It has been an absolutely mad day.

The Doctor stands there, finally having found the crystal shard of Mandubas II and destroyed it, saved Rose from the evil forces of Getrishak, and kept Mickey generally out of trouble. The three of them stand now at their long-sought destination: The hidden UNIT watering hole outside of London.

This was, of course, where they had originally intended to go, before the forces of Getrishak stepped in the way, their commandeered vehicle was commandeered by UNIT, and Rose’s brain was nearly suffocated by an evil telepathic force.

“Not as impressive as I thought it’d be,” Rose says, letting out a little exhausted sigh as she looks around the tiny pub, adorned with black-and-white photographs of UNIT personnel, with a few old-fashioned pistols and alien artifacts framed up as well.

“Oi,” the Doctor says, looking over to her. “When I worked for UNIT, this was the prime place to go after work. We used to have the entire group here! Me, Liz, Benton, Yates---“

“Doesn’t look like it’s such a hot spot now,” Mickey says, wiping the entrails off of his face. It’s true. The entire pub is empty, save for a tired looking bartender, who has long since learned not to be impressed with anything the old scientific advisor might pull while here.

“That’s because everyone’s gone on a 24-hour workday schedule,” a booming voice says from behind them. “Leaves very little time for recreation.”

The trio turns around. Behind them stands an older man, probably in his late seventies, dressed smartly in an old UNIT uniform. It doesn’t fit him like it used to, but he’s still quite formidable. An old soldier, back in his old stomping grounds.

“That’s him!” Mickey says. “That’s the bloke who took the car!”

“I’m sorry, Doctor,” the man says, handing over a set of keys. “But this young man was stealing a UNIT vehicle during a UNIT crisis. We had no choice but to take it back in order to carry our people out.”

“You pointed a gun at me!” Mickey squeaks.

The Doctor, unaffected by Mickey’s squeaking, takes the keys. “Brigadier,” he says. “You recognize me, then?” He breaks into a huge, toothy grin.

“Of course,” the Brigadier says. “Who else could it be?”

Fair point.

“You know this guy?” Rose asks, leaning into the Doctor’s shoulder.

“Brigadier Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart,” the Doctor says.

“The Doctor was our scientific advisor,” the Brigadier says. “And the moment old Arty back there saw you’d arrived, they called me. In case of disaster.”

“I can’t imagine why,” the Doctor says, and by the tone of his voice, it’s apparent he really doesn’t.

“But I’m getting too old for this, Doctor,” the Brigadier says. “I think it’s about time I left this life for the new generation. Including that doctor you sent over to us.”

“What doctor?” the Doctor asks.

The Brigadier, perhaps unwittingly being pulled by the fabric of time, doesn’t answer, he merely turns to head towards the door.

“Where will you go?” Rose asks.

“Nevermind that!” Mickey says, flailing. “He pulled a gun on me!”

The Brigadier smiles, then pulls out a pair of sunglasses, which he smoothly slips on.

He grins. “Deal with it.”

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 538
For Nicholas Courtney, who was the most badass companion ever. He deserves his own meme.
for [ profile] hisoldgirl

She knows what you’re doing.

She knew the moment you came in the door. She knew as you stood at the console, staring at a blank spot and contemplating your own death. She knew.

“No,” you had said, and you pulled a lever, sending yourself and her elsewhere. Anywhere. Somewhere that wasn’t your current fate. Somewhere that would keep you alive and safe.

Because when it comes down to it, that’s what you were convinced you were doing.

But she knows better.

She sees the recklessness of your actions. She waits patiently as you run from adventure to adventure, spinning faster and faster like a toy on its last bit of wind-up. You’re burning yourself up like you would burn up a star to say goodbye.

You tell her that you’re living as much as you can before you go.

She tells you that you’re not really going. You’re only changing, and you’ve changed before.

You may be fooling yourself, but you’re not fooling her. She’s known you too long.

You’re terrified, petrified of what’s going to take you out. This incarnation is too stubborn, too selfish, to self-bloody-righteous to just let something else take you out. You’re going to burn, and you’re going to be the one to do it.

She knows this.

She can’t stop you.

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 218
"I didn't know you painted."

The Doctor, who was not presently painting, looked up from the book he'd been reading. Yes, by all accounts Twilight was a worthless novel, but the war of the Team Jacobs versus the Team Edwards was a huge part of the mid 21st century Earth culture, and he figured it was really about time he gave a read to figure out what that nonsense was all about. The only thing the Doctor had worked out was that Earth women made no sense and Charlie really needed his own series.

"I…do?" he asked.

Rose stepped from the back room, producing a piece of canvas with a hillside and a castle painted to it. It was incomplete, and it took the Doctor a few moments to register that it was, in fact, something he had done during one of the many "time to find myself" periods of his sixth life. It was the same time in his life that he'd learned how to knit, draw, paint, do ceramics, and play the vuvuzula. It was also the period in his life where he suffered the most thwacks on the head with a vuvuzula wielded by Evelyn Smythe.

"Ah, yes," he said, slipping off his glasses. "Yeah, that's one of mine. How did you know? I'd have taken it for a Rembrant. Or a Van Gogh. Well, not really impressionistic enough for a Van Gogh, I suppose."

"You didn't clean the brushes, but they have your name on them," Rose explained. "Where is this?"

"Outside of France," he said. "Early 5th century. It was my favorite place to take tea, so I started painting there."

Why haven't you finished? )

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 1,294
for [ profile] roseoflegend
Follows this.

It's time to say goodbye.

Jack Harkness is dead. )

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 1,171
Based on RP with [ profile] quitehomoerotic
Prompt: What makes you cry?
The Master gives the Doctor visiting rights once a day.

There's so much pretense to the visiting rights. What a great honor it is that the Doctor gets them, how much the Master is put out by them, and how they'll be taken away the moment anyone does anything wrong. The Joneses probably believe the rules and the nonsense the Master spews at them, but the Doctor doesn't.

They are, of course, just part of the game. Everything is part of the game.

There's the part where the Master slides around the rooms on the Valiant, showing off just how much of the board he owns. There's the part where the other pieces are knocked around, showing just how little mobility they have left. There's the part where the dominated squares are put on full, horrifying display. And then there are the visiting rights.

It's Tuesday. It's Jack's day to visit the Doctor. He's sat with him in the room every Tuesday since the Master took over, his eternally young hand on the Doctor's withered old one, massaging out the pains and soothing the liver spots. There are rarely words on Jack's visiting days, just two very old men sitting together in their defeat. The Master both loves and hates these days, the Doctor knows. He loves them because Jack's pain is almost palatable, thick and rich in the eternally sterile air of the Valiant. He hates them because they don't talk, and there's very little to mock in two men sitting silently in pain.

Today is going to be different. )

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 1,781
No matter what the history books say about Elizabeth I, they have it all wrong.

They write about her cleverness, about her valor, about all of the things she sacrificed and all the lives she saved and all of the terrible things she's done, they don't get it quite right.

The Doctor knows this because the Doctor knows Elizabeth I. )

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom:Doctor Who
Word Count: 1,708
He used to love surprises.

Near-death escapes and new aliens with really bad tempers and running, running, running. He loved every moment, he loved everything. There was nothing he couldn't do. Nothing. He could save anyone, he could save everyone. He could rewrite the stars and tell a few jokes over tea in the TARDIS.

He was so happy.

Now, he's just tired.

One failure after another, one heartbreak after another, and he's alone and he's tired. He's so tired. He's so tired of failing, he's so tired of losing. His body sags and his shoulders slump and he just feels old.

He's been old for a very long time. He just feels it. Looks it.

It's why she doesn't recognize him, he thinks. Why the new him, when he regenerates for her in two years, why she doesn't notice it's the same man who told her she'd have a great year in 2005. He doesn't look the way he used to at all.

He used to love her, he thinks, watching her run off to her home. The blonde girl with a wide smile and a young soul. She complimented him in so many ways, and when she held his hand, he felt like she's repaired something that was long since broken.

But now, watching her at the start of her journey when he's at the end, he thinks he might just hate her a little bit. Hate her because of how much he envies her. She has all of those good times to look forward to, and he can't see them anymore through the haze of the bad.

He used to love the universe. All of it, every single star and every single planet was beautiful and amazing. He used to love the tricks it would throw at him, the secrets it would reveal. Now, he---he doesn't hate the universe, but he almost did. He almost hated the universe and the things it made him suffer so much that he would rip it open. Rip it open because he deserved to do what he wanted, rather than what was right.

A bolt of pain shoots through him. His insides are liquefying, the radiation is shutting him down and he's about to regenerate. And while he doesn't love the universe like he used to, he certainly doesn't want to destroy it by pulling the blonde girl from her fixed point in time. An explosion like he imagines he's about to create will do just that.

He starts back towards the TARDIS. He started here. Here, in this regeneration, crashing the ship not a few feet from where he's stumbling to.

He used to love this life. Now, he clings to it like an addict to their drug. He doesn't want to go. He doesn't want to give up. He doesn't want to lose all the things he's had.

But it's too late. He's lost his love of his youth. He's lost his love of her. He's lost his love of the universe.

It's time to start over.

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 503
“It’s a bit weird, you know,” he says. He’s utterly sloshed at this point. He’s got the metabolism of a hummingbird, so he shouldn’t be too surprised that the moment he actually decides he wants to get drunk, it doesn’t take a good deal to get there. In fact, it has taken less than the number of bills in his pocket to get there. Whatever number that is, it’s a good number.

His companion reaches over and pours him another. His fingers are long and thin like the Doctor’s, but his nails are nibbled off at the ends, not meticulously and vainly trimmed and manicured the way the Doctor kept his own nails. He finds his companion's nails to be utterly disgusting. Destroying something as natural as nail growth? Why would you? It doesn’t make much sense to him sober, which means it makes absolutely no sense to him whatsoever now.

The alcohol burns when he takes the shot. It burns, but it feels good, in a way. It feels like he’s drinking to stay alive. Drinking seemed like a fantastic idea after he left Adelaide’s home. After he raced away from the horror he’d committed back in 2059. Really, after that, going to a bar and ordering up a number that is not as big as the number of bills in his pockets is a fantastic idea. Presently, this number includes some rancid whisky from some ungodly year in the 77th century.

“Ungodly!” he declares, because he’s at the point in his intoxication where it makes sense to blurt out about his internal monologue. “Did you know, that the Earth Atheism law is passed next year? All religions---pfffft. Non-existent. Completely! Well, for the most part. I never really understood the whole Valiant Child religion, did you---? Do you even know what I’m talking about?”

“I do, actually,” his companion says, coolly. His companion hasn’t actually had anything to drink, which is really unsporting of him. He already looks younger, more well-kempt, and snazzier than the Doctor does. He shouldn’t be showing off sobriety in the face of the Doctor’s intoxication, too.

“Course you do, don’t you? You know everything.” The Doctor slurs the word as he says it, and extends his hand out across the table as he speaks, knocking over a series of shot glasses he’d stacked up moments earlier. His companion reaches over and resets them. His movements are strange and bird-like, and he’s nothing like the Doctor is. He’s so nice that it’s downright disgusting, and it makes the Doctor feel like he’s done something terribly wrong.

He’s also young. More than young, he’s just so energetic, bouncing about in his seat with a youthful energy the Doctor hasn’t felt in centuries. And that bowtie. Who would think a bowtie was fashionable, and yet his companion wears it with flair. And the hair and the eyebrows---well, they’re not much for eyebrows, are they?---and the bright blue eyes. He’s stupidly pretty. It’s annoying to the nth degree, actually. But everything his companion does is annoying to the nth degree.

“I could look that pretty if I wanted,” the Doctor says, pathetically. He leans his cheek against the cool metal table. “I was told by River that I’m a pretty boy. Pretty! Me!”

His companion reaches over and pulls the Doctor’s tie up from where it’s drooped over his left eye. At some point between drink 23 and drink 35, he decided that wearing his tie on his head was actually the best way to show off the design. His companion didn’t deter him then, and even now he looks particularly amused.

“I’m sure she did say that,” his companion says. “It sounds like something she would say.”

The Doctor hates him. He hates his coolness, he hates his shy smiles and subdued nature. It makes the Doctor look positively boorish in comparison. Maybe that’s what his companion wants; maybe he’s just being this way in order to upset him in his miserable, drunken state. If that’s the plan, it’s working.

“But she adores you, doesn’t she?” the Doctor exclaims, sitting up. “Everyone adores you! No one’ll even remember me! I’ll just…vanish into the ether of time.”

“Bit dramatic, wouldn’t you say?” his companion asks.

“That’s who I am! I’m dramatic! I own dramatic. I make dramatic look brilliant and then I wear it until it’s out of style. And when I’m upset, I make big---“ he searches for the word and comes up with nothing. The alcohol has wiped his brain clean. “Big…speak-y---“

“Shouty,” his companion supplies. He pours the Doctor another shot. “You do shouty quite well.”

“Shouty!” the Doctor says, and he bursts into hysterical laughter. “I do shouty! I do shouty and angry and mean, and you’re all cool and collected!”

His companion, cool and collected as ever, nods.

“I hate you,” the Doctor declares. “I hate everything I become.”

All subdued and silly and polite and happy, all bowties and floppy hair that doesn’t at all stick up in interesting directions. All rolled-up trousers and silly looks and quiet rambling and long-term romances and things that aren’t the way the Doctor is at all. Not the way he is now. He can’t fathom not making shouty speeches at monsters or running madly away (or towards) a girl. His companion probably doesn’t even have a mole between his shoulderblades.

His companion smiles, and the expression strikes the Doctor as being almost nostalgic. “Of course you do.” He reaches over and pats the Doctor on the back. For someone who looks as young as he does, the action comes off as rather patronizing. Of course, age is only a number, and Time Lords only look young on the outside. The Doctor can see what River said before. His companion is so old.

“I don’t want to go,” the Doctor says. He means it, too. He’s got so much life left in him, so much time left to help the universe and make amends for the terrible things he’s done. But somehow, stopping off at this bar and running into this man…it all makes sense now. He’s almost out of time, now. Almost about to be replaced, removed, regenerated.

“I know,” his companion says. “I remember.”

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 1,045
"The problem, of course, was that people did not seem to understand the difference between right and wrong. They needed to be reminded about this, because if you left it to them to work it out themselves, they would never bother. They would just find what was best for them, and then they would call that the right thing. That's how most people thought." --Alexander McCall Smith, The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency

"How can you stand this?"

There are many moments in history where the Doctor can't do anything. He's mentioned them to Donna in the past; the big wars, the big disasters and revolutions, and one particular day in 1963 in a junkyard. She very stubbornly didn't understand his words until Pompeii, until she had to see exactly what he goes through every time they land somewhere he can't touch. Now, she's still stubborn about it, but she relents after a time, more understanding.

There are also cultural things he can't touch, great cruelties he can't change. Slaves and executions and horrible genocide. He avoids these places on purpose and the TARDIS never accidently lands them there. Those places are too big, too tempting. He can't interfere, he's no god. It's better to stay away.

Sometimes, though, sometimes they land in places where he wishes, with every fiber of his being, that he could change something. Cut for disturbing imagery. )

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 1,480
My future incarnation (aka: The Skinny One):

I wish I could say you were doing quite well, but it's clear to me that at some point during our travels, you've gone a bit awry. History, being one of my personal best subjects, is something you appear to be lacking in. You've bounded about the universe so often you've forgotten exactly why we follow the rules that we do, haven't you? That business on Mars, that poor woman. Perhaps the concept of consequences has long since abandoned my senses, though I never did expect myself to go so utterly senile.

So, since clearly you're confused, let me sort you out:

Stop it. Stop this and stop it now. Look at the timelines. Look at your life. Think about the things that you're doing! Think about the things you're destroying through your cruelty and carelessness! We're better than that, aren't we?

What you're doing is wrong, and you know it. Leave history alone, my boy, leave time alone, and do what's right. I don't care how long you've been exiled or what sort of a god you think you are, but you mustn't touch history.

Not one line.


Muse: The Doctor (One)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 196

It may look like rambling, but this letter doesn't mean a fourth of what I mean to tell you.

I was thinking! Friday. Good weekday! It is, in fact, really the best sort of day to relax, yes? I was thinking we'll plan a trip, maybe to Felusia? The Braxians destroy the Fraxians. In Taxon I'm terribly bored and it's been a while since I've traveled! I don't really actually expect to escape today, no, they've probably planned trouble. That's something that I want to avoid! Do keep up. I'll not repeat myself! I want a proper holiday, to travel and to risk it all. Your world here's cozy, life most certainly won't stay that way whilst inside the city. If the plan, traveling to Felusia blast arena or Braxian zone number 7 (pack shield, sword, blastgun, and armour, just to be prepared). We'll be safe.


PS: Dirtsa nees uoy evah?

That's Felusian for backwards.

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 157
Based on RP in [ profile] taxonomites with [ profile] beholdthedrums
A/N: It seems like rubbish, but it's code!
For [ profile] best_served_hot's first lines meme.

I watch him as he struggles to regain his feet and viciously kick him back down, my foot landing square in the middle of his chest.

Cut for spoilers to 4.18 'The End of Time, Part Two'. )

Muse: The Doctor (Ten / Valeyard)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 604

Regeneration is like dying.

Pain floods his system, it crashes through every cell. He feels himself crumbling, dying from the inside out. He can feel regeneration energy struggling to flow through his system. He can feel it, he's dying.

And it hurts. Oh, god, it hurts so much.

But it's not death. Not really. He's just going to sleep, in his own mind. To sleep in a room in his mind without windows or doors. To rest.

That will feel good, he thinks. To rest. This regeneration started out so happy, so full of life. But struggle and battle and heartsache left him crippled, a hollow shell of a man. He's too cold, now. Too cold and too cruel. Regeneration would be best. He can start over. Start anew.

And it's worth it, sacrificing himself for someone he loves.

He doesn't cry; he just tries to smile through the pain.

"You were fantastic," he says. "And you know what?"

She stands there, shaking her head, unsure.

"So was I."

It's good, he thinks, having her here. At least he's not alone.

And he's gone. Pulled away by light and energy. It's like a curtain pulls back in his mind, like another layer of him has been peeled away.

There he is. Bright-faced and big-haired and grinning as though he wasn't racked with pain seconds earlier. It takes him a moment to associate where he is and he grins over to Rose.

"Hello---Oh." He runs his tongue along his wider molars. "New teeth. That's weird."

It's just the beginning. Cut for spoilers to S.5 'The End of Time, Part Two.' )

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 2,010 <==Surprisingly appropriate
Anatomy of a Scene. Cut for spoilers to 'The Waters of Mars'. )

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 1,216, not including dialogue from 'The Waters of Mars'.
The rooms stretch out along the hallways of the TARDIS. The ever-fluxuating ship occasionally brings them forward or pushes them further back, giving him space if he needs it.

But they're always there. Untouched, pristine. They haven't been altered or entered since their occupant left. Should he pass a room, he knows that within there won't be dust on the mantle with Jo's perfumes, or a fiber moved from where Turlough would toss his schoolboy tie across the bed. He knows they're there. He just never enters. He never looks.

"It's like you're collecting them," she says, running her hand across a marker sign that says MICKEY'S ROOM, DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT.

"What?" he asks. He's seen the door to the room so often he can almost walk by it without remembering.

"All these rooms. All your companions," she says. "Martha says we're like stray dogs. Is it like that?"

He shrugs and aims for flippancy. "Well, you all could use a bath."

"Oi," she snaps. "You know what I mean, Spaceman. My mum used to collect these little ceramic houses. They all looked the same to me and Gramps, but she kept collecting new ones."

He sighs. "This…has a point?"

"Yeah, because after a while, she collected so many they stopped mattering. She couldn't tell the difference anymore." She looks back at him. "These doors are all the same, but they're a little different," she says, unaffected by his attitude. "How are any one of these rooms different. Any of us that different to you?"

"It's not the same," he says. He puts his hand on a white door. Behind it, he knows the room was long-ago jettisoned to keep his memories at bay. "You're not my collection. I don't keep you around to look at you and let you collect dust."

"Then why do you keep us around?" she asks.

He considers the answer for a moment. He wants to answer Because I want to! in an irritated tone and storm off. For Rose, that answer would've been enough. For Martha, that answer would've been an answer in itself and she'd have picked and analyzed it to no end. For her, that would've probably resulted in some form of a slap.

So, for her, he takes his time answering. Considers what she means. Considers the long hallway of companion rooms that are collected along this walkway. It's not the rooms that matter, he thinks. The rooms, they're there for sleeping and collecting personal things. They're not important.

"Because someone once told me I need someone," he says, turning back to her. "To show the universe to. To stop me."

She smiles. It's a small, thin smile, one that better fits her age than the boisterous attitude she often gives him. She's very wise in her own way. She's grown so much since she started traveling with him.

"And the rooms?" she asks. "Why keep them, when they leave?" There's no we in her voice. She never wants to leave, ever. He's perfectly all right with that. He never wants her to go.

He looks back at the rooms, each untouched and private, even long after his companions have gone. Each one kept as though they'd just walked away. Why collect them? Why keep them for so long?

"Because," he says. "One day, they might come back."

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 559


The Psychiatrist: Women. You get to talk about women.
Thomas Crown: Oh, I enjoy women.
The Psychiatrist: Enjoyment isn't intimacy.
Thomas Crown: And intimacy isn't necessarily enjoyment.
The Psychiatrist: How would you know? Has it occurred to you that you have a problem with trust?
Thomas Crown: I trust myself implicitly.
The Psychiatrist: But can other people trust you?
Thomas Crown: Oh, you mean society at large?
The Psychiatrist: I mean women, Mr.Crown.
Thomas Crown: Yes, a woman could trust me.
The Psychiatrist: Good. Under what extraordinary circumstances would you allow that to happen?
Thomas Crown: A woman could trust me as long as her interests didn't run too contrary to my own.
- The Thomas Crown Affair


He loved her, once.

He remembers the emotion, even if he no longer possesses the ability to feel the emotion. He remembers long nights and deep sadness and companionship and other ridiculous sensations such as those and he remembers her warmth. He remembers her comfort.

It's funny, but even as he walks down the darkened street towards her (where he left her oh, so long ago), he feels a strange pang. A longing for the comforts of home. Were he the sort to indulge in such ridiculousness, he might even term it as homesickness. But he is not that sort of a man.

He hasn't been that sort of a man in a very, very long time. Cut for sexual innuendo, non-consent, disturbing imagery, and character death. )

Muse: The Doctor (The Valeyard)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 1,604
Partner: The TARDIS (canon)
written for the evil [ profile] brigadiertardis, special thanks to [ profile] salvagestime for the beta!
"It's brilliant!" the Doctor said excitedly, hopping from beneath the console with a wild grin. "Something I haven't seen in, well, since all the TARDISes died out in the Time War! You know, it's not the sort of thing I'd have imagined in such good con---"

He stopped mid-ramble and looked around the empty console room. Right. Right, of course.

More quietly, to the TARDIS, he continued. "But! If you're going to use one of these things, you should really make sure it's in the best condition, am I right? Of course I'm right! Heard far too many stories of TARDISes ending up with space viruses otherwise."

The inner console glowed warily, but the Doctor waved his hand. "Oh, nothing to worry about. I've already scanned it through twelve different testers. This is in top condition and should work perfectly once I've got it uploaded."

He paused. This was the point where any human companion would've asked 'Well, what is it, Doctor?' It was a natural thing, waiting for this sort of a response. Clearly, it had been too long since he'd traveled with someone. Or, perhaps, not long enough.

"Well, best load it up, then." He pressed a few keys, and the new program he'd acquired on his last landing zone shimmered into life on the TARDIS screen.

It was what the universal program dealers on Cenauri Delta called an 'app'. Which the Doctor could've only assumed meant 'TARDIS application program'. But! Such TARDIS apps were very rare, especially because a) there weren't any TARDISes left but the Doctor's, and b) the type 40 was an obsolete model. But, as he passed the vendors, there it was. A clip with an app on it! Brilliant! It didn't really matter what was on the app, as long as it worked.

He felt a sudden, strange sense of worry. This was the point where a companion would tell him it wasn't a good idea to upload something he didn't trust, wasn't it? Well, he'd have brushed them off then, too.

"Now Loading," a mechanical voice informed him. A tiny blue icon with a cloud on it appeared in the upper right corner of the TARDIS monitor. In swirly Gallifreyan font it said "Weather Satellite".

Brilliant!' he said, gleefully. 'A weather app!' )

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 1,169
No apologies to G1. Your Weather Channel app is terrible.
"We'll be late," the Doctor called through the bedroom door. He gave it a rap and got a disgruntled grunt of affirmation in reply.

River Song was not one who often spent time dressing up. More often than not, the Doctor would arrive on her world for a visit and find her still in the dusty clothes she'd been at the architectural dig in, leaning over some artifact and incorrectly guessing what it was. He often said it was "endearing", if a little dirty.

But tonight, no, tonight was a special night. Tonight, River emerged from the bedroom in a floor-length dark red opera dress with her hair piled on the top of her head.

"Are you sure this counts as an anniversary?" she asked. She stepped forward and straightened the tie on his new suit.

On the best of days, the Doctor was not a romantic. On the worst of days he would wax on about how very much he hated the idea of domesticity and with romance came the domestics. But sometimes, on very special occasions, he would do something like this.

"Well, we're hardly on the same timeline, are we?" he replied.

"That's never made you want to celebrate an anniversary before," she said, crossing her arms.

"And when was the last time I took you to dinner? Besides, you'll love it. Berrillum food is unlike any other world. Slices of light cut into pasta and sprinkled with Vercasian sugars." He smiled widely and, as it often did whenever he visited while he was older, it didn't quite reach his eyes.

River nodded, and then passed him to put a note on the plate of hot tea and lemon biscuits she'd left for her usual Saturday visitor. Jenny, the Doctor's daughter, had visited often, occasionally making River's home her port of call. The Doctor hadn't mustered up the courage to speak to her. Not yet. But he would. River would convince him, someday, and they'd be a proper family, him and Jenny.

Out with your Dad for dinner. It's our anniversary, apparently. I'll bring you something back from Berillium. -R She placed the note delicately next to the ceramic teapot and picked up her handbag and journal before heading towards the TARDIS.

"If our anniversary only comes when I finish a journal," she said, "Then it's not quite our anniversary. I've got a page left."

"You can put tonight into it," he said. For a moment, the Doctor looked unbelievably sad. Sadder than she'd ever seen him. "Dinner and the Singing Towers. It'll be perfect."

"Perfect?" she asked, curious but not wanting to pry. "Willing to bet your life on that?"

He smiled then, small and tight. "Always."

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 451
Title: Birth of Destruction 1/3
Characters/Pairings: The Tenth Doctor, Martha Jones, Barbara Wright, Original Characters, some Ten/Martha undertones
Rating: PG
Word Count: Part One: 3,889
Summary: While trapped in 1969, the Doctor finds employment at the local hospital and gets a lot more than he bargained for.
Disclaimer: The Beeb owns Doctor Who. Coincidentally, the Beeb also owns my soul.
Author's Note: Special thanks to [ profile] handysparehand for the beta! Written for the [ profile] theatrical_muse prompt: "You're fired! Talk about a time you lost your job."

Jason was running for his life.

His feet slammed along the corridors of the hospital, the padded shoes making a schwick schwick sound as they connected with slick linoleum. His breathing was labored, coming out in heavy pants that rang in his ears. Those two sounds, along with the loud hum of the florescent lights along the hallways, were the only noises at this late hour. Everyone was dreaming. Dreaming sweet dreams of being well and leaving the hospital grounds. Jason was running through a nightmare. )


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The Doctor


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