for realmofthemuse: 1.41.2: Write a ficlet on the topic of leathe

He remembers buying it.

Seeing the boat-style leather jacket sitting on a dummy in a window in Austria and thinking it was a rather nice coat. Warm, snug-looking. Might look nice on Harry, if the bloke would calm down and wear something more relaxing. 'Course, by the time he got it back to the TARDIS and hung it up, something went wrong in the controls, and the jacket was forgotten, buried beneath piles and piles of clothing.

He remembers choosing it.

Slipping out of torn velvet and poofed-up ascots, he needed a change. Needed to wear something black and sleek and smooth and plain, without feeling or emotion or frivolities. He remembers slipping the jacket over his shoulders and it feeling so right. Like a second skin. A protective layer between himself and the world.

He remembers wearing it.

There were times he used it as a barrier, as a protection, sometimes he just used it to fit in and feel comfortable. He remembers standing at the console, arms crossed, that leather jacket tight against his shoulderblades. He remembers Rose's arm curling around the leather arm he'd made, and all but snuggling next to him. Felt safe and right. To her, the old leather smelt of Doctor, and he supposed that made sense. After all, that was all she knew.

He doesn't remember removing it.

Doesn't know how it ended up folded so neatly next to Rose's mum's bed, doesn't know why it looks all tattered up like it's been tossed around---which, if Rose's tales are right, all that dropping to the ground and stuff, he's lucky it wasn't damaged a bit more. His hand reaches out, touches the soft leather. It's so unlike him, now. Too smooth, too prescise and severe. He's slipped into soft cottons and stripes and smiles, no more need for sharp cow's skin to protect him.

He remembers putting it away.

Like all the other outfits in the wardrobe room. It slides next to the multi-coloured coat and the striped scarf, just another part of who he was. Who he used to be. Who he isn't anymore. That part of him is sleeping somewhere in a room without windows or doors. His clothes are set aside, he moves on.

He always moves on. Steps back into Rose's apartment and smiles. A new man, a new wardrobe.

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 392

for relativeprompts: Prompt #02

Alcohol.

The house was silent at night. It always seemed so silent at night. There was a dull white noise buzzing in his ear---but that could easily have been the wine he'd been consuming.

(  He lay on the floor of Catherine's living room for a long while, one hand holding a large, nearly-empty glass of red wine, the other swaying a hand in time to the music that he had drifting quietly from one of the CD players. )

Muse: Doctor (Ten)(Alt 4)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 415