#dw snippet

[ladylynse]

Part 2 of this untitled Doctor Who fic where 10 meets up with Grace Holloway again. Posted for @scaehime, who was interested in more.

EDIT: Now tweaked and expanded upon on the AO3.

-|-

The Doctor jolted awake. He tried to claw the oxygen mask off his face, but a pair of gloved hands held it more firmly in place. “Don’t worry, Mr. Smith,” someone said. “It’s simply a precaution. We—”

But the Doctor wasn’t willing to simply listen. “I’m not signing anything,” he said, albeit with difficulty, and his voice was muffled anyway. “I’m not going to let you do anything. No x-rays, no—”

“Mr. Smith, please remain calm.”

“Calm?” the Doctor repeated, anything but. “Calm? You’re trying to...you…you….” He trailed off. An oxygen mask, he’d thought. But then he’d breathed it, and analyzed it. And it wasn’t just oxygen. At least, not anymore. He had to wonder if he’d even said what he’d meant to say, whether or not it had been heard.

This time he did manage to get the mask off his face. “How long,” he gasped out, “have I been in here?”

“You were brought into emergency three hours ago,” came the steady reply. “You’re stable now. You were in shock. Do you remember what happened?”

“Partially,” the Doctor replied, looking distracted. “Did a Vera Taylor tell you who I was?”

“That’s right. Dr. Taylor has insisted that we treat you as we treated her.” A small laugh. “Like everyone else, in other words. We try to give the best treatment possible. You’re in good hands, Mr. Smith.”

The Doctor thought for a moment, cursing whatever they’d given him. He hated being slow on the uptake. “Did you say,” he finally asked, “that I’ve been here for three hours?” Without waiting for a reply, he continued, “And, oh, three hours is a long time, isn’t it? Lots of lovely tests you could run.” He sat up abruptly, wincing as his movement partially dislodged an IV from his arm. He pulled it out carefully and turned to assess the nurse who was taking care of him. He scrutinized her for a moment, seeing if he could place her face among his blurred recollections of the time he’d woken up on the operating table, but couldn’t. That was a bit of a relief.

“Mr. Smith, I have to ask you to—”

“Sorry,” he interrupted. He squinted at her nametag. “But, Rachel, I’m fine now. I don’t need oxygen, I don’t need an IV, and I don’t need whatever else you were going to give me.” He glanced down. “Though, I wouldn’t mind my clothes, bloodied or not.” He frowned. “That’ll take a bit of mending. Shame. I hate mending. I can take it to Neo-Sydney, I suppose. They’ve expert tailors there. Then again, the prices, and they don’t fancy taking….” He trailed off and cleared his throat. “Still. Better than making do with a costume again.”

“Mr. Smith—”

“Yes, I know, it’s against regulations and all that, but, without them, I can’t show you my ID to—” He stopped, frustrated. “Oh, what’s it matter. I can’t stay. I have more important things to be doing. I shouldn’t even have come in the first place.”

“Mr. Smith, your condition has stabilized for the moment, but I would advise not disregarding the doctor’s recommendations by—”

“Oh, but I wouldn’t be disregarding the Doctor’s recommendations,” the Doctor cut in. “Because I think I know my body a bit better than you, thanks.” He reached for the chart at the foot of the bed.

Rachel smirked at him. “So it’s true. Doctors are the worst patients.”

The Doctor, however, wasn’t paying attention. He flipped from one page to the next and back again, then skipped ahead and frowned. “You’ve scheduled me for an appointment with a cardiac specialist?” he asked slowly.

“Your heartbeat was erratic,” Rachel pointed out. “Even accounting for the shock, the range was worrisome.”

“Speeding up and slowing down,” the Doctor murmured, deciding he’d better not ramble too much in case she decided to have psychiatric check up on him. Twenty-eight beats a minute, then racing to well over a hundred and twenty-eight in an effort to compensate for the fact that his right heart still wasn’t beating. He was lucky he hadn’t slipped into a healing coma. He was liable to find himself locked up in the morgue again if he did.

At the very least, he was lucky they hadn’t cut him open with the intention of putting in a pacemaker or some such nonsense.

“Dr. Taylor was able to pull a few strings,” Rachel informed him, gently pulling the chart away from his hands. “Dr. Holloway will see to you herself.”

“Oh. Right.” The Doctor frowned. He’d managed to walk right into this, hadn’t he? Sure, he’d been debating having a quick conversation with her, and he had landed and set off, but if he was set to meet up with Grace again, this wasn’t what he’d pictured. Him tracking her down, yes, but if he went into the hospital, he wouldn’t have gone in as a patient. At least, not with injuries of this sort. Still, perhaps just bumping into her on the street would’ve been best. But not this. Well, could be worse, he supposed. He wasn’t on the operating table again.

Nearly had been, but wasn’t.

“Clothes?” he prompted, looking up at Rachel again.

“You’ll want someone to bring you a fresh set,” she admitted.

Oh, brilliant. They’d gone and cut them off him, then. He might just be reduced to making off with someone else’s. Again. What would it be now, the third time? There was his third regeneration, and his eighth, and—

“But my coat?” he asked. He didn’t want to lose his coat. He had important things in that coat. Come to that, he had important things in his suit pockets, too. “And, er, you haven’t disposed of my suit yet, have you?”

“Your things are safe, Mr. Smith.” Rachel stood up. “I’ll ask you to wait here while I call Dr. Miller in to speak with you personally.”

“If I'm going to talk to a doctor,” the Doctor replied, “I would prefer it to be Grace, if that’s possible. Is she free?”

“She didn’t—”

“Brilliant,” the Doctor interrupted. “Thank you. Off you go now, Rachel; time’s a-wasting.” He settled back into bed, waiting for her to leave. She looked startled, but she did as she was told.

The minute she was out the door, the Doctor allowed himself a small moan. Ooh, how humans could stand it with just one heart, he didn’t know. Though, he was lucky they hadn’t tried to give him anything. Probably had something to do with the good Dr. Taylor, that. She’d held up remarkably well, all things considered. She reminded him a bit of Grace. And even a little of Sarah Jane, come to think of it.

But he didn’t have time to think of it. He had to get out of here. They’d taken x-rays. And he wasn’t sure they’d just chalk it up to a double exposure again. He wasn’t even quite sure when he was—something he hated admitting; he had a reputation to uphold, after all—and he didn’t fancy going through anything like 2012 Utah again, to name one of the more recent unpleasant experiences he’d had on Earth. 

Now was not the time to draw attention to himself by trying to start up his right heart.

He slowly made his way down the hallway and a couple flights of stairs, alternately trying doors and dodging into rooms, occupied or otherwise, to avoid anyone who looked overtly official. He wasn’t sure how far he’d get, dressed as he was, but he was willing to give it a shot. And he could always pretend he was lost. It was fair enough, he figured, even if it was, likely as not, going to get him a ticket to psychiatric. Ah, well; he deserved a bit of fun. He hadn’t had as much as he liked lately. The last time he’d gone looking for it, things hadn’t exactly gone according to plan.

If hadn’t been for one wise, stubborn human, he would have knowingly destroyed an entire timeline.

Sure, it had reasserted himself, skirting around a few anomalies, but he’d been willing to…. He’d tried to sacrifice.... He’d….

“These are his things?”

“Yes. That’s all we found his pockets. No ID, no money—nothing to support his claims to Dr. Taylor.”

Grace. And someone he didn’t recognize. He’d better get out of here. Quickly. He could nip back and gather his things, then be on his way no worse for the wear. Grace might wonder, but he didn’t recall carrying anything on him now that she would recognize. He’d even had the locks changed; the TARDIS key was different. Though that was more because he couldn’t stand the constant reminder of Gallifrey than anything else. Still. New key, new sonic screwdriver….

New body.

Twice over.

And he had no right to ask. To ask would be to burden her with his problems, because she was the sort of person who would take the burden without being asked and wouldn’t lay it down, no matter what he told her. No matter how much he pleaded with her. And he had no right to do that. She’d built a wonderful life for herself. Moved on, just like she should have. Because she’d recognized—

The Doctor dashed into the nearest room. “Oh, hello,” he greeted cheerfully as a rather frail lady looked up at him. “I seem to have gotten the wrong room. I was looking for a Ms. Jones?” He phrased it as a question, but spent some time looking about the room, wandering deeper into it—and away from the doorway—and making it clear that he didn’t expect an answer. “Terribly sorry,” he added. “I’m the, ah, man from just down the hall. John Smith.” He stuck out his hand, grinning widely.

“Dorothy Mae,” the woman replied finally, taking his hand. “You shouldn’t be up and about, young man. I may not be a doctor, but I’m a mother and a grandmother, and you should be in bed. You’re too pale. Never mind that this is a hospital. I’m here after my hip replacement. You,” she added pointedly, looking him up and down again, “look like you got on the wrong side of a fight.” She didn’t sound particularly approving.

The Doctor tugged on an ear. “Yeah, well,” he said, shrugging his shoulders a bit. “Wasn’t intentional. Just trying to help, me. Nothing serious. They’ll be letting me out as soon as they can process the paperwork, I daresay. Need the beds, I think. But my friend—”

“If they’re going to release you when you look like that,” Dorothy Mae interrupted, “then I will be speaking with my doctor about the sort of care they’re giving here.”

The Doctor began to think that perhaps engaging the woman in conversation had not been his best idea. He pasted a smile on his face. “Oh, well, no, it’s not the care. I’m checking out. Against their recommendations, admittedly. But, really, it’s just a form or two to sign, and—”

“You,” declared the outspoken, if well-intentioned, Dorothy Mae, “ought to be ashamed of yourself. You’re liable to get yourself killed if you don’t smarten up.”

She looked like she could have berated him for longer, but the Doctor hastily began extracting himself from the conversation. “Yes, true enough; I will reconsider, I suppose, but I ought to go and tell them that, so I’ll just leave you be, won’t I?” He grinned at her and made his escape.

He bumped into someone and tried to continue on his way, but whoever it was caught his arm. “Mr. Smith,” drawled a man’s voice, “I believe you were assigned to room 403?”

��Dr. Miller, I presume?” the Doctor asked, trying not to look guilty. If he’d waited just one more minute.... “Yes. And may I ask why you are a full two floors from your assigned room?” Over Dr. Miller’s shoulder, the Doctor had watched Grace’s face fall. Perhaps she had thought to connect the dots. He didn’t recall telling her that regeneration worked more than once. Granted, he hadn’t exactly had time to explain anything. Common theme in his life, that.

“Oh, well,” he said slowly. “Fancied a bit of a jaunt, that’s all. Looking to see if I could get a cup of tea, to be honest.” Well, partially honest. He wouldn’t mind a cup of tea now. He needed something to clear his head. “And, I was wondering about my things. Could I have them back? Even the suit? I know an excellent tailor.”

“We can discuss this at a later time, once we have you back in your room.” Dr. Miller steered him towards the lift.

“I’ll join you when he’s settled,” Grace said shakily. The Doctor glanced over his shoulder to get a better look at her. She hadn’t changed, really. So perhaps it wasn’t that long after all. Blimey, it better not be before the millennium. He’d be in a spot then. But surely….

The Doctor accepted his scolding meekly, knowing that if he had any chance of getting out of here, it would be better to throw them off guard. And, sometimes, if you played your cards right, and you acted like you really needed something, they’d give it to you. Like shoes. Shoes would be an excellent thing right now. You can only make it so far without shoes. All right, last time he’d made it over to Grace’s house without shoes, but he’d needed the toe tag on as proof, hadn’t he?

The Doctor did his best to ensure that his conversation with Dr. Miller was short. Grace entered shortly after Dr. Miller had finished his scolding—well, chiding, more like, as if he were a child. But when she came in, holding his coat—and it would take a bit to get those stains out—and a small paper bag, presumably his other things, he almost didn’t want Dr. Miller to leave. He regretted being so apologetic and compliant. He might’ve bought more time if he hadn’t been.

Because, really…. He didn’t want to face her.

He shouldn’t have come.

“John Smith?” she asked softly, depositing his things at the foot of the bed and settling down on the chair by its head. He saw the sleeve of his suit jacket poking out from the bundle that was his coat. Excellent; she’d gotten that, too.

Still, he had to answer her question. He hesitated, and nodded once, sharply and definitively.

“Where are you from?” she asked, keeping her voice light.

“Nottingham,” he answered. “Brilliant place. You ought to visit it sometime.”

“And may I ask why you wanted to speak with me, and why you told Dr. Vera Taylor that I knew you?”

“Oh, well, I just….” The Doctor trailed off. Grace was smart, and lying wasn’t his forte in this regeneration. “It’s been a long while, that’s all. I knew you wouldn’t recognize me.”

She was thinking it. He could tell by the expression on her face. Blinking abruptly, she reached for his chart, scanning it. He watched her shoulders fall. “They want to keep you for monitoring,” she noted. “You’ve a bad heart.”

“It’s just overworked,” the Doctor said bluntly. “Temporary. A victim of circumstances, if you will.”

“X-rays inconclusive?” Grace repeated, looking up from the chart. “You’re due for another round, to make sure you didn’t crack a rib. First round was faulty.”

The Doctor was silent for a moment. “Grace,” he said, slowly, deliberately, “may I have my things?” He held out his hand. “Just the bag for now, if you will.”

“I’d prefer Dr. Holloway at the moment, Mr. Smith.”

“Doctor,” the Doctor corrected.

Grace smiled slightly. “Oh, yes,” she amended. “I do recall Vera mentioning that. Dr. Smith, then.”

“Doctor,” the Doctor repeated, watching her hand falter as she reached for the bag.

She turned back to look at him. “I’m afraid, Dr. Smith, that I do not take to calling anyone simply by their profession. Particularly those from Nottingham.” She passed the paper bag to him.

The Doctor took it and smiled. “Well, it’s a bit more than a profession.” He overturned the bag to see what he could find. They hadn’t found much. Sonic screwdriver, TARDIS key, wallet of currently blank psychic paper—pity, that; might be a bit harder to fool them, if they recognized the covering—and his spectacles. Just some surface things, nothing from too deep in his pockets.

And nothing Grace would recognize.

Though, he had to decide, now, whether or not he was going to go through with it. He’d meant to. But then, he thought maybe it would be best if he didn’t. Because the only reasons he’d meant to have any conversation at all with her were selfish reasons. He wanted to know what she’d seen, and how she’d recognized it—how she’d seen what he, and so many others, couldn’t.

A friend had once told him that if you could choose who lives and who dies, you would be a monster. And he’d agreed whole-heartedly at the time. It wasn’t even that long ago. How could he have forgotten that conversation? How could he have turned his back on that so utterly? How could he have disregarded everything and gone and done it anyhow?

He’d needed to be taken down a few pegs.

It hadn’t taken much.

But it was too much all the same.

One life had had to be ended to keep history on track.

And he hadn’t been the one to realize that.

He’d been the one to ignore it.

And then he’d been shown how important it all was, and how foolish and arrogant he’d been, and how wrong he’d been, to stray from that, even once. He’d seen what he’d become.

A monster.

“Dr. Smith? Are you all right?”

The Doctor blinked. Grace repeated her question, moving closer to check on him.

No. He couldn’t just leave. He’d come here, and the TARDIS had made sure he’d come this far, sneaky as she was. He wanted to run from this, like he’d run from everything else. But he couldn’t keep everything inside him forever, keeping silent. He had to tell some things to someone.

Someone who would listen.

Someone who might help him to understand.

Someone he’d touched but not destroyed.

“I’m always all right,” the Doctor croaked, pulling away from Grace. He reached instead for his coat, digging in the pockets. He had some in here, he was sure of it. He’d gotten them the same time he’d picked up that chocolate egg at Easter, since he hadn’t had any for years and he had had a bit of a liking for them. They wouldn’t be too old; a couple of months, that’s all.

“Dr. Smith, you should just relax. Your heart—”

Right. Dr. Miller had insisted on hooking him up to that again. Bother it all. “Is compensating,” the Doctor cut in. “That’s all. Temporary, like I said.”

“You’re not well.”

No, he wasn’t. But he was on the mend, now—if he could just stop running, just for a moment, long enough to have a conversation.

“Grace—”

“Dr. Holloway.”

“Grace,” the Doctor repeated, very deliberately, as his hand closed upon a small paper bag of candy. He pulled it out of his coat pocket and offered it to her. “Jelly baby?”

She looked at him uncertainly. “I was informed that they’d gone through your pockets.”

The Doctor shrugged. “They didn’t know what they were looking for. Would you like a jelly baby?”

Grace’s expression hardened. “Stop it,” she hissed.

The Doctor was taken aback. “What?” he asked, blinking at her. He hadn’t meant to actually offend her. Yet that was how she was acting.

“Who put you up to this?” she continued angrily. “I’m not having it, you hear? I’ve had enough with people laughing at me. I’m not telling that story anymore.”

Oh.

He hadn’t expected that.

Of course, he wasn’t entirely sure what he had expected.

He hadn’t thought about it all too much.

“What year is it?” he asked slowly.

Wrong question, it seemed, with what she thought of him now. “I’ll thank you not to persist in telling tales in an attempt to speak to me again,” she said sharply, rising to her feet. “Good day, Mr. Smith.”

“Doctor,” he corrected again.

She glared at him. “Dr. Smith, then. Good day.”

“I’d missed you, Grace,” he said truthfully. “But I’d still thought that I was doing the right thing by not coming back. After you’d made your choice, I mean.”

It wasn’t enough to catch her attention, and she started out the room, ignoring him.

And, well, now that he’d made the decision to talk to her, he wanted to talk to her.

So he made sure that he did catch her attention. “The Master survived, you know. Getting sucked into the Eye. But she’s closed now. Room’s locked, good and tight. Even I can’t get into it. Don’t think I will, unless circumstances change.”

She turned back at the doorway to look at him. “How long?” she asked, her voice still cold.

“Pardon?”

“How long have you spent listening to my stories, gathering every bit of information from every story I’ve ever told the children in the recovery ward? And why do you insist on patronizing me?”

She was defensive. Hurt.

Because of him.

Because she’d believed in him and had told her story.

He’d still managed to….

“I’m sorry,” he said, genuinely contrite. “I am so, so sorry, Grace. I didn’t know.”

“Dr. Holloway,” she corrected, but her voice had softened slightly.

And then she was gone.

(Part 3)

[espricus]

north star

[mizgnomer]

David Tennant and Catherine Tate having fun on the set of Wild Blue Yonder / Doctor Who 60th Anniversary

(and Bernard Cribbins too)

[varpusvaras]

The whole base was already in a wild, celebratory frenzy as they got there.

Fox did prefer it that way. He did not wish to draw too much attention to himself. It would be for the best if he handled any and all reunions in a more private setting, and slipping away from everybody was much easier when everyone were busy celebrating their victory.

That plan did vanish the moment he stepped off the bridge and saw Breha standing there, looking directly at him.

Fox looked back. He had learned to read her quite well over the years, but right now, it was rather difficult to tell what was the leading emotion on her face at the moment. Perhaps it was needless for him to even try to decipher any of them. He was going to have to face her and whatever she had for him anyway.

So Fox walked towards her, never looking away, and Breha stood there, her eyes just as much unflichingly looking at him.

Fox stopped a couple of paces in front of her. She didn't say anything yet, just kept looking at him, and Fox knew that whatever it was she was about to say to him, he still had one thing to do regardless.

So he bowed his head and bend his knee.

"I offer you my deepest apology", he said. "For disobeying your word, and for forcing orders upon you, Your Majesty."

He barely got the words out, when Breha was already dropping on her knees as well, and Fox quickly straightened up, just in time to catch her in his arms.

Breha buried her face against his shoulder, not at all caring about anyone around them seeing it all. She was shaking, and Fox wasn't sure if she was crying, or if everything that had happened during the day had finally caught up on her.

It was all certainly cathing up on Fox. He was tired, like he had been running up and down a mountain for the whole day, and his legs and arms were starting to sting in that exact way that always prefaced them going slightly numb and weak for a while.

Still, he held onto Breha, pressing the side of his face on top of her head, and let her take her time.

"I am so, so angry at you", Breha said into Fox's shoulder. Her voice was definitely a little thick, but it didn't sound like she was yet crying. "Do you understand?"

"Yes", Fox said. He held her a little tighter. "I understand."

---

Bail was talking with Dodonna when they got to the War Room.

Fox looked around a bit. He didn't see Leia there, which he was at the same time a bit disappointed and relieved about. He did want to see her. Breha had told him that she was relatively fine, with few minor surface injuries, and a light headache from a mind probe, but Fox wanted to make sure himself.

But he also owed her an apology as well, and he wasn't sure if he could handle more than one of them at a time.

He didn't wish to interrupt the conversation, but Dodonna noticed him and Breha first, and he quickly tapped Bail on the arm. Bail raised a brow at him.

"What is it?" Fox heard him ask over the noise of the rest of the base, that was very much reaching the Room as well. Bail's head turned around as he followed Dodonna's eyes. "Is something- Fox!"

Fox felt weirdly almost giddy from the way Bail's face lit up as he saw him. Bail rounded the command table and crossed the rest of the room quickly in long strides, and Fox had barely the time to do anything before Bail had wrapped his arms around him and pulled him close.

Yes, Fox was definitely tired. He carefully pulled his arms a little more apart from where they were pressed against Bail's body, and he leaned his head against his chest. His arms were definitely a bit more tingly than they had been a moment ago, but not yet numb. His feet were, for the most part, but he could still stand on them, so Fox ignored them for the time being.

For now, he simply closed his eyes and breathed in deep.

"I was so worried", Bail said.

"I know", Fox said. "I'm sorry."

Bail didn't day anything to that. Fox just felt him breathe in a little deeper as well, and his arms tightened ever so slightly around Fox.

They stayed like that for a while, before someone carefully cleared their throat somewhere behind Bail.

"My apologies, Senator Organa, but we need you in the command center."

"Of course." Bail loosened his hold on Fox and leaned away a bit, and that was the moment Fox's legs decided to not let themselves be ignored anymore, and made very clear the fact that leaning most of his weight onto Bail had been the only thing that had kept him upwards still.

His weight shifted forwards as Bail leaned back, and his knees buckled immediately. Bail was very quick to step back towards him and tighten his hold again, so Fox's didn't go crashing down onto the floor. He probably wouldn't have been able to stop his fall himself, as he couldn't feel currently anything below his knees and elbows.

Breha was quick to step in as well, as her hands came to keep Fox upright from his side, and together they managed to keep him somewhat upright still.

"Are you alright?" Breha asked. Fox felt a little guilty for being relieved over the fact that she didn't sound upset at him anymore.

"Yes", he said. He was a little out of breath now, despite the physical support. "I'm just a little tired."

They both knew what that meant. Bail let out a deep sigh.

"I think you are a bit more than a little tired, my love", he said. "I'll be in the command center in a moment. I'm just going to take my husband to our rooms to rest."

"Yes, Sir." Breha pushed him up a little more, so that Bail could more easily let go of him in order to bend down enough to lift Fox's legs on his arms.

"Watch your back", Fox reminded him.

"You watch your back", Bail shot back at him. He got his other arm properly around Fox's back and hoisted him up.

"Both of you watch it", Breha said. She put her hand on Fox's knee and patted it gently, before turning around. "It's better if we take you to our rooms anyway. Leia will hear sooner than later that you are here as well."

"I don't doubt that", Fox said. He leaned his head back against Bail as they started to make their way down the hall. It wasn't thankfully a long way to the lift from the Room, nor would it be from the lift to their quarters, if Fox had understood the layout of the base correctly. This was the first time he had been there in person, after all, so his only frame of reference were the drawings he had seen of the layout, and what Bail and Leia had told him about it. "I'm a bit surprised that she isn't already here."

"She is a bit busy at the moment", Breha said. "She has become quick friends with the pilot that made the final shot. He was the one who saved her from the battle station as well."

"Really?" Fox had not been able to see who he had communicated with, and General Kenobi that been the one to sign the messages between them, so Fox hadn't known who else exactly was there. "I should extend my gratitude to him as well."

"Yes." Breha hummed, thinking for a moment as they walked towards the lift. "You should meet him. His name is Luke Skywalker."

Fox's heart made a couple of extra beats.

He swallowed.

"I really should, then", he said.

They stepped into the lift.

"We should also warn you", Breha said, as the doors closed. "The moment Leia knows that you are here, everyone else is also going to know."

"Who is this 'everyone else' we are talking about?" Fox asked.

There was a strange sense of foreboding creeping up on him, now.

"There were others, too, going in to save Leia from the Death Star, and to sabotage the station", Breha said. "Some of them are here now, too. Including your brother."

This time, Fox's heart left out a couple of beats.

There was only one brother that Breha could refer to with such gravitas as she did now.

"Cody?" Fox managed to ask around the piece in his throat that had suddenly formed there. "Is Cody here?"

Breha breathed in, and nodded, and Fox realised that the day was far from being over for him.

[maiko-coy]

yoooo! The au sounds lit! We need more angry Dogday.

Do you have more ideas about it? 👁️

Thank you, I'm glad you like it!!! I do have several ideas for the AU, especially around the plotline and a bit of the side drabbles.

Missed Chances AU is basically revolving around the smiling critters in the Playcare (however, its specifically focused on our dear Dogday and Catnap, of course), but I've separated it into three arcs. First arc is the pre-HOJ. This is more on to fill in the backstory of the critters and how they are trained to interact in the Playcare, as well as them finding their own independence and creating their own personalities. This won't be as long as the other two arcs but I do plan on doodling a few drabbles from this arc for fluff and character development. This arc builds up until the Hour of Joy event. Second arc is post-HOJ. This arc focuses more on the events after Hour of Joy and how the Critters survive through it. This arc specifically focuses on Dogday. There will be major angst here with almost zero-to-none comfort because I'm still closely following the canon events. So yes, Dogday will still end up how he is in the canon game. This arc builds up until the canon Chapter 3. Third arc is post-chapter 3. As y'all have seen in my previous post, this arc is where Player saves Dogday, Dogday being vengeful, and saving Catnap. I haven't thought most of this arc yet (considering that the chapters aren't done yet) but I have planned out at least how Dogday and Catnap interacts here, as well as Player, Kissy, and Poppy. Sorry people but I don't plan on making any ships in this AU, simply because I don't think they have the time to in this situation and that I have no idea how romance work LMAOAOAO but I dont mind if yall ship anyone, I'm just saying that I don't plan on drawing any lovey-doveys in here. I also plan on giving this AU two endings: True ending and Good ending, cuz I'm evil like that. Maybe I'll make non-canonical doodles of this au who knows

[fruitybashir]

is this a good time to drop some catholic lesbokris crumbs or does that make me a satanist?

[runawaymun]

As a Tolkien fandom writer you cannot give me a piece of fiction with Deep Lore and expect me NOT to pick it apart and then put it in my fics at every turn.

Also — banging pots and pans together WHY is there a severe lack of fics that make use of canonical shapeshifter “his true form is that of a star” Rex Lapis. My man is basically an elemental slime he’s gender-fluid he was there for the terraforming of all Teyvat hi I am here to contribute my obsession with Eldritch cosmic beings who can change shape at will 🫶

[fortuneforsaken-if]

since i'm once again sick (immune system of a baby, gg, dunno how i'm still alive) i have yet again awoken in the dead of night to write. here's the result, a little maluset snippet from when he's returned to you, whenever that may be.

On the lonesome bench, Maluset sits pensive, hand absentmindedly tracing old forgotten patterns in the light dusting of sand that has settled around him. The silhouette looks out of place against the backdrop of tall reflective buildings, but you decide to seek your place next to him, like countless times before.

His hand stills with a twitch and he pulls it into his lap, stray grains of sand softly flowing back in place, the patterns smoothing over.

A companionable silence stretches, and you tilt your head to look at him. Your eyes don't meet, but you can see the cluster of stars in those endless abyssal depths focused upwards, at the sun.

A sun that's a stranger, not the one that warmed you in the past.

The rumble starts from the sand, small ripples, like the earth itself sighs along with him. Still, he refuses to share the pain with you as his eyes blink the stupor away and fall to gaze at the ground.

"It is an empty tomb, the sun of this age. Zekhet's absence is... Heavy."

The sense of anguish comes through his words, and you chance a light tap of your index finger, just the knuckle, against his bare knee. Starlight flickers your way, a moment too short to be called a look, barely a glance, but there's appreciation beneath the sorrow.

"My sorrow cannot be as vast as yours, my little firefly, so you need not worry for me. The skies are lonely without him, but I am glad to be back by your side."

A hint of a smile quirks his lip upwards, but it settles. Silence follows as you sit, overlooking the city that holds the next key to your salvation. You will find a way to be free, and you know he would give his immortal soul to see you liberated, a thought that both eases and deepens the worry in your heart.

[idliketobeatree]

"he should be at the club" he should be sitting on the front porch with me, long limbs streched out on the last step, a cup of lukewarm black coffee by his hand, feet bare and buried in the overgrown grass. he should be wearing freshly washed linens still smelling of wind. and i should come up to him quietly, unhurriedly, resting a hand on top of that head, maybe even thread my fingers through his sun-bleached hair if he'll let me. it's midday in may and all is buzzing and content.

[fluffypotatey]

so, found out neither my brother or my mom knew about this song :( hoping this site won’t steer me wrong

[seagull-scribbles]

Scratchy spider sketches

[varpusvaras]

The doctors had told him that things would get easier after the first trimester.

Fox had believed them. He had kind of had to, to preserve his own sanity. He had to believe that at some point, he would stop throwing up, sweating and shivering and being so damn tired that he'd fall asleep just about anywhere.

It had, in fact, been true. Of course he still occasionally felt a little sick when he smelled something unsavory, but it was only occasionally. He didn't wake up to being hot and cold in tandem so much anymore either. He was tired, still, but only to a degree that he had to sit down a couple of times a day, and maybe take a nap. Otherwise, he had been feeling pretty good during the start of the second trimester.

But then, a new challenge had crept up on him.

It had started small, so small that he had barely even felt anything at first. When he had noticed it for the first time, he had actually been happy about it.

What a fool he had been.

It had only gotten more frequent from then on, and most importantly, stronger. So much stronger.

So much stronger, in fact, that he had looped back around being tired, since every time he tried to sleep or even rest for a moment, it would start again.

It was happening again now, as he lay in their cooled bedroom, the lights dimmed and the blinds shut to escape the summer heat. He would've loved to take a nap, but he was yet again realising that sleep would not be happening.

There was a light knock on the door, and Breha peeked in.

"You're still awake?" She asked. She kept her voice quiet, in case Fox was somehow sleeping.

"Yes", Fox answered. "I don't think I will be getting any sleep."

Breha made her way to the bed, and sat on the edge of it next to Fox. Her fingers very quickly found their way into his hair, pushing it back from his face.

"Try to at least close your eyes", she said. "It's better than nothing."

"I know, I know, I'm trying-" There it was again, cutting his words into a breathless gasp.

Breha sighed softly, continuing to pet his hair.

"Is it that bad?" She asked.

Fox pressed his hand against his abdomen, and poked at it slightly. It was still, for the most part, hard muscle he had spent so long acquiring during his training, and had took even more time and effort to keep during serving. He hadn't even needed new clothes, yet, apart from a pair of dress pants he had very much liked and sorely missed now.

Fox had no idea how there was a whole baby in there, somewhere, but there was no mistake of it, not since-

Fox hissed slightly when there was a blow straight into his ribs.

"Yes", he said. "I'm going to send Bail a very pointed message. Those are definitely his elongated legs kicking my insides around the clock."

Breha barked out a laugh, that she quickly tried to cover up behind her hand.

Fox turned to glare at her.

"You think this is funny?" He asked. "You think it's funny that our husband's giant long-legged offspring is trying to break my bones?"

"No, no, of course not", Breha hurried to say, but she was definitely still grinning behind her hand, and-

-and maybe Fox was tired enough, because the longer he laid there and watched her laugh about it, the funnier it suddenly got in his mind as well.

"How dare you", he said, trying his hardest to keep himself from breaking out into laughter as well. "How dare you make me laugh when I'm miserable."

Breha could no longer hold it in. She broke down into loud, bright laughter, and Fox could only hold his own in for a few more seconds, before he eventually followed her suit.

[crookedfivefingers]

NOTE 7/23: The actual first chapter of this fic is now significantly different! Just keeping this post here for archive purposes, I suppose 😂

NOTE 8/13: The first chapter is now up!

I had this thought about Ten and Martha traveling back to Venice in the 1700s.

Naturally, they wind up separated during the trip — which is how Martha eventually finds herself in the company of a charming, if hauntingly familiar stranger…

One who can’t seem to keep his eyes off of her.

Ten x Martha | Martha x Casanova

✨WIP snip from ch.1✨

In May of 1758, the many streets of Venice are packed for the annual Feast of the Ascension —but a day filled with food and laughter is cut short when Martha loses sight of the Doctor in the crowds.

By the time she’s finally able to break free and locate the missing Time Lord, she’s stunned to see him being tugged into a carriage by a beautiful young woman… A carriage that swiftly disappears down the road and out of sight.

Alone, hurting, and more than a little cross, Martha suddenly realizes that she’s stranded in an unfamiliar city… over two hundred years in the past. Bloody brilliant.

She can’t even remember where they parked the TARDIS at this point — not with the endless narrow alleyways and labyrinthine streets.

It’s a modest blessing, but she takes some comfort in knowing she’s at least dressed appropriately for the times, straightening her elaborate wig as she begins walking in the carriage’s general direction.

As time passes, the sun tucks itself away beneath the edge of the horizon, and the crowds finally begin to dissipate. Without the excess noise and foot traffic, Martha has more room to process the events of the evening, sort-of-searching for the long-lost carriage (but mostly brooding) as she puts increasing wear on her shoes.

After some time, the sound of music and laughter drifts into her ears, catching her attention to pull her from the darkness of her thoughts. She allows herself to be drawn towards it without hesitation, and not three minutes later, she’s standing at the edge of a ballroom in the Palazzo Pisani Moretta.

Partying shouldn’t be top of mind, of course — but after a full day of celebrating throughout the city, she can’t imagine putting any more stress on her aching feet. The poor extremities scream for reprieve in the wedge sandals that hide beneath her skirt, scolding her for not putting more thought into her choice of footwear.

To be fair, the move to enter the building isn’t entirely void of strategy. After all, the Doctor could be in here. Seems like just the sort of place his little date might like to mingle, she thinks with a healthy roll of her eyes.

To say the Palazzo is extravagant is putting it mildly. In addition to what may well be a few hundred elite guests in attendance, the spacious hall is adorned from floor to ceiling with finery, the glowing chandeliers illuminating marble statues and countless works of art. Servers in masquerade weave through the crowd with practiced ease, trays of nibbles and beverages balancing on splayed fingertips.

Feeling inspired, Martha snags a cup of wine as soon as she’s close enough to reach for one, downing half of the bitter, eighteenth-century swill with as much haste as her twenty-first-century taste buds will allow. She forces a smile through her grimace when the server looks to her for approval, still concerned with cordiality [even as she crashes a party wherein she knows no one at all].

Partygoers welcome her readily: happy socialites with hair as big and dramatic as the wig she’s been regretting picking out all day. The compliments they lavish her with almost make it feel worth the hassle, however, and in that moment, she’s grateful that the Doctor let her raid the wardrobe. It feels so much easier to exist in a time period without standing out — at least, more than she already feels she does as a black woman.

(The Time Lord really can be thick, can’t he?)

Over and onward, Martha decides to let loose as much as she can, keeping a wary eye out between little sips of murky, purple wet. It’s been at least three hours since she last saw her mate, and though the environment that surrounds her is intoxicating, she can’t deny the little pinpricks of worry that emerge in her gut.

Surely he wouldn’t just sod off for a shag... would he? Leave her all alone without a word?

Is that really something the Doctor is capable of after everything they’ve been through?

An image of his disappearance flitters across her mind’s eye: a flash of a woman’s smiling face as she drags him into her fancy carriage by the lapels, her giggles resounding off the stone walls as they slip away together.

Another image nips at the heels of the former, only this time, it’s the Doctor’s stony expression as he returns from across the field in Farringham, having just had a proposition rejected by Nurse Redfern. The same proposition he made the morning after finding out how his companion truly felt for him, easily filing that information away as a “non-issue.”

Alright, so maybe he can be a bit of a tosser. Great. Maybe he has no interest in being found just yet, being fully aware that Martha can handle her own.

Everything’s always on his terms, anyway.

Furthermore, and she hates to even think it in the first place, but: who’s to say he didn’t think slipping out unannounced was the only way to get away from her for the night?

Blimey. If that’s the way he really thinks of her...

No. No, no, no — those thoughts aren't helpful for anyone. Not right now.

Worst case scenario, Martha will find a kind local to seek shelter with before night’s end, though she prays it doesn’t come to that. The idea of even thinking about sleeping knowing the Doctor is just out there somewhere makes her stomach churn — even if he has got… friendly company.

Sigh.

Time for more wine, she reckons; her eyes flick about the crowd until she spots the closest server, and then she attempts to head in her direction.

While en route, a portly man in technicolor robes requests a dance, which she turns down as politely as possible. Then another guest — a dark-haired noblewoman about forty-five years old — stumbles on the mosaic when her heels catch the train of another woman’s dress, and Martha helps her to her feet.

All the servers carting wine around only seem to be getting further away, and it feels like a sign. Perhaps she shouldn’t be consuming any more alcohol — at least, not until she has a little more peace of mind.

To her surprise, she doesn’t have to wait long at all.

Through a sea of bobbing heads, swaying bodies shrouded in brightly-colored fabrics, and a thin haze of incense smoke, their eyes lock from across the room — and Martha briefly foregoes the right to oxygen.

She knows she should be relieved (or perhaps furious — definitely furious), but as her throat grows tight and dry, all she’s got the presence of mind to feel is the frantic fluttering of her heartbeat as blood roars in her ears.

The Doctor has never looked at her like that.

Temporarily immobile, she can only watch as he approaches her with deliberate, single-minded steps, the dance floor seeming to part naturally around him. He doesn’t falter or pause and he doesn’t need to; this man claims a route that no one capable of sight would dare interfere.

Somehow, in the last few hours, he’s wound up in a loose red tunic, tight black trousers — tights, essentially — and matching black boots. A black, silken band wraps around his neck, purely decorative, bringing the black from the rest of the outfit together to complete the look.

It’s an entirely different getup than the one she helped him pick out this morning, but let it be known that it’s no less gorgeous for it. Even his hair is different than she’s ever seen it, appearing softer and lighter with significantly less product than usual (if any at all), and he looks…

Bloody hell, he looks incredible.

When he arrives, he gets quite close — closer than Martha’s body and mind are anywhere near recovered enough to be prepared for — and she has just enough time to notice the color of his eyes when he takes her hand.

Are his eyes... blue?

The smile he fixes her with is slow and certain; it simmers just as the gaze he ensnares her with. He seems to reach right into her soul’s lowered defenses to bury himself at the thick of it, lifting her hand to his mouth to rest his gentle lips against her skin.

The touch is just jarring enough to wrench Martha out from the clouds as the realization hits her.

This man is not the Doctor.

“I hope you’ll forgive me,” he murmurs, his voice and cadence eerily identical to the one she knows. “If I'm honest, I just couldn’t resist your magnetism for another moment longer.”

His words, though softly spoken, seem louder than anyone or anything else in the room, effectively shutting the rest of the world out.

"Erm," Martha chokes, eyes wide. Stunned. "I-I, er..." She shakes her head slowly, her voice (and brain) temporarily evading her. It feels as though she's fallen through a crack in dimensions. Perhaps she has.

“Right — sorry," the man chuckles. "Bit rude of me. My name's Giac." He finally lowers her hand between them, flashing a wink, giving her fingers the softest of squeezes before letting them slip through his. "Though I must admit... I am far more eager to learn yours.”

Note: This is a post-Blink story in which Martha is seduced by Giacomo, inspiring clarity and an almost possessive jealousy within the Doctor. How ever will he handle it? I’ve also considered an eventual threesome, but should that happen, it will be strictly het Martha-worship. (Also, per the David Tennant miniseries, Giac is pronounced “Jack”)

[blood-mocha-latte]

sixties au part two does exist yes. it is being written yes. it DOES end happy i promise. pinky promise. utterly pinky swear

[ninja-go-to-therapy]

got any snippets or sneak peaks of upcoming fics you're working on?

“He looks just like him, though!” JD insisted, eyes practically bugging out of his head. “But how did he turn into a baby—?”

Obviously, none of the brothers had an answer to that particular question. But the aforementioned baby took to respond to it anyway. “You guys say I’m not old enough to know about that stuff,” he pouted, crossing his arms.

The boys shared a collective look. “And,” Bruce asked, kneeling down to be closer to level with the child, “how old is that, again?”

Branch — or what was probably Branch, he hoped — giggled, like it was the funniest question in the world. He held up one of his hands, proudly displaying a total of two fingers. “This many!”

“Oh my god.” Floyd mumbled.

Teehee

[clare-with-no-i]

forcing fictional characters to reckon with questions of interpersonal vulnerability is a healthy way to spend your free time, actually. no don't google it just trust me