watch_is_me: (Default)
'Verse: Personal canon.
Words: 992.
Prompt: [ 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: Personal canon.
Words: 3,687.
Prompt: [ profile] oncoming_storms, Prompt 30.2.b, "Hope," and some personal research.

EDIT: Fixed my obvious historical error, go, me!

I know it's a lot of text, this piece, not broken up by dialogue, but I'd love feedback on it! I did quite a bit of research to get it put together, and I'd very much like to hear what people think. I'd like to believe it's worth the textiness, but that's me reading it. What are you folks' reactions? I shall give you Interweb virtual cookies for your thoughts!

Dear Mother and Father,

I know that you will wonder why I am writing again so soon. My last letter was only a week ago, so that this one may arrive right behind it. You’ll think that your son has all the time in the world here, to write and to stargaze. The war, I can hear you say, that must all be a sham in the papers, the dear boy’s down there larking about, writing us serial novels and learning the constellations. A Continental vacation, that’s what it is, government-paid!

It’s not like that. Paper’s hard to get, and time is harder, and a dry spot in the trenches, even harder still. So you’ll have to believe me when I tell you I’m writing again because I’ve got a story worth telling. Really worth telling, and I hope you put this on to the local paper, though I don’t doubt they’ll think I’m mad.

It’s a story about Christmas, Mum and Da, and about peace and the best parts of us English. Maybe the Germans, too, though I don’t know about that. )

Fic: FX

Sep. 21st, 2008 01:07 am
watch_is_me: (Default)
'Verse: Personal canon.
Words: 903.
Prompt: [ profile] oncoming_storms, 59.3, "Caught in an embarrassing situation"—as well as a conversation with [ profile] not_from_mars


“Mm?” The Doctor didn’t look up from the TARDIS’ scanner—ever since LoA had succeeded in breaking into her, back on Earth, he’d treated her with greater care, checking her condition between adventures. This particular adventure, she’d taken quite a beating—power reserves drained; masses of connections disconnected and buffers debuffed; and the Oct-III Metatemporal Heisenberg Particle Counter blown right offline. That’d need replacing. Where to find a new one? “Twenty-second century? No, nope, still uncertain about their particles. Fifty-third? Hm…”

“Doctor.” )


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