#that fool made it sound like I Needed to get a MRI scan to check the gland that produces it in my brain or whatever

[raystie]

wow my last post was in Feb so despite not really having a following here I still feel obligated to say I'm going through a Bad Time both mentally and physically rn I can't even be bothered to think about or play Yakuza or do anything really. not dead but I sure feel like I'm on the way there rn. won't be here for a while take care everyone

[writingithink]

Tangled Timelines Chapter 1 Rated: T Wordcount: 5,895 Summary: The Doctor and Rose have some news to share with Jackie, but the trip doesn't go quite as planned. Notes:Hello! This is my fic for the Classic Tropes Event. Mine was Fix-It Fic. This one is going to be a multi-chapter, with more tags added as I go. For those of you who have been reading the whole series, I actually plan to finish up the honeymoon fics (they've just been giving me grief). So those will come later, with edits to series order etc etc. If you haven't read the series, I think you should be okay? They're bonded. It was an accident. That should be all the info you really need. All of the thanks ever imaginable to @hey-there-juliet​ for betaing <33 All mistakes are most definitely mine (esp since I did a lot of glaring at this thing after it was beta'd). I own nothing.

Multiple trips to the TARDIS' library and seemingly endless cross-referencing all culminated in the moment the large tome slipped from the Doctor's hands and onto the bed. It knocked against Rose’s leg and his eyes automatically moved to her face - still asleep. Since their bonding, his wife had gotten used to him bringing various things into bed with them for when he inevitably got bored while she slept.

“And you couldn’t alert me to this, because …?” he whispered to his ship, voice flat and eyes wide as his brain struggled to assimilate everything he had just read.

There was no answer from the TARDIS, not even a hum of acknowledgement. It figured.

The Doctor scrubbed his hand across his face before leaving the bed, heading straight to the infirmary despite the fact that he was only wearing boxers and a vest. This time he didn’t ask his inconsiderate ship for any assistance, simply pulled up every single file on Rose Marion Tyler that existed, on the TARDIS or not. It only took seconds to hack into Earth hospital files, after all.

Not that they helped much, as the technology used in Rose’s time was appallingly primitive.

“Level five medical garbage,” he muttered to himself, zooming past all of her records. Vaccines, minor illnesses, nothing that gave him a good picture of Rose Marion Tyler before she stepped onto the TARDIS. Which, overall, was a good thing - it meant that she had never been so hurt that she needed a CAT scan or an MRI. It would have just been nice to have the data, what with his near obsessive compulsive desire to have the most complete picture of his wife’s biological history.

It’s as if no one had ever heard of voluntary medical data filing. But so be it. The TARDIS had more than enough base scans, starting from the first moment Rose set foot on the ship. This time he wasn’t going to cut corners like he had before, when he’d looked at just her telepathic centers and absolutely nothing else.

Thinking about the last time he and his wife had been in here, weeks ago, the Doctor opened a new screen to check the progress of the six-dimensional comprehensive deep scan results. They were nearly complete.

A feeling of dread lodged in his stomach.

They should have been finished ages ago. The fact that they weren’t - 

He shook his head, wiping a hand down his face as he swiveled back to the primary view screen. The base scans should be able to offer him an explanation. Would. They would, because he needed to know exactly what was going on.

The TARDIS had automatically compiled all base scans since their last visit, and his previous parameters were still in place, focused solely on what in humans was called the pineal gland. The Doctor wasn’t sure that name quite applied for Rose’s brain anymore - Epiphysis Cerebri seemed like a much more accurate name for her telepathic center, which was still showing slow, incremental growth.

Fingers moving quickly, he navigated away and started gathering new information. Graphs of brain capacity and function, cellular activity and health, levels of all hormones and neurotransmitters and molecules with a special search for anything that wouldn’t normally be found in a 21st century Earth human.

Waiting for the TARDIS to compile all of these graphs felt like torture, even though it took a relatively short amount of time.

And then he had screens and screens of data all vying for his considerable attention and painting a picture that had his hearts going into overdrive, adrenaline throttling through his systems. Terror. Elation. Fear. Hope. All of his emotions were muddled and changing by the nanosecond. Panic was a constant, however.

All of it was so overpowering that the Doctor soon found himself actively fighting his traitorous body as it tried to enter a completely unnecessary healing trance, confused as it was by his sudden inability to keep control of processes that he generally had a tight grip on.

Two hands fell onto his shoulders, shocking him into jumping up, nearly crashing into the infirmary’s computational system. He whirled around to see the confused and frightened face of his bondmate.

“Doctor?” she asked, hesitating.

He wondered how long she had been trying to speak to him, both verbally and through their bond. Covering his face with both hands, he finally got his breathing back in order and his hearts-rate down.

“Sorry,” he finally managed, once he was capable of speech again, though the single word came out hoarse and scratchy.

“What’s happening? What’s wrong?” Rose asked, still not moving, hands fisted at her sides.

Focusing on their connection, he could feel her overwhelming concern … for him. Well, it did make sense in the ironic way these things always tended to. Since she had been asleep when he left her, the Doctor hadn’t put any thought into shielding. All of his emotions must have barreled into her like a freight train. Couldn’t have possibly been a pleasant way to wake up.

Reluctantly he dropped his hands, palms sliding down his face slowly as he gave up their paltry defense.

“Nothing’s wrong per se,” he hedged, wincing as her mental disbelief permeated their link. “It- it’s more complicated than that. It’s-”

He didn’t know how to explain it. His normally ever-present gob seemed to be offline now that he desperately needed it. Telepathic communication seemed to also be out, as his brain was still in the process of resettling from the accidentally self-induced bulldozing of his basic systems.

“It’s what?”

As the Doctor took another deep breath, Rose looked around, seeming to just realize where they were. She must have raced through the TARDIS to get to him in her worry. He felt incredibly guilty.

“It’s something that we would probably be much more comfortable discussing somewhere else,” he decided, scratching the hairs at the nape of his neck and looking down, shocked to realize that he was nearly naked. “Maybe after getting dressed. And a shower. Breakfast. Not in that order!”

Rose sighed and crossed her arms. The Doctor took a moment to notice her clothing, which consisted of a housecoat and slippers, but he couldn’t tell what she had on underneath (if anything).

“And then we’ll talk?” she questioned, both eyebrows raised, getting his mind back on track.

“Yes. Definitely. How does tea in the library sound?”

Her lips were pursed, but she eventually nodded.

“Good. Great! And I- I’m really, truly sorry for worrying you,” he sighed, finally moving forward and wrapping his arms around his impossible wife. It took a few moments before Rose relaxed into the embrace.

“This is about me, isn’t it?” she whispered after a few long, silent moments.

“Shh,” he scolded. “Shower first. Shower, clothes, food, then talking.”

Procrastination really is just a different type of running, and no one knew that better than the Doctor. He also knew that he wasn’t fooling Rose for a moment. Their bond was still wide open, the contents of their impending discussion only hidden due to the fact that it was all categorized in his mind as ‘scientific information’, and therefore held back by one of the many barriers he kept permanently in place so that he wouldn’t inundate his bondmate with headache inducing amounts of information.

“Alright then,” she conceded, “let’s get going.”

The Doctor took her hand as she pulled away, allowing himself to be led through his time ship. In his current, nebulous state he doubted he’d be able to find their room if he tried. He was just grateful that Rose understood that his desire to put off this conversation didn’t mean he wanted to be separated from her in the slightest.

It was funny, sometimes, to imagine that all of the effort he had previously put into studiously trying to not overwhelm her with just how much he wanted to almost always be in her presence had been completely inverted now that all of their cards were forever on the table.

They got into the shower together and he began to wash his wife’s hair as if on auto-pilot, only refocusing on the present moment when feelings of relaxation and contentment began to pierce through the veil of unpleasant emotions tangled across their shared minds. Once the shampoo rinsed away, the Doctor couldn’t stop himself from cupping her face and pulling her into a relatively chaste kiss. Maybe, just maybe, he could convince himself that everything would all truly be alright (for once). Because one thing that had been clear while looking through her scans was that Rose was perfectly healthy. Her life wasn’t threatened in the slightest.

Things were just … different.

Before he was quite ready, they had finished showering, were both fully clothed, somehow tea and toast had been made (though he barely remembered being in the galley), and they had reached the library. Rose immediately sat down on the sofa, a fire already crackling away in the grate. He followed her, taking a large gulp of his beverage the moment he sat down. For all of the time he had spent trying to organize his thoughts, they were still less than refined.

The problem was, despite being bonded and therefore having an intimate knowledge of her thought processes, the Doctor still couldn’t predict how she would react to any of what he’d discovered in the hours his wife had spent sleeping. And despite the fact that she wasn’t actually saying anything, he did know that she was growing more and more impatient by the second.

“Sooo,” he began, hoping that the rest of the words would just happen, as it were, “this is cozy, innit?”

Obviously it didn’t work.

“Why don’t you start at the beginning?” she suggested.

“Oh, blimey, alright then. Well, billions of years ago, a cataclysmic explosion of a singularity caused what you could refer to as the Big Bang, Event One, or even just ‘creation’. It resulted in a very compact, tiny universe that was very dense and very hot, riddled with dimension pockets and full of space-time anomalies that are now considered exceedingly rare. These were the beginnings of the Dark Times, of which not much is known - time travel so far back was-”

“Doctor,” Rose interrupted, “does this have anything to do with what has you so upset? The, erm, results?”

“Ah, well, no … not as such. I mean, it’s tangentially related to absolutely everything, of course, but it … right, sorry.” He took another sip of tea, followed by a deep breath. The beginning, but not that beginning. “I finally tracked it down. Old texts, ancient, that had descriptions of telepathic marriage bonds. Took ages to find one that sounded right, though. Apparently most ancient Gallifreyans needed to have the assistance of an experienced telepath who specialized in this kind of thing in order to join their minds. Knew that couldn’t be right, so I kept on digging and when I-”

The words were flowing out now, faster than he could keep track of and for once he was aware of just how irrelevant they were. With a huff he stood up and began to pace in front of the fire, hoping that the movement would help.

“Very old, very rare, very specific. That’s what our bond is. There isn’t even a translation for what they called it, the word would be absolutely meaningless to anyone else, anyone who hasn’t experienced it for themselves. It’s the specificity, though, that made me realize that there was much more at work than just your growing telepathic abilities. When I went to the infirmary, it was really a toss up - either I was right or I was wrong and hadn’t found the proper information yet.”

“But you weren’t wrong, were you?” She bit her bottom lip, eyes tracking him as he moved back and forth across the sitting area that for once seemed much too small.

“No,” the Doctor sighed, running his fingers through his hair. “The 6D scans will probably be ready later today, but I didn’t need those. Just different graphs of your base scans to measure different things. The thing is,” he nearly shouted, “if I hadn’t been about to regenerate, and then freshly regenerated, and then unpardonably distracted, I should have done this all ages ago! Quick as I could after I’d taken the Vortex out of you.”

“Think we were a bit busy savin’ the Universe to bother with all that,” Rose pointed out, comfort and understanding passing over to him through their link, along with a few spikes of irritation and general chastisement for pointlessly blaming himself for something yet again.

“And what’s my excuse for after all that?” he drawled, unwilling to let her absolve him for this appalling negligence of her health and well-being. What kind of doctor was he, if he couldn’t be arsed to take adequate care of the woman he loved?

“Maybe, I dunno, the fact that I felt absolutely fine? That we were busy navigating all your new quirks and preferences while still saving planets? Anyway, you still haven’t even told me what’s going on.”

The Doctor scrunched up his face as he dug the heels of his palms into his eyes. She was right, obviously. Somehow he was still managing to procrastinate. His teeth ground slightly as he set his jaw and made his way back to the couch.

“You have a large amount of artron energy,” he began. “More than just background radiation. Way more. I would say life threatening amounts, except you also are absolutely riddled with huon particles. Also deadly.”

“Huon particles?”

“Eradicated by the Time Lords near the end of the dark times - oh, look at that, it all came back ‘round, sort of.”

“But you just said they were deadly,” Rose frowned. “Why does it sound like they’re a good thing? I mean, your people obviously had a reason for gettin’ rid of ‘em all. How’re they even there?”

Oh, his magnificent, brilliant, fantastic bondmate - always asking the right questions. A small smile lighted her face as she caught the thought.

“See, the TARDIS is connected to the Vortex, which goes all the way back - remnants of huon particles exist in her heart, which you opened up and used to merge with her, a whole fifth dimension running through the both of you. The huon particles are stabilizing the artron energy - it’s feeding them instead of overtly impacting the rest of your body. So in this case, this one case, the reemergence of deadly particles from the dawn of time is a good thing. Even so, that wouldn’t be enough, except you didn’t just merge with the Vortex alone but with the TARDIS. The TARDIS emits chronon particles, and one of the key differences between Time Lords and non-Time Lord Gallifreyans is that our bodies are surrounded by a bio-plasmic field of chronon energy, allowing us to bond with a TARDIS.”

“Oh. Right, that’s why when you were sick the TARDIS wasn’t working properly. Couldn’t translate for us.”

“Yes, yes, exactly.” The Doctor got back to his feet, the need to pace outweighing his desire to remain close to his wife. “Now, the thing about having a surrounding field is that it can, er, leach on to others. Infect them. Not in a bad way. It’s what provides me with protection from the time stream, helps with cell rejuvenation, etcetera. So actually, if a bit of it didn’t migrate away to those I’m close with, I’d never be able to bring anyone along on the TARDIS with me. Too dangerous. Thing is, you have your own now, not just an echo of mine. Which makes sense. You two became one, of course she would bond with you as well. Thing is, to do that - your DNA, Rose. Becoming Bad Wolf. It’s given you symbiotic chronon nuclei.”

“And what’s that, then? Something to do with the chronon particles?”

“In a sense. It’s only viewable with a temporal reading, which the TARDIS base scans do automatically, because that’s what’s normal for me. She doesn’t change protocols just because the other person she’s scanning happens to be human. I’ve mentioned before that I have TNA. Triple helix instead of double, yes?”

Rose nodded, taking a wary sip of her tea.

“Well, it’s actually a bit more complicated than that. Properly, temporally scanned it’s actually four strands. That symbiotic chronon nuclei is the physical, quasi-symbiotic link between the TARDIS and I. Now you have one too.”

“So wait, I’ve got four strands of DNA now? And we didn’t even notice?” Her mug clattered onto the table as she deposited it and stood quickly.

“No, no, no, just the three. No TNA. But this is where things get complicated.”

“You mean there’s more ?” she screeched, going paler than she already had been, thoughts becoming a whirl of panic. “Isn’t it complicated enough?!”

“Weeeeeell, let’s go back to that third strand I’ve got, yeah? It’s pretty much, and by pretty much I mean almost the sole reason, that regeneration is possible. Stores all the information for past and future incarnations, as well as other things,” he explained, waving his hands around, “and as far as I understood it, that’s what allowed for a Gallifreyan’s self-replicating biogenic molecules.”

“Your what?”

“Remember the nanogenes?” he asked, finally walking back to her in order to weave their fingers together.

“Yeah, ‘course.”

“Gallifreyan bodies have something like that. Biological nanites. Not only do they allow for regeneration, but on a daily basis they repair and prune any damaged or malformed cells. Hence why we age so slowly. I’ll look just like this for hundreds of years yet.”

She nodded slowly. “And lemme guess, I’ve got those too, somehow.”

“Yes. Though wired differently than mine, You’re still human , Rose. Just … with genetic modifications. Powerful genetic modifications. Obviously meant to keep you alive, because really, thinking about it properly, you shouldn’t have survived the trip back to the gamestation, much less been able to accomplish everything you did. A symbiotic self-renewing cell structure is really the obvious solution to the problem, and if you did have TNA like I do, the gigantic surge of artron energy would have triggered a regeneration, just like it did for me. But your body doesn’t work that way, so it just- just healed the damage, no mess, no fuss.”

“And they’re still there now, healing stuff?”

The Doctor nodded.

“So what does it all mean, then, exactly? Without all of the science babble.”

“Without it?” He winced at the way his voice nearly squeaked.

“As little of it as you can get away with,” Rose conceded, the smidge of laughter in her voice doing wonders for his frayed nerves.

“Alright. Well, your cell death is almost non-existent. Your brain activity, in addition to the new telepathic adjustments, has increased in both capacity and function. You likely haven’t noticed because you haven’t tried to stretch things more than average, and why would you? Despite all of these changes, it’s not like you really knew about them or have had any sort of training on how to incorporate them aside from our telepathy lessons. With the way you’re connected to the TARDIS, you could probably learn to sense time. That’s what allows for most of my time senses, by the way.”

“Doctor, less babble,” his wife helpfully reminded him.

“Right, yes, well,” he swallowed audibly, “the main thing is … you’re not going to age at the same rate as everyone else you know. Everyone human, that is. There’s no way for me to be certain how long your life might be, since our timelines are too tightly wound together.”

“They are?”

“Of course they are.” At this, the Doctor finally smiled, wrapping his arms around her. “That’s the thing, the crucial thing, about the bond. Why I needed to check the scans to make sure. It exists not just because we love each other, not just because we have compatible minds, but because our timelines were able to be synced. Literally able to be together forever, however long forever might be. This connection we have, it’s not the kind that can be forced, it can only happen spontaneously. In fact, from what I’ve read, the existence of this form of bond is exactly why the practice of making less deep and all encompassing ones came into being. Others who weren’t as, as destined for each other, for lack of a better word, wanted the same kind of intimacy. And of course it fell out of favor, not just because of Gallifrey’s abandonment of emotional ties in general, but because of the pain associated with losing a partner you’ve permanently telepathically merged with.”

“So that, us … we won’t have that?”

“I can’t view my own timeline and I can’t view yours, but I do know that they’re so tightly twined that you can’t tell the two apart. I can feel it, and maybe someday you will be able to on your own, but for now I can always show you,” he offered.

“I- I’d like that, but …” Rose trailed off, biting her lip and looking away.

“What?”

“’S just, you were so, so upset earlier. And it’s definitely a lot to take in, but, I mean, doesn’t it all seem like a good thing?” she asked, turning back toward him, eyes locking with his and broadcasting her pained confusion just as adequately as the bond itself was.

“For me? Of course it is, and the selfish part of me has never been more happy. But Rose, you have to understand that I wasn’t trying to be dramatic that night, outside of the chippy, when I said that my lifespan was a curse. You’re going to outlive everyone you know and love, aside from me. You won’t age at the same rate that they do. And I know that it’s expected for children to outlive their parents, but you’re going to spend far longer without your mother than with her. This … it was never something I wanted for you, the pain of so many goodbyes.”

Rose shut her eyes before burrowing her head into his chest, holding him tighter. For a long time they were silent, though the Doctor could hear her racing thoughts as she tried to process all of the information he had shoved at her in such a short period of time. He was content to just hold her, rubbing a soothing arm up and down her back until a singular thought rang out across their bond that had her gasping and him groaning.

We have to tell mum.

The Doctor spun around the console in a whirlwind, Rose clinging to the jumpseat. He could feel her trepidation as they landed, her worry about her mother’s reaction to their news. So he wasn’t surprised in the slightest at her shock upon opening the TARDIS' door and finding them very much not on Earth.

“Think your driving’s a bit more off than usual,” she noted vaguely as he finally stepped away from the console to grab his jacket.

“Is it really?” He gave her a look of wide eyed bewilderment, just as his thoughts inevitably revealed that he had had no intention of making the trip to Jackie’s - yet.

Rose crossed her arms, giving him an unconvincing glare as the Doctor finally met her at the door and stuck his head outside.

“Ah, perfect!” he exclaimed. “Right where I wanted to be.”

“Oh, really? And where’s that then?” his wife asked, finally stepping out of their ship and having a look around. There were rows and rows of stalls and booths as far as the eye could see.

“It’s a bazaar. On an asteroid. Moves around every four cycles to a different asteroid in a different sector. Used to just be a handful of merchants and artisans and performing artists, a sort of circus, if you will, only without the mistreated animals and exploited people. Was called Mz’trak’s Marvelous Moving Menagerie - gotta love that alliteration, absolutely amazing. But as you can see, it grew. Doesn’t have a name now. Too much going on. Still, organized enough to make it’s trip across the quadrant. They span galaxies, Rose Tyler! This is the place to go to find anything you could possibly imagine!”

“Okay,” she said slowly, drawing out the word as she turned back to face him. “And what, exactly, are we lookin’ for that’s so important that you’re putting off visiting mum?”

“Oh, right, see, about that - I thought, maybe, just maaaybe, you’d be able to find something for her here. To, erm, soften the blow, as it were. Butter her up a bit.” Make her less likely to regenerate me, he didn’t say, but he didn’t have to. The thought was pretty much blaring on a loop that his bondmate was unlikely to miss.

“Seriously?! Doctor, if you hide away again and force me to have this talk all on my own, I swear-”

“No, no, I won’t! We’ll do this together, I promise!” he hastened. No need to have two angry Tylers on his hands.

“Honestly, I don’t know why you’re so afraid of her,” Rose said with a roll of her eyes before taking his hand and beginning to walk through the market.

Normally she buzzed up to nearly every stall, wanting to see as many strange and novel alien things as possible, but this time his wife was quickly passing them by, categorizing everything in their immediate vicinity as ‘too alien’. Admittedly, the Doctor hadn’t given that much consideration when he decided that a gift for his mother-in-law would be a good plan.

“It’s a premonition I have, really,” he told her, “that your mum will be the death of me. Unlikely, I’ll give you that, but you never know. Sometimes these things have merit. I was once very good at that kind of thing, seeing the future. Well, not really. More like an unconscious tracking of future timelines that seems like a form of prescience but is really-”

“You are so full of it,” Rose laughed. “But speaking of past yous, I’m not going to regenerate, am I?”

While the Doctor had thought that he’d been very clear in the library earlier, perhaps he hadn’t explained very well. Too much ‘science babble’, probably.

“Nope,” he assured her, popping the ‘p’ and giving her one of his best grins.

“So Bad Wolf didn’t make me into a Time Lord. Just …”

“Bad Wolf didn’t do any such thing,” he frowned. “If you want, I can show you the second by second time stamps of the scans the TARDIS took of you during all that - constant state of danger, there’s hundreds of them. But no, the TARDIS did all of that herself so that you two could become Bad Wolf. If you recall, our ship is a multidimensional alien being that even I don’t completely understand. And she likes you. A lot. Didn’t want you to die.”

He stopped himself, barely, from continuing on (again) about how he should have realized this all ages ago. There was really no point to it, just his wounded ego. Plus, who had time for brooding, anyway?

“Sure she doesn’t just like you a lot?” his wife asked with a smirk. “Y’know, making sure the girl her pilot likes so much has a matching lifespan?”

The Doctor abruptly stopped his near-skipping and pulled Rose into his arms with a growl.

“Oh, I much more than like you, Rose Tyler.”

“That so?” his cheeky wife asked him with a tongue touched grin.

Minx, he chastised telepathically, his mouth now busy as he dipped her into a snog that was likely inappropriate for public, but for once she wasn’t complaining.

“Also,” he added, after breaking the kiss so that she could catch her breath, “it would be Time Lady, you know. And that is a little complicated, now that I think about it. Because you’re not Gallifreyan, but not all Gallifreyan’s are Time Lords or Time Ladies. Then again, you have the bit of genetic jiggery pokery that makes a Gallifreyan a Time, er-”

“Let’s just go with Time Lord, yeah?”

“It’s a hypothetical political correctness jumble,” he muttered with a grimace.

“So I’m a bit like a human Time Lady? Kind of?”

“Kind of. Eh. Doesn’t really matter, though, does it?”

Rose had gone back to scanning the booths, but was quick to turn her sharp gaze back to him. “How could it not matter?”

“Well, I mean, you’re still Rose Tyler. Doesn’t matter to me, what kind of species you call yourself. The important thing is that you’re you, and I get to keep you.”

And the Doctor could tell that she didn’t exactly agree with him, all of the ramifications of this still buzzing around in her head and the impending talk with Jackie making her permanently anxious. But still, she smiled at him and squeezed his hand.

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right.”

Finally some stalls came up that looked promising and his bondmate began looking at things in earnest. As he watched her flit about, the thought began to really settle in. They would be able to stay together, not just for the very short human forever that he had struggled to come to terms with, but for his forever.

The weight of the Universe on his shoulders had never felt lighter.

It suddenly did seem a little bit ridiculous, all of his worries about Jackie’s reaction. At least when it came to him . Over 900 years old, he could (probably) take it. If anything, he was more concerned for Rose. If (or really, it was more likely to be when) her mother reacted poorly, she would undoubtedly be hurt.

Flashes of their ‘marriage announcement’ briefly passed through his mind.

This time, though, he would be there for her. Absolutely no swanning off or hiding or cowering of any sort. Well, minimal cowering. Can’t set the bar too high, knowing he was about to get a smack (even if none of it was actually his fault). It would all be worth it in the end, being able to spend the rest of his life with the woman he loved.

“Do you think mum would like this?” Rose asked, interrupting his chaotic stream of thought.

“What’s that?” The Doctor walked closer to the booth, finally taking notice of his surroundings instead of blindly following his wife. “Oh! These are all made of bazoolium! That’s brilliant!” he exclaimed, touching a large piece that was either intended to be abstract art or a Raqkle Bear about to attack, unsurprised by the neutral temperature. After all there was no weather to speak of on the asteroid.

“Yeah, he was just tellin’ me that they could predict the weather,” she said, gesturing toward the shopkeeper. The Doctor barely spared him a glance before investigating the ones that were combined with wind chimes, surprised when the chimes were actually made of bazoolium as well.

“They’re not incredibly unlike the barometers you lot have, only much more accurate. The truly impressive part is the fact that this property is naturally occurring in the mineral. Plus there’s really not much interpreting to it - if it’s hot, you’ll have a nice sunshine-y day, and if it’s cold there’ll be rain. Or snow, I suppose. But all you have to do is touch it. Definitely simple enough for Jackie to get use of-”

He winced when Rose telepathically zapped him, which he really should have seen coming.

After apologizing, the Doctor (for the most part) kept his mouth shut as she selected a small one that looked as un-alien as possible, something that any of Jackie’s friends would look at and think was some random tchotchke, just a thing and then think nothing of it. As soon as she finished her purchase, he took her hand and reluctantly headed back the way they came.

In a private corner of his mind he had come up with thousands of different ideas for putting this next trip off, but eventually discarded every single one of them (even if some were astonishingly brilliant). His wife wanted to get this over with, so that’s what they were going to do.

If anything, he regretted putting all of their efforts into getting her mother some bauble to put her in a good mood when they should have also been coming up with a plan for distracting her after this ‘talk’.

“Distracting her? How would we possibly distract her?” Rose wondered aloud.

The Doctor felt strangely giddy, knowing that she’d been paying attention to him over the bond. They were starting to get pretty good at not constantly acknowledging all of the thoughts that were projected without real intent, so much so that he sometimes wondered if his wife was listening most of the time. His thoughts were very interesting, after all, so he wasn’t sure how she could ignore them if she wasn’t just tuning it all out.

She rolled her eyes, making it clear that she’d caught all of that as well.

“I don’t know,” he went on, “I’m not sure what would hold her attention, aside from gossip and telly. Maybe we should nip into the future, get some Eastenders DVDs. Or some tabloids. Then again, I doubt your mother could keep her future knowledge a secret and next thing you know, we’ll have a paradox on our hands. Can’t have that.”

Rose laughed as they entered the TARDIS.

“Dunno if it’s really much of a distraction, but I do have some laundry I’ve been meaning to bring over.”

Now it was his turn to roll his eyes. “I refuse to believe your mother actually enjoys doing your laundry. There’s a perfectly good laundry room in the TARDIS. You don’t even have to do much of anything. Just put your clothes down the chute and she’ll do all the rest, even the folding.” And yes, he had told her all of this before, on multiple occasions - every time she had laundry to bring back, in fact.

So the Doctor wasn’t surprised when she said, “It makes her feel useful. She likes doing mum stuff for me.”

She said something along those lines every time. This time, however, his responding ‘fine’ was telepathic, rather than verbal as he began piloting them into the Vortex and she disappeared down the corridor to gather said laundry.

Since he was going to have to wait until Rose was finished before flying them to Jackie’s (let it not be said that he can’t learn a lesson) he almost followed her to their room. But just as he moved away from the console, he sensed that his bondmate could use some privacy while she got her thoughts in order, trying to decide exactly what she was going to say to her mum, not wanting to get into absolutely everything.

So he sat down on the jumpseat, kicked his feet onto the console, and focused on sending soothing emotions over their bond. Eventually, Rose reappeared with her giant red duffle, looking plenty nervous but definitely less so than she’d been before.

“Ready?” he asked, hopping back to his feet.

“No,” she sighed, dropping the bag onto the newly vacated seat before flashing him a wary grin. “Let’s go.”

[deathbyvalentine]

Prompt Collection

Crash Landing an Airship

In hindsight, knocking out the pilot had been a bad move. A worse move had been locking the co-pilot in a cupboard. Preplanning had never quite been Alexi’s strong point. Unfortunately, neither had piloting. 

“Right.” They murmured to themselves, looking at the dizzying array of dials, buttons and levers, and failing to see a manual anywhere. “Flying. Piece of cake. Birds can do it. Why shouldn’t I?”  Cautiously, he pressed the lime-green button, wincing as a grinding sound surfaced from somewhere deep below the decks. A needle swung wildly as a slight but certain smell of burning appeared. Was it just them, or was the ground getting closer?

My Shelter, My Prison, My Home.

Rose spent a lot of time gazing out of windows. Whenever she tired of sewing, or piano playing, or reading in front of the fire, she drifted to the window, where she could sit for hours. It was a pretty, if unremarkable view. The manor was way off the main road, and surrounded simply by gardens, forest, or lawns. You couldn’t even see the boundary fence, and even if you could, you would simply see the rolling, almost purple moors. Rose had never stepped foot on those moors. She had never even stepped foot on one of the lawns. She had never been beyond the walls of this house.

Not that she wanted to. Her mother had told her about the dangers that lay beyond. Freezing wind and rain. Animals with sharp teeth. People who were nothing more than plague carriers. No, she was already sick, and far too fragile to deal with the cruelty of the world. 

But still, she looked. She especially liked looking out on rainy nights, where the wind drove downpours against the glass until she could barely hear herself think. Where the fire flickered and jumped in its grate, casting patterns on the walls. And where it was hard to make out anything but her own pale face gazing back at her in the window. 

It was on a night like this, something extraordinary happened. Jane Eyre was lying forgotten on her lap, her hand holding her place. She looked spectre-like, framed in the window-seat, in nothing but her nightgown, red curls streaming down her back as if drowned. She didn’t move from her vigil, even as servants restoked the fire and whisked away untouched tea. 

There was a light in the forest. She had thought it was a reflection at first, but nothing within the room could produce that white light. It glimmered and jumped, occasionally blocked by the tree trunks, but never disappearing entirely. She was transfixed, no, more than that. It was a longing she felt, deep within her fragile bones, as if something was calling to her.  For the first time in her short life, she wished for more. It was this wish that lead her to slip down to the servant’s quarters, lifting the heavy iron key off it’s hook to unlock the backdoor. She did not put on shoes, she did not find a jacket. She stepped into the driving rain, marvelling at the feeling of cold water on her virgin skin. Even discomfort can feel like a miracle if it’s new.  She made her way across the lawn, avoiding the bright spots of light cast by the watching house, dashing, causing splatters of mud to paint her legs. And still, that light, calling. Though it turned out not to be a light at all, but rather a creature who shone like the moon, but not like the sun. He leaned against the tree, as if he had been waiting for her there always. His teeth were sharp as he smiled, and his eyes were black. And in his hand, he held a fruit with red skin. 

He offered it, casually, the promise of one prison for another. She knew she should never eat fae fruit, to ignore all tricks or pleas. But this was not a trick, it was an offer, and she may be naive, but she was no fool. She took it from him, and bit deeply, letting the sweet juice drip down her chin with the rain. 

Slayers: My Last Morning In Hospital

The light seemed different, somehow. Softer, gentler. He marvelled at it, as well as the beauty of the dust motes dancing gently. He was a cliche, and he didn’t care. He thought he would never seen another morning again.  His bloods had came back normal. As had his MRIs and CAT scans. As had every test they had thought to check. Even when he wasn’t actively dying, he always had had some deficiency or irregularity. Now, well, he was the epitome of health. He didn’t even need glasses anymore. They were calling it a miracle. He didn’t disagree. Nobody had known who the young doctor was. And when he mentioned the snake, they just murmured things about hallucinations and fever dreams. He could still feel the snake bite, even if the marks had healed. He could still picture the handsome face, even if he’d only gazed at it for a moment. He knew it was real. It seemed realer than the last few years had been. Perhaps the only real thing he had ever experienced. He dressed himself, ignoring the fussing of his father. The scars on his skin were gone too, from countless surgeries. They all seemed to chose to ignore this as doctors signed off on his paperwork, and shook his hand, discharging him. Nobody believed it would be the last time. But there was an air of hope there had never been before, the vain ambition that perhaps magic really did exist, and good things did happen to good people. He walked unsupported to the car, and the cold air on his skin had never felt better.  This felt a little like freedom. Like a weight had been lifted. Gratitude flowed through him like honey, sweetening and tinting everything he thought of or looked upon.

His mind though, kept circling back to the feeling of a hand on his, and a smile so warm it could light up a room...

Sybil 

Paris was a distraction at least. Her grief for her father was still like a fresh wound, and yes, she had some degree of homesickness, but when you had a city like Paris at your feet, you would be foolish to refuse it.  There was always something to do. Always a bar or cafe opening, or a new theatre production. And the strangers here were so kind, a mile away from the standoffishness of the Midwestern Americans she had grown up amongst. Always ready with a kind word, always pouring her another drink, buying her the prettiest things. It was near overwhelming at times.

And yet, she found herself often discontented with no explanation why. Perhaps it was the single bad review taking root in her mind, polluting all it came across. But she still felt moments of joy with her new friends. Moments of profound contentness that robbed her of breath. 

Sybil wondered if perhaps she did not do very well on her own. She relied on her sister an inordinate amount throughout their childhood, and she wasn’t sure if she knew what it was like to stand on her own two feet. Whenever she was alone in the morning light, that was when the darkness set in. 

Luckily, she had so many good friends that seemed to not mind taking care of her a jot. How lucky she was.

Susurration

The trees were not silent. They chattered and whispered about the little, insignificant thing creeping through between them, footsteps barely making a sound. In the distance, a campfire flickered, and occasionally snatches of laughter and song made it this far into the trees, making the small thing pause. “What do you think she’s doing?” Elm whispered, glancing up at Oak as the thing used one of it’s branches to hide behind. One of it’s branches drooped considerably since lightning had struck it several years back.  “Hm. That thing she’s carrying is called a knife.” Oak was wise. Oak had been a child at the dawn of this forest, and knew almost everything about what came through it. It could even tell humans apart, which was rare.  “What does it do?” “It kills, dear child. She must be hunting.” Oak watched where her gaze wandered. “Hunting those others I suspect.” Elm rustled, causing the thing to look up, and frown, blonde hair blowing over her eyes. Her eyes were the colour of the spring grass, and almost pretty. “Do humans usually hunt other humans?” Oak thought, and thought. And remembered. “She passed by a few weeks hence. Her and another, one with a beard. And other, one they both sat on. That had four legs. A horse I believe. And the other humans struck them, and took their horse, and their bags. And struck the bearded one so his sap fed the earth below him. We were very grateful, though she made the most upsetting noises.”  “Ah.” Elm watched as the small thing became even smaller, shifting into the darkness of the forest, and getting closer to the fire. “Will the earth be fed again tonight?” “I suspect so. Though how much, who knows?” The trees sighed. 

The Neverland Lagoons

Peter’s favourite part of Neverland changed by the hour, if not the second, but it frequently was the Neverland Lagoons. It was always sunny here, the light reflecting and bouncing off the ripping water. There were always flowers growing from the gaps in the rocks. There was just enough of a breeze to cool skin hot and bothered after playtime, and it was just warm enough that wet clothes would dry quickly. Fairies dashed about the place, trying not to get their little wings wet in the water, as drying them out always made them cross. And then the were the mermaids themselves. Often about a dozen, sometimes less, sometimes more, in every shape, size, and colour. Their tails glittered like precious jewels in as many shades. Peter adored them, and they adored him, flirting and playing at every opportunity. They bore the other Lost Boys well enough, but he was their favourite, much to his pride.

And he had his favourites amongst them, when he remembered to. One of the ones that endured was, of course, Ariel. He had been fascinated by her red hair, vibrant and clashing against the clear blue of the water. She had let him brush it, only wincing a little when he tugged at the knots.  She was fascinated by objects humans had that mermaids didn’t. He brought her hats and shoes, studying her face, looking for the delight that made her more radiant than the sun. She was beautiful of course, as most mermaids were, but she was also nice, which most mermaids weren’t.

She wasn’t quite from around here, he knew. Sometimes that was the way it went. Bits came through, if he let them, though of course very little could get into Neverland without his say so. He was sad, when she left, for as long as he remembered her. He hoped whatever story she was from deserved her. 

Call Sign Nisus The camp fire was blazing fiercely, spitting sparks into the sky and crackling as if to remind them all it was here. The company were sprawled around it, gazing upwards at the sparkling stars, sharing cigarettes, and talking absolute shit, as most of their downtime was spent doing. Nisus had somehow managed to acquire a bottle of something that smelt of cloves, and it was already half empty. He was very almost drunk, again, not an unusual development when he had been given clearance. He was leaning heavily against his partner, though his feet were planted in a healer’s lap. He was happy, as he often was. His mouth was made for smiling, his voice made for laughter. He was rarely serious, a blessing and a curse when fate had put a gun in his hand.

He was in his element, surrounded by those he loved, and telling stories. Nobody could ever tell which bits of his stories were real, if any, and which were fake. He would never admit to lying, cheerfully being shameless with reckless abandon. Despite barely ever having seen a real war, he seemed to have more heroics than the rest of the company put together, somehow, better shooting skills, faster reflexes. Odd that.  His mentor pushed his head playfully as he teased her, fondness dripping from every word. They made a right pair, her no-nonsense attitude bouncing off his, well, nonsense near constantly. They fit together somehow though, like part of a jigsaw, like anchor and ship, like weapon and sheath. 

As soon as I saw the exhibit, I knew I'd owned these things before.

The museum was cool and quiet, the floors shining marble. The hoards of children had faded away with the hours of the school-day, and now, an hour before closing, the rooms had the feel of a sanctuary. People moved from room to room like ghosts, leaving no trace of themselves behind, and only the softest murmuring echoes.

They were two such people, Albie with his golden hair falling about his shoulders, the evening sun sometimes catching it and giving it the appearance of flame, Brennon with his dark dark eyes. Their arms were linked, though they sometimes fell into holding hands. They whispered to each other. Brennon preferred art galleries to museums, but it had been Albie’s turn to pick their date venue. Albie had a fascination for all things ancient.

They were in the Greek section when it happened, though to the outside observer it looked like nothing happened at all. Albie stopped in front of a case, and with a shaking hand, placed his palm against the glass. “Albie?” Brennon peered up at his taller lover. “Is something wrong?” “These things are mine.” Albie’s voice shook with the effort of keeping it controlled, low. Inside the case was a cloak pin, a handful of game counters, and a water vessel. The small white card said these things had been buried with a warrior who had died in some ancient and forgotten battle. 

“What are you talking about?” “No. Not all mine.” He removed his hand from the glass, and his eyes were a million miles away. “The cloak pin was his.”

“Who’s?” 

He said it so bluntly, like it meant nothing at all, like his words couldn’t hope to hurt. “My eromenos.” His voice curled differently around that word, but somehow it had never sounded more like him.  They left the museum in silence.  ****************************** Albie did not sleep well that night, in their small and comfortable flat. They had barely spoken that night, curled up in front of the TV, Brennon sneaking glances at his lover. His eyes were often unfocused, his elegant fingers turning a pen between them over and over again. And now, in bed, he was tossing this way and that, his skin glistening with sweat. Brennon dare not wake him up, from cowardice or care. He woke naturally after countless hours, and spoke of dust and blood and the ever beating sun. Brennon could do nothing but hold him.

He looked up signs of psychosis online, of delusions and hallucinations, but none of them fit. Albie only talked about it when the moment struck him, and often seemed frustrated that he couldn’t provide more details. And then there was the museum visits. He went back every week, and sat in front of the case, often but not always refusing Brennon’s company. Smaller details appeared, wine splattered on the doorway, small pieces of food left by windows, worry beads appearing in jewellery boxes. Albie was becoming somebody he did not recognise, but was somehow still not unlike himself. ***************************************** He dared ask the question one night, when they were laying in bed, side by side, a soft breeze being invited in from the open window, bringing in distant sounds of chatter and cars. Albie had never looked more beautiful, the half-light painting him almost divine. Brennon’s heart ached for the love of him, and for the knowledge he was not the love of his many lives.  “What was he like?”  Albie opened his eyes, surprised. He opened his mouth, then shut it again, thinking. Brennon wondered if he was about to get up and leave, lick his centuries old wounds. But he didn’t. He replied.  “He was quicker than I ever was. He won all our races. He used to laugh, a lot, and he was never serious. His hands were always dirty.” He breathed out a laugh, closing his eyes again, pained. “He was the best swimmer, but the horses didn’t like him a bit. He died, minutes before I did, a spear through his chest. He had looked so... Confused. Like he couldn’t conceive of a world where the Gods did not save him. He was not alone. I couldn’t either.” Albie’s hands played with Brennon’s fingers. “You are not him. And I’m trying to forgive you for that.” Outside, the breeze from the river faded, and soon, the chatter and the cars would cease as the city decided to finally sleep.

Liminal Places

The garage open at three am, surrounded by darkness, the neon glow an invitation to passing travellers. Empty, the only life the bored cashier, who likely wouldn’t notice if his customers were zombies. 

The road, surrounded by huddling trees, watching over the cars that come and go. You could lay in the middle of the road for minutes and not be in the slightest bit of danger. The sporadic streetlights drown out all but the brightest stars. 

There’s the mega-stores, named Walmart or Costco. Windowless, temple-like testaments to capitalism, everything in excess. Nothing feels quite real, nothing feels permanent. 

The cemetery is an old one, but it endures. You can feel the presences here, the veil tearing at the edges from age. The stone is crumbling with the bones beneath it, and one day, this too shall be nothing but vines and leaves. 

She had always been walking, following the coastline, in the moonlight. +  Gumusservi (Turkish, n.): the glimmering that moonlight makes on water.

Harry knelt in bed, folded arms resting on the window-ledge as he stared out towards the tranquil sea. It was a starry night, only a few dark clouds gathering by the mountains to the east, and the wind was soft and low. Today had been an active day, full of games, cycling and catching interesting things in the craggy rockpools left by low tide. His parents had expected him to fall asleep instantly when they kissed his forehead goodnight.  But he was awake, the awakest he had perhaps ever been. Because something strange was happening outside. As you looked towards the gentle curve of the shore, there was a glowing. Steady, constant, alluring. It was calling to him, not with sound, but with a need that his nine year old mind had never known the likes of. 

So he walked past his slumbering parents, and past the fishtank bubbling in the darkened living room. He picked up a flashlight from the emergency box kept under the sink, and twisted the heavy backdoor key in it’s lock, tugging the door open with only a small creak. The wind blew sand over his feet as he followed the boardwalk down the slight slope, the conspiratorial whispering of the sea only growing louder.

He wasn’t afraid - it was not as dark as it could be. The moon cast down silver, and the stars glimmered, and his torch kept his feet steady. He wasn’t surprised when he got there, that the light she was giving off was also silver. She was as much a part of this place as the moon, the stars, and the reflections of both. Nor did she seem surprised to find a small boy standing in front of her in a batman t-shirt and sneakers clutching a small bear. He shivered, once, the breeze bringing his skin up in the finest of goosebumps.  She had a kindly face, beautiful. Hair fell to her shoulders in waves, her mouth turning down just a little at the corners. Her dress fell to cover bare feet, and bracelets encircled her thick wrists. She crouched down to look him in the eye. “Hello Harry.” Her voice was barely audible over the sea. “Would you like to hear a story?”  He nodded, holding his bear close, and moving to sit cross legged on the still-warm sand. She made a noise of approval, and turned to stare out at the horizon. “Once upon a time, a long long time ago, when I was nothing but a green, foolish girl, I fell in love with the sea.” She paused, so long Harry was unsure if she would continue.  “You wouldn’t understand of course. Too young. Too young to know what love can do to you. Child, I could not sleep. I could not eat. All I could do was walk by this shore, and kiss the salt water that touched the sand. I added my own salt to the water, and collected the glass made into precious jewels.” Here, she reached a hand into the folds of the dress, and produced a handful of the worthless seaglass. She let it fall through her fingers, though it never hit the sand. 

“I did not know the sea was cruel. I did not know she was unforgiving and jealous. So when she appeared to me, dream like, I embraced her, as she embraced me. I felt my lungs go cold, and I was drowning in her. She likes keeping what loves her.” She crouched down again, and her hands were cold when she tilted his face up. She didn’t seem quite so beautiful now - she seemed terrible. Her hair hung, damp and dripping. “I love her still.”  His heart ached with some unknown sorrow. He didn’t have a name for it. He didn’t like how it tasted. “Harry, I like giving her gifts. To keep her looking at me, you know? To keep her close.” The wind didn’t seem so warm anymore, and suddenly he understood. He understood how the waves that seemed so calm now, could break bones, could drown bodies. He understood how the place where he played in the afternoon sun could also be a place of death and despair. He understood death with all of his nine years of life. 

And he was up and bolting, leaving the woman with her hair blowing about her pale face by her love. When he glanced back over his shoulder, she was whispering to the water. caressing it with her fingers. By the time he was in bed, duvet pulled up over his head, teddy safely clasped in his arms, he could almost tell himself it was a bad dream. He could almost believe it. 

But the thing was, when he woke in the morning, the still light filtering in from the skylight, things were not as they should be. For on his beside cabinet, sea glass glittered, surrounded by sand. 

She gave me a human molar, wrapped in a bloody silk handkerchief. +  Gemas (Indonesian, n.): a feeling of love/affection, arising from someone/something being so cute, that compels you to squeeze them until they squeal/cry.

She worried about her sister. She watched her endlessly, fascinated and repulsed by her in equal measure. The love she felt for the smaller girl was equalled only by her fear.

Frankly, there was something odd about her, even as a baby. Vanessa never cried. She lay, quietly, watching everything with her big blue eyes, and seeming to understand. Daisy adored her from the moment she held her in her arms, every inch the proud big sister. And as they grew up, she ended up more often than not, the proud mother. And once Daisy was sixteen, and their mother lost interest completely, lost to her own mind, she took on the role with confidence.

It really started when Vanessa became a teenager. When her smiles seemed to come more easily, her fingernails always painted pristinely. She became obsessed with her appearance - not out of pride, or of vanity, but what seemed to be a mystification that she had a body at all. She could spend hours in front of a mirror, staring, poking at her cheeks and lips. Daisy wondered what she was seeing. 

Daisy tended towards the opposite. She preferred all the mirrors in their house to be covered, so there was no chance of her catching a glance of herself. She could think of nothing worse than contemplating herself at length. After all - what was she but a collection of inadequacies? She needed no reminder. 

Vanessa was not popular at school - she was avoided. She spent much of her time on her own, going on long walks, coming home with colourfully stained fingers from squeezing flower petals between them. Daisy found berries in her pockets, uneaten but stored. This happened frequently. 

The first was found in a field, surrounded by frost touched grass and the first wildflowers of spring. Her mouth was purple, her hair tangled about her face. She was missing her shoes, three teeth, and a notebook. Her watch remained on her wrist, her pearls on her ears. The second had been missing two teeth, and a handful of gel pens. Daisy stopped reading the news after that.

Vanessa didn’t know them, and seemed disinterested when Daisy enquired. She lay on the bed on her stomach, legs kicking as she flicked through a glossy magazine, gazing at the perfect girls inside. She barely even glanced up. She perked up when Daisy offered to brush her hair, and purred like a kitten when she did so. It shone like spun gold, and Daisy wondered if she had ever seen something as beautiful.

She didn’t always understand the feedback teachers gave on parents evening. They said Vanessa’s social skills were lacking, that she didn’t empathise with characters in the books they were reading. They said she could be cruel, when she wanted to be. Daisy nodded, and bit her tongue. They didn’t see the way her younger sister would hold her when she cried. How when a boy had said something mean to her in the street, she had charged right up to him, fearless, powerful. And how, when she had been worried about yet another bill, head in hands as she clutched at the envelope, Vanessa had presented her with a handkerchief full of teeth. 

“For the tooth fairy.” She said, eyes wide, and innocent.

He laid flowers on his own grave. Same day every year. 

Perhaps it was a morbid tradition. Perhaps it was unhealthy. But in a way, it was comforting. He had died, once. He had been buried in the soil he now let fall through his fingers. He had come back too, but that seemed less important somehow.

He had died frightened, and alone, but not in much pain. He had been buried with enough family to fill a few pews, but few friends to share memories with. His grave was inscribed by something he wouldn’t have picked, but something he he didn’t hate. The cemetery had been one of his favourite places when he was alive. It was quiet, with hedges for birds to twitter in, and a church with history and crumbling walls. He wasn’t sure he believed in a God, but if he was anywhere, he was here.

He left flowers here because he thought someone ought to remember his death. Now he was alive again, albeit it with a much less active heart and certain more cannibalistic tendencies, nobody seemed to want to remember the time he wasn’t. And much less do anything about the causes of death. It was easier to go back to normal. Whatever normal was.

He chose lilies because roses were cliches and too expensive. He liked their smell, and the way the pollen left marks on everything it touched. But he also liked the weeds that popped up all around his tombstone, incorrigible, unable to be destroyed. 

Slayers, ‘Correspondence’

They were emails, but they felt like letters. Whenever he received one, he almost could feel the weight. They felt important. They felt necessary. This wasn’t like the chatrooms he used to run, where everything he said about himself was skimming the surface, but had the pretence of intimacy. This was real. This was an honesty he had only ever shared with Asclepius. 

And some things Asclepius hadn’t even heard from his mouth, since it was about him, as so many things seemed to be. Talking about how much he loved him with someone that wouldn’t pour scorn at his door. Talking about how he loved even the frightening parts. Talking about how love could feel like heartbreak.

Lydia was a marvel, and for the first time, he felt like he was seeing private glimpses of a person she didn’t allow many access to. He treasured every piece of information she shared, and prayed whatever sentence he typed next would not be the thing that broke this spell they both seemed to be under.

He realised, currently, there was very little he would not do for Lydia. And very little he would not do for the God she loved. And that frightened him even as it filled him with a sense of deep, ferocious love. 

DUD: Black Ships

They bit their tongue, and kept their silence. They were damn near mute as well as blind. The amount of time they spent screaming inside their own head, instead of even whispering outloud. They were their own worst enemy, their only friend, their only company.

Who was it that had stolen their tongue? Where exactly had they lost their voice?

If they were honest, they knew the answer. They had started to lose it in the black ship. Not completely, not at the beginning. That would come later, in astropath training, beaten and bled out of them, until they could only just remember how to say their name.

But the process had begun the first time they had answered back, and the pain didn’t stop, the attacker didn’t back off until Cal reached into their mind and made them. There would be no relenting here, no mercy, no restraint. It was kill or be killed, and Cal couldn’t win every battle. So they began to avoid starting them.

Baris would have been proud, had he been here. He had always been saying how they needed to watch their mouth, and now here they were, barely breathing without considering it first. The thing was though, as their voice faded, so did their memories. Baris may have been proud - but Cal didn’t know that.

DUD: Oh Captain, My Captain

Cal fundementally did not understand Merwaldians. They were weird. They eat real food. They cared an astronomical amount about tea. They wore impractical jackets and used impractical forks. Their ships contained far too much brass, and not enough technical displays. They had manners. Feudal worlds remained to be a mystery.

And George, well George was even more of a mystery. George had a contained sense of fun that Cal didn’t understand. Sometimes it stirred something at the edge of their mind, but they suppressed it instantly. The problem was, that Cal didn’t always know when she was joking. When her orders were meant in jest, or when they were meant to decide for themselves. It put them on edge, as did her kindness. The way she seemed to look at them with pity. Kindness didn’t exist for people like Cal. So she was either afraid of them, or wanted something. Or both. Probably both.

Waldeinsamkeit (German, n.): mysterious feeling of solitude when alone in the woods.

You were never alone in the woods. Rationalise it by thinking of it in turns of creatures - there were insects creeping on bark or underfoot, birds fluttering and twitching, perhaps even a deer, passing through, disturbing little. 

Don’t think about the presence all around you, watching, disturbed. It’s interested, so far. Tread carefully as you walk in it’s domain. Do not eat it’s fruit, do not kill it’s prey. Do be wild. Do bare your teeth. Do grind your hands into the earth, do stamp your feet as though your legs were thunder. Make yourself welcome here, make this as much yours guest. Do not act cautiously. 

Soon, you’ll feel something curl around your heart, and you won’t be alone even in your own head. The breath in your chest will be shared. The blood in your veins will be shared. Don’t be concerned - you’re treading on borrowed ground.

Janteloven (Norwegian/Danish, n.): a set of rules which discourages individualism in communities. 

Anna was an awkward little thing, her smock a little too big, a little too worn. Her sandals too were ill-fitting. Her ankles were splattered with dust from the road, her wrists a little red from rubbing at them. She stuck out, in short, because of her aggressive mundanity. People could excuse breaking from the norm if it was to succeed, not if it was to fail.

Nobody gossiped about her. Nobody whispered about her activities, or admired her skills. She could fade into the background without even trying, and that afforded her a certain amount of freedom. For instance, she could go beyond the Fence. 

The elders said that beyond the Fence lay terrible beasts with dripping teeth and grasping claws. They said that there were cliffs as high as mountains, with raging seas crashing against them. They said that the fields you could see at the border were full of poisonous flowers that would cause a rash so painful you would claw your own flesh clean off. 

Anna had been desperate enough to risk it. Perhaps with scars she would be noticed, perhaps with death she would be remembered. So she waited until the village was at Conclave, and slipped off over the Fence, and into the field of sweet looking grass and flowers.

She did not burst into flames, she did not burst into rashes. Instead, she stood in the evening sun, drenched in gold. She held out her palms as though she could catch it. She crushed some grass beneath her feet, and the scent of it filled the air. She felt a gladness coat her heart, and for the first time, she was glad she was invisible. Nobody else had been painted and golden.

Baraka (ةكر ب) (Arabic, n.): a gift of spiritual energy or ‘sanctifying power’.

He pushed it into my hands, the glowing ball that hummed innocently. It was warm, and he cupped his hands around mine as it lit us up. “Take it.” I loved him when he was like this. Intense, showing his cracks. Nobody else saw this. It was all mine.  “I can’t.” I found my voice was a whisper.  “It’s yours anyway.” He closed my fingers around it. “I am so tired. I want to see the world with fresh eyes again. With you.” His godhead flickered, distressed. “It’s my gift, freely given.”

I knew what to do, my dreams had told me in advance. The visions too were his gift. I pressed the light to my heart, and it sunk through my skin, and took shelter within my flesh. My veins lit up with fire, every part of me aching with divinity. I would be a goddess of light, of love, of sacrifice. He watched me, my fire reflecting in his eyes, and he smiled. He was nothing now, when he was everything before. I loved him still. I loved him always. 

Orc Clients

She didn’t get many. Mostly soldiers making their way through from other places, curious about the ways of the League. Mostly they were interested in chatter, in someone to show them around, in drinking companions. The first time she was ever hired by an Orc, she had to admit she was intimidated. Her family, well, were traditionalists in their view. Orcs were easily angered, brutes, not very bright. 

The Orc that hired her had lounged on her sofa, wine in hand, and talked with her about books for hours, more intelligently than many of the human clients she had. Weeks later, some pamphlets written by Orcs had arrived, with a beautifully written note thanking her for her time. The fear had faded a little, after that. Now her heart only jumped when they seemed to be getting angry, when the voices of their ancestors started echoing through their head. 

She still kept her boot knife close, put it that way.

After Dark

Pain crackled along her right side, electric and hot. Slowly, slowly, she was coming around. The smell of blood was sickly in the air, and it took her a moment to realise it was hers. It dripped down from a wound near her temple, and she was currently unable to wiggle her fingers. Fuck. How long exactly had she been out? She shifted, and some of the plaster and brick shifted, sending up a small cloud of dust. And upstairs, she heard something move. Shit. Evidently, the bastards had back up. She thought she had put down the vampires, but like rats, there were always more living in the walls. And she was bloody, and injured. A smile flickered across her face, almost like relief. At least she could go down fighting. It would finally be over, all of it. She forced herself to her feet, fighting the wave of dizziness that threatened to make her vomit, staggering to lean across the wall with her good side to gain her balance back. From the sounds upstairs, she guessed there were at least two more. Her right arm hung useless at her side as she fumbled for a stake in her left. She crept to the stairs, black creeping into the edges of her vision, and not just from the darkness already in the house. The voices in the hallway carried down. Men, well, vampire men. Not quite the same thing. "Who the fuck cleared them out this quick-" "Not a good clean up though." "Mossy, maybe -" The voices cut off as she finally made it to the top of the stairs. She could barely see. But she could see enough to make out that the two men standing there were almost definitely not vampires. Shit. Had she dragged civvies into this somehow? That wasn't good. She opened her mouth to think of some excuse, any excuse, but instead the room tilted sideways, and she felt an arm suddenly propping her upright. 

"Okay, right, I think we found our killer. Let's get her to the car, patch her up -"

Silver

They always said that silver could kill a werewolf. Folklore, I thought. But then I saw the way the moonlight gleamed in your eyes before you left for the darkness, and I started believing.

Dawnish Nobles

They kept trying to tempt her over. Commenting on how quickly she would past a test of mettle. How  good she looked with a greatsword. How her poetry could fit in with ease, how many houses would crowd to have her, how she would suit nobility. 

It was almost tempting.

But the thought of noble chastity, of marriage and love and tragedy repulsed her like nothing else. Why would she pursue One True Love when she could have a hundred joyful flings that didn’t end in agony? Why would she invite this sort of pain into her life? Why would anyone?

Tick Tock + Dreams

Peter didn’t always dream. Neverland was his dream after all. When he did dream, Neverland reflected it, with rain or wind or monsters. As of late, he had been dreaming of his mother. A flash of gold, a crashing cracking sound as the world fell to pieces.

He kept waiting for himself to forget. He forgot so very much, he wanted to forget this too. He was sick of waiting to stop missing her. He had only known her two days, and he loved her still, and lost her still. Life was not fair, not in the slightest, and every time he remembered that, it crashed down on him with all the force of a tidal wave. 

He kept a door in the Neverland tree open for her. Just in case.