watch_is_me: (Jacket in the TARDIS)
Contrary to appearances, I have not abandoned Watch!Ten. A thread between he and [ profile] chez_desouza (Christina, of course) has been developing over the past few weeks, slowly.

He reaches out, copying the exact gesture she remembers from her father, this gesture that says 'are you really there, or are you just a figment of my mind as well?'

Spectators welcome, but be warned, there may be triggers for child abuse. Nothing graphic or descriptive; so far, just oblique references to remembered trauma.
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He strolls through the halls of the Master’s TARDIS—through Lolita. He runs one hand along her walls, as he does when he walks through the Type T-40 that he’s bound to—the TARDIS that, as much as one set of his memories, protests, is his. Lolita doesn’t respond to his touch, doesn’t answer in his mind. He understands. She has her Master, and a TARDIS never divides its loyalties.

His Lolita died in the War, when the Master abandoned her for the Doctor—Time Lords often divide their loyalties. He misses her, and he misses the Type-40 that should fill the empty space in his mind, the TARDIS that’s responsible, partially, for the patchwork person he’s become. Rubbishy junker, interfering addled busybody, mixing him up the way she has, trying to make him into the Doctor when he isn’t. The Doctor’s old girl, and his, this new person’s, even dearer friend. Half of him, when he’s already two halves the whole. He should work out a lease system, he thinks. Charge for synapse space. He really needs to get all of these subletters together, arrange some room for him in between all of their differing claims. They’re all his property now, after all. Well. Not the TARDIS. But the two others.

They’re dead, like Lolita, and he’s the benefactor and not certain he feels like he’s benefiting. They’re ghosts and they are going to have to learn to rest peacefully, or it’ll be sleepless nights for him for the rest of his life.

Damn, damn, damn, he needs a name.

He turns a corner, hand still trailing along the wall, and without thinking he turns in at the first door on the right. This should be the Herparium, and it shouldn’t surprise him when it is, but it does. The Master’s memories come as instinct still, startling bubbles of certainty and knowledge, and each one that finds its mirror in reality, that finds confirmation, unbalances him.

He is the Master.

He is the Doctor.

He isn’t either. He’s the blurring, the tmesis, the portmanteau, the word between the two, made up of the two, fusion/fission. The blend. Of oil and water.


The Herparium smells of the dry dusty must of scales and the bright veined life of foliage. The branches of trees tangle overhead, light filtering green and gold through them, diffuse and liquid, full of the hazy damp heat of the place, pregnant light falling through pregnant air, air rich with pauses and eddies that trails across his face like skin and sweat. )
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So, the journal's not been updating much recently.

Why? Because my brain has been et by long threads of conflict and mind-melding caused by that most devious of memes, the "in bed" meme.

Funny things happen when you wake up in your best enemy's bed or when your drum-free other self wakes up in yours and Freaks the Hell Out, in a rather understated way.

Anyway, so the Master/Doctor in-bed thread with [ profile] laser_not_sonic has drawn to a close, with the Master locking the Doctor up for safekeeping.

A new thread's been going like gangbusters, with [ profile] or_timelords canon!Ten, who woke up in my Ten's bed and decided he wants to stick around and try to help my Ten with his percussion problem. Different 'verse from the M/D thread, clearly. Both Doctors, so far, have managed to do some fairly silly things and totally start off on the wrong foot with each other, which amuses their muns.

And, in chatplay, [ profile] or_timelords and I projected a possible scenario in which her Ten discovers he's had the potential for the drums all along, locked away in his memories of the Year That Wasn't and a whole lot of emotional/mental scarring and identity-crisising and mind-fuckery results.

I love mind-fuckery, really I do. Hoorah, telepathy and telepathic connections to TARDIS!
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It's Christmas! Or close to Christmas! And given the terrible record he has with Christmases, the Doctor has decided to spend this Christmas in the TARDIS, right outside of the normal stream of time and space. This also ought to help Astrid get over her fear of Christmas, kind of ease her into the whole "you don't always die on the holidays" thing.

HOWEVER! Before he can zip the TARDIS out beyond time and space for a very merry unChristmas, it must be properly decorated. With EVERYTHING. Lights, and tinsel, and more lights, and more tinsel, and a tree, and holly, and boughs, and presents, and stockings, and nutcrackers, and there will be so much DECKING. The TARDIS will be DECKED OUT. Like woah.

And it's always more fun to decorate with friends. It makes things go quicker, and you can play in all the boxes and the wrapping paper and argue over where the ornaments should go.

SO! There's a Christmas decorating party in Ten's TARDIS and everyone's invited! Anyone he knows, anyone who he hasn't properly yet met but might wish to make his acquaintance or the acquaintance of anyone else who might show up, whatever. It'll be assumed he's parked it somewhere with some kind of mild Anti-Violence Field, so there'll be no chance of sabotaging the TARDIS or hurting anyone too badly while in it. Unless of course fun plot happens, what with Masters and Brendan and such-like and then, hey, Christmas violence and season's greetings!

Threadjacking and hopping is go, unless folks lock threads; and threads can take place at different times, so characters can come back to the party more than once. AND. Folks can thread in any combination, even without Watch!Ten being involved. It's a party, the doors are open, mingling will happen, and he's a terrible, terrible host who may be in a back room snogging Astrid trying something clever with Christmas lights and Hallmark electric ornaments that might repair the Chameleon Circuit. Maybe. Possibly. Not.

Feliz Navidad! Mi TARDIS es su TARDIS! )
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The Doctor grins across the console at Ting as the TARDIS hums and shudders to a halt. Hair wild, and eyes bright, he sparks with enthusiasm like static electricity—it's almost a force, snapping in his expression and body language, eager, alive, ready to jump to anyone near him.

"So, Ting. First trip on the TARDIS, and it's on random. Well, it was on random, now it's not on anything, baseline, does that when it comes to a halt. But! Random! Universal shuffle, could be on any track in all of time and space." He swings away from the console, springs across to the front door, and stands by it, still grinning, a showman about to pull aside the curtain and reveal the Greatest Wonder This World Has Ever Known. "Where d'you reckon we are?"

He pushes the door open the tiniest crack, but doesn't yet look through himself. This is all for her, her first trip in the TARDIS, and the honor of making the discovery, seeing where exactly they've come to rest, is hers. This time.
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He flies around the TARDIS console, piloting with both hands, both feet, his nose, an elbow here, an elbow there, nudge this lever this way, and that one that way, just a touch, a smidgen, there, there, can't she go any faster? Of course, it doesn't matter, faster doesn't matter, not when you're traveling through time, but it feels as though it matters. Human beings always wonder when he fails to explain the complexities of time and this is it, this is why, because time's personal and shared, everyone and no one's, relative and set, and can't she go any faster?

"Come on, old girl, come on, come on... Amps to 11, ludicrous speed, damn the torpedoes, come on."

And he jumps back from the console, bounces on his toes, because he's made all of the adjustments he can, and it's up to her now, the TARDIS. He trusts her, she'll get him where he needs to be, but he can't help the impatience.

First they'd landed in London instead of Edo, and, really, those just weren't the same. Tokugawa Japan and 21st-century London, they both had their merits, but the ukiyo—kabuki and geisha and chonin and samurai—wasn't one of London's. Well, not yet. Give it a few millenia.

So he'd settled down to repairs, and she'd gone off to see the sights and the shops; he'd given her a mobile before she'd taken off, universal roaming enabled, certain she'd be fine. If she could handle the Titanic, disintegration and reintegration, she could take on London.

Halfway through the repairs, the TARDIS had started up, of its own accord. A time scoop, he'd thought, but that was impossible, they were
gone, all dead, the ones who could do that to him, summon him at will.

It hadn't been a time scoop. Temporal genetic lock, the Menagerists, an elite group of 7000th-century dilettantes who collected rare...animals of all types, all across time and space, and kept them on an elaborate prison planet. A zoo. And what rarer than the last of the Time Lords?

It had taken him minutes to escape, but months to get the
rest of them out. There had been human beings there, future humans, survivors past the destruction of the Earth, and how could he leave them?

But the instant he'd had them all away, out in the Menagerists' hijacked private star-yachts, he'd shot to the TARDIS, because he couldn't leave
her, either. Astrid. His Astrid.

The TARDIS sets down, and he thanks her, a mental nod, nothing spoken, as he bolts through the doors, out into an alleyway. The same place. Good. The same time? He's not so sure. Maybe. Has to be. He can't be that far off, can he?

And he fishes his own mobile out of his jacket pocket, dialing her number as he dashes out into the streets proper, eyes scanning over every passerby, every shopfront window. She's here. She's got to be here. He didn't mean to leave, and he won't let this be another parting, another failure, something to remember and regret.

Faster, faster, the phone has to dial faster, ring faster, he has to run faster, through the streets, as though velocity were like gravity, an attractive force. As though faster mattered.
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The Doctor flew around the controls of the TARDIS, checking and rechecking it. Right, fine, fine, it was fine. They were heading straight for Florana, no flare-ups, no time distortions, no temporal speedbumps, right on target. Right bang on target.

Good. He stretched a foot across the console, flipped the last switch with the toe of one black Converse. Wonderful having such long limbs, made piloting so much easier. With Jenny here, it might get easier yet. He'd have to teach her the basics, work her up to full speed. Gradually, didn't want her thinking she could take off on her own yet. Right, he'd need to get her a key. Where did he keep the spares? "K" for "key," or "S" for "spare?" Hm.

The TARDIS shuddered and banged and then fell silent. Arrived already? Oh, he was getting *good.* The Doctor dusted his hands off, stepping back from the console with a grin.

Now, where was Jenny? She'd moved her things in (things she must have brought in from wherever she'd been living--with the Master--oi, he didn't want to know, he just didn't want to know) and popped off. To change clothes, she'd said. How long did that *take?* And why bother with changing clothes, anyway?

"Jenny!" He called towards the door into the TARDIS' interior, still hanging ajar from when she'd gone back. "Oi, Jenny, we're there! Florana! Floating seas and golden beaches and mora rays. Have you ever seen a mora ray? They're like parrots, except with bubbles."
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'Verse: Open!verse. Personal canon or 2Docs+1, depending on respondees, if any.
Words: 198.
Prompt: [ profile] onapostcard, vaguely the Walt Disney quote "It's kind of fun to do the impossible." Very vaguely.

Image and video hosting by TinyPic

Right! Don't know who I'm writing this to, really, but that's the point of writing, isn't it? The discovery. It's like travel, writing, never know where it'll take you.

Saw this film for the, what is it now? Tenth time, premier night every time, always get seats smack in the middle. Lovely. Treat watching them all file out afterward, not a dry eye in the house, ups the old faith in humanity. Brought my own nibblies, Pimm's Sugar-spinners. Had a job explaining to the woman next to me that they weren't actually spiders. Offered her one. It spun her up a gumdrop, and she couldn't keep her hands out of them after that. Ate half the box. Didn't get the queen. I'll put her in a vat of simple syrup, ought to have another batch in a few days.

Recipient, recipient. Oh, I'm not going to bother making up my mind. Limits the possibilities. Whoever gets this, there's a transmitter under the stamp, tap it four times fast six times slow, tell it your name—enunciate— and I'll send you along some of this next spawn of spinners. No more space. Wish cards were bigger on the inside. Cheers!
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Right. You, whoever you might be, have reached the voicemail inbox...thing of the Doctor. Not a doctor—if you were looking for one of those, go call another number, my practice is full up and you're not getting in, even with a recommendation, thanks. If you're looking for the Doctor, you might have found him, but, blimey, there are a lot of us thes running about, so who's to know I'm your the?

Mm. Oh, yes, I'm the one who never met Rose.

[Off, as though speaking turned away from the phone] Oi, I am not a bitter old man, you take that back.

[Speaking into the phone again] Leave a tone after the beep. No, a message after the tone. Or the beep. A message after the tone-slash-beep-slash-your-onomatopoeiac-phrase-of-choice. Get on with it, I don't have to tell you how to do everything, do I?
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((And Watch!Ten moves in to Canon!Ten's TARDIS. Feel free to come poke around in his room, if you want to, [ profile] not_from_mars and [ profile] stardustflying; he's asleep at the end of this little fic-bit, so you can come in and leave without waking him up or you can wake him up, either way. OOC comments are chill, too. Woo!))

Standing in front of the closet, he sighed, ran his hands through his hair, and looked over its contents. The dark clothes he favored; a few technological bits and bobs he'd picked up in his travels and thought might come in handy. The two guns propped in the back of the closet, both salvaged long ago from Van Statten's museum, kept drawing his eye—one, massive, black, two-handed, very hooah testosterone; the other, more plastic-bubble-gun, Marvin-the-Martian, shoots-a-little-flag-that-reads-BANG. Dated from the same era as K-9, that one. He had a fondness for that design period.

Should he hide those? )
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It's a little planet, far away from any (current) major civilizations—Col IV, is its standard tag, on the charts.

The Doctor's parked his TARDIS in a vast field of grass—it grows to half knee-height, waving in a gentle breeze, each blade a different shade of blue. At odd intervals, rough domes of stone rise above the grass, tens of stories high, their surfaces rippled with old carvings worn down by the passage of millenia. They may once have been statues; they may once have been buildings—but now, they're only part of the landscape. Whatever race lived here, in the far past, it's long gone. Above, the sky shines clear and apple-green; the breeze is soft and pleasant and smells of the sea—even though there's no sea for miles and miles.

A few lawn chairs have been set up in the grass—the metal-frame-and-rubbery-plastic-lattice kind.


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February 2010

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