He was getting his reward.

Every muscle in his body hurt. He could feel his intestines very slowly, very unpleasantly, liquifying due to the radiation bombarded through his system. The TARDIS ached for him, trying to pull his pain and only deteriorating the coral that held her in place. She was killing herself for him.

"Just two more stops," he promised her, patting her side.

The next stop was France.

He stepped outside into the warm, spring air. There was a garden and birds in the trees and a warm sun up in the sky. It was the perfect sort of day. The sort of day he might've liked to just laze around and enjoy himself.

But he couldn't today. He couldn't waste one minute of his time left.

Where was she? The TARDIS homed in on the biosignal of the person he wanted to see, just one last time.
God that was strange to see you again
Introduced by a friend of a friend
Smiled and said 'yes I think we've met before'
In that instant it started to pour,
Captured a taxi despite all the rain
We drove in silence across Pont Champlain
And all of the time you thought I was sad
I was trying to remember your name…


He lands on her birthday.

It's quite by accident, of course, he's not even supposed to land along her timeline at all. But most things in life, well, in his life, are by accident, happenstance, or chance. He's come to accept these sort of things.

It's still disarming to see her again. He walks around the corner of a hallway and she turns as well and there they are, standing in the same space.


"My Angel."

With a wave of her hand, the two women she was addressing leave without question. She turns back and looks up at him, her face at once angry and anticipating. She is young and old as well, and it is a tribute to her beauty that he can't figure out what year he's landed to visit her.

"I had often wished you would visit again," she says. "But I had often imagined it under different circumstances."

He looks down at his clothes. The blue suit he wears is torn at the sleeve and knee, and the tie around his neck is askew. The TARDIS had been parked out in one of the gardens, unfortunately near where a fire-breathing Graske had taken up residence. He'd meant to take a quick look 'round before heading back to the TARDIS. But, well, he walked into a piece of his own history before then. He's come to accept these sort of things.

"Well, never a chance to slow down," he says. "You know me."

She smiles thinly, and coughs into a small handkerchief. Tuberculosis takes her in the end, he thinks, seeing the bloodstain on the white fabric. But she was sick (is sick) for a very long time prior to that. A silly, stupid illness that could've been cured not even two hundred years in the future. Time is so short for them. Truncated, sliced away. There's not enough time to see anything, or do anything, and even a life as fantastic and accomplished as Madame du Pompadour will be lost to time.

But not lost to him.

He wishes he could tell just how long it's been for her. It has been so very, very long for him. Has he left her waiting by the fireplace? How could she look so calm, talk to him so sweetly, if she knew (knows) he has already left her?

Or perhaps she doesn't know how old he is. Perhaps, for the first time, they are on the same timeline, both old and both lonely for a long while without each other.

One of the women reappears and gestures to Reinette, who ignores her. If anything, the gesture appears to put her out more than interest her.

"They are planning for the ball, tonight," she says. "For my birthday." She takes in a breath. "You'll come. You'll dance with me." There is no question in her voice.

"I don't dance anymore," he says.

"Which is what you said before," she replies, her lips very slightly turning upwards, pleased by the challenge his refusal gives her.

"I only dance with the stars, now," he says.

"A noble pastime," she says, nodding to placate him.

"I don't dance with people," he insists. "I don't love them, not anymore. I dance with time and space." He dances with universes and unrealities, he rewrites history and undoes time. It's what he's become, now. He's not the same man who sipped watered-down wine at the Yew Ball and danced with a pretty woman simply because he wanted to.

Her smile changes, very subtly. He can see the lines in her eyes, the creases in her smile. She's much older than she was when he left her at the fireplace, he decides. She may not show it on her face, but it's there, in her eyes.

"Time and space is all that you love?" she says, her words crisp and delicate 18th century French vowels. "You must be aware that it will never love you back."

They're both far too old to be dancing, he thinks. Far too old to be playing. He needs someone to stop him, and she deserves the stars. Deserves them at least once.

"Come with me," he says.

He reaches out a hand to touch her face, but she moves back, very slightly, leaving the warmth of her skin in the cold December air. He can feel the streams of her timeline in her wake, touch the fragile strands binding her to this December, what must be the last December she spends alive.

He's shattered fixed positions in time before, but he'll never quite accept that he can.

"Dance with me," she says.

They stand together here, but timelines away from each other.

There's one thing I want to say, so I'll be brave
You were what I wanted
I gave what I gave
I'm not sorry I met you
I'm not sorry it's over
I'm not sorry there's nothing to save

I'm not sorry there's nothing to save…

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 851, not including lyrics from Star's "Your Ex-Lover Is Dead"
Mike says it's romantic and depressing, so it must be one of my stories. =|

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 [livejournal.com profile] relativespace with [livejournal.com profile] ambitious_woman
...and the Doctor was thoroughly excited. He wouldn't admit how much he loved the 60's on Earth, but in many ways it felt even more like home than Gallifrey did. Or France, for that matter. And now that he was steering the TARDIS towards London in 1964, he couldn't help the slight spring in his step as he hopped around the console, tapping his fingers along wires and buttons in time to "I Wanna Hold Your Hand" by the Beatles, which happened to be blaring through the TARDIS speakers.

After all, it was tradition to overplay an artists' songs when one was on their way to a concert.

He couldn't find Lucie's old Beatles shirt in the wardrobe, so he stuck to what he knew, changing out his usual ascot for a bright red one. It was the first real recreational trip he'd made since he found Reinette in India. No distress signals, no monsters. Just him and Reinette. And the Beatles, of course.

It very nearly felt like a first date.

Oh no. No, no, no. He was not going to start thinking that way. The moment he did, things would start to get awkward. Or worse! And the last thing he wanted was nerves tonight. Tonight was about his favorite Earth band and fun.

"Reinette, you ready to go?"
There's a thin line between a real smile and a false one, and the time he's spent with Madame du Pompadour has given him a finely-tuned eye to tell the difference.
All of time and space.

One woman to save.

He has five seconds to chose.

Save her, lose his freedom.

Keep his freedom, watch her die.


It is Friday. Yesterday was Thursday. )

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Partner: Madame du Pompadour (AU)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 1,100
For [livejournal.com profile] ambitious_woman
It's at the very, very beginning. There's barely any time between their introduction and the moment where they must part. He's got to run off, he's got to stop disaster before it starts and she…she has to distract.

How should she distract? Well, she's too human to be of any interest…unless.

'This means nothing, he warns, firmly. 'Honestly, nothing.' )

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 1,132
For the many Reinettes the Doctor knows, happy birthday to them.

A silver package, wrapped very neatly (and most likely not wrapped by the Doctor).

For canonical Reinette, left inside her dressing chamber at Versailles.

What is inside that package... )

For [livejournal.com profile] relativespace Reinette, the gift is left inside of their bedroom, on her nightstand.

What is inside that package... )

For [livejournal.com profile] realityshifted Reinette, the gift is left on the Plane with isomorphic locks to keep any prying eyes away.

What is inside that package... )

For any modern version of Reinette, this gift is sent by courier.

What is inside the package... )
In case you weren't aware, it is entirely possible that the Doctor is the world's worst husband. Not only is he a mean, insufferable jerk, he also is exactly 41 days late for his one year anniversary.

So, he does not say anything, instead leaves lots of shiny, wrapped packages in the console room, with the hope that she might forgive him.

There is a note:

I've never been quite on time, but I never forget.
Happy Anniversary.
Je t'aime,
The Doctor.

What is in the boxes... )
Reward is in the risk.

Follows this rp and this ficlet.

The Doctor did not want to go to a party. He was beginning to despise parties, especially ones where he had to get dressed up and pretend he was enjoying himself. Parties where he was expected to be somebody. Private soirees were all right once in a while, but that's all they were held; once in a while. The big parties seemed too happen once every few weeks, if not more often.

Tonight, it was a garden party. Louis and Marie were throwing it in their gardens and everyone who was anyone was invited. The Doctor imagined his name was merely attached to Reinette (which was all right by him).

Except, Reinette had left much earlier in the day to spend time with her once-lover, while the Doctor stayed in his room, staring at the ceiling and thinking of the night before. What had that meant, her standing there in her room and looking at him? Was he thinking too much into it? What about when she told him he could've asked her rather than had that night with the girl at the ball?

He eventually got up, dressed, and tugged his hair into a short ponytail at the nape of his neck with an elaborate clasp. The carriage ride was both uneventful and, without Reinette's conversation, uninteresting. He wanted to ask her about what happened. He wanted to know if things had changed.

No, no, he wasn't completely idiotic. He knew something had changed. Something was changing. He just didn't know exactly what.

He took a cup of chilled wine and wandered the garden. The September air was crisp and the leaves were changing color, but most of the flowers still held bloom. It wasn't a terrible place to hold a party. If only it wasn't so frightfully pretentious.
Name: Rachel/rachelbeann
Request 1: Joan Redfern, post-John Smith. What was her life like, did she fall in love again, did she often think about the Doctor/John Smith?
Request 2: I would LOVE some good Milo/Cheen fic (Gridlock). Preferably post-ep.
Request 3: Quintus and/or Evelina after watching the destruction of Pompeii. How does it change them?
One thing you really don't want to receive: Uh...smut? :)

She will move on, of course.

A woman of her time, perhaps, but Joan is far from weak. Tears might run down her cheeks as she clutches to the words of a man that's now left her forever, but she's grieved before. She's felt the aching empty hollow feeling that settles to her chest like a cough that won't quit. She knows the way doing even the simplest things seem so hard because she's been exsanguinated of all of her blood, energy, and feeling. She knows how it eventually melts into a blanket of hurt that will always be there when she closes her eyes. She knows how one day she will forget what his hair felt like when she touched it. She will move on. She knows how it works now.

One might say she is an expert at grief.

There is scandal, of course. Rumors that he was the reason for the attacks and she won't deny them. If the Doctor is John Smith, then in a way they are. In a way, things would've been better if she'd never met John Smith. Sometimes she thinks that maybe she didn't. Maybe he never was (or maybe he still is and one of the Doctor's hearts still beats for her). Or maybe he was just an oasis in the desert of a country barely coping with its own hatred. Maybe she knew it wasn't water but she kept drinking anyway.

At night, she dreams that she sees them, all of them. The other women that have been left to grieve. When she learned of the Doctor, she knew she wasn't alone in her pain, but she never knew of the size of it all.

He was my protector and my Angel, the woman says, smoothing her skirts. She is regal and elegant and makes Joan feel impossibly plain.

I did not love
him, she replies. She thinks for a moment, then asks: Would you have gone with him?

I would not hesitate, the elegant woman replies. Though her eyes are dark, and Joan knows she must have.

It doesn't take long for her to move from denial and depression to anger. She hates the Doctor, she tells the cat that curls up on her lap. He mewls in a way that says 'Human, get me some cream,' but she always misinterprets his words as agreeing with hers. The cat doesn't care about her misplaced anger, he only knows that when she plays certain records at night she drips wet from her eyes onto his fur and the cream doesn't go into his dish, and instead it is mixed with brandy. Eventually it is dumped down the drain because she doesn't drink and by this point if she tried to numb away her feelings it would make her hollower than the grief itself. But she always considers and he loses the cream for it.

White mixes in with the blonde of her hair and she studies to become a doctor. It's a silly idea, the other nurses tell her, but she knows that one day even colored women will become doctors. She can't hate Martha Jones for convincing her love to kill himself in order to bring the Doctor back. If the positions were reversed, or if Joan could hold herself like the young servant could, then she would've left Martha to the hollow grief. She can't hate Martha, instead she understands her and she hopes that the Doctor is everything Martha dreamed of.

This night, the woman before her is lean and tanned with beads braided in her hair. She smiles in a calm, loving way, though her eyes sparkle with mischief.

We shared cocoa and mutual adoration, she says. He was daft and mad, but he was blessed with youth in his heart. You must have seen it.

I did not love
him, she replies. She thinks for a moment, then asks: Would you have gone with him?

To see the stars that were tattooed across his heart? I wish he had asked me. The woman longingly looks away, and Joan wonders if he is capable of as much longing.

She rides a boat with her sister's family and the cold English air bites at her face and she feels young. Her nephews dance around her and she thinks of the children she and John might have had. There is no anger, simply fondness. It is the first time she has thought of them like this, she thinks. Usually when she thinks of those children, of feeling a kick in her belly and holding a warm life that she's created with the man she loves, all she does is grieve. Her youngest nephew finds a dying bird on the deck and as it dies he says that he will imagine a friendship with the bird, that way it will live forever in his mind.

Ian is a fool sometimes, but she can't help but think it is something that John might have said. She is unsurprised to find that as he gets older he studies to become a teacher. She pours some cream in the cat's dish and tells him that if those watch-children had souls, one of them most certainly went into her nephew. The cat mewls in a way to say 'You're stroking my hair back the wrong way, stop it' but she misinterprets his words as agreeing with hers.

He has always been a fool, he's never seen what's before his eyes; that does not stop our affections. This woman is in a boating dress with a straw hat, but she sits with a presence of the like Joan has never experienced before

I did not love
him, she replies. She thinks for a moment, then asks: Would you have gone with him?

I did, once, she says with no small hint of nostalgia. But what woman could compare to the stars? Certainly not I.

By the time that her cancer metasocizes, she is capable enough to diagnose herself. Her sister sits by her bed and feeds the cat and fetches her tea and plays her old records for her. The dance she danced with her husband at their wedding plays first and she feels his big hands on her arms. Then the waltz from the dance with John.

It is so foolish, to still grieve for a man whom she only spent weeks of her long life with. She has always been a simple woman, but he made her life seem like so much more. It is so difficult to explain.

You loved the man he could never be. It's a terrible way to live. Me? I wouldn't have missed it for the world.

She wonders if she is the only one who never considered 'yes' as an option. She unrepentantly hesitated, wished he'd never asked her, longed for the man who saw her as more than the stars, and missed it all for the simple life.

She wraps herself in a robe and it is soft and comfortable, with the little fuzzballs tied together with the foil-plastic wrap from her sister's cigarettes.

He loved you, he loved you so much that he was willing to become me again to save you. Feel.

Two hearts.

And is one of them his?

I think that both my hearts are mine.

He's wrong. One of them is hers. She gave it willingly to John Smith and she would never want it back.

The stars seem a long way away.

She steps to a window and stares outward to the horizon, where the Doctor's stars meet John's winter countryside. That's the world she straddles now, the dark horizon in the middle.

It is not a place for moving on, but it is what she has.

Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 1,279
He doesn't know the point in which he started becoming the man he would be and stopped being the man he was. He really doesn't. Sometimes he sits and stares at the long-haired man in the mirror and thinks he really looked better in the suit and tie.

But he doesn't wear them, now, and no tailor would make something so strange. The brown suit is still hung up in his closet, though it's got a few moth-holes in it and it's a little ragged. But it's not who he is, not anymore.

That was a man who leapt into danger, ran head-long into adventure. The Oncoming Storm.

He's less a man of action and more a man of planning, now. A man with political entanglements and a short temper. Somewhere in between an impulsive adventurer and a tired old lord is the Doctor.

The papers Reinette has drawn up name him Jean Smith, and he's started to respond when people call out 'Jean' or 'Monsieur Smith'. It's a slower path, a simpler path. A path with rules and procedures and walls.

Walls. They have so many walls. Walls and doors. Cut for sexual innuendo. )

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)(AU)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 1,111
Based on RP with [livejournal.com profile] ambitious_woman
Following this.

He wondered if she knew.

Knowing her...well, he wasn't exactly indiscrete. He wasn't a braggart, and he certainly straightened himself up afterwards. Still, she was Reinette, and she quite literally knew him better than anyone in the world.

It was disconcerting, all this knowledge she had over him. She knew his secrets and part of him truly feared her for that.

But this wasn't something to be ashamed of. The girl---what was her name?---was attractive enough. And Reinette had no real claim over him. And he was lonely. What harm did it---see, this was why he rarely engaged in sexual acts. They were always so confusing.

He downed a few glasses of wine to get rid of the taste of waxy lipstick and waited for the ball to end. A carriage ride home, then some reading, maybe even three hours of sleep.
You're angry. So angry. Vicious, mind-splitting anger the kind that boils and bubbles and makes your skin crackle and hiss when you move.

The Master. It's so easy to blame him.
Why not blame him? He's caused you so much pain.
Pain ache ache friendship means nothing---

The buzz in your head is awful. It pulsates like soda candy on a pair of drums. Beat. Fizzle. Beat. Fizzle. Your feet are cold on the wet grass as you search for him.

Suburbia. That's where you meet him. Right in the middle of all these homes, but it's night so that somehow makes it better.

Somewhere nearby someone is cooking something with mint and peppers. Your stomach growls in a most irritating fashion and you wonder if eating something might not calm you, make the fizz-drumbeat go away. Reinette always does say that you're far too crotchety when you don't eat. Maybe you should go home. Sit down. Have a cup of tea. Put away the gun and just think about what you're doing.

No, no, fuck that.

Reinette never listens to you. Not then, and not now as you drag her to see who you really are. What you know. You know how things are going to turn out. You see things she can't possibly imagine. You know how things are and how much they will hurt if you don't take care of it now. How things are, were, will be. You know. He's evil. You have to…you have---

And there he is. A twisted grin that suited another man better. A sneer. His tooth gleams like a wolf's. Which makes you the hunter, you suppose. You should have a better gun. This one won't stop shaking in your hands.

You're supposed to be braver than this.

But what bravery is found in a gun?

You can't think. Can't think. Fizz drum angry furious you know what's evil and you have no choice, you must eradicate it from the universe like the Daleks like the twisted and corrupt Time Lords and he's there right there and you can do it. You can do it.

Finger meets trigger, as these things end up inevitably.











She drops. The victim of a ricocheted bullet. The drumbeats silence like the police cut the electric from your fizzly club. Someone's pumped Freon into your veins and warm red wet is pouring from her shoulder.

She's too weak. This is…she's too weak.

The enemy calls for an ambulance. Some part of him cares. Or doesn't want to get shot. Whichever it is, you can't focus because all of the anger. The wrath. The rage it's all gone.

And she's bleeding. She's dying. She's dying because you were too angry to control yourself.

Coward or killer, Doctor?
Coward or killer, Doctor?
Coward or killer, Doctor?

She asks what happened. You tell her it was the gun, it was the gun. How easily you pour your guilt into the weapon that has somehow dropped onto the grass. It wasn't the gun and you amend your reply. It was me. I shot you.

Her expression is unreadable. Your stomach coils tight like a twisted neon light, coiled and burning in your belly.

Her words are contrite.

"Of course."

But then she always did have a knack for seeing things you don't. Of knowing how things were (you should never have left) how things are (you're too angry, just calm down) and how things will be (you'll regret this)---

You silently swear that wrath will never be your vice, not ever again. Not after this.

But from the sneer on her face, she knows what you're thinking and doesn't believe you.

But why should she?

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)(AU)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 606
Based on RP with [livejournal.com profile] ambitious_woman and [livejournal.com profile] crispymaster
Don't want to hurt anything
Don't want to hurt this fragile love we know
Because there is nothing left to hold
And we prayed that night
And you said to me
"Don't worry baby the worst has come
And the worst will go
And there's nothing we don't know"
I'll believe you then
But you know me and I always think the worst…

She looks different when she sleeps.

He leans against the doorframe and watches her chest rise and fall, her mind off in…wherever it is humans go when they sleep. All of her restrictions are gone. No matter that he's convinced her to give up her corset, she still is held back by many things. She talks and moves in such a way as to lead others around her, shape a dying universe. She doesn't have time to just be herself. She's confined to what she knows how to do. Confined to people and planning. Rooms and routines.

When she sleeps, she has none of that holding her back. Her hair is mussed and her eyebrows are relaxed and she just looks so peaceful. He can almost imagine her coming to bed and all but dropping from exhaustion. She does so much. He...doesn't. He can't think of the last time he slept just by closing his eyes.

He envies her that. )

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 1,157
Based on events in [livejournal.com profile] relativespace
It was probably not entirely safe to be up on this roof. He didn't know how strong the planking was, but...well, it couldn't have been that bad. These places would stay up until at least the 21st century. He lay on his back against the hard paneling of the roof and looked up at the stars.

It was all right, looking at them from the window, but tonight he needed to just lay and stargaze. At first he lay on the wet grass outside but it wasn't enough. A ladder, left behind by a worker earlier in the day, became his route to the rooftop. He'd left a note for Reinette, of course. Didn't need her worrying about him.

It hurt, thinking that his human companion had to worry about him. He'd only been there a little over a month, and he was already becoming a fixture in this life of Reinette's. Another responsibility. He never wanted to be a burden to her. Never ever.

He sighed and stared up at Orion. It used to be a guiding star, now it was just a blaring example of what he didn't have anymore.
Well show me a friendship that's pure and chaste // And I'll show you and engine that's dying to race

In the entire time that she's been traveling with him, he's gone into her room once, maybe twice. Both times it was to call her to the console room because some sort of something was going on. But since she's discovered the location of his bedroom, she's made it one of her places to find him.

Which is fairly disconcerting, actually. He doesn't like companions knowing where to find him when he really, truly, just wants to hide. And after today? He really does just want to hide.

Everything started out all right. Trip to the 51st century, landed on a spaceship…well, then everything went topsy-turvy. France. Reinette…he had all these great plans for when she was traveling with him. Them. With them. Well, the place was getting a bit blokey anyway, Rose could've used a friend.

And he keeps thinking over that letter in his pocket. A few hours over the course of her lifetime and she died waiting for him. He has had that grief weighing on his hearts since he came back to the TARDIS and he thinks a little alone time won't hurt.

Of course when he gets to his room, there's Rose. Leaning against one of the bedposts and staring over at him. She's in a tank top and shorts which are apparently her improvised set of jim jams. Her hair's brushed out from how she had it done before, but it looks a little ruffled.

"Mickey found his room all right?" he asks, taking off his coat and tossing it over one of the armchairs in the room. He tries to make her think he's not affected by her being in his safe area, but he's certain she knows.

"Yeah, showed him where it was hours ago," she replies.

He loosens his tie. "Hours? Really?"

Yeah, you've been in the console room a long time. )

Muse: The Doctor
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 1,664
rude_not_ginger: (*glee*)
( Feb. 28th, 2008 12:53 am)
The Doctor grinned madly at the screen in front of him. Perfect landing, right on the mark. That was so rare it was a cause for a celebration in and of itself.

Celebration, of course, was the reason why he'd picked the place they landed. A celebration somewhere he had never been before, so it would be a treat to both him and his companion.

Reinette's health was doing significantly better than he'd originally expected it to, and that meant celebration. Right, so it was a rather flimsy excuse for a celebration, but the Doctor did so love to celebrate. In this case, it was a celebration somewhere her health might not have allowed her before: somewhere cold. He tugged on a shorter version of his fourth self's scarf and his jacket as he waited for his companion to join him.

"Right, make sure your shoes have decent traction!" he called over to her.


rude_not_ginger: (Default)
The Doctor


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