Life of the Party

Fandom: Doctor Who

Characters: The Tenth Doctor/Donna

Season 4, oneshot, humour

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: These characters belong to the BBC, not to me.

Donna Noble was having the time of her life.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had so much fun at a party. This, she thought happily, was precisely how parties should be done. Dancing, drinking, and lots of loud pounding music. Brilliant.

And it was all because she’d slipped out of the TARDIS and got here before the Doctor.

Oh, he’d catch up eventually, of course. And then she knew exactly what’d happen. He’d discover some dreadful political wrong that had to be righted. Probably that nice bartender was actually working for the evil oppressive dictator of the planet, and spiriting away unsuspecting partiers to throw them in the dungeon. Or that sweet lad she’d danced with a moment ago was a member of some underground resistance movement, gathering intelligence that would save his people from the unseen but dreadful alien overlords. Or–

Well, she didn’t see anything wrong here, just a bunch of regular people having fun. But she knew perfectly well that the minute he got here, things would go pear-shaped, and they’d wind up saving a lot of people and then running like bloody hell. It was just the way things went when the Doctor was around.

But right now, she was here on her own, and she was having a wonderful time. She was the life of the party, absolutely thronged with male admirers. True, she couldn’t communicate with her hosts, but that didn’t seem to matter that much. They were actually quite nice-looking, almost human except for the lack of mouths (they drank through their noses, which was interesting to watch). She’d always figured men would be more fun to have around without the ability to talk, anyway. Certainly the Doctor would be. She imagined him without a mouth, and smiled a little.

The bloke she was dancing with tightened his arm around her, and she smiled more.

“The Telonians communicate by the sense of smell,” the Doctor had explained that afternoon in his earnest lecturing voice, the tone that invariably made her want to curl up in bed and take a nice long nap. “The TARDIS won’t be much help in translating that, unfortunately, so don’t expect to chat with anyone. Y’see, they can change their body chemistry in order to create a great many different odours. ’S fascinating, really. You’d think it wouldn’t be a really precise way to communicate, but the shades of meaning they can convey are really astonishing. Why, I once had a conversation with a man on Teloni about…”

She’d tuned out his yammering at that point, and thought about what gown she should wear. She was wearing it now, a beautiful, low cut, ice-blue satin thing she’d found in the wardrobe room a while back. Its hem swept the floor, and the colour set off her long red hair beautifully. She’d been waiting for the chance to wear it, and her hosts seemed to appreciate it, judging from all the appreciative male glances she was getting.

Why, she was positively mobbed with men. She really needed to get out without the Doctor more often.

As if she’d conjured him up by thinking of him, the Doctor appeared at her side. At least he’d donned a tuxedo, instead of that tatty old brown suit he loved so much, but he didn’t look like a man who was here to toss back a few beers and enjoy the party. She could see stormclouds gathering in his eyes.

“Donna,” he said in an undertone, catching her by the wrist. “Let’s go.”

“Go?” She stopped dancing and glared at him. “Are you daft? I’m having a wonderful time!”

“Yes,” he said between his teeth, “and so are all your dance partners. Let’s get going.”

He tugged at her wrist, but she stood her ground, narrowing her eyes as dangerously as she could–which was quite dangerous indeed, if she did say so herself. “Jealous, Spaceboy?”

He blinked, and something that looked suspiciously like a smile crossed his face, only to be hastily wiped away. “No,” he said briefly, and tugged again. “C’mon, Donna–"

“Because I’m having a perfectly lovely time, and I really don’t see why–"

“Come on.”

“But the music–and the drinks–and the men are so friendly–”

“Donna.” He spoke between his teeth, still looking like he was trying not to smile, but failing more with every passing moment. “Will you, for once in your life, please listen to the ancient alien who’s been to almost every inhabited planet in the universe, and who may possibly-perhaps-just-maybe know slightly more about alien cultures than you do? Come along.”

And he yanked on her wrist, really quite hard this time. She shot an apologetic look at the bloke she’d been dancing with, and all the other men who’d been queued up waiting their turn, and followed him reluctantly out into the darkness.

The minute they stepped outside, she wrenched her wrist away and glared again.

“What is your bloody problem?”

“I don’t have a problem,” he said, mildly. “But you did. At least, you were going to.”

She sighed. “You’re mad, you know that? Absolutely bloody barking mad.”

“You shouldn’t have left the TARDIS without me,” he said, and that repressed smile made a reappearance. “You really, really shouldn’t do that, Donna. If you had just waited for me–"

“If I had, then I wouldn’t have gotten in any dancing at all!”

“Yes, you would’ve. In fact, you still can. But you may not want to go back in there once you realize…”

He trailed off, and there was a very definite smirk on his face. She squinted suspiciously. “What?”

He snorted, and she smacked at his shoulder, less than gently. “Oi! What are you laughing about?”

“It’s just…” He lost control entirely over his Oncoming Storm face, and gave a whoop of laughter. “I warned you, Donna. I told you before you left. They communicate by the sense of smell. Remember?”

“Of course I remember,” she said with lofty dignity. “I’m not deaf, y’know. But what has that got to do with the price of tea? Why’d you make me leave?”

He whooped again, then tried visibly to get himself under control. She saw his shoulders shaking, and bristled.

“Out with it, Spaceman!”

“Welllll…” He gazed at her, his eyes sparkling with mischief in the darkness. “It’s just that the perfume you chose to wear…”

She felt her cheeks heat. “What about my perfume?”

“Your perfume,” he explained, “is sending a very clear message. A very loud message. Sort of like wearing a billboard, actually.”

She scowled. “And the message says…?”

“It says, Shag me.”

She groaned and dropped her head into her hands, while he indulged in some more very annoying laughter. Laugh like a hyena, that one, she thought irritably.

After a while he got himself under control. “Care to go back into the party?” he offered.

She drew herself up, as icily dignified as a girl wearing a sign that read Shag Me could hope to be. “I don’t think so.”

“Oh, come on.” His eyes twinkled at her. “The men are so friendly in there.”

She smacked him again. “TARDIS. Now.”

He obediently escorted her back to the TARDIS, but she had to listen to his outbursts of laughter the whole way back. Once there, she headed for the shower and scrubbed herself very, very carefully.

She never wore Chanel No. 5 again.

-The End-