Now I'm on my own side
It's better than being on your side
It's my fault when you're blind
It's better that I see it through your eyes

All these thoughts locked inside
Now you're the first to know

When darkness turns to light
It ends tonight,
It ends tonight.
Just a little insight won't make this right
It's too late to fight
It ends tonight,
It ends.

He's changed.

She met him before. So many times, now. He's been at the edge of her life, one of the people who's influenced it, and yet not fully part of it. He's not "different" like she is, he's different in a way that sets him apart.

She used to like him.

She doesn't know when it started, she doesn't know how it happened, but he's not who he used to be. His hair is wilder, his eyes are colder. His face is fixed in an eternal smirk, a sort of smugness she doesn't recognize. He stands at the edge of the circus and watches the people who pass him.

She starts towards him as she always has, a smile on her face. She thinks about the things she'll tell him, the things she thinks he wants to know about her life. But as she walks towards him, she stops. It's that smile. It's how different it looks.

It's like he's the Doctor, but she's looking at Sylar. That insanity, it's there. It's frightening. Even moreso because she's always seen the Doctor as a friend. She's tempted to believe it's not him, it's a shapeshifter with his face, but part of her knows it isn't. It's him, he's just…different.

"Doctor?" she asks.

"Claire," he replies. She expects more out of him (when has he ever not found time for talking?), but he stays quiet, staring out into the circus. It's calculating. It's a way she's never seen him look at the world around him before.

"What are you----?" she starts.

"I'm waiting," he says. Again, she expects him to elaborate, but he doesn't. It's like the excitement she's always seen in him has been ripped out, replaced by…she's not sure what.

"For what?" she finally asks.

"Something's coming. I've decided I want to be part of it," he says. In his voice, she can hear the excitement she remembers, but he still holds back.

"What's coming?" she asks.

He smiles. It's a twisted, cruel smile. A mockery of the grin she so often saw on her friend before. It curls at the edges and twists into something grotesque.

His reply is both cryptic and excited. It's almost like he used to be, only it's wrong. Something about him is wrong now.

"You'll see."

Muse: The Doctor (Valeyard)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 375

If sand waves were sound waves
What song would be in the air now
What stinging tune
Could split this endless noon
And make the sky swell with rain

If war were a game that a man or a child
Could think of winning
What kind of rule
Can overthrow a fool
And leave the land with no stain.

; anything can happen here.

It doesn’t start at the beginning, and sometimes he (she, they, he) forgets that. Things twist and turn and he's standing on a blasted plane of sand, digging for bones and carving them into chess pieces.

Or perhaps not. Perhaps he's running, searching for the stretch of Norweigian waters and a woman he can't possibly catch. Or perhaps it's too late for that. Perhaps he's too early.

It's strange, time being what it is. The universes being what they are (were, might be, are).

He is at once a man who has lost all sense of morals and a woman coming after a valiant suicide, and a man who never left home, and many, many others. They are what they could've been.

The man who stands at the edge of the desert is tall and wears a red bowtie. He is young, but only on the outside. Inside the desert, there is a woman who looks like him but not, with long dark hair and a sad expression etched on her face. They are the same but different, a quirk of genetics keeping them apart

The man without morals stands next to her and looks as he once did, but also looks as he might in the future. Things are fluid here.

"That's him, then?" the man without morals says. He is now the younger version of the woman, all blue-suited with spiked-up hair and dark eyes.

The woman with the long dark hair nods, her eyes at the edge of the desert. "I have better fashion sense. And much better legs."

"He has me in his mind, though." In the quirk that made her herself, she avoided that slice of life.

"That's not an improvement," the woman with the long, dark hair says. "You were very nearly a terrible mistake."

"I still might be." He is now shorter, balding, and wears a black robe.

"Isn't that what this place is about?" the woman asks. "The things that might be?"

"You think too small," the man without morals says. "So does he."

The man with the bowtie is a lot like her, she thinks. He is more bumbling, a bit sillier, but he will do well in this life, even if she doesn't have the chance she knows she could.

"It's better that way."

Muse: The Doctor (The Valeyard)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 357

I found all of the stories I wrote for the last meme to be really cathartic and extremely muse-reviving. So I'mma gonna do it again!

1. Put your mp3 player on shuffle and take the first 25 songs it gives you.
2. Link to the lyrics.
3. Let your friends assign you a song and character(s) to write a drabble to.

Preferred pairing or other characters to include?:
Would you like me to include your muse?:

List of songs...THE WORD IS 'ECLECTIC', OKAY? )

Red, yellow, green, red, blue blue blue
Red, purple, green, yellow, orange, red red
Red, yellow, green, red, blue blue blue
Red, purple, green, yellow, orange, red red

Blend them up and what do you get?
Ceries, chartous, and aqua
Mauve, beige, and ultra marine, and every colour in between
Hazo ka li ka no cha lum bum

Companion to this amazing story.

Oh, little prince! Bit by bit I came to understand the secrets of your sad little life . . . For a long time you had found your only entertainment in the quiet pleasure of looking at the sunset. I learned that new detail on the morning of the fourth day, when you said to me:
"I am very fond of sunsets. Come, let us go look at a sunset now."
"One day," you said to me, "I saw the sunset forty-four times!"
And a little later you added:
"You know--one loves the sunset, when one is so sad . . ."
"Were you so sad, then?" I asked, "on the day of the forty-four sunsets?"
But the little prince made no reply. ~ The Little Prince

River is 23.

The Doctor is not.

He’s reached the very old point in his life, the point where he no longer truly remembers how old he is and he really doesn’t care to remember. After all, what good comes from remembering one’s age?

To River, in all of her youth, she sees him as some sort of impossible statue of time. He could tell her he was 78 and she’d gape in awe. She’s of the opinion at this point in her life, however, that she is terribly wise and confounding. She is always confounding, but she’s not wise, not yet.

She will be, one day.

He stands at the door to the TARDIS, watching her reaction with eager eyes. He’s always taken her places after she met the TARDIS, never knowing when the first time was. She would never tell him, she would say it was ‘too personal’, or some other excuse that went along with her confounding nature.

The first time in the TARDIS is always special. Even now, to River, whom he has known for years (although she has not known him nearly so long). He thinks about the first time Ian and Barbara walked through those doors, believing it all to be an illusion. Or the first time Leela proclaimed it magic, or when Martha announced it was all bigger on the inside.

They’re all gone, now.

It has been lifetimes since he’s had a companion on board, but it has also only been days. Everything is happening and has happened at once and, in a way, he can see all of them on River’s face, now. The way she sees everything for the first time, as they did, once.

It takes him a moment before he realizes that she’s spoken. "It’s beautiful," she says.



"She’s beautiful," he says. He presses his hand to the coral of one of her columns. "Bit of a small word for her anyway, really. But close enough."

River grins, and he’s certain for a moment that she’ll begin some sort of a verbal spar with him. In his loneliest, saddest days, she always makes sure the sparring is vicious, mean-tempered, and hard. She knows it will bring him up.

But River is too young, now. She doesn’t know it, yet. She drops the subject, believing the TARDIS something not to be argued over. She does tease, which feels good. It feels normal, the way it does when they’re both on the same timeline. It’s far less frequent, lately. She’s constantly behind him and he’s struggling to make sure he doesn’t spoil her.

She grins at the TARDIS, and the whole room seems to light up with her smile. It never ages, even when she does; that smile. It’s like a thousand lights bursting at once or a billion stars swirling around a galaxy or a thousand sunsets. It’s radiant. So radiant, it makes him think terribly romantic thoughts, which is never a good thing, for him.

"All right," he proclaims, now full of romantic desire. "Off we go!"

She demands where, something she doesn’t realize will be a frequent demand of hers in the future. He doesn’t reply, something she doesn’t realize will be a frequent response to her demand in the future.

He is engaged. Preparing for departure, departing, already gone, there, next place, all of them, hasn’t even arrived to pick up River yet. Everything is happening right now, and she doesn’t realize it yet.

She will.


Forty-four sunsets. He read it somewhere, he's certain, but he can't remember where. )

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 2,126

The summer air was heavy and sweet
You and I on a crowded street
There was music everywhere, I can see us there
In a happy little foreign town
Where the stars hung upside down
A half a world away, far far away
I remember you were laughing
We were so in love, we were so in love

And the band played song's that we'd never heard
But we danced anyway

"Oh, come on, Doctor, you have to admit this is great," Rose says. She tucks herself next to him, pressing her hand against the tight leather coat covering his crossed arms.

"I didn't say it wasn't good, I just think that parties celebrating the death of another species aren't ones I want to go to."

They'd landed on Yettico Prime earlier that day. The air was thick with perfumed flowers and a heavy atmosphere. It might've even been too heavy to stay, but Jack, being himself, managed to find a brilliant party on the other end of the mountain (right after Rose, being herself, managed to stumble into a number of dangerous men that they had to run from). And now, standing on this illuminated rock face as the twin suns set, it really was lovely.

Not that the Doctor would admit it. It was something one of the men had said, about how the party tonight was a celebration of the destruction of Gallifrey and the end of the Tyrrany. The Tyrrany of the Time Lords, not that Jack and Rose realized that.

"You could at least try to have fun," Rose pleaded.

"Nah, forget about him, Rose, let's dance." Jack reaches out a hand for her, giving her one of his widest grins. He shot a quick look to the Doctor, and then pointedly nodded before taking Rose out onto the part of the dance floor that had been cleared away.

Jack is cleverer than he lets on, it's one of the reasons the Doctor likes him so much, despite everything. Maybe he saw how that man's words affected the Doctor. Jack nods again, looking to the Doctor, and then to something behind him. Or, maybe he just noticed something the Doctor needs to take care of.

Following where Jack had nodded, the Doctor turns around. Standing off in the corner is a woman he hadn't noticed before. Petite, with long, blonde hair. She has her eyes fixed to him, though she stays just on the edge of the party. It's impossible. She can't be standing there, looking at him the way she is.

Before he realizes it, his feet have taken him towards her, until he's only a few feet away.

"Romana," he breathes. "That's impossible, you can't---"

"There isn't any time," she says. "Just listen to me, please."

"You can't be alive," he insists. He's grieved for so long over this, it's impossible, she can't---

"I'm not," she agrees. "This is all just a folded moment of time. Because I have to warn you, Doctor."

"Warn me?" he asks, shaking his head. "Warn me about what? Romana, you're alive!"

She sighs in a way that is utterly familiar to him. So put upon, so frustrated by his inability to listen. He thinks he might remain stubborn, just to watch her make that face again. Just to revel in the familiarity of it.

"You don't believe in prophecies," she says. "But someone will make a prophecy about knocking. Not now, not in this life, but soon. You have to listen to that. The fate of everyone depends on that."

"No one believes in prophecies except the High Council," he says, remaining stubborn for as long as he can.

She doesn't grant him with another one of those irritated expressions, she just looks sad. "Live," she says. "For me, would you?"

He drops the stubborn act and moves right into desperate. She's here, now, she can't go. Not yet.

"Romana, don't---"

"And stop feeling sorry for yourself." She snorts in irritation, and then, like a crease shaken out of a shirt, she vanishes.

He's not sure how long he stands there, staring at the place in front of him where Romana stood. Long enough, because before he's entirely sure what happened, Jack's hand is on his shoulder. He's shooed a curious Rose off to find them something to drink.

"Who was she?" he asks.

No answer is really sufficient. The Doctor takes in a breath and does as Romana asked; he pushes away his self-pity. He doesn't understand what she meant, and he doesn't know what prophecy she's talking about, but one day he will. And today, he'll live. Like she asked.

"A friend," he says. "Just a friend."

Muse: The Doctor (Nine)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 719

Hello there, Spencer.
I see you, you boy, boy.
I see you, Spencer.
With my eyes.

You’re the architect of my dreams, Spencer.
You plan them, and build them on blue paper,
And hand them to me.

And then I dream them Spencer,
That’s what you do for me.
Thank you for that, Spencer,
You prick.…

He used to dream about Gallifrey.

The swirling sky, the vast estates, the sloping fields of red grass.

Back before, when there was nothing but memories and the hate pumping through his veins. Back when he had no home world.

Now, that is all they have. They have Gallifrey, they have the estates and the whole stupid Time Lord planet at their feet. The Master even has something akin to a harem of people, following him, adoring him. No longer an exile, he's practically welcomed back to his home world with open arms. He has nothing to fear, not anymore.

And he still dreams.

Dreams of the drumbeats, dreams of the anguish and anger. Dreams of the Doctor.

Oh, so much.

He opens the door to the tiny club-like room. It's empty, now. Empty but for the Doctor, making his customary cup of tea. They don't fight, not here, not recently at least. Still, a tension settles over the room. Heavy and thick and not quite hatred and not quite desire. It's a frustrating sensation.

"Just us today?" the Master says. "I had hoped to have someone intelligent to talk to."

"I've invited a few others," the Doctor says.

The Master snorts. It won't be long, he assumes, until the whole room is full of people, ready to talk and drink and argue their way through another night. It lends the current moment to a sense of urgency. They only have the briefest moment to connect, to talk, to do something before their privacy is broken.

"Do you dream, here?" the Master asks.

"I don't dream at all," the Doctor lies, and the Master knows it is a lie.

"I dream." The Master lets the words hang for a moment, longing for the time needed to properly stretch that sentence to its fullest dramatic potential. And if he knows the Doctor, the Doctor would want to let it stretch, too. They're very like each other, and that makes the Master smile, privately. However, they only have a brief time, now.

"What of?" the Doctor says.

"You." The Master's smile remains, widening only the slightest flicker at the Doctor's expression, something that is not quite horror and not quite intrigue.

There's a slight bang as the door swings open, permitting Tempest, John, Rose, and Jack. More are on their way, Jack says.

Tempest looks vaguely bemused. She asks if they interrupted something.

They did. Not that either of the men in the room would admit it.

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 416
Based on RP in [ profile] riseofgallifrey

(That) I'm a new fool at an old game
A kid out of school tryin' to find my way
But I don't know the rules, (so) teach me how to play
I'm just a new fool at an old game…

"It's funny, I thought you liked me."

He's standing on the edge of a cliff, watching a world burn. No, not just the people on the surface, not just the plants and the trees and the civilization. The whole world is burning from the inside out.

"If this planet stayed, then in fifty years, they'll declare war on a larger part of this galaxy. Billons more would've died."

It's strange. He's not the sort of man to explain himself. It's why he doesn't keep companions anymore. It's why he doesn't let anyone travel with him who isn't directly related to his goals. Except for the man he's talking to, now. Well, the god, if he wants to be all technical about it.

"I'm saving lives."

The god doesn't respond. He's not certain he's ever seen the god without one of his big, manic grins and tricksterly ways. But now, no, now the god is expressionless, cold. It sends a chill up his spine, seeing the god this way. It makes him want to explain himself. It makes him feel like he has to.

"I don't have to explain myself to you!"

The shout comes immediately after the thought, because he doesn't like the idea that some god thinks he can influence his thoughts. He's altered galaxies, he's changed timelines, he's rewritten the very fabric of time. But the god doesn't speak, he just stares.

"All that matters is that I save lives!"

He's destroyed worlds.

"I can do anything!"

He's ended civilizations.

"It's my business, mine alone!"

He's caused devastation. All in the name of saving the universe.

The god speaks. Despite his youthful appearance, he sounds impossibly old. "Chaos."


"You've caused chaos. That is my business." The look the god gives the man is full of pity. "And I've played this game far too long to let fools like you in."

Muse: The Doctor (Valeyard)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 303

So hold her
You may think you know her
I used to be her lover
Yeah, I'm the one who broke her

You'll be her one and only
Don't you ever leave her lonely…

Rose Tyler is sixteen and in love with Jimmy Stone.

Jimmy Stone is a poser rock band wannabe moron and is lucky Rose Tyler even looks in his direction.

The Doctor shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be in this time, in this place. But he is, because time is idiotic like that. Time doesn't work the way the Doctor expects it to.

And so, he's in a bar, trying desperately to stay hidden as sixteen year old Rose Tyler is waving goodbye to Jimmy Stone at his job. When one lands in London in 2004, one should expect to hide from at least a few people. The Doctor peers over his shoulder from where he sits, watching his young companion walk away. He misses her. Misses the person she will be, when he watches her fade from view on that beach in Norway.

But he's not staring. He's just hiding. Well, it starts out as hiding, of course. Then, this lanky, nineteen-year-old fool walks in, ready to start his shift as a bartender. What the hell did Rose see in him? Well, what does Rose see in him?

He knows Jimmy Stone is the reason she never finished her A Levels. He knows she considers him one of her biggest mistakes, but she never told him (will never tell him) why.

So, the Doctor sits at the bar.

This is not his most clever moment, no. But he's curious.

He watches the boy pull a pint for him. Takes in the ugly leather jewelry and the chipping black nail polish. For a sixteen year old, maybe that look is cool. Maybe he's not as much of a loser as he looks.

He's no Time Lord, that's for sure.

Jimmy places the drink in front of the Doctor and turns away. What would the Doctor say to him?

But he doesn't have to think of what to say, because some bulky man walks in, obviously a friend, and starts up a conversation right on the topic the Doctor wanted to talk about.

"Break it off with her yet?" the newcomer says.

"Nah, nah, she'll figure it out," Jimmy says.

The Doctor barges in, taking a drink from his glass. "Breaking up with your girlfriend? Blonde out there? She seemed awfully pretty."

Jimmy doesn't even bat an eye to the Doctor's intrusion, probably used to that sort of thing while working at a bar. "Not my girlfriend. My girlfriend's in Surrey. And yah, breakin' up with her next week. When I get 'round to it."

"For the blonde?"

Jimmy and the other man laugh. "Nah, that's not worth the breakup. That's just Rose. Turns out she's leavin' school, comin' to stay with me, so she thinks. Sixteen years old, dumb as a hat, but she's good for a laugh."

The Doctor feels his hands clench around the glass. Rose is a lot of things, but dumb isn't one of them. "Really?" he says, his voice a forced calm.

"Yeah," Jimmy says, leaning casually by the Doctor. "You know the difference between a toilet seat and a sixteen year old girl from Powell Estate?"

The Doctor has a bad feeling that Jimmy's about to tell him.

Jimmy laughs. "A toilet seat doesn't follow you 'round once you've used it!"

The Doctor's not entirely certain what happened next. At some point the glass in his hand shattered, and Jimmy wound up on the floor with a bruise on his jaw in the shape of the Doctor's fist. Jimmy is stunned that a man so much older and thinner than he is could hit with that level of strength.

The Doctor doesn't hit people. It's not who he is. He doesn't get frustrated to that point. He gets disgusted, but not to the point of violence. But this bastard took Rose's future from her, used her, and then dared to insult her like this.

And the Doctor can't go tell her to stay away from him. She has to suffer through her mistakes and suffer through this piece of scum.

"You know what?" the Doctor said, picking a piece of glass from the palm of his hand. "She'll be the most important woman in the world one day. And you'll still be nothing. Funny, how time works out."

And as he leaves the bar, he passes by a pretty sixteen year old girl, running in to check on her boyfriend after hearing a commotion. She turns as she enters the door, glancing to his back for just a moment.

She doesn’t know him yet. She'll never know why he did this.

Funny, how time works out.

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 741

You sure know what you're doin'
Holdin' me this way
And I'll go where you lead me
Anywhere you say
You've got me where you want me
So Darlin' please be kind
Before you take it all
And I make that final fall
You've got to keep in mind

(That) I'm a new fool at an old game
A kid out of school tryin' to find my way
But I don't know the rules, (so) teach me how to play
I'm just a new fool at an old game....

She reminds you, in many ways, of yourself.

It's in the way she dances, in the way she holds herself. She's older in her heart than she is on the outside, just like you do. She tosses her long, ginger hair back and laughs at something one of her girlfriends says, but it's all show.

She reminds you of someone you used to know. Someone who left you. Maybe that's why you tilt your wide-brimmed hat back and head over to the table. Sure, she's tall and curvy and ginger, not short, petite, and blonde, but she's got the same grin. The same fire in her eyes.

"I beg your pardon, ladies," you say, and they all look a little surprised at your appearance and grin. You turn to the ginger woman. "Would you dance with me?"

She looks to the girls like this is some big joke, but takes your hand without a question to you. You take her to the dance floor.

The song is slow and unfamiliar, but you dance to it anyway. She gives you an odd look.

She smiles at you as she puts a hand to your shoulder, but her expression, while flattered, is unimpressed. You're not her type, you figure. Too eccentric, maybe a bit too old. "No offense, mate, but I don’t think I'd be dancing with you right now if I didn't have two pints in me already." The honesty is refreshing, you think. You know (if you do say so yourself) that you're charming, but having someone tell you that you're only charming when they're a little drunk feels more genuine than all the fake laughs in the world.

She'd do that, you think. Even before she was blonde, even back when she was regal and brunette, she'd always tell you how things were.

"Well, that's all right," you say. "I'm not entirely sure I'd be dancing with you if I wasn't in the same predicament." And if you weren't missing the one that only too recently had gotten away.

You smile widely, though, and it's mostly fake, and her expression changes. It isn't the same smile from before, it's almost awed, like she can't figure you out.

"You've got such an interesting smile, though," she says. "It's like I---Like I know your smile, like I've seen it before."

"Oh, I used to have a friend who told me I was many men, and that was why my ego was so inflated."

"Sounds like a brilliant girl, that one." Her smile changes again, and you're surprised by how much one woman can say with that simple turn of the lips. Now, she's empathic. She understands. "Let her get away, did you?"

"Quite presumptuous of you," you say.

"Yeah, well, I know that smile of yours when you talk about her. You all right?"

"I'm always all right." It's something you've only just decided has to be true about yourself. You have to always be all right. Even when your companion is unemotionally standing by the food table and you're grieving for a love you've lost. You have to.

"Is that the kind of all right that's really, really not all right?" she asks.

You smile again, and this time it is almost entirely genuine. It's strange, to dance with someone who truly understands. And, even though you have never met her before, you feel like you have always known this woman.

Time is like that.

She picks a piece of lint off of your long scarf, and even though the song changes to something more upbeat, she doesn't pull away from your arms.

"Come on, Smiler," she says. "Let's have one more dance to make it really all right, eh?"

Muse: The Doctor (Four)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 622

Don't wait, act now
This amazing offer won't last long
It's only a chance to pave the path we're on
I know there are more exciting things to talk about
And in time we'll sort it out
And in time we'll sort it out

And though they say it's possible
To me, I don't see how it's probable
I see the course we're on spinning farther from what I know
I'll hold on
Tell me that you won't let go....


"Hello, is this the Sparrow residence? The---wait, I think I might have the wrong number---"

"Doctor, you don't---"



"Hello, sorry about that last message. Martha's shown me that, yes, I have the right number. This is the Doctor, just calling, looking for Sally. Sally Sparrow. This---Martha, are you sure---"

"She probably doesn't have that long on her machine, Doctor."

"---And I've got a proposition for you. Not an inappropriate sort of proposition of course, not even really certain why those are called---"

"Ten seconds, Doctor."

"AnywaywecoulduseyourhelpforsomethingregardingTorchwoodokay, bye."


"Did you leave your number?"


She opens the door before he even knocks. "What sort of thing regarding Torchwood?"

He blinks. "I'm sorry?"

"That message," she says, a little breathless with excitement. "About Torchwood?"

His expression shows he has absolutely no idea what she's talking about. She sighs. "So what're you here for? And how did you get my address?"

He holds up a paper. "I was following an ad. For an old Beatles poster."

"I haven't posted that yet!"

"Well, you'd better. And I think you should post it for two quid instead of six."


subject: Number
Can I have Sally's mobile number? I've got a question for her.

subject: RE: RE: Number
No. It's not Dave, it's the Doctor.

subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: Number
Yes, that Doctor.

subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Number
All right, fine. Just send me a photograph and a self-addressed envelope.
Oh, and Sally's number.

subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Number
UNIT Headquarters is fine. I'll send it back eventually.
Sally's number?

subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Number
No, really, I'm not answering any more questions until you give me the number.
PS: Why are you worried about me asking her on a date?


"The Beatles. I like it."


"I've got one just like it."

"Do you really?"

"Yes." A pause. "So, are you going to tell me what this is all about?"


"And until then we're…?"

"Sorting out Torchwood."

"Fantastic." Another pause. "Where's Martha?"

"With her family."

"I thought she was traveling with you."

"Wrong timeline."

"Isn't it always that way with us?"

"I'm beginning to think so."

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 411

We sit in the car outside your house, whoah
I can feel the heat coming ’round
I go to put my arm around you
And you give me a look like I’m way out of bounds
Well you let out one of your bored sighs
Well lately when I look into your eyes
I’m goin’ down...

We get dressed up and we go out, baby, for the night
We come home early burning burning, burning in some fire fight
I’m sick and tired of you setting me up, yeah
Setting me up just to knock-a knock-a knock-a me down
I’m goin’ down....

It's a warm summer night and they are watching a planet burn.

They can't travel to all of the places one of them wants to go to without some sort of compromise. His compromise is the occasional viewing of a dying world or a collapsing star.

Something to silence the drums. Anything to quiet them, just a little while longer.

"Can't you hear them?" one asks the other.

"You know I can't," is the quick reply.

They both have ice cream as they sit, legs dangling out of the hovering TARDIS, but only one of them eats it. The other thinks it is far too sweet, and there's no real reason to sweeten a moment as terrible as this.

"How many die?" he asks, breathless at the destruction below them.

"Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters," he says. "It's important to know the numbers. The people you didn't save."

"Stop it."

"The people you didn't save for me." He smiles, victorious in his own way. "That's very nearly romantic, you know."

"You would think so."

He finishes up his ice cream and takes his uneaten companion's. If he were the sort to worry about his weight, he might be concerned about this gorging, but his metabolism is far too fast in this incarnation, and he's feeling far too guilty to care.

"We can't stay like this."

"No, I'll move the TARDIS once the flames reach this level of the sky."

"You and I, like this. I can't be your prisoner forever." It's one of his more lucid moments, and when he speaks his words are quiet and threatening. The quiet is always worse than the loud. The quiet comes with the knowledge that it will be loud soon, and no matter how much the quiet is savored, it will always, always end.

No, of course they can't stay like this. It isn't forever.

One of them stopped dealing in absolutes when he lost someone he was idiotic enough to believe he could have forever. The other never gave up on absolutes, even when he should've. But they'll cling, in their strange way, for as long as they can.

The flames lick across the surface of the world. Everyone is dead, there are no more minds crying out for help, begging for release. In a way, they've dried up this resource, sucked the bad from it that one of them needs to be calm.

"Can't you hear them?"

"You know I can't."

There's a quiet chuckle, followed by a loud sigh.

"I don't think you're trying."

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 420
Based on RP with [ profile] best_served_hot

The known, the unknown, and the underknown
Look at what she found
Digging all around by the goldfish pond
She's going to get in trouble now
Shaking up the bees, swinging from the tree
Doesn't understand
She's in trouble now

"Why are you here?"

It's not the most pleasant way he's spoken to someone, and he shouldn't be too surprised that Jeanne-Marie looks offended. The offended look is brief, though, flickering quickly on her face before settling into pleasant surprise. She likes the Doctor, she hasn't seen him in a while.

"It's a party," she says. "We only meet up at parties."

She takes a step towards him, and he takes a step back. She looks a little offended again, but she shakes it off. It's been a rough year for mutants. He's not surprised she's learned to shake off little offenses.

"I'm talking to a reporter from the Sun about what happened to my brother," she says. She looks around the room in disgust at the anti-mutant members of Parliament giving her glares. There are so many of them here.

The Doctor touches the detonator in his pocket. He came here for a very different reason.

"You need to leave," he says, and there's no warmth to his voice, no pleasantries. None of the kind, friendly man she knew, or thinks she knows.


"Just go," he says.

She's not offended this time, she's just confused. She thinks she knows him, but she only knows part of his story, the part he spends on Earth, the part where he's had a few glasses of champagne and can't dance properly to save his life. She doesn't know about this part of him.

He doesn't want her to.

But she wants to. She crosses her arms and stands her ground. She's much shorter than he is, but she's a presence in and of herself.

"What if I don't want to?" she demands.

He thinks about what he left in the basement, thinks about the things he's doing now, and thinks about the one innocent life standing before him.

Three years ago, when he first met her, he wouldn't have been here. There'd have been no other choices but to save the one life.

Now, he weighs the loss.

Muse: The Doctor (The Valeyard)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 326

Pretty things, so what if I like pretty things
Pretty lies, so what if I like pretty lies
From where you are, to where I am now
I need these pretty things, around the planets of our phase
Everything's a sign of my astrology
From where you are, to where I am now
Is its own galaxy.

The Doctor taps his foot impatiently, but that only makes Martha smile. It's good, him waiting for her for once. And, besides, it's not like she does this sort of thing all the time.

"We'll be late," he says, irritably.

"I'm just fixing up my hair," she tells him.

"You've been trying on clothes for a half hour, Martha! We need to get going!"

She sticks her head out of the door, half of her hair up in curlers, the other half out and fluffed. "I've seen how long you spend on your hair, mister," she says. "You're not allowed to start talking about how much I like dressing up or not."

She goes back in and continues to work on her hair. "Besides, just because I work as a doctor and like running about with you, I'm still a girl. I still like pretty things!"

"I noticed," he replies, still grumpy.

Martha sighs and pulls out the rest of the curlers. Her hair is in a perfect 60's bob, just right for the party the Doctor wants to go to. She straightens the skirt she's found in the wardrobe room and buttons up the jacket. The outfit is a little loose on her hips and shoulders, but she looks damn good, if she does say so herself.

Not that he'll notice, of course.

She steps out and gives a little spin. "What do you think?"

He actually starts at her appearance, and she thinks, just for a moment, that he's impressed. That somehow he really likes the pink skirt and jean jacket combination on her with the slightly-too-loose pink high heels, and he's seeing her for the first time.

But his expression settles quickly, and he's all masks again. She's done something wrong, but she hasn't the faintest idea what. It's so frustrating with him. She thinks she's done something right, but it's never right. Never what she expects.

"It's fine," he says, and he turns away.

And no, no, he didn't see her again. But she'll lie to herself, just for a little while, because it keeps her from turning around and going back home. She has 1960 to see. She can't miss that because she's hurting.

Muse: Martha Jones
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 369

I'll sink Manhattan
Right under the sea
I'll find the sweetest spot to watch
As it goes away

You were so happy
With the things that you said
Like, "He's my lower half," you laughed
But you're going to cry

A river of tiny tears flow from your crocodile eyes
Too late to apologize, I say, as flood waters rise…

He only just makes it to the top of the building by the time the tides reach them. Everything on this part of America has collapsed except this one building. It's funny, but once upon a time he stood at this peak, looking over a very different Manhattan, and succeeded in saving the world.

Now, all he's done is fail.

He tries to pump the heart of the woman next to him. One, two, three. Nothing. And again. One, two, three. He's too little to hold enough oxygen in his lungs to breathe life into her. He's too helpless to save her. Drowned, like the rest of the people in this city.

Harriet Jones. Former PM.

The apologies that he speaks now mean nothing. He didn't know. He didn't know this would happen, but it did and it's too late. He scrambles back, his little legs pushing him towards the building's spire quickly, but not quickly enough. He feels hot tears start to run down his face. He's failed. Failed, failed, failed.

A year ago, he wouldn't have cried like this. He's been trapped as a little boy for too long, now. And the one time, the one time he tried to escape, his captor drowned a city to bring him back. Drowned a city full of people. Good people. People like Wilfred Mott and Leo Jones and Harriet Jones, former PM.

The present PM's helicopter is lowering towards the Empire State building, the black machine mirrored against the sparkling, still water. The Doctor watches the shiny shoes of the Master, stepping around the spire until he faces him. He doesn't even acknowledge Harriet Jones, former PM. He only barely acknowledges the crying little boy in front of him.

"Oh, don't be stupid," he snaps. "I didn't do this because of you, you idiot."

He nudges the Doctor's arm with his shiny shoe, but the Doctor can't react, now. All he can do is cry like the child the Master has told him he is.

The Master crouches in front of him, his expression almost pitying, like a father having to tell his son that Father Christmas isn't real. "This is where the resistance was holding a very big meeting," he says, all patronizing and stern. "You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, sonny. But it's a very good job that Daddy Master has come to pick you up, isn't that right?"

"I hate you." It's one of the most immature things he's managed to say, but right now he means it with every fiber of his diminutive being. He hates the Master, he hates everything that's happened. He hates that his running shoes don't fit and he hates the miniature suit he's wearing and he hates, hates, hates what's become of the planet he loves.

The Master looks amused. It's infuriating. "It's always the fate of a father to watch his son hate him until he realizes he's right."

"You're not my father, Master." But even the way he says the Master's name seems small. The Master seems to notice that, too, because his eyebrows crinkle together in distaste. He doesn't get the same high he once did from the Doctor saying his name. Things will change again, soon, and the Doctor doesn't want to think how.

The Master nods upwards, and soon the Doctor hears the clomp-clomp of very high heels. Lucy Saxon, a brand new split on her lip (unsurprising, considering she was the one who was supposed to be watching the Doctor when he escaped), comes rushing over, immediately scooping the tiny Time Lord into her arms.

He doesn't resist, instead going limp as she holds him. Her grip is a little too tight, and he knows she must blame him for the Master's treatment of her. Blame the Doctor for every bruise and every pain she's suffered. Blame him for the things that have happened to this once beautiful world.

As he looks over her shoulder at the drowned city, he can't help but agree with her.

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 676

She thinks she's smart; she's just curious
She thinks she's alone
Doesn't even know someone's watching her
She's going to get in trouble now
Waving from the shore, never knew before
Doesn't understand
She's in trouble now

It's a new year
Careful what you pack
There's no going back
She's lost from the beginning
She's the new girl.

"You're just young enough to think you're old enough to handle things like this on your own."


"I suppose I deserve that."

He stands only a few feet away from her, though she hadn't noticed his arrival. She hadn't noticed anything, actually. Just the pain and the burning, and eventually everything in the room was still. Everything in the room, except her.

She cradles the lifeless form of the Klingon that was her husband. The whole station is dead, the monitors blink, telling her only three lifeforms remain. Her, the man in the brown coat, and his living machine.

"You lot, always mucking about with things you don't understand, time you don't understand. Even the Trill, thinking you're older than you are. Thinking you can---"

It's half a second before she's thrown him back, the blade he hadn't noticed she still carried up against his throat. His smug lecture from half a moment ago is silenced, and he takes in a shallow breath as the sharp blade nicks just below his adam's apple.

"BIHnuch! They said you were here, I told them you would help us," she growls. For a member of the Trill, a race the man in the brown coat traditionally thinks of as a very calm, intelligent, and wise-but-not-as-wise-as-the-Time-Lords, she is very primal in her grief and rage. "But you changed from the man I knew."

To her, this man with the sticking-up hair and brown coat is wrong. She longs for the one she knows, with the floppy dark hair and little ridiculous-looking bowtie. He sees her and wishes she was the shorter, stockier woman with the short dark hair that he knows.

But she doesn't know Ezri Dax yet. Just like he doesn't know his next life, and their timelines will never really match up. Time is like that.

"Can you fix this?" she demands. She takes a breath, because she's realized immediately that she asked the wrong question. "Will you fix this?"

The whole ship is dead, everyone but her, and all because Starfleet was meddling with time. Meddling with time in such a way that anyone who had never traveled via-the-Void as she has (will) would be ripped apart.

It was such a careless mistake. And they're all so small, aren't they? In the scope of the universe.

Her grip on his throat loosens, and he thinks, just for a moment, that she looks like she might cry. She doesn't, of course. She's not that sort of a person. It's something he admires (will admire) in her and her symbiont.

"Will you?" she asks, quietly.

He closes his eyes, and takes a breath. Time moves around them differently, changing the way she looks and the way she sees him. They are both very old and very young and very lonely and very guilty, all at the same time.

He answers, and time changes again.

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 483

It's my world, my love, my gun

well It's the end of the world
well It's the end of the world
well It's the end of the world
well It's the end of the world

No I’m all alone, kept the pain inside.
Wanna torch the world, cos I’m breathing fire.
Yes I’m all alone, kept the pain inside.
Wanna torch the world, cos I’m breathing fire..

Lucy isn't insane.

Not in the classical sense of the word. Not the madness her husband so willingly flaunts as he slides from room to room, surveying his kingdom. While she might dance to the beat of her own drums, they're not the same drums that pulsate through her husband's mind, they're not the drums of war and madness.

All the same, she's not all there. The Doctor can tell she's been broken in ways he knows he can't fix. It's the way she moves, the vacancy in her eyes. It's as if the deceptive and cruel woman he met months ago has left the building, and there's no one home to feel the things she's feeling.

There are always deep, penetrating bruises that she's not allowed to cover up with makeup. Marks of how much the Master loves her (because he really only hurts the ones he loves.) The Doctor has his own share of bruises, but his don't mark quite as artistically on his old skin as hers do.

She only comes to the bars of the Doctor's cage one. It's the night the Master breaks her wrist and shatters her collarbone, but that all happens after. Right now, right now she's slowly creeping towards it, as if she thinks the cameras pointed at the box in the center of the room somehow will miss her if she moves more slowly.

She touches the bars, but recoils immediately, as if expecting him to leap up from his wheelchair and attack. He doesn't move, and she becomes only the tiniest bit more relaxed. Her fingers curl around the bars and she leans, ever so slightly, to the left, bracing herself on the weight of the heavy bars.

"I'm going to kill him," she says. Her voice is calm, as though she were talking about the weather or the coldness of the bars.

He doesn't say anything at first. What can he say to her? He could tell her it's wrong to kill the Master, but it was wrong to kill one-tenth of the population and that didn't stop her. So, instead, he says, "Why?"

"I don't want him to hurt me anymore," she says, and he doesn't think she's just talking about the welt under her eye. She traces a long, red fingernail across the bar she's holding. "I'm going to shoot him in the heart."

"With what gun?" he demands, surprised by the force in his voice. She's telling him she wants to murder the person he's trying to save, of course there's going to be force there.

She smiles at it. "I'll find one. And I'll shoot."

"You better not miss," he warns her.

"I won't."

There's a click, and the Doctor knows the Master is coming. He can feel the other Time Lord's mind, buzzing with fury for Lucy's actions, and mild irritation for her words (after all, she can't hurt him). The Doctor would tell her to go, but where would she run to? Running would only mean more pain.

"Why did you tell me?" he asks.

Her expression is pained, then. Like she expected him to understand, but he doesn't. She reaches her arm through the bars to touch the side of his face. Her skin is warm and surprisingly soft. She's quite the human, Lucy Saxon is.

"Because you won't let me," she says. "And I have to do this."

She has to do it, because she's always stood up for herself, in life. It's why the Master chose her, it's why she went through what she did with him. But she still loves him. She loves him, and she doesn't want to do what she knows she has to.

There's a smack and suddenly Lucy is thrown to the side, cradling her wrist. The Master doesn't even look at the Doctor, he just hits. And hits. And hits.

The punches start to sound like drumbeats. One beat after the other. And the Doctor can't stop them.

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 565
rude_not_ginger: (feelings vs thinkings)
( Dec. 13th, 2009 01:36 am)

Everything that you fear is calling you and drawing near

I searched my world but I can't find you
You're standing there but I can't touch you
Try to talk but the words are just not there
I can feel a sense of danger
You stare at me like I'm a stranger
Paralyzed and you don't seem to care
The demons in my dreams.

"It's you."

He's been waiting for Rose to come out of this shop for flipping hours now. He's almost pleasantly surprised to find a league of cybermats underneath the stairs at the shopping mall. And now that that's sorted out, he's back, waiting at the door with a smile on his face, waiting for Rose to reemerge.

He turns around at the voice, though. It's an American, someone he doesn't recognize. She's small and blonde and by all accounts very pretty, but she's not someone he recognizes.

"Oh my god," she says. "It's you."

"Hello," he says, warily.

She runs towards him, stopping only a few feet from where he is. Her grin is huge and seems to split her face in two. He likes her grin, he decides in that moment. He generally does like pretty blonde women with wide grins, but he thinks he likes hers an awful lot.

"Who are you?" he asks.

Her face falls, and she looks so utterly surprised. "You've never---You've never not known me."

He hates this sort of reaction. It means that, at some point in the past, he's met her. But her past is his future and that's just too much wibbly-wobby timey-wimey for him to deal with at the moment.

He looks back into the store, where Rose is finally getting ready to leave, then back to the girl. He had planned on ice cream and a semi-romantic-but-this-really-isn't-romantic-at-all walk across the 43rd century boardwalk upstairs, not a chat with someone from his future.

"Sorry. Time's always a bit confusing for me," he says. "I'm a time traveler---"

"I know that," she says, and she sounds very put out that he thinks he has to explain himself. "I've just---"

She bites her bottom lip, and then extends her hand.

"I'm Claire," she says.

Her eyes are wide and brown and, unlike the rest of her, aren't young in the slightest. She's very old, he can tell just from her eyes. And she feels…wrong. Not wrong like Jack, the skin-crawlingly wrong Jack he ran away from back on Satellite Five, is wrong, but she's different.

He gives her hand a shake. Her fingers are warm, and he can feel time rippling around them. She's very different, but he doesn't really understand how. "I'm the Doctor---"

"I know," she says. She glances behind him, and he can only assume Rose has reappeared. He starts to back away, but Claire holds his hand firmly for one more moment.

"I never said thank you," she says. "But. Thank you."

And with that, she turns and runs away. He hears the clomp-clomp of her high heels against the holographic flooring, and watches her turn a corner and run.

"Who was she, then?" Rose asks. "Friend of yours?"

He nods. "Just not yet."

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 470

dragged through the mire
and into the light
you did something selfish
but you did what was right

we started a fire
with the faintest of sparks
sprung from the friction
of two empty hearts

we swept out the ashes
and went on our way
from the deepest of red
to the lightest of gray.

She keeps the sari wrapped tightly around her. It's her new corset and skirts. Tight and layered, she smoothes the fabric down with tanned hands. She has adapted to life in India. It's a good life, he thinks, the life she built for herself. If anyone could build so much from nothing, it's Reinette.

He asks her if she's happy here. He means with him, but he doesn't ask that.

It's been years. Twenty for him. Five for her. They grew up on opposite ends of the universe.

He was selfish. He forgot the time they spent together. Forgot all of it. All of it, in one split decision. He didn't want to remember the pain, which meant he would forget the joy. A split decision, to forget everything from the moment they arrived in San Francisco.

She chose to remember. He likes to think he'd have chosen the same, if he knew. He knows he wouldn't have.

He think she hates him a little for that. He knows he hates himself more than a little for it.

She tells him of course. Of course she is happy. He doesn't think she means with him.

He wonders what he was like, then. In the year he forgot. The year he gave up. Who was he when he was him? The him that he was, the one she still grieves for.

He saw a movie once, with their daughter. Petite Reinette, all spitfire and ambition, sat more patiently through the movie than her father did. It was a good movie, though. Random Harvest. A man who can not remember who he is falls in love, then forgets everything, and then falls in love with the same woman. She grieves for the man who didn't know who he was.

It's like that now, with Reinette. She cares for him, but she loved the man he forgot.

He reaches out to take her hand. She quietly, deftly moves back, tracing her hand along the opposite side of the console and remarking the differences in the ship. He never remembered her seeing it, but he doesn't question her memory.

Maybe she just needed to step aside.

He knows she wanted to move away.

He likes to think that if he knew it would be like this, the strangeness, the silent ache, that he'd have chosen the same as her, that he'd never have forgotten.

He knows he wouldn't have.

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 405
Based on RP in [ profile] relativespace with [ profile] ambitious_woman

I miss you, you hurt me
You left with a smile
Mistaken, your sadness
Was hiding inside
Now all that's left
Are the pieces to find
The mystery you kept
The soul behind a guise

Where are you
I need you
Don't leave me here on my own
Speak to me
Be near me
I can't survive unless I know you're with me.

Rose thinks it will be hardest when she's standing there, saying goodbye, but it isn't.

Oh, it's hard. It's very hard. She begs him to stay, to come back. She needs him, and maybe she didn't realize it before, maybe that's why she pushed him away so often. But please. Please don't go.

Or maybe it's please go, with us, don’t stay.

But he says he has to.

And who is she to argue? It's not as if he has anything waiting for him back at home. Her mother'll be heartbroken, but she's gotten over far worse. Oh, it'll be hard telling her, and telling his stupid estranged mother, too, but this goodbye should be the hardest.

It isn't.

Rose thinks it will be hardest when the TARDIS takes off, but it isn't.

She hides in her bedroom and slams her eyes shut, trying to block out the hum of the walls and the whirring sensation when she knows they've finally taken off. Taken off and left him behind. Her oldest friend, first lover, favorite cook---why did he have to go? Doesn't he get it?

The Doctor, he gets it. He knows she can be sassy and mean and self-centered but he doesn't care. He doesn't need to be shown love and affection, so why does she have to for him? Can't he get it, too?

But it's too late, and the TARDIS is gone, leaving him behind. That should be it, she thinks. That should be the hardest moment.

It isn't.

Rose thinks it will be hardest when he tries to comfort her, but it isn't.

He's gone, and she didn't realize how important he was until he left. Maybe she didn't get it, didn't realize how much she loved him, or how much he loved her. But now, now that she has no way to say she'll go back to him later, now she wishes he was here, now.

"Maybe it isn't about you," the Doctor says, leaning against the door, watching her cry silently. He sighs. "My first mate, he ran off when we were young. Well, I ran off, but when I came back he was gone. It hurts, but it isn't about---"

"Take me home."

He hops off from where he's leaning, looking at her sadly. "Home?"

"Not forever," she corrects, immediately. "Just to tell my Mum. She needs to know."

He nods, and heads to the console room.

They never discuss it again. She thinks that should be the hardest it will be.

It isn't.

Rose thinks it will be hardest when she has to tell her mother, but it isn't.

Her mum doesn't cry, and that's hard. She just sits there, her brow creasing up in worry, but she doesn't sob, she doesn't even tear up.

"Is he going to be happy, you think?"

Rose can't answer, but the Doctor speaks up. "He will," he says, with all of the confidence of a man who knows time.

"And he'll be safe?" Rose's mum asks. Her voice cracks, just slightly, under the weight of how much she's had to lose, but she still doesn't cry.

The Doctor doesn't answer, because he doesn't know. It's worse, somehow.

And she thinks that will be the hardest, the hardest ever.

It isn't.

It's hardest when he grieves.

It only happens once. Two weeks after they've left, and they've packed up from the place that couldn't possibly have had the real Satan living inside of it, and they're all smiles and excitement.

"And let me tell you," he says. "Mickey the Idiot will be really impressed when I tell him that---"

And that's when he remembers. The smile on his face vanishes.

Mickey the Idiot is gone. He's gone, and they've told everyone who knew him that he's dead. For all they know, he could be.

Without a word, he turns and leaves the console room. He doesn't say where he's going, and she doesn't think to ask him. She just watches him go, wondering what it's like when a Time Lord misses someone.

She wonders what Mickey would think, knowing he's missed.

She doesn't cry this time, she just sits in the console room, lonely.

That's when it's the worst.

Muse: Rose Tyler
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count:

Is it bright where you are
Have the people changed
Does it make you happy you're so strange
And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame
You can watch the world devoured in it's pain

The sky was burning. Quite literally, on fire.

The Doctor stood, hands in his pockets, watching it. Watching it, watching the mutants run across the surface, trying desperately to work out where to go, what they could possibly do now. There was no chance. Not anymore

"Aren't you going to do something?" Lorna asked. She was covered in ash and debris, but still managed to look, somehow, lovely. Lovely and full of frustration, of determination. She was always the never-say-die type, though. She'd gotten piles of metal she'd been trying to fashion them into some sort of a protective barrier. Something to save the children left on this world.

"I'm up there," he said, nodding up to the firey sky. "On a platform with a girl who looks oh, so much like you. We thought it was a party. They told us the whole world was empty."

"They would say that," she said. "But we have to---"

"There isn't time."

The Doctor wanted to believe his favorite species grew up over the centuries, that they learned to stop hating, to stop fearing others. It wasn't true, of course. Even this far into the future, they still feared mutants, still took the ones they considered the most dangerous and left them on a world ready to be consumed by fire. The Doctor just got caught in the crossfire.

"You've been like this since you arrived," Lorna snapped. "Moping about! I'm not stopping! And I'm not going to let you just stand there!"

"No," he said. "Really. There's nothing I can do. Nothing any of us can do."

"What about the TARDIS?" Lorna demanded. "Can't you---"

"She's gone," he said, his voice resigned. "On the cruiser that left."

"But we can't give up," she said, stepping up to the edge of the debris with him. Her voice cracked as she spoke and the sound hurt the Doctor's hearts. "Why do you want to give up, now? After we've done so much? After we've come so far."

He tilted his head to the side to look over at her. She didn't really look like Rose, the more he saw her. It wasn't just the shining green hair or the fact that she never wore the heavy makeup Rose always did. There was also something distinctly different about her. The Doctor might've liked to have known her better. Known more about her. This mutant hero who didn't want to give up.

It was too late, now.

"Thank you," he said.

Lorna shook her head. "For what?"

"When I came back here, I didn't want to live," he said. "Done too much, seen too much."


He reached out and took her hand, curling his fingers around hers. He could already feel the heat from the barrier lowering. The sounds of screams began to fill his ears. The world was ending. The world was ending right here, as he held Lorna Dane's hand.

He smiled, then. Small, thin, but genuine. "You made me want to live."

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 485


rude_not_ginger: (Default)
The Doctor


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