Disclaimer: "Doctor Who" is the property of the BBC, and no infringement is intended

Author's note: This is set immediately after "Partners in Crime."

It wasn't humiliating enough that she'd landed on her backside in a brackish puddle of cold, slime-covered water. Oh no, he couldn't just offer her a hand and help her up after her undignified sprawl. He had to stand there laughing at her—actually chortling, a massive grin spreading across his face as he watched her struggle to pull herself from the sticky mess.

Scrabbling to gain purchase against the oozing mud, her foot slipped again and Donna plopped back down with a small splash and a large "oof."

Finally the Doctor's laughter ceased, but his expression remained mirthful. He took a step closer and extended his hand.

"Oi! About time!" she groused, reaching for the proffered appendage.

She grasped his hand, and he pulled her to her feet. Sludgy water dripped from her clothes, and she was beginning to shiver. She tried to step out of the puddle, but her foot stuck in the muck, and she stumbled.

The Doctor caught her round the waist, helping her to the stable, dry earth that had eluded her for what felt like hours. Once she'd cleared the water, she pulled away from him.

"Watch where you put those!" she chided, giving his hands an indignant glower just for good measure.

He looked a bit more serious now; his eyes were moving over her cursorily. "You all right?" he asked.

"Yeah. No thanks to you!"

With a slightly affronted frown, he replied, "I pulled you out."

"Took you long enough. And it wasn't funny!"

He smiled apologetically. "Sorry. But really, it was. You should've seen yourself. You were just wriggling, arms and legs waving about like a giant crab—"

She slapped his arm. "Git!"

"Hey!" He rubbed the tender site. "No need to get tetchy. You're out now, and you're fine."

She responded with another glare.

"You are fine, aren't you?" His brow furrowed slightly.

In fact, her bum was rather sore, and there was a dull ache in her side. She'd landed on a stone or something when she fell. And she was growing chillier by the second in the cold late afternoon air. She rubbed a hand over her backside and replied, "Yeah."

"You sure?" He watched the motion of her hand for a moment.

"Yes. Fine."

He began walking, and she followed along, wincing with the first steps. He glanced over his shoulder at her then spun back to face her.

"Are you limping?" he asked.

"No."

"Looks like you are. Did you pull a muscle?" His eyes moved downward appraisingly, and he craned his neck to obtain a better view of the area. "Gluteus maximus. Better let me have a look." He reached out a hand.

All men, alien and otherwise, were the same: always trying to cop a feel. Donna took a rapid, large step backward. "Hands off, space man!" she warned.

"Donna, if you're hurt—"

"I'm not. I just want to get back to the TARDIS." She was already envisioning a hot bath, a nice cuppa, and dry, warm clothes.

"It's an hour's walk or more, and it'll be dark soon. Let's go back to that inn we saw and spend the night there."

Donna was shivering now. "Fine. Whatever."

"Cold?"

"Soaked. In disgusting, rancid mud."

"Mud can't really be rancid," he began.

"Well it stank, and it was nasty and cold," she interjected.

He reached for her hand and clasped it lightly. "You really are chilled." He began to shrug out of his overcoat.

She reached for the garment, but he pulled it back.

"Give it here," she said impatiently.

"Get your kit off first," he replied.

Her eyes widened. "Excuse me?"

"Your kit." He gestured to her clothes. "I'll never get that mud off this lining."

"Thought you said it wasn't rancid."

"It's not, but it still smells."

Donna shook her head in exasperation and began walking again.

"Don't you want the coat?" he asked.

"Not if I have to give you a peep show," she replied tartly. Her initial suspicions that he was some sort of alien pervert were quickly returning.

He sighed. "Suit yourself."

The inn was not far. Its lights glowed cheerfully through the dusk. It was a small establishment with four rooms and a tiny tavern. The innkeeper informed them that there was one room available.

"We need two," Donna said.

The innkeeper appeared rather surprised, and she wondered why it was that everyone assumed she and the Time Lord were married. Marry him? She almost snorted at the thought.

"I'm sorry, Missus, but the other three are occupied."

"That's fine," the Doctor said, eyeing her with some concern as her teeth chattered. "We'll take it. Does it have a bath?"

"Yes, sir."

"And could I trouble you for some nightclothes? She's had a bit of a spill."

"I'll bring something up," the helpful innkeeper replied.

The room was fairly spacious with a large bed, a comfortable if rather worn wing chair, and an old-fashioned bathroom with a claw foot tub in the center of the room. At least it had running water; that was something, Donna thought.

"Right," the Doctor said, nudging her aside to peer into the bathroom. "Just what you need—nice, hot bath."

Much as a warm, bubbly soak appealed to her, Donna stood frozen on the spot. There was no door; the bathroom adjoined the bedroom through an open archway.

"You have to leave," she said.

He was wandering around the room, inspecting the few books and knickknacks scattered about . "Hmm?" he asked absently.

"Y--" Her teeth chose an inopportune time to chatter again. "Have—to—leave."

"But we just got here! And you really do need to get warmed up."

"I will. But—not with you—here." She waved a hand at the doorway.

Mr. Genius Time Lord could be terribly thick; he stared dumbly at the opening then his eyes flicked over the sink, the toilet, and the small soap tray. "There's soap and shampoo, towels, too. What else do you need? Some sort of feminine thingy?"

"No!"

He was utterly bemused. "What then?"

"Privacy!" she spat, lifting her hands in emphasis.

"Pri—" His gaze swept the archway. "Oh."

Then, to her complete consternation, he sauntered to the wingback chair and sat down, stretching out his long legs and threading his hands behind his head.

"Doctor!" she protested.

His eyes moved languidly to her flushed face. "I won't look."

"You won't—" She groaned in frustration and stomped toward him to take his arm and wrest him from the chair. "No you won't, because you won't be in here!"

"Where am I supposed to go?" He seemed to pout slightly.

"Down to the tavern, out for a stroll, or into a big, stinking puddle of mud. I don't care! Just get out of here!"

She ushered him toward the door.

"Fine," he capitulated. "Bit peckish anyway. I wonder if they have any soup? Split pea'd nice. Ooh, or bean—that kind with seven or eight different varieties: cannelini, kidney, black and red—"

She flung open the door and gave him a little shove. "Out!"

He almost stumbled, frowning back at her. "No need to be rude."

She lifted her hands, palms out, and prepared to push. "I'm… cold!" she stammered. "And filthy… and I stink!"

His tone softened, "Then get in that tub and have a nice, long, hot soak."

She nodded, suddenly feeling exhausted and sore. She wrapped her arms around herself, wincing as her hand hit a tender spot.

He leaned in a little but did not touch her. "Donna, are you really all right?"

"Yeah. Just go. Please."

He offered her a gentle smile then closed the door. She locked it securely behind him.

She sat in the tub for a long time, finally warm and relaxed. When the water began to cool she reached for a towel and stood. She couldn't help but glance at the open doorway, just in case. But the room remained empty.

She wrapped a towel around her body and another around her hair. And then she realized that she had nothing else to put on. Her clothes were still wet and filthy; she'd need to rinse them out at the very least and hope they dried overnight.

Her eyes darted about the room. There was no robe, of course; this wasn't that sort of place. She was still considering the problem when she heard the key in the door. Damn—she'd forgotten that the Doctor had the means to unlock it.

She ducked back into the bathroom, gripping her towel tightly as she scooted past the interior edge of the doorway.

"I've brought jimjams!" the Time Lord's voice called cheerily. "You still in the bath?"

"No."

"Donna? You all right?" She heard him walking across the room.

"Fine." She took a fortifying breath then stuck out her arm. "Give 'em here."

"What?"

"The jimjams! What else would I want?"

"I dunno. I brought you a nice bowl of soup, too—potato with little bits of bacon and chives. Not quite as good as that bean kind, but it seemed to hit the spot."

She snapped her fingers impatiently. "Doctor! Pyjamas!"

She decided that if he poked his head around the corner she would definitely, absolutely, unquestionably slap him for the perverted old alien he was. His hand appeared with the neatly folded pyjamas atop it.

She snatched them away then said, "Go wait outside."

"Donna, really," he began to protest.

"Out—side!"

She heard him sigh, then his feet moved across the room again. The door closed softly. Quickly she donned the pyjamas, buttoning them as high as possible and tucking the collar in around her neck. They were a men's set, but they were thick and flannelly and provided ample warmth and coverage, so she didn't mind. She rubbed a towel over her hair then stepped into the bedroom.

There was soft knock on the door. "You decent now?" the Doctor asked, not waiting for her reply before he opened the portal.

"Yeah, just about," she replied huffily. Honestly, the man possessed the patience of a two-year-old hopped up on sugar and caffeine; really, he must be trying to catch a peek at her…

He stepped inside with a grin. His eyes raked over her. "Nice. Very comfy."

She shook her head and reached for the bowl of soup.

After rinsing her clothes as well as she could, Donna hung them near the radiator and returned to the bedroom. The Doctor was sitting in the chair, flipping through one of the books.

"I'm going to bed," she told him. "It's been a long day." She rolled her head back and forth and tried to stretch out her shoulders.

He glanced up. "Sore?" Before she could reply, he added, "I give a mean back rub." He waggled his fingers at her.

Dirty old alien man… "No. Thanks, but no." She spoke quite firmly.

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Positive." She tugged back the covers and climbed into bed. Something in her side pulled uncomfortably, but she felt certain it was just a bruise from one of those stones in the puddle.

He was watching her, his eyes bright and expression intent, almost predatory.

"You don't sleep, right?" she asked, hugging the covers up to her chin.

"Not much, and not often."

"So you're gonna stay in that chair all night." She needed to confirm this.

"Probably. Unless I get up."

"Get up? What's that supposed to mean?"

"I might want to stretch my legs, get a drink of water, wash my face—"

"Just stay away from the bed," she burst out.

He arched an eyebrow at her. "All right."

She gave a nod of tacit agreement and lay down. She'd trusted this man—this alien or Time Lord and whatever the hell else he was—to take her across time and space. Surely she could trust him to let her sleep unmolested. Still, she peeked at him more than once as she attempted to fall asleep. He sat quietly in the chair holding the book and never once seemed to do even as much as glance her way.

Finally the achiness and fatigue won over, and Donna fell into a deep slumber.

To be concluded...