Northumberland False

FIC: Strain (Dr. Who, 1/1)

Tue, 16 Jun 2009 12:50:08 GMT

Title: Strain
Author: golden_orange
Rating: Teen, possibly Adult depending on your mileage.
Characters: Peri Brown and the Sixth Doctor
Disclaimer: Hey,, you know that TV show, Doctor Who? I don't own it. As it.
Warnings: Swearing. Also some frank sexual content; nothing too graphic or explicit but, well, it's about alien sex pollen, so draw your own conclusions. Also a hint of Peri / Six.
Word count: 1304
Author's Notes: A bit of a departure for me, something a bit more 'adult' than I usually write; it occurred that whilst the old 'alien sex pollen makes the characters want teh sex' cliche is prevalent in New Series fanfiction, it seems quite thin on the ground in the Classic Series... and that it might be interesting to see how a more fractious pairing than the usual shipping sets might react to it. And there's few more fractious than Six / Peri...
Summary: There are some times when being covered in alien sex pollen is one of the most pleasurable experiences in the cosmos. This was not one of them.

“This is all your fault,” Peri Brown snapped waspishly. A close observer would note that she appeared remarkably fidgety, and appeared to be crossing and uncrossing her legs with remarkable frequency. She seemed to have some difficulty in remaining settled in her seat. She was brushing at the skin of her arm, as if she had an itch, but the same close observer would see that her hand appeared to be stroking her skin rather than scratching it.

The Doctor spun around from the TARDIS console in a flurry of brightly coloured coat tails and moral outrage. “My fault?!” he repeated incredulously. “And who was it, I wonder, who warned you to stay away from those flower beds in the first place? It’s not my fault that you allowed your otherwise laudable botanical curiosity to overrule your good senses and reject my as-it-turns-out remarkably sound advice!”

“Yeah, you warned me -- right before you pushed me into them!”

“I did no such thing!” Which wasn’t entirely true -- although it was fair to say that it wasn’t entirely the Doctor’s fault either; he’d been wrestling with a Vorxian assassin trying to kill him at the time, and Peri had had the misfortune to be standing between him and the flowerbeds in question when the assassin had given him a particularly powerful shove. Of course, neither was exactly in the mood to see the other’s point of view at that particular point; not they often were at any other time, really.

“In any case,” the Doctor continued querulously, determined to see his campaign to secure the moral high ground out to the bitter end, “it certainly isn’t my fault that your species is practically hardwired to respond to almost any kind of stimulus with sexual arousal. Honestly, I can hardly take you lot anywhere; the amount of botanical gardens I’ve been kicked out of because of some human allergic reaction to pollen which requires my companion or companions to rapidly fulfill your species' basic biological urges is nothing short of embarrassing. As if your species didn’t have the breeding capacity of rabbits to begin with! Although credit where it’s due, Peri, you’re doing a remarkable job of controlling yourself so far; I've seen humans in a position to succumb to their urges with much less...” he tried to find a word which wouldn't seem like a horrible joke designed make the situation worse, and failed miserably: "stimulation," he ended lamely.

Peri, not surprisingly, wasn’t in the mood to debate with him the efficiency or otherwise of the biological imperatives of the human reproductive system. She was, however, in the mood to violently rip all the Doctor’s clothes off and do unspeakable things to him against the console, an urge that she attributed completely and entirely to the alien pollen she’d been liberally dusted with and absolutely nothing else. Certainly not those deep-seated thoughts she had never had about the Doctor that she in no way sublimated by having loud shouting matches with him at any opportunity. Denial was a beautiful thing, especially in Peri’s current state; at the moment, it was all that was keeping her from doing something that would no doubt make the TARDIS even more uncomfortable to be around in for the two of them.

Especially her.

Whilst trying to take her mind of the intensely powerful hormones that were charging through her entire biological make-up. Peri mused that the Doctor ought to be grateful, actually; she’d have probably already launched herself at him if he’d still been in the body she first met him in. Hell, she might not have even waited until the Doctor had managed to get her back into the TARDIS.

Peri's skin suddenly felt strangely tingly again; she rubbed at it, realising just too late that she was doing so in a way that couldn't be interpreted any other way as being intensely suggestive and erotic. She realised that the Doctor had noticed this gesture, and was making an obvious effort to look elsewhere; anywhere else. The atmosphere in the TARDIS suddenly became tense and uncomfortable.

Alright, more tense and uncomfortable.

“So where are we going now, then?” Peri asked as the Doctor turned back to the console and punched in coordinates with just a bit more force than was necessary, keen to distract herself from the thoughts setting up home in her mind of the Doctor shirtless and, for some reason, with a 1970s porn star moustache.

“Well, I’m setting the TARDIS to roam the vortex for a two-week quarantine period to ensure that the spores -- and by extension you -- can’t spread.”

Peri mentally battled between her urge to yell at the Doctor about being trapped in the TARDIS for two weeks, her urge to yell at the Doctor for implying that she was some kind of contagious virus, and her urge to yell “Fuck me, bad boy!” at the Doctor, rip her clothes off and jump him. The first urge won. Just. “Two weeks?!”

“I can’t risk landing the TARDIS anywhere that pollen could spread; especially not if there’s humans anywhere nearby. Imagine it mixing with the flowers on Earth, spreading on bees and in the air; it could mean the end of human civilization within days! And you, my dear, are covered in the stuff; it’s going to take some time both for the remaining spores around you to dissipate and for you to get over the worst of the effects.”

“But… what am I gonna do for two weeks in this condition?!”

“Well, first I suggest you take a very long cold shower.”

The glare Peri shot him at this flippantly delivered comment was almost capable of melting lead; even the Doctor flinched back. “To get rid of the remaining spores!” He insisted. “Hot water and soap will just make it worse, believe me; I have some little experience in these matters…” he shuddered momentarily at a long and happily forgotten memory involving Nyssa, Tegan and Adric, then snapped back to the present. “Anyway, once you’re done leave your clothes outside your bedroom door; I will dispose of them suitably. Any remaining spores won't affect me. After that, I suggest you remain in your bedroom, lock the door, and, well…”

“‘Well’ what?” Peri asked, her voice very very dangerously low.

The Doctor at least had the decency to look uncomfortable. “Do what comes naturally,” he ended feebly, scratching behind his ear. He smiled, weakly.

Peri’s eyes widened in horror. With that one comment, and the implication behind it, all those things about the Doctor she’d spent a good deal of time and psychological effort walling up in a secret place within her psyche flooded into her brain. Absolutely all of them. And despite everything, there were quite a lot of them. Peri Brown was nothing if not imaginative.

“You’re suggesting I masturbate, aren’t you?” Peri replied bitterly. “You’re suggesting I spend two weeks getting myself off! Thank you, Doctor. Thank you for doing the impossible and making this situation even more goddamn uncomfortable!”

After screaming that at the top of her lungs, Peri stormed out of the console room, although the aforementioned close observer from before would note that she was moving incredibly swiftly, and seemed to make an effort to follow a route that would put as much distance between her and the Doctor as possible.

The Doctor blinked. “Just trying to help,” he added to the empty room sulkily.

Peri and the Doctor never spoke of this incident again, and if at any point in the next two weeks the Doctor might have heard Peri shouting his name in what sounded like orgasmic bliss, he took care not to mention it.

FIC: An Object Of Some Interest (Dr. Who / Pride and Prejudice, 1/1)

Tue, 16 Jun 2009 12:45:49 GMT

Title: An Object of Some Interest

Author: golden_orange

Mediums: Doctor Who / Pride and Prejudice

Rating: All ages.

Characters: Captain Jack Harkness, Elizabeth Bennet and the Ninth Doctor. Others mentioned.

Authors Notes: This was originally written to be a shorter part of a 'five things that never happened' style fic (see if you can guess what the 'never happened' thing was going to be), but it kind of got away from me. It's been ages since I've read Pride and Prejudice so I've probably got all manner of stuff wrong. Set not long after "The Doctor Dances" and, well, at some point during Pride and Prejudice.

Disclaimer: I don't think there's anyone out there who seriously believes I own Doctor Who, including myself, but just in case someone does, and that someone happens to be litigious - I don't own Doctor Who. Or Pride and Prejudice, for that matter, but that's public domain now anyway and Jane Austen's in no position to complain so nyah.

Summary: A conversation on a dance floor in Meryton, roughly 1798. (Doctor Who / Pride and Prejudice)

*
It was an unfortunate consequence, Elizabeth Bennet reflected as she took the hand of her partner on the dance floor, that when a gentlemen of handsome appearance and mysterious provenance should suddenly appear within society, that almost all young women would begin to swoon over him practically over looks alone. A further consequence of such tendencies would be that any young woman who happened to find herself the subject of his attention would soon find herself the subject of hostility from these quarters for reasons that were almost entirely beyond her control or influence.

So it was with Captain Harkness, late of the former colonies and recently arrived in Meryton with two companions, whose charming smile and dashing blues had caused much flutter amongst the young women of Meryton, who with the recent arrival of the militia were already in a state of excitement over the prospect of any handsome man in a uniform. Similarly, Captain Harkness’ obvious (and, Elizabeth was forced to concede, not entirely unwelcome) attentiveness towards Elizabeth herself during his short time in the area had provoked so many icy stares directed towards her from the same young women.

Including, Elizabeth was exasperated to note, two of her sisters. Jane had only eyes for Mr. Bingley of course, and Mary’s pious declarations about the intentions of men and the moral paucity of dances were as constant as they ever were, but where Lydia and Kitty had provided relentless teasing over Mr. Wickham’s interest in her affairs (which they were prone to exaggerate in any case) they now only provided sulky accusations about her obvious efforts to appeal to soldiers.

This made it doubly uncomfortable when, at the most recent social gathering held by Sir William Lucas, Captain Harkness singled her out with his most charming smile and requested none other than the first two dances. The hostility from the other young women had only intensified when it was revealed that Captain Harkness was indeed skilled at dancing, but by the second Elizabeth was forced to concede that the hard feelings directed towards her were among her lesser thoughts, Captain Harkness’ striking eyes and voice being far more interesting to her at this point.

“You dance like an angel, Miss Bennet,” Captain Harkness drawled, “and look like one as well tonight, if I may be so bold.”

“I’m not so sure you should, Captain Harkness,” Elizabeth replied, her smile a contrast to the primness of her words, “as we are perhaps not sufficiently well-acquainted for the comparison to be made. Nevertheless, I thank you for the compliment.”

“Think nothing off it.” Even in this humble statement his voice, with that curious twang of the Americas, had an effect on Elizabeth that she would have found difficulty to accurately express, had the same effect not momentarily robbed her of the power of speech. It was fortunate that Captain Harkness had required no answer of her at that point, else Elizabeth might have found herself the subject of some embarrassment. She managed to distract herself momentarily by examining the crowd, and happened to notice Mr. Darcy, as dull and distant from the celebrations as always and as reluctant to participate as ever. He was looking in her direction, and frowning, prompting Elizabeth to amuse herself for a few moments by wondering what she had managed to do to prompt his ill-humour this time.

“Your sisters don’t look happy,” he noted, nodding towards Lydia and Kitty, whose scowls in their direction were as ill-tempered as any other woman in the room.

“I fear it is the result of a certain degree of jealousy,” she admitted, having managed to recover enough wit to continue a conversation, “as I gather they were rather hoping for the pleasure of your company.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint them.”

“I wouldn’t be; I suspect their feelings will be adequately soothed by the attention of any man in a uniform.”

He laughed, and the effect this had on Elizabeth was again quite pleasing and disconcerting. She found herself examining the crowd again, attempting to stave off fluster, and happened to briefly meet eyes with Captain Harkness’ friend, a doctor of some description whose name she had not yet managed to learn. He grinned at her, an intense and toothy smile. An odd gentlemen, the subject of much gossip and rumour amongst those in Meryton who were interested in such things; he dressed like a common labourer but carried himself like a lord, and apparently disdained to wear formal attire where it was expected. His scruffy, unusual leather coat had earned him much ridicule, but in truth Elizabeth rather found herself liking him. There was something honest about him, a refusal to put on unnecessary and unearned airs that put her in mind of none so much as her own father.

Like Mr. Darcy, the unnamed doctor apparently refused to dance, but there was amusement in his eyes as he watched the couples dance where Mr. Darcy’s held only cold disdain. He seemed particularly intent on observing Captain Harkness' third companion, a young blonde woman who laughed without care as she fumbled the moves of the dance.

“Are you staying long in Meryton, sir?” Elizabeth inquired after a moment, keen to prove as much to herself as Captain Harkness that she was not entirely tongue-tied in his presence.

“I doubt it,” he replied. “Kinda depends on the Doctor, really. I’m… how d’you guys say it again?… at his disposal, I guess. He doesn’t like to stay in one place for very long, and I don’t suppose I do, either.”

Such an odd manner of speaking! But then, Elizabeth supposed it was only second nature in the colonies, and resolved not to judge. She found herself momentarily daydreaming of names she’d only heard in books, of cities like Boston and Charleston and enormous cotton plantations, with Captain Harkness a curious fixture by her side in all of them. She found herself noting that underneath the trim and finery of his uniform, he had a form that seemed most pleasing indeed to her...

“Such a pity, then, that we won’t have the pleasure of your company for long. A fleeting pleasure, then.”

He looked at her, and there was something in his eyes that was transfixing, that promised adventures and experiences and emotions far beyond those she’d imagined, far beyond those that Meryton could offer her. “One thing I’ve learnt with the Doctor,” Captain Harkness murmured, and that murmur sent a ripple up Elizabeth’s spine, “is that ‘short’ and ‘fleeting’ are by no means the same. Even a short experience can be among the most memorable. Especially if it’s in the right company.”

Elizabeth found that her mouth felt quite dry. The smile on Captain Harkness’ face was so mysterious and inviting. She was shocked to find herself imagining what it would be like to kiss him. And possibly other things.

“I imagine,” she somehow found herself saying, “that the experiences you refer to would make for interesting listening.”

“Believe me, Miss Bennet,” he continued, so quiet as no one could hear, and as they moved together with the music she suddenly found him invitingly close to her, and suddenly she and he were the only two people in the Meryton dance hall, no, the world… “the things I’ve seen and done would blow your mind.”

“Captain Harkness…” she managed to stammer out

“Please, Lizzie,” and he smiled confidently, “call me Jack.” He took her hand for the dance, and as he did his thumb brushed the top of her hand, a curious, seductive gesture.

And with that, that particular smile and gesture, suddenly it was as if someone had cut a cord that dropped a curtain from her eyes, causing her head to clear.

One thing Elizabeth Bennet prided herself upon was her ability to understand people, and she suddenly found herself coming to certain conclusions about Captain Jack Harkness. The nature of his smile was no longer pleasant and inviting but slightly smug, almost triumphant, as if he had been playing some manner of game with her and concluded himself the winner. She found herself questioning him -- his charming manner and insistent interest in her, his confession about disliking remaining settled in one place for long, his confident manner, his sudden liberty towards her -- and suddenly his closeness to her as they danced seemed less liberating and more confining.

He suddenly had the manner not of a charmer, but of a seducer. And it suddenly appeared clear to Elizabeth Bennet that he had in mind nothing else so much as her conquest. There was a sudden well of anger that stirred within her; how dare he? How dare he? What manner of woman did he take her for?

“I would rather call you Captain Harkness, if you do not mind,” she replied, surprised by the sudden frostiness of her tone; the way his eyebrows raised, he apparently was as well. “And I will thank you to call me Miss Bennet, if you please.”

The look on his face as she said that -- of sudden defeat snatched from the jaws of victory -- only convinced her that her sudden impulse as to Captain Harkness’ real motives regarding his interest in her was the correct one, and they concluded the rest of the dance in silence, Elizabeth refusing to meet his gaze. Her obvious and sudden hostility towards him garnered some curious looks from the crowd, and she found herself gazing on Harkness’ friend in the crowd. There was a frown on his face that put her in mind of some manner of wild animal provoked to hidden anger. It seemed to be directed at Harkness himself -- so evidently his friend at least disapproved of Captain Harkness’ obvious inclinations.

The music ended, and she permitted Captain Harkness as brief a curtsy as decorum under the circumstances would allow. He at least had the decency to look somewhat embarrassed, and Elizabeth hoped that he would take this spurning as a prompt to question his character and seek God’s guidance in preventing his undeniable charm from being used for such venal and unworthy ends. As the partners dispersed and Elizabeth took leave of Captain Harkness to find one of her sisters, she found herself briefly crossing paths with Harkness’ friend, who walked past her without looking at her, blazing eyes directed straight at Harkness. Over the babble of voices before the next song began, she managed to overhear a snatch of their conversation, which sounded most heated to her ears:

“What you playin’ at, then?”

“Look, I was just… I just thought…”

“Thought what? ‘What the hell’? ‘Might as well try it on’? I didn’t bring you here so you could seduce Lizzie bloody Bennet of all people! History and literature both have plans for that girl, and they don’t involve her getting…”

As their hissed voices disappeared into the distance and the babble of the crowd, Elizabeth wondered what the meaning of the strange conversation she had briefly caught was. But she forgot it altogether when she noticed Mr. Darcy looking at her again, an unfamiliar expression of approval on his face, and she began to wonder what exactly had caused such a curious transformation in his mood.

FIC: Ten Moments - Moment of Clarity (Dr. Who, 10/10)

Tue, 16 Jun 2009 12:38:42 GMT

Title: Ten Moments - Moment of Clarity
Author: golden_orange
Rating: All ages.
Characters: Ten
Authors Notes: My first attempt at Doctor Who fiction longer than 100 words for a while. Inspired by the 25moments challenge, only adapted by yours truly. Ten Doctors, therefore ten moments. This is the tenth's. Feedback and comments welcome.
Disclaimer: I don't think there's anyone out there who seriously believes I own Doctor Who, including myself, but just in case someone does, and that someone happens to be litigious - I don't own Doctor Who.
Summary: For a long time, the Doctor’s had questions. Just maybe, he’ll find some answers.

It is a bright, warm morning, and he is an old man in a young man’s body, feeling the gentle breeze ruffle his brown, youthful hair and brush his unlined face. Once again he finds himself alone, distant from everything and everyone he knows and loves, once more the Lonely God wandering through time and space. It seems to be happening to him a lot, recently. He finds himself getting used to it, and isn’t entirely sure whether he approves of that feeling.

The Doctor does not know where and when he is, but the air is full of exotic spices and chattering in a thousand languages, and the narrow streets crowded with people of all shapes, colours, sizes and evolutionary paths. Some are human, some are not. He towers above most of them, lanky and skinny and out of place in his pinstripes and his brown overcoat, but he ignores the curious gazes he receives. He has never felt the need to dress to his surroundings to please the locals, and feels no particular reason to start doing so now at his age.

He is deep in thought, and has been ever since he found himself alone once again. He seems to be finding himself brooding more these days as well. Ever since Donna, ever since Martha, ever since Rose, ever since the War, the Doctor has found himself all-too-frequently musing over his life, contemplating so many unanswered questions and so many possible answers, tiny little problems ballooning together to form complex uncertainties. Some of them please him, others do not. Some of the questions and answers he tries to avoid, bouncing backwards and forwards through time and space to try and distract himself, throwing himself into hectic adventures and noisy crowds in order that he might find something to take his mind off them. Unfortunately, they are not so easily shaken, and often return to him in quiet moments such as this one, demanding his attention.

It’s so much easier to avoid them when he has someone around to keep him company, to show around the universe and save planets with and generally be awesome and spectacular and tremendously showy-offy in front of. He needs a human. Humans are good at that sort of thing, especially the females, and they usually come with their own problems that he can help them solve, providing further distraction. Especially if the problems are of the ‘help-Doctor-something’s-trying-to-eat-me’ variety. He’s good at solving those, and then he doesn’t have to think about all those things he’d rather not think about.

Well, most of the time.

Well, some of the time.

Usually.

And so the Doctor is deep in thought, lost in introspection within a maze of troubling thoughts and uncertainties, and so it takes him a moment to register the shouts and screams coming from the distance, and the sudden looks of panic on the faces of those around him. There’s suddenly lots of pointing and running going on, and when the Doctor looks in the direction they’re pointing to and running away from he sees a black space ship, hovering omniously above the city, the deep scars and dents indicating a ship that has seen a lot of trouble. What looks like a very unpleasant piece of weaponry (of the ‘of-mass-destruction’ kind, naturally) flickers and hisses from underneath the bow, pointed directly at the heart of the city.

And suddenly, for moment, everything that is bothering the Doctor no longer matters. It is abstract and philosophical, almost trivial, in light of this new danger. Here is something tangible, something real, something that can be dealt with now. His problems are not solved, and will return to trouble him once again, but for just a moment, the path is clear.

For just a moment, the Doctor is free.

He grins, and runs towards danger.

FIC: Ten Moments - Drunk (Dr. Who, 9/10)

Tue, 16 Jun 2009 12:34:57 GMT

Title: Ten Moments - Drunk
Author: golden_orange
Rating: All ages.
Characters: Nine, Rose
Authors Notes: My first attempt at Doctor Who fiction longer than 100 words for a while. Inspired by the 25moments challenge, only adapted by yours truly. Ten Doctors, therefore ten moments. This is the ninth's. Feedback and comments welcome.
Disclaimer: I don't think there's anyone out there who seriously believes I own Doctor Who, including myself, but just in case someone does, and that someone happens to be litigious - I don't own Doctor Who.
Summary: Rose Tyler’s better than all the alcohol in the universe put together.

Alcohol does not affect Time Lords. Not the same way it affects humans, at least, and certainly not in the quantities that most places are willing to serve it. For one thing, it will not help the Doctor forget the things he’s seen and done, so he must do that in other ways.

It has become a lot easier since he met Rose Tyler.

She grins at him from across the TARDIS console as they shake and shudder their way through time and space, all innocence and hope and excitement, and when she smiles he finds himself smiling back, and for the first time in his current life so far it feels genuine. Like everything that happened was to someone else (which in a way of course it was, but in another way it wasn’t).

“So where are we going, anyway?” she shouts over the hissing and crackling of the TARDIS console.

“Oi - you wanted to be surprised, and a surprise is what you’re getting. Now button up and hold that lever down!”

She mock-pouts and sticks her tongue out at him, holding the lever down with all her strength. He finds himself concealing a smile, and wonders exactly why this little blonde human has such an effect on him when nothing else has worked. He tried changing himself from the inside out, swapping long hair and finery for a buzz cut and leather, and he tried losing himself in his wanderlust, racing backwards and forward across the universe to see everything and do everything. But his new look was that of a soldier, and his travels kept taking him from disaster to disaster, everywhere he turned a reminder of battle and fire and death. He couldn’t even look in a mirror without being reminded of what had happened. What he had done. There was no drowning of his sorrows, no merciful release from the past.

Until Rose.

The TARDIS lands with a shudder, but things are barely still before Rose is running to the door, full of youth and life. “Come on!” she yells over her shoulder as she pushes her way out of the door, eager to see what lies outside. He follows her, calmly and casually, knowing she’ll be waiting there when he get there.

Outside, the sky is gold and the grass is purple, and the calls of strange, exotic creatures can be heard for miles. A gentle stream trickles and bubbles beside them, water cascading over smooth rocks. The air smells like earth after a cleansing summer rainstorm. In the distance, past the rising hills, is a mountain range, it’s peaks taller than any on earth. And standing there, eyes wide with wonder, is Rose, drinking it all in.

The Doctor walks beside her and holds out his arms. “Did I deliver, or did I deliver?”

“Where are we?” she whispers.

The Doctor grins. “Doesn’t have a name. Hasn’t been discovered by anyone, besides me. You’re the first human being to stand on this world since… well, ever. I think it’s about time someone named it, though. Fancy the honours?”

Rose looks at him. “You’re serious?”

“Am I wearing clown shoes? If not, then yes.”

Rose frowns contemplatively for a moment, then nods. “Jackie.” she says firmly.

The Doctor rolls his eyes. “‘Jackie’? You name a planet after your mum?”

“You said I could name it, didn’t you? What’s wrong with ‘Jackie’?”

The Doctor gets the distinct feeling that answering that question would be a big mistake. “Very well; Planet Jackie it is. Fancy a look around your mum's planet, then?”

The look in Rose’s eyes makes him think he could jump over one of those mountains in a single bound. There’s no doubt about it; Rose Tyler is intoxicating, and it’s fantastic.

FIC: Ten Moments - Hunger (Dr. Who, 8/10)

Tue, 16 Jun 2009 12:28:16 GMT

Title: Ten Moments - Hunger
Author: golden_orange
Rating: All ages.
Characters: Eight
Authors Notes: My first attempt at Doctor Who fiction longer than 100 words for a while. Inspired by the 25moments challenge, only adapted by yours truly. Ten Doctors, therefore ten moments. This is the sixth's. Feedback and comments welcome.
Disclaimer: I don't think there's anyone out there who seriously believes I own Doctor Who, including myself, but just in case someone does, and that someone happens to be litigious - I don't own Doctor Who.
Summary: This Doctor guy’s keeping Frankie and Stevie from dinner by needing to be whacked. Someone’s gonna pay.

“Let’s get this over with,” Big Frankie Gianelli rumbles as they pull the guy in the long green coat out of the back of the Daimler and manhandle him across the deserted bridge. “I gotta plate of cannoli waitin’ for me at Luigi’s, and this guy’s ruinin’ my appetite.”

“Yeah,” Stevie Maretti grumbles. “You’re hungry, I’m hungry, let’s just do this right, huh? Boss wants this guy dealt with right.”

The guy - doesn’t have a name, just called ‘The Doctor’ as far as Stevie’s been told - looks at them with a kind of mildly concerned expression. With his long hair and his fancy but out of date clothes, he looks like some kind of fruit, kinda like Oscar Wilde only forty years too late. He ain’t really struggling, which is kind of a blessing, since it’s hard enough to get a guy in concrete shoes and handcuffs (donated by the two off-duty NYPD flatfoots the Boss hired to come along and make sure no one interfered tonight) from a car to the edge of a bridge without them struggling as well. In the distance, the bright lights of New York twinkle and glitter as they reflect off the Hudson. This guy’s going for a long swim tonight.

“Look,” he says calmly-but-just-barely, in that snooty British accent that pisses Stevie right off, “I really think you’re making a mistake, here. You really should let me go. There’s something very very wrong happening in this city, it’s happening tonight, and I’ve a nasty feeling that if you don’t let me go now you’ll all be dead by morning.”

“Shaddap.” Frankie replies, giving him a clip across the back of the head. He’s hungry - hell, Frankie’s always hungry, but the Boss interrupted dinner to make them deal with this guy, so Stevie sees where he’s coming from. He’d been looking forward to the gnocchi at Luigi’s as well.

Worst thing is, this Doctor ain’t no fun at all. Usually when you’re disposing of people the Boss wants disposed of, you can at least get a bit of amusement from the begging and pleading. Stevie likes it when they start crying; the boys all fall over themselves when he imitates them afterwards. This guy ain’t like that; it’s almost like he ain’t even scared of them, which Stevie really doesn’t like. He’s antsy, okay, but it’s antsy in a kind of ‘I’m-late-for-a-very-important-date’ kind of thing rather than a ‘please-don’t-kill-me-I’ll-get-the-money-tomorrow’ kind of thing.

“Wait wait wait wait wait,” the Doctor says as they finally get him to the edge, sounding a bit more agitated, “Can’t we discuss this? Calmly, reasonably, like rational sentient beings? Maybe over a cup of a tea? I have teabags. Do you use teabags in this decade? Oh well, you’ll like them anyway - some of them are mango flavoured.”

“Jeez,” Frankie rumbles as he and Stevie try and lift him over the side, “This guy’s heavy. Hey, you, buddy,” he calls to one of the off-duty cops keeping an eye out on the bridge, “Give us a hand, huh?”

“Screw you,” the cop says, “I’m just paid to watch out. Boss didn’t say nothin’ about pitching in.”

“Hey, come on, pal - help a guy out, huh? I got dinner waitin’.”

“Hey,” the cop snaps. “I got my wife cooking for me too, right now. You want me to help you off this guy, I want a larger cut. As in now.”

“A man with an awareness of his rights as a worker,” The Doctor pipes up. “I approve. Although I must wonder; aren’t you supposed to be an officer of the law? And if so, shouldn’t you be doing something to, I don’t know, stop this or something?

“Hey, buddy,” the cop snaps, sounding as if this guy’s touched a nerve, “the city don’t pay me well enough to care about what happens to you, and the guy who wants you offed pays me more than enough to not care. You wanna snoop around warehouses that don’t concern you? That’s your problem, not mine - mine is getting food on the table.”

“Well argued,” the Doctor replies sarcastically. “But look; you wouldn’t fancy just this once maybe making an exception?”

“Jesus!” the other cop snaps. “Can’t you shut that guy up?”

“He’s right,” Frankie growls, pulling a .45 out of his pocket. “Maybe with a hole in his head he’ll be more cooperative.”

Stevie starts to object; he don’t like just shooting them and ending it before they drop them, since part of the fun is picturing them sinking, struggling for their last few breaths as the concrete takes them deeper into the Hudson. But it’s academic, since the Doctor suddenly sighs, loudly and irritably, as if they’ve just gotten on his last nerve.

“Fine.” he snaps, almost petulantly. “I’ve tried being reasonable with you gentlemen. I guess I’ll just have to do this the hard way.”

Suddenly, in one swift movement with his arms, the handcuffs are off his wrists, clattering to the pavement. He flicks his right wrist, and there’s suddenly some kind of long golden wand in his hand, which he touches on Frankie’s pistol before Frankie even knows what’s going on; there’s a loud, shrill sound, and suddenly the gun is falling to pieces, loose bullets scattering at Frankie’s feet. Then, he touches the wand to the concrete around his feet, the shrill noise gets even more high pitched, and suddenly the concrete is nothing more than a pile of dust around his shoes, blowing away in a gentle breeze. He calmly steps forward; as if by instinct, everyone else takes a step back.

The entire escape has taken less then ten seconds.

The Doctor smiles at the hoods and cops who are gaping at him in complete astonishment, unable to react. “Oh, sorry,” he says mildly. “Didn’t I mention I could do that?”

Then, he looks down at his concrete-stained feet, reacts, and when he looks back up at them, he looks a lot more annoyed.

“You’ve ruined my shoes,” he says accusingly, “I really liked those shoes. They fit perfectly.”

Suddenly, Stevie don’t feel so hungry no more.

FIC: Ten Moments: Sated (Dr. Who, 7/10)

Tue, 16 Jun 2009 12:24:46 GMT

Title: Ten Moments - Sated
Author: golden_orange
Rating: All ages.
Characters: Seven, Ace
Authors Notes: My first attempt at Doctor Who fiction longer than 100 words for a while. Inspired by the 25moments challenge, only adapted by yours truly. Ten Doctors, therefore ten moments. This is the sixth's. Feedback and comments welcome.
Disclaimer: I don't think there's anyone out there who seriously believes I own Doctor Who, including myself, but just in case someone does, and that someone happens to be litigious - I don't own Doctor Who.
Summary: The Doctor isn't magic. But his friends don't have to know that.

“Gentlemen,” the Doctor remarks calmly to the two mutated extra-dimensional horrors that were once the Head Chef and the Sous Chef of the finest restaurant in the known universe as they stalk towards him, slavering. “After all you’ve eaten, are you not full yet?"

They screech at him unintelligibly, their ability to present rational replies long since degraded away by the extra-dimensional intelligence that possessed their minds and corrupted their bodies as it tried to force it’s way into reality. But of course they are not full. Their appetites will never be sated, even if the universe is devoured to fill them.

As if he understood every word, the Doctor nods. “I see. Unfortunately, if I feed you now, I’ll spoil your appetite for later. You really should have thought of that earlier. So I’ll bid you bon appetite.”

With a big smile, the Doctor raises his hat politely. As they snarl at him in frustrated rage from behind the line of kitchen salt scattered carefully in front of the open transmat gate, he flips his hat back onto his head and skips neatly into the gate, disappearing just as the Head Chef, the Sous Chef, the entirety of the Restaurant Eternità and the gateway to realities unknown that the two sold both their souls and the souls of everyone in the restaurant to open are reduced to their component atoms in an explosion caused by a cocktail of Andalanian spices and modified nitroglycerin.

Nanoseconds later, the Doctor reappears silently on the farm world Eternità has, up until now, been orbiting in the higher reaches of the atmosphere, just in time to see the explosion from outside as well as inside. As he takes a moment to watch Eternità tear itself apart high up in the atmosphere, he must acknowledge that the explosion is far larger than he anticipated; but Andalanian spices are notoriously unstable, and the trouble with opening spectacular gateways between realities is that their closing tends to be equally spectacular. At the very least, he hopes it will serve as a message and a warning to any such shadowy intelligences that might be watching this universe and thinking of lunch; the Doctor takes a dim view of the kind of culinary experiments that were occurring in the Eternità’s kitchens, and this universe is off the menu.

He has materialized behind a group of his friends - Ace, of course, and the Pastry Chef and the Maître D' and a handful of other patrons and staff of Eternità who managed to free themselves from the shadowy other-dimensional intelligences that had corrupted the restaurant and were using it’s famed kitchens and power-hungry chefs to feed themselves, and who he teleported away from danger earlier. They are looking up at the sky, at the fiery remains of Eternità, faces concerned and alarmed. They haven’t noticed him yet.

“I believe that dinner is cancelled,” the Doctor says, voice light and deceptively Scottish, grinning as they spin around in surprise. From the looks on their faces, they’re obviously wondering how he appeared right behind them. Truth be told, the Doctor isn’t certain either; he set the transmat to have him appear in front of them because he thought it’d be more dramatic. But let them wonder. In this body, the Doctor isn’t adverse to letting people believe in magic, especially if they also believe that he’s the one holding the wand.

Ace pushes past them, grinning, and runs to him. The Doctor isn’t sure whether the smile on her face is because of the fact that he’s safe or because of the massive explosion, but he has his suspicions.

“Knew you’d do it,” she says simply as she hands his umbrella back to him. The confident loyalty in her voice touches the Doctor right in the hearts, and he gently taps her nose.

“Doctor,” the Maître D' - no, Salvatore, as he should be and now is, the power of the creatures that stole his name and identity and trapped him and the others in Eternità now broken for good - looks at him, resigned. He already knows the answer to the question he will ask, but must ask it anyway. “The Head Chef, did you manage to…?”

“No,” the Doctor replies solemnly. “No, I’m sorry. It was too late for them. They signed their contracts long ago. Unfortunately, they didn’t read the small print.”

Saddened, Salvatore nods. “Henri was always desperate to find the perfect recipe,” he remarked sadly. “I only hope wherever he is now, he has.”

The Pastry Chef - Maria - is looking around the crowd, eyes increasingly desperate. “She’s not here,” she murmurs, frantic. “Doctor, the people you transmatted down, surely there must have been more! Surely Stephanie must have…” she cuts herself off, not wishing to acknowledge the awful possibility presenting itself.

The Doctor looks at his watch. He set the TARDIS to automatically dematerialize with the last few remaining survivors he managed to find on Eternità five minutes before he detonated the station, including the young woman that Maria is so concerned for. They should be arrive any second now. Time for another magic trick.

“I think,” he murmurs, “if you’ll just be patient for a moment longer…”

The air is suddenly noisy as the TARDIS forces itself back into reality right next to them, to the astonishment of everyone except the Doctor and Ace, who looks at the Doctor knowingly. “Show-off,” she mouths as the TARDIS lands with a clunk and a young woman in an expensive waitress’ suit, already shaken by an invasion of extra-dimensional monstrosities and a ride in a time ship bigger inside than outside, unsteadily opens the door and peeps out nervously. She is unprepared for Maria to barrel into her, hugging and kissing her in naked relief, and for the joyful reaction from the others as more survivors unsteadily make their way out of the TARDIS.

The Doctor smiles. Happy endings. Delicious, nutritious and very very filling, and yet he can never seem to get enough of them.

FIC: Ten Moments: Kiss (Dr. Who, 6/10)

Mon, 29 Sep 2008 09:12:23 GMT

Title: Ten Moments - Kiss
Author: golden_orange
Rating: All ages.
Characters: Six
Authors Notes: My first attempt at Doctor Who fiction longer than 100 words for a while. Inspired by the 25moments challenge, only adapted by yours truly. Ten Doctors, therefore ten moments. This is the sixth's. Feedback and comments welcome.
Disclaimer: I don't think there's anyone out there who seriously believes I own Doctor Who, including myself, but just in case someone does, and that someone happens to be litigious - I don't own Doctor Who.
Warning: This story contains mild nudity. Nothing extreme or graphic - you've no doubt seen or read worse elsewhere on the Internets - but those of an extremely sensitive or bashful nature may wish to take care.
Summary: The Empress requires a consort.

The private chambers of the Empress of Seven Suns are adorned in red silk and velvet, and the air is heavy with the scent of perfume and flowers. A massive four-poster bed dominates the centre of the room, simply too large and luxurious for one person. The posters - and most of the sculpting and artwork in the room, for that matter - appears to depict physically-unlikely humanoids engaging in various physical acts that look designed to stretch human vertebrae and bone structure to it’s limits in almost every conceivable fashion.

It is, the Doctor thinks as he clutches the mismatched lapels of his coat and looks around with raised eyebrow, quite unnecessarily ostentatious.

From an antechamber (leading to what the Doctor assumes is Her Majesty’s private bathing chambers, judging by the overall wetness of everyone who appears) the Empress herself swans in, a dark-haired woman clad in a white silk kimono that clings to her damp body, revealing a trim-yet-powerful physique. If you were so inclined, you might call her attractive; devastatingly so, if your inclinations took you that far. She is waited on by two youthful hand-maidens (barely dressed, of course; the Empire of the Seven Suns seems to disdain clothing, making the Doctor appear even more over-dressed than usual), whose eyes seem focussed on the ground in her presence; their hair falls down and obscures their faces, as if they are ashamed of how they appear before their ruler. She gazes at the Doctor for a moment, evaluating him; her eyes are orange (a curious genetic trait amongst the ruling class of the Seven Suns that the Doctor has often wondered about, having often considered writing a paper on the subject…) and yet, despite the warm colour, are cold and icy.

“Leave us.” the Empress commands with a flick of her wrist and the kind of arrogantly dismissive tone towards her servants, with it's implication that they are so greatly inferior to her, that never fails to put the Doctor’s back right up. The handmaidens, having been born and raised within the Empire of the Seven Suns, demonstrate an appropriately cringing deference to the woman who’s single word in this realm can mean the difference between life and death, and shuffle out of the room, heads bowed low. She smiles, and strides towards the Doctor; her hips sway in a fashion that the Doctor presumes is meant to be seductive. “Time Lord. Welcome. I have long since wondered when one of your kind would deign to visit my realm. For you and your wonderful craft to appear within my own throne room is fortuitous indeed.”

“Purely an accident, I assure you.” The Doctor waves a yellow-and-black cuff dismissively. “An oversight I intend to correct when you return my TARDIS to me.”

The Empress laughs, a deep, throaty giggle. “You amuse me, Time Lord. I bestow favour upon those who amuse me, as you will soon learn. But surely you of all recognise the fate that brought you right to me as you did? My people and yours share and understanding of time, and how it’s complexities weave patterns that those inferior to us are incapable of seeing.”

“I very much doubt that, madam. Now, if you’re quite finished…?”

“Surely you do not intend to leave before hearing the offer I have for you?”

“And that would be?”

“Why, myself, Time Lord.” And with one fluid movement, the Empress shrugs off her kimono, leaving it a puddle of fabric on the floor. She is naked underneath. The Doctor wonders whether he should point this out to her, but decides that she’s probably already aware of it.

“I require a mate, Time Lord.” The Empress slinks towards the Doctor, the tattoos over her tanned olive skin indicating her royal status shifting with the movement. “One to share the spoils of my efforts to unite these suns under one glorious banner, and one to continue the strength of my line. And clearly fate has brought you and I together.”

Oh, the Doctor thinks.

She leans into the Doctor, and he can feel the heat of her body through his clothes. “Join with me in union, Time Lord.” she whispers into his ear, placing a gentle kiss on his cheek. “Separate, we are formidable. Together, we will be unstoppable.”

Ah, the Doctor thinks.

Countless millions have died either by this woman’s hand or by her order. She has united seven solar systems under a banner signaling terror, suffering and pain. Her and her kind exist only to oppress the weak and defenseless, to crush their spirits, belief and hope. The Doctor wonders briefly whether she’s the kind of woman who would appreciate an honest answer.

“A tempting offer, madam.” He replies. “But I’m afraid I must decline. For you see, I detest you and everything you stand for.”

Evidently she doesn’t, the Doctor thinks as her guards hurl him roughly into one of the royal dungeons.

FIC: Ten Moments: Music (Dr. Who, 5/10)

Mon, 29 Sep 2008 04:27:14 GMT

Title: Ten Moments - Music
Author: golden_orange
Rating: All ages.
Characters: Five, Tegan
Authors Notes: My first attempt at Doctor Who fiction longer than 100 words for a while. Inspired by the 25moments challenge, only adapted by yours truly. Ten Doctors, therefore ten moments. This is the fifth's. Feedback and comments welcome.
Disclaimer: I don't think there's anyone out there who seriously believes I own Doctor Who, including myself, but just in case someone does, and that someone happens to be litigious - I don't own Doctor Who.
Summary: It's another quarry. Except it isn't.

Another quarry. Great.

Tegan doesn’t want to complain - well, she does, but she’s more than aware that the phrase ‘mouth-on-legs’ has been applied to her in the past, in a less-than-flattering fashion, which is all that’s keeping her quiet right now - but, well, it’s a quarry. An alien quarry, maybe; the night sky is dark purple, and there’s three moons, one of them green, but it’s cold, and dark, and wet, and she keeps slipping on the dirt and slate. Her clothes are covered in mud, and she’s one more tumble away from biting something’s head off.

The Doctor, of course, charges ahead with his straw hat at an annoyingly jaunty angle atop his blonde hair, looking around his surroundings with pleasant and genuine interest, making him first candidate for head-removal-by-biting. Infuriatingly, despite the fact that his clothes are nearly all cream and white, there’s not a speck of mud on him.

“How much further?” Tegan asks, trying - not very hard, granted, but trying nonetheless - to keep the irate whine out of her voice.

“Nearly there!” The Doctor yells back cheerfully. “Do try and keep up!”

Tegan grits her teeth, counts to ten, and stomps moodily after him.

The Doctor eventually stops at the top of what Tegan can only describe as a dirt-dune, waiting expectantly with his hands in his pockets. It takes a lot more stumbling, cursing and glaring before Tegan is there to join him, discovering that they walked this way to see…

“It’s mud.” Tegan says flatly. “A lake of mud.” And it is; what can only be describes as a lake of thick, black mud lies as far as the eye can see. “You’ve brought me here to see a lake of mud.”

The Doctor, infuriatingly, doesn’t see a problem with this. “Technically, it’s silt.” he says happily. “For most of this planet’s orbital cycle this is under water; we’ve arrived just after low tide.”

“It smells.” Tegan doesn’t even bother to keep the petulant sulk out of her voice this time.

The Doctor gives her a withering frown. “Do have a little faith, Tegan. Be patient. If I’m correct, then… yes… listen!”

For a moment, there is silence. “I can’t…”

Hear anything, she means to say, until she realizes that that isn’t true; she can hear what sounds like a cricket whistling. Then another, and another, and another, different insects, different tones and sounds and pitches… except it isn’t just insects chirping at random, it’s… something else. It’s melodic. Tegan doesn’t know much about music, but she recognises it when she hears it, and this is definitely written. It’s as if the insects of the world have gotten together and written a symphony.

And it’s beautiful. It somehow speaks to her. Tegan doesn’t know the species that inhabit this planet - she can’t even see them - but she recognises the emotions that they’re singing in this alien language (and it is singing, she realizes, billions of beautiful voices raised in song), joy and love and loss and pain and regret and hope…

She’s surprised to realize her cheeks are wet.

She doesn’t know how long the music lasts, but eventually it begins to fade, voices dropping away, until all that’s left are echoes and Tegan’s memories, the song repeating inside her head.

“The insects of this world spend most of the year burrowed in the silt and rocks under the water.” The Doctor explains cheerfully. “This is their awakening festival, when they celebrate their freedom and mourn those who didn’t make it . Lovely. I’ve been meaning to come back here for a while, but…” He looks, and notices his crying companion. “Tegan? Are you alright?” he asks, placing a friendly hand on her shoulder in concern.

Incapable of speaking, Tegan turns and hugs him, burying her face in his chest, feeling his hearts beat. And even as the song continues to play in her memories, she can’t help but take a tiny bit of vengeful pleasure at getting mud on his cricket jersey.

Drabble: Lonely God (DW)

Sun, 28 Sep 2008 03:00:35 GMT

Title: Lonely God
Author: golden_orange
Medium: Doctor Who
Characters: Four, mentions of Ten
Rating: G
Authors Notes: Written for dw100 : 'legends'.
Disclaimer: Guess who owns Doctor Who? If you guessed me, lose ten points.
Summary: Legends build up over time. Someone needs to tear them down.

“Long ago,” the storyteller began, under the shadow of the Lonely God, “when the Dark Ones came and the air was black with death, the Lonely God walked out of infinity itself to come to our salvation. His eyes burned with the ages, terrible and wonderful…”

“Oh, I’m sure he wasn’t that impressive.” The man in the scarf interrupted. “Certainly not if you’d met the man. Terrible dress sense – just look at those pinstripes.” He gestured to the statue and shuddered.

The audience muttered, affronted, as the man belittled their legend. He grinned.

“Did I say something out of turn?”

FIC: Ten Moments: Life or Death (Dr. Who, 4/10)

Sat, 27 Sep 2008 06:50:13 GMT

Title: Ten Moments - Life or Death
Author: golden_orange
Medium: Doctor Who
Rating: All ages.
Characters: Four, Sarah
Authors Notes: My first attempt at Doctor Who fiction longer than 100 words for a while. Inspired by the 25moments challenge, only adapted by yours truly. Ten Doctors, therefore ten moments. This is the fourth's. Feedback and comments welcome.
Disclaimer: I don't think there's anyone out there who seriously believes I own Doctor Who, including myself, but just in case someone does, and that someone happens to be litigious - I don't own Doctor Who.
Summary: In which the Doctor is presented with an impossible choice.

On the viewscreen, the planet Garden looms closer, the billions on it’s surface unaware that an army of torturers, rapists and plunderers stand ready to engulf it’s surface and enough weaponry to crack a sun in half is aimed and ready to fire upon receiving a simple command. Beside the Commander of the Hell Fleet is Sarah, on her knees, eyes teary and wide with fear, the metal collars around her neck, wrists and ankles throbbing with evil intent and able to boil her from the inside with a mere thought. Upon entering the command chamber, the Doctor has only a second to take in the situation before the Commander of the Hell Fleet speaks.

“Choose, Time Lord,” She crackles from the translation box around her scarred, withered neck, artificial eye glaring at him. “The life of your female or the lives of the billions on the planet below. What will it be?”

It is a terrible choice, one that no sentient being should ever have to make, between countless innocents or the life of a loved one. All eyes on deck are on the Time Lord, who stands still and calm in his hat and scarf, unmoving.

Two seconds take an eternity to pass, and still the Doctor does not move.

“Well, Doctor?” the Commander crackles again, voice thick with triumph. “Have you chosen?”

“Oh, yes.” The Doctor says casually.

“And? Who have you chosen to let live?”

The Doctor grins, hugely. With that many teeth, it’s almost savage.

“Well, both of course.”

And it’s at that point that explosions rock the ship, and things get really interesting.

FIC: Ten Moments: Jealousy (Dr. Who, 3/10)

Sat, 27 Sep 2008 06:43:33 GMT

Title: Ten Moments - Jealousy
Author: golden_orange
Medium: Doctor Who
Rating: All ages.
Characters: Three, Jo
Authors Notes: My first attempt at Doctor Who fiction longer than 100 words for a while. Inspired by the 25moments challenge, only adapted by yours truly. Ten Doctors, therefore ten moments. This is the third's. Feedback and comments welcome.
Disclaimer: I don't think there's anyone out there who seriously believes I own Doctor Who, including myself, but just in case someone does, and that someone happens to be litigious - I don't own Doctor Who.
Summary: The Doctor really doesn't care who Jo Grant dates. Really. He doesn't.

The Doctor is not interested in the slightest who Jo Grant chooses to spend time with outside of UNIT.

Not. Interested. At. All.

It is her prerogative, after all; if she would rather spend the evening entertaining a dullard rather than visit a world that has been described as the jewel of nine galaxies, then so be it. It is no concern of his whatsoever. No concern at all. If Jo wishes to go out on a ‘date’ with a solicitor who wears brown corduroy of all things rather than race the event horizon of a supernova, then that’s her loss, and he certainly isn’t sulking about it. Time Lords are above sulking, especially when it comes to pretty blondes who clearly have no taste in men whatsoever, if the man who picked Jo up earlier enough is anything to go by.

Granted, the jewel of the nine galaxies and the supernova race will have to wait until he’s got the dematerialization circuit fixed, but he’s sure that he’s nailed it this time, and in case, if Jo refuses to believe that he’s finally worked it out and would rather ‘blow off’ (as he believes the phrase is, or was, or will be, anyway) the excitement of the cosmos for a man called Norman, then that’s her problem and it doesn’t bother him at all. Not in the slightest, the Doctor thinks, as he scowls at the tea lady as she shifts a beaker in order to put his cup down on the table surface.

Well then. Fine. The Doctor’ll just try out the dematerialization circuit by himself, then. Let Jo have her Norman and his corduroy and his gold rings and his subtle but definitely emerging bald-patch (oh, the Doctor took note of that when she introduced them earlier) and his doubtlessly fascinating dinner conversation about all the amazingly fascinating things that happen in the British legal system. He’ll fix the demat circuit and install it and take off in the TARDIS and have a really really good time all by himself, and he won’t think of Jo and what she’s doing at all. He’s not interested at all.

He is, in fact, so intent on not being interested about Jo that he doesn’t actually notice her arrive in the lab until he turns and almost spills a vial of demineralised water all over her.

“Well, that’s a fine hello.” She teases good-naturedly.

“Jo?” The Doctor blinks, surprised. “I thought you had a, ah, ‘date’, tonight?”

“What, Norman?” She pulls a face. “Worst evening of my life. God, he was dull. Spent the entire meal talking about his stock portfolio. I swear, that’s the last time I let Carol Bell set me up on a blind date.” She dumps her bag on the workbench and completely fails to notice the Doctor’s look of surprised triumph. “And he did a really horrible job at hiding that bald patch, as well. Anyway, I spend the entire meal catatonic, and I finally managed to shake him – and don’t you think he wasn’t getting a bit frisky with his hands as well – and I need something to cheer me up.” Jo turns and grins at the Doctor. “You’re good at that – what are you up to?”

The Doctor rubs the back of his neck and smiles. Of course, he’d known all along that Jo had more sense than to be taken in by a chap called Norman. Obviously. Never doubted it for a second. Ahem.

“Well, it’s fortunate that you arrived, actually.” He says modestly. “I was just about to take the old girl out for a spin.”

She leans forward, eagerly. “You’ve fixed the circuit?”

“I won’t know for certain until we try it, but I’m confident that this time…”

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Jo grabs her bag and within seconds is in the TARDIS doors, looking at the Doctor with eyes wide and shining with excitement. The Doctor loves it when she smiles at him like that. “Come on!”

As he turns and grabs his cloak from the hook by the door, the Doctor permits himself a small smile of triumph.

Take that, Norman.

FIC: Ten Moments: Vacation (Dr. Who, 2/10)

Thu, 25 Sep 2008 15:59:28 GMT

Title: Ten Moments - Vacation
Author: golden_orange
Medium: Doctor Who
Rating: All ages.
Characters: Two, Jamie, Zoe
Authors Notes: My first attempt at Doctor Who fiction longer than 100 words for a while. Inspired by the 25moments challenge, only adapted by yours truly. Ten Doctors, therefore ten moments. This is the second's. Feedback and comments welcome.
Disclaimer: I don't think there's anyone out there who seriously believes I own Doctor Who, including myself, but just in case someone does, and that someone happens to be litigious - I don't own Doctor Who.
Summary: Deciding where to go on holiday is often the most difficult part of the holiday.

“Well, my word, that was a tricky business and no mistake, wasn’t it? Yes, I think we could all do with a little breather after that one.” The Doctor fusses around the console, flicking at the buttons and screens with his handkerchief; it doesn’t so much clean it as spread the dust around. After a few minutes of fussy dusting, he forgets all about it and stuffs the handkerchief back in the pocket of his frock coat.

“Yes, yes, I think a nice little holiday is order.” The Doctor claps his hands together and smiles at his friends. “Well then, why don’t one of you pick; where shall we go?”

Across the console, Jamie folds his arms together and looks at the Doctor with an expression of resigned scepticism. “I don’t ken why ye ask us in the first place, Doctor, as we all know the chances of ye getting us to where ye say we’re goin’ are so unlikely as to be near impossible.”

The Doctor glares at him. “Eh? What do you mean by that?”

“Ah, why Doctor, we all know ye cannae control the TARDIS te save ye life. And it’s not like there’ve no been times where ye’ve had to do just that, and look what’s happened!”

“Now, steady on, Jamie…” Zoe admonishes, all too aware of where this is likely to end up. “It’s not like the Doctor doesn’t try to get to the right place, he just… can’t, that’s all.” She adds loyally.

This doesn’t help. “Oh – oh, my, no! Can’t control it, indeed?” The Doctor splutters, wringing his hands irately. The very rudeness! Jamie and Zoe shouldn’t be saying things like that, not in the slightest!

It’s more true than the Doctor would like to admit, to be fair, but even so, they still shouldn’t say it.

“Of course I can control it!” he snaps. Jamie’s expression is more sceptical, if such a thing is possible, and it’s that which finally sets the Doctor off. “Right! I’ll show the pair of you! Can’t control it, indeed!” The Doctor’s hands are a flurry over the TARDIS console; deep within the endless depths of the ship, the engines grind away and force the TARDIS out of space and time. “Paris, 1889! That’s where we’re going!” He looks up and scowls petulantly at Jamie and Zoe, as if daring them to question him or his piloting.

They eventually end up on a beach in Florana in the ninety-third century, as the twin suns are setting. But, as the Doctor insists, it’s close enough, and at least there’s ice cream.

FIC: Ten Moments: Scars (Dr. Who, 1/10)

Thu, 25 Sep 2008 15:57:31 GMT

Title: Ten Moments - Scars
Author: golden_orange
Medium: Doctor Who
Rating: All ages.
Characters: One, Susan
Authors Notes: My first attempt at Doctor Who fiction longer than 100 words for a while. Inspired by the 25moments challenge, only adapted by yours truly. Ten Doctors, therefore ten moments. This is the first's. Feedback and comments welcome.
Disclaimer: I don't think there's anyone out there who seriously believes I own Doctor Who, including myself, but just in case someone does, and that someone happens to be litigious - I don't own Doctor Who.
Summary: It is a difficult thing indeed to tear yourself from everything you have ever known.

It is a cold, grey and wet November evening, and he is an old man, self-exiled, light years and centuries away from everything and everyone he understands. It is a difficult thing to rip oneself away from one’s home forever, and he sometimes wonders whether the scars will ever heal.

It is, he sometimes thinks, easy for these humans. To be trapped on one small planet, confined as a species together and unable to break apart from everything they have ever known, forced to remain together despite their petty divisions. To not know the freedom of travel from world to world and sun to sun, to not feel the temptation to tear apart from their own race when the divisions become too difficult to tolerate and face the cold, hostile universe alone.

Well, not quite alone. He has dear Susan, of course (the name she has chosen to take, as to hide better from any searchers from Home who may not tolerate their decision to flee, her birth name abandoned as they abandoned their home; another sacrifice of his rash decision to flee, another wound he has inflicted on one he loves), but he can see the wounded loneliness in her eyes that she tries so hard to hide from him. Try as she might, she cannot connect with these humans; she is so much older even than the teachers who attempt to indoctrinate her with their primitive understanding of the world, to say nothing of the youths she resembles in appearance only. She tries so hard to fit in, and it pains him deeply to see the hurt she feels as she cannot.

It was not supposed to be like this; the promise of freedom amongst the stars and the ages has become a fearful, lonely exile amongst the abandoned rubbish of a primitive backwater, hiding from the vengeance of those whose technologies they stole and whose ways they so prominently rejected. Trapped amongst beings whose ways they will never belong to and isolated forever from the life they understood, even as they hated everything it represented, living in a Ship that can take them to any point in eternity but which he fears to pilot away from a scrapyard.

A thin drizzle falls, and the fog begins to thicken. He scowls and begins to make his way back home. Such as it is.

Drabble: The Waking Terror (DW)

Wed, 24 Sep 2008 13:54:52 GMT

Title: The Waking Terror
Medium: Doctor Who / H.P Lovecraft
Characters: Well, that would be telling...
Pairings/Ships: None
Word Count: 100
Rating: PG
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: I don't own it.

For eons the Dark God slumbered; now, He slumbered no more.

The stars were aligned, the dreams of men were poisoned and He was free, bringing eternal darkness wherever His gaze fell. There would be no mercy; there was no hope.

Except…

Except for the man glaring out to sea in silent challenge. The man who did the impossible; who saw the unthinkable and did not go mad. Some said he was mad already, and others whispered that perhaps even the Great Old Ones feared him.

The Nightmare of Mortals gazed upon the Nightmare of Monsters. And suddenly, felt cold.