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
For those of you who are not aware, it happens to be the Doctor's two-year wedding anniversary. For those of you who are also not aware, he forgot about it last year. This year, he was not about to forget. So! This year he has a card placed on Reinette's dressing room table that says:

Happy Anniversary,
Love, D

PS: Your gift is outside

And what's her gift, you might ask? )
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 [ profile] ambitious_woman
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... )
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 [ profile] ambitious_woman
Based on this thread.

Death is terrifying.

Mortality is terrifying.

Mortality and death have never touched the Doctor.

Not even when the slow path became his path.

Sure, everyone knows that everyone dies, but he's got time.

Always time.

He's always been a bit of a daredevil.

A troublemaker.

Troublemakers die early, they say.

Eh, probably, he figured.

He never thought it would happen to him.

And then the world ends.

And he runs.

Because that's what he does, he runs.

Then his ankle falters.

He falls.

They catch up.

How did three of them catch up so quickly?

Everybody knows that everybody dies. Nobody knows it better than the Doctor.

He's seen so many die.

So many ripped from the timeline; dead under his watch.

Just never him.

He's never been the one to be afraid.

If he gets hurt, he'll just regenerate.

Not this time.


The pain is excruciating and sharp and every ounce of knowledge and life and everything that's him and he knows and he's been all 900 years they're all pulled through every pore and every cell shriveled and burning and bloated and twisted and he's drained drained drained dry it hurts oh, fuck it hurts and it hurts and it's---

They're all right, aren't they?

There were only three Daleks in the house.

The rest of his companions got away.

Reinette got away.



He can live with that. Die with that.

Everybody knows that everybody dies.

It's the Doctor's turn.

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)(AU)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 233
Based on roleplay in [ profile] relativespace
As if things couldn't possibly have gotten any worse, it had decided to rain. The world was ending, different universes were bending and mixing beyond all reason, and in the midst of it all, it rained.

It was almost clichéd, really. )

Muse: The Doctor (Ten) (AU)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 4,447
Written With The Amazing: [ profile] clever_wanderer
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 [ profile] ambitious_woman and [ 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 [ 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.
It had been twenty years.

Twenty years since they first landed in London with the communicators. Twenty years since he'd re-met his Rose. Twenty years since he'd entered this universe.

And no escape. Not yet. Oh, there was a brief reprise, five years earlier, when he'd taken one last trip back to France. But other than that, it was London. London all the time. Traveling to find clues to figure out how to save the universe, but the universe wasn't having any of that saving business.

And there he was. In London. In his silver-tree-shaped TARDIS. Alone.

Reinette had died. Five years earlier. Lived much longer than they'd expected, and as she started to wither, he and Louis took her back to France, to die in the palace. Where she wasn't supposed to die, of course. Being a non-noble. But she was loved by a King and a lonely God. That was enough of a title for them. Louis stayed in France to tend to her. To make sure her grave was not lost in their universe as it was in the one the Doctor returned to.

Suzie left far earlier. Found her own calling or some such nonsense. Or maybe she was simply tired of the domestics. Now, he was simply alone. He'd gotten used to it, by now. It had become the norm these last five years as dressing in French silks had become the norm in the three years he spent in France before coming here.

He sat in a chair outside the TARDIS, looking over new information. The neverending war against the cosmic apocalypse that seemed to never come. The sonic screwdriver twirled in one hand. A gift from Reinette to the Doctor many, many years earlier. Helped made by Ted. How long had he blamed Ted for Reinette's death? Too long, he decided.
rude_not_ginger: (grin i like that)
( Dec. 26th, 2007 01:42 am)
*attached with several gizmos that dance around*

No gift could be better.

Love, The Doctor.


rude_not_ginger: (Default)
The Doctor


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