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noblealiceworksTitle: Holiday
Author: lily_268
Characters: Donna & Ten
Spoilers: from Runaway Bride & S4 casting
Summary: How Donna spent the time between being picked up again.
Rating: PG
Notes: Second person POV from Donna
A brown blur spins past as someone rushes to open the wooden doors in front of you.
You half expect the beginning of the universe to be waiting outside, a gaping chasm of swirling dust and gas and heat - a horrifying revelation.
You try not to notice the twinge of disappointment when the wooden doors open to reveal the path you walk down everyday when it’s not raining. You breathe in the damp spring air and choke back the stench of the city right before a storm.
--
You resolve to take a trip to the country. Lack of boyfriend be damned. Why should your holiday suffer just because of something that was out of your hands?
You make it all the way to the hotel lobby with your suitcase and the concierge asks if your friend is outside parking the car. You almost book a room for two to save yourself the embarrassment, but then you imagine eating alone, going to the flicks alone and waking up alone. You excuse yourself from the young man because you’ve left your wallet in the backseat.
--
You tell your friends that the wedding ‘did not go exactly as planned’ and blame bad fish.
You need to look away quickly to avoid their knowing sneers.
You never much liked them anyways.
--
Sometimes, when you can’t sleep because you have just had your favourite jacket ruined in a coffee shop, you fold your pillow in half beneath you and punch it into a small lump of feathers and padding.
You bury your head in the center to muffle your cries.
--
You lie awake and wonder if you can charge him for the damages you suffered.
--
You spend three days in bed with a bucket of ice cream and the 1995 BBC miniseries of Pride and Prejudice that Bridget Jones loves so much. You turn it off after the first tape because they look ridiculous and Colin Firth isn’t really that attractive - not when you want to tear every tux you see into a million pieces.
You emerge from your room at home only so you can escape your insufferable parents. At your apartment you bring the comforter from the bed with you through the kitchen and into the den, ignoring the way the edges are getting dirty and you flop down in a big quilted jumble on the couch.
You don’t notice the twinkle of the stars or the change of the wind.
--
You avoid the top shelf of your closet because you think there might be a spider up there. You don’t really know why this bothers you.
--
After two weeks you pick up your wedding dress from the cleaners and sigh as you inspect the frayed hem and the burnt lace.
You wish for half a second that he had failed, just so you wouldn’t have to look at the glum reflection of the redheaded woman outside a cleaners shop holding a dirty and tattered wedding dress, her dreams as trampled as the train.
--
You have to look for a new job because the lower basement of the building of your last job melted. You have to lie a lot at interviews. It gets more natural the more you do it, until you actually believe that you left due to creative differences between the secretarial staff.
--
You know that he was a prick.
Really. Bugger him.
Yet sometimes...
Sometimes you can’t help missing the feeling of holding hands with someone. You wish he had a grave that you could visit. Even it was just to yell at him and throw her ring to the ground like something from an old Katherine Hepburn movie. You imagine strutting off into the haze of the cemetery, confident and complete.
You never think that even if there were a headstone to rage at, that you might still feel hollow.
--
You have to take the train to your new job, and you need to pass the time somehow, so you find yourself reading the news. At first you’re surprised that so much can happen everyday, that the world can even contain it all.
Until you’ve been reading for two weeks and you notice the same patterns, the same abductions and crashes and tragedies on a loop.
You yearn for something else that’s not written between the pages.
--
He’s whirled back into your life again and you just want to hit him until he apologises or until he reverses everything or at least until he stops smirking.
He seems overjoyed to recognise someone in Prague where you’ve finally got the nerve to go on Holiday and he drags you to ‘the best ice cream in the city’.
Figures.
--
Before you notice, the walls are a golden green and you’re shivering because he’s opened the blue doors to reveal sleet and snow. You yell at him to shut the bloomin’ doors, you’re not heating the North Pole! Sometimes you shake your head at how childlike he is. You need to take out the expired milk and remind him that he’s sprained his ankle when he wants to go bouncing off and once or twice you want to put him in a time out.
But you also like knowing that something else exists besides burnt lace and failed hearts and mundane jobs. It’s like a safety net that you could fall out of any second.
--
A brown blur spins past you, nattering on about the birthing rituals of the Frish-a-lop-something-or-other. You tune him out because he rather likes to talk a lot and you've learned that if you stop listening you don’t miss much. Maybe just a warning that walking on the grass of Clydor merits a death penalty - but you’ve grown to trust the brown blur hopping in front of you.
You wonder when you started to enjoy the gaping chasms of swirling dust and gas as you ask what he meant when he said that the mothers give birth only at twilight in June.
Author: lily_268
Characters: Donna & Ten
Spoilers: from Runaway Bride & S4 casting
Summary: How Donna spent the time between being picked up again.
Rating: PG
Notes: Second person POV from Donna
A brown blur spins past as someone rushes to open the wooden doors in front of you.
You half expect the beginning of the universe to be waiting outside, a gaping chasm of swirling dust and gas and heat - a horrifying revelation.
You try not to notice the twinge of disappointment when the wooden doors open to reveal the path you walk down everyday when it’s not raining. You breathe in the damp spring air and choke back the stench of the city right before a storm.
--
You resolve to take a trip to the country. Lack of boyfriend be damned. Why should your holiday suffer just because of something that was out of your hands?
You make it all the way to the hotel lobby with your suitcase and the concierge asks if your friend is outside parking the car. You almost book a room for two to save yourself the embarrassment, but then you imagine eating alone, going to the flicks alone and waking up alone. You excuse yourself from the young man because you’ve left your wallet in the backseat.
--
You tell your friends that the wedding ‘did not go exactly as planned’ and blame bad fish.
You need to look away quickly to avoid their knowing sneers.
You never much liked them anyways.
--
Sometimes, when you can’t sleep because you have just had your favourite jacket ruined in a coffee shop, you fold your pillow in half beneath you and punch it into a small lump of feathers and padding.
You bury your head in the center to muffle your cries.
--
You lie awake and wonder if you can charge him for the damages you suffered.
--
You spend three days in bed with a bucket of ice cream and the 1995 BBC miniseries of Pride and Prejudice that Bridget Jones loves so much. You turn it off after the first tape because they look ridiculous and Colin Firth isn’t really that attractive - not when you want to tear every tux you see into a million pieces.
You emerge from your room at home only so you can escape your insufferable parents. At your apartment you bring the comforter from the bed with you through the kitchen and into the den, ignoring the way the edges are getting dirty and you flop down in a big quilted jumble on the couch.
You don’t notice the twinkle of the stars or the change of the wind.
--
You avoid the top shelf of your closet because you think there might be a spider up there. You don’t really know why this bothers you.
--
After two weeks you pick up your wedding dress from the cleaners and sigh as you inspect the frayed hem and the burnt lace.
You wish for half a second that he had failed, just so you wouldn’t have to look at the glum reflection of the redheaded woman outside a cleaners shop holding a dirty and tattered wedding dress, her dreams as trampled as the train.
--
You have to look for a new job because the lower basement of the building of your last job melted. You have to lie a lot at interviews. It gets more natural the more you do it, until you actually believe that you left due to creative differences between the secretarial staff.
--
You know that he was a prick.
Really. Bugger him.
Yet sometimes...
Sometimes you can’t help missing the feeling of holding hands with someone. You wish he had a grave that you could visit. Even it was just to yell at him and throw her ring to the ground like something from an old Katherine Hepburn movie. You imagine strutting off into the haze of the cemetery, confident and complete.
You never think that even if there were a headstone to rage at, that you might still feel hollow.
--
You have to take the train to your new job, and you need to pass the time somehow, so you find yourself reading the news. At first you’re surprised that so much can happen everyday, that the world can even contain it all.
Until you’ve been reading for two weeks and you notice the same patterns, the same abductions and crashes and tragedies on a loop.
You yearn for something else that’s not written between the pages.
--
He’s whirled back into your life again and you just want to hit him until he apologises or until he reverses everything or at least until he stops smirking.
He seems overjoyed to recognise someone in Prague where you’ve finally got the nerve to go on Holiday and he drags you to ‘the best ice cream in the city’.
Figures.
--
Before you notice, the walls are a golden green and you’re shivering because he’s opened the blue doors to reveal sleet and snow. You yell at him to shut the bloomin’ doors, you’re not heating the North Pole! Sometimes you shake your head at how childlike he is. You need to take out the expired milk and remind him that he’s sprained his ankle when he wants to go bouncing off and once or twice you want to put him in a time out.
But you also like knowing that something else exists besides burnt lace and failed hearts and mundane jobs. It’s like a safety net that you could fall out of any second.
--
A brown blur spins past you, nattering on about the birthing rituals of the Frish-a-lop-something-or-other. You tune him out because he rather likes to talk a lot and you've learned that if you stop listening you don’t miss much. Maybe just a warning that walking on the grass of Clydor merits a death penalty - but you’ve grown to trust the brown blur hopping in front of you.
You wonder when you started to enjoy the gaping chasms of swirling dust and gas as you ask what he meant when he said that the mothers give birth only at twilight in June.
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no subject
Date: 2007-07-25 06:14 pm (UTC)And I admire that you went with the second person as a perspective. I always find that it's the hardest POV to write, but this worked wonderfully.
no subject
Date: 2007-07-27 05:30 pm (UTC)I'm hoping that Donna will keep the Doctor in line. If he gets emo again, she can hit him! :D
no subject
Date: 2007-07-25 10:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-27 05:31 pm (UTC)This is really sweet.
Date: 2007-07-26 05:28 am (UTC)Re: This is really sweet.
Date: 2007-07-27 05:32 pm (UTC)