate B-Basque. I d-don't think I've ever really heard of B-Basque, or Estonia, r-really."

"Well, my lot's more interested in my neighbor's engagement than my wedding," she countered. "My wedding! I've got the big old rock on my finger right now, and they're on about a wedding next June! And they're the ones who're gonna be my bridesmaids!"

He laughed. "You're f-funny, Ginge. G-got a name?"

"Donna."

"Lee."

Lee? The name should've reminded her of someone, but she couldn't quite think who.

Instead of putting effort into remembering, she patted the space next to her at the bar. "Up here, Lee."

He smiled and obliged, trotting over to the bar. "W-want another amaretto? On me."

"I'd love to, thanks."

Lee waved down a bartender and ordered Donna's fourth drink, as well as another lager for himself.

"So, why's a good looking young man like you getting married so early?" Donna asked once the bartender left. "I'm surprised you're not staying in the field."

"I'm actually not as y-young as I m-may look," he chuckled.

"Try me."

"Thirty-seven."

Donna's eyes widened, and she let out a laugh loud enough to distract her party from their gossip. "Thirty-seven? I would've guessed you were ten years younger at least!"

"What about you, D-donna, why aren't you out meeting m-more men until you get married?"

"I'm nearly your age. I turn thirty-seven next month."

Lee whistled. "Old d-dogs, we are."

"Oi, watch it, Stammer," she snapped, making Lee chuckle.

He passed Donna her cocktail and took a swig from his lager. "You want a ride home, Donna?" He wasn't stammering. His voice was surprisingly clear.

She smirked. "Depends on whose home."

"Mine or yours, it's your choice."

"Yours sounds great."

She woke up with her head on a man's chest.

Donna's head felt heavy. She was a little cold, and there were sheets tangled around her ankles.

Horror began to pulse with her headache. Whose bed was this?

It all came back to her. The drinks. The man. The offer of a ride home.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, climbing out of the bed, slipping on her clothes, and tiptoeing away sadly.

He sat bolt upright when he heard the door to the apartment close. "D-d-Donna? D-d-Donna?" He was stone-cold sober now.

Donna.

D-d-Donna.

He never forgot a face. He wouldn't forget hers.

How's that for a plot twist? ~Nat

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