watch_is_me: (Default)
'Verse: Personal canon.
Words: 992.
Prompt: [livejournal.com profile] badcompany_muse, "Vengeance." Yes, this is where that went in my head. With all of the Doctor's potential for Oncoming Stormness, he ends up...doing this.



Sally waved to the Doctor, as he swung out of the movie-rental shop and came sauntering across the parking lot toward her and the TARDIS. He’d parked rather far out—most of the free spaces had been for the handicapped, and he’d insisted that he wasn’t, thank you, no matter what Sally might say about his piloting skills—so she had time to judge his mood by his body language, as he waved back, ducked past a car reversing out of its spot, bounced over to her, hands in pockets, grinning, with that walk he had, like the tarmac was ever so slightly rubber or Time Lords ever so slightly gravity-resistant.

She didn’t need the TARDIS to translate. That body language read: OH, yes, I was up to something, and it went well. Very well, and I’m impressed with myself now, and the universe should share that. My impression. Impressiveness. The degree to which I have left an impressive impression on myself.

Well, maybe the TARDIS didn’t need to translate so much as run grammar-check. )
watch_is_me: (Default)
'Verse: Open!verse. Personal canon or 2Docs+1, depending on respondees, if any.
Words: 198.
Prompt: [livejournal.com profile] onapostcard, vaguely the Walt Disney quote "It's kind of fun to do the impossible." Very vaguely.


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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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February 2010

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