Work Text:
"Bringing a date to the wedding?"
"Nope," he said.
Mickey Smith, the groom-to-be, looked at him with his intense stare, the one where he tried to see into the Doctor’s soul.
"The pain’s still too fresh," he quipped lamely, and immediately regretted it. The nonchalance was too thick, too obviously fake.
"That’s not the story I heard."
Mickey had a way of tersely stating things in his gruff london accent that was oddly effective when it came to interrogation. Which was probably why police work was a good choice for him. And it had been police work that had brought him and his panic-stricken friend to the A&E where Martha Jones was doing her residency in the first place. A year later, they were tying the knot.
"Do enlighten me," the Doctor replied, plastering a smile on his face. For all he knew, it was a grimace. He waited on tenterhooks for the answer, but all Mickey did was shrug.
“I’m trying to be unbiased. Giving you the benefit of the doubt. Sometimes people in the thick of it can’t clearly see what’s going on.”
Wisdom, he thought, from Mickey Smith. Maybe it was fitting that he was marrying Martha, after all. The Doctor had had his doubts about the pairing in the beginning, but now he recognized how well they’d grown into themselves and each other.
"Seemed quite clear to me," he said after a moment of silence. "Over means over."
*
"She’s going to be there, you know," said Donna knowingly. "Pretending to be too sick to go to the rehearsal isn’t going to do you any favours."
"I’m not pretending," he said into his phone. "I have food poisoning."
"Whatever you say."
*
He was getting rather sick of people trying to console him.
Martha, kind soul that she was, had rushed over to his side upon hearing that he had unfortunately consumed some very suspect fish earlier that day and was suffering the consequences. She wasn’t even upset he’d missed the rehearsal dinner.
"There’s somebody out there for everyone, Doctor,” she said bracingly, laying out some crackers and ginger ale for him. “It’s not the end of the world, you know.”
"Martha," he said, a warning note in his tone. They’d had this conversation before and he didn’t fancy having it again.
"I just hate seeing you like this," she protested.
"I’m like this because I have food poisoning."
Martha gave him a look, the no-nonsense one that she’d given him on the first day of her residency, when she’d been assigned to shadow him. He’d known within seconds of getting that look that he liked her.
"I’ll be fine by tomorrow," he said reassuringly. "I am a physician, you know. An experienced one. Besides, I wouldn’t miss your wedding for the world. I’ve got to deliver a heartfelt speech, after all.”
*
He was very tipsy.
It was a good feeling, a very free feeling, and he was, to quote Donna, ‘dancing foot-loose’ that night. Weddings were so much fun. He hadn’t known just how much fun they were.
"Donna!" he cried, greeting his favourite cousin with enthusiastic cheer. "You look lovely!"
She glared at him, and then at the man who had come up behind the Doctor to join them.
"Oh, good job," said Donna to Jack. "Nice one. You were supposed to watch him, he’s got to go up there and give a speech in five bloody minutes!"
"I left his side for one minute,” Jack started to say, defensively, but the Doctor cut in, throwing his arms around them both.
"Not to worry!" He exclaimed, "I am FINE. In fact, the alcohol has loosened my tongue and wet my throat and I am ready to deliver this speech, my friends! Listen to these vocal cords, they are relaxed and ready for action! Actinium, Aluminum, Americium, Antimony, Argon, Arsenic, Astatine, Barium, Berkelium, Beryllium, Bismuth…”
"Oh god," said Donna.
"Sorry," said Jack, sighing heavily with the air of a man who knew he’d failed. "This is my bad. I accept responsibility." He paused. "Mickey’s not packing tonight, is he?"
Donna snorted. “It’s his wedding!”
"Well, why do so many people have to give speeches anyway? And why is the Doctor Mickey’s best man? He’s Martha’s friend!"
“Because Martha's parents think it’s more impressive if lots of people give speeches, in a row." Donna had to raise her voice to speak over the Doctor’s recital of the periodic table in alphabetical order. "And you know Mickey doesn’t have anyone left. His Nan passed away several years back. Rose and Jackie are as close to family as he’s got. He and Martha made a trade, her mentor gets to be his Best Man and his best mate plays with the other bridesmaids.”
"Radium, Radon, Rhenium, Rhodium, Roentgenium, Rubidium, Ruthenium, Rutherfordium, Samarium, Scandium, Seaborgium… oops!"
The Doctor listed to the side and fell over a guest.
"Okay," said Jack, pulling him upright again, and dragging him off into the direction of the men’s loo, "Time for drastic measures."
*
Swishing water from a paper cup around in his mouth, the Doctor spit into the sink basin.
"Showtime," said Jack. "And we are never to speak of what I had to do to get you to throw up the contents of your stomach ever, you get me?"
Martha’s father and her brother had already finished talking by the time they left the men’s loo. The Doctor straightened his tux jacket and swallowed, hard.
"You know," he began, hands trembling slightly as he held his speech cards up, barely seeing the words written on them. "Weddings are quite a pain to plan."
A polite titter broke through the crowd. He smiled uneasily, trying to ignore the taste of bile on the back of his throat. “You have to make so many decisions. The venue, the chapel, the guest list, the decorating scheme, who’s going to be in the wedding party, who’s not invited, where is Auntie Mabel going to sit now that she’s not talking to Uncle Robert?”
Another faint ripple of laughter. He saw Jack sitting down next to Donna and her husband, shooting her a smug look which she did not deign to respond to. Focusing on his hands, he went on: “But that’s not the hardest part. No. The bits that come before, those are the most difficult. Finding the person you want to marry.”
At the front of the crowd, Martha beamed at him and then looked over at her husband, positively glowing with love and happiness. Three tables down, seated between two giggling cousins, was a face he was desperately trying to avoid. His traitorous eyes wandered over in that direction and he forced himself to focus on the happy couple before him.
For a moment, his mind went black. It was a bizarre experience for him. He was not usually given to stage fright and often gave presentations at conferences. But tonight’s audience contained someone who had always managed to tie his stomach into knots - someone whose good opinion mattered to him a great deal. Someone he desired an even greater deal; someone he missed so much he thought he would die for the want of her.
"On very rare occasions, a person walks into your life one night, into the A&E when you’re working the end of a 72 hour shift and it’s like magic. You’ve found them. Everything is perfect, and you’re in love, and- miracles of miracles, you think they might possibly feel the same way about you. So you get to thinking: how am I going to go about doing this properly?"
"Of course, you have to start by choosing a ring. It’s a very complicated process. Gold, or silver? What grade? Mined where? Diamond, or something different, non-traditional? If the former, how trustworthy is the broker? Are these diamonds blood-free? What’s the cut? Princess? Square? Are we going with blue, or yellow, and just how big is too big without being ostentatious? What if it’s too small? How many month’s salary should be spent on this piece of jewelry? Several, at least, right? I mean, she’s going to be wearing it for the rest of our lives, it had better be impressive!"
"And the proposal. It has to be perfect. No other option. This isn’t some thesis presentation, or a bloody vitamin drink launch. This is getting down on bended knee and asking the woman you love to agree to commit and cherish and honour legally binding vows until death do us part. This is serious. You can’t screw this up. It has to be meaningful, and romantic, and you spend hours and hours on the internet trawling through hundreds of poorly edited, sappy videos of proposals. They’re all terrible and set to the very worst of the Carpenters. Awful stuff."
Someone snorted, followed by an ‘ow!’, courtesy of an elbow to the rib.
"Then, as all of this is blowing up in your mind, you forget to simply ask. You’re a nervous wreck. You’re worried she’ll read your mind, take a stab at the mess that’s in there. You’re afraid she’ll know, and it won’t be a surprise, and the perfection will be ruined. So when she brings it up, just that one time, not a demand or a request but just a question, in passing, you go mental and you say ‘no, I’ve never even thought about it, it’s not something I want’. Except you do want it. But you lost your mind. So you deserve what you got, for being a dishonest, stupid twat. She asks for some space. She’s hurt. You’ve hurt her."
The reception hall was silent. Many confused and dazed faces looked back at him, but one stood out, champagne-plied and staggered, blonde curls sliding distractingly against the rise and fall of a satin-covered chest.
"I didn’t mean to do that," he said, clenching the speech cards in his palm. He stared right into those big brown eyes, willing the truth of his statement to get through to her. "I’m very, very, very sorry."
Someone, he had no idea who, clapped him on the back, hard. “Great, uh, great speech, from the good ol’ Doctor. I’m sure what he meant to say was: Congratulations Martha and Mickey! We wish you the best! Right, Doc?”
"Congratulations," he repeated, weakly, and allowed himself to be walked off the stage.
Martha looked stunned. Her parents were also stunned, which was the first time the Doctor had ever seen them in agreement with each other.
Mickey, stalwart and solid as ever, had his arm around his new wife. He bore a look in his eye that brooked no funny business. He didn’t appreciate the Doctor hijacking his Best Man speech, but his expression clearly telegraphed get it right this time, you bastard, or I’ll shoot you myself.
And Rose - well, Rose was staring at him, her eyes wide. A moment passed between them, electric, and then the Doctor bolted. Because he was a coward, after all; albeit a coward who really had to vomit. Again.
*
The balcony was unheated and thus deserted. The Doctor stood in the cold, banging his head against the brick of the building. Humiliation and sheer guilt kept him from re-entering the reception hall, where Martha and Mickey were leading the first dance. He didn’t know how he was going to face Martha.
"You plannin’ on staying out here all night?"
He froze, head pressed to the wall.
"That was terrible, you know. You’ll be mocked endlessly for the rest of your life."
"I know," he said, his voice muffled. His heart constricted, but he forced himself to stay calm. "Mickey’s going to shoot me."
"No way," said Rose, closing the gap between the balcony doors and the spot where the Doctor stood, huddled, next to the ornate railing. "He owes me several favours and Martha wouldn’t let him, anyway. She forgives you, by the way. Told me to tell you that she expects many glowing reference letters from you for this ‘unseemly spectacle’. Her mother’s words."
There was amusement laced in her tone, and it was this that gave him hope and made him lift his head and turn it to peer at her.
"Hello," she said, her cheeks flushed and her lips rosy and her little nose red from the cold. She wasn’t wearing anything over her dress. It was a very attractive dress, he had to admit, but it was damn chilly out on the balcony and she had to be freezing her bits off.
Wordlessly, he took off his tuxedo jacket and put it around her shoulders. She let him carry out the chivalrous act without comment and stood there, her face upturned, watching him.
"I meant what I said," he told her, screwing up every ounce of courage he had. "All that stuff, up there. Wasn’t what I had planned for my speech, but…" He trailed off as Rose stepped closer to him, so close that the lapels of the jacket brushed against his chest. "Well. You know how I get carried away, sometimes."
"I know," she replied, running a hand up the front of his shirt, to rest on his shoulder. He shivered but it had nothing to do with the cold night air. "I was going to call you tonight, you know. After the reception. I thought I’d come over and we could talk."
"Oh."
"Three weeks is enough space for me," she said, stroking his face. "I just wanted some time apart to let you… I dunno… settle down, stop being so scared. I figured you’d calm down a bit and things would go back to normal. I didn’t know you’d get pissed and embarrass yourself at our mates’ wedding."
Hoarsely, he said, “Thanks very much for that.”
"Did you really think we’d break up over that?" She asked, looking unimpressed.
"Er- well, yes. I did. Sort of. I was incredibly miserable, you know. I missed you so much. And now I’ve made a fool of myself in front of all of our friends and I’m a laughingstock and-" He groaned and buried his face into her shoulder.
"I’m a sodding joke!" He lamented, but deep down, he didn’t care one bloody bit. Rose was back in his arms, all soft and warm and gorgeous and he was the happiest man on earth.
"I wouldn’t let you be a punchline," she giggled, stroking the back of his neck. "Not without a good end. Imagine telling our grandchildren that story and it not ending with ‘and then grandmother forgave grandfather and they went home and-"
"-Made wild passionate love after which grandmother accepted grandfather’s very well thought-out and well-prepared proposal which resulted in their immediate elopement the very next day’?"
"Let’s negotiate," she said. "I like points one and two, but Mum might take issue with point number three."
"Not after my performance tonight," he said, more than a bit hopefully.
Rose laughed and pulled away to look up at him, eyes twinkling in that way that had him falling hard every time. “That’s the good part about getting married. Other people usually give the speeches. Tell you a secret, though.”
"What?"
"I quite liked yours."