WIPs turned drabbly things, basically. (They were supposed to make up a week of drabbly things on Tumblr, but there are only five and... it’s been more than a week.)
Disclaimer: I don’t own Doctor Who.
Pastime. River/Eleven. G. Drabble. (
x)
River ran a finger down the spine of the Doctor’s diary. “I got hold of an account from Solfive. Know what they called us?”
“Well, they’re reasonably imaginative, love turning a phrase… Something to do with irises?”
“They called us a miasma of self-hatred and confidence.”
“Oh, that’s nifty.” The Doctor scratched his chin. “They’re not wrong.”
“We’ll have to return, then.”
He smirked, just a little. If only he hadn’t flicked his hair at the same time. “Dazzling and handsome? Clever and just the right amount of bad? Cool?”
“They’d still not be wrong, my love. Leave it to me.”
He said it a lot. Eleven + Lorna Bucket. PG. Drabble. Warning: Character death. (
x)
Originally supposed to go with
this.
The Doctor came twice to the Gamma Forests, though he didn’t know it.
The first time he came in his ship, in his blue box, with thirty seconds of wonder and darkness and “run, run, run”! He gave them their legends, then, and a new word.
The second time his hair was getting long and he wore a blue coat and half a bowtie and he brought Miranda Cleaves.
The second time he died laughing, staining the undergrowth with his life’s gunge.
The second time he let a little girl ride on his shoulders, and he said: “Come along, Bucket.”
That time they may or may not have been babysitting Stormie. River/Eleven. G. Double drabble. (
x)
“What do you think they’re up to?” The Doctor shrugged his coat off and tossed it toward a chair. “Craig and Sophie?”
River raised a brow. “Dirty weekend.”
“That’s ridiculous! If they wanted to clean they could’ve just stayed - Oh! Dropped.”
“Nice out?”
“Rains. Found a pound, got befriended by a squirrel, and for a minute there I thought the lady in the corner house was a cat, but alas.”
“Ah…” She nodded toward the William-and-Kate mugs, full of dark brown and definitely not steaming tea. “I recall agreeing to watch the kettle - not to mention the baby - so that you could get milk.”
“Yes, and-” He stared at his hands. Opened them. Closed them. “I was going to the shop, that makes sense! Maybe there’s something in the fridge after all… how carefully did you look? And what is that smell?”
“‘Petrichor’. Found it in the bathroom.”
“Is that appropriate, really?”
River pushed some hair aside, just happening to expose the pulse point she had touched the bottle to. “Isn’t it?”
The Doctor huffed and stuck his head into the freezer. “All the baby food I made is still in here! They must be saving it for Christmas.”
Constant. Eleven/Amy. Um, PG? S5!Amy. Double drabble. (
x)
She’s on the lap of her imaginary friend, which is the sort of thing she’d make up in her psychiatrists’ offices. It’s happening, but because of lack of space, that’s all, and they are squeezed between someone very cold and someone very slimy. She doesn’t mind, because… Doctor.
She can feel him breathe, all steadily and calmly; feel his hearts (there’s got to be more than one there) beat maddeningly evenly. He doesn’t… well, speed up. Not when she drags her nails down his tweedy arm. Not when she tugs her skirt higher. Not even when she kicks him in the shin.
There’s something going on far below them; a dance or a game or something unique to this world; all lights and cheers and the odd explosion. She’s not entirely engrossed, but does he have to be so distracting? Pinching her hair and running his knuckles down her spine and sniffing her neck. It isn’t like that, because she’s Travelled now and she’s seen him do the same thing to trees with interesting bark and to rusty wire and smelly fruits and old pots.
She leans back, and aligns her legs with his, and hopes she’ll feel something change.
Circle. Eleven. G. ~300 words. Missing scene from FotD. Vague spoilers for S7 (maybe). (
x)
The Doctor was fixing the data core, stabilising the mainframe, just as CAL had told him he had way way way back when. Just as he’d told CAL, oh, a minute ago, when he’d plonked a fez made out of zeros and ones onto her head and said TrustmeI’mtheDoctor. (She’d said she knew that, and he’d complimented her on the lack of pixellation.)
He could have had the Ponds there, awkwardly passing River’s diary between them and killing him with their eyes. He could have had his brand new girl, snagging her hair on the shelves and chatting at everyone, not realising because he wouldn’t have told her… He could have had himself, and Donna, had he dared. Instead he has Lux making pleased noises and pawing at his shoulder. (The man had asked for help and the Doctor had stepped out of the shadows and… well, helped.)
Full circle, as the saying went; appealing because of the, well, shape, if nothing else.
He digs around in a pocket (of a jacket that’s dark and boring but very apt, very fitting in, very Library) and finds a pencil that tastes like liquorice or maybe it’s liquorice that tastes like pencil and bites down on it, and then he types the last bit of code and presses enter (with a flourish). There. All done. Fixed and stabilised and everyone uploaded. (And he’s had time to put up that painting of himself and tidy up a little and remove the picture-less definitive work written by a man he knew very well indeed.)
He’s wearing a ruby bowtie and braces clasps of Venusian gold and a smile. He’s worried his lip raw and his hair is dented by a fez he hasn’t really worn.
He can still hear the towers.