the 216 posts Whofic!
This is something new for me, I've never managed to write Whofic before and will probably never manage it again. (Also, I probably shouldn't be writing reams of Whofic as I have other, more pressing WIPs not to mention seven essays in the next eight weeks.) But! For the moment I am proud to present 470 words of exceedingly plotless and mostly useless Whofic.
Spoily if you're not up to date on watching Series 3. Also vaguely spoilery for That One Bit Of Speculation Everyone's Heard About. Can be read as shippy if you prefer.
“A shopgirl.”
“What’s that?” said the Doctor, fiddling with the television aerial.
“I’m a shopgirl. I sell shoes. For a living. I’m stuck in 1969, selling shoes.” Martha Jones kicked off her own shoes and collapsed on their sofa, which threatened to collapse itself. “This is all your fault.”
“Oh now that’s hardly . . .” He trailed off, twiddling the aerial. Martha watched as he seemed to perform some voodoo dance, twitching the ears back and forth. “Do you think that looks better?”
“Compared to what?”
“I dunno. Before?”
“Looks about the same. Why couldn’t you be the one to get a job? Why’s it got to be me? My feet are killing me.”
The Doctor looked over his shoulder. “Really? Because if there’s - I could -”
“No, Doctor.” Martha grabbed the Radio Times off the coffee table and started thumbing through it. “I still think you’re the one needs a job.”
“A job? Seriously? Can you picture me working? Honestly?”
Martha tried and found that she couldn’t.
“I mean, really. Me, working.” The Doctor sniffed. “I’m too pretty to work. Can you imagine a face like this behind the counter at the chemist’s? Telling people ‘thank you, that’ll be two pounds fifty’? Giving people their paracetemol and their analgesics and their digitalis? Mind . . .” He looked reflective. “I’ve always sort of fancied being a postman. That might not be so bad like.”
“You can’t read people’s mail, Doctor. It isn’t allowed.”
“Oh, well never mind then. Life of leisure it is. Besides, I’m around now. Can’t have myself running into me. That never ends well. Plus there’s UNIT . . . Torchwood . . . Better to stay put and out of trouble. There, I think that’s the best it gets.” He scrambled away from the television set, nearly knocking over the coffee table.
Martha tossed the Radio Times aside. “What are we watching?”
“News! Very important, Martha Jones. Have to keep up with what’s going on in the world around us.”
“In case your grand plan doesn’t work and we’re stuck here?”
“My grand plan will work! It’s already worked. Several times over for all we know. Unless it doesn’t work, in which case yes, we’re watching the news because we’re stuck here.” The Doctor plopped onto the sofa, putting his feet up on the coffee table.
“That’s reassuring.” Martha poked the Doctor in the arm. “You’d better find a way to get us out of here. I don’t want to live through the 70s. I’ve seen pictures. That’s bad enough.”
“Aww, they’re not so bad, the 1970s. Great music. If it helps any, I lived through them once already.”
“Oh, really?” said Martha. “What were they like?”
“Can’t tell you, really. Mainly I remember a lot of monsters. And . . .”
“And?”
The Doctor’s face closed like a door. “Never you mind, Martha Jones. Never you mind.”
A tip of the hat to nostalgia_lj, whose style was something of an inspiration, and to everyone who expressed a desire for post-"Blink" fic -- can't say as this is very satisfying, but the comments did at least drive me to attempt to write Whofic.
Spoily if you're not up to date on watching Series 3. Also vaguely spoilery for That One Bit Of Speculation Everyone's Heard About. Can be read as shippy if you prefer.
“A shopgirl.”
“What’s that?” said the Doctor, fiddling with the television aerial.
“I’m a shopgirl. I sell shoes. For a living. I’m stuck in 1969, selling shoes.” Martha Jones kicked off her own shoes and collapsed on their sofa, which threatened to collapse itself. “This is all your fault.”
“Oh now that’s hardly . . .” He trailed off, twiddling the aerial. Martha watched as he seemed to perform some voodoo dance, twitching the ears back and forth. “Do you think that looks better?”
“Compared to what?”
“I dunno. Before?”
“Looks about the same. Why couldn’t you be the one to get a job? Why’s it got to be me? My feet are killing me.”
The Doctor looked over his shoulder. “Really? Because if there’s - I could -”
“No, Doctor.” Martha grabbed the Radio Times off the coffee table and started thumbing through it. “I still think you’re the one needs a job.”
“A job? Seriously? Can you picture me working? Honestly?”
Martha tried and found that she couldn’t.
“I mean, really. Me, working.” The Doctor sniffed. “I’m too pretty to work. Can you imagine a face like this behind the counter at the chemist’s? Telling people ‘thank you, that’ll be two pounds fifty’? Giving people their paracetemol and their analgesics and their digitalis? Mind . . .” He looked reflective. “I’ve always sort of fancied being a postman. That might not be so bad like.”
“You can’t read people’s mail, Doctor. It isn’t allowed.”
“Oh, well never mind then. Life of leisure it is. Besides, I’m around now. Can’t have myself running into me. That never ends well. Plus there’s UNIT . . . Torchwood . . . Better to stay put and out of trouble. There, I think that’s the best it gets.” He scrambled away from the television set, nearly knocking over the coffee table.
Martha tossed the Radio Times aside. “What are we watching?”
“News! Very important, Martha Jones. Have to keep up with what’s going on in the world around us.”
“In case your grand plan doesn’t work and we’re stuck here?”
“My grand plan will work! It’s already worked. Several times over for all we know. Unless it doesn’t work, in which case yes, we’re watching the news because we’re stuck here.” The Doctor plopped onto the sofa, putting his feet up on the coffee table.
“That’s reassuring.” Martha poked the Doctor in the arm. “You’d better find a way to get us out of here. I don’t want to live through the 70s. I’ve seen pictures. That’s bad enough.”
“Aww, they’re not so bad, the 1970s. Great music. If it helps any, I lived through them once already.”
“Oh, really?” said Martha. “What were they like?”
“Can’t tell you, really. Mainly I remember a lot of monsters. And . . .”
“And?”
The Doctor’s face closed like a door. “Never you mind, Martha Jones. Never you mind.”
A tip of the hat to nostalgia_lj, whose style was something of an inspiration, and to everyone who expressed a desire for post-"Blink" fic -- can't say as this is very satisfying, but the comments did at least drive me to attempt to write Whofic.