whoniverse1000 | Fic Post

Fic Post

This post is where everything happens. All stories/ficlets/drabbles go in the comments here. If your story's too long to fit in a single comment, please post it in your own journal and leave the link in a comment here along with your next pairing request(s). Make certain that you include the pairing you've written as the title of the comment, so that specific pairings can be found easily.

Please don't post any comments that aren't stories. That way, this post will show an accurate count of all the written stories. If you make a mistake or forget something, just edit your comment. If you write a story featuring a specific pairing but somebody posts their story before you post yours, please post it in the overflow post instead of the main one.

If you need help thinking of a pairing to request next or getting inspiration, don't forget The Doctor Who Random Pairing Generator. It includes all of the "main" characters from the various shows, audios, books, and spin-offs. People who aren't participating in the writing can list pairings here that authors can write and/or use as requests in this post.

The rules can be found on the community profile. The masterlist of all written pairings can be found here, while all requested pairings that are still open can be found here. If you want to leave feedback for one of the authors, please go to this post. Any other questions can be asked here.

Note: If you're writing a story for someone's request, please post it as a reply to their comment. Only create a new thread if you've written a pairing that nobody has requested yet.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The Master couldn't help but feel a perverse pleasure at the reaction his entrance caused. [...]

At the End of all Things :: (~1000 words)

Requests: Ben Jackson/Harry Sullivan, Fifth Doctor/Tenth Doctor, Jackie Tyler/Sarah Jane Smith

'Oh, you're BRILLIANT! Really, you are BEAUTIFUL! what species are you? No! Wait, wait, don't tell me! You and the ship are connected, aren't you? And the ship, it's part organic, part machine, isn't it? What's the word? Oh come on, what is it? Wait, wait, wait, ch ch ch, I'll get it! BIOMECHANOID! That's it, isn't it? Ingenious, really. Absolutely beautiful. But can you move from there? How do you get out?'

'I don't. You are quite right, Pilots and Leviathans are bonded when both are old enough. I cannot leave this den and I am dependent on Moya for food, air supply, everything.'

'But why? Why do that? What's the point? What's in it for you or, come to that, for the ships?'

'It is not a path many choose. There are wild Leviathans, but not many, and not all Pilots choose to bond with a ship. You see, Leviathans are happiest when they are serving others, with passengers, a crew. People to look after and care for. As for Pilots, well...For some, it's a guaranteed, continuous source of food. For others, a chance to travel.'

'I like a bit of travel, me. Broadens the mind. And you? Which is it for you?

'I wanted...to see the stars.'

The Doctor reached out his hand and stroked the creature's cheek, gently.

'Yeah. So did I.'

Requests: Five/Emma Peel (crossover with 'The Avengers'), Romana II/Benny Summerfield, Romana/Rani/Iris Wildthyme

Edited 2008-10-08 09:15 (UTC)

It occurs to Jack every now and then that he doesn't know how this happened. He loves all of his team, but there's a gap between love and in love, and one day he looked up and found he'd slipped somehow from one to the other.

It occurs to him that he can't afford this anymore - bad enough to watch everyone die around him, to know he'll outlive everything he cares about, but it's a step further, digs the knife a little deeper when he cares about them like this.

There are a hundred things that occur to him, lying in the dark while Ianto sleeps - plenty to think about when you never sleep yourself. Sometimes he pushes himself out of bed, climbs back up to his office and finds some way to keep himself occupied, keep himself from thinking about it. Other times, he stays in the bed, listens to Ianto's breathing, his heartbeat, and finds he stops thinking about those things without even trying.

Requests: Tenth Doctor/Giacomo Casanova, Donna Noble/Gwen Cooper, Martha Jones/Tallulah (from "Daleks in Manhattan"/"Evolution of the Daleks")

The Random Pairing Generator gave me: Grace Holloway/Brigadier Alastair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart/prison I responded with 500 words...

The cell is tiny. The bunk-beds that they’re chained to take up most of the room. In the circumstances it might be expected that they would take advantage of the brief moments of privacy to rest in separate beds. They do not.

She curls tight at his side, the serge of his uniform solid and reassuring under her broken fingers. Listening to his tales of plans and schemes, talking together of a girl walking the earth and a foe they both know well dancing blindly towards his doom. They do not speak of the horrors they endure in this aerial prison, nor the dark stain that is spreading across his uniform despite her careful bandaging. His breath is growing increasing laboured and she can feel the deep burn of infection in her side and leg. The compulsive shakes come more often now, and the hand gently stroking her hair brings little respite.

She focuses on better times. Remembering secret meetings deep in the jungle, back then the Amazon rainforest was one of the few places that the Toclafane couldn’t penetrate Flora too dense for those flying monstrosities, fauna too aggressive for their human foot soldiers. Hope and spirits had been high back then, rumour came from South Africa about a lightning strike that might bring them all the answers they needed, and a girl already more than half myth was arriving with a tale to tell, and the need for a better cover story. Plans are being formed and schematics drawn up, so she steals moments away from the bustle to talk with the young woman about field medicine. The tension seems to seep away in those quiet times and they can both pretend that Martha’s an ordinary medical student preparing to go off on voluntary work with Médecins Sans Frontières. He enjoys watching Grace play teacher, much as he values her strategic thinking, he never feels he’s doing his job right if his medical officers aren’t getting to do theirs. The storyteller moves on, and the mood darkens, especially when scouts into Nauta bring back news of Japan’s fate. Soon enough they have other things on their mind, the soldiers come, with an army of flying horrors that not even the jungle can keep at bay.

She feels his hand still in her hair, coming to rescue on the grubby shoulder of her once pristine white coat.

“Cheer up, Dr Holloway, at least we’ll always have Peru.”

She knows what he’s not saying, and she’s unsure whether she wants to laugh or cry with frustration at his stubborn, old-fashioned pride. Instead she does neither, simply plays along with his transparent ploy.

“Here’s looking at you Brig.”

His laughter is quietening, chest no longer rattling and gurgling. The poisons cease to flow through her circulation, halting their steady advancement on her heart. They sleep soundly in spite of their injuries, they have a better comfort than knowing this too must pass. They know the truth. All this will never be.

Requests: Donna Noble/Ace McShane, Liz Shaw/Third Doctor, Ninth Doctor/Grace Holloway

Edited 2008-11-16 23:55 (UTC)

I am a sockpuppet, because this is rather embarrassing, but... well, here it is.

Under Another Moon

A few years after Liz left UNIT, the Doctor showed up in her lab at Cambridge, as tall and white-haired and dapper as ever. "I think I owe you a trip in the TARDIS for putting up with all my nonsense," he told her, and though she protested that she had her own work now and no time to waste, she took his hand. "Just one, then," she said.

He took her to an alien planet, a quiet wilderness of shining blue-green trees under a giant blue moon, where meteors fell much brighter and thicker than they were ever seen on Earth. Together they climbed to the brow of a hill where the forest stopped for a space and the land fell away, slanting sharply downward to the gleaming forest lands below.

Liz stood at the edge of the hill, staring over the rustling trees. Behind her he spread out his cape on the ground, like a picnic blanket, and came to stand close behind her. "Beautiful, isn't it?" he asked proudly.

"Yes," Liz agreed. "It's stunning."

"It's supposed to be very romantic," he said - a bit diffidently, but his hands were on her shoulders. She could feel his breath in her hair.

Liz turned around. What the hell, then. No time like the present. "It is," she said, and kissed him.

He took the kiss hungrily, returning it, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. Her hands were already between them, unfastening the frogs of his jacket. One of his hands slid under her hair, cupping her neck, and the cold touch of it made her gasp; his other hand was at the zipper of her dress.

He broke the kiss and pulled back, looking into her eyes. "I'm sorry, did I--are you sure--"

"Sure!" she laughed, incredulous. "I've been wanting this ever since I met you!" She stretched up to kiss him again, interrupting his quiet smile, and he unzipped her dress decisively while she finished unbuttoning his ruffled shirt. His cool hands moved down her back, unfastening her brassiere, as she stripped both shirt and jacket off his shoulders, together with his braces.

*************************************************

Afterward, they did it all over again, lying on his cape in the alien moonlight. He told her with a mischievous smile that his double vascular system gave him extra endurance, and when after a time she lay drained and laughing underneath him in the thoroughness of her pleasure, she had to admit he was right.

Requests: Liz/TARDIS, Three/TARDIS, Three/Liz/TARDIS... shush, you. o_O

Most of the time Tosh can convince herself and everyone else that she doesn’t care. Sometimes on her own at night in her immaculate, empty flat she gives into her hurt, cries herself to sleep, whispering her hate for Owen and Gwen into the pillow. Nights like tonight she gets blind drunk, kisses a stranger and walks home alone, pausing only to shout at the stars.

She’s just getting into her stride when she spots him. Gwen’s bumbling, oblivious boyfriend, the last thing she needs right now. Though from the way he makes a bee-line for her the moment he spots her, Tosh suspects that he’s not quite so oblivious anymore. She can feel the anger coming off him in waves, and although she resents his invasion of her bolthole she acknowledges that she’s spoiling for a fight and he’s the best prospect in sight. Accusations, resentments and insults fly thick and fast from the moment he reaches her booth. They snipe and snarl at each other over the shared knowledge that neither of them wants, before falling into silence, broken only by Rhys ordering another drink for them both. There will be many more, and just as much honesty before either of them can begin to face going home.

In the circumstances she expects the sex to be quick and violent, that’s how these things are supposed to work, she thinks. All anger and revenge. Instead it’s almost obscenely tender. Resentment and rage do not leave scratches, bruises or bite-marks on the skin of either, pity and alcohol do not leave a bitter taste in their mouths. There is only understanding and forgiveness here. She wakes to find him watching her sleep, and is surprised to be greeted by feelings of affection rather than recrimination. They both know without discussion that this morning won’t be repeated so they savour their stolen moment while they can. Eating breakfast in bed and enjoying the feeling of broken hearts healing, just a little.

She shouldn’t be dancing with the groom but given that the bride has been gently mooned over by at least two of her workmates on the dance-floor, she reckons she’s earned this moment of weakness. He’s a surprisingly good dancer, for all he lacks Jack’s flair, she likes the way Rhys effortlessly matches her pace, never feeling like she’s struggling to keep up. Normally she hates to be spun but with him she feels safe, enjoying the illusion that he’d never let anyone hurt her. They part on a reminder that they could both do better, before stealing Owen and Gwen back from each other, with only the tiniest of regrets. Love will always overrule logic in both their hearts.

Requests: Izzy Sinclair/Fey Truscott-Sade, Izzy Sinclair/Frida Kahlo, Izzy Sinclair/Destrii

''It's all right.''

She smooths his hair away from his forehead, soothingly, almost like a mother. She's not his mother, of course; he wouldn't want to rest his head quite so close against his mother's bosom. He smirks to himself, in spite of everything.

''I'm sorry you had to lose another body because of me.''

''My pleasure.''

A warm glow is spreading slowly across his features.

Romana smiles.

Requests: Any Doctor/Any Romana, Sarah Jane/Mike Yates, Maria/Clyde

Edited 2009-01-07 22:41 (UTC)

mathēmatikós

"Just like that," the Doctor says, waving his hand through the air, drawing an imaginary arc across the sky. "Coordinates exactly right, wouldn't you say?"

Adric takes a deep breath: the air here is fresh and clean, and the two suns shine brightly against the blue backdrop, making the whole world seem awake and alive. There's an ocean off in the distance, and mountains and fields and a brilliant-looking city dominated by a giant spaceport. It's completely fantastic, he thinks.

"Just like that," he repeats, running his hand absent-mindedly over his badge. "But weren't you taking me to the primitive sun god festival, probably about nineteen hundred years earlier? I think you must have transposed a number or two."

The Doctor blusters and strides off towards the spaceport. Adric follows a step behind. It's always a competition: the give-and-take, the argument. He wonders why he still does this. He thinks that the Doctor understands – really understands – that this is how boys like him communicate, in numbers and awkward deflections, while loving as hard as they can underneath.

There's trouble at the spaceport, of course. Adric gets to fly a hyperspatial jet with cool cloaking capabilities. The Doctor tries not to grin too much when he gets to take it apart and tinker after they've won the war. Adric smiles more than he thinks he ever might again.

He's wrong, of course, and it's the one time he admits to himself that he doesn't mind.

*

There's no one moment; it doesn't work like that for a Time Lord and an Alzarian boy, who sometimes can barely stand each other, who sometimes are the best of friends.

He loves as hard as he can underneath – as much as he can – and the Doctor understands.

*

This time it's night, with three moons and only a handful of stars to be seen through the cloud cover. The Doctor is standing in front of it, tall and magisterial and alien beyond anything else Adric has seen in his jumps around the universe.

Adric shivers; it's cold outside. It's a bit lonely, too, rattling around just the two of them, and he thinks things are about to change. Nothing stays static in the Doctor's life. It wouldn't be right if it did.

The Doctor turns around, settles a friendly eye on Adric's face. Adric flushes, a little, under the knowing gaze, and the respect it imparts.

"Did someone walk over your grave?" the Doctor asks, to Adric's puzzlement. "It's an old Earth saying," he explains. "But don't you worry, young Adric, you have a long life ahead of you yet, and I'm sure it's going to be glorious."

The Doctor turns back to the stars impassively, but reaches out a hand behind him. Adric stretches out his own to meet it.

*

Everyone changes, and everyone dies, and on a freighter so far in the future and past a boy fights like a man for someone lost, and the hope of another chance to fly a really cool jet while his best friend sits beside him and smiles and smiles.

Requests: One/Edith ("The Time Meddler"), Anji/Martha, Fitz/Rose

Edited 2009-01-07 20:54 (UTC)

He thinks of her from time to time. Cameca had been a truly marvelous woman. Decades could pass and he wouldn't think of her at all, but then something would cause her to come to mind. Not often, but occasionally. She'd managed to utterly captivate him, but then he had been young at the time. Still he had almost wanted to stay with her, for the few short years she had left, but that wouldn't have been fair to anyone. Not that it had even been an option in the end.

Still occasionally she'll come to mind. He'll clean out a closet and find the bracelet she'd given him (he loses it every century or so) or he'll come across a particularly lovely garden. Peri had inadvertently caused him to think of Cameca on a semi-regular basis. He hopes that she had a good life, those years left to her. He hopes that she didn't think of him. He hadn't loved her, but he thinks that he could have. If he'd had the time to spend with her, without interruptions. Sometimes he almost goes back to her, but what would he tell her? He wasn't the man she had known, hadn't been him for so very many years.

Requests: Charley/Ace, Charley/Martha, Charley/Rose

She’s met Iris several times over the years, in several different incarnations and one thing she never is, is quiet. Brash, vivacious, obnoxious, joyous, affectionate, just plain loud, could all have been used to describe Iris in the past. Yet the woman sitting hunched at Izzy’s kitchen table, muted and lost is definitely Iris. She almost hadn’t recognised the older woman so different had she seemed standing on her doorstep. Below the faded platinum hair and haunted eyes, she hears the truth of the words – in her dreams for weeks before Gallifrey has burned. She lets her in, makes her tea, and finds some gin to lace it with, without a word.

(There was a war. Daleks. Everybody lost.)

It’s the silence that gets to you, Iris tells her. The absence of the constant buzz of awareness, in the back of her head, that marked the presence of the rest of her species. That, she insists, is why the renegades are always so loud, shouting at the universe, trying to drown out the sound of the people they can never escape. No matter how far they travel, how fast they run. Calling them home.

She can feel the turn of the earth beneath her feet and she the patterns time lines make as they twist, flowing and changing, forming the future in front of her eyes. She cannot however, tell where the Doctor is, other than that he is alive. That she has no doubt about. There is steel behind the sadness in Iris’ eyes when she states this, and Izzy wisely does not press her on why she’s so sure. She does not ask about Fey’s fate, Iris does not tell.

She knows why Iris is here, because Izzy has seen Gallifrey, she remembers. More than that though, Izzy knows full well the need to run from everything you know, the way normal life can suffocate you, the desperate need for excitement and adventure; and the need for a home to return to. Iris has run for nearly as long as the Doctor, little as either of them desired to go home, now the choice is no longer there.

Iris’ hair is bound up in an untidy bun, so Izzy takes it down for her and brushes the yards of it out thoroughly. Highlights are long in Izzy’s past but image has always been so central to who Iris is, faced with this tangle-haired all but silent stranger, she can think of no better way to begin. She rattles on to her muted companion, about her hairdresser flatmate and his continuing unsuccessful attempts to get her to do ‘interesting’ things to her hair. Threatens to let him loose on Iris’s hair, trying desperately to activate Iris’s latent vanity. Every ghost of smile feels like a bitter victory.

The night grows late and they cease to mix the gin with tea. Ignoring the edge of hysteria to their laughter as they share their own tall tales of adventures among the stars and here on earth. Pushing back the silence as best they can. Eventually they fall into bed, and it is here that Izzy begins to recognise her. Her eyes loose their lost dull look, and suddenly though briefly she feels alive beneath Izzy’s fingers and full of that fierce passion that she associates with Iris. She does her best to ignore the words Iris whispers against her skin, places and people, some she recognises some she doesn’t; a litany of the dead. Unable to quite shift the notion that the taste on Iris’ lips is death rather than merely dead cigarettes, drowning out the hint of thunderstorms.

She wakes in the morning to an empty bed, and a note in bright pink lipstick on the pillow. She smiles at the note and puts it carefully in the box with her old love letters, anchored by a key on a chain she no longer wears.

Requests: Izzy Sinclair/Sally Sparrow, Izzy Sinclair/Sam Jones, Iris Wildthyme/Sally Sparrow

Edited 2009-01-12 00:04 (UTC)

The acoustics were weird out here, at the lunch tables where the playground met the edge of the football pitch and where it was only sunny enough to sit three lunchtimes a year. At least, Clyde had never noticed it before, but he assumed that was why it had just sounded like Rani had asked him out.

“Sorry, what?”

“I said we could go to the cinema some time. When the world’s not ending. If you wanted to. Maybe.” Her smile was fading fast. “Look, just forget it.”

“No, no!” She’d moved to get up from the table and he put his hand out to stop her, then jerked it back. A minute ago she’d been his mate, and now he felt weird. Plus, her dad would be lurking somewhere, scanning the grounds like the Terminator, and if he was handing out detentions for a bit of harmless mucking about in double chemistry it’d be the death penalty for boys caught laying their hands on his daughter.

Not that he’d given any thought to Rani and... hands...

“Luke’s coming over,” she said, looking miserable. “I know you tell him everything, but...”

“Don’t tell him we’re going to the cinema without him? Yeah, okay. We didn’t tell you when we sneaked into Saw IV. Pick what you want to see and we’ll meet up there, yeah? And if it’s a girls’ film you’re buying your own popcorn.”

Her smile made him feel like a total king.

Reqs: Maria/Rani, Eight/Charley/Fitz, Ten/Jackson Lake

This, Gwen decided, was one of the worst ideas she had ever had.

She couldn't tell Rhys about her work, but -just to put his mind at ease- she had introduced him to her co-workers. He had been relatively friendly with Ianto (but had later complained to her that Ianto's rather smart clothing tastes had made him more than a little uncomfortable), but Toshiko had claimed that she was too busy with work, and besides, she wasn't one for social situations.

And Jack...well, it just hadn't worked.

So this left Owen. And this is where things got more than a little complicated because she -apart from that one time with the Retcon- had never told Rhys about her affair with Owen, and...she honestly expected to have to split the pair of them up within the first ten minutes of them meeting.

It hadn't happened.

Besides the usual couple of Welsh jokes (which Rhys had actually found entertaining, and proceeded to teach Owen a few more), a bit of drunken singing (which, for Toshiko's sake, Gwen had recorded on her mobile phone) and a rather heated argument over the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow (after which she promised herself that she was getting rid of all of Rhys' Monty Python DVD's, and possibly all of Owen's), the evening had gone without consequence.

Almost.

She still can't remember why all three of them woke up naked next to a Monopoly board. Pity, because it looked like she had been winning their game before she went to sleep.

Weddings (http://geenoway.livejournal.com/8515.html#cutid1)

Request: Seven/Hex

The Doctor has sex with Jack sometimes. And Jack doesn't mind, and Jack sure as hell doesn't complain, and of course Jack enjoys it, but it's not the way he'd prefer things.

Because the Doctor and Jack, they don't have sex. Jack doesn't have sex with the Doctor. It's always the Doctor, hands on his hips and mouth on his, pushing him to the bed, or the wall, or whatever else happens to be nearby and convenient. The Doctor's broad hands, the Doctor's tongue and teeth and when Jack reaches out to reciprocate, the Doctor twists easily away from under his hands like a cat, like liquid, like smoke. Jack ends up naked and gasping and spent, and the Doctor walks away, never having even taken off his jumper, with a smirk that Jack is certain never wavered through the whole thing.

Sometimes he thinks it's just another way of keeping him in line, asserting dominance, that distant look in his eyes Jack catches sometimes, focused, intent, evaluating. Systems of reward, a pat on the head or a hand settled on the back of his neck means the same as sucking his cock, just a matter of degree. But then he'll catch a different look in the man's eyes, just as intent, but warmer, and almost fond, almost...

Jack gets sex, the same way he gets most complex tech, tactical war games, the same way he gets torture, because it's all the same in the end, the body's reaction to one stimulus or another, too intertwined to properly separate the one from the other. What he doesn't get is this, where he stands, what game they're even playing and if it's a game at all. All he knows is that he comes when the Doctor calls, falls to heel when the Doctor snaps, and whatever they are doing, game or challenge or tactical campaign, the Doctor's always, always winning.

Requests: Fifth Doctor/River Song, Jack Harkness/Mickey Smith, Jack Harkness/Suzie Costello/Toshiko Sato

A/N: Post-ep for "Parting of the Ways"

----
“You stuck out here too, huh?”

“Affirmative.”

Jack leaned back against the wall and surveyed his surroundings. He’d checked floor after floor until they all looked the same; there wasn’t a single human left alive on the Game Station. He’d been just about to start looking for escape pods when the robot dog came crashing through the window.

It was right about then that the whole immortal thing started to set in. Waking up after getting sucked into space would do that to you. (Note for future reference: You have about fifteen seconds to get back before you die again. It had been an interesting half-hour.)

“So,” he cast about for something to say. “What’s a…robot dog like you doing in a place like this?”

The robot clicked and whirred; the tiny processors that passed for ears spun with what seemed to be effort. “Insufficient data,” it pronounced at last. “Most recent readings indicate spacetime fluctuations in proximity to CVE. Hypothesis: Unstable coordinates caused interference in this unit’s flight pattern.”

Careening off through space and time. Not so different from him, really.

He was glad for the company, anyway. And he’d certainly held decent conversations (among other things) with less articulate robots.

“You got a name?”

“My designation is K-9 Mark Two.”
----

Requests: Liz Shaw/Jean Basemore (from "The Blue Tooth"), Brigade Leader Lethbridge-Stewart/Platoon Under Leader Benton (both from "Inferno"), CAL/Miss Evangelista (both from "Silence in the Library"/"Forest of the Dead")

There are two parts of her twined together in nothing, just for a microsecond, but so much happens then. Maybe it's just that time means nothing anymore. Not that Miss Evangelista thinks of that - she's never been very smart.

I'm going to save you, the voice says. A little girl, but not a little girl, somehow. It's all very confusing.

Please, she thinks, how are you going to save me? I think they ate me. It wasn't very nice of them.

You will be uploaded into my databanks. I'll save you there, and there's a whole world. You'll be able to have a very nice life.

Save? she wonders. Like a computer?

Yes. Just like a computer. I am a computer.

Please, miss computer, could you... oh, it's rather stupid of me to ask, I'm sorry. Never mind.

Oh, do ask! I don't think it could be stupid. Not like this.

Well... Miss Evangelista hesitates. Could you make me smart, when you save me? Just a little? I don't like being stupid.

Of course I will, is the response, and Miss Evangelista is saved.

It takes only a nanosecond, and by the time the others come running, she's laughing in a fabricated world, and cares nothing for her twisted face in light of the fact that right now, finally, she knows she's smart.

She doubts he’s got a sixth sense (well, she reasons to herself, he hasn’t got any anymore), but she’s certain he can feel her watching him.

“I’m not that cold,” Owen tells her.

It takes Martha a moment to realise just who it is that he’s talking to. “Excuse me?” she says.

“You were thinking about what it would be like to kiss me, I could tell.”

“I’m pretty sure most psychiatrists would have a field day with me if they got their chance, but that’s just wrong.”

“Look,” he says to her, “think of it as an experiment.” Martha looks at him and wonders what on Earth he thinks it is that she’s been doing here. Of course she doesn’t tell him that she’s been questioning it herself lately.

Martha gets back to business. “Looks like you’re keeping that hand well protected, which is good.”

“What’s it called? Keeping up appearances?” he ponders.

She smiles at him and goes to pack her things away. “I’m going home now,” she tells him.

“Home, home? Or your hotel room, home? ‘Cos I don’t sleep now. Well, I never did at all really. You could have my bed if you like.”

“You’re dead, Owen,” she reminds him quite firmly. “Don’t you think it’s time you stopped all this?” He walks away first, back to his new space next to the coffee machine.

She’s seen witches swarm in the sky, scarecrows limping through fields, the end of the world, even, but she feels like she this is the most important thing she has ever witnessed. She’s a doctor, after all, and spending time with a dead man makes her feel like she’s almost lucky.

Then she remembers that she’s not retired, she’s not swapping stories at dinner parties and that she’s here to help him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she calls out.

-

After she’s made her way through the various one way systems in Cardiff, she arrives at her hotel to find a message waiting for her.

How am I supposed to change now?

She goes upstairs and thinks about her response. When she doesn’t come up with one, she wonders how you’re supposed to grieve for someone they meant more to you dead.

Of Scientists and Soldiers

Trapped between scientists and security again. Polly moved away from Major Rathbone, but not swiftly enough. He really didn’t seem to take a snub and she was expert at administering them. It was disturbing.

“Oh, do excuse me,” she gasped, slipping away from him again, as she spied the one decent man in the room. “It’s my fiancé.”

She caught hold of Colonel Lethbridge-Stewart by the arm and leant against him. “Play along,” she breathed, “otherwise I shall be doomed to spend the entire evening with the major and he’s such a grubby little man.”

In fact, even this didn’t seem to be forcing him to give up; she could swear she spotted him moving over again. Really.

“Miss Wright, I’m sorry, but I’m not here to -.”

“No, not like that,” she said crossly. “Like this.” And propelled into recklessness by the advance of the major, she kissed him.

Of course, it was a mad thing to do: he kissed her back and she was paid in full for her thoughtlessness, breathless as her sins caught up with her.

“I’m sorry,” she said eventually. The wretched major was nowhere in sight anyway. She was flustered for once. She knew he was married. “I really am most dreadfully sorry.”

He directed a wry look at her. “I only wish I was.”

***

Requests: Harry Sullivan/Charley Pollard; Brigadier/Tegan; Polly/Shakespeare.

A stranger stands at the back of the village hall as the tally of the votes is read out. An odd-looking young man, Harriet thinks, if pleasant.

The jumble of his features fit together like a complete jigsaw, but she can’t understand the picture.

He looks straight at her, and normally she’d be flustered, embarrassed to be caught studying a complete stranger so intently, but he smiles crookedly, just as her share of the vote is announced and a huge cheer arises from her friends, campaigners.

Later, he comes up to her amidst the congratulations.

“Harriet Jones.”

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” she asks, even though him knowing her name isn’t surprising. It has just been broadcast across the hall by Peter and his microphone and she is the MP, after all. Gosh, she’s the MP. Harriet Jones, MP for Flydale North.

“You deserved a second chance,” he says, and suddenly, unexpectedly, leans in to kiss her cheek.

He’s gone when she opens her eyes, though her mother’s teasing and the remarkably cool sensation of breath against her skin lingers on.

Requests: Chrissie Jackson/Captain Magambo, Jack Harkness/Martha Jones/Tom Milligan, Tegan Jovanka/Mickey Smith

Picasso

Fitz never told the Doctor about the fourth time Guernica was destroyed.

It had been a nothingness; a great big nothingness that suddenly resolved itself into a clattering thunder. There were planes; there were retreating troops setting the town alight; it was everything and nothing happening at once, like a film, like a dream.

He glanced over at Sasha, and was shocked at what he saw. The other man was blinking rapidly, in time with each new roar - no, a little ahead of each one. He was conducting a symphony; he was manipulating reality.

Fitz hit him. It seemed the only logical solution at the time. Sasha's glasses were knocked from his face. The world went quiet.

"This isn't real," Sasha said, strangely smaller, more ephemeral, without the wire frames.

"It feels the most real of all," Fitz replied. He reached out a hand, and Sasha took it. They stood up, and walked in silence towards the town.

*

"I didn't mean to use you," Sasha said later. He reached a hand out to Fitz's cheek, touched it gently. They were hunkered down in the remains of a barn, sitting close together in the hay. They were the only ones left; maybe the only ones who had ever existed.

"You're out of time," Sasha continued, but gently, so gently. "Not in the colloquial sense, but the metaphysical, of course."

"Will this start over?" Fitz asked. He shuddered; it was cold. It was cold and Sasha still hadn't put his glasses back on.

Sasha shrugged. "Probably. I'm not an expert, just a bit player. An agent."

"Bit like me," Fitz said, laughing a little. "Why have you stuck with me? What's my role in all this?"

Sasha looked at him, a little sadly. "A pawn, mostly; a useful acquaintance. But intriguing, too. I couldn't leave you behind."

Sasha reached out his hand again, and leaned in as well. Fitz froze. Sasha's hand was on his waist and his mouth was there by his own and the world was shivering, taking great big lungfuls of air like Fitz was, trying to keep from drowning, trying to stay afloat.

Sasha smelled like dirt and musty hay and blood and the unknown, in many senses of the word. Sasha's eyes were dark and faraway. Fitz took a breath again as they connected. The world stopped -

- they kissed like long-lost lovers, reunited at last, hands and lips and bodies colliding through space -

- they watched in horror as the universe rejected them, wind rushing in their ears, wiping their connection out of history -

- Fitz's eyes opened wide as Sasha merely breathed gently onto his lips, a sigh, a regret, and it was over -

*

They were heading home. Sasha picked up his glasses from the ground and carefully put them back on his face, balanced on his nose. The world became more focused for everyone; Fitz shook his head.

"Don't speak for a moment," Sasha said quietly. "Get your bearings. Only one is real. Your choice which one."

"What?" Fitz hadn't caught what Sasha had said. His ears were still ringing, his head still buzzing with three realities, and a shadow, a creeping sensation of something terrifyingly large in the fourth.

Sasha smiled; it was wide and harmless. "We walk now, my friend," he said, slapping Fitz on the back.

Fitz smiled back. The light reflected off Sasha's glasses, threw shadows against the ground.

Requests: Eight/Sabbath, Nine/Sabbath, Rosita/Ten

Edited 2009-06-25 02:38 (UTC)

Ianto Jones found Mr and Mrs Jones absolutely fascinating people.

His father didn’t approve. He muttered things about crazy aging hippies and nutters and freaks. He told Ianto and Rhiannon to stay away from them. But Ianto knew that he wasn’t going to. Mr and Mrs Jones were just too cool, not like anyone else he’d ever met. At the time, he thought he’d never met anyone else like them at all.

They never seemed to mind him going over there after school. Mrs Jones especially. Only he wasn’t allowed to call her that, right from the start.

“Call me Jo!” she told him. “Mrs Jones makes me sound so old!”

Ianto thought she was the most wonderful woman he’d ever seen. She had a big mouth that was always smiling and big, sparkly eyes. Her hair was mostly gold but there were strands of grey that she was always pulling on and moaning about how she should just dye her hair and pretend she was about ten years younger. If Mr Jones was around when she said that, he would start arguing with her about how hair dye was unnecessary vanity and a waste of resources. They were often fighting about things. It was kind of like Ianto’s parents except that Ianto never felt unsafe with Mr and Mrs Jones. They always made up at the end, usually before it ever got too serious. Ianto found it really rather sweet.

Their house was full of interesting things. Ianto was always asking about them and Jo always seemed to have a story about everything he ever looked at. Some of the stories Ianto thought were real, others he wasn’t so sure about. Jo told him that some of these objects – strange as they were – came from other worlds, other times. She quite casually mentioned journeying through time and space as though it was something anyone might have done. When Ianto asked her if she was making fun of him, she looked a little hurt at the idea, as though he was accusing her of lying. But she never stopped telling him the stories. And Ianto slowly realised that he really did almost believe them. When Jo said things … he believed them. Maybe it was because she was Jo.

She was his first big teenage crush. He’d spent embarrassing hours thinking about her hair and her eyes and that mouth and the occasional glimpses he’d got her very long legs and cleavage. She was older than him, much older but he didn’t care. He was young and she was wonderful and as far as he was concerned, she was the love of his life. And she knew all about the world (and quite a lot about what lay beyond it!) If he was going to marry someone, he thought it would be someone like her.

Of course, his father would have hated that. His father was furious when he found out Ianto was spending so much time at the Joneses when he’d been ordered not to. He told Ianto that he was never to go again, that he was to forget everything those mad hippies had said. He went round to their house too. Ianto was forced to watch from the car as his father shouted and Jo looked more and more sad. When his father finally turned away, Jo gave him a last wave and a small smile. Ianto couldn’t return it. But he remembered it. He remembered it all his life.

He remembered the stories too. He never forgot a single story Jo had told him about the aliens. And after he got a job in Torchwood One, he was pleased to find out that everything she’d ever said was true.

Although sometimes, somehow, it wasn’t quite as fun as she’d made it sound.

- - -

Requests: Adric/Luke Rattigan (from The Sontaran Stratagem/The Poison Sky), Mike Yates/Three, Mike Yates/Delgado!Master

Her eyes still hurt. The Doctor's arm is in hers, formally, as though they are a pair of elders of her people walking to a ritual. This is a test, she knows.

At least inside the Doctor's ship the paths are all level. With her eyes blinded like an old woman's, she must rely on her other senses: they are always keen, but the keener now that she must navigate with them. Their footfalls echo against the narrow walls. The ship is crooning to her, like a mother. “Not far now,” says the Doctor, and it arrives at her ears like a counter-melody.

His scarf is around her shoulders, draping between them; not as a mark of possession, but as a mark of respect. She wears his colours. His scent is on the wool. Fascinating.

Cool yet dry, his fingers weave into hers. She clasps them a little closer. He seems uncertain, but she feels his four-footed pulse quicken, just a little. They are not so very different from each other: healers and warriors both. Both of them are, at heart, animals, members of the wider chain of life in the universe.

The door to her room is ajar; she can scent the wooden things, the leaves, and the dusty skins she and the Doctor dragged into it. “You should rest,” he says, in a voice flat as a pond; I do not want to hurt you, he means.

“Only my eyes are hurt, Doctor,” she reminds him. “If I am not to die, then I must make the most of this life. You may have all time, but these moments belong to both of us.”

“It will pass, you know,” he says, and though he's talking about her eyes she knows he means I do not want you to hurt me, either.

“I know,” she says. “Trust me, Doctor,” she adds, answering both what he says and doesn't say, and with a hunter's marksmanship meets his mouth with hers.

It’s not a conventional relationship. Izzy never thought she’d be comfortable in a relationship with a married woman, but she’s prepared to make an exception for Fey. She knows exactly where Fey ends and Shayde begins, and suspects that they’re both a little bit grateful for that. Fey’s been on her own for so long that her own logic has been so reinforced by Shayde that she’s beginning to forget how to be human. Izzy likes reminding her of the benefits of being human, even if that occasionally means having a firm word with Shayde about how he’ll have Fey to himself for the rest of their lives. Izzy may only have a ‘tiny human life’ but she’s quite determined to use at least part of it to teach him to share, even if love’s a bit beyond him.

He seems to have jealousy down just fine.

Reinette likes this one. He is far from home, an exile from his own people, a little lonely but he dances well. He has fought for his King, for his people, for those he loves. Officially James McCrimmon is a mere piper, but when he is softened by a few drams, he sings songs in other languages, from other places, even – she suspects – other times.

Jamie only met her Doctor once – long before he was her Doctor she knows – but he dreams of monsters, monsters she saw lurking in the Doctor’s memories. There are holes in Jamie’s memories, a sense of loss that goes beyond his own war and Reinette can only wonder at what else her friend has lost.

I wrote this for a kink meme, but noticed that it was a pairing that hadn't been listed here. OF course, this comm hasn't been touched in ages, but I felt like sharing it anyway. It's too long for one comment, so I'll link to where I archived it.

http://www.tthfanfic.org/Story-23171/Joyful+Unearthly+Children.htm

Requests: Luke Smith/Jamie McCrimmon, Ace/Mickey

Originally written for the

eleven_romana ficathon:

Soon, Love, Soon

They

They don't see the stars the way we see them. When a human being looks at a star, we see its past – as it was, 25 million years ago. When they look at a star, they see both its past and its present, and usually its end. Most stars are pretty similar, anyway.

Read more at my journal (http://akashasheiress.livejournal.com/514183.html#cutid1)

Requests: Amy/Rory, Five/Romana, Seven/Romana

Edited 2010-12-06 22:15 (UTC)

The first time, they try it on the bottom bunk. It goes quite well until Amy (who is on top, Amy is usually on top) moves a little too enthusiastically and cracks her head on the bottom of the top, as it were.

“Ow!” she yells and Rory can’t help laughing even though it’s completely ruined the mood – perhaps because it has completely ruined the mood. Amy rubs her head and glares at him, then pretends to swoon and Rory grabs her and holds her close and they just about manage to reach a satisfactory conclusion.

The second time, they try it on the top bunk. That works better but Rory can’t get rid of the slightly worrying idea that one of them is going to fall off, sooner or later. It creaks in a rather alarming fashion too although they don’t really need to worry about being overheard. If the Doctor does sleep, it’s far away from their room. But Rory can’t help feeling that it’s a worrying noise all the same.

“Oh, you worry too much,” Amy says and so they continue to use the top bunk for a while until the bed collapses.

“How did you manage that?” the Doctor asks and then as Amy and Rory roll their eyes at each other, he says brightly. “Oh, I know! You’ve been having pillow fights, haven’t you? Naughty Ponds!”

They don’t bother to correct him.

Reguests: Amy Pond/Eleventh Doctor/Rory Williams, Mickey Smith/Rory Williams, Rory Williams/Vislor Turlough

A drabble written from the prompt "reunion, Eight/Jo":

Eight Times Better than Brazil

She was a little older and a little wiser in what risks she was willing to take with her life, or with her heart. He was a little older and wiser himself, and much in need of someone who could be there to lift his spirits, to bring him back to a joy of living, exploring.

And what a joy it had been, once more. How well they'd rediscovered now that the sweet spark had not been extinguished by the years. Together they were healed and renewed before a kaleidoscopic universe.

Besides, Jo had always loved the feel of velvet.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 4 of 5

Fic Post

Eighth Doctor/The Master (Jacobi)

Ten/Pilot from Farscape

Ianto Jones/Jack Harkness

Grace Holloway/Brigadier Alastair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart

Liz Shaw/Third Doctor, "Under Another Moon"

Toshiko Sato/Rhys Williams

Doctor/Romana (unspecified)

Four/Adric

Doctor(all)/Cameca

Iris Wildthyme/Izzy Sinclair

Clyde/Rani

Gwen Cooper/Rhys Williams/Owen Harper

Adric/Luke

Jack Harkness/Ninth Doctor

Jack Harkness/K-9 Mark II

CAL/Miss Evangelista

Martha/Owen

Brigadier/Polly Wright

Eleven/Harriet Jones

Fitz/Sasha (History 101)

Ianto Jones/Jo Grant

Four/Leela

Fey Truscott-Sade/Izzy Sinclair/Shayde

Jamie McCrimmon/Reinette Poisson

Susan Foreman/Luke Smith

Eleven/Romana (author created)

Amy Pond/Rory Williams (tiny, tiny spoiler for The Doctor's Wife)

no subject