Title: Machines
Prompt: #16 - Red
Rating: PG
Claim: Ten/Tardis
Spoilers: Possibly obliquely for "The Sound of Drums" (During which it's set. Which is a hint.)
Notes: Written for the doctorwho_100 challenge (Prompts are here.)


Machines

Shutting her out is almost more than he can bear: but there is a sickening throb, a beat like her heart running backwards and forwards together and he cannot let himself hear it. He cannot even tell her trust me, ask her to wait.

Don’t, he tells them. Don’t touch it.



No, touch me, she screams out silently to him, hardly embarrassed at how easy it has become to beg. Touch me please. It tears at her, blurs her edges: the pain and power and both are too terribly welcome.

I am afraid, she screams. I am becoming like him.

Title: Seedbed
Prompt: #27 - Children
Rating: U / G
Claim: Ten/Tardis
Spoilers: None
Notes: This happened as I was idly wondering, Hey, how did the Doctor and the TARDIS actually, you know, meet? Though I did try to stick with canon there are obviously embellishments, and despite my stern fact-checking it's bound to conflict with something somewhere (likely in the novels); and if so, well, apologies.
• Thanks to Kimchi the betagoddess (even though she's no damn help with titles).
• Written for the doctorwho_100 challenge (Prompts are here.) and x-posted to dwfiction.

"It's trustworthy and watertight and she's my oldest friend in the world." - 8th Doctor, 'The Stones of Venice'


Seedbed


He has been dreaming lately: of silver-bright trees and a burnt-orange sky, of sighing red grasses and a copper moon shining over mountains of snow. Asleep and awake he travels the roads from the Citadel, sees endless in the distance the Continent of Wild Endeavour; and quietly he mourns.

You know, she tells him one day - gently: she has considered these words for so long - I didn't like it all that much.

He is roused from a recollection of spires of golden stone. He blinks. "What?"

Oh it was beautiful, of course, but - he feels her shrug gently, a soft pull in his mind - I never really liked it there.

"Are you - what, you're happy it's gone?" His sudden anger is like electricity; it warms them both and she cradles it carefully.

No. Never. She sees the silver trees as he does then, a forest of fire in the morning light. Says softly, yes ...

but.

"But?"

Shrugs again, shows him cold glass and still water. The nurseries were dark. I was lonely.

"It's your home."

It's not.

"It was."

It was never my home.

"You were born there!"

That can't be helped.

He stalks and paces, his anger prickling at her. Unbidden, it rises too in her, to meet him: anger, then sorrow and finally fear. Everything that he's lost, she could lose still and she wonders if he realises. It's a thing she's never looked for and even now thinks she doesn't want to know.

Doctor.

He is deliberately mute, shut to her. She waits. He paces. She calls him by an old, old name. He stills. Then:

"Explain it to me."

What?

"Tell me. Show me. I don't ... I don't understand."

Beneath the anger he is dark and tired and he reaches for her. She tells him, Remember when we met. It is not a question but a request. He nods, slips from his bed in the Academy and creeps to the great silent building on the edge of the Citadel:

     He could feel them in there - had been told, taught, shown what they were going to be but wanted to know what is in there now, what they are now. It was hardly difficult for the boy to slip inside, to stand quiet and wondering at the great masses of them silent like waiting, like sleeping, growing in separate caverns of cold glass and still water. As far as he could tell they were nothing, yet, and he was disappointed to find them so quiet and closed. The boy turned to go.

     And he heard, felt someone-something, small and awake among the great sleeping masses, ask him: Wait.

     "Where are you?"

     Here.

     "Who are you?"

     Who are you?

("Why were you awake?" So many years later it occurs to him to ask. Again she shrugs, a gentle pull. I was always awake.)

     He went back. Again and again the boy went back and they sat and waited together, awake, as they learned slowly enough how they would speak to each other. He showed her the burning skies and the silver-bright trees. He showed her what they had shown him, had made him see - what she had been made in order to see. It pushed at them, and it pulled against them both.

     The boy grew.

     She grew.

     Until the pull and the push and the boy came to her now a young man, a young Time Lord with a new name; and when she asked he answered: "Yes, it's time to go." And they ran.

"You were waiting for me." She nods, the barest pressure against him. He considers this. "Why?"

Could it have been different? She sighs. Doctor: tell me about Gallifrey. It comes to her at once so fast and only by ten lifetimes of this can she understand it:

     thought heart light terrible family hurt love duty home life

Now shall I tell you? He nods.

     quiet empty wait

He feels then also Thought. Heart. Light. terrible and is about to say it, "Aha, you see - " family hurt love duty "But -" home life

     doctor

The two are silent then, breathing in space, together. A warm breeze plays across the red-grass plains and falls still. He says, so quietly: "Yes."

Yes?

"Yes. It's time to go."

Can't. Write. Titles!

Dammit!

Title: More
Prompt: #28 - Mind
Rating: 15 / PG-13
Claim: Ten/Tardis
Spoilers: None
Notes: A little AU drabble set after "Last of the Time Lords" and written for the doctorwho_100 challenge (Prompts are here.)

MORE


There were a lot more fights.

There was more desperate begging, more shouting, more whispers that turned into screams. There was a lot more noise in general.

She didn’t mind the noise.

There was a lot more pain: pleaded-for, impossibly perfect pain that left behind exhaustion and desire and scars in flesh and metal alike.

She didn’t mind the scars, either.

There was more blood, more heat, more couplings, more triplings, more mind more thought more moments without thought -

There was a lot more.

And she didn’t mind any of it.

Two Time Lords were so much more than one.

Title: custody
Pairings: One/Master, Ten/Master
Rating: 15 / pg-13
Spoilers: A bit for The Dalek Invasion of Earth (classic S2), a bit for The Last of the Time Lords.
Summary: Family happens despite itself.
Notes Apologia: Okay. So: spent a good bit of time with Hartnell's Doctor of late. Consequently, some things happened, and this is one of them. Haven't written anything in ages, it's completely un-beta'd, and I fear that much of it makes no sense to anyone who isn't actually sharing my brain (or to me). I offer it mainly in the hopes of kicking myself in the bum to do more writing, and anyone who cares to do some bum-kicking in a similar spirit is happily welcome to have a read.
•Also (phew): The first line is a quote, although I cannot remember by whom. I've scoured my bookshelves, pored over all my old notebooks, and trolled the internet hunting it down, but I've come up empty-handed. Anyone?


custody


And what about the children who do not want to be loved?

     Some are inspired. Some run away. Some are driven mad.

And which one wins?


***

I should know him.

But he is dazzling, blinding. He is hiding from me and all I see is this brilliance, this human, no one I know.

The man walks the halls of my stolen ship, one finger trailing delicately along the wall. I follow, a young man (so young); perhaps I am talking, describing, explaining, and perhaps he listens: indulgently, silently, smiling.

I have come so far, already, I think. I have been - I think - so alone.

I ask him, Who are you? Where on Earth do you come from?

But he doesn't know this planet much better than I do, not yet. He casts about for a name, a place, manages something. He pauses, not knowing how to ask - says finally, simply, What are you called?

Shyly, I tell him. The name is still new on my lips, intoxicating: I taste it as I offer it to him, savouring it. He accepts it, somehow unsurprised, and I don't notice that he offers nothing yet but a laughing echo in return: Doctor. He has come further already than I; yet here I am now, impossibly, and perhaps, he thinks, he can find again that small quiet space between us. He reaches for me.

The sudden contact makes me dizzy, makes my breath come fast. The ship waits expectant around us as I let myself be pulled to my knees, close my eyes as he touches me: lips, hands, mind, closer and somehow closer still. My hearts race, the double-beat of blood fast in my ears one-two-one-two, one-two-one-two and he - I can almost hear it as well, can feel now from the inside his blood pounding, the beat a mirror of my own, a mirror of itself one-two-one-two, one-two-one-two and dimly I realise that I might not know much about humans yet but surely three hearts between us shouldn't sound like this, one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four and he pulls me closer, thinking, make it stop, just for an instant, please and, finally, achingly, just for an instant, it does.

For an instant, silence. But then.

The tide of blood within me subsides. Thought returns and with it certainty, familiarity. I blink at him. I recognise.

He knows my mind, too well already.

I understand.

No. He pushes me away. He is blinding. He cannot let me touch him again and I - a young man - the Doctor - I sit, dazzled, as he runs away.

***

"Let us compromise," they say. "Let us come to an agreement. You will be allowed to keep this ship, if" - one of them thrusts a small bundle into my arms and takes a step backwards as if relieved to be rid of it - "if you will also keep this."

I glance down at this - a mewling pile of white blankets, curled fists, tremendous blue eyes - and glare uncomprehendingly at the three figures before me. Delivered of the infant, the Time Lords gaze serenely at me, arms folded into silver robes, beatific smiles plastered infuriatingly across their smug faces.

"I fail to see why I - "

The nearest figure speaks. "You are the child's only living relative." Behind her, the others glance at each other uncertainly. "The only suitable living relative," she amends. "Her other grandparent has been deemed ... unacceptable."

"Grandparent?" I splutter. "But I have no children! I left Gallifrey as a young man, I have no children ... " I trail off, gazing at the child in my arms. Brilliant blue eyes blink quietly up at me. "I left Gallifrey ... " I murmur. The Time Lords turn away.

"She is the child of your child. You will care for her."

"But - but I cannot!" I rouse myself to call after the silver-clad figures. "I am an old man, I cannot care for a - a neonate! It is best left to the schools of Gallifrey, is it not?" The figures continue their retreat. "Wait!"

They pause, turn. "You will care for the child," they say simply. Helpless, I shift the bundle in my arms.

"What am I to do with it?" I demand.

"'It' is called Susan."

"Well, then. But - "

"Care for it."

***

I let her go.

     You locked her out. You chased her away.

I let her go. It was for her own good -

     You didn't give her a choice. Not everyone runs, Doctor. She would have stayed.

You can't know -

[He tosses something onto the floor before me; I struggle to see it with my old, old eyes. A key: small, dull, impotent. Dead.]

     It was hers.

No.

     It was hers. I found it, just where she left it - where you left her, in the wreckage of a ruined world. I found it and I found her - terrified and abandoned in a dead time, surrounded by weakness and stupidity, suffocated by so many tiny human lives.

They rebuilt it! They rebuilt - she must have helped them, led them -

     They wore her down. They tore her apart until she was no better than them, no more than them. You should have seen her: fat, insipid, with a beast of a man, surrounded by howling infants. Certainly they rebuilt, Doctor, and they wore themselves down doing it.

You saw her? Then you were there ... and you could have saved her -

     Saved what? There was nothing left to save after you cast her away. Think what she could have been - our granddaughter! She would have been a god, Doctor. We could have raised a god -

[I laugh. The sound is ghastly, dry and hollow and painful to my own ears. He whirls on me and I am glad that I can barely see, that I can not be blinded by him any more than I already have been.]

We? Could have raised her? What, together -

     A little more than kin, Doctor ...

[He comes closer. He whispers to me.]

     ... and a little less than kind.

[I close my eyes and I know how close he is, how close he can get, and though I can hardly laugh any more, I can still cry.]

     We could have done anything together.

We -

     Anything.

I -

[I can still cry.]

I know.

***

And what about the children who have to love?

Some are alone. Some are alone. And some are left alone.

And not one ever wins.

Title: Repairs
Prompt: #72 - Fixed
Rating: G
Claim: Ten/Tardis
Spoilers: None
Notes: Written for the doctorwho_100 challenge (Prompts are here.)
Rustier than the Tin Woodsman after monsoon season, I am, but I'm determined to get back at it; so pass me the damned oil can and get the hell out of my way ...


REPAIRS


“We cannot begin to offer you thanks enough, Doctor.”

“No worries there. Happy to help."

“It is but a small service we give you in return, this minor repair to your vessel in exchange for the salvation of our people.”

“Really, don’t mention it, I – sorry?” He paused halfway across the threshold and peered at the tall orange creature rapidly dissolving into mist before him. “And ... what repair would that be?”

The creature cast its eyestalks modestly downward. "Our skills are slight," it cooed, "and our debt to you is great. Please think nothing of it. Our eternal gratitude to you, Doctor." It raised a hand in farewell and disappeared.

"Wait!" the Doctor called into the suddenly empty morning light. "What have you done to my ship?"

***

Three frantic hours later he managed to track it down.

Jacketless and dishevelled, the Doctor regarded a blue button pulsing gently on the control panel. "Now that's impressive," he murmured, glancing under the console where a single silver wire gleamed newly. "Never was able to fix it myself."

Tentatively he reached out and traced a finger around the button. He looked up into the warm darkness of the ship above him. "What do you think, then? Nice to have it working properly again ... useful, anyway." He raked a hand thoughtfully through his hair. "I mean, let's face it, a blue police box is not often terribly nonchalant, is it?"

Hand still hovering over the button, the Doctor considered.

"Well then. I suppose ... I suppose we ought to try it out."

The TARDIS hummed ruminatively about him.

"Hmm? Well, no, they aren't a particularly technologically advanced species - not compared to some, anyway. Why?"

The Doctor listened to his ship.

"Ah. Well. Now that it comes to it, I suppose we can't be entirely certain that they didn't cock something up - oh, no, never on purpose, of course." He reached down and plucked the silver wire from beneath the console. "Still and all - " the blue button flashed once and lapsed into darkness " - you're quite right. Always better to be safe than sorry."

Title: Deathbed
Prompt: #31 - Death
Rating: G
Claim: Ten/Tardis
Spoilers: None
Notes: Been away for ages, and easing back into it gradually with a rather maudlin drabble, written for the doctorwho_100 challenge (Prompts are here.)

DEATHBED

It is curious, this going away slowly and by stages. The quiet slipping off. So much to do, he thinks, but stops with them to witness the small warm single heart slow, cool and still. Almost he envies them the silence and mourning: in his so many lifetimes the pounding of the blood has never ceased, slowed but not to stopping. There is surprise, but rarely tears; rarely they are his own.

Amidst this farewell he says only goodbye, smiles, stops smiling, leaves and leaving, wonders:

At the end, if there is one, who will tell anyone that he's gone?

And casts a wistful glance about.

So much work this week.

Back to the fun stuff after the week-end.

I'll cop to not having written much of anything of late - with the excuse that, just recently having returned home after my protracted absence, I've been catching up with various and sundry folks, and not holed up antisocially with the laptop in a freezing apartment 3000 miles away. Writing is, unfortunately, not such a social activity, but knitting, happily, can be (cheers, by the way, to Bob and Linda down the pub, for putting up with my Wool Amongst The Pints), so I've been spending far more free time with the needles than with the keyboard.

But the brain is itching a bit, and I'm feeling the bite of being out of practice with the writing. (Is there anything worse than a flabby writer?) Just checking in with myself, really, and petting a few of the plotbunnies on the head. Perhaps I shall let one or two out of the pen and let them scamper about for a bit just now.

Also must find a name for knitting plotbunnies ... "woolbunnies"? Because there are more than a few of them dashing about as well.

Title: Down
Prompt: #64 - Fall
Rating: G
Claim: Ten/Tardis
Spoilers: A bit for Impossible Planet / Satan Pit
Notes: Set during Impossible Planet / Satan Pit, and written for the doctorwho_100 challenge (Prompts are here.)

DOWN

The ground opens up and she feels herself, inert, tumbling away from him.

Down.

Direction suddenly becomes relevant, distance relative only to him, on the surface. On the surface it always has been but now, an impossible distance traps her, strands him. Separates them.

Time is relative. Direction is peculiar and never before has it been this precise, this palpable. This business of up-and-down, of falling - wasn't she, weren't they both born to fall, to tumble, to roll and slip sideways through time? to keep moving directionless in their beautiful complex mathematical web where she is vectorial and he spirals and small linear beings only interrupt from time to (time

time passes)

She wakes, is aware of having slept. It is still and dark and still dark, and something mindless waits nearby. Something is down here with her.

Down here.

Down she waits every moment feeling him pulled away from her. He will leave if he has to and she will wait down here and in the next place and if necessary the place after that - there is always another place, more space and if it's not time after it's time before because they are the same thing - but even she cannot know where that will be or when.

Up there, he cannot know either; and she suspects that even if he could, he would already have shut that part of himself down, not to see without her. It has happened before and it will happen again and again already she is rewriting the equations that will let her wait, while he redraws the present and imagines a future a house a garden that he will have to get used to in (time

time passes)

Now something wakes her: mindless rage that for a moment overwhelms her so that she thinks it is her own.

Something is down here with her. Something that doesn't fit, that has no place in the complex play of thought and numbers, shapes and spirals. Something that negates, unwrites, voids. She wishes that just for a moment again she could see with his eyes - she might know but he understands, and together they are a match for (time

nothing

the rage ebbs and flows but nothing passes

This is time, then. This is her place in it down here and waiting as the numbers corrode and she is parenthetical, inert and, finally, so very empty that there is nothing but space to be filled with something, rage, something that

blinds

destroys understanding

she waits does wait becomes waiting)

For now, she is.

Down here.

In honor of both The Oncoming Who and the Scotsman napping on the sofa beside me:

( Gratuitous picspam of John Barrowman in a kilt. )

It is bloody good to be home.

Title: Five Times The Doctor Found Himself A Bit Tied Up
Pairing(s): Two/Jamie, Four/Sarah Jane, Five/Turlough, Nine/Jack, Ten/Tardis
Rating: 15 / PG-13 (for smuttage, actual and implied)
Spoilers: None
Word Count: 500
Notes: Spring is in the air, I'm stuck in an airport lounge in North Carolina, and the Doctor is in handcuffs! Happy International Month of Bondage to one and all.
• Part v was written for the doctorwho100 challenge (Claim: Ten/Tardis; Prompt #58: Hold; prompts are here).
X-posted to dw_slash

***

Allright. I can wait. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?

Anticipation.

The Doctor tugged experimentally at the straps on his wrists. Tight. Of course - that’s the point.

I can wait. I’m a Time Lord, I have time, he told himself, eying the discarded kilt on the floor nearby. I can wait until Jamie returns.

He tried to ignore the persistent ache in his cock.

I can wait until then.

He tried to think about geometry.

I can wait.

He tried.

I can.

He gave up.

He slipped out of the straps and stalked off in search of Jamie.

***

“Let me try that on.”

“It looks rather nice on you.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“Might look even better without the jumper underneath … Oh, yes, now that’s lovely.”

“Bit long, no?”

“You’re not wearing it right … how’s that?”

“Is that really how it’s worn - without a skirt?”

“Traditionally. You don’t see me wearing a skirt with it, do you?”

“Hmm. No, I think it looks better on you. Come here.”

“Bit tight - ”

“No, that’s how it’s supposed to be worn. Hold still.”

“It really is a bit tight, Sarah Jane … Sarah Jane? Where are you going? Come back here!

… Sarah Jane?”

***

One minute they’d been snogging happily, pausing only to discard the occasional superfluous item of clothing.

Jacket, sweater, trousers (two pairs). Another jacket. Shirt, shirt, pants.

It hadn’t occurred to the Doctor that Turlough was still wearing a tie; by that point he had been focusing almost exclusively on just how much of Turlough’s ass he could hold in two cupped hands.

One minute, a double-handful of the redhead’s lovely bottom; the next, and he’d been rather expertly bound at the wrists with Turlough’s striped necktie. The Doctor blinked in surprise.

Turlough grinned.

The next minute was quite nice indeed.

***

Once the threat of imminent death had passed, they turned to the next problem.

“What do you mean, ‘no keys’?”

“They’re antiques. Collector’s items,” Jack explained.

“And why,” the Doctor enquired, “do you carry around two pair of antique handcuffs?” Jack blinked innocently. “I see.”

“Use the sonic screwdriver – “

“You mean the sonic screwdriver across the room from the console that we’re handcuffed to?”

“Ah … when do you think Rose’ll wake up?”

“Dunno. Guess we’ll have to wait.” He looked at Jack. “What?”

“Just wondering,” Jack said, blinking innocently again, “what you think we might do in the meantime?”


***

The incessant bleeping was becoming annoying.

The Doctor stalked into the control room. “Right, you. Let’s stop the noise so certain Time Lords can have a kip, yes?” He removed a panel from beneath the console and peered into the tangle of wires behind. “Not half warm,” he muttered, shucking his jacket and wriggling inside.

He prodded about experimentally. “Doesn’t seem to be anything wrong, so why -"

The bleeping stopped.

“That’s better.” He tried to wriggle out again and found a rather thick wire wrapped about his legs.

“Oh, I see,” he purred. “... Somebody just wanted a little attention.”

Title: Ask
Prompt: #82 - If
Rating: G
Claim: Ten/Tardis
Spoilers: None
Notes: Post-Doomsday. (Which I don't usually write, but what can I say, I was feeling maudlin.) Written for the doctorwho_100 challenge (Prompts are here.)


What if?

They all ask, eventually. What if we just? and Why can’t we? and How do you know?, and he explains it to them using small ideas and smaller words and they have to listen, don’t they, because he’s the Time Lord.

He just knows.

I listen, too: to his footsteps in empty rooms, his breath carefully measured, all the time carefully controlled, and the ache underneath that he can’t explain away with small words, not to himself.

I listen to him because I have to, but I can’t help asking, too.

What if none of this ever happened?

Title: Life, the TARDIS, and Everything
Fandom(s): Doctor Who, H2G2
Pairings/Characters: Ten/Ford, the TARDIS, and Arthur Dent
Rating: 18/R
Spoilers: A bit for The End of the World
Summary: The TARDIS is picking up hitchhikers.
Notes: Written for the doctorwho_100 challenge (Prompt # 25: Strangers - Claim: Ten/Tardis - Prompt chart here)
• For scots_git, who really just wanted Ford and the Doctor to get it on a bit. Happy birthday, Daniel! (And eternal love to Kimchi the betagoddess, a cool frood who actually knows where her towel is.)
• X-posted to dw_slash


LIFE, THE TARDIS, AND EVERYTHING

The planet of Betilqaksa is generally believed to be the most enchanting in the Galaxy. Wide pink seas lap at the shores of blue-sand beaches, distant and suggestively-shaped mountains are shrouded in a pleasantly mysterious fog, and the Betilqaksans themselves are a polite and peace-loving race who communicate solely through the medium of erotic massage. Twin suns warm the planet by day and sweetly-scented breezes cool it at night, while the air is continually suffused with the intoxicating music of singing grasses and the spirit is illuminated by the wisdom of the Betilqaksan Prophesying Bush.

At this particular moment, however, Ford Prefect was three hundred and twelve thousand light-years from Betilqaksa, crouching in the damp of a squalid swamp on a nameless blot of an empty moon.

He listened for sounds of pursuit. The Villovian Royal Guard were known for their cunning, ruthlessness, and penchant for disembowelment but not, fortunately, for their stealth. Ford relaxed a bit as he heard them squelch away in the wrong direction entirely, cursing loudly in an obscure binary dialect. Beside him in the muck Arthur gibbered quietly to himself and drooled. Ford reached for his satchel.

"Well then," he muttered, "looks like another night under the stars." He cast an eye at the cloud of Arcturan Mega-Gnats buzzing overhead, obscuring the sky from view. "Right - make that under the giant hovering insects. Where's that towel got to?"

"One hedgehog, please, lightly toasted."

"Don't worry, Arthur." Ford glanced up from his satchel and regarded his companion, now frothing slightly at the mouth. "The effects of the Scrambler Ray are only temporary. It's totally harmless."

(In fact, the Wray Gunn Corporation - a wholly-owned subsidiary of Zap-Em Industries, LLC: "Purveyors of fine weaponry for the discerning despot." - has at the insistence of the Galactic Chamber of Commerce been the subject of intense scientific and legal scrutiny for the better part of a century. The long-term effects of the company's Scrambler Ray, Evisceration Beam, Retina-Detachment Pack and Skin-Inversion Land Mines are still unknown, while the legality of the Decap-o-matrix is questionable at best and copyright issues remain unresolved over the Kill-Them-Ded Three-in-One Total Nonexistence Device. Pending resolution of these and other issues, the Wray Gunn Corporation and Zap-Em Industries, LLC are required to publish the disclaimer, "For Novelty Use Only," on all adverts and publicity materials.)

Ford located his towel and gallantly wiped a bit of froth from Arthur's face. "A ha'penny for your midget," Arthur said.

"You're welcome," Ford replied. He stood to drape the filthy bath sheet across several branches and settled back under the makeshift tent, sighing as the swamp oozed up wetly around him. "I blame Zaphod for this, you know," he muttered.

Arthur nodded emphatically. "Satsuma," he added.

"Exactly. It was his idea to stroll off with the crown jewels in the first place - so how's he snug in the palace on Villos and we're camped out on this ball of muck, I'd like to know?"

It would have been no small consolation to Ford and Arthur to know that at that precise moment, Zaphod Beeblebrox was being ritually flogged with golden wire and painted with melted lard in preparation for his forced marriage to Princess Fruntfrrrox the Exasperating, fourteenth heir to the throne of Villos. In the absence of this happy knowledge, however, Ford sought comfort from the only source at hand: "Pass me the Ol' Janx Spirit, would you?" he asked. "There, in the bottom of the rucksack." Arthur rummaged through the bag, humming La Marseillaise, and came up with a depressingly empty bottle. Ford sighed again.

"Oh, Belgium," he hissed. "Well, hand it over - if we're careful we can still get reasonably drunk on the fumes. Unfortunately this situation rather calls for unreasonably drunk, but - "

"A discerning customer chooses carefully," Arthur cried suddenly. "Six out of ten hyperactive stoats agree!"

"Wait your turn, you." Ford snatched the bottle from his hand. Arthur shook his head and pointed into the battered satchel.

"Portcullis. Portmanteau! Port-au-Prince!" he blurbled. Ford frowned and squelched closer to peer into the bag, at the bottom of which a small green light pulsed erratically. Tossing the bottle aside, he reached into the bag and extracted the Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic.

"I'll be a lungfish's granny - Arthur! Do you realise what this means?"

"Prostate, pantheistic pantomime?"

"It means, mate, that we're about to be rescued from this stinking swamp."

"Pangolin!"

"Yeah, well - okay, I'm excited too, but watch your language - "

"Porcelain! Peripatetic potboiler!"

Ford struggled to his feet as the Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic winked faster, casting a suddenly festive green glow over the grey dampness. "Quickly, Arthur, pass me the Thumb!"

"Passionfruit?"

"The Thumb, the Electronic Thumb! That black rod thing - yes, there! Hand it over - oh, photons, there's no time. Press the yellow button!"

"Principled Pakistanis?"

"The yellow one, Arthur, quickly!" The frenzied blinking of the Sens-O-Matic was becoming more and more hyperactive. Arthur mashed the large yellow button at the end of the Electronic Thumb and held the device aloft. "Plastic polyglot, popover!" he exclaimed as a strange wind whipped up around them. "Prison guard?"

Ford scanned the skies, waving aside clouds of fist-sized insects.

"Priesthood!" Arthur goggled as - with a noise like six hundred and ninety-two people repeatedly saying "Squah, squah!" while walking slowly into the distance - a large blue object materialised in the sludge before them. "Police box," Arthur whimpered, and flopped face-down into the mud.

***

"And just where do you think you're going?" The Doctor put aside his teacup and stalked over to the console. He peered at the monitor and tutted.

"Oh no you don't! You know the rules."

Several small orange lights blinked insistently.

"Not at all. It's just a red alert, nothing serious."

The lights continued to blink.

"I am not in a mood, I'm having a nice quiet cup of tea. The last thing I need is to make uncomfortable small talk with some - "

The TARDIS hummed around him.

"Since always! I simply don't feel like chatting with strangers just now. Besides, look at where we are: Sector LL₃ Active Q Beta. There's nothing out here but Villos and about three dozen satellite moons. And you know how utterly boring the Villosians are - all they ever want to talk about is disembowelling this and eviscerating that and stripping the skin from the other and - wait, what? A human, all the way out here? Really?" The Doctor flipped a switch and glanced again at the monitor. "And a Betelgeusian - now they certainly know how to have a good time ... hmmmm. Well, I could do with a bit of company. Be nice to have someone to talk to again ... better pull over and see if they need a lift."

With an ironic squeal and a slight squelch the TARDIS materialised. The Doctor strode to the door and stuck his head out to survey a squalid swamp full of muck, ooze and stunted trees. A man in a dressing gown lay prone, blowing bubbles in a particularly foetid puddle of goo. Nearby a second man stood consulting a hysterically flashing Sub-Etha device. He glanced up and the Doctor found himself staring into not-unpleasantly-intense-yet-disarmingly-aquamarine eyes. He blinked a few times.

The unnervingly blue eyes didn't.

"Er," the Doctor began. He tried again. "Um. Ah! I'm the Doctor. Need a ride?"

The man pocketed the device and squooshed towards the TARDIS. "Cheers!" he said genially. "I'm Ford Prefect, and this - " he indicated the fellow in the muck, "is Arthur Dent." The Doctor glanced down at Arthur.

"Connoisseur of fine swamp fluids?" he asked.

"Scrambler Ray," Ford explained. "We had a bit of a run-in with a squadron of Villovian Royal Guards." The Doctor shuddered.

"Dreadful bores. Well, we'd best get him inside, then. A nice kip, a cup of tea, he should be right as rain ... can you take his other arm? Fantastic. I've got the door, just drag him inside - and mind you don't let those gnats in." Together they hauled Arthur into the TARDIS and the Doctor shut the door behind them. Ford gazed about.

"Nice," he said appreciatively. "Type 40?" The Doctor nodded as Arthur - who had perked up somewhat at the mention of the word tea - suddenly looked about, screamed "Viva Italia!", and pitched forward onto the floor with a dull thud. Ford frowned down at him. "You'll have to excuse my friend. He's allergic to spaceships, I think."

"No worries, it happens a lot around here." The Doctor hauled Arthur to his feet and dragged his inert form towards the corridor. "I'll just find him someplace to have a lie-down. Shouldn't be a minute. If you want to, er ... freshen up ... there's a washroom just through there, second door to the left. I think. At least, there usually is. I'm sure it's still around there somewhere, just have a look about. Um." The Doctor found himself blathering under Ford's intense gaze. "I'll be back as soon as we - well, as soon as I ... get him tucked in. Arthur. Tuck him in. Somewhere. For a rest. I'll be back ... Okay then." Mercifully, he reached the doorway and hauled Arthur through.

Smooth, the Doctor thought, lumping the largely-unconscious human down the corridor. Nicely done. You'd think I'd never met a Betelgeusian with gorgeous eyes before ... well, come to think of it, I don't know that I have met one with such incredibly gorgeous eyes ... Not that I noticed, really. Just in passing, that's all. Nothing strange about that, is there - you meet someone new, you notice his eyes. If you're in the habit of being observant you notice a lot of things. Like the way his hair curls over his ears. Or that he has very nice hands. And an extremely lovely ass - you just notice these things, it doesn't mean anything ... The Doctor kicked open the door to a cosy library and pulled Arthur inside.

The walls were lined with friendly volumes and the room was full of overstuffed chairs and invitingly soft sofas. A cheery fire burned in the grate. The Doctor flopped Arthur onto a couch and plumped a pillow behind his head. "There now, quite nice. You have a bit of a lie-down, all right?"

Arthur's eyes fluttered open. "Would you like chips with that?" he mumbled.

"No, you're quite safe on my ship," the Doctor answered pleasantly.

Arthur flung out an arm, flapping a hand in the general direction of his own left ear. "Sixteen and a half? Or a mouse and a can of oil."

"Oh, no, I shouldn't worry. Those Scrambler Rays are a bit barbaric, but you'll be fine." The Doctor frowned and considered Arthur. "You've got a fish in your ear, haven't you?" Arthur nodded weakly. "Aha. That explains it. The ship has a translation circuit of her own, not to mention that I'm a bit ... well, telepathic myself. Just a bit, mind you, but what with that and the ship and the way that fish works ... I thought I was getting quite a lot of your, er, thoughts. Well. No worries, I'll bring you a glass of water later and we'll have that fish out. In the meantime, just relax and try to get some sleep, yes?"

"Phonetic spelling."

"Good man." The Doctor patted his arm comfortingly and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

***

Ford was having serious towel envy.

He stood in a marvellously-apportioned washroom and gaped in awe at the piles of spotless towels, pristine bath-mats, immaculate face flannels and - Zarquon's knees, could it be? - indecently fluffy bathrobes ranged on the shelves. With a trembling finger he reached out to stroke a blue-and-yellow bath sheet.

Imagine heading out with that in your satchel.

He pulled it from the shelf and unfolded it with reverence. The blue and yellow stripes fairly glowed in the washroom's discreet recessed lighting.

The things a being could do with a towel like this ... A host of interesting images popped into his mind, a surprising number of which seemed to involve the Doctor in a variety of compromising positions on, under, or wrapped in the striped terry-cloth. (Being a modern and quite with-it sort of traveller, Ford had never held particularly to the outmoded opinion that it was in strict bad form to sass one's host.)

He fondled the towel and considered the Doctor and his ship - neither of which by rights should in fact exist, unless the Guide had got it very wrong yet again.

Which was entirely possible.

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy has this to say on the subject of Time Lords:

The Time Lords were an ancient and stuffy race of self-righteous prigs who were insufferably smug about both their own ability to travel with ease to virtually any location in space and time, and their absolute refusal to do so on the grounds that it might muck up the space-time continuum or some such nonsense - none of which stopped them, however, from passing judgement on virtually every other race or individual who, in the Time Lords' opinion, was dangerous, evil, or the slightest bit naughty. They were generally regarded by the rest of the Galaxy as a load of obnoxious bores who were too high-minded to have even a little bit of fun with their powers - not even a quick joy-ride in their "Time And Relative Dimension in Space" machines, possibly the most inconveniently-named yet utterly remarkable form of space-craft ever created, none of which survive to this day.

Very few Time Lords ever managed to break free of their infuriatingly prudish society and have a time of it out in the Galaxy, and almost all of those who did so were evil, irritating, smarmy, or at best poorly-dressed. The Time Lords were completely and entirely wiped out along with their mortal enemies, the Daleks (see "Evil Pepperpots," p. 492,641) in the last Time War.

Except, Ford reflected, here he was in what was quite clearly a TARDIS, and the being in command of it was quite clearly - Ford had an excellent eye for species - a Time Lord. What's more, the Doctor seemed for all the Galaxy like a Time Lord who was quite content to be slouching about through space and time in search of a laugh.

A Time Lord who was neither particularly stuffy, evil, smarmy or poorly-dressed ... a Time Lord who was, in point of fact, remarkably easy on the eyes -

"Um, hello?"

Ford started and stuffed the towel guiltily back on the shelf. "Yes?" he called back, glancing quickly at his reflection in the washroom mirror and stepping out into the corridor. The Doctor smiled widely at him.

"Found it all right, then?"

"No problem at all." Ford couldn't manage to look directly into the Doctor's eyes and suddenly found himself staring instead at the quite obvious bulge in his already-tight brown trousers. He felt a blush begin to spread across his wrists (a particular peculiarity of Betelgeusian physiognomy) and tugged the sleeves of his jacket down self-consciously. "Lovely linen collection," he murmured, nodding towards the washroom.

"Thank you." The Doctor regarded him. "You don't happen to have," he said slowly, "and pardon me for asking, a fish in your ear?" Ford nodded.

"Of course. Terrifically useful things. Haven't you got one?"

"Er, no." The Doctor was grinning rather impishly all of a sudden. He turned and started down the corridor, beckoning Ford to follow. "No, I haven't. Come on, then - care for a tour?"

***

"An' what he said was - whoops, seem to have mished the glass, er, missed the glash - no matter, no matter, I can lick it up jus' as well - " Ford paused in his tale and bent to run his tongue over the table. The Doctor watched him, shivering deliciously, and righted Ford's glass.

"Let me," he said, pouring him another shot of Janx Spirit.

"Oh, lovely, cheers."

"You were saying?"

"Was I? Sorry, I've no idea. Say," Ford peered unblinkingly across at the Doctor. "Why's there still only one of you?" The Doctor sighed.

"You mean the whole Time War business? It's rather a long and very unpleasant story - " Ford cut him off with a wave.

"No, not that, forget that. What I mean is. Er. Oh - why am I not seeing double? Or, rather, no, I am seeing double, jus' not of you. Which means that you," Ford pointed across the table, knocking over his glass again, "aren't drunk enough by half."

The Doctor shrugged. "Oh, well, I just - "

"Gingerpop!"

"Pardon?"

"Got any ginger pop around here?" Ford staggered to his feet and wove unsteadily out of the room. "Seem to remember hearing," he called back through the open doorway, "that Time Lords didn't - couldn't - don't get drunk off much." A cascade of breaking glass came from the room opposite. "Whoops, sorry 'bout that, clean it up later. What was I ... right: Time Lords don't get drunk off much. Except," he returned and deposited an armload of bottles on the sticky tabletop, " 'cept for ginger pop. So. Doctor." Ford stood close behind him and reached for a bottle. He popped the top off with a fsst!, placed it carefully before the Doctor, and bent to whisper in his ear. "Don' you think it's time," he purred, "that you stop trying to read my mind and get yourself drunk too, so we can take advantage of each other?"

The Doctor kissed him rather suddenly and reached for the open bottle.

***

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy is, as has been remarked many times and in many places - most often and most glowingly in the pages of the Guide itself - a wholly remarkable book. It contains entries on virtually every planet, race, species, subspecies, language, mode of transportation, beverage, and type of undergarment in the Galaxy. It discusses with equal depth and aptitude the causes of major political events and minor skin conditions, and presents useful information on preventing both. It provides perfectly reasonable (if occasionally long-winded) excuses for any missing information, and ample space in the margins for rude doodles.

What it lacks is an entry on sonic screwdrivers, and their many and varied uses in inducing some of the most indecently amazing pan-orgasmic sensations possible in humanoid organisms.

Halfway through the night, Ford Prefect resolved to make it the rest of his life's mission to research and report on just that topic.

Shortly thereafter, through the judicious application of the aforementioned device in the capable hands of an experienced and improbably extant Time Lord, he was temporarily rendered incapable of further coherent thought.

***

The Doctor stood and kicked off the trousers tangled around his ankles. "Hmmm. These aren't mine." He held them out to Ford. "Rather nice, though - are they yours?"

"Uh-hunnnnnngh."

"Where are mine, then?"

"Mrnggh - " Ford paused, collected himself, and tried again. "I think - I think they're what you used to tie me to the ... table, is it?"

"Sort of workbench, actually."

Ford pulled at his trouser-trussed wrists and twisted his head to get a look about. They were in a large, well-apportioned workroom of sorts. Various bits of wires and circuitry - most of which would have made the most jaded electrical engineer spontaneously compose soaring epic verse in tribute - were strewn carelessly about. "What do you know. When did we get in here?"

"After the power ran out on the sonic screwdriver. I needed to plug it in for a bit - "

"So to speak."

"... Indeed. You said something about looking for the linen closet in the meantime, and stumbled in a while later with an arm-load of towels. It gets a little fuzzy after that, I'm afraid." The Doctor loosened the knots around Ford's wrists. "You did keep mentioning something about Smada XV and a mature yak. Sadly," he said as Ford pulled himself free and sat up, "the TARDIS is rather short on yaks at the moment. Mature or otherwise."

Ford stretched contentedly and ran a hand across the Doctor's chest. "Pity, that. The Smadans - have you been to Smada XV? No? Lovely place. Very friendly people - the Smadans have some terribly interesting customs. Largely yak-based, as it happens."

The Doctor caught Ford's hand in his own and pulled him closer to run his tongue slowly along his neck. The Betelgeusian tasted almost, but not quite, entirely unlike a human: salt and sweat and a musk pleasantly redolent of the wide warm plains of Betelgeuse Five. I need to get out of the TARDIS more, he mused, closing his eyes as Ford slipped his tongue between the Doctor's lips and kissed him hard. He was momentarily overcome with visions of vast interstellar distances, majestic starfields sweeping away into the inky blackness at the edges of space, and opened his eyes to find Ford grinning at him.

"Long way from home," Ford said, swinging about to sit on the edge of the workbench, legs wrapped around the Doctor - who realised suddenly that he was speaking for both of them. Ford nodded sagely. "I find that the contemplation of mind-bogglingly huge distances in relation to one's own place in the Universe - such as it is - tends to bring up feelings of ... " He trailed off as the Doctor caught up a handful of his tangled brown curls.

"Horniness?" he purred into Ford's ear.

"Exactly that!" Ford agreed happily. He glanced about the cluttered workroom. "Pass me that jar, would you?"

"What, the Algolian axle grease? What for?" Ford raised an eyebrow suggestively. "Really? You can use Algolian axle grease for that?" Ford nodded, his eyebrow making the nonverbal leap from merely suggestive to outright explicit. "Well! I never knew. And how'd you figure that out?"

"Read it somewhere," Ford said, unscrewing the jar and sniffing at its vaguely luminous green contents.

"Where'd you read it?"

He ran a slick hand over the Doctor's cock. "Oh, a book." The Doctor growled and pulled Ford to the very edge of the workbench.

"Which book?" he breathed.

"Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy," Ford managed as the Doctor slid inside him.

"Oh, that thing."

***

The workbench was, mercifully, not terribly far from the floor: not so far, at least, as to cause lasting damage to any part of Ford's anatomy when he accidentally rolled off of it the following morning. He looked about experimentally, happy to find that the vast quantities of Ol' Janx Spirit that he had consumed had not, as tended frequently to happen, rendered him either blind or paralytic. By the time he had located and struggled into suitable amounts of clothing he was reasonably certain that his motor skills had not been unacceptably compromised by either the alcohol or the astonishingly athletic activities of the past night.

There were a few choice revisions to be made to a certain entry in the Guide, he thought, prowling the corridors of the TARDIS.

Ford followed the clinking of teaspoons and the murmur of voices to a small kitchenette. Two figures in dressing gowns sat, their backs to the door, sipping tea. Between them on the table a small yellow fish swam lazily about in a glass of water.

"... remarkable what a nice cup can do, no one seems to understand," Arthur said, feeding bits of biscuit to the fish.

"It's the single greatest contribution of humanity to the Galaxy," the Doctor agreed. "Nothing like it anywhere else. Don't give the fish biscuits. Another cup?"

"Oh - yes, please." Ford stepped into the room. Arthur turned and beamed at him. "Ford! We're just having - "

"Tea, yes, I can see that."

Arthur glanced at the Doctor and shook his head. "You see? They don't understand." He sipped and breathed a sigh of utter contentment. The Doctor grinned at Ford.

"Sleep well?" he murmured.

"Not a bit of it," Ford answered happily. He pulled a chair up to the table. "I was just thinking, by the way - where exactly are you headed?"

"Funny you should ask." The Doctor glanced at Arthur, cooing over his teacup, and back at Ford. "We were just having a chat - over a nice cup of tea, you know - when the subject of domesticated bovines came up. And we thought that it might be ... zoologically stimulating to do a little first-hand research - for the Guide, of course - on some of the more interesting species of bovine that the Galaxy has to offer."

"And it seems to me," Arthur put in hopefully, "that a yak might be less likely than - well, than almost everyone else I've met so far - to want to blow me up, or throw me out of spaceships, or cut open my brain, or insult me."

"Not necessarily."

"Oh? Well then ... "

Ford's eloquent eyebrow delivered a short but pithy monologue to the Doctor. "Why not," he said. "Smada XV, then? And it occurs to me that I might want to take this fish out of my ear as well."

"Oh, no." The Doctor regarded Ford with a grin that would have been classified as illegal by at least six planets, two star systems, and one entire dimension. "I rather think that you should leave it in."

Ten/Ford fic is done. (Yes Daniel I said it's done.)

Except: I need a bloody title. Just one little word, even. And bugger me, but I cannot think of a damn thing. I'm this close to just calling it Turnip, or Shopping Trolley, or Bollocks. Just to be done with it.

Bugger bugger bugger. I'm going to bed.

Fic Name: Stories
Rating: G
Prompt: #65 - Passing
Claim: Ten/Tardis
Summary: Time continues on for Jamie - as it must.
Spoilers: Obliquely for the end of "The War Games" (S6)
Notes: Written for the doctorwho_100 challenge (prompt chart is here) and x-posted to dwfiction. Let's say it takes place in something of an A/U where "The Two Doctors" never happened, because I don't care to get into Season 6B and all that just now. Indecent amounts of thanks to Kimchi the betagoddess, and to scots_git, my reluctant dialect consultant
(... Been watching quite a bit of classic Who of late, as a sort of comfort food I suppose.)



STORIES

"High as the side of a house it was, and covered all in hair, th' great shaggy thing, wi' eyes like scoops o' red coals! It weren't no beast as they had ever seen before - and inside it weren't beast at all but a great mass of metal an' fire - no thoughts and no soul, just like a clock striking the hours wi'out knowing why it ticks 'em away. The thing hirpled toward 'em till they were stood, backs against the stone walls o' the cave, an' nowhere to run to but into th' arms o' the great beastie itsel'! Wi' a horrible cry like the end o' days, it raised a claw long as a sword - " At this the children set up a sudden chorus of screams, and Victoria came charging into the room.

"Father!" she chided, gathering a few of the smallest to her, where they sniffled into her skirts and peeped at him with wide eyes. "There, now! You see? You've gone to scaring the bairns again wi' your tales!"

"Now, lass, they're only stories. Children like a story of an evening - "

"Aye, stories!" Victoria snapped at him. "Children's stories, proper stories, not this unco nonsense about mechanical men and furred beasties and great monsters frae th' stars! Hush, now, dears, there's nae to fret o'er," she crooned, patting heads and wiping noses. She glanced over her shoulder at the tall, lean boy in the shadows of the corner. "And you, Ben, you're more to blame than your grandfather - lettin' him scare the weans and get himsel' into a state wi' the telling of such tales!"

Ben stepped into the firelight beside his grandfather's chair and put a protective hand on the old man's shoulder. "They're good stories, mother. Grandfather Jamie tells the best tales - much better than the fairy stories we hear of a Sunday!"

"Hush, lad," Jamie murmured under his breath.

"Benjamin James McCrimmon!" Victoria exploded. "I ne'er had a mind tae hear such talk from my ain children! Help your grandfather to bed and take ye off yoursel' - and expect a fair bit o' work on the morrow as punishment for your cheek, as well! And mind you, Father, if that leg pains you again, drink a draught before you lay yoursel' down. You'll wake the house again wi' calling for a doctor all night."

Jamie got stiffly to his feet and regarded his daughter. "And what d'ye mean by that, Victoria?"

"Aye, I hear you as well as any other, all night calling out doctor! doctor! like to wake the hounds in the yard." Jamie caught Ben's glance and smiled as his grandson rolled his eyes behind her back and offered him an arm. He shuffled from the room with Ben, leaving Victoria to sort the children and herd them to bed.

Away from the fireside the passageway was dim and cold, and Jamie leaned heavily on the boy as they made slow progress to his bedchamber. "I'm sorry, lad," he murmured, eyes on the treacherous shadows at his feet. Ben glanced at him curiously. Jamie shook his head. "Your aul' grandfather is slow, boy. Slower and slower, I'm afeared ... "

"Does your leg pain you all that much?"

"Nae, 'tis but stiff wi' the cold." He regarded the boy from the corner of his eye. "And why d'ye ask, lad?"

Ben frowned at the carpet. "'Tis only that ... Mother speaks true: you do call for a doctor, of a night." Jamie grunted.

"Dreams, then, boy. I've no mem'ry of it and no need of a physician, mind. Slow doesn't mean unsound."

"Nae, o' course not." They reached the bedchamber and Ben helped the old man climb stiffly into bed. "I'll raise the fire for ye, Grandfather."

"Good lad. And then you'll sit by me and have a tale o' your own. What'll it be, then?"

Without hesitation Ben answered eagerly, "The blue box."

"Aye, ever your favourite, weren't it? Weel, then, a tale o' the blue box it is!" The fire stoked, Ben came to sit by the bedside, boy and old man alike settling into the story like a familiar chair. "And it's nae just a box, ye ken," Jamie began, "but a doorway to worlds, this wonder is, for when you step through - "

when you step through you see shifting sands, towers of glass, birds and monsters and whirling stars. You see the hand of a friend, a wise man whose face you don't quite remember. You hear music and you run - away from or towards, it doesn't matter, either or neither or both. There is danger and wonder and always the hands of friends and that is the blue box: step through the doors and there you are. Somewhere.

When Jamie nodded finally to sleep Ben slipped from the room and crept to his own cot, his mind alight with his grandfather's words. Monsters and men, they coloured his life; he longed to travel, to see and hear and run, to step through the doorway of the blue box like the people in the tales. He huddled under the blankets in the dark, thinking wistfully, If only they weren't just stories.

If only they were real.

***

But to Jamie the stories are real: more real than this cold house, his daughter's sharp tongue, the shrugs of pity for an old man from the village lads. Even his beloved moors, the fields and fens and hills of his land, are becoming just so much dry grass and bare earth, dull and pale in the glow of the tales in his head.

The stories have always been there: ever since the Battle of Culloden, when he woke lame and bloodied but a hero of the field - one of few heroes, of the few left alive - the stories have come, tales of journeys and battles, of sights and thoughts and ideas far beyond the ken of a simple piper. Folk listened, frowning, shook their heads and whispered about the poor lad battle-shocked and touched in the wits and Jamie learned to hold his tongue, to close his eyes and swallow the stories and keep them inside. He married, worked, surrounded himself with children and grandchildren, worked and listened and watched the world change. And it was enough.

Until the world stopped changing. Until it straitened and became dull, until the world shrank to his bedchamber, the hearth and the kitchen garden, the narrow dark hallways and the hoarfrost on the windowpanes. The edges of things have become blurred and the centres have become boring, and the stories rise up in him - insistent, violent, demanding, and so very beautiful. They fill his dreams every night - the blue doors open, a friend beckons - and in the day they whisper to him - monsters and men - and sometimes he thinks if it weren't for his grandson, if it weren't for Ben - so eager to take the stories from him, to carry them with him - he would suffocate, would be crushed under the weight of his own untold tales.

Every morning, as the blue doors close and the world settles dully around him, he hears it again: Now don't go blundering into too much trouble, will you?

And wakes thinking, inexplicably, You're a fine one to talk.

***
The world shrinks again and Jamie can't leave his bed, and the stories come unbidden now and he lives in them. When his grandson comes he holds out a hand, cold and trembling, and draws the boy into the stories with him.

But the winter is cold and too long and there is work to be done just to keep the fires lit and the animals in the barn from freezing in their sleep. Ben walks the hill road in the dark to lessons every morning, slips and skids home on hobnailed boots in the afternoon, hauls and carries and breaks the ice on the troughs, and listens to talk of an apprenticeship in the spring: A counting-house, maybe. A shipwright. A bootmaker.

He bites his tongue and thinks desperately of the blue box. Grandfather falls ill and Ben works hard and late and there is less time for stories. He goes to Jamie's bedchamber when he can to raise the fire and settle into the tales with the old man; and though Jamie sees him, knows him, takes him by the hand, Ben understands that the stories are more real to him now than the dark and cold chamber is; and when Jamie tells him, "The blue doors opened, and the boy and the girl saw an ocean of light beyond," to his grandfather the blue box, the boy and the girl and the ocean of light all happened, and to him the stories are true.

If only they were, Ben thinks.

***

"Hermit about," Cormick muttered over supper by the hearth. Victoria cast a quick eye at Ben, bent over a book at the other end of the table.

"Aye, Husband?" she asked quietly.

"O' sorts."

"Where, then?"

"Th' moor."

A man o' few words is blessing enough, Victoria thought, but getting a tale frae him can be like drawing a tooth frae a cat. She sighed. "Just a' seated there on the moor, lookin' out o'er God's creation?" she said archly. Over his book, Ben suppressed a giggle.

"Nae, woman, he's builded himself a hovel in the hauch. Said he'd come to see how the battle ended. Seemed surprised t' hear it were sixty year an' more past."

"Another bampot," Victoria snorted. "And it sounds as though you had a good enough tove wi' him, Husband."

"That I did. Good man. He come into the village tae ask after things. Englishman, he is, and young to be so daft as weel ... looked about and talked wi' one and all, and went back tae his box - "

"Box?" Ben raised his head.

"Aye, boy. Livin' in a box wi'out room e'en to lie down in. Must be some sort o' holy man."

"Doitit, if ye ask me ... "

"Did you see this box?" Ben asked urgently. Cormick fixed a curious gaze on his son and nodded slowly.

"That I did, lad."

"What - what did it look like?"

"And why do you need tae know?"

"Now, woman, hush." Cormick turned back to Ben. "Tall, like, and thin, wi' windae up high. Writing upon it as weel, though it stood too far away to read of it."

Ben swallowed, his heart beating fast. "And what colour was it?"

"Colour?"

"Aye."

"Why, t'were blue, lad."

***

Ben wakes his grandfather before dawn, helps him to dress; tells him they must go to the moor, that there is something to see. It is barely spring, still cold and dark, and Ben isn't certain that the old man understands him. He takes Jamie's hand and they slip from the house. The walk is long and slow and Jamie is quiet but not silent, whispering stories to the shadows as they pass. It has been so long since he has walked this road that it doesn't recognise him any longer.

The sun is rising as they reach the moor. They stop and watch as the light picks out first hills and hollows, then shapes and outlines, and finally colours; and Ben can only stand and stare as he sees his grandfather's tales illuminated slowly before him.

Jamie is silent for long moments, the stories stilled on his lips as suddenly, finally, he remembers. He remembers, and on legs that are barely shaking at all he stumbles across the field, Ben running after him, both crying out at the top of their voices, "Creag an tuire!", laughing and running together until they come to the box and stop, clutching each other, breathing hard, still laughing, and waiting for the blue doors to open.

Title: Games
Pairing: Ten/Rose
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Nope
Author's Note Written for the 6th o_b_b challenge, to wit: Turn the sentence "Are you sure? Once we do this, there's no going back" around on the Doctor in some way. I think I cheated a bit on the challenge, but I did amuse myself, so what the hell ...

***

The Doctor looks into her eyes. Inches away and he can feel the warmth of her skin, can almost hear the pulse underneath.

“Are you sure?” She nods. “Once we do this,” he tells her quietly, “there’s no going back.”

She pauses, considers silently, those warm brown eyes never leaving his for a second. Suddenly she smiles, nods, and her face is illuminated. The Doctor smiles back.

“All right. Ready?”

“I’m ready.”

Eyes on hers, he reaches over and spins the dial. It whirls, slows, stops. He glances at it and back to her.

“Right foot, green,” he says, grinning.

Title: Barbecue Sauce*
Author: reina_isabella
Gift for: scap3goat
Rating: 15 / pg-13
Pairings/Characters: Jack/Ianto, with some Owen, Tosh & Suzie
Word count: 700
Summary: Jack is feeling a mite peckish.
Spoilers: Nothing beyond the obvious.
Author's Notes: Written for the twdw_ficathon as a gift for scap3goat, who requested: a secret Jack Harkness harbours (bonus for Jack's pregnancy), some kind of voyeurism, and the clicking noise of a keyboard. One of 3 totally unconnected fics that came from that; gift-wise, it's the paper hat in the Christmas crack!er. Set before "Everything Changes" ... and admittedly a bit AU-y; or messes with the timeline a little, anyhow. It is crack!: just go with it. I owe a tip of the hat to Grant Naylor, and my firstborn child to Kimchi the betagoddess (good thing there's never going to be one).

* For reasons that are unlikely to be clear to anyone but order_of_chaos



BARBECUE SAUCE

I need peanut butter, Jack thought.

Now.

He was halfway to the kitchen before he remembered that they didn't have any peanut butter; he didn't like peanut butter; and he was in fact allergic to peanut butter. He headed back to his office.

Twenty minutes later he was in the kitchen tucking into a bowl of tinned squidlike something topped with frozen strawberries and garnished with brown sauce, when Suzie wandered in for a cup of tea.

"Eugh," she sniffed. "What'd you call that, then?"

Spoon poised over the bowl, Jack pondered the brownish-reddish mess in front of him.

"Lunch?"

***

The thing that may or may not have been there blipped briefly across the screen. Owen pointed.

"There! Did you see it?"

Tosh squinted over his shoulder. "Nope."

"Nothing?"

"I didn't see anything. Are you sure it's there?"

"Not at all."

"Then how do you know what - "

"I don't, obviously."

Jack's head appeared over Owen’s other shoulder. "What are we looking at?" he asked, peering at the screen.

"Nothing," Tosh told him.

"Or something," Owen added.

The thing that may or may not have been there blipped across the screen.

"Okay." Jack regarded them. "Is anybody else hungry?"

***

“You smell different.”

“No need for pickup lines, Ianto, you’ve already got me in bed.”

“Stop it - no, not that, you can keep doing that.”

“Oh, can I?”

“Mmmm … and anyway, isn’t the line meant to be ‘You smell good?’ I didn’t say good, I said different. That’s a terrible pickup.”

“So, bad, then?”

“Well … okay, no, not bad. Just … “

“Different?”

“Yes.”

“I see.”

“What, you think I don’t know how you smell? Or taste – “

“Yeah, do that again.”

“ – or what happens when I touch you there …”

“For fuck’s sake - Ianto!”

“See? I know what I’m talking about.”

***

Jack glanced over his shoulder; aside from the pterodactyl, the Hub was deserted. He turned back to the computer and tapped impatiently at the keys. “Come on, come on,” he muttered, as the status bar filled with excruciating slowness. Sighing, he stalked off to the kitchen.

By the time he returned - clutching a packet of bacon-flavoured crisps and a tub of clotted cream - the alien medical database had finished loading. He dipped a crisp in the clotted cream and scrolled through the entries.

And stopped with the crisp halfway to his mouth.

“Oh, shit,” he said to the empty Hub.

***

“Oy! Who’s been messing about with my computer, then?”

Tosh and Suzie exchanged pained looks. “Nobody’s touched your computer, Owen,” Suzie told him.

“Oh yeah? Then why’s the med database open?”

“What are we yelling about now?” Jack asked.

Tosh nodded towards the sandwich in his hand. “What’s that?”

“What, this? Just a … fried egg, chili sauce and chutney sandwich.” There was a chorus of chundering noises from the team. “What? I was hungry!”

“Didn’t you just have elevenses?” Suzie asked innocently.

“So this is half-elevenses.”

Suzie eyed the open button at the waistband of his trousers sceptically. “Okay, Captain.”

***

“Is it mine?” Ianto asked.

“No, it … doesn’t work like that.”

“Whose is it, then?”

“You don’t know them.”

“Them?”

“Yeah, the thing is, the contractions started an hour ago – “

“Contractions?” He reached for the edge of the desk.

“ -- and I’ve called the mothers.”

Ianto shook his head. “I thought you’d just put on a few pounds …”

Jack sighed. “Look, could you just keep everyone out of the trauma room for a few hours?” Ianto nodded weakly as Tosh stuck her head into the office.

“Jack? There are a couple of … aliens here to see you.”

***

“Got it!”

Suzie squinted at Owen’s monitor as the trauma room came up on the screen. From a few paces away Tosh called to them.

“Guys? It’s just a couple of aliens; we shouldn’t be – “

“You’re kidding!” Suzie shrieked. Tosh darted closer to peer over Owen’s shoulder.

“What? What is it?”

“So, wait – d’you think that’s what’s been coming up on the sensors?” Owen asked.

“Unregistered life form, makes sense,” Tosh said.

Owen snorted. “Explains the snacking, as well.” He looked about. “Where’s Ianto got to, then?”

The Welshman appeared clutching a small rectangular box.

“Cigar, anyone?” he asked.

Title: After and Between
Author: reina_isabella
Gift for: scap3goat
Rating: 15 / pg-13
Pairing/Characters: Jack/Ten, Tardis
Word count: 1621
Summary: The Doctor and Jack find each other again.
Spoilers: Odds & sods up to "Doomsday" and "End of Days".
Author's Notes: Written for the twdw_ficathon as a gift for scap3goat, who requested: a secret Jack Harkness harbours (bonus for Jack's pregnancy), some kind of voyeurism, and the clicking noise of a keyboard. One of 3 totally unconnected fics that came from that - this one is sort of the satsuma in the stocking, gift-wise.
• Also a part of the doctorwho_100 challenge (prompt #71: "Broken", and my table is here).
• Well. It's a bit odd and very stream-of-consciousness-y and not too too off-putting, I hope.
• And endless thanks and Mexican takeaway to Kimchi the betagoddess, who diligently sorted through nameless pronouns, confusing pov shifts, and piles of angst.



AFTER AND BETWEEN


What is there to say?

(Too much.)

The two men regard each other silently.

There is too much to say.

*

Her room is empty. No help there.

A room full of things that haven't been touched. Of course he thinks, of course he just left them here, why wouldn't he? There must be dozens of rooms like this.

A museum of lives.

He leaves. He doesn't open his own door. He finds a new room and moves in.

*

Tea. Vodka. Silence. They talk to the ship but not to each other. Coffee, gestures. There must have been words but they don't mean enough yet and they're forgotten, barely spoken: just "Fix me," and no more.

*

He's the one with the same face: why don't I recognise him?

*

He has to tell Jack about Rose. He's shy suddenly about the tears and knows he sounds heartless instead, dead or cold, but somehow this man he might have said anything to, done anything to, for, with, is different and suddenly he's shy about tears in front of him.

"Alive?"

He nods. "Gone. Protected. Happy." (He doesn't know that, how can he know that, but it's all he could hope for and he gives it to her. To all of them.) "She knew - "

But the room is empty.

*

The body is different. The man is different. They're both different, he knows that, he's different too. He's re-learned distrust.

Without meaning to.

So he watches him. The ship knows him, remembers him, lets him in where he wants to go, and he watches. So much of his life lately has been spent watching on monitors and screens, fingers tapping over the keys; it's a way of living without living, which is what he's good at now. It's absurd, childish almost, but he wants to catch him off-guard, alone, figure out just who and what he's become. So Jack watches him.

The man is taller. Thinner. Older and younger. The eyes are different, the hair, the voice. He can't help thinking in comparisons.

He works and Jack watches. Sleeps and he watches. Sits and Jack sees him on the screen.

*

Of course it goes both ways. Stupid of him not to realise that, he thinks, that I don't know, that my ship doesn't tell me. He works hard to keep the knowledge of Jack watching him off of his face. Wonders what he could do, what he could say - Stupid bloody ape, don't you recognise me? all it would take, maybe, just put his arms around him and force Jack to know him, you humans, you have eight senses, why don't you use them - but here they are, circling each other, Jack watching him and he sits, being watched.

*

Tea. Coffee. Fix me. He finally has to ask:

How are you broken?

*

"Doctor."

Is it a question? he thinks, almost before he's registered the word. But how good to hear Jack finally say it. He turns.

"Yes."

He wants to know how he got here, where the Doctor has been. Which means a lot of stories and the Doctor is glad to tell them: words are easy for him and as he talks he can watch Jack watching him.

"... actually met Queen Victoria, she was quite pleased at that until ... against the Cybermen but they were ... planet on the edge which ... "

Jack isn't listening to the words but looking behind them, and when the Doctor - the Doctor - gets to the end of the story and says, quietly, "Dårlig Ulv Stranden," stops suddenly and just looks at him, Jack reaches out.

The hand he touches is not the same.

But.

*

Jack smells of time. It is something the Doctor knows well and the scent has grown on him. He tastes human.

But.

The Doctor has to slow himself: wants to know, now, every inch of this body but contents himself with the taste of the skin at the base of his throat, the swift pulse under his tongue, the taste of him warm and here, and real and human but -

something else.

When Jack steps away, kisses him quietly, leaves the room, the Doctor doesn't follow, doesn't ask.

How are you broken.

*

Rose's empty room.

Was it hard? Jack asks her. Did you know? Did he put his hand out and say Rose, it's me? Did you believe him?

Were you scared?

Yeah. Me too.

These fucking aliens. He sighs. Doesn't mean that, not really. He wants to tell her: After you left. He wants to say it to her, to him: After you left me. He's in an empty room and she's a universe away, the Doctor is hardly closer, he can't say it, after you left he wants to tell them, something happened to me. Wants them to answer, explain, one of them, wants to let the Doctor hold him and tell him.

Why.

Doesn't say any of it, really. He falls asleep in Rose's empty room.

*

But they can talk more. They can touch more. They can dance - finally, again.

And it's good.

*

And the Doctor is slow and gentle and Jack thinks he should be grateful, is grateful, that the Doctor is giving him (he laughs) time and space.

The Doctor regards him from a distance because, human though Jack is, what is that something else? and he only knows to slow down as he gets closer: time and space are relative.

The Doctor is cautious and gentle and Jack is grateful but one night.

It starts late, gets later. Slow gentle kisses and his tongue hot on Jack's sweet skin and Jack puts his hands against the twin heartbeats and kisses harder. Wants, "I want," he says, want he thinks, and the Doctor kisses harder. Their hands are in each other's hair, Jack's tongue is in his mouth, tasting his air, his words. He kisses harder. Their hands are on each other's skin, their tongues, the Doctor tastes him everywhere and barely has time to think but "I want" Jack breathes again and "I know" he answers. Wants, too. It is later and Jack pulls him closer, no space between them but pushes against him even as he does because time and space he thinks are not what I want. You fucking alien, but he doesn't really mean that (really? does he?) what he wants is the Doctor inside him, no room for anything else, what he wants is to know why, what he wants Jack reeks of time the Doctor thinks suddenly, so much time too much "Kiss me," Jack tells him, kill me fix me How? Are you broken?

Jack walks away.

*

It gets later.

*

It becomes quiet.

*

He knows. He knows I'm watching.

Jack sits and barely moves and the knowledge of it is clear on his face. The Doctor thinks, He knows I'm watching him. Let him do what he wants. Doesn't know what to do but watch. Nine hundred years, more than that - all this time and I don't know what to -

All this time.

Jack, he thinks, watching him on the screen, smells of too much time. He shudders for a moment, wants to lean closer, taste the heat of him again - can't, on the screen, just watching: watch him - and thinks instead of the smell of him. Like time. Like light and distance and time and like, he thinks suddenly, my ship.

Jack smells of time and my ship; my ship, which is time.

Jack knows I'm watching him.

He knows.

Which is why when he stands suddenly with the gun antique revolver pistol and looks at me but he knows I'm watching pulls the trigger, the Doctor sees him fall see him fall and watches stopped stunned for long moments before he can turn and run out of the room to him.

*

The blood is wet but he's standing again. For long moments before he pulled the trigger he wondered if this time it wouldn't hurt; if this time it would be the last time; if the Doctor would come to him, before, or after.

It does. It isn't. He does, running after.

The two men regard each other. There is so much to say.

*

The Doctor touches the blood on him to taste its heat and salt and time. Wipes it away. Holds him and explains.

Rose. The TARDIS.
The heart of the TARDIS, open; the power in her - through her - it changed all of them. Little bad wolf, she saved them all and he had to save her, she was (is) only human. She saved them, even him, even Jack.
And the Doctor died. Again.
And so did Jack. The first time.

*

"Can you fix me?"

"I don't know." Do I want to? But: "I can try. If you want."

Want, Jack thinks, what do I want? "I want there to be something after, something between. Something else. I want it not to hurt."

"It does hurt, Jack. Every time."

Time. Yes. And I want this Jack thinks. Reaches, finds him. Closer. "I want - " kisses him, eyes open, and the Doctor thinks yes, for now and doesn't look any further, not this time. Jack kisses him and "You are not broken," the Doctor tells him, and there is nothing after or between. The Doctor kisses him back, they breathe each other in, reach further and closer and there is all that was and there is all that ever could be but there is also this and what is there to say?

Title: Paris
Author: reina_isabella
Gift for: scap3goat
Rating: 15 / pg-13
Pairing: Nine/Rose, Nine/Jack (implied)
Word count: 4087
Summary: Jack is keeping secrets.
Spoilers: Nothing beyond the obvious.
Author's Notes: Written for the twdw_ficathon as a gift for scap3goat, who requested: a secret Jack Harkness harbours (bonus for Jack's pregnancy), some kind of voyeurism, and the clicking noise of a keyboard. (One of 3 totally unconnected fics that came from that, actually.) Set between "The Doctor Dances" and "The Parting of the Ways," and beta'd by the shining ray of light and grammar that is Kimchi the betagoddess.


PARIS


"Vous cherchez quelqu'un en particulier, Monsieur? Ou simplement quelqu'un?"

"Hmm? Oh - heh, thanks love," the Doctor smiled at her, "but I am looking for someone in particular, yes." The woman blinked prettily at him and made a moue.

"C'est dommage, Monsieur." She - or was it he? Between the rouge and the wig and the dim gaslight of the café the Doctor couldn't tell for certain - ran a gloved finger down his jaw. "Alors, à bientôt, peut-être?" she purred, and sashayed away. The Doctor watched the slim figure disappear into the crowd and smoke of the small, hot room and thought, If Jack is in here, I'm going to have a hell of a time getting him to leave.

People pressed against him from all sides and in the flickering orange light and shifting cigarette haze the rose-pink walls seemed to throb with a pulse of their own. A crowd of young men in shirtsleeves argued loudly at a table nearby, snatches of Latin and Greek thrown into the shouted French as they thumped the tabletop and swore at one another. A tightly-corseted girl danced by, her bosom rouged and her eyes glassy, in the arms of a woman in a slim and immaculate dark suit. The Doctor stepped aside as a man in red satin pants stumbled past, the gas flames reflecting off the sheen of sweat on his bare chest and back, and collapsed across the brocaded lap of an enormous woman holding court from a low divan. The woman roared with laughter and swatted the man's red-satin behind. A hell of a time, indeed, the Doctor thought, and moved off through the crowd.

He finally caught sight of him in a far corner - a half-empty bottle of green liquid at his elbow, an almost-full glass in his hand, and a young soldier leaning across the table to sip the liquor from his lips. "Jack!" the Doctor called. Jack looked up, focusing his eyes with difficulty. A catlike grin spread across his face as the Doctor crossed the room towards him. Jack raised his glass in greeting.

"Doctor," he purred, "care for some absinthe? We only have one glass, but we seem to have figured out a way around that. This is Jules." The young soldier glared jealously at the Doctor and tightened his grip on Jack's thigh.

"Enchanté," he muttered.

"Yeah, hi to you, too," the Doctor nodded, and turned back to Jack. "We need to go."

"We've only just gotten here."

"Right. And so has something else. Back to the TARDIS, now. I need your help."

Jack sighed and handed the glass to the soldier. "Sorry, kid. I have to go." The young man glanced at the Doctor and bent to whisper in Jack's ear. Jack groaned and looked over pleadingly. "Can't I have an hour?" he asked. "Half an hour?"

Arms folded, the Doctor glared at him. "Now."

"Six minutes in the alley out back?" he muttered.

"Now."

Jack glared back momentarily, grabbed Jules roughly by the back of the neck and kissed him savagely. "All right. Ready?" he asked, standing and pulling on his coat. The Doctor looked quickly away.

"'Course."

"Let's go, then." Jack grabbed the bottle from the table and winked at Jules. " 'Night."

"Au revoir, Capitaine."

"I sincerely hope so," Jack called over his shoulder as he led the way out of the café.

Outside rain hissed on the pavement and the lights from the windows made shifting patterns on the wet ground. Jack paused to turn up the collar of his coat and waited for the Doctor to push through the crowd taking shelter under the striped awning of the café. "Okay," he said as they set off down the dark street. "Tell me. What's the big bad this time? And where's Rose?"

"In the TARDIS," the Doctor told him. "Sleeping off five glasses of champagne. Honestly, the two of you," he complained, eyeing the bottle in Jack's hand, "it's like living with a pair of Colufroxes."

"What's a - no, never mind," Jack said. "Just tell me what we're up against."

The Doctor glanced at Jack out of the corner of his eye. His dark hair was inky in the rain, his blue eyes shining like the wet pavement. "Dunno, exactly," the Doctor said. "But whatever it is, it followed us here from Sarstak Five. I think - "

"Wait a minute." Jack halted and turned to him. "You're not talking about our shadow, are you? That little blip on the sensors that hasn't done a damn bit of harm or damage - that hasn't actually done anything other than follow us around on our last few trips? Is that what you're talking about?"

"Yup."

"I don't believe you!" Jack stomped off a few paces and turned to face the Doctor from the flickering pool of light beneath a street lamp. He pointed back in the direction of the café. "That boy just got back from six months' duty in Morocco! Do you have any idea of the kinds of things a boy like that can learn to do in Morocco in six months? You don't think this could have waited until tomorrow? Or at least for an hour?" He kicked the iron post of the street lamp in frustration and a dull clang echoed through the nearly-empty street. "I bet you made Rose leave the opera early for this, too, didn't you?"

"Not at all."

"I bet you did," Jack grumbled, striding off down the street once more. As the Doctor caught up with him at the end of the block Jack muttered, "Just because you're in a mood doesn't mean that the humans can't have a night off once in a while. You didn't have to drag me away from - from that café," he insisted, noting the Doctor's wry glance, "and you know very well all Rose has talked about for ages is going to the opera in Paris."

"I did not make Rose leave the opera, I had to carry her out after the second act and put her to bed. Which is when I noticed that we've been followed again; which I happen to think - " Jack opened his mouth to interrupt " - which I happen to think is worth looking into. Immediately. And since I am the one in charge, we're looking into it. Immediately." They reached the end of the cobbled alley where the TARDIS waited, wet and shining in the rain. Jack paused, his hand on the door, and glared at the Doctor.

"Is there a word in Gallifreyan for 'wet blanket'?" he asked, eyes blazing. "Or 'stick in the mud'?" He shoved open the door and stepped into the ship. "How about just 'No fucking fun at all'?"

The Doctor passed him expressionlessly, heading for the corridor, and called over his shoulder. "Get started. Internal sensors. It's here's somewhere."

"And where the hell are you going?"

"Check on Rose. Get to work."

Jack slammed down into a chair. "Yes, Doctor," he grumbled in exasperation after the retreating figure, shrugging out of his coat and turning to the console of the TARDIS. Well; it was small consolation, he reflected, but at least he had the chance to get his hands on the ship for a few minutes - next to the Time Lord himself, it was the most maddeningly alluring thing Jack had ever met, and being alone with it was almost as enticing as being alone with the Doctor.

"More so," Jack muttered, running a finger along the console. "He's in a hell of a mood." The ship seemed to hum in response and Jack asked, half expecting the TARDIS to answer, "What's his problem, anyway?" Unsurprisingly, the ship made no reply; shaking his head, he adjusted a monitor screen in front of him and got to work.

For a long time the only sounds in the control room were the gentle thrum of the ship and the clicking of the keyboard under his fingers as he searched through sensor data for their silent stalker. Brief shadows appeared here and there - the smallest spike on the instruments, a blip, a murmur. Something nudged at Jack from the back of his mind ... familiar, somehow, but what? ... why not just tell the Doctor, let the one in charge figure it out -

Where was the Doctor, anyway? Jack glanced at the time: nearly an hour had passed since he'd gone to check on Rose. Figures, Jack thought, he dragged me all the way back here for this desperately urgent mission that just couldn't wait until tomorrow, and now he's gone off to bed. He jabbed at the keyboard, bringing up pictures of the ship's labyrinthine interior on the screen. At first he saw only the hallways and common areas, but with a few minutes' prodding the monitor yielded up images of the living quarters as well. "Thank you very much, darling," Jack purred to the TARDIS, pulling up the Doctor's bedroom on the screen. No sign of him. He tried Rose's room.

"There you are ... oh. Oh."

The Doctor's back was towards him. He sat on the edge of Rose's bed, in the black jumper and dark trousers he'd worn earlier that night. The floor was littered with clothes, the Doctor's leather jacket and the elaborate bits and ruffles of Rose's blue silk opera dress scattered about. As the Doctor leaned forward, Rose suddenly came into view, and Jack unconsciously caught his breath at the sight of her: head thrown back, eyes closed, the dim lamplight in the room dripping golden shadows down her neck and across the fullness of her breasts as they spilled from the top of her silver-grey corset. She bit down on her lower lip, one hand clutching the pillow beside her head as the other snaked up, grabbed at the Doctor's shoulder, caught the back of his neck and pulled him to her.

Jack leaned closer to the screen, feeling his cock stir in appreciation at the scene, and lost himself in the sight of Rose's face. Her eyes were wide open as soundlessly on the screen she cried Yes, Doctor, yes, please! Jack's hand went to his cock, hard now and throbbing as he bucked with her, eyes locked on hers, on the broad curve of the Doctor's shoulders as he leaned across her. Her face as she came was as beautiful as he'd imagined it would be, the look in her warm brown eyes fierce and almost feline, and he was close himself, so close, as Rose closed her eyes, head back on the pillow, panting, and the Doctor on the screen turned to look over his shoulder with a fierce grin and met Jack's eyes.

Jack growled, grinned back as, looking into the Doctor's grey eyes, he came.

***

The control room was empty.

Which was not what he'd expected.

Once Rose had fallen asleep - almost before he could get her corset off and the blankets up to cover her - the Doctor had walked the corridors of the ship (slowly, but not too slowly) to the control room where Jack was waiting for him.

Should have been waiting for him.

He checked the Captain's bedroom, finding it empty and dark, and asked the TARDIS where he had got to. All the ship could tell him was that Jack had left, slipped out, and that whatever he had pulled up on the sensor logs before he left was gone with him, wiped away. Clever bastard, the Doctor thought darkly as he paced back to the control room. I must remember not to leave him alone with my ship; who knows what he'll have her doing next.

In the green glow of the time rotor, the Doctor sat down to wait for Jack.

***

The rain had stopped and the streets of Montmartre were crowded again. From a darkened doorway in a narrow allée a figure emerged, its nondescript overcoat somehow ill-fitting, a tall hat pulled low to throw a shadow across a face that seemed to glow bluish in the dim light of the street. It glanced furtively about and hastily pulled a pair of gloves over its scaly, three-fingered hands.

"This is over tomorrow," it whispered into the doorway.

"I know."

"No excuses." It glanced about again and strode off, trying unsuccessfully to keep the tip of its tail from dragging through puddles as it walked. A moment later Jack stepped out from the shadowed doorway and watched the figure disappear down the street. He sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and set off in the opposite direction.

***

"Bit adolescent, don't you think?" the Doctor asked. "Sneaking in past curfew." Jack shut the door and turned to face him. "Aren't you meant to be in stocking feet? Shoes in your hand, knocking over the milk bottles, tripping over the cat - "

"We don't have a cat." Jack stalked tiredly up the ramp into the control room. "And I don't have a curfew."

"Pity. That means I can't punish you."

The Captain's eyebrow twitched up briefly and the Doctor caught a momentary glint of utter wickedness in his eye, before Jack shook his head exhaustedly and leaned, arms crossed, against the console. "What are you doing up?"

"Where were you?"

"I asked first."

"We are being adolescent."

Jack sighed. "No," he said, pushing away from the console, "we're not. You are being infuriating; and I am going to bed."

The Doctor caught his arm as he passed. "I asked where you were," he said evenly.

"Out," Jack growled, jaw clenched. "Let go."

"Out where?"

Jack looked away, trying to pull his arm from the Doctor's grip. "There was ... something I had to take care of. Let go," he hissed as the Doctor wrenched his arm up, pulling him close. In the spare light from the console the Time Lord's eyes were icy and more alien than they had ever seemed. His voice was low and dangerously calm.

"All right. I might not know where you went. But I do know you wiped the sensors first, and I know that you can get the TARDIS to let you in where you have no business being - "

"That didn't seem to bother you a few hours ago."

"Shut it. You do what you like, but you leave my ship alone. Or I'll put you off it." Jack glared at him wordlessly. The Doctor let go of his arm and strode out of the room. "I mean it," he called over his shoulder. "You're not so beautiful I can't do without you."

***

Rose was sipping a cup of tea when Jack stalked into the kitchen the next morning. "Hiya," she chirped. Jack grunted hello and poured himself a coffee.

"Have a good night?"

"Lovely," he muttered.

"Meet any nice ... people?" she asked with such a sweetly wicked smile that Jack couldn't help but grin back.

"As a matter of fact, I did meet one delightful young man." Rose leaned eagerly across the table. "We had a few drinks, danced way too close ... " She bit her lower lip and nodded encouragingly, eyes shining. "And nothing happened," he finished.

Her face fell. "Nothing? Nothing at all?"

"Nope." Jack sipped his coffee. "Doctor Killjoy dragged me home to perform a lengthy and ultimately pointless sensor check. It was nothing," he added, noting her look of concern. "Probably just a glitch. How was the opera?"

Rose shrugged. "Honestly, I don't remember much of it. I had a little too much champagne."

"And came back and passed right out, I heard. Oh well - I guess everyone had a lonely night ... " Jack watched a truly beautiful blush creep up her cheeks. She smiled slyly and opened her mouth to speak when the Doctor stepped into the room.

"Morning, Rose Tyler. Sleep well?" She nodded, blushing brighter, and took a sip of tea. Jack laughed; the Doctor cut him off with a glance.

"Captain."

"Doctor," Jack muttered, glaring into his coffee mug. Rose looked from one man to the other.

"Um," she said into the sudden silence. "So. Who wants to go sightseeing? I hear they just finished this thing, what's it called? The Something Tower. Don't know if it's gonna last or anything, but it sounds all shiny and monumenty." She winked at Jack. "Probably worth checking out, d'you reckon?"

The Doctor reached for a banana from the bowl on the table. "Haven't been there in ages," he mused. "All right, the Eiffel Tower it is." He pocketed the banana and took Rose's hand. "Coming along, Captain?" Jack shook his head and swallowed the last of his coffee. He stood.

"Can't. Sorry, Rose," he said at her pout, "but I have an appointment to keep. Don't worry, Doctor, I'll be out of the ship all day. Have fun, you two. And don't fall off the Tower." He pecked Rose on the cheek and swept out of the room, the Doctor frowning thoughtfully after him.

Rose giggled.

"Well. Looks like something's gonna happen with his delightful young man after all. C'mon, Doctor. Can we stop for a croissant on the way?"

***

"Anything?"

The Doctor shook his head. Rose sighed.

"How long's he been gone for?"

"About thirty hours."

"And don't you think it's time we went looking for him?"

"He's a big boy, Rose, I'm sure he can take care of - "

"Look," Rose said, rounding on him, "I've no idea why the two of you are pissed off at each other, and frankly I don't care. Jack's gone missing. It's been more than a day, now it's time to get on the bloody sensor thingy or whatever toys this ship has and find him. If it'd been you gone, he'd be the first out looking for you, so you get on with it. Now."

With the slightest smile, the Doctor turned to the console.

***

It was a big knife.

No, the Doctor thought, it was a big knife: heavy and ornate, with a handle covered in dark blue stones and a fiercely sharp, curved blade fashioned from some dully gleaming green metal.

A big, sharp blade. Held by a hand with big, sharp claws, and poised over Jack like a fork over a plate of chips.

Rose skidded into the doorway behind the Doctor and stopped short at the sight of Jack stripped naked, strapped hand and foot to the cast-iron bedframe and surrounded by what looked to be half a dozen six-foot-tall blue lizards. One of whom was pointing a knife at his chest.

A big knife.

"Jack!" she breathed, stepping towards him. The Doctor put out an arm to stop her.

"Shhh!" he whispered. "They're Risapheans. It's some sort of ritual."

"What ritual?" Rose whispered back urgently.

"Dunno. Everything's rituals with them - there's even a ritual-interrupting ritual. Seriously!" he insisted, as she glared sceptically at him.

"Well, do you know it?"

The Doctor smiled widely and - he hoped - encouragingly. "Nope. But I can fake it." He stepped into the room, arms folded, and bowed twice before the nearest lizard. "As the many suns of Risaphea circle the green seas, so do I offer you greetings - "

"Oh, gods," the lizard huffed, rolling it's orange, slit-pupilled eyes extravagantly. "Mornak, hang on," it called to the one with the knife. "More Humans. Who can't tell the difference between Risapheans and Ranaphonx, I might add - they must be with Jack." Mornak lowered the knife, tail swishing in aggravation, and looked from the Doctor to Jack.

"Did you seriously invite friends? Or are these your new wives?" it asked snarkily. Jack lifted his head with difficulty and peered towards the doorway.

"Whozat?" he asked thickly. "Doctor? Rose - don't remember inviting you ... " He trailed off and his head fell heavily against the bed. Pushing past the Doctor, Rose ran to his side.

"Jack! Hold on! We'll get you out of this!" She began pulling at the leathery bands securing him to the bed. Mornak and the others stared at her, open-mouthed.

"Rose," the Doctor said quietly.

"What'd they do to him? He's passed out!"

"Rose."

"Don't just stand there! Help me get him free!"

"Rose." The Doctor put a hand on her shoulder and steered her gently away from the bed. She looked about, panic in her eyes, and the Doctor lowered his voice. "I may have made a slight error. Or two."

"Error?"

"Yes. Now, in my defence," he looked over his shoulder towards the lizard-creature in the doorway, "Ranaphonx do look quite a bit like Risapheans. Superficially, anyway - "

"Oh, save it! You're as speciesist as the rest of this galaxy. We all look alike to you Humans, don't we? I bet you can't even tell Pyleans from Manaconites - "

"Hey! You'll watch who you're calling a Human! I'm Gallifreyan, I'll have you know. Who's speciesist now?"

"Doctor!" Rose interrupted. "Will you tell me what's going on? Why do these Ranafunkians want to sacrifice Jack?"

"Sacrifice?" The room erupted in outraged chatter. The Doctor put up a hand to quiet them.

"Now, no, now - wait! It's just a misunderstanding, that's all. Er, Rose, it's not so much a sacrifice as a, well ... "

"Birthing chamber," Mornak supplied. Rose whirled about and gaped. "And the anaesthesia isn't going to last long. We can do this with Jack awake, I don't care - personally, I wouldn't mind causing the bastard a little extra pain - but I don't think he's going to like it much."

"No. Of course not. We'll just wait outside, shall we?" The Doctor led an open-mouthed Rose to the door, paused, and turned back. "Oh, and of course felicitations are in order." He looked from one Ranaphonx to another. "Who's the mother, then?"

Five of the lizard-creatures raised a hand. The Doctor bowed politely. "Excellent. Congratulations. We'll be in the hall."

***

"But it's your child, Jack - out there, somewhere. Don't you care about it at all?"

"Them."

"What?"

"Not it. Them. It was a clutch of eggs. There were hundreds. I was just the host."

Rose turned slightly green. She swallowed and tried to smile comfortingly at him. "Oh. Well then. You just ... rest, and try to - to feel better, and ... I'm sorry, Jack!" She bolted suddenly from the room, a hand over her mouth.

"I'm sure I can get partial custody, though! Maybe on week-ends?" he called after her, laughing.

The Doctor put his head round the door. "Told her about the eggs, did you?"

"Yup. Remind me to make her a nice big omelette as soon as I'm on my feet again."

"That's cruel, that is." He smiled and sat on the edge of Jack's bed. "You look good for a bloke that's just had twelve dozen kids. How'd you feel, then?"

"Bit sore - I could use a handful of nanogenes right about now. They did an okay job on the incision, though."

"Can I see it?"

Jack shrugged. "You're the doctor." He pushed the blankets aside and lifted his t-shirt.

"You heal quickly."

"Always have." The Doctor traced a cool finger down the line of stitches across his belly and gazed quietly at him. "Something wrong?" Jack asked.

The Doctor regarded him. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked softly.

"Tell you what? That I was pissed drunk on Rana and got myself knocked up by a pack of bitchy lizards? It's not exactly my proudest moment."

"I thought you ... I get very protective of my ship, Jack."

"I wouldn't hurt this ship. Or you. You should know that."

The Doctor nodded and murmured "I know."

"Well then."

"Yeah." They sat in silence for a few moments, Jack enjoying immensely the look of indecision on the Doctor's face.

"Doctor?" he said, finally.

"Hmm?"

"You should kiss me now."

"Oh, Jack." Sighing, the Doctor shook his head and drew Jack's t-shirt down again, smoothing it gently across his stomach. His expression was so neutral that for a moment Jack was flustered, wondering if he'd misjudged things all along. It wasn't until that gentle hand crept downwards and settled deliberately against his cock that Jack caught the wicked gleam in his grey eyes, and grinned as the Doctor leaned close to whisper in his ear.

"I should do a lot more than that."