He calls him Sylar.

He was born Gabriel Gray, and the Doctor knows this. He knows the man's history, he's even seen the place he grew up. Once, in a fit of curiosity, he went back in time to see the young Gabriel leaving his house. Crumbled and heartbroken, trying as always to make himself important to his family. His black glasses are too big for his face, now, but by the time he's 16 they'll be too small. Nothing fits. No, it does fit, but so briefly that all he's left with is a memory of what it was like before it doesn't fit again.

The Doctor understands what it's like. His own family was less than perfect, and he broke out by running away. Sylar broke out by slaughtering. Just because the Doctor understands doesn't mean he agrees.

He's holding back, now. The Doctor has seen goodness in him. Seen how he wants to change. To bring out the part of his mind that won't kill. Splitting, human psychologists call it. Dissociative Identity Disorder. Complex stuff, and for a man who's had ten lives behind him and has another three more on the way, it's almost silly stuff.

The Doctor won't laugh at him, though. He'll respect how he's trying. Respect how he's changing. Evolving. Restraining. Holding back the evil within.

He's even started going by his given name. By Gabriel. He's seen his lovers and friends call him that. It's what he wants. He wants to be the man who doesn't kill. Wants to be the man that is a man, not a monster. Sylar is the name the monster chose.

He wonders, sometimes, if the man he talks to doesn't like being called the monster's name. If he doesn't like remembering what he's done. He can't call him Gabriel, though. It would be like calling America "the colonies" or the Master "Koschei". They've changed, they've evolved. They've named themselves.

Sylar is the name he wanted to be. And while he's not that way, anymore, it's still a choice some part of him made. The Doctor respects that, even if he's not certain that Sylar will understand it. The name isn't what's important, but it is a choice.

The Doctor won't call him Gabriel anymore than he'll call himself his own given name. The Doctor is the name the monster chose.

And he can restrain the monster, but he can't erase him.

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 405
Based on roleplay with [livejournal.com profile] eternityticking
To murder my love is a crime
But will you still love
A man out of time

The Journal of Impossible Things

November 1, 1913

There are rules for traveling with the Doctor. The dream with them is fading fast, so excuse me if this entry is somewhat disjointed, I'm trying to place them all together.

Rule number one is no wandering off. He's dealt with this many, many times. Having a companion or friend or lover (sometimes they appear to all be the same) wander away and he has to go find them. I think he partially enjoys this, taking care of them. They all appear to mean so much to him.

Rule B. Rule number two. He wants to take control of verbal communications with other people or beings, saying "Let me do all the talking". Why he's so adamant to make sure he is in control of the talking, I don't know. Perhaps he does not find them intelligent enough to talk on their own.

For all his affection for his human companions, he appears to be oft uncertain of their intellectual capabilities. Perhaps this is because he is so very intelligent in comparison to them, or perhaps it is left over from when he was young. His world, while beautiful, is full of prejudice based on intelligence, class, race, even what house one is…"sorted" (? perhaps different reference?) into.

As I've lost the rest of the rules, let me move onto this world of his. Orange-coloured skies. I most definitely remember them. Silver leaves on the trees. The scope of the world is overwhelming. It's so utterly alien, so completely a different world. When I dream that I am him, sometimes I forget that he is an alien, that his life was so different. But…it was. He is a man out of time.

This is, no doubt, why he makes up these rules for his companions. It is as when I traveled to here from London. I had set up perimeters for myself while I adjusted. He, on the other hand, never takes the time to adjust. He is constantly in a state of motion, and thus constantly creates things he can and can not do.

He even has rules for himself, though I can not possibly remember any of them. Save one.

Do not become attached.

What kind of a tragic life it is, to travel the universe with those he loves and yet never allow himself attachment.

Muse: The Doctor (Ten) / John Smith
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 383
I don't sleep particularly often. Not really because I can't, but because sleep isn't always a necessity. I sleep when I need to, wake when I don't. Time Lord biology makes keeping track of one's sleep schedule fairly easy, so I don't, in general, have to worry about oversleeping or losing track of time in bed.

As it was, when I awoke, I was able to tell immediately that I had slept a very, very long time. My body felt restless, and while relaxed, I knew that it wasn't a natural state of relaxation.

Oh, and I wasn't in my bedroom in the TARDIS. I was in some spherical bed…pod…thing, with a frosted glass covering that slid back as my eyes attempted to adjust to the bright, clinical lights of the room I was in.

A hospital, perhaps? The last thing I remembered was planning to take Martha out for a trip into her future, and then something hit me. A hospital would make sense. There was also a tinny, upbeat song that played from a radio on the table beside my bed. The floor and ceilings were gray tiles, and the walls were glass, with high windows for people to look in. Hospital seemed to be the correct answer…except for the strange feeling of something wrong that kept poking at me.

I gave my head a scratch and took a breath. Where was Martha? What happened here? My suit and shoes were gone, replaced by an orange jumpsuit and a brace-like set of heel springs. I saw them once on Chantal 3 during wartime. They attached with straps to the back of the knee and sat just below the heel so one could walk on them and fall from surprising distances without getting injured. Someone had taken the liberty of strapping me up, preparing me for…well, at the time I wasn't sure at all.

But whatever it was, it wasn't hospital-related.

The room was set up like a cell. Bed, side table with a clock, a toilet, and no door. There was a gray slab of wall on one corner, with a clock, counting down from one minute. One minute until what? Execution? Then why go to the trouble of prepping me for battle?

"Who are you?" I called out, but the sound of my own voice hurt my head. "Where am I?"

The counter hit :40, and an automated female computer voice spoke. As there weren't any speakers in the room, I could only imagine it must've been through the walls. Or maybe in my own head.

Hello and again. Welcome to the Aperture Science Computer Aided Enrichment Center. )

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 1,225

The mun would like to apologize for her obsession with Portal, and omfg but it worked so well with this prompt.
"You can't do this! It doesn't have to end this way!"


There's pain and it's blinding and he collapses backwards. Martha screams. Her hand goes to his chest, and he feels weak and burning and weak and---

"You don't have to do this," Martha's voice is significantly calmer, but she's so much calmer in these sorts of situations. All that medical training has paid off.

"Oh, but I do." His hand rises up, and a button on a red cylinder is pushed.

"We'll get it right next time."


Something is wrong with the world.

He can feel it.

Something's wrong with the way the trees are blowing, with the way the air feels. It's wrong. It's familiar, but since he's never been on this street before it can't be, but it is. The briskness of the November air bites his face with an extra sting of wrong.

He knows wrong well. He's fought wrong, and abandoned loved ones to terrible fates, all because of wrong.

"You all right, Doctor?" Martha's voice cuts through the haze. It's a machete to the proverbial jungle of wrong.

A bike rider zips through traffic, and the Doctor already knows that a newspaper will fall out of his bag. It does, landing five feet away on the pavement. It flops and lies there like a stick of butter on a skillet, fat and sizzling in the wrong of the world.

He steps forward and picks it up. It feels like it should burn, but it doesn't, and he doesn't know why he thinks it should. )

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 3,128
The monitor flickers to life. The picture is fuzzy, and goes in and out of focus.

Stupid piece of merde.

There is a blast of static, and the picture settles.

A tall, boyish man sits in front of the viewscreen. His hair is long and rather untidily shoved back into a ponytail, his sideburns are long and end at his jaw in a point. He dresses as if it were a revival of Casanova, in a loose poofy cotton shirt that should be tied but isn't, and an ascot around his neck that should also be tied but was neglected.

He takes a breath.

Hello. This is a message for Catherine Endicott. Hello, Catherine it's me. Well, a recording of me, but you get the idea. )

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 864
Based on roleplaying in [livejournal.com profile] relativespace
This wasn’t supposed to happen.

He blames Martha, of course.

It is her fault, he figures. Her and that curiosity of hers. He’s always liked that curiosity, but it seems to have gotten them into trouble nearly as often as his own. He wouldn’t show her the transcript, but she got a hold of the photos of the abandoned building and went on her own. The Doctor only just showed up in time.

Well, sort of. Cut for spoilers to 3.10, 'Blink.' )

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 2, 568
The day after she died, he packed.

He was used to traveling without warning, and, under any normal circumstances, he might've simply gone, but there were things he needed, now. Clothes and money and supplies for someone far tinier and less self-reliant as himself.

The nursemaid filled sachels with tiny clothes and tiny shoes and skins of milk, and he filled bags with jewelry and notes. Things to sell and barter, and plans to keep moving. When he finally raised himself to Arthur's saddle, he felt weighed down with plans and held back by no direction.

This was when he would've asked her what he needed to do next. He didn't doubt she'd tell him. )

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 1,917

Following this and this by myself and [livejournal.com profile] ambitious_woman, respectively. Based on roleplay in [livejournal.com profile] relativespace.
Based on this ficlet by [livejournal.com profile] doctorsplusone.

Dear Rose,

My beloved Rose,

My beloved companion,


It's me. Uh, just in case you didn't figure it out by the awkward writing style or the fact that if you're reading this you're in my TARDIS which I don't really ever expect to happen but if it did it would be rather splendid wouldn't it?

That last sentence was a bit of a run-on, wasn't it? I really should get one of those handwriting spell-and-grammar-checkers they sell on Plastastine 3.

Anyway, that's not the reason for this letter, of course. Because, really, writing a letter to talk about grammatically checking a letter, especially to someone one hasn't seen in a long time? Seems quite foolish, don't you think?

So! Yes, I'm here. And it would appear that I'm writing you some sort of a pathetic I-miss-you-and-need-to-get-it-out letter, the kind you see therapists make their patients write (not that I've ever been a patient, or a therapist for that matter, I've just indulged in a bit of Grey's Anatomy lately). However, despite those appearances, this letter is, in fact, merely a way for me to tell you that I’m okay.

Still got all my body parts, something I know you worried about. Two hands, two feet, all my toes. Lost all my blood for a while in between there, but it's back now.


Look, that's an emoticon! I just discovered them. Doesn't work quite as well with handwriting, but I think they're rather brilliant. Expresses a big grin, and you can put a mental image of me with that grin of mine that looks sort of like a D but not really, there.

I've discovered a blue suit in the TARDIS wardrobe. Blue is the official color of mourning on I rather think it goes well with the new red converses I've purchased. At the advice of someone far wiser than myself, I also purchased some black ones, as well, for when I have to dress up.

But, really, other than that? I'm all right.

I am. I'm trying moving forwards, moving onwards, just like you'd expect from me. Just invited someone new to travel with me in the TARDIS, so I'm not alone. I know you wouldn't want that.

Her name is Martha. Martha Jones. She's Mickey's age, but she's training to be a doctor, so the common denominator in our names gives her and I a good bit to talk about. You'd like her. No, who am I kidding, you'd despise her. She's got the same stubborn streak as you, and if the two of you were traveling in the TARDIS, I can imagine the air conditioning would need to be replaced every few weeks from how heated your arguments would be.

All the same, I wish think it would've be nice to have you two meet. Who knows, right? Great big universe and all that.

Now, appearances again, it probably looks like I’m replacing you with her. That's not true, not in the slightest, Rose. Martha is very different from you. A companion, yes. Important, yes. But she's not Rose, and I wanted you to know that because I think you would worry about that and this is the stupidest letter I've ever written second only to that fan letter I wrote to JK Rowling.

That's really all for now. Cloister bell's going off, never a good sign.

I'll write you more when I have more time.

The Doctor

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 577
"No, Doctor, I'm telling you, you will love it."

"Really, Jack, no matter how much I love history, there is probably nothing in that museum that will even remotely interest me."

"You have so little faith." It was always rather annoying to the Doctor when Jack would grin like that, because it meant he was up to something and that meant the Doctor would have to follow him. To make sure he didn't get into trouble of course. In this case, Jack had informed the Doctor he had found something 'really cool' to show him, in the Preternatural Research Bureaus' Museum of Paranormal History.

Which, really, sounded more like the sort of place where the Doctor would take a nap, not find 'really cool'. )

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 3,578
Based on this questionnaire.
There's never any time.

The irony of being a Timelord, he supposes.

.There's a split second before a child becomes a man and another split second before he's holding his own grandchild in his arms. He watches buildings rise and stars fall, and he's standing on his home planet a split second before he wants to leave In the next second, he's handing the grandchild away (when did she grow to be a woman? Wasn't it just a split second ago she was a precocious little girl?) to be a bride. In a split second he leaves her and in the next he regrets it.

There's never any time.

Another second and he feels two hearts beat underneath his breast, as he's lost his first regeneration. Seconds tick by, and he gathers companions and loses them (and has them ripped away). Another second, and he's exiled. Another, he's back in his planet's good graces. Another, and suddenly he's elected President. Another, and he's on the run again. Things change so quickly, they move so fast. He can't keep up, it seems, all that irony is weighing him down.

There's never any time.

Another second ticks. He blinks away tears as memories of his home planet swim before his eyes. Wasn't it a second ago that he was resenting the ground beneath his Gallifrey-bound feet? In the same second, he finds a friend (a love), and before the next second ticks, he's attached, he's holding on for dear life. Wasn't it a second ago that he swore he'd never give his hearts to another? He falls in love in a split second (but it takes centuries to move on).

In a split second, he decides to trade his life for hers. (If another appeared, he'd do it again.)

There's never any time.

Another second, and she's screaming screaming falling and he can't catch her. It takes a split second, but she's saved, and in that instant, he's alone again. A split second and he's reaching for her, but he's just an image. Had he told her he loved her a split second sooner, she'd have heard him. He waits for the centuries to roll in, and eventually the hurt will heal.

There's never any time.

Another split second, and her hand is in his, and he's found a friend. Split second decision, of course, to give her just one trip. Several seconds, and suddenly she's more than just a passenger. A split second later, she's in his home, invading his life and he hates it. Another second, and he wouldn't be without her. Another second, and he is. There's no time to grieve or miss or feel, things just move too fast, and the irony of how much time he's had and how little he has never escapes him.

There's never any time.

He's old, now. Very old. Impossibly old, he might've said at one point. Washed up, used up. Dry and brittle, like the fabric of the universe. No friend to hold his hand this time, he's alone (but there are so many seconds in there that he's been alone, why does this one have to be any different?) No more time for split second decisions, his clock is ticked down to zero, and there aren't anymore sleeping forms in his mind to wake up, no more regenerations to be had. For a second, he wishes he wasn't alone.

There's never any time to fulfill wishes when you're a Timelord. He doesn't have time to see the irony in it.

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 590
Distress Code Σ7834θ56

Please transmit to all available locations within the known stretch of this signal, and all known intelligent languages.

Including Welsh.

This is the Doctor. And...I am sending a distress signal. This is a signal of high distress. I'm very, very distressed, you see.

This is bad. Very bad. I've reached my wit's end, and I'm fairly certain that my companion, Martha Jones; say 'hi', Martha---


---yes, well, we can't quite sort this out. It's disaster. Simply disaster. The universe is in complete peril and we're without any idea what to do. We need help. Is anyone out there?

We're going to transmit the problem, and if you know the solution, then please reply.

Right, are you listening? Very important.

Holds notes together. Nine letters. It's across on this, here. Eighth letter is 'e'.

No, it isn't, it's 'i'.

Martha, this is my distress signal, and I think I know what 'one does with tongue' is for 85 down.

It's 'lick', not..that. I didn't know you were so obscene.

I'm not obscene! Shhh! Right! Next question. Presses words. Eight letters. Last letter is 's', which is completely and utterly unhelpful. And we also have down with four letters, begins with 'f', and it says you eat with it, but because of the brevity of letters and the first letter, I'm only stuck with foul words, which I can't imagine would be in a publication like this.

I told you that you had a filthy mind.

I do not!

You know, Doctor, this is probably the lamest distress signal anyone's ever heard.

No, it's not. Now, hush! This message doesn't last very---

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 275
The Last Great Time War: The Front Lines

Mistah Kurtz – he dead.
A penny for the old guy.

He's running. Run, run, run running. Shoes were lost somewhere behind him---what a pity, he loved those shoes. Grace gave him those shoes. Still running, still trying to get away. He climbs a tree, pulls into that half-monkey heritage that he doesn't like to talk about. His uniform is torn in about eight places, and he's bleeding. But he's alive.

Only just. )

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: (not including lines from T.S. Eliot's "The Hollow Men") 984
The best things in life are supposed to be free.

In a way, you suppose this is true. Sunsets are free. Love is free. A warm hand in yours is free.

The sunset, though, in all its two-red-giant glory, comes at the price of eighty five billion soldiers, keeping the beautiful planet beautiful by stopping the Daleks from taking it over. The soft, fertile ground beneath your plimsoles is planted with the bodies of the people that once lived there. There's a price.

A warm hand in yours, yes, that's free. But the contact comes with a sense of fear, of impending doom, as monsters chase you through the hallways of some random corridor, some frightening alleyway. You know you're too repressed for contact otherwise, it takes a bit of emotional payment to get you to open up.

Love is free. No, no, it's never free. She loves you, you're not stupid. She looks up at you like you're some sort of Jesus in miniature, and the flirtations across the console are far from subtle. You can't help that you don't love her back. It's not her, it's you, and that sounds pathetic, because it is. She has love which, in a way, is free, but she's stuck having to settle for the discounted brand: unrequited.

"Mr. Smith?"

You look up from the engraving on the wall. The Best Things In Life Are Free. Carved onto a World War II memorial. Textbook Irony. That War was far from free, and you were only moderately involved in it.

Martha's still standing there. She's got a gentle sort of confusion on her face. She's not Rose (the love that cost you), she can't figure that it means you need to think. She hasn't quite learned the concept of "the Doctor's space."

You have to reply, though. She's waiting. "Hmmm?" Well, it's the best reply you can think of right away.

"Are you all right? You got all quiet there for a minute."

"I'm all right," you reply, "I'm always all right."

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 339


rude_not_ginger: (Default)
The Doctor


RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Powered by Dreamwidth Studios

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags