Jail is never a fun place to be.

It is, in fact, considered the third most unpleasant place in the galaxy to be. The second most unpleasant place to be is the Pink Dog Bar off of Setera Beta 7, where the ruffians and terrible thieves of your nightmares are just the waitstaff, and the bartenders and owners are even worse. The sticky floors and battered walls are unreasonably unpleasant, and the atmosphere is far more frightening than even the terrible Doom Cave of Terrifying Alpha. Once you pass through the metal detector confirming that you do, in fact, have a weapon (and you're strongly advised to have a weapon in the Pink Dog Bar unless you want to be awarded with the badge that reads "Easy Bait" and left to your own), you are then told to find your own seat, and you'll have a number of the aforementioned ruffians and thieving waitstaff to ask to move if you want to seat. The Death Bird of Trevall will follow all newcomers to the Pink Dog Bar from the moment they enter to the moment they leave, or die, whichever comes first. If you ever find yourself in the Pink Dog Bar, it is advised by most authorities and traveling professionals that you find yourself somewhere else.

The first most unpleasant place to be is the Pearle Vision Optical Shop in Baltimore, Maryland, United States, Earth. But why you would find yourself there is really only if you were desperate for a pair of glasses, or if you were an adult university student desperate for work. But that is, of course, not where you are.

Where you are is jail. Why you are here is really your own business, but the people who have captured you and incarcerated you beleive very strongly in their ability and reason to have done so, and they are, therefore, dragging you along the dank and dirty hallways towards your cell with a certain amount of pleasure that can only be derived from dragging an unwilling prisoner to an unpleasant fate.

Once your cell door has been open and you've been thrown in, that's about the point where your brand new cellmate makes himself known. He is a tall, lanky man, with sticky-uppy brown hair and a tattered-looking blue suit. He is not particularly awful, as cellmates go, certainly not as bad as the Death Bird of Trevall, but he appears to be rather put-out by his current placement.

"You don't understand!" he cries, trying to get to the door before it closes (and failing). "I thought this was the Pretractor System! Is it really my fault if my timing was that far off?"

And this, as they say, is where you come in.

OOC: Open post. Any verse, any time. I've missed you guys! Have fun!
Follows this.

During their time apart, the Doctor didn't dream. Dreaming wasn't common for Time Lords in general, but while Jack was away or in his extended coma, there was no accidental glimpse into the human part of the Doctor's psyche.

Now, he dreamed. Twisting storms and violent rainclouds and a ship that was coming apart. Somewhere he heard Martha calling for him, telling him they had to turn back. They had to turn back, there was too much damage in this section of water. The sentence itself didn't make sense, but to his dream-self it explained a lot of things that were wrong.

A spitfire shot above them through the storm, heading deeper in. The Doctor never dreamed of spitfires. He knew them, but not well enough to have such a beautifully detailed image in front of him. In the dream, he saw it as a sign.

We have to find him, the Doctor responded. He's in the storm.

But everyone was here, on the ship. Mickey, Martha, Donna, Rose, Wilf, they were all there. And the Doctor was steering them into danger and---

He blinked. He was awake in Jack's arms. How long had he been asleep? A few short hours, he imagined. How many more hours did Jack need?
rude_not_ginger: (OH NO)
( Jun. 21st, 2010 03:24 am)
This was not a good day for the Doctor.

First off, he missed an Intergalactic rerun of The West Wing he was looking forward to, then the TARDIS decided to land in the middle of London without warning. And then, of course, there were the squid-like monsters that just happened to be in the middle of London. And then there were the police who didn't seem to realize that he couldn't have done what all the squid-like monsters did to those people. And then there was Joe.

Joe was the Doctor's cellmate, and Joe was an unpleasant drunk who smelled like he'd forgotten to take his trousers off when he relieved himself. And he snored. And talked. And...was he starting to sing in his sleep?

"Phone call!" the Doctor called. "I get a phone call!"

He was led to a small cell-like room with a phone. He hoped she would pick up.

"Help me, Dr. Jones," he mumbled as the phone rang. "You're my only hope.

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



Christmas Eve. 2009.

The Doctor loved Christmas! Back when he was a wee Time Lord, the first place he ever landed was London on Christmas Eve. He promised himself he'd never miss another Christmas ever, but that promise went into the same pile as "Lose weight" and "Regenerate a better hairline" and "Stop leaving companions in other universes". But the Doctor had never quite gotten the hang of New Years'. (He once spent several hours commiserating on the similarity between the confusing nature of New Years and Thursdays with one Arthur Dent, who will sadly not be appearing in this piece of narrative. -editor)

But! Through all his travels in space and time, he still hadn't quite figured out what Christmas was for exactly. Except as a yearly excuse for turkey, too much wine, and plum pudding (all of which the Doctor approved of). This year, though, as he strode the streets on this wonderful Christmas Eve, the Doctor decided he would figure out exactly what Christmas was all about.

This may or may not have included use of a intergalactic manipulative detector and a full pack of radio stellar isotopian crystals. Oh, and a cup of hot chocolate. In a festively-coloured cup.

There was a lovely light snow, and the Doctor grinned madly at the stars. Christmas. This year, he was going to figure out what it was all about.


OOC: Open thread, feel free to tag in as if your character is a passerby or as if your character is a long-standing companion! I'll be working on this thread up until the New Year, most likely! Everyone from any verse (or no verse!) is welcome, just let me know if you'd prefer it from a community or specific universe! And, for this thread, threadhopping is totally welcome!

Happy Holidays, everyone! &hearts
Title: Everyone Has Someone (An And So It Goes Remix)
Author: [livejournal.com profile] rude_not_ginger
Characters/Pairings: Ten/TARDIS, Jack/Ianto, Martha/Tom
Rating: PG
Summary: The Doctor, Jack, and Martha talk about the Year That Never Was with their respective partners.
Word Count: 2,045
Original Story: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/4571091/1/And_So_It_Goes by Galadriel 1010
Notes: Special thanks to my wonderful beta <3

It's only just ended. The long, horrible year. )
And like that, she's gone, off to live her own life without you.
The Doctor has always had a superior olfactory system.


It was one of those things that came with his genetic structure, he supposed. Keen, perfectly-honed senses of a Gallifreyan and the imagination of a human needed to piece out what smells blended with another to mean what.

It was very useful, at times. Discerning what oil was used in which explosive and thus which needs to be diffused first. Sorting out what poison was in which cream puff before obnoxiously popping the un-poisoned one in his mouth. Memorizing the sweet, fragrant smell of the Detrassi Sunflower and then reproducing it to break a password on the sensory-adept computers of Alganqua 7.

It was also a curse, as well. Like should the TARDIS decide to land on the dung planets of Santoir 4 or the onion-worshipping centers of Retrrioo. It was also absolutely terrible when he was forced to take the number 55 bus.

The worst was how hard it made forgetting. )

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Partner(s): Rose Tyler (canon), Jack Harkness (canon), Martha Jones (canon), Donna Noble (canon)
Word Count: 1,292
From this.

Day One is here. Day Two is here. Day Three is here.

He doesn't invent the hero to his story. No, nothing so mundane. The hero, instead, invents himself and slices a path, as in the way of Athena, out of his creator's brain. And the hero stands there, in a metaphorical sense of course, fully-formed and ready to interfere in the universe's problems. It's a bit overwhelming, come to think of it, having a fully-formed hero suddenly there. But the hero was to take care of the stories. The stories which had already been partially written and had kept the writer, who was only a mere history teacher at a boy's school, awake.

The stories are borne out of an ongoing feeling of déjà-vu.

It begins while he is grading papers during his second week at term. He reads over a passageway in a paper about the Massacre at St. Bartholomew's Eve and knows, without question, that it is not right. There was another influence, he's sure. Someone else pushed the Marshal of France to his action, though for all of his attempts to find such information, it eludes him. It was not in his lesson and it is not in their textbooks but he knows it is not right.

Feeling as though he can not continue with this subject, he drops a passing grade to the paper and instead pulls another period of history for class.

Ancient Rome. Rome was not built in a day and neither was it destroyed so easily. There is a more serious story to this, and he knows it. Of fire and hatred and something to do with a harp.

Elizabethan England. The painting of Shakespeare is also wrong. He knows the painting is a poor interpretation, though he has no idea why he could possibly think that. It's the tightness of the hair, the curve of the nose. The man in the painting does not look at all like William Shakespeare. But he has never met William Shakespeare, he has no reason to think that. Also, he feels (with no small amount of disgust and alarm) that the Bard was, in fact, not merely heterosexual. If he were another man, he decided, he would feel flattered to be flirted with by the Bard. But he is not another man, and such a train of thought is nothing but silly.

He reads the sonnets to Shakespeare's Dark Lady, and his eyes drift over to his servant. While he does not find her pleasing to the eye, he knows that long ago, the Bard wrote his poems for someone just like Martha.

Classic literature. And then there's the biography of Jane Austen. He immediately thinks that she's a fantastic dancer, but there's no reason to believe she was any such thing. Matron Redfern laughs when he says such a thing. Soft paws, steel claws. It's a phrase that he knows applies to Miss Austen and the Matron alike.

French history. While speaking of aristocrats, he finds himself bitingly defending the rather infamous Madame du Pompadour. Professor Moffatt asks him to head back to his study, to cool down a bit.

"Don't let's get too emotional, John. It's not as though you actually knew the woman."

After class, he sits in his study and stares at the picture. He's certain he knows her, but he can't figure out how. The dark printed pages don't seem to capture the way his mind's eye sees the woman, the woman he feels like he should know. The woman sitting with her face profile to him, the dark smudges in the textbook representing her hair sliding down her shoulders in tumbling waves. He finds his fingers curl as if he knows what it's like to feel those strands, to have them slide against his skin. Involuntarily, he shudders.

He is not an experienced man, but he feels as if there was seduction, once. Perhaps in a dream, perhaps in a long-ago memory. And the seduction was---well, it was nothing that a proper English gentleman would like to think about.

And, as in the way of things one does not want to think of, his dreams take on a decidedly more romantic tone. He dreams of dancing, of the tarantella with a Roman woman in long, red robes. He dreams of a blonde woman with impossibly ancient eyes, holding his hand as they gallivanted through France and taking his breath away. He dreams of a different hero pressing a kiss to his mouth and telling him he'd 'see you in hell' and the thrill rather than the horror at the kiss with another man. He dreams of the gold-painted skin of Cleopatra through scandalously revealing dresses; Cleopatra who purred in his ear and told him to call her 'Cleo'. He dreams of a girl on a beach, the sun in her tear-stained eyes.

The dreams wake him up, of course, and he feels sweaty and uncomfortable and just a little foul for them. He does not sleep afterwards, instead he stares at the wooden ceiling and considers his own self-imposed chastity. If he were another man, such impure thoughts would make sense.

If he were another man.

If he were this other man, then there would be no need for chastity. No need to hold back. He could hold Madame du Pompadour in his arms and know that she was as intelligent and as brilliant as he was. And Shakespeare would be worth sparring with, and there would be history to preserve for France's Huguenots, and---

Of course, he's not another man. He's just a simple history teacher. He knows that puberty and sexual attraction hits young men between the ages of 13-17 but he does not recollect any woman ever catching his eye prior to Matron Redfern. And for her he'd rather complete a long, complicated courtship.

But someone has to live these stories, these impossible stories.

And so, the history teacher invents the Doctor.

It is a good name, it's an official name. It's a title the history teacher knows he is incapable of actually possessing, though one he has often longed for. He decides that the Doctor will not actually possess the title either but he will brandish it and people, being such as they are, will accept him for who he says he is.

The first time the history teacher says the name it is to his servant, Martha, who looks at him with such a look of absolute horror he is afraid he's said something that in insulting to her culture. But Martha, being as she is, forgives and perhaps forgets because she never mentions the Doctor to him again. Whenever he talks of it, that horror returns to her face, though not nearly in the extremity of the first time John presented it. It is as though he is speaking of a very precious glass egg and if Martha speaks too loudly of it, she will shatter the egg and be dismissed immediately.

It is no matter. The stories write themselves and the history teacher finds delight and release in writing them. Adventures and history and lovers and danger. All of the things that he will never experience.

But the Doctor can experience them. The history teacher finds himself wondering what it would be like to be the Doctor, but decides that it is not something he truly wishes to experience. And then he packs his books and readies himself to teach a class on the ancient Highlanders, though the lesson does not seem to have all of the interesting facts he is quite certain he knows.

He pushes those thoughts away. There will be time for adventures, time for the Doctor later. But for now, John Smith must live his life in the only way that a proper English gentleman can.

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 1,300
Special thanks to [livejournal.com profile] galeforcehero for the beta and telling me that Cleo was in fact Greek!
Title: Birth of Destruction 3/3
Characters/Pairings: The Tenth Doctor, Martha Jones, Barbara Wright, Original Characters, some Ten/Martha undertones
Rating: PG
Word Count: Part Three: 3,491
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 [livejournal.com profile] handysparehand for the beta! Written for the [livejournal.com profile] muses_gonewild prompt: "158 - The doorway."
Part One is here. Part Two is here.


The Doctor held open the hospital door for his companion. "So it's an insult, then?" he asked.

Martha bristled. She did not like having the conversation on racial slurs she'd just had with the Doctor. She especially didn't like how nonchalant he was about the whole thing, as if the end of racism in a hundred years made the fact that it was happening now irrelevant. "Yes, a very unpleasant insult, and a bit out of date, too."

"Well, not for the 60's, at least."

"Maybe not for the 60's. But still unpleasant. And says a good bit about your employer."

The Doctor nodded. 'I think his blasé attitude towards the dead children says a good bit about that, too.' )
Title: Birth of Destruction 2/3
Characters/Pairings: The Tenth Doctor, Martha Jones, Barbara Wright, Original Characters, some Ten/Martha undertones
Rating: PG
Word Count: Part Two: 4,873
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 [livejournal.com profile] handysparehand for the beta! Written for the [livejournal.com profile] whack_a_muse prompt: "096 - Sleeping Beauty."
Part One is here.


Mr. Moore's office was impossibly easy to break into. Not just because the Doctor had thought to bring his sonic screwdriver with him on this little job expedition, but also because of the location, tucked away in a side pocket of the hospital. He gave it a wave over the lock and turned the knob with a loud click.

'What is that?' Malika asked with a sharp whisper. )
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 [livejournal.com profile] handysparehand for the beta! Written for the [livejournal.com 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. )
Also for this poll which requested Doctor/Martha humor, and for [livejournal.com profile] marthajonesmd in the RS Kink Meme (request: Martha/any Doctor…Kink...oh, god, I fail at this bit. *browses list* Touching? Urgency? Sleep and bedding? OR THERE IS MY FAVORITEST TROPE EVER, SEX POLLEN.) It took me three months, but there you go!

It didn't rain in England quite like it rained here. Cut for explicit sexuality. )

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 5,029 YA REALLY
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
"If you make yourself more than just a man, if you devote yourself to an ideal, and if they can't stop you, you become something else entirely." - Henri Ducard, Batman Begins

"It doesn't look that far in the future," Martha says, looking around at the way people are dressed and the cars that drive by. Well, the cars that stand at a complete halt, actually. Considering the sheer number of people huddled around them in the biting cold.

The Doctor isn't all that cold. He's survived much worse (he lived in Wales for a time during the 70's), so this might as well be spring instead of late January, he says. They sit on top of the Lincoln Memorial, legs dangling over the edge as they look through binoculars to the procession taking place quite a distance away. Not an inch of ground is visible between them and the event, the entire area---Mall, the Doctor corrects Martha---is swarmed with people.

"The estimate is around two million people," the Doctor says, popping a chip into his mouth.

"Really? Two million people?"

"Historical event. People have flown in from all over the world to witness it."

"And we've gone eighty five light years from Tanezea."

"I told you it was just around the corner."

"And you won't tell me when this is?"

"Of course not. Spoilers."

"Yeah, spoilers, right." She looks back through the binoculars. "Won't the secret service worry about a great big blue box up there?"

The Doctor shakes his head. "I've got a cloaking device on us and the TARDIS, so we've got…well, relatively the best seats in the house."

"Couldn't an alien race do that, too? All these people in one place is like a target---"

"Are you really planning on worrying this whole time? This is history, Martha. Enjoy it." He sniffs. "Besides, UNIT is watching overhead for any alien threats."

"What's UNIT?"

"Just watch."

Martha sighs and looks back through the binoculars. She can't see very well, but she's got a fairly good idea of what's going on. The speaker systems in this time are a lot better than when the Doctor took her to see Martin Luther King Jr's speech last week.

"Everyone seems so excited to see him elected," Martha says, looking down at the people waving American flags. "Haven't seen anybody so excited since the election back home. But that's going to be a landslide victory."

The Doctor nods. "This was a landslide for them, too. By popular vote, of course. The voting system in America makes even less sense than the Zygon voting system and you have to take eighteen years of political studies to even be able to discuss politics on Zygon."

Martha nods. "It's a real change for America."

"Britain's next to break the racial boundaries. We'll drop off a few years in the future after lunch, watch that."

"You've been on a real political kick lately," Martha raises an eyebrow.

"What do you mean?" the Doctor asks.

Martha snorts. "1776, the first session of Parliament, Martin Luther King Jr., the first woman Prime Minister, the first woman President, now this?"

"I thought it'd be educational."

"It is! I just don't know why the interest."

The Doctor looks away, then back into his binoculars. "Call it a feeling."

"What sort of a feeling?"

"Just watch!"

Martha watches for a moment, then turns back to him. "Is this the beginning of a golden age? I know you love golden ages for us little humans."

"Hardly," the Doctor says, offhandedly. "Things get far worse for the world before they get better."

"But they do get better?"

"Are you going to watch or would you rather I just get you a history book?"

Martha makes a face. "I thought you liked books."

"I like being part of history even more."

The crowd roars with excitement as the President-elect steps up to the podium to be sworn in. Martha can't properly see his face from the distance, but she squints through the binoculars. She can see a tall, slim man put his hand on the bible, while a woman in a gold dress looks over his shoulder.

And he's sworn in. The 44th President of the United States (though the Doctor reaches over and covers Martha's ears before she can get his name). Race is mentioned more than a few times by those announcing him and swearing him in.

Her mother wouldn't believe it if she told her.

Then, the speech. Martha's never even seen this politician before, much less heard him speak. But considering the incredible problems going on in America in this time period, the new President has a lot to say and he does it all in only a few words. It's surprisingly quite moving. She watches as emotion ripples through the crowd and she can feel how people react when he talks. It's more than just knowing what's said, it's smelling the cold air and feeling the crowd and being there. Right there, right in the middle of history.

"It's good, isn't it?" the Doctor asks as Martha watches.

Martha grins. "Yeah. Better than any history book."

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 773
Note: The mun is a DC citizen and is feeling fairly patriotic.
Also, thanks to [livejournal.com profile] marthajonesmd for randomly mentioning wanting Martha at the inauguration and thus inspiring this. You'd better write one, too!
"She's getting married soon, you know," Jack says. "Or didn't she tell you?"

She didn't, but I don't tell him that.

She doesn't call me for weeks and weeks and that's fairly normal. No aliens to destroy the universe this week, at least. Not in all of 2008, apparently. Besides, she's all busy working at UNIT and planning with that Ted fellow---whatever his name was---so of course she'd just not think to call me.

So she doesn't call. The phone sits in the dip of the console silent.

I try not to worry about it. Busy man, I am. Lots of things to do. I save six planets and have lunch on Chantal 3. The soup they serve is very spicy and made with some strange root.

The phone in the console still doesn't ring. In some timeline somewhere, she's getting married. In some timeline somewhere, she's been married for years. Six kids, two grandchildren. Trying on the ring for the first time. Hasn't even met him, yet. Funny thing, Time.

I wonder what she looks like on her wedding day. I walk down the streets in Laos thinking about it.

I scan the articles in her time's papers. She gets married on a rainy day in November. The scan of her wedding photograph doesn’t come out very well.

"That simply won't do," I say, but there's no one to hear me.

I reset the coordinates to Earth, London, 2008. I consider putting on my tuxedo, but it's cursed and she didn't invite me anyway. I just want to see what she looks like in her wedding dress. It'll just be for a mo'.

I park the TARDIS away from the church and slip in 'round the back. It hasn't started raining yet, but the sky is dark with heavy clouds aching to burst all over Francine's lovely reception.

The ceremony hasn't started. I don't think I can make it to a pew, so I stand off to the side, near some of the flower arrangements. The roses are rich and red like the velvet bridesmaid's dresses. Everything looks thick and expensive.

Terry, Timothy, whoever he is, he's in a white tuxedo with a red rose at his breast. Someone pinned that to him and tore a little of the stem and it bleeds green onto his lapel.

Music starts. Everyone straightens. Tish looks nervous. Francine has already started to cry. Todd doesn't look nervous at all. He looks sure. He smiles widely and I know he sees her. That look is fairly recognizable. The wide smile, the half-closed lids. It's the sort of look you get when you see someone you love.

She walks down the aisle. Her father is at her arm. Red roses are at her waist. The white dress is slim and silky. She doesn't wear a veil. She doesn't feel like she needs to hide.

Her legs are long and slim and slip just beneath a slit in the side of her dress. It seems like only two steps until she's standing next to him. She reaches out and takes his hand. His nails are short and bitten while hers are manicured and white like her dress. Yet they fit, the two of them.

I should leave. I've seen her in her dress, I've fulfilled my curiosity.

I stay.

"We are gathered here to celebrate the union of two hearts. Martha Jones and Thomas Milligan---"

I knew his name was Thomas. I really did.

They stare at each other during the ceremony. It seems to last forever and seconds at the same time. I try to see what could be, for them. Who doesn't want to know what could be for their friends? It's hard. I'm out of practice.

I think while I'm focusing one of them (or both of them) say "I do."

"At the request of the family of the groom," the man in the suit between them smiles. "The Irish Wedding Blessing."

I know this one.

"May the road rise to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
The rains fall soft upon the fields."

Her gaze flicks over Tom's shoulder to me. No looking around, no hesitation. It's like she's known I was there from the beginning. She may not have wanted me there, but she smiles. I smile back.

"May the light of friendship guide your paths together."

I see it. They'll argue over their clashing decoration styles and end up mixing and matching. She'll drag him shopping and he'll drag her to football games and they'll both bounce excitedly over medical conferences. They'll fight. She'll throw a lamp at his head and break a hole in the wall and promptly get a therapist. He'll leave her once then realize he can't live without her. She'll tell him about the Year that Wasn't and he'll eventually believe her.

"May the laughter of children grace the halls of your home."

She won't have children. Something called "reset" destroyed her ability to reproduce, though they'll try for a while. They'll adopt a half-Eternal from UNIT. They'll fight about how to raise the child and they'll learn from their mistakes. Raising an alien will be a strain, but when have either of them ever lived the easy life? When the Eternals come to take the child back, the love they've shown will save the whole of the human race.

"And when eternity beckons,"

He'll die first after a long fight. Pancreatic cancer. She'll hold his hand and won't cry.

"At the end of a life heaped high with love,"

She'll look at photographs of them when they were younger and she will dream of him often. When she dreams of him, her dreams will be twice as long.

"May the good Lord embrace you with the arms that have nurtured you the whole length of your joy-filled days."

One night, her dreams won't stop and she will never be more peaceful. She won't live long enough. They never live long enough.

"May the road rise to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
The rains fall soft upon the fields."

She looks back to him---her husband---and they walk off together outside, Dr. and Dr. Milligan. Onwards. A linear life that I could never live and they're just starting it.

They step outside and the clouds burst. Rain pours down over them, the reception, and the entire wedding party. Everyone scrambles to get under the cover and Francine looks like she might cry at the sight of all the food and drink ruined by the rain. The whole situation is nothing short of comical.

Tom's hair is a mess from the water. Martha's makeup runs and her dress sticks to her. She wraps her arms around his shoulders and kisses him. For them, the universe doesn't exist. The future is now.

I head out the back towards the TARDIS. My suit is soaked by the time I get to the door.

They've got a good life waiting for them, I think. Even if we never travel again. Even if she never calls. It's enough.

It's enough.

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 1,211
It's hot.


His suit is like an oven, his hands feel like they're being cooked as he holds onto the side of the airlock, his hair is matted and wet from sweat and the sun is baking down on him. They're so close to the sun, now.

But his blood just ran cold.

He can see it. See the sun, see it swirl and move and twist. Bright red coronal loops and white prominent arches move against an ocean of orange and yellow. Streaks of amber against the darkened embers of red and the brilliant light all swirling and moving and screaming. The sun is writhing in pain. Pain because it isn't just a sun. It's a creature.

"It's alive."

He sees it reaching, reaching out for the ship. Reaching out for him. He steps backwards into the airlock. It's alive and aggressive. His eyes burn from the sunlight, from how bright it is. Brighter than any typical gaseous sun. He turns away and shuts the door. Gravity restores itself and he feels the woosh as air follows it. Safe now. Well, hardly safe now, but all the same. Inside now. Now he can burn with the rest of them when the ship collapses.

Burn With Me. )

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 1,072
Inspired by this ficlet by [livejournal.com profile] marthajonesmd.

You will always think of her as your companion.

It's the way you are with all of your companions, all of the ones who have traveled with you. They never stop being your companion, never gain a "former" in front of their title, not to you. Once they step foot in the TARDIS and become yours it's all but impossible for you to give them up.

Even though now you're certain she's ready to give you up.

You sit in the console room with her key between your fingers, turning it over and over. She gave it back to you when you told her you'd need to make more copies of it. The Master had destroyed yours and Jack's, of course. Pieces of the TARDIS; you were able to feel them break as if he were tearing off your fingernails.

He relished in your pain.

But now the key is just Martha's key, the other TARDIS keys made from it easily. It still has the little chips on it, still has the perception filter that kept her alive when the world was too dangerous for her to be anything but a legend, a walking ghost along the streets of Earth.

She was invisible because she had to be.

You look down at the little chips, the grooves in the key that could've come from anything, and you wonder what parts of her chipped off, as well. Your brilliant, broken companion. Like the key, you modified her and used her and now she's invisible even though she isn't wearing it anymore.

You close your eyes and grind your teeth. No, she felt invisible before she put this key on. She was invisible to you.

"She loves you, you know." It was Jack, of course, who came up to you as you set the keys and ground them into place. Your hand slipped a little, but you managed not to break anything. You can't figure out what made Jack approach you. Maybe Martha said something to him---no, no, that's not like Martha. Jack's always been a mystery. He had his own reasons.

At the time, you glanced at him over your glasses quickly, and then went back to your work. You thought about playing dumb, but after everything you three have been through it feels like it would be more of an insult. And not just to Jack.

"I know." That was enough for Jack at the time and he left without another word.

She opens the door to the TARDIS and steps towards you with a purpose. You do know, you think, even as she's grown layer upon layer over herself for protection. Of course you know.

She extends her hand to take the key and you reach out to give it to her. Maybe you've always known. Maybe it's been easier to know and not to admit it because that would mean you have to do something about it. That admission to Jack means you can't just hang in limbo. You have to decide if you want----what you want.

You don't want Martha to be invisible.

She's too brilliant. She's done too much. She means too much. You'd still be a pet of the Master's and your favorite planet would be a cinder if not for her.

She's everything that you love about humans rolled into one person. Brave and smart and creative and occasionally silly and a little bit foolish and overly ambitious and strong and a dreamer and imaginative…she falls in love too quickly and she clings to the things she cares for too tightly and you'd never, ever want her to change.

You take the key back, pull out your sonic screwdriver, and wave it over the modifications. The cloak the key held vanishes instantly and it becomes just another TARDIS key, albeit one with scratches and old wounds.

Then, you hand it back to her.

"You don't need to be invisible anymore."

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 658
All romantics meet the same fate someday
Cynical and drunk and boring someone in some dark cafe
--Joni Mitchell, The Last Time I Saw Richard

Dear Martha,

I've discovered an entire galaxy devoted to cooking. By "discovered" I mean I've never been here before, the colonists who are here discovered it a long time ago. I think there was an Earth riot over the Food Network and eventually the people from Earth who sided with the robotic Rachael Ray came to this part of the cosmos.

Anyway, I'm at Develoka, which is a planet populated entirely by bakers. I'm on the southern side of the planet, so I've met quite a few cake-makers. I thought you might like it here. Not that I'm saying you like an overt amount of cake, just I know you like cake. You do like cake, don't you?

Well! Anyway! This is a postcard. The image has nothing to do with my behavior prior to us parting though it is entirely possible that I still miss you. A lot.

Off to another frosting testing,

The Doctor

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 150


rude_not_ginger: (Default)
The Doctor


RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Powered by Dreamwidth Studios

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags