Here it is, the awesome CR Meme from realityshifted. I've been promising to do this for ages, since savagestime put up theirs. Still more awesome than mine, but I did have some help from rikku_cheerio in making the table.

Now, this is the d1!Doctor's CR chart. He knows a good deal more people, but these are the ones I consider him to have real "CR" with. This doesn't include the people that he had CR with whom have left (=(). I'll probably do more of these, or update this one, as he meets new people! =D!

( CR: Character Relationships, Character Rapport, Character Rad-ness. )

The Doctor has always had a superior olfactory system.

Always.

It was one of those things that came with his genetic structure, he supposed. Keen, perfectly-honed senses of a Gallifreyan and the imagination of a human needed to piece out what smells blended with another to mean what.

It was very useful, at times. Discerning what oil was used in which explosive and thus which needs to be diffused first. Sorting out what poison was in which cream puff before obnoxiously popping the un-poisoned one in his mouth. Memorizing the sweet, fragrant smell of the Detrassi Sunflower and then reproducing it to break a password on the sensory-adept computers of Alganqua 7.

It was also a curse, as well. Like should the TARDIS decide to land on the dung planets of Santoir 4 or the onion-worshipping centers of Retrrioo. It was also absolutely terrible when he was forced to take the number 55 bus.

( The worst was how hard it made forgetting. )

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Partner(s): Rose Tyler (canon), Jack Harkness (canon), Martha Jones (canon), Donna Noble (canon)
Word Count: 1,292

I'd like to offer up this little gem by calapine and consider it my own personal canon:

http://calapine.livejournal.com/564069.html

Spoilers, of course.

Remix Title: Faith (The Long Goodbye Remix)
Remix Author: rude_not_ginger
Remixed fic: Faith
Remixed author: jellybean728
Characters/Pairings: TenII/Rose UST, Jackie/Pete
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Word Count: 3,237
Summary: Rose and the duplicate Doctor suffer a crisis of his identity at their first Christmas on the other universe. Jackie tries to play matchmaker
A/N is optional: I tried to keep the original author's format and pacing, which was a challenge for me! Hope you like!

It's supposed to be Christmas.

It's the first Christmas they've all been together. Jackie had Pete's household staff set up the huge tree in the main hallway for the company party and she'd picked out her verybest cocktail dress for the occasion. The family's to be there and she's got to look the part of Pete's wife. She'll be showered with praise, compliments, and impossibly expensive presents. Christmas Eve is for the company and for the public.

( But it's the family Christmas that she's really, truly excited about )

I'm back!

More or less intact. *bounces off to tag*

Well, temporarily. I'm off camping starting tomorrow morning and as it is my first camping trip ever, I'm quite sure that I'm going to die at some point during this trip.

WE WILL WATCH OUT FOR GIANT MOVING ROCKS THAT SUCK OUR BLOOD.

See you all on Sunday!

A macro for your time.

x

I had a dream which was not all a dream.

He wasn't sure what that meant, but as he woke from a dream the phrase rolled around in his mind. He vaguely thought that someone that wasn't him thought that thought, or spoke those words. He couldn't quite remember who that would be, maybe a book or a film or a friend. It really didn't matter though, did it? Just a phrase that someone said once, he didn't need to know anything more than that.

A dream stuck out though, more than anything he really could remember. It was just a dream though, and nothing really worth dwelling on either. Dreams come and dissipate because that's the way they work. It was something he knew, though he couldn't tell you why he knew it. He also knew that he should get up and find the kitchen, and he thought he liked coffee, black with extra sugar. He couldn't say if he liked that since forever, but it felt like he did.

There was another feeling as well, a feeling outside of his mind and his body and surrounding him in a way that felt familiar, but couldn't possibly be right. It felt like the walls around him were somehow sad, in a quiet way he couldn't quite figure out. A strange thing though, sadness in the walls. It was strange enough that it could be pushed aside to the corner of his mind where useless notions were sent.

( And men forgot their passions in the dread of this their desolation. )

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 5,476
Concept by and co-authored with the unbelievably brilliant handysparehand

The Doctor had thought it very exciting, at first, landing here. Beautiful countryside, lovely people...but there was something in every person, a look in every eye. Some strange, unexplainable tension between everyone here.

The deeper he got into the cities, the worse it was. He was missing something. Was it that obvious he was an outsider? People seemed nice enough, but nearing the end of his first day in town, he decided it might be better if he just went back to the TARDIS and gave it up. Not really worth it, wandering about on an unfriendly planet.

"Sir?" a voice said from behind him. He spun around, just in time for something to hit him in the forehead.

From this.

Day One is here. Day Two is here. Day Three is here.


He doesn't invent the hero to his story. No, nothing so mundane. The hero, instead, invents himself and slices a path, as in the way of Athena, out of his creator's brain. And the hero stands there, in a metaphorical sense of course, fully-formed and ready to interfere in the universe's problems. It's a bit overwhelming, come to think of it, having a fully-formed hero suddenly there. But the hero was to take care of the stories. The stories which had already been partially written and had kept the writer, who was only a mere history teacher at a boy's school, awake.

The stories are borne out of an ongoing feeling of déjà-vu.

It begins while he is grading papers during his second week at term. He reads over a passageway in a paper about the Massacre at St. Bartholomew's Eve and knows, without question, that it is not right. There was another influence, he's sure. Someone else pushed the Marshal of France to his action, though for all of his attempts to find such information, it eludes him. It was not in his lesson and it is not in their textbooks but he knows it is not right.

Feeling as though he can not continue with this subject, he drops a passing grade to the paper and instead pulls another period of history for class.

Ancient Rome. Rome was not built in a day and neither was it destroyed so easily. There is a more serious story to this, and he knows it. Of fire and hatred and something to do with a harp.

Elizabethan England. The painting of Shakespeare is also wrong. He knows the painting is a poor interpretation, though he has no idea why he could possibly think that. It's the tightness of the hair, the curve of the nose. The man in the painting does not look at all like William Shakespeare. But he has never met William Shakespeare, he has no reason to think that. Also, he feels (with no small amount of disgust and alarm) that the Bard was, in fact, not merely heterosexual. If he were another man, he decided, he would feel flattered to be flirted with by the Bard. But he is not another man, and such a train of thought is nothing but silly.

He reads the sonnets to Shakespeare's Dark Lady, and his eyes drift over to his servant. While he does not find her pleasing to the eye, he knows that long ago, the Bard wrote his poems for someone just like Martha.

Classic literature. And then there's the biography of Jane Austen. He immediately thinks that she's a fantastic dancer, but there's no reason to believe she was any such thing. Matron Redfern laughs when he says such a thing. Soft paws, steel claws. It's a phrase that he knows applies to Miss Austen and the Matron alike.

French history. While speaking of aristocrats, he finds himself bitingly defending the rather infamous Madame du Pompadour. Professor Moffatt asks him to head back to his study, to cool down a bit.

"Don't let's get too emotional, John. It's not as though you actually knew the woman."

After class, he sits in his study and stares at the picture. He's certain he knows her, but he can't figure out how. The dark printed pages don't seem to capture the way his mind's eye sees the woman, the woman he feels like he should know. The woman sitting with her face profile to him, the dark smudges in the textbook representing her hair sliding down her shoulders in tumbling waves. He finds his fingers curl as if he knows what it's like to feel those strands, to have them slide against his skin. Involuntarily, he shudders.

He is not an experienced man, but he feels as if there was seduction, once. Perhaps in a dream, perhaps in a long-ago memory. And the seduction was---well, it was nothing that a proper English gentleman would like to think about.

And, as in the way of things one does not want to think of, his dreams take on a decidedly more romantic tone. He dreams of dancing, of the tarantella with a Roman woman in long, red robes. He dreams of a blonde woman with impossibly ancient eyes, holding his hand as they gallivanted through France and taking his breath away. He dreams of a different hero pressing a kiss to his mouth and telling him he'd 'see you in hell' and the thrill rather than the horror at the kiss with another man. He dreams of the gold-painted skin of Cleopatra through scandalously revealing dresses; Cleopatra who purred in his ear and told him to call her 'Cleo'. He dreams of a girl on a beach, the sun in her tear-stained eyes.

The dreams wake him up, of course, and he feels sweaty and uncomfortable and just a little foul for them. He does not sleep afterwards, instead he stares at the wooden ceiling and considers his own self-imposed chastity. If he were another man, such impure thoughts would make sense.

If he were another man.

If he were this other man, then there would be no need for chastity. No need to hold back. He could hold Madame du Pompadour in his arms and know that she was as intelligent and as brilliant as he was. And Shakespeare would be worth sparring with, and there would be history to preserve for France's Huguenots, and---

Of course, he's not another man. He's just a simple history teacher. He knows that puberty and sexual attraction hits young men between the ages of 13-17 but he does not recollect any woman ever catching his eye prior to Matron Redfern. And for her he'd rather complete a long, complicated courtship.

But someone has to live these stories, these impossible stories.

And so, the history teacher invents the Doctor.

It is a good name, it's an official name. It's a title the history teacher knows he is incapable of actually possessing, though one he has often longed for. He decides that the Doctor will not actually possess the title either but he will brandish it and people, being such as they are, will accept him for who he says he is.

The first time the history teacher says the name it is to his servant, Martha, who looks at him with such a look of absolute horror he is afraid he's said something that in insulting to her culture. But Martha, being as she is, forgives and perhaps forgets because she never mentions the Doctor to him again. Whenever he talks of it, that horror returns to her face, though not nearly in the extremity of the first time John presented it. It is as though he is speaking of a very precious glass egg and if Martha speaks too loudly of it, she will shatter the egg and be dismissed immediately.

It is no matter. The stories write themselves and the history teacher finds delight and release in writing them. Adventures and history and lovers and danger. All of the things that he will never experience.

But the Doctor can experience them. The history teacher finds himself wondering what it would be like to be the Doctor, but decides that it is not something he truly wishes to experience. And then he packs his books and readies himself to teach a class on the ancient Highlanders, though the lesson does not seem to have all of the interesting facts he is quite certain he knows.

He pushes those thoughts away. There will be time for adventures, time for the Doctor later. But for now, John Smith must live his life in the only way that a proper English gentleman can.

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 1,300
Special thanks to galeforcehero for the beta and telling me that Cleo was in fact Greek!

I fell asleep yesterday at the computer, so yesterday is my pass day and I'll complete the meme tonight! [runs back to work!]

From this.

Day One is here. Day Two is here.

He reads the sonnets to Shakespeare's Dark Lady, and his eyes drift over to his servant. While he does not find her pleasing to the eye, he knows that long ago, the Bard wrote his poems for someone just like Martha.

And then there's the biography of Jane Austen. He immediately thinks that she's a fantastic dancer, but there's no reason to believe she was any such thing. Matron Redfern laughs when he says such a thing. Soft paws, steel claws. It's a phrase that he knows applies to Miss Austen and the Matron alike.

And while speaking of French aristocrats, he finds himself bitingly defending the rather infamous Madame du Pompadour. Professor Moffatt asks him to head back to his study, to cool down a bit.

"Don't let's get too emotional, John. It's not as though you actually knew the woman."

After class, he sits in his study and stares at the picture. He's certain he knows her, but he can't figure out how. The dark printed pages don't seem to capture the way his mind's eye sees the woman, the woman he feels like he should know. The woman sitting with her face profile to him, the dark smudges in the textbook representing her hair sliding down her shoulders in tumbling waves. He finds his fingers curl as if he knows what it's like to feel those strands, to have them slide against his skin. Involuntarily, he shudders.

He is not an experienced man, but he feels as if there was seduction, once. Perhaps in a dream, perhaps in a long-ago memory. And the seduction was---well, it was nothing that a proper English gentleman would like to think about.

From this.

Day One Is Here.

After class, he sits in his study and stares at the picture. He's certain he knows her, but he can't figure out how. The dark printed pages don't seem to capture the way his mind's eye sees the woman, the woman he feels like he should know. The woman sitting with her face profile to him, the dark smudges in the textbook representing her hair sliding down her shoulders in tumbling waves. He finds his fingers curl as if he knows what it's like to feel those strands, to have them slide against his skin. Involuntarily, he shudders.

From this.

He's certain he knows her, but he can't figure out how.

Title: Birth of Destruction 3/3
Characters/Pairings: The Tenth Doctor, Martha Jones, Barbara Wright, Original Characters, some Ten/Martha undertones
Rating: PG
Word Count: Part Three: 3,491
Summary: While trapped in 1969, the Doctor finds employment at the local hospital and gets a lot more than he bargained for.
Disclaimer: The Beeb owns Doctor Who. Coincidentally, the Beeb also owns my soul.
Author's Note: Special thanks to handysparehand for the beta! Written for the muses_gonewild prompt: "158 - The doorway."
Part One is here. Part Two is here.

+~+

The Doctor held open the hospital door for his companion. "So it's an insult, then?" he asked.

Martha bristled. She did not like having the conversation on racial slurs she'd just had with the Doctor. She especially didn't like how nonchalant he was about the whole thing, as if the end of racism in a hundred years made the fact that it was happening now irrelevant. "Yes, a very unpleasant insult, and a bit out of date, too."

"Well, not for the 60's, at least."

"Maybe not for the 60's. But still unpleasant. And says a good bit about your employer."

( The Doctor nodded. 'I think his blasé attitude towards the dead children says a good bit about that, too.' )