November 20th, 2009

throw him out, fear

for quitehomoerotic: Open Your Eyes


All this feels strange and untrue
And I won't waste a minute without you
My bones ache, my skin feels cold
And I'm getting so tired and so old

The anger swells in my guts
And I won't feel these slices and cuts
I want so much to open your eyes
'Cause I need you to look into mine

Tell me that you'll open your eyes

Jack was born in 5070 century on the Boeshane Penninsula.

Jack will die in the year 5,000,000,056 in the city of New New New New New New New New New New New New York.

He doesn't die now.

There are timelines.

There are timelines and the Doctor will preserve them.

He holds the syringe of morphine unsteadily in his hand. He's not a doctor but he knows, in theory, that this should work. It should.

But then again, Jack shouldn't be dying right now. He should not be this close to death. He shouldn't be having a heart attack of all things. Of all things! It's too simple, too mortal. And Jack is immortal. This may not be how things should be, but it is how they are.

He takes a breath and presses the tip of the needle against Jack's chest. Into the heart. Just do it, Doctor. Quickly, don't stop. Save Jack's life.

He doesn't die now.

Time doesn't snap into place around Jack like it should. Time doesn't seem to move around him like he's wading in fluid. Jack is not who he should be and right now, right now Jack is dying. Open your eyes, Jack, he silently wills him. Open your eyes. Live. For me, Jack, please.

He doesn't die now.

The Doctor takes a breath and rams the needle through. It resists against flesh and muscle, but once it's about deep enough, he pushes the drug through. Morphine dialates the blood vessels and it should stop the heart attack. It should. It should work. It has to work. Jack doesn't die now. He can't die now. He can't die now because the Doctor saw him die in the future. He can't die now because the Doctor can't function in this half-memory state alone. He can't die now because---because---

Jack's eyes snap open and he takes in a deep, labored breath.

"You have to get back to the TARDIS," Jack says, his voice raspy and pained. Stupid bastard, caring more about the Doctor than himself. The Doctor could kiss him right now, but he has a feeling that's not a good idea while he's in his state.

He puts an arm around his shoulder. "Not without you." They've still got a long way to run, and the Doctor isn't about to leave him behind.

Jack doesn't die now.

Timelines aren't the only reason the Doctor is keeping it that way.

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 406
Based on RP with quitehomoerotic in this thread.
tuxedo smirk, smirk tux

for faiththatfuelsu: Cheek to Cheek


Come on and dance with me
I want my arm about you
That charm about you
Will carry me through
Right up to

I'm in heaven
And my heart beats
So that I can hardly speak
And I seem to find
That happiness I seek
When we're out
Together dancing
Out together dancing
Out together dancing
Cheek to cheek

"Dancing," she says.

"Dancing?" he asks.

"Don't tell me you don't know what that is. Cause I'll just throw a dictionary at you and find someone else to take me."

"No, no, I know. Just…where?"

They go where she wants, first.

It's a dingy club in Los Angeles with smoke hanging in the air and young bodies gyrating against each other while loud music bangs through the clearly unsynchronized speakers. People dance in tight clothes and ridiculous high heels and he feels terribly out of place.

He doesn't dance these sorts of dances so he fixes the speakers and stands to the side.

She dances alone for a while, and then drags him onto the dance floor, wrapping her arms around his neck and moving against him. He awkwardly tries to keep in step.

"Seems all your boasting was shit," she says, her lips twisted into a smile that is clearly supposed to be condescending but sits on her face in a way he decides is very pretty.

"Not these sorts of dances," he replies. "This is more public sex and less dancing."

"Fine then, Doc. Show me dancing."

They go where he wants, next.

It's a starlit club off of Robeath and Coreterigi Minor where everyone dances very formal, intricate waltzes. He wears a tuxedo, she finds a floor-length silver dress and cuts the slit on the side up to her hip when the one already on it isn't nearly short enough for her tastes. They fit in beautifully, but he can tell she already feels out of place.

She doesn't dance these sorts of dances, so she heads to the bar and orders something she can't possibly drink and stands to the side.

He dances with a Tereleptian princess for a while, but eventually he steps back to her and takes her hand. She follows, but she can't quite figure out where to put her feet.

"Left," he says. "Right. Back. Simple rhythm. It's just like---"

"Fighting," she says. He thinks she's thinking about the choreographed fight moves in movies, but she's really thinking of the repeated steps she's learned from years as the Slayer.

"I was going to say 'dancing'." He spins her out, and pulls her back into his arms.

She grins that crooked smile again and when the music starts anew, she dances without any hesitation or errors.

"It's the same thing, Doc," she says. "I just don't think anyone's danced with you the right way."

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 412
For faiththatfuelsu. I PROMISE I WILL PUT THAT RP UP RIGHT AWAY *shame*
doctor/lucy badass motherfuckers

for shatteredqueen: 1930


I’m gonna say what I need to say,
in my very last letter to you,
cuz you always made it clear,
said that you’d never be my pain.
So here’s to you when you cried baby blues
And just paused a cool to refrain
And you said she was satisfied
and this body’s just waiting to die
and I could listen sometimes
but you said its alright
its just a whole lot harder alone.


Lucy Saxon---

Mrs. Saxon---

He gives up and tosses the note into the bin by his desk. It's been months since he's seen her on the Plane, he's not even sure why he bothers. It's been good, being apart. He's grown closer to Brigitta, River, even people he's only just met on the Plane. It's better that she's away.

But now…

He is certain the end is coming. His death. He doesn't know what he does or who knocks for him, but he knows it's coming to an end.

He looks down at his hands. They're good hands. Little freckles and hairs all over them and the bones at his knuckles stick out, but they're good hands. He can't even imagine regenerating them away.

But his song wouldn't be ending if he was just going to regenerate. Funny. He always imagined he had at least a few more regenerations in him.

Still. That's the trouble with regeneration. You never quite know what you're going to get. And if he's right about the things people see about him, he's not going to get anything anymore.

He looks at the crumpled up letter. She made her choice. Probably wouldn't even notice if he died (when he dies).

It still doesn't feel fixed. It doesn't feel concluded.

He doesn't want her back. Not really. Maybe a tiny bit, but not enough for him to act on it. But he wants---

He wants to say good-bye. He's said good-bye to Sarah, Brigitta, Dorothy, and the Master, he's still working on saying good-bye to his Companion and Jack. He's passed on the notes he's taken to a superhero who should be able to continue his work. He's done. he needs to stop worrying about it.

But Lucy---No, no, Mrs. Saxon. He hasn't seen her. She doesn't know.

Unconsciously, he drops to the Plane.

She isn't there, of course. Silly thing to think. River would probably slap him for thinking something like that (and River's slaps are really, really unpleasant). But she's not here and he can't think of what to write in a letter to leave her.

She's content with her half-life with the Master, so she'd never seek him out. She doesn't know.

He drops back to the TARDIS and cleans up the letters before heading back to the console room to make a few final repairs.

Everything's ending soon, for him. And she doesn't know.

It's better that she doesn't know.

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 413
Based on rp with shatteredqueen and others in realityshifted
timepimpin', pimp

for brigadiertardis: Come Fly With Me


Come fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away
If you can use some exotic booze
There's a bar in far Bombay
Come fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away

"What the hell drink was that?"

"Pan galactic gargleblaster. Delicious, aren't they? Get you a bit intoxicated after a few, of course."

"And are you?"

"Am I what?"


"Probably." When he says probably, he attempts to lean casually against the side of the TARDIS and ends up slipping, very nearly falling flat on his fact.

She laughs, at least. But she's been keeping up with him and the number of drinks he's had, so she's probably just as far gone as he is, if not worse. Once he straightens up, she leans over and presses a kiss to his mouth.

"What was that for?" he asks.

"I wanted to see if I liked it," she replies, smoothly. Her voice is high and tinny, but still sounds smooth and seductive.

"And what did you decide?"

"I don't know yet." She leans in again and kisses him more firmly. He responds this time, though it's hardly his best kiss. He's far too intoxicated for it to even really be a decent kiss, but when she pulls back, she looks pleased.

"It's even better when you help," she says.

He smiles. "You should use that some day, Betty."

She nods to the blue box. "You gonna invite me in?"

He wants to. He's just intoxicated enough and she's attractive enough that it seems like a good idea. But he can't, he knows he can't. He makes a face.


"You've got a wife waiting for you?"

He looks at the TARDIS and can practically feel the rage rippling off of her. She does not appreciate being a support to him or her while they snog. "Something like that."

"I don't mind wives, you know. Never stopped me before."

"And it probably won't in the future."

She smirks and slips out of her heels in order to walk home. "If you need me Steve, you just whistle."

He has no idea where she got the impression his name is 'Steve', but he still grins stupidly after her as she walks away. He fumbles with the key to the TARDIS and pushes the doors open. Inside, he can definitely feel the irritation of his ship, far stronger than just out of the doors. He can imagine if she was humanoid, she'd be standing there, holding a rolling pin and glaring. As it is, the room is stuffy and hot with her temper.

"She's gone, you don't have to be this way." He tosses his coat to one of the columns and it misses completely. He sighs and half-stumbles towards his bedroom. The walls are ice cold from irritation and he pats the coral.

"You know I wouldn't bring her here. I've got far too much respect for you." His words are slurred from the alcohol, but he's absolutely convinced of them.

The emotional pressure at the back of his mind is really unconvinced of his words.

"I don't know why you're so jealous," he says, tugging off his tie and shirt once he gets to his bedroom. There are a few lipstick stains on his collar and he makes a face. "A little jealous, maybe. But not this jealous."

She huffs again and the floor is icy cold once he kicks off his trainers.

"I always come back to you, you know," he says, dropping back onto the bed. The covers are warm, at least. She knows he needs to feel safe when he sleeps, and she doesn't deny him that.

If she were a woman, though, he imagines she'd be sighing with exasperation.

"We'll go somewhere tomorrow," he promises. "Gatritico! Or Niamar 5! Lovely worlds, no population. It'll just be the two of us, TARDIS. We'll get away from it all."

He feels no pressure of emotion against the back of his mind, and he imagines that's her way of saying she'll think about it.

He curls up under the covers (having completely forgotten about his trousers, socks, or the fact that he hasn't taken a shower) and closes his eyes, the drunken suptor turning quickly to drunken slumber.

"I love you, TARDIS," he mumbles. Even when sober, she's the only being in the universe he can say that to without incredible difficulty. They've been together too long, they know each other too well. He loves her even when she sends him to the wrong planet and she loves him even when he snogs humans.

He feels a gentle, comforting pressure, and he imagines she's bemusedly replying the same thing.

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 747
Use of Lauren Bacall not authorized by Lauren Bacall.