whoniverse1000 | Fic Post

Fic Post

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The trees remember everything. Things that are, things that were, things that will be. The Forest of Cheem is a repository of the memories of a galaxy. Remembering the histories of every species it has collectively encountered. Its travelling saplings send back knowledge and memories as their roots grow further into the earth of their new home planets. Deep down into the earth, soaking up the memories of the ground they walk upon and the sky above them. Remembering each planet’s birth pains, injuries and joys, each species that has graced or cursed its surface.

So too they know each planet’s end, whether cold and lonely in ice or loud and fast in flames. They remember all that isn’t, all that wasn’t, all that never will be. All those that have been lost to common memory are as old friends to them.

Many species are uncomfortable with them if they know about their memories, still more are comforted by it. They know all your sins, whether petty or huge, and they forgive each one, for its is all part of a greater pattern, one that binds the universe together. Picking their way steadily through the universe careful not to interfere in its warp and weft, knowing, grieving, rejoicing.

They miss the Time Lords, with their memories so much like their own. Yet so much colder, far less forgiving.

She stands on the spinning space platform, as the planet known as Earth dies below them, feeling the forest reaching out through her to give comfort to the world that birthed its ancestors. She holds the hand of the last of a terribly rare and much missed species and reaches out her own mind to his. For a brief moment his eyes close and his mind reaches out to her own, releasing the burden he bears, just for a moment.

In that moment she knows her own end, and in this moment remembering his world with him, her only regret is that her time on the same path as he has been so very short.

Rose/Jabe, Ten/Shakespeare, Ace/Rani

Edited 2008-05-27 21:52 (UTC)

Time Lords were telepathic, usually only mildly. The human capacity for telepathy tended to begin and end at identifying psychic paper as such.

The Doctor had left Ace here, as Rani's ward; had warned the Rani that if anything happened to his Companion, the Daleks' fate would be mild compared to Rani's.

So Ace stayed in the labs, as did the Rani, working at all hours of - well, there was no day or night, not here, on a world tidally-locked to its red dwarf sun.

But on those rare moments when both women sleep - usually on opposite ends of the facility so they don't kill one another, regardless of the Doctor's orders - their minds touch.

It's why the Rani permits Ace to try her hand at refining the chemicals that will end up in the next walking weapon that her lab will supply for the Time War...based on chemical-squirting beetles of Earth, fittingly. The Daleks shall puzzle over this, no doubt, which amused Rani, and was why she permitted Ace these liberties.

Ace has other thoughts in her sleep, other reasons why the Rani tolerates her. Doctor! which runs through the Rani's own thoughts; they both know the Doctor, both feel for him, both have measures of feelings for him.

Shared feelings, both before and after their minds touch at a physical distance.

„Was this what you had in mind when you mentioned that we could flirt later?“ Shakespeare stretched his arms languidly over his head, before wrapping one around the Doctor's chest. PLACE

„Uhm... to be honest, not quite. I mean I always did suspect, but then again... different places, different customs, you know.“ The Doctor smiled back at Shakespeare.

„Yeah, about that... where are you from, exactly?“ Shakespeare's tone was still light and playful, but there was a seriousness underlying the question that made the Doctor squirm a little.

„Ah, well... we don't have to talk about this now, do we?“ The Doctor pushed himself up on one elbow and looked down at Shakespeare. „I can think of a lot of other things we could do instead. And they would be much more fun,“ he grinned.

„Oh really? And what did you have in mind, Doctor?“ Shakespeare grinned back at him.

„Well... you could read me a sonnet.“

„Seriously?“

„Yes. Come on. I've always wanted someone to read me a sonnet. Well, not just any someone. I want you to read me one. Please?“

Shakespeare sighed. „Alright. You are a very strange man, Doctor.“

„So I've been told.“

Shakespeare sat up and rested himself against the headboard. Then he furrowed his brow for a while. Finally he took a deep breath and began in a recital tone. „O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power dost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle, hour; who hast by waning grown, and therein show'st-“

„Stop,“ the Doctor interrupted.

„What, don't you like it? I wrote it about two months ago. It fits you.“

„I know. I've changed my mind, though.“

„What would you prefer that I do instead?“ Shakespeare looked a mixture between confused and put off. The Doctor gave him a consiliatory smile.

„You could kiss me.“

„Now, that sounds like a good idea,“ Shakespeare answered, his smile coming back, and followed it through with a bone-melting kiss.

„You kiss just as well as you write, Bill,“ the Doctor said when they broke apart.

„Wait till you see what else I can do.“

“I can imagine-“ the Doctor started, but was cut off by Shakespeare.

„Enough talking for tonight.“

„Brilliant idea,“ the Doctor agreed and pulled Shakespeare in for another kiss.

Jack Harkness/Jack Harkness(41), Jack/Ten/Master(Simm), DonnaNoble/River Song

"This isn't how it's suppose to be is it?"

James Harper looks out over the ruined and mostly barren land from their place along the tench. He searched his brain for a picture from his past, of water and trees and tall buildings rising against the skyline, happy people dashing from awning to awning to keep from being drenched by the rain.

"No." he answered simply.

"And it's all because of me." it wasn't a question.

James turned his eyes toward the other man who's hazel eyes suddenly seemed to lose the sparkle they had once held. He never wanted to see him look so sad, he began to regret telling the other man the truth. He shook his head and raised his hand to cup his companion's shoulder with a soft squeeze that cause their eyes to meet.

"No, it's because of me, never think anything else."

"But I'm the one who's not suppose to be here. It's me who..."

"Jack," a firm hand on Jack's cheek stopped him from continuing, "it doesn't matter. Your fault, my fault. None of it matters. I would have paid any price. I have you, the rest is just-- something I'll have to fix later."

"Later?" Jack's lips twitched at the corners with the ghost of a smile.

"Later, but not now. Now, now is for this."

James leaned in and brushed his lips lightly over Jack's once, twice, a third time before Jack's hand cupped the back of his neck and pulled him down into the fiery pleasure that lived in his mouth. As their tongues played at dancing between them all that Captain James Harper could think was that this was definitely worth having to fight the Nazi's for an extra decade or so.

Donna Noble/Ianto Jones, Ian Chesterton/Jack Harkness, Ian Chesterton/Ten

Her skin is soft and furless, her eyes grow ever more catlike, not for long will her skin remain pale and smooth. Her hair shines red beneath the dying sun. Soon she will belong here, belong to the planet, bound to this place and to her. She belongs to the man in the hat, but not for long, soon, soon she will belong to Karra. She still tastes of freedom. Not the freedom of the hunt, wind in the mane and muscles pumping, a different freedom. Smelling of gunpowder and the space between the stars. Caught in this planet’s grasp, in her grasp, but still dancing just out of reach, like a bauble caught of the breeze and drawing you on. Karra savours the taste of that freedom while it lasts.

In the end, when all is said and done, she chooses the world of this girl, who tastes of other worlds, over her own. It brings her own end, but there’s a kind of freedom in that too. The girl she used to be remembers things the cat had forgotten, tenderness and compassion, things more and less complicated than pure possession. But the other girl takes her back to the stars with her, safe in her heart and this, she is sure, is good.

Nine/Martha, Ten/Jamie/Zoe, Jack/Jamie/Zoe

Edited 2008-05-27 21:58 (UTC)

This one ran away from me rather after the bunny bit me very hard this morning, so it's over on my LJ here (http://persiflage-1.livejournal.com/145170.html)

Over on my LJ due to length (817 words approx):

Sighs, No Bridges (http://brewsternorth.livejournal.com/6120.html#cutid1) (Eight/Prof. Chronotis, PG)

Prompts: Frobisher/Iris Wildthyme, Nine (R.E.Grant)/Master (android!Jacobi), Compassion/TARDIS

In the TARDIS, at first, Compassion complains it’s too quiet. She is cut off from the signals, from the constant stream of information she was used to, before. Even back on Earth, in the primitive era that the humans of the time laughably call the ‘information age’, there’s always something available. Television. Radio. The internet. Twenty-four, seven. Even if most of it is repetitive nonsense.

In the TARDIS, all there is is the TARDIS. Muted somewhat, due to the Doctor’s tampering with her implant, but ceaseless. Whispering continuously at the edge of her consciousness, telling her to trust this man who has maybe rescued her, maybe kidnapped her; certainly he’s imprisoned her in his ship that can go anywhere, any when. Just until she’s used to being cut off from the Remote, of course, he says with a smile. She wonders, sometimes, if he only trusts her because he trusts his beloved timeship so completely. Fitz certainly doesn’t trust her, and he doesn’t like her and she reciprocates entirely. He reminds her with every scowl and every puff of his cigarette, every strum of his guitar that the Doctor ‘fixed’ Kode to make him. So she wonders, at other times, if he’s trying to use his ship to fix her too.

In the TARDIS, she explores. There are passages trailing miles into the depths of the ship, and although no dust has settled there is always the sense, whenever she gets bored and ventures very far away from the console room, that no living creature has been along here in years. She asks Fitz how much of the TARDIS he’s explored and he shrugs and tells her not to go wandering off and getting lost, because he isn’t going to come and find her. She doesn’t understand him because she can hear the TARDIS guiding her, directing her, lighting her way; urging her to explore, to familiarise herself with the possibilities. How could anyone fail to hear that, when there is nothing else to hear?

In the TARDIS there are fields and museums, ballrooms and store cupboards, bathrooms and bedrooms and merry-go-rounds. Clothes and books and knick-knacks from every era of every planet. She takes food and drink from the kitchen and when she runs out the TARDIS shows her to funny little dispensers that produce edible cubes. The Doctor doesn’t seem to worry when she disappears for days, and Fitz has stopped asking what she’s getting up to.

In the TARDIS, wandering along alone and without outside influences, she knows she should feel more concerned. It’s oddly comforting though, the soft, constant pressure of the TARDIS’s thoughts in her mind. She doesn’t understand all that she’s being told; there’s complex mathematics and Gallifreyan lore all tied together with the looping, swirling threads of the web of time. She tries to make sense of it; then she tries to ask what it all means. Then she stands in a room cluttered with bits of motorcycle and packing cases and the enormous silk envelope of a hot air balloon and stamps her feet demanding an explanation, clarification, more information. Much, much more information.

In the TARDIS she feels frustrated and lost and safe and sees things clearer than ever and yet finds it far more confusing. The TARDIS refuses to intimidated by her threats or flattered by her entreaties. But the TARDIS never leaves her alone, never stops feeding her what information she needs or, perhaps, will need yet.

In the TARDIS, Compassion wonders, late at night, if she’s really is being fixed or actually being prepared. She wonders, more and more, if the Doctor is shaping her future or if the TARDIS has plans too. She wonders, when she feels brave enough, what’s in store for her.

In the TARDIS her past is irrelevant and her future is being written line by line in a language she is learning only letter by letter. So she puts up with the Doctor’s odd ways, and with Fitz’s resentment of her presence, just so that she can stay with the TARDIS.

And this is, obviously, what the TARDIS wants too.

Requests: Harriet Jones/Harry Saxon, Donna Noble/Peri Brown, Fitz Kreiner/Ninth Doctor

This. Is. Wrong. So very wrong.

He's part of the Ministry of Defense. She's...well, she's Harriet Jones, Prime Minister.

This is wrong, very wrong. This is the sort of thing that topples otherwise unassaultable pillars of government.

But no matter how many times she tells herself that, Harriet Jones can't bring herself to break it off with him, can't stop from seeing Harry Saxon - and far more of him than any of the papers would think the man with a well-coiffed wife would expose.

He'd shown her Torchwood - walked her through all the sights of Canary Warf and the other three stations - and given her the keys to it all. And in return...

Oh God.

She mentioned it to him once, this not being seen as it had been put in her childhood: "It's like they don't see us," intending it as a joke.

...And found she was uneasy with the pleased grin he bore. "Oh exactly," Harry Saxon had replied. Too cryptic for her taste.

--
Request: Sarah Jane Smith/Master (any), Sarah Jane Smith/Silurian

Fitz grinned despite himself as he walked off the stage. His guitar hung loosely at his side, and it felt right to let the room's applause wash over him. It was just a part-time gig, an occasional song or two at a fairly nondescript club in London, but he had to admit that he always felt more alive after playing. [...]

A Face in the Crowd :: (~1600 words)

Requests: Brigadier Alastair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart/Third Doctor, Hex Schofield/Martha Jones, Jackie Tyler/Pete Tyler

(Set Post-Doomsday)

It isn’t logical. It isn’t sensible or safe. She isn’t his Jackie and he isn’t her Pete. It’s foolish to be half in love with him already. He’s up to his eyes in danger and aliens; he could die at any minute. She should leave, get out and take Rose away where no one else can hurt them. Yet she doesn’t. She watches the way he’s the only one who can make Rose smile and laugh now, drawing her out of herself and into this mad dream of theirs. The way she sees her own irrational love reflected back at her.

Since when did love ever make sense?

Requests: Rosita/Mercy Hartigan, Rosita/Jackson Lake, Kathy Nightengale/Sally Sparrow

Edited 2009-12-26 00:34 (UTC)

(Warning: implied references to past sexual assault)

Too long for a comment so posted at my journal: Blood.Ice.Ash (http://glinda-penguin.livejournal.com/272818.html)

Requests: Jenny/Vastra, Eleven/Amy/Rory, Vastra/River

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Fic Post

Nine/Jabe

Ace/Rani

Ten/Shakespeare

Jack Harkness/C. Jack Harkness (41)

Ace/Karra

Nine/Martha

Eight/Professor Chronotis

Compassion/TARDIS

Harry Saxon/Harriet Jones

Fitz Kreiner/Ninth Doctor

Jackie Tyler/Pete Tyler

Rosita/Mercy Hartigan