#she just had too many niggling injuries to deal with in her second year and only managed a couple of games

[fazcinatingblog]

ok georgie parker said "go pies" at the end YES GEORGIE. NEVER FORGET YOUR ROOTS.

[kinglazrus]

You Can Smile

@coralyart I hope the wait was worth it, sorry again for the lateness! Here’s your Christmas Truce gift! I had a lot of fun writing it.

You Can Smile - Christmas Truce 2019

Danny's heart leapt into his throat as the floor gave way without warning. Tucker and Sam, on either side of him, shrieked in surprise. Danny didn't have the energy to cry out, at least until they hit the ground, and he landed hard on his right side, and a raging fire tore through his body so hot and fast he blacked out for a moment.

He came to on his back, Sam and Tucker hovering over him, concern filling their gazes. They were scraped and bruised, but otherwise fine. He, on the other hand, was so far from fine. His entire right side felt like it was on fire, hot embers scorching his insides.

"Walker... sucks." Danny wheezed, gently probing his side. He found the spot that hurt the most, just below his rib cage, and grimaced at the blood he felt.

"Pretty sure one of the goons got you, actually. Sorry, man," Tucker said.

"Nobody tells Skulker, I'll never live it down," Danny said.

Sam peeled up the torn edges of the jumpsuit, peering at Danny's wound. She frowned. "This is a bad one, Danny. How are you feeling?"

"A little damp, but that might just be the blood," Danny said. Sam and Tucker rolled their eyes. "Hey, wait. Actually, please tell Skulker. Maybe he'll think the ghost that wounded the great, rare halfa, would be more worth his time."

"I'll do that next time I see him," Sam said dryly. "Let me clean you up, you heal faster when I do."

Danny didn't protest. He had no idea what Walker's goon managed to hit him with, but dear god it hurt. He lay back, staring up at the ceiling as Tucker passed Sam a water bottle and a couple clean rags he kept in his pockets during their ghostly adventures.

They had fallen into a cavern. Black stone surrounded them, oddly smooth, barely a blemish in sight. The walls curved up and in, possibly into a dome, but the stone was so dark Danny couldn't tell if the ceiling rose high out of sight, shrouded in shadows, or if it was only a dozen yards above him.

Crystals jutted out from the floor. They all carried the same hexagonal shape, with a pointed top, but they varied in size. Some stood alone, others in clusters. Some were taller than Danny's dad, others wouldn't even pass Danny's ankle if he stood. They emitted soft light for him to see by, blue, pink, and purple. The light felt nice on his skin, warm where he was cold, cool where he was hot.

One of the largest crystals loomed behind Danny's head. Unlike the others, this crystal was dark, almost as black as the floor.

He reached up, flinching when his side burned anew, hissing in pain.

Inside the crystal, a light pulsed.

"Don't move," Sam told him, drawing his attention. Her hands pressed against his side, putting pressure on the wound.

At this point, it was standard procedure. Whenever Danny got an injury they couldn’t just slap a band-aid over, Sam or Tucker would help him clean it up, stop the bleeding, then let his natural healing take over. One of the perks of being a halfa, his body could take a lot more damage, and heal a lot faster. Good thing, too, or else he'd have to deal with questions he wasn't prepared to answer.

"Hey," Tucker said, drawing Danny and Sam's attention. He tilted his head back, peering up at the ceiling. "Where's the hole?"

"We only fell for a few seconds," Sam said, following Tucker's gaze. "The ceiling shouldn't be that high."

"Is it?" Tucker squinted.

"It doesn't matter," Danny said. "Give me half an hour, I'll be good to go, and I can find a way out of here."

"As long as Walker doesn't find us first," Sam muttered.

Danny closed his eyes, sighing. They got lucky, stumbling across this place. After taking the hit from Walker's goon, Danny thought they were done for. The Speeder, totalled. His strength fading by the second. Walker closing in. They took a gamble, diving into the nearest door, a mad scramble from portal to portal, gateway to gateway, their only goal to get as far from Walker as possible. And then, suddenly, they were falling.

The longer he stared up at the ceiling, the surer Danny was the hole had closed behind them. The fall had been rather short. His hip throbbed from the rough landing, amongst his other aches and pains. But they were safe. Trapped, but safe.

He scanned the walls, looking for a doorway, a tunnel, any marking at all that showed there was more to this place. He found nothing. Just smooth stone and colourful crystals.

He was about to turn away when something shifted in the corner of his eye. His focus snapped to a cluster of crystals halfway between him and the wall. Squinting hard, he sought out the source of the movement. He couldn't see anything. The longer he stared, the more everything started to blur together.

Danny blinked and rubbed his eyes, clearing his vision. It didn't help much. He felt odd. Dazed. Confused. His side still burned, but his fingers and toes were numb. He felt light-headed.

Something about this place seemed familiar, but not the normal way. Not in the way that he’d been here before. More like he had heard someone talk for hours about a place like this, going on and on for so long and in such detail that it felt like an intimate, known place he was returning to after many years of absence, his second-hand memories of it hazy and half-formed, but still strong enough to niggle at his brain.

It takes him much longer than it should have to remember.

"Ghost graveyard," Danny said.

Tucker and Sam stilled, their eyes snapping down to him.

"What?" Tucker asked.

"It's a ghost graveyard," Danny repeated.

Tucker raised an eyebrow and looked around, the soft lights glinting off his glasses. "But ghosts are already dead."

"Tucker! Don't be insensitive!" Sam berated him, her words accompanied by a sharp glare. Until confusion flickered across her face and she frowned. "But you've got a point. How can ghosts have a graveyard?"

"Clockwork told me," Danny started, laying his head back. "Sometimes, ghosts fade. For a lot of reasons. Their dead ectoplasm... or, um, double dead? Just. Yeah, dead. Their dead ectoplasm can't be reabsorbed by the Ghost Zone, except in stuff like this."

Danny pointed to the crystal behind him. A small green light shone inside it, one that wasn’t there before.

"That's... cool. I guess," Tucker said, looking wary. "There can't be ghosts of ghosts, right?"

"Very cool," Danny murmured, entranced by the light. It was beautiful, and daunting. Like Sam at her most macabre, wearing her darkest clothes, her sharpest makeup, her soft shadow eating up all the harsh light in the world. Danny loved it when she looked like that.

Or like Tucker, any time he went on a techno rampage, hacking away at firewalls and online defenses with a devilish grin, the blue computer light washing over his face in a sulfuric glow.

Danny smiled, thinking of those moments, when his girlfriend and boyfriend looked ready to take on the world. Call him sappy, but he just loved something about someone who would burn the world for you. He'd do the same for them.

The pressure on his side alleviated. Sam's breath hitched. Danny lifted his head, looking up at her. Her hands were soaked in blood.

"It's not stopping," she said.

Tucker paled, his shadow falling over Danny as he leaned over to inspect the wound. He reached out, maybe to touch Danny's side, or peel back the bloody jumpsuit, or maybe grab Sam's hand and comfort her. Danny would never find out which one, because Tucker's hand stilled the moment Danny was seized by a harsh coughing fit.

Brutal, hacking coughs ripped through his body, a jagged knife driven deep into his wounds, twisted sharply. They tore at his dry throat, Danny's head thumping back against the ground. He raised a hand to cup his mouth, but aborted the movement halfway, instead clutching his side.

Shit. Everything hurt.

When the coughing stopped, Danny groaned, a hoarse wheeze. His lips felt wet. Licking them, he tasted blood. A few speckles stained Tucker's glasses, who had shuffled up to Danny's shoulder, his hand under Danny's head to keep it off the hard ground.

Huh. When did that happen?

"Oh," Danny said. It came out as a croak rather than the breathy sigh he meant it to be. It hurt. Breathing hurt. Thinking hurt. "Sam, I think my lungs are bleeding. Ow."

"No, they aren't," she said, her voice wavering. She tore off her backpack, tossing it to Tucker. She didn't even look up to see if he caught it, pressing her hands against Danny's side once more. "You've had worse than this. We'll just... we'll patch you up, and you'll be fine. Tucker–"

"I know," Tucker said, upending Sam's backpack and shaking it until a red canvas bag fell out. He snatched up the bag and tore it open, gauze pads, medical tape, and disinfectant spray bursting out, scattering across the floor.

"Okay," Danny said tonelessly. It wasn't that Danny didn't believe her. Somehow, he knew she was right. He would be fine. But a little itch in the back of his head told him they had two very different versions of fine.

He didn't watch Sam and Tucker work, a practiced routine of Tucker handing Sam what she needed, when she needed it, while Danny tried not to move too much. He went back to observing the cave. There were only so many times he could look it over—admittedly, once was more than enough—but he had nothing else to do. He was hurt. He was tired. He was so damn bored.

His head flopped to the side. Two little pink eyes stared at him from amidst the crystals. Danny froze. The eyes—ghost—blinked. He blinked back. Neither moved.

The impromptu staring contest broke when Sam dabbed a wad of gauze soaked in disinfectant against Danny's side. He hissed, jerking away from her hand, squeezing his eyes shut. When he opened them, it was to the sight of Tucker's cargo pants, inches from his nose.

Shuffling over, he pressed his cheek against Tucker's leg, his laboured breaths filling the cavern. A moment later, he felt Tucker's fingers running through his hair and leaned into the touch, closing his eyes again. Tucker's hand slipped under Danny's head and raised it up. The sound of scraping and shuffling echoed for a second, and then Tucker lowered Danny's head onto his lap.

If Danny were a little less hurt, a little more lucid, he might have been embarrassed about what he did next, snuggling against Tucker's legs.

"S-sorry about your glasses," Danny said, thinking of the flecks of blood that still dotted the lenses.

"Shut up, don't be stupid," Tucker said.

"I'm not stupid, you're stu—art."

Tucker snorted, his hands stilling. Danny whined and he resumed petting. "I'm Stuart?"

Danny groaned. "No. You're not stupid. You're smart. Stupid smart."

"He's something," Sam said. She tried to smile, but her voice was strained.

Tucker rolled his eyes. "As if you don't love me."

Sam stuck out her tongue.

Danny chuckled, but quickly broke off into another round of coughs. This time, he managed to cover his mouth, preventing more of his blood from splattering against Tucker.

"Sorry," he mumbled between coughs. Tucker didn't respond, but Danny felt his fingers tense, the petting pausing for a moment, before it resumed. Danny ducked his head, nuzzling Tucker's knee, and wiping his hand on the front of his jumpsuit once the coughing stopped.

All he wanted to do was curl up and go to sleep. Tucker's hand running through his hair definitely didn't help. The steady rhythm was so relaxing. He didn't even notice Sam stopped working until she touched his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"Sorry, Danny. Can you roll onto your side?" she asked.

He groaned, prompting another soft apology from Sam, and complied, holding his weight on his elbow and knees, raising his hips off the floor so she could loop the bandages around his waist. Once, twice, three times, holding the gauze pads in place.

Danny's toes curled and he clenched his fists, gritting his teeth as Sam yanked on the bandages, make sure they were tight. Something warm and fuzzy—not soft, but like TV static—brushed against his fingers. Danny gasped, his eyes flying open, and zeroed in on the small, glowing form wriggling its way between his fingers, forcing his fist open.

Small, round, no bigger than a baseball, a pale blue ghost with bright pink eyes flopped onto his palm.

"Hola!" the ghost chirped.

"Son of a–!" Tucker jerked at the sudden noise, nearly dislodging Danny as he twisted around, searching for the source.

The ghost tittered.

"Holy shit that scared me," he said.

"Really? I didn't notice," Sam drawled. She tapped Danny's shoulder, signalling she was done.

Danny, panting from that little effort, slumped. He probed the bandage, picking at the edges with his nails. When he pressed down, he could feel the dampness of the blood. Moving carefully, he draped his arm over the bandage, hoping Sam and Tucker wouldn't notice.

"So, uh. Who's this little guy?" Tucker asked.

"Me llamo Luz!"

"What?"

"Oh my god. Tucker, I know you failed Spanish, but how can't you know what that means?" Sam rolled her eyes, reaching over Danny to dig her knuckles into Tucker's shoulder.

"We don't have Spanish class! You don't know Spanish!"

"But I know what that means."

"So, what if–"

"Her name is Luz," Danny interrupted. He didn't feel like listening to Sam and Tucker argue, not right now. He was sleepy, and exhausted, and he just wanted this to be over with, one way or another. He closed his eyes with a sigh.

"Wait, no, dude, don't." Panic filled Tucker's voice. "Don't fall asleep, that's bad."

But it felt nice.

"Stay awake."

He didn't want to.

"Tell us more about the graveyard," Sam said. She squeezed Danny's shoulder again, jostling him a little. She didn't stop until Danny slowly, reluctantly, opened his eyes. Everything was blurry, Sam and her dark attire melting into the black stone around them, Tucker's bright colours blending with the crystals.

"Apparently, ghosts sort of just find their way here when they start to fade? At least that's what Clockwork told me," Danny said. He couldn't remember most of that conversation. Whether that was because he didn't pay attention, or he just didn't have the energy to recall, he wasn't sure. Maybe both. He didn't pay attention to a lot of stuff.

He was kind of regretting that now.

"Sometimes they don't even realize it. But I think there's supposed to be a guardian or something?" Danny's thumb strokes Luz's back, making her purr. "They keep intruders out. This place is kind of sacred, so..."

Tucker chuckled. "I guess they aren't doing that good a job since we're here."

"Guess not." Danny held Luz close, staring into those button eyes. They looked a little vast for something so small. It was freaking him out a little. But at the same time, Luz's eyes held nothing but warmth.

"Clockwork didn't happen to mention how someone who gets stuck here can get out, did he?" Sam asked. She crawled forward, sitting beside Tucker at Danny's head, and took over ruffling Danny's hair. "I don't really want to wait for some dying ghost to come here so the door can open back up."

"I'm sorry," Danny said, ducking his head.

"It's okay if you can't remember," Sam assured him.

That wasn't what he apologized for, but he didn't bother correcting her.

-

Tucker watched the crystal behind slowly grow brighter. He didn’t notice at first, more concerned with Danny and their situation, but worrying so much got exhausting and tedious after so long.

Although, he had no idea how much time had passed. It was impossible to tell, but it felt like hours. Tucker's PDA was long dead. The Ghost Zone always drained the battery faster, and the clock never worked right in here anyway. All the ectoplasm and the weird twistiness of time and space inside the ghostly realm.

All he knew was that, at some point, the crystal behind them changed from black to pale green, the glow spreading from deep within.

Tucker ran his thumb back and forth across Danny's knuckles, who still lay curled on his uninjured side. Danny had taken to softly muttering in Spanish, having a quiet conversation with Luz. Tucker wished he knew what they were saying, but, ultimately, it didn't matter. As long as Danny was talking, he was awake. As long as he was awake, he was alive.

Tucker tried not to look at Danny's injury. Every time he did, he couldn't help but feel dread, like poison, seep through him. His stupid, idiot, well-meaning but very much the self-sacrificing jerk of a boyfriend was trying to hide it under the crook of his elbow, but Tucker could see.

The bandages were tinged pink. Soon enough, they'd be red. After that... Tucker didn't want to think about it.

Danny's muttering was the only thing putting Tucker at ease. Whenever Danny stopped, waiting for Luz to respond, Tucker's breath caught in his throat. Danny had a bad habit of holding himself perfectly still when he wasn't doing anything, looking almost like a statue. Sometimes, it was unnerving. Right now?

Right now, it made Tucker think that each time Danny stopped talking, he'd never talk again. He hated it. He hated this place. He hated Walker, and his goons, and that stupid, lucky shot, and Danny's frustrating inability to dodge at crucial moments.

Tucker shook his head. He wasn't mad at Danny. He just wanted Danny to be okay.

Sam was curled up against Tucker's side, holding Danny's free hand, her head on Tucker's shoulder. He glanced at her every once in a while, checking to see if she had fallen asleep. She hadn't. Although her eyes were closed, tension furrowed her brow and pinched her lips, her breathing uneven.

He tucked a strand of hair, slowly falling down her cheek, back behind her ear.

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Tucker thought this was nice. His girlfriend cuddled against him, his boyfriend's head in his lap. He laughed softly, careful not to disturb either of them. The day they started dating stood fresh in his mind.

Danny asked Tucker and Sam out separately, to the same date, without telling either one about the other. When Tucker got to the movie theatre and saw Sam there, his heart nearly broke. He thought, for a moment, that he had misunderstood Danny's intentions. That Danny didn't feel the same way Tucker did.

When he noticed them holding hands, he nearly shattered into pieces. But then Danny saw him, beamed as brightly as the stars he loved to rave about, and held out his other hand for Tucker to take.

"Jazz told me to be spontaneous. So, uh... I kind of love you both and would you like to go out with me? Us? The three of us I mean. Together. Dating," Danny had said, his face burning red, gaze nervously darting from Sam to Tucker and back again.

As it turned out, Danny wasn't quite the clueless dweeb everyone thought he was. He just couldn't decide which best friend he wanted to date. So, he decided to date both of them.

Tucker was nervous at first. Scared he might ruin things. He wasn't sure he could love Sam the same way he loved Danny. He had always liked her, but love?

Sam suddenly wrinkled her nose, snuggled further against Tucker's side, tucking her arms between them and sighing softly. Tucker smiled. Yeah, he loved her, and Danny. They were everything to him.

"What time is it?" Sam asked, cracking one eye open.

Tucker shook his head. "No idea. PDA's dead. But probably late enough our parents are wondering where we are."

"Are you kidding? My mom probably doesn't even know I'm gone. I bet Danny's parents think we're sleeping over at your place. And your parents..." Sam trailed off. "Yeah, okay. Your parents would notice."

She paused, taking a deep breath. "We'll be okay."

Tucker nodded. "We'll be okay."

"You'll be okay," Danny said.

Tucker paused, frowning. He opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. "What?"

"It's going to be okay," Danny said, turning slightly to look up at them.

Tucker didn't miss the careful wording, but decided not to comment on it. If he did... It was like thinking some great, big horror was lurking behind a closed door. And as long as Tucker didn't open the door, he could pretend there was nothing behind it at all.

He didn't want to open the door.

"Let me check if the bleeding's stopped," Sam said, pulling away from Tucker's. He immediately missed her warmth.

On her knees, one hand out to catch herself should she fall, fingertips brushing the hard stone, Sam leaned over Danny, brushing his arm aside. Her hair fell over her shoulder as she inched forward, blocking Tucker's view.

Apparently, he didn't need to see it. He could hear the wetness of the bandages as Sam peeled them back. The noise, not quite a squelch, but almost like a tearing sound, echoed throughout the cavern.

Tucker worriedly gnawed his lip. He shifted to the side, so he could see Danny's face better. His eyes looked glazed, his breathing short and ragged, sweat dotting his forehead. Blood speckled his lips. He looked faint, and gray, like all the colour was slowly seeping out of him.

His lips barely moved as he spoke, Luz sitting in his cupped hand, raised to his face. Tucker squinted. He could have sworn Luz was a lighter blue before, like ice. Now she was the colour of a cloudless sky.

"Sam?" Tucker looked up, desperate for some good news.

Sam shook her head.

"Hey, guys," Danny said. His voice was so weak, barely more than a whisper. Tucker wondered if it hurt too much to talk any louder. "Luz gave me some good news."

He laughed, weakly, breaking off into a groan and a grimace, one hand drifting to his wound.

Luz squeaked, a string of rapid, concerned words spilling from her mouth. Danny tapped Luz on the head and whispered something back. Tucker only recognized one word, "bien," which meant “okay.”

He didn't think this was okay.

"She told me something cool about this place," Danny continued, switching back to English. He jerked his head, motioning to the ceiling. "Apparently, ghosts are super private about fading, so the guardian closes the cavern to give them privacy. They're apparently super into keeping the ghost happy as they fade, go figure."

Nobody laughed.

"But the door's gonna open pretty soon, and Luz can fly out and get some help."

Relief washed over Tucker. They were getting out. Luz could find Frostbite, or Clockwork, or any semi-friendly ghost that didn't always want to capture, kill, or maim Danny, and they could get him some real help.

He'd need a hospital, probably. There would be questions, and maybe a threat to Danny's secret, but that didn't matter at the moment. The only thing that mattered was Danny would be fine.

Tucker turned to Sam, beaming. His smile froze when he saw her frightened expression. "Sam?"

Her gaze, hard, but tear-filled, didn't waver. She asked, "Why. Why will the door open?"

-

Of course, Sam asked the important questions, she always did. Fierce, headstrong, and smart. Danny expected nothing less of her. And Tucker. Tucker was the hopeful one, the optimist. He saw the bright side in everything and never gave up. Those were the reasons Danny fell in love with them in the first place.

Danny could have told them what Luz told him, about how not all ghosts faded alone. How sometimes, the guardian made exceptions, let others be there for them, so they wouldn't pass surrounded only by soft light and solitude.

He could have told them. Maybe he should have. He didn't.

Instead, Danny reached out, taking Tucker and Sam's hands, and gave them a reassuring squeeze. He didn't say anything, just smiled. He couldn't give them the reassurances they needed. Nor could he bring himself to tell the truth. But he could smile. He could at least do that.

[lilsum4]

Close Encounters of the Invisible Kind - Chapter 9

You did it, you won. You made me sit down and write and update. Every time I thought “no one cares anymore,” one of your comments would come in and remind me that this story exists. Your kudos, comments, well-wishes and dogged perseverance won. So here is an update, 4 years later.

Special thanks to @davidtennantstrainers​, who always chimed in with a “still waiting! you okay?” when I least expected one.

Read on AO3 if you prefer.

Close Encounters of the Invisible Kind - Chapter 9

She had forgotten that gravity's a right bitch.

Donna stumbles, quite literally, out of the TARDIS doors with as much grace as a newborn fawn. Or as though she's single-handedly imbibed a pub's stock of lager. Nerys' center of gravity feels horribly off and inhabiting these foreign limbs takes practice.

To add insult to injury, Nerys is also wearing truly uncomfortable wedding shoes, and she can already feel a pinch in her toes developing.

Once out the doors she uses the TARDIS to re-balance and keep from falling flat on her face. With hands upon warm wood, she realizes that, for the first time ever, she has an opportunity to examine the TARDIS from the outside. She's never had a chance before. So now she runs her fingertips over the aged, blue paint -- tottering around it in a full circle, in awe at the machine. "Look at you!" she breathes, inspecting the details, from the message on the door to the actual working telephone. "You're amazing!"

Donna throws her arms wide against the police box in a hug, squeezing tight, relishing the rough texture of it under her hands, real skin pressing against solidness. It's perfect. "Thank you," she whispers now, her own little secret message, "For taking me in. Giving me a home. I won't get to hug you for real again -- so thank you."

The TARDIS feels somehow content under her touch, so Donna thinks the TARDIS appreciates it.

She finally pulls back and turns, finding the Doctor standing a few feet away, watching her with a warm, secret gaze.

"What!" she demands in her brassiest tone. Well, Nerys' brassiest tone.

"Nothing," he grins. He extends a hand to her. "Come on. Aren't we supposed to be getting your friend to her wedding?"

She reaches forward and takes his hand and that feels perfect, too.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Several things happen rapid-fire after that:

She screams at the Doctor for not thinking about bringing money with him. She's the ghost along for the ride; it really should be up to the living to think about details like that, and it's not like he's green at this whole "unforeseen adventure" shtick. He says, one too many times, "Don't get too comfortable in that body," like she can forget, christ on a cracker, that this is temporary! And so then she accidentally-on-purpose leaves him behind when he's not paying attention, because he's being a git about this whole unintended possession thing and by god, she's allowed a bit of fun, ain't she - just for the little time before Nerys gets her skinny body back?

In the taxi, Donna bounces delightedly on the seat, actually enjoying London traffic for once. She doesn't get to enjoy if for long, as the driver turns out to be a Santa robot, and then Donna puts Nerys' body in mortal danger by diving out of a moving car, into the Doctor's waiting arms.

It's an awkward leap that's more flailing limbs, a hope, and a prayer, than anything else. She doesn't think the Doctor quite understands how utterly foreign this body feels -- how any body would feel after all this time -- and it's really a miracle that she doesn't land with a splat on the busy motorway.

When she does, against all odds, land with the Doctor's surprisingly solid body beneath hers, it takes her a moment to stop relishing the sensation of someone pressed against her. It's been soooo long.

But she does, in fact, remember that this is not her body. So in that moment when the Doctor and her are face to face and shocked into stillness, it strikes her that it's not Donna he's looking at, watching out for, holding hands with. It's Nerys.

She commands trembling limbs to lever herself to sit, in a pool of white skirts, on the floor. Excitement and adrenaline subside so that all that's left is an unwelcome pang in her chest. A deep, watery breath doesn't help the bite of realization that, as wrapped in giddy excitement as she is to take part in an adventure, none of this is truly happening to Donna. None of this is about her. It never is.

The Doctor has scrambled off to right the bucking TARDIS, consumed in flipping levers and pulling switches and dealing with a growing plume of smoke.

Donna watches him for a moment, then tells herself she really should get up. She's wrinkling Nerys' dress. The dress that should have been Donna's.

The sentence slips from her mouth without actual thought: "I looked better in it, you know."

"Hm?" the Doctor queries, distracted, more concerned with landing them safely.

"The dress. I looked better in it."

The Doctor finally looks up to find Donna slowly standing, smoothing down layers of tulle, looking down at her friend's form.

The Doctor recalls Donna only as an amorphous grey mass with terrifying pits for eyes, but looking at her in that borrowed body now, with a cocked hip, radiating attitude, he can imagine she must have been a force to be reckoned with. And for a moment that niggle of memory hits him again -- of gold-nebulae eyes, staring into his, and hair red as the fields of Gallifrey. He shakes it off, as he always does, as a fancy of regeneration sickness.

The TARDIS pauses its bucking as he finishes banging a button into submission, but flies smoothly enough - despite the growing smoke - for him to step away from the console and towards her. "You keep saying it's your dress. I don't recall you mentioning you were engaged?"

Donna keeps her gaze lowered, one hand going to a tiny rip in the beading along the side.

"No, I wasn't. It was just, you know, hopeful thinking. Picking out your future dress so your mates don't end up filching your style. One of those silly things. But I really did love this dress, ever since we saw it once when we were window shopping. And then she goes and takes it!"

The Doctor is grinning, but as the seconds beat by and she continues to look down, he begins to suspect that her sassy pose and ire are all an act.

"Donna?" he asks carefully.

"I tried it on at the shop and everything. Even Nerys agreed it looked good, and getting a compliment out of her was a fucking miracle."

He reaches out a tentative hand and places it on her shoulder.

She looks up finally, trying to smile through a trembling chin, her eyes suspiciously wet. "I ripped it. She's gonna be so angry."

"You saved her life. She'll get over it."

For a moment he thinks she'll say more, thinks that gravity will win the battle with the tears he sees in dishwater blue eyes. But instead Donna squares her friend's shoulders and lifts her chin, all traces of vulnerability wiped from Nerys' face as if they'd never been there. "Damn straight! Now, where did you land us?" she sails out the door, leaving the Doctor looking after her.

He has to wonder now how many times he's missed that vulnerability, invisible to everyone, any nuance lost under the loud voice and funny quips that only he gets to hear but never see.

The light is bright, the wind whipping Nery's careful blonde chignon out of shape, as the Doctor follows Donna out onto the rooftop.

Donna sighs. "Forget the dress; I've gone and messed up her wedding."

"No you haven't. It's not your fault she got pulled into the TARDIS. Obviously, something's after Nerys."

"But who would want to be after Nerys?" asks Donna. "It must be some sort of mix up."

She shivers as she sits on the roof's edge, and he finds a long-dormant impulse kicking in. He takes of his jacket and drapes it over her shoulders.

Donna smirks -- the Doctor has to wonder what that smirk would look like on her real face -- and gives him a little eye-roll. "Of course this sad excuse for a jacket fits Nerys. You both are skinny as rats."

"Oi, I'm trying to be a gentleman here. Doesn't happen often, you know!"

She bumps his shoulder playfully. "Right, right." She burrows deeper into his jacket, and he watches her fingers play over the pinstriped material as if memorizing the texture. He sees it again, that flash of sorrow quickly buried. He has the strangest impulse to wrap an arm around her, to somehow comfort her into getting that well-hidden dejection cleansed from her gaze.

"Don't really even know what we were trying to accomplish, really. I mean, so if we'd gotten her back to the wedding, then what? I'd still be stuck in her," she muses, looking off at the cityscape.

"Maybe she'd force you out, not wanting to miss her own wedding. Moot point, now. We have to figure out why she's being hunted, and fix it."

"Poor Nerys. Chased around on her wedding day," Donna sighs and shivers again.

The Doctor shifts at her side, the urge to hug her almost overwhelming now, but he resists and instead digs in his trouser pockets until his fingers touch metal. He pulls out a ring, and offers it to Donna, palm up.

She gapes at his hand for a second, before carefully asking, "What's that for?" There's a catch in her voice.

"Biodamper. It will hide Nerys' biological signature from the robots. Should buy us some time." He offers it again but her hands stay resolutely on her lap, until he takes one in his own and slides the ring on her finger. Her hands are trembling. From the cold, perhaps?

"With this ring, I thee biodamp," he teases.

Her fingers curl in his. This time Donna can't hide her feelings fast enough, and Nerys’ face shifts into an expression of sadness and longing.

"For better or for worse," whispers Donna.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Donna knows Nerys better than anyone, and has been hearing of her fairytale wedding plans since they were 15 and sneaking out of school. She gets it in one when she guesses where the reception would have been held.

"You had the reception without Ner- uh - me?!" Donna asks, appalled, upon entering the ballroom.

"Why not? You decided to pull that prank, so why waste all this?" begins Beatrice, attired in an appallingly ugly orange bridesmaid dress. Donna never much had liked Beatrice.

"Wasn't anyone worried?" Donna exclaims. "What kind of friends are you?!"

Lance -- LANCE! -- comes up to her. "Now, sweetheart. Don't fret so. We all knew you'd turn up. No case of cold feet would keep you away for long, right?"

"Lance?" she wonders, befuddled. Why was he even here?

He hugs her (and oh man, he was fit!), and a niggling suspicion has her pulling back just far enough to peruse his well-fitted tux and the expensive flower at his lapel. Donna stumbles back. Nerys...that absolute man-stealing cow!

It unfolds then, between friends and bridesmaids trying to placate her with glasses of wine, how she shouldn't be too angry. How lucky she is that Lance took her prank in a stride. How of course they were soulmates; it was fate that they'd meet at her friend's funeral who'd--

Wait, hold up! Donna reaches out and snatches the cocktail the Doctor had been nursing right out of his hand, to down in one gulp. Donna's funeral. They'd met at her own damn funeral! Now she really is fuming, and doesn't feel one whit guilty when the music strikes back up and Lance drags her onto the dance floor.

She's tearing up the dance floor, because...well, because she can. This, all of this, should have bloody well been Donna's, and so if anyone has the right to be dancing with Lance right now, it's her!

The Doctor hangs back, indulgent, letting her have her moment of fun. She winks at him over Lance's shoulder and the Doctor raises a new, fruity drink to her in reply. A conga line forms and she snags him into joining as they pass by, and then they're making a joyous circle around the room and she spins to laugh at some wry comment the Doctor makes about how conga lines are so much more fun when done on a planet with zero gravity, and it's all so wonderful that she forgets, for a little while, that this isn't hers and it isn't her future they're celebrating and then...

Then, she spies the quiet couple seated at a table on the fringes, and reality rears its head once more. Her feet cement themselves to the floor so that the Doctor crashes into her before pulling her out of the way as the conga line reforms without them.

"What is it?" the Doctor asks, scanning for danger as the blood has drained from her wine-flushed face.

"My parents," whispers Donna. Sylvia and Geoff, looking a little older, a little more tired. The smiles they aim in her direction, however, are as familiar as always.

It takes her several uncertain steps to make it to them, and the well wishes and hugs she receives pass in a blur. A quick impression of warm hands and Sylvia's favorite perfume, Geoff's hearty laugh. Donna has no memory, later, of what she said or how she forced Nerys' lips into a smile. Of how she was able to nod when Donna's own name was brought up and how much they wished she could be there to celebrate with her dear friend.

The Doctor is waiting, hands ready to grip her cold fingers, when she staggers back to him and begs, "Please, get me out of here." And right on time, the baubles on the decorative Christmas tree begins to explode.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Donna can confirm that after being kidnapped from your wedding, finding out your rubbish friends held the reception without you, and then finding out you’re being poisoned, a great distraction from your troubles is to barrel down maintenance tunnels in a Segway. It is so ridiculous that the laughter bubbles up without warning, until she and the Doctor are hooting and giggling and altogether having a swell time. Unfortunately, Lance is an utter killjoy.

Well of course he is, the two-timing arse - turns out he was cheating on Nerys with a spider.

"Is it always like this when you go adventuring," whispers Donna, much later, back on the TARDIS and watching the world being born. "The bits of chaos and the danger and the wonder?"

"Yep. 'S great, isn't it?" grins the Doctor, before noting that a wayward tear is further smudging Nerys' makeup

"I'm sorry about your friend's fiancee," offers the Doctor.

"Hmm," nods Donna. . She presses a cold hand to her chest. "She's so shocked inside. Oh, poor Nerys. What an absolute wanker Lance is. But this," she takes a deep breath now, staring at the kaleidoscope of colors outside the door as dust coalesces into her planet, "this puts it all in perspective, doesn't it. I hope it helps her."

It doesn't, not really. Or at least not right this moment, as she continues to sense Nerys aching in betrayal. But maybe one day in the future, Nerys will think back to this vista no other human has seen before, and heal.

The moment of calm is shattered as they’re pulled back to earth, and Donna heartily wishes her friend hadn’t chosen these horrible shoes for the wedding as she finds herself sprinting to keep up with the Doctor once more.

"So these Huon particles," Donna wheezes once the Doctor brings them to a stop at a maintenance door. "I still don't understand. What are they for?"

"They're an ancient form of energy, energy that's necessary for the Racnoss to rise. They need a living host to catalyze, and Nerys is it."

"You think maybe that's what's making me stick to her? Cuz it feels like how the TARDIS can keep me anchored" she ponders, watching him take out a stethoscope. She's pretty sure he's just fucking around at this point, he's such a drama queen.

He pauses suddenly, eyes going wide before whirling at her. Excited, happy hands gesticulate wildly. "Yes! Oh, yes! I'd forgotten entirely that you're stuck. Aren't you clever! The Huon particles, they're so old that the only other surviving particles power the heart of the TARDIS. They're like the little plus sides to your minus--"

"Oi, watch it."

"--an ancient magnet, keeping you in place!"

"Well gold star for me! Does that mean when you get them out of her I can finally leave?"

"Yep," enthuses the Doctor, back to inspecting the door he's so hell-bent on opening. "We'll sort that out back in the TARDIS, and then 'poof!', you're back to your role as resident ghost and Nerys is back to her boring life, probably knee-deep in wedding bills. Really, the wedding industry is a scam, I don't understand why--"

It occurs to him that he can't hear Donna’s labored breathing hovering over his shoulder any longer. He whirls back around and, of course, she's gone.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I fucking hate you. To think, it could have been me!" spits Donna, now suspended in a web beside Wanker!Lance.

He sneers, and Donna wonders that she ever found him attractive.

The Racnoss Queen forces the Huon particles out of the both of them, and Donna's ire for her friend is derailed as she begins to feel the tendrils holding her in place begin to dissipate. Goddammit, why did she have to be right this time! If she's forced out here, she's going to be lost!

She digs in tight, trying to keep within this borrowed body. The Huon particles want to take her with them, but she's not going to go without a fight! She calls out furiously to Nerys within her mind. "Help me stay!"

Nerys continues to cower in a tiny corner of her mind, nursing hurt and horror and disbelief. Donna is grasping tight with a strength she didn't know she had, seeking out the cells within Nerys' body that contain the tiniest footprints of Huon energy still, ingrained after 6 months of being dosed. But she's not going to be able to hold on for long by herself. "For god's sake, Nerys, be useful for once! What, you want this cheating bastard and his spider mistress to win?! You end up as spider food and Beatrice gets first dibs at any eligible bachelors at your funeral this time around?”

That does it. She feels Nerys psyche uncurl, ponder, and finally lash out a mental hand, clawing back at Donna, gripping at her with Nerys' signature bitchy stubbornness. A final, mighty heave from Nerys has Donna settling back into Nerys' body with a palpable jerk. "You better fucking get me out of here alive, Donna!" she hears Nerys say to her. "It's your fault I even met him!"

And isn't that classic Nerys.

The Doctor, thankfully, arrives right on time. He doesn’t catch her, the dunce, but at least Nerys is not spider food, so that’s a win. She’s sure she’ll remember Lance’s fall for a long time, though. Is even more sure she’ll remember the Racnoss Queen’s frenzied sobbing and screams of “My babies” for much longer.

Which leaves Donna now standing in ankle deep water, staring at a stranger.

The Doctor, a silent and grim executioner, is perhaps the scariest thing she's seen today, or ever.

The water is rising rapidly, the screams of dying Racnoss long faded. "Doctor, you can stop now!"

He looks down at her with burning eyes, this stranger wearing the Doctor's face, and it's almost scary how well she can read him right now. How unfair it is that the Racnoss survived and his people didn't. How horrible it is to be the last. How easy it would be to just watch the water rise. The relief it would be to let go and finally, finally rest.

"What's death like, Donna?" he whispers to her and she hears it just fine, even over the rushing water.

She gulps, terrified. But she forces her borrowed voice to be strong. "Boring. Endless. Pointless. Is that what you want? Because it's not what Nerys wants." It's not what I want for you.

He closes his eyes, finally, and when he reopens them it's the Spaceman she's used to looking back at her. "Let's get her out of here, then."

-----------------------------------------------

The Doctor has made it snow for her.

"It's time, Donna," he says to her quietly.

"I know," she sighs. She shuffles her feet a little, enjoying the solidity of dirt underfoot. Even the ache in her arches and pinching in her toes is welcome. She rubs her hands over cold arms. Skin and bone and a voice and will and action. She's about to let go of all of it.

"You need somebody, you know," she says abruptly, using hands that aren't hers to reach for the Doctor's grasp. "Out here with you, a companion. You should find someone else, someone new. Like I told you before."

"I don't need anyone," he denies gruffly, though he grips her fingers tight.

"Yes you do. You need someone to share in the adventures and because... sometimes you need someone to stop you," she replies, kindly. Somebody to live for. And it can't be me.

He blinks rapidly at her. Wayward tears or snow in his eyes? She can't tell because she is blinking just as hard.

“Not Nerys, though!"

He chokes out a laugh, scrubbing one hand over his face. “No, not Nerys. Not now that you’re finally going to be free of her.”

She grins, trying to be strong, and nervously smooths her hands over her ruined dress. "Okay, well, here goes nothing. You know she's going to freak the holy hell out as soon as I leave her, right?" she begins. She wants to ask for a hug again, because she needs it, but she feels stupid asking.

Though she does quickly remember something else. "Wait! Oh here, save this for me." She slides the biodamper off Nerys’ finger.

The Doctor takes it from her with a confused look. "It's useless now, you know. No harm in it for her."

"But it's mine," she confesses in a rush. "Not Nerys'. You gave it to me and it's ...it's the closest I ever..." her throat clogs up, "closest I got to getting a ring from someone. Even when I was alive I..."

The Doctor's sympathetic eyes do her in, utterly, and she finds herself suddenly shouting, "Why did I have to die!"

To her horror, she feels tears sliding down Nerys’ pale cheeks. Her bottom lip is trembling, her chest aching, breaths staggering. She’d forgotten how much it physically hurt being so sad.

Then she is being enfolded in the Doctor's arms, his hug wonderfully tight as he shushes her and rocks her. And she didn't even have to ask.

She reaches around him, fists clutching his coat. She'd forgotten, too, how it felt to be comforted.

She is the one who finally pulls back, because it's too tempting to cling to him longer. She looks away and scrubs her eyes. The Doctor continues to gaze at her with soft understanding, slipping the ring into a pocket before reaching for her hands once more. "Donna..." he begins.

But she is embarrassed enough already, crying and snotty, and Nerys is not a pretty crier. She abruptly uses the Doctor's grip on her to pull herself out of this borrowed body. This time, Nerys is more than happy to let her go, and it's almost like a cork popping out of a champagne. The force of it throws Nerys back and Donna is left a ghost once more, with a firm grip on the Doctor to keep her tethered.

Nerys catches her footing, stares, smacks the Doctor hard across the face, and turns tail to run away, screaming, "HELP! Martians are real!"

"What the hell was that for!" exclaims the Doctor. He shakes his head at the retreating form of the woman, and heads back through the TARDIS doors. He ensures that Donna's hand is firm in his before closing the door, because she remains silent. Nerys is still screaming and scrambling towards her front door when the TARDIS disappears.

It's only after the TARDIS is in the vortex that he realizes he can feel Donna's hand in his as if she were solid.

[gaiatheorist]

DWP- Dealing With Paranoia.

I have different coping strategies to a lot of people. When I engaged with the outside world more, there was an air of bravado to me, a carefully nurtured appearance of being carefree. There was nothing I couldn’t deal with, I ‘thought on my feet’, and saw through whatever chaos or calamity was happening, to pinpoint a logical, or at least acceptable pathway. In some ways it was innate, just how my mind functions, to triage a situation or potential future situation, map-out possible outcomes and risks, and razor-sharp, whittle down to the preferred outcome with minimal risks attached. 

It was a useful skill to have in my previous employment, the ability to brush the dirt from the knees of my trousers after attending a first-aid incident, then distract or divert a student who was behaving inappropriately, before meeting with yet another parent who wanted to shout at someone about some policy or other being “Paffetic!” Some days we’d have a fire alarm, or a dead pigeon to deal with, or the brilliance of a “Dog in the playground!” I miss “Dog in the playground!” incidents.

It’s also a useful skill to have in terms of working around my brain injuries, the constant background rattle of risk assessment for every task, however mundane, keeps me mostly-safe. (You don’t have to fall off the toilet many times before you figure out a strategy to reduce the risk of it happening again, nobody wants to have to phone an ambulance with their trousers around their ankles.) 

The flip-side is the anxiety over all of the ‘What if?’ outcomes. Mostly it’s just background noise, “What if I fall over?” “I won’t fall over if I use the furniture as hand-rails when the vertigo-thing is bad.” “What if the fatigue hits early, and I forget to do something important?” “Do the important things early in the day, the less-important things can be rolled over to tomorrow if needed.” Most of my functional deficits are manageable, with some adaptations, I manage day-to-day because I over-think everything, and have contingency plans for everything within my control. 

It’s the things beyond my control that are the most difficult to deal with, the ‘unknowns’ that are entirely dependent on other people or agencies. Right now, I’m dealing with more unknowns than I’m comfortable with, DWP, Student Finance, and the NHS are my current ‘sea of troubles’, and I have Thalassophobia. It’s not the NHS’s fault that they’re stretched beyond capacity, but they are in part responsible for the precarious state I’m in now. If there had been more capacity for appropriate guidance when I was discharged from hospital following the brain haemorrhage, I probably wouldn’t be where I am now. There wasn’t, and I am. I had my monitoring brain scan last week, and I ‘should’ have the results within 2 weeks. I won’t, I’ll have to chase it, at the same time as trying to rescue my son’s Student Finance, and feeling like DWP have me on an electronic tag for the ‘crime’ of needing state support while I try to sort out my health.

Universal Credit, “Rolling six benefits into one!”, except it isn’t really. Despite numerous objections to the scheme, the government are carrying on regardless with the roll-out. The flagship has no lifeboats at all, but the band is playing on, the captain charging ahead, while the crew focus only on their discreet tasks. “That’s not my department, sorry.” The current phase of roll-out is transferring current claimants onto ‘Full Service’, the new, all-electronic system. How thoroughly modern, to cut out the pointless ‘time-sheet’ my work coach used to insist I present to her, to evidence what I was doing to actively seek employment. (That’s just my personal niggle, everything I was doing was hand-written in my note-pad, and then typed up into the ‘homework sheet’ for the coach to initial. If this system kills me, the note-pad will be on my desk. The evidence was already online, every task logged on the ‘Universal Jobmatch’ website, I was effectively not just duplicating, but triplicating the data, as back-up. ‘Just in case’, like the time my printer wouldn’t work, and my coach had to look up her password to log onto the system, rather than allow my handwritten notes.) 

If I wanted to be kind, I’d say there are ‘teething problems’ with the roll-out of the new system. The guidance for work coaches on transfer-claims is 19 pages long, all very linear-flow-charts, it’s not the lines that are bothering me, it’s what’s between them. My work coach gave me a sheet of paper in June, “Universal Jobmatch is being phased out, but you already have a CV, don’t you? You don’t need to do anything yet.” Then, at my last appointment, last month, she advised that the ‘live’ service was being replaced by the ‘full service’, but she hadn’t been on the training for it, she had to call over a colleague to ask what would happen next. “You’ll get a message when you need to come in for an appointment with your ID.” (The same ID as I presented a year and a half ago, that they already have on their systems, but I suppose it’s a fraud-prevention strategy.)

I didn’t get ‘a message’, on September 26th, two brown envelopes landed on my doormat, I skimmed them very briefly, and put them on my ‘do that tomorrow’ pile, because my anxiety was already ramped up high about the horrible brain scan I had booked on the 29th. Without going into too much technical terminology, one letter isn’t dated, and says ‘get ready to switch’, and that ‘we will write to you and tell you when you need to switch and how.’ That’s the UC491. In the same post came the UC492, the ‘call to action’, which stated “If you don’t complete all the activities to switch to the online claim by 3/10/2018, your payments may stop and your claim may be closed.” Info-sheet, with no actual information on it, and ‘first warning’, in the same post. (The UC492 is dated September 19th, second-class post, I didn’t receive it until the 26th, or read it properly until the 27th. Six days to register, input all the details they already have, book, and attend an appointment. I’m female, but I’m not Doctor Who, and two of the six days were already tied up with the brain scan. The scans always knock me sideways the following day, the sensory issues from my brain injuries are not conducive to being trapped in a noisy metal tube, and then getting home on public transport with a whopper of a headache, and exacerbated sensory over-stimulus.)

I panicked. Initially that I’d be called for my appointment on the same day as my scan, and incur a sanction for refusing to cancel the scan to attend the appointment. Working around that, one of the ‘commitments’ I’m currently obliged to fulfil is ‘seek and follow medical advice’, the particular scanner they use for my brain is a very expensive MRA machine, cancelling that scan would inconvenience the NHS, and there would be an additional wait for a new appointment. 

I typed in the link from the letter. Which didn’t work the first time I tried it, I’d probably made a typo, cold hands, and eyes that sometimes go a bit ‘off’, I frequently hit the key to the right of the one I’m aiming for. (They have my email address, and mobile number, they could have sent the link electronically.) I eventually got ‘in’ to the site, and, after a bit of searching around, found the right link-out from there. Then my laptop crashed, full black-screen meltdown, so I had to restart it. It took me four hours to complete the forms, part of that is my disability, but I’d already side-researched, and the system times-out after an unspecified period of inactivity. Taking my fatigued eyes away from the screen for six minutes in every hour wasn’t an option. (Yes, there’s a ‘save’ feature, but I was panicking. The inference that if I failed to complete the activities, my benefit ‘may’ be stopped was enough to tip me into major anxiety.) I thought I’d finished it all, when I was presented with another layer, ‘VERIFY’, where I entered my contact details, bank details, and had to take a photograph of the front and back of my provisional driving licence, along with a photograph of my actual face. (Which probably doesn’t look like the photo on my driving licence, it’s 8 years old, and I’ve had a stroke since then.) That all seems as dodgy as hell to me, I wouldn’t hand over my bank details and photographs of my driving licence to a real person, but the system said I needed to do it to complete the online application, so I did it.

The ‘VERIFY’ thing couldn’t be completed, it’ll either be my stroke-y face, or my inability to hold my phone completely still for photographs. All of the faffing about with ‘VERIFY’ meant that the transfer-application had timed-out, and bounced me back to the start-screen. Four hours, gone, and I didn’t have another four hours of functionality in me to do it all again. I had to ‘phone the helpline’, as per the on-screen guidance. I hate telephone conversations, I can’t read the non-verbal cues, and I never trust the person on the other end of the line to record what I’ve said accurately, if I say it accurately in the first place. I have verbal aphasia, sometimes I can’t find the ‘right’ word, so substitute one quickly, and hope it’s not too far out of context. There’s a very slim probability of me using the ‘wrong’ word, and triggering fraud procedures, because my brain doesn’t work properly all of the time. ‘Kenneth’ was able to confirm that my transfer details had saved, and I didn’t have the capacity to go off on a rant about the details already being in the system. Between 10.57, and 11.21, he repeatedly assured me that I shouldn’t worry, and that the deadline on the letter, of 3/10/18 was ‘more of an incentive, really.’ Kenneth didn’t have access to the parts of the system that hold the records on my ‘limited capacity for work’, and the UC branch of DWP don’t communicate with the PIP branch, who have all of the medical evidence and details of the functional impairments my disabilities cause. Kenneth booked me a ‘Personal Security Number and evidence’ appointment, and, when he asked the standard question about ‘any accessibility needs’, I explained that an appointment earlier in the day, rather than later would reduce the risk of my cognitive fatigue having an impact. 

“Right, Kenneth, I have brain injuries, so I’m going to read back everything you’ve asked me to do, to make sure I have it all right?”

(Attend this place, at this time on this date, and provide these pieces of evidence of identity, is that everything?)

“Ah, no, not this Friday, next Friday.”

“That’s why I read it back to you. Next Friday is outside the timescale stated on the letter.”

“Ah, don’t worry about that, you’ve made the appointment, and it’s in the system, you just have to attend it now.”    

I did worry. The letter had stated that the online transfer had to be completed, and the appointment booked AND attended, with appropriate evidence, by 3/10/18, and Kenneth had booked me an appointment on 5/10/18. Kenneth had also told me to take my bank card, driving licence and tenancy agreement, and to get a mini-statement from an ATM as evidence that I had access to that bank account. “Is that everything?” “Yes, that’s everything.” That wasn’t everything. I could be kind, and say that the system is new, and staff are navigating their way around it, but Kenneth didn’t tell me I’d need to provide ‘two months of rent statements or bank statements.’ (Like anyone has a physical ‘rent book’ anymore?) 

On the Monday, as I’d spoken to Kenneth on the Thursday, my email pinged, confirming the appointment. I skimmed it on my phone, and didn’t notice that the time had changed, from 10.50, to 15.30, I was still fuzzy from the brain scan. On the Tuesday, my email pinged again, “You need to read a message in your Universal Credit online journal. Sign into your account today.” ‘Today’ is going to present an issue for me if they send messages later in the day, I’m not fully functional in the afternoon and evening, there’s a much higher probability of cognitive slips. It wasn’t a ‘message’, it was another list of tasks to complete, including ‘preparing for work activities.’, and some equal opportunities monitoring stuff. (Interesting that they wanted a definition of my gender and sexual orientation, but there was no field for disability.) 

I noticed the change of time for the appointment, and entered a query online, requesting confirmation as to whether the appointment was 10.50, 15.30, or both. It took over 24 hours for an agent to respond, and he still wasn’t answering my question. I pressed for clarification, stating that the anxiety about potential ‘failed to attend’ processes was impacting on me. He confirmed that it was just the 15.30 appointment. As much as my son ‘hates’ the world-swerve to having to fact-check everything, I hate the way these systems are making me paranoid, I’m developing obsessive over-checking behaviours, because if I’m marked as ‘failed to attend’, DWP can stop my payments.

Yesterday, fatigued after the sensory overload of going for my ‘flu jab, I checked my email. (Conscientious to the end, I’ve never had the ‘flu immunisation before, but, single-and-disabled, if I catch the ‘flu, I won’t be able to feed myself, or manage my medication, I’m a potential cost to the NHS or social care.) There had been an email from DWP while I was walking back from the immunisation, and I must have been in an area with no signal, because it hadn’t ‘pinged.’ An operative at the local job centre had sent a message asking if I could attend an appointment at 12.00. Instead? As well? I still don’t know, because I’ve replied in the ‘online journal’, and had no response as yet. I even went so far as trying to telephone the job centre to query it, mindful that I might not notice an electronic response late in the day. I tried, I Google-searched for the Job Centre telephone number, which is now on 0345 number, not a standard one. That defaults you to an automated message, advising that all Universal Credit queries must now be handled online. I tried the Universal Credit full service transfer telephone number, same message, everything is online once your application is in.  

Some DWP departments only ‘allow’ you to change an appointment twice, there’s the ‘without good reason’ qualifier, and I’m very, VERY good at reasons. Technically, that appointment has now been set for three different times, so I could be on a ‘second warning’, after the first ‘call to action’. I haven’t requested any of the changes, and I haven’t been obstructive, only stating in one message that I had requested an earlier appointment rather than a late one in my original communication, as my ‘reasonable adjustment.’ 

I need to reserve enough functional cognitive capacity to work around systems that aren’t working, and, in spite of my disabilities and circumstances, I’m one of the ‘lucky’ ones. I know how to use a computer, and I have a relatively stable broadband connection. Some people aren’t as adept with tech. Some people won’t open the initial letters, because brown envelopes are never good news. Some people won’t have the functional literacy skills to understand the letters. (The ‘call to action’ tasks are in a margin-block, away from the main body of the letter, and the potential consequences are on a second page, the formatting of the letter does look as if the first page contains all the information, it doesn’t.) After the ‘charitable’ gesture of making the helpline a free-phone number last year, this government has proven that to be an Indian gift. Acknowledging that some claimants would be in such abject hardship that they couldn’t afford phone-credit, or to keep their land-line connected, and then making the next phase of the roll-out completely electronic. “Just pop into the Job Centre, you can use our computers!”, if it took me four hours, I dread to think how long it’s going to take hunt-and-peck typists.

I have a paranoia-loop about my ‘claim’, there’s a streak of righteous indignation that DWP already have all of my information, and I didn’t ask for a new system to complicate matters, but I need to be very careful how I word that to DWP staff, lest I’m seen to be obstructive. If DWP don’t like the look of my ‘evidence’ of rent, they’ll delay the claim, they did the first time, it was 9 weeks between my initial claim and them finalising the ‘housing element’ that doesn’t actually cover my rent. The point they had issue with at the time was clarified, and I know how to work around it again, but I shouldn’t have to, they already have it on record once. If they decide to play hard-ball on the ‘housing element’, I can technically cover my rent, by topping-up with my PIP disability benefit. I shouldn’t have to, that payment is intended to cover the additional costs to me of living with complex disabilities, it’s not for DWP to use as a non-refundable overdraft facility, while my documents sit in a drawer somewhere, until I chase progress. 

I have a little money in the bank, some people won’t. I have additional funds coming in from my PIP, some people don’t have that safety net. I am paranoid that DWP are going to ‘sanction’ my payments on technicalities that I have no control over, technicalities that are deliberately worked into the fabric of their systems, a safety-net that’s more holes than substance. October should have been the start of me addressing my on-going, complex and permanent health issues, with my son back at uni, the PIP awarded, and the ‘limited capacity for work’ notice applied to my UC commitment. Instead of allowing me to focus on my health, as the initial step to being able to work in the future, DWP are exacerbating the mental health issues, and compounding the cognitive components of my brain injuries. 

I’ll have a clearer idea of where I stand after Friday. I’ll attend the 12.00 appointment, ‘acting on last instruction given’, and clarify then whether the 15.30 still stands or not. (Good luck to DWP if they try to suggest that attending two appointments means I’m fully capable of any/all employment, none of my ‘points’ on the PIP award were for mobility or planning, I over-plan.) What I need to NOT do is sit in this chair any longer, ‘just in case’ I miss an email from DWP, that’s a maladaptive coping mechanism. I need to eat, and sort out some mundane housekeeping, AND I think I’m a bit foggy after my ‘flu jab, which isn’t helping. The Marionette PM has stated that she wants a society ‘for everyone’, but not all ‘everyones’ are equal. Some people will fall through the gaps in the systems, collective collateral, who will likely be dismissed as ‘scroungers’ by elements of the press. I won’t fall through, because I’m paranoid, and then the NHS will be left to address the paranoia that the DWP has created and compounded.