Title: The Chances We Create
Rating: PG
Genre: Gen
Characters/Pairings: The Doctor and Donna, with mentions of Lance and Donna/Lance
Spoilers?: Set between "Midnight" (4x10) and "Turn Left" (4x11)
Summary: The Doctor makes Donna coffee -- which prompts a discussion of the day they met.
Excerpt: She supposes they’re alike in that sense, her and the Doctor -- terrified of letting anyone see what’s underneath. You talk all the time, but you never say anything.


When she steps into the kitchen that morning – well, is there really morning on the TARDIS? – Donna is not surprised to find the Doctor’s already there, two mugs in hand.

“Good morning!” he greets, in a voice so chipper it does little besides remind Donna how little she likes mornings. “Coffee?”

She takes the proffered mug and looks down at it, curious, swirling the coffee around in its ceramic home. There’s no proper reason for her hesitation, and yet –

“Haven’t had coffee since Lance,” she admits, and feels a little silly doing so.

The Doctor’s grin dims guiltily and twists into a sympathetic smile. “Huon-particle-free, I promise.” As if to prove his point, he takes a sip from his own mug.

Donna rolls her eyes. “I should hope so.” She sits at the table, curls her hands around her coffee and watches at the steam.

Lance. It’s not so hard to recall a time when the name called forth a giddy, schoolgirl-like excitement in her stomach; now it makes her cold and uncomfortable, as if she’s caught somewhere between anger and grief. It’s a name she’s spoken as little as possible for a very long time.

It had been hard, having to lie about the circumstances surrounding his death on the eve of their would-be wedding; it had been harder still to pretend he hadn’t spent the last few hours of his life trying to hand her over to an alien – to pretend he’d actually cared about her, after all. There’d been no one to talk to, but then she’d never really wanted to talk, anyway.

She supposes they’re alike in that sense, her and the Doctor -- terrified of letting anyone see what’s underneath. You talk all the time, but you never say anything.

“Wonder what he’d think of me now,” she says thoughtfully as she tries the coffee. She smirks. “I haven’t seen X-Factor in months.”

The Doctor sits across from her, and when she looks up she sees his smile has disappeared entirely.

“He was wrong about you, Donna.” He says it with such conviction that she nearly believes him.

Nearly.

She shakes her head, smiling ruefully. “Nah, he wasn’t. Not then, at least.”

“He was,” the Doctor insists. “You were brilliant, Donna.”

The look he gives her is intense, and Donna looks down at her drink, embarrassed.

“You were,” he repeats. “You handled it fantastically, all things considered.”

Donna snorts. “I did not, I was bloody terrified. Half the time I wasn’t sure I was siding with the right alien.”

It’s a joke, but the look on his face makes her regret telling it. Hastily, she adds, “You did all the work, anyway, fat lot of good I was.”

He gives her a faint smile. “That’s not true.”

“Sure it is! I was useless! You were the one with pockets, all I did was get myself… cocooned!” She wrinkles her nose at the memory of the thick, sticky web. It had taken days to wash out of her hair properly.

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” he says resolutely, shaking his head.

“Ha!” She isn’t sure whether she’s amused or frustrated by his sudden refusal to accept the credit that is his due. It's a litle bit infuriating, how quickly he seems to vascillate between self-love and self-loathing. “Me screaming was really crucial to your big plans, was it?”

It’s a second before he answers. He looks down at his own coffee, studying it carefully, any trace of amusement gone from his face. Donna’s own smile falters; he looks oddly vulnerable, and she wonders if he’s not yet shaken off the chill from the diamond planet.

“I needed you there, Donna,” he says, quietly and with such resolve that she knows better than to argue.

She swallows, unsure of what to say. Then, in an instant, he downs the rest of his coffee and springs to his feet.

“Well, come on, then, drink up!” he orders impatiently, all smiles and juvenile energy again. “I know the perfect place for today! Nice little market, great drinks – well, I say ‘little’, it’s planet-sized – lots of reds, you’ll fit right in!”

He’s out of the kitchen before she can even think of a response. She stares after him, then looks at her coffee, still lost in thoughts of Lance and giant spiders and draining the Thames.

Then she thinks of planet-sized markets, alien drinks and Time Lords who seem to labour under the delusion that she’s brilliant. She grins, takes one last sip of her Huon-free coffee, and heads to the console room.

All things considered, she thinks, she’s a very lucky woman.