He's Fire And Ice And Rage

Crushed

and

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

+~

He loved her, once.

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

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

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

Muse: The Doctor (The Valeyard)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 1,604
Partner: The TARDIS (canon)
written for the evil brigadiertardis, special thanks to salvagestime for the beta!

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 ambitious_woman

There's a first time for everything.

Follows this.

He couldn't sleep, of course. It wasn't as if he'd truly tried. He'd stripped off his clothes, showered, shaved, puttered about in his jim-jams, but never really found his way to his own bed. His arm didn't hurt nearly so bad anymore, but he couldn't seem to stop his stomach from aching. Too much had gone on. His room felt far too empty.

As with most nights, he wandered the TARDIS alone. Rose slept a ridiculous amount of time and there was always so much to do. Still, tonight he just put the kettle on and made some tea and watched it get cold without drinking any. He wished that he could've saved Rose's friend. His friend, in some ways. He felt as if he'd failed. And he worried about Rose. She looked heartbroken and that made failure worse. His failure hurt her. He should've just focused on the fact that he FAILED and that should've been enough, but it made it that much worse. Just a little bit more to push it over the edge into unbearable.

He left the mug of tea on the table and walked around a little more, felt the TARDIS vibrate beneath his feet. He wandered a few more corridors, eventually finding himself at Rose's door. The TARDIS must've been worried about her, he most certainly wasn't walking in the direction of the bedrooms. Was he? No, no, he wasn't.

She was probably sleeping. It wouldn't hurt to check on her, would it? He gently turned the knob on her door and pressed it open, just a little.