To Err is Human (chapter 14)
Author: Lilac Summers
Rating: PG, language
Pairing: Doctor/Donna
Category: humor, romance/angst

A/N: Angst alert! Beware, all ye who enter here. I shot myself in the foot trying to complete a much longer version of this chapter; ended up cutting it in two if I didn't want to delay another week in getting this out. So, I hope you enjoy it! Maybe I'll be able to update more quickly with the other half. Thank you as always to the kind souls reviewing; I treasure every word!

Part 14

The TARDIS door shut with a somber note of finality. The Doctor moved straight to the console, not sparing Donna a single glance where she leaned against a strut. This suited Donna fine, as she was busy fiddling with her dress sleeve and acting as though she didn't feel as if she were about to be sick.

Because she...

She had not been able to stop him.

For the first time, Donna had not been able to do what she was supposed to do: keep the Doctor grounded, give him a sense of scale, of justice tempered with compassion. She rubbed her arms, trying to find warmth, still chilled by the fate the Family had suffered at the Doctor's hand.

It had been the type of cruel, ironic punishment that only a madman would plan. They had craved immortality, so he had decided to torture them for eternity. "Mother of Mine," dropped into an event horizon, "Father of Mine" bound in unbreakable chains and falling into infinity, "Son of Mine" frozen into a parody of those scarecrows he had created, and "Sister of Mine" forever trapped in a mirror.

It had horrified her. It had brought back to mind blank eyes, uncaring as the Racnoss queen screamed for her children.

Donna had begged him to just kill the Family; it would have been kinder. When her attempts to dissuade him failed, he'd ordered (shouted, actually) for her to return to the TARDIS.

But she had refused. If he was going to do this, then she was going to stand as a witness to his actions. So she'd watched with tears streaming down her face as he cast each member of the Family into their own little twisted version of immortality.

Her face felt sticky with dried tears. And the rest of her was still slick - sweat and other things. She turned away from the controls, started to make her way to the hall leading to her room.

"Donna."

She stopped at the quiet word. "Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

She turned, saw those same dark eyes were trained on her. "For?"

"You know what for."

She was quiet for a long moment, before managing, very softly, "Oh...so not for the way you dealt with the Family, then."

"No, not for that."

"You should, though. We can still rescue them, can't we? Just turn around, Doctor, please. We can imprison them, if you want, let them live out their last few weeks in jail or-"

His jaw clenched in a hard, stubborn line of rage barely contained. "They deserved it. It was because of them that I... They got what they wanted. I won't be sorry for that, ever."

She wanted to ask "because of them, what?" but was too afraid of the answer. Deep down she feared the severity of their punishment was all her fault. She had messed up, she had ruined everything, and unable to deal with her then he had been even harsher with the Family. And now he was apologizing to her, as if she didn't know what a miserable fuck-up she'd created - as if she weren't aware that he was probably itching to get rid of her.

Useless, useless Donna. Not even able to stop him, anymore.

But because she was a coward, she said none of this and instead shrugged with a nonchalance she didn't feel. She met his eyes guardedly, "Look, if it's about the other...thing, then, I know it didn't mean...you weren't yourself and the situation was odd and...I don't want to talk about it."

The conversation was closed, as far as she was concerned. All she wanted to do now was get out of this godforsaken dress, take a long bath and forget anything in the past months had ever happened and pray he let her stay.

"Donna..." he called again, but she ignored him and kept walking.

.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~.

The atmosphere in her room was very still; she wondered if the TARDIS was giving her the sentient-ship equivalent of the silent-treatment. She wouldn't blame her one bit.

But as she shivered in delayed reaction, the floor warmed underfoot. And she noticed her little vanity from 1913 - the one she had always so admired - now sitting daintily in a free corner. She realized the TARDIS had brought it onto the ship for her (or recreated it, she couldn't tell) and she laughed with a bitter edge of hysteria. Maybe the TARDIS felt guilty too, after having put them in that situation.

Hell, why not. Plenty of guilt to go around.

She stripped off the rumpled dress and undergarments, hurling each piece into a dark corner in her closet as if getting them out of her sight would somehow erase what had happened.

"I never want to see that dress again," she muttered, then panicked as she felt the answering vibrations of the TARDIS around her. "Wait!" she cried, rushing back to pick up the bundle of clothing before they could slide into a chute that had mysteriously appeared on the floor.

"Don't get rid of them or anything, okay? They were, the Doctor, John, they were a gift from him." She realized she was clutching everything against her chest and rambling like a mad woman. She forced her fingers to let go of the material, laying out the dress and its accompanying undergarments gently on the bed, trying to ignore, once more, how her hands trembled. "Maybe you could just wash everything and put it away for whomever-"

Whomever he replaces me with.

"Whomever needs them," she finished dully.

The clothes stayed where she put them and she took that for an affirmative, before closing herself off in her bathroom.

Her reflection in the bright bathroom mirror made her stop and stare. Her skin was milky pale and translucent after weeks of conservative dresses and shirts that covered her from wrist to chin; the delicate chain of bruising that decorated her throat seemed very stark. It was a little crazy to be standing naked in front of her bathroom mirror, and realize that the purpling love bites on her chest and neck could be attributed to the Doctor. His mouth on her skin, hurried and frantic. His tongue laving each mark.

A traitorous shiver worked itself up her spine so she forced herself to turn from the mirror and ordered her mind to push all that aside. Instead she concentrated on easing her stiff body into the blissfully steaming bath the Tardis had provided. The initial shock of the hot water awoke a concerto of tiny pains she had been ignoring: a consistent ache in her back and soreness in her thighs and between them. Slowly she felt each overworked muscle group relax and she groaned in pleasure, letting her head fall back and roll to the side.

"Thank you for this, at least," she whispered into the steamy air around her.

The TARDIS gave what she would classify as a moody huff.

"Don't give me any attitude, miss. It was your grand idea to make us married in his head that got us here. Everything's all weird now." Donna traced nervous circles in the silky water.

All weird and strained and wrong. Wrong even more because she knew, if she were fair, that it wasn't entirely the TARDIS' fault. She, Donna, was the one in charge of making sure nothing got out of hand with the Doctor. John had thought he was in love, and acted accordingly. It was Donna who knew better, Donna who should have kept making up excuses, evading, and not let herself get seduced, for crying out loud, by her best friend. She could have found a way so that scene in the cottage would have never even been a possibility.

Just what the hell had she been thinking! Donna clenched her eyes shut and brought her wet hands to her face.

The unexpected sound of knuckles against wood had her sitting upright in surprise, sloshing water over the lip of the tub.

"Donna?" called the Doctor through the bathroom door, knocking once more. "Donna, I need to talk to you."

Her breath hitched in her throat. Too soon. Not ready. The water around her suddenly felt chilled around her panicked body, though she could still see the steam rising from its surface. "Can't it wait?"

There was a pause, long enough that her fingers on the tub's rim curled into a white-knuckled grip.

"No," came the final response from the Doctor. "No, I'm not sure that it can."

Donna nodded dumbly, then forced words out of her mouth when she realized, like an idiot, that he couldn't see her. "Yeah, all right. I'll be out in a moment."

A faint shuffle of sound marked his retreat from the door, while Donna stayed looking down at her hands curled around the tub's edge. Couldn't even wait for her to finish her bath.

Well, it was his ship.

Little droplets of salty water fell on her hands. She blinked rapidly to clear the moisture seeping from her eyes, and suddenly she was angry. At herself, for crying, again. At him, for not even giving her the time for a bath. Well, fuck that. She would take her bath and he would just have to wait and if he couldn't stand her presence on his ship for another measly half hour when he was over 900 years old and she'd searched for him for over a year and it hadn't been her idea to get stuck in 1913 and now she wouldn't ever see another time let alone another planet let alone him because he'd steer well away from London after...

A sob escaped her and she clapped her hand over her mouth, horrified the sound would have traveled outside the bathroom and into her room. But she couldn't stop; it was all rising up to strangle her. Tears - god, more tears, would they never end, she would swear there were none left in her - plonked into the bathwater like raindrops. It was hard to breathe and the more she muffled the noise the more the strangled sound seemed to echo off the tiled walls.

"Donna? Are you all right? Donna...open the door." The Doctor at her bathroom door again, jiggling the doorknob.

"No," she gasped out.

"Donna, I'm coming inside." The sound of the sonic, firing up.

"Don't you dare!" she shrieked at him. "You come into this room, I swear I'll...I'll...I'll slap you so hard... I'll...don't you even think about..." She couldn't come up with of a good threat, trying to speak around labored breaths. "I'll be out in ten minutes. Just give me ten goddamn minutes!"

The sonic stopped. She could sense his presence, waiting, on the other side of the door, but the doorknob did not move again.

And Donna let herself slide underwater, where bathwater would mix with tears and she could pretend there was no difference.

.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~.

She exited the room wrapped in a thin toweling robe, her hair a wet mass down her back, but with dry eyes. Ten minutes had afforded her a hasty bath and endless deep breaths, shoring up a calm facade she was determined to keep.

The Doctor was waiting in her room, sitting on the edge of her bed, hands clasped tightly around the dress she had left there - the dress he'd bought her. A heavy weight seemed to have settled over him, his strong shoulders were bowed. He looked very still and very tired. Gone was all the energy and blabber she was so accustomed to. She had only seen him this way after great catastrophe or sacrifice: Messaline, Midnight.

Donna flinched at the idea of being lumped in the same category.

His attention completely focused on the mass of icy-blue fabric in his hands, as if the silk held deep answers to the universe's questions.

Donna fidgeted in place. "Right then. Well, here I am," she muttered, unable to stand the quiet. "What was so flippin' urgent."

"I wanted to say...I needed to say I'm sorry," he said softly, never raising his head to face her.

This was her opportunity - her chance to say she was sorry. That she knew she had made a mistake. To please not make her go. But the words boiled up in a nonsensical jumble she couldn't voice. Because what was he sorry for? For making love to her? For trusting her with him? For ever bringing her along? For assuming she could do this right?

The silence stretched, expectant, and it was obvious he was waiting for her to say something. Every second that passed in her continued endeavor to force words out of her throat made his shoulders curl ever inward, as if each second added a kilo to the weight he already carried.

And just like that she knew her chance had passed. She couldn't say she was sorry because she was sorry for so much that no matter how many times she said it, the word would never ameliorate all the ways she had failed him.

All she could really get to come out of her mouth was, "I wish you'd stop apologizing."

He hands clenched in the delicate fabric of the dress he held, and he nodded his head once, sharply, as an indication he'd do as she asked. His eyes finally shifted from the mass of icy-blue fabric in his hands to fix on her bare feet. She curled her toes into the plush carpet and felt his gaze sweep up her form, lingering on her throat, before meeting her eyes. She felt distinctly like some rare specimen under a microscope.

He set aside the mass of silk and rose so suddenly from the bed that she stumbled back, and he froze. The look he fixed her with was one she couldn't decipher, before he began to move towards her again, more cautiously this time.

When he was an arm's length away, he peered down at her neck, motioning with his sonic.

"What is that?"

"What's what?" she craned her head down, but obviously couldn't see her own neck.

He shuffled a midge closer, laid a fingertip briefly on her collarbone. "Bruising, here and here and here."

Her hand flew to her neck, covering the marks as she goggled at him and her whole body flushed in embarrassment. She remembered well the chain of love-bites marking her skin.

Was he serious? How couldn't he know what those were?

The sonic was suddenly whirring and coming towards her. She slapped it away.

"Hickies, Martian. They're bleedin' hickies," she countered, her tone harsh in her self-consciousness.

He looked confused for a millisecond before the term found meaning in his brain, then stepped hastily back from her.

The emotion that flitted over his face before he closed it off completely was regret. And though she didn't expect any different, it still burned - a sharp, hot lance to the heart, that he should regret being with her.

He turned away from her and reached for a small glass of fizzy blue liquid.

"Drink this," he commanded.

Still keeping one hand clapped to her neck to hide the bruising, she reached for the little glass. "What is it?"

He was studiously looking away from her, fiddling with settings on the sonic. "Emergency contraceptive."

"Emerg...oh. Oh." She almost bobbled the glass of pretty blue liquid.

She clenched the little glass in her hand for an instant, glanced up to find him watching her from the corner of his eyes. She could have told him it was unnecessary; she'd been taking the little pills from the 28th century. But more than anything, she just wanted this agonizing farce to end.

"Well, good on you, being all prepared," she drawled with the fake bravado she was so skilled at employing. Knowing his gaze was still on her, she shot the liquid back as if it were some fruity girly drink she and her girlfriends were pounding at the local pub, then dropped the empty glass on the side table with a clatter. "No alien babies, check."

A muscle clenched in his jaw and a part of her - the one that knew what was coming and railed against it - rejoiced in this little telltale hint of aggravation. But in contrast to her, he picked up the glass very gently, so he could turn in over and over in his hands.

Another lengthy silent moment - there had been more silence between them in the past hour than there had been in the past year.

"Donna, thank you for taking care of me for the past two months."

So this was it, then. Her hands traveled to the robe, clutched the edges together. She nodded once, awkwardly, in affirmative.

She was a temp, she'd gotten her walking papers before. She was the queen of pink slips. Of "we've hired a permanent replacement." "Thank you for fixing the problem; we don't need you anymore." She'd heard them all.

He waited. What he expected her to say was beyond her. All she could really do was look back at him with blank politeness, a mask she'd perfected.

Suddenly his expression turned agonized, almost pleading. The stranger of two-word sentences and cold distance who'd been standing in her room disappeared and it was the Doctor's mobile face, haunted and weary and needing something from her to make it all okay. But she just didn't know what that was this time. Do it. Just get it over with! she wanted to scream,

The moment of vulnerability ended and he seemed to shut himself off, put the emotions away.

"I - I can take you home when you're ready," he finally said, tone so low she might have missed the words if she had't already known they were coming.

And no one could accuse Donna of being anything but the most consummate professional, when needed. She'd been here before, after all, countless times. She drew indifference and tattered dignity around her like a cloak, hiding heartache and all those cutting edges of guilt.

"I'll pack my things."

to be continued - communication breakdown

Reviews are like the TARDIS "accidentally" locking you and the Doctor together in a very small, very warm broom closet so you can "work out your differences."