Rating & Warnings: R
Prompt & Prompter: taffimai: Jack/Nine/Rose, Playing in the surf!
Summary: When he looks over his shoulder for support, he finds just the grey expanse of beach, the thin grass clinging to the dunes, the kicked up sand and scattered clothing marking their trail from the TARDIS to the shore.
“C’mon Jack!” Rose calls, waist deep and waving both arms, signalling him as if from miles away. Her white skin is lined by the endless black sky behind her, like she’s a paper cut-out doll. The choppy water splashing up around her has turned her flimsy cotton bra see-through, a sight he’d quite like to check out up close, and that’s nearly enough to tempt him in. Nearly.
“No way!” he calls back, cupping his mouth with his hands largely out of habit. Other than the waves, this planet is completely silent, no signs of life. He’s only in to his ankles, but the water’s so frigid it’s turned the skin halfway up his calves bright raw red. The only thing keeping his feet from going completely numb is the slightly warmer temperature of the thick wet sand he’s burrowed them in. It slips, gritty, between his toes. “How’s about you come here!” No response. She’s turned her back to him and is wading out; he’s watching the shadowed indent of her spine sinking deeper, deeper. “It’s freezing! Don’t you realize it’s freezing?”
When he looks over his shoulder for support, he finds just the grey expanse of beach, the thin grass clinging to the dunes, the kicked up sand and scattered clothing marking their trail from the TARDIS to the shore. When the Doctor’d said “beach” he was hoping for something tropical, maybe a little sexy, preferably nudist. This is... a step above Woman Wept, really. Jack grew up in a desert. He might have learned to appreciate (even wholeheartedly enjoy) more temperate climates, but he doesn’t, as a rule, do cold.
He’s about to turn around, leave Rose to it, the glow of the police public call box windows calling him home, promising him warmth, and then a white streak dashes past his peripheral vision, giving way to loud, laborious splashing.
The Doctor, completely naked, ass clenched against the cold, already up to his knees.
“Well, come on then,” he says, looking at Jack over his shoulder with a cheeky smile and a judgmentally quirked eyebrow, “Don’t tell me you stripped to your skivvies for nothing.”
“Nothing?” Jack replies, mock-offended, and places his hands on his hips, flexing every muscle he can manage, “Isn’t the view enough?”
The Doctor spreads his arms, gesturing expansively to the churning black sea. “The view,” he announces, “Is never enough. I consider myself the kind of man who always dives right in.”
He is that.
Title: the dress looks nice on you
Rating & Warnings: PG
Prompt & Prompter: teamharkness: Doctor/TARDIS, You pick the Doctor.
Summary: He pulls a lovely polished brass lever and tilts his head up, watching the beautiful green of the centre column, the rhythmic rise and fall inside it like lungs. He can’t help but smile. All these years, and still so many surprises, every single day.
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry,” the Doctor says, running his hands all up and down the new console: a whole array of new buttons and knobs and cranks and little fiddly bits, all waiting to be discovered, explored. “It’s just a teeny side-trip. Well, I thought maybe you’d like a little alone time.”
A curious hum runs all up through his bones, making him want to roll his toes and luxuriate in it.
“Oh, she’ll be alright, I told her I’d be a few minutes. What’s a few more minutes?” (After twelve years and three psychiatrists, he doesn’t add). He pulls a lovely polished brass lever and tilts his head up, watching the beautiful green of the centre column, the rhythmic rise and fall inside it like lungs. He can’t help but smile. All these years, and still so many surprises, every single day.
“Yes, well, maybe so, but you have to know that you are always my number one girl—” a murmur, perceived simultaneously as sound and a faintly crackling charge of electricity across the hair of his arms “—oh, don’t be like that, you liked her just as well as I did. Admit it!” The gold cast of the ceilings shimmers like light through a glass of bubbly: her answering chuckle, good-natured as always.
When they land, she moans and sighs around him, and that, of course, hasn’t changed one bit, but then, the essentiality of her never does, even if the aesthetics might. He imagines this must be what it’s like to be married to a gracefully aging wife.
“You mean you don’t know?” he asks, loping down the stairs, “I thought we were long past the days of surprises. Well then, let me be the one to introduce you!”
He throws open the door and spreads his arms dramatically, like a magician in the prestige. At his back, beyond the bubble of atmosphere she cocoons them in, is the moon, grey and round and huge against the backdrop of a sky that’s never known the distraction of artificial light, spackled with billions of stars.
His reception is unexpectedly quite cold. In fact he feels the chill of the vacuum of space pressing at his back, like touching your hand to a window in winter. “Yes I know we’ve been here before. That’s the point. You’re supposed to be admiring my piloting precision. Because we’ve landed in the same spot as before, fit right into our own track. Well yes I know that that’s as much your success as mine. We make a good team, that’s what I mean.”
He crinkles his nose in distaste, abruptly closing the door again. Warm air pressure coos to him comfortingly, Sorry, you did try.
He gives her a peevish, exasperated look, but it’s all for show and she knows it. “Next time I’ll just buy you flowers, shall I?”
There’s a moment of thoughtful hesitation then the console gives a loud ping!, the likes of which could make a microwave oven quite jealous, and her dimpled walls, sloping overhead, erupt with cheery bouquets of cut flowers. He spends the trip home picking petals out of his hair.
Title: There was also that lovely private dinner that ended with a brief poisoning
Rating & Warnings: PG-13
Prompt & Prompter: azn_jack_fiend: Ten/Donna, Waterskiing.
Summary: “I thought,” she announces, placing a hand on her hip, having to adjust the position when it lands uncomfortably on the knot of her sarong, “We agreed on something romantic.”
The Doctor hefts the long, awkward skis from one shoulder to the other while Donna tries not to say anything about his questionable choice of swim suit, some striped 1920s one-piece that juts up here and there over his bones.
“I thought,” she announces, placing a hand on her hip, having to adjust the position when it lands uncomfortably on the knot of her sarong, “We agreed on something romantic.”
“What!” the Doctor protests, “Water skiing is very romantic, why, on—”
“Name one reason,” Donna interrupts him bluntly.
“Nevermind what they think of it on... on... the third moon of bloody Jupiter, tell me right here, right now, one reason why it’s romantic.”
He squints his eyes up at the high-noon sky, stalling. “Right, well.”
“Because I’ll tell you, being towed around halfway to the splits until I go tits-up and half-drowned isn’t my idea of romantic. Be honest, you haven’t the foggiest what romance means.” As an afterthought: “Space man.”
“I took you to the glistening gardens of Jyrahoon didn’t I? Four foot tall dew-covered lilies, remember?”
“Yes, and they were nice, oh, right up until I was almost eaten by a sentient bloody Venus flytrap.”
“Well how was I to know they’d migrated systems?” He looks genuinely put out, at that, and she very nearly feels bad for him.
“Alright, well, maybe you didn’t know everything that time. That doesn’t change the fact—look. I’m going to go over there—” she points vaguely along the beach “—get myself a lei, and a sun chair, and a pink cocktail with an umbrella in, and you go have fun.”
“Right,” the Doctor agrees. He frowns at her as if in challenge, but she just turns on her heel, marching off through the hot sand with her beach towel and umbrella under her arm.
Four or five feet away, she stops and turns. He’s still standing in that same place, ankle-deep in sand, with those same bloody skis, switched shoulders again. He’s getting welts on his collarbones from the weight of them. “Oh and by the way, Doctor?” she calls to him, “Those are cross country skis.”
Title: Eight Days a Week
Rating & Warnings: PG-13
Prompt & Prompter: saintmaybe1121: Amy/Rory, Rory remembers waiting for Amy for over a thousand years. Because, really, was there anything ever more romantic than that in all of Who?
Summary: Amy takes a sip of her cocktail, resting her chin in her hand. She admires him as he preens, enjoying the attention.
“The Beatles!” Rory calls out, waving an arm, “From Me To You!”
The quizmaster makes a gun with his hand and shoots, signalling Rory’s answered the question correctly. Amy takes a sip of her cocktail, resting her chin in her hand. She admires him as he preens, enjoying the attention. Their table, an assortment of Rory’s friends, clap him on the back and bang their palms by way of applause.
“Who was the first prime minister serving under Queen Victo—”
“Sir Robert Peel!” Rory yells. Another point. The other tables groan.
“What was the opening year of the Tube in London?”
“Eighteen-sixty-three!” Right again. He chugs the rest of his lager, ordering another round for the table with a dramatic swirl of his hand overhead.
“What ginger actress celebrated her sweet sixteen and went on to be ‘Pretty in Pink’?”
“Molly Ringwald!” Rory bursts out, narrowly edging out a woman at the next table.
They win ninety-six points to four, only one other table managing to get more than one point. Rory puffs up under the praise, revelling in the congratulations and coyly shrugging off curious questions about when the hell he got so bloody good at pub quizzes, anyway?
“I guess I’m just really worldly,” he replies, and oh, it isn’t going to his head at all.
Amy finishes her drink, casts a glance over her shoulder at the crowd of people, safe, happy, drunk, oblivious. When she returns her gaze to Rory, he just grins back at her dopily, barbeque sauce coating his lips as he sucks the last meat from a chicken wing bone.
She rolls her eyes at him. And then she smiles.
Author's Notes: For Valentines, a whole pile of Whoniverse ficlets celebrating love in its many, many (sometimes dysfunctional) forms. Written in reply to prompts on my journal.
Disclaimer: Doctor Who and Torchwood's characters, concepts, and events belong to their respective owners, including but not limited to Russell T Davies, Steven Moffat, and the BBC.
Read my Torchwood Valentines Sweets Here.