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06 July 2019 @ 12:30 am
on the reasoning that prompts are fun  
Sometimes, people tell me random things and then stories happen. Like that time a friend told me to write a Doctor Who stapler monster. Stuff like that.

So, dunno, random ideas are fun. Might provoke a rambling comment, a commentfic or possibly a monster of the non-stapler variety, but hey, why not.

Fandoms I've written fic for can be found on the masterpost of fic, but other areas I'd be willing to take a shot at are:

Golden Sun
Classic Doctor Who (2-5, specifically)
Avatar: The Last Airbender
Granada/ACD Holmes
Avengers-related films
anything I already do gone crazy AU

I'll probably add more to this list when I remember what TV shows I actually watch. Or when I start playing something besides Pokemon or Harvest Moon again.
Current Mood: creative
Melissa: who + it felt like two people meetingmylittlepwny on July 17th, 2011 04:20 am (UTC)
devil town | bright eyes

anything I already do doctor/rose gone crazy AU

fiction, fiction, fiction: Doctor Whobendingsignpost on July 17th, 2011 07:11 am (UTC)
Evidently Deviltown, Part 1
When Jackie brings him home, Rose thinks it’s the worst thing ever.

“Mum, no. We still haven’t gotten the stains out from last time.”

“It’ll be fine,” Jackie tells her, not a care in the world as she prods the newest addition to the Tyler household into the spare room. She closes the door, locks it six different ways, and only then does the thump come from the inside. That’s some heavy sedation. “This one’s different.”

“Mum, you say that about everything.”

She feels like a child for it – mum, mum, mum – but someone has to put their foot down, even if only looks like she’s stomping her way into a tantrum.

Jackie sighs. “This one is different. New prototype, Jacob says down at the store.”

Rose puts her hands on her hips. “Do you still have to feed him?”

“It’s not that different.”

“Great,” Rose says in a huff. “He’ll be dead before the month’s out, then.”

“Then stop being sentimental about it,” Jackie tells her.

“Fine,” Rose says. “What’s his-”

Her mum sighs.

“What’s its number?”

“TT40-10,” Jackie says. “If you forget, I’m sure it’s printed on it somewhere.”

“What about its papers?”

“What about what papers?”


Two days later, Jackie comes out of the spare room with a disgusted look on her face.

“What?” Rose asks, watching her mother wipe her mouth.

“Something wrong with it,” Jackie says.

“Oh, don’t be picky!”

“The pressure’s all wrong, for a start,” her mum goes on.

“If it’s defective, return it.”

There’s a pause.

“Mum, you’re meant to get the papers when you buy them!”

“It was half-off!”

“I wonder why!”

Jackie sits down in the armchair with a flop and a huff. After a bit, she suggests, “Why don’t you give it a try?”

“I’m fine with frozen,” Rose says, flipping channels just to be contrary. “Unlike someone, I don’t need mine fresh.”

“I don’t want it to go to waste,” Jackie insists. She keeps on insisting until Rose gives in.

“Fine,” Rose says. “You have the rest of mine in the fridge.” She checks her watch and curses. “Off to work, then.”

“You’re not going to have any before you go?”

“I don’t want to get my clothes messed up,” she answers. “And open the curtains, the moon’s gorgeous out.”

By the time she gets home, she’s starving and exhausted. Working in a shop isn’t as easy as her mum keeps telling her it is. As if Jackie would know. Fresh is too much effort, so she grabs a pack from the fridge, reheats it in the microwave, and sips slowly, watching the stars.
fiction, fiction, fiction: Doctor Whobendingsignpost on July 17th, 2011 07:14 am (UTC)
Evidently Deviltown, Part 2
At the end of the week, she remembers that someone in this flat is meant to be using her mum’s ill-advised purchase.

Then she remembers they haven’t checked on the thing in days.

Cursing under her breath, she unlocks the door and peers in. After the last one, they’ve had a toilet and shower installed, and the stench is fortunately lacking. When she spots where it’s gone, she finds it in the corner, sitting up and piled with blankets.

She enters, shutting the door behind her, and creeps closer to the sleeping figure. This is sleep, not death, as gaunt and pale as the poor creature is. Tufts of brown hair stick up wildly. Freckles stand out like dirt on the skin of its cheeks. They’re cute, those freckles. Not for the first time, Rose wishes they didn’t have to make the Flesh look so much like people. She knows it’s for compatibility reasons, but it does make it so very disconcerting sometimes.

She gives him a basic look-over, watching him breathe, checking his temp, then checking his pulse. That’s where the basics stop, because there’s something wrong with it. Pressure problems, her mum had said. She eases his head to the side, checks the marks on the right side of its neck. Healing up nicely, nothing strange there. They’ve been washed, cleaned, and she’s sure her mum didn’t do that.

Weakly, it groans.

“When was the last time you ate?” she asks. She smoothes its hair down. Her mum isn’t here to remind her that the Flesh aren’t pets. Besides, it’s nice hair.

It rasps something and she realizes that for all it has the shower and toilet, it doesn’t have a cup. That does explain the multitude of really quick showers, though.

“I’ll be back in a second,” she says.

“No,” he says.

“I’ll be right back,” she repeats. “With water, yeah?”

“Run,” he tells her.

She smiles faintly. Smoothes his hair down again. Must have been having a nightmare, poor thing. “It’s okay,” she says, watching him lean into the touch of her hand. It’s sweet.

She gets up, locks the door behind her, and fetches that cup of water, one of the unbreakable plastic ones. She comes back and helps him sip it down. He’s parched, that’s clear enough.

“Slowly does it,” she urges. “Slowly.”

Water dribbles down the sides of his mouth, over his chin and onto the blanket, a barely noticeable flow.

“You haven’t eaten in a week, have you?” she asks. “What should you eat?” She never knows what to feed them. She thinks that’s the problem, as well as the difference between her and her mother. Her mum forgets what makes the Flesh different from people. Rose is fascinated by it.

“Anything,” he says.

She’ll look online, she decides.

“Is anything else wrong with you?” she asks. “You haven’t got a fever, you’re not clammy, but you don’t look too good. There’s something wrong with your pulse.”

“Banana,” he says wistfully.


“A banana,” he repeats. “That’d be nice.”

“Okay,” she says. “I can get you that.”

He settles back against the wall a bit more, less sinking into the corner and more sliding into sleep. Thank you, he mouths.
fiction, fiction, fiction: Doctor Whobendingsignpost on July 17th, 2011 07:16 am (UTC)
Evidently Deviltown, Part 2.1
They’ve never had a polite one, before. She hadn’t realized that happened. It makes her remember her own manners, even if Mickey would mock her for talking to the Flesh this way. So what? Some people talk to plants.

“My name’s Rose, by the way.”

He opens his eyes like they’re heavy, a slow process. They only open halfway before they start drooping shut again. “Nice to meet you, Rose,” he says, voice low, dragging like a weight. “You should run.”

“Oh,” she says, a bit startled. But of course it’s urgent, obviously it’s urgent: he hasn’t eaten in a week. “Right.” She kisses him on the forehead, which is when she knows she’s screwed. Five minutes in the same room and she’s already attached.

“Goodbye,” he says.

“I’ll be back,” she promises. “Bananas and everything.”

“Goodbye,” he says again, like he’s about to die, and that freaks her out enough that she’s out of the flat and jogging through the evening fog to the corner store. They don’t have much of anything at all, even less so for Flesh, so it’s no great surprise when she doesn’t find anything labelled as a banana. There are potatoes, which have the proper ratio of consonants to vowels and in the right order too, though she doesn’t think the similarity will much count.

While she’s there, she grabs an extra few frozen packs. Until her mum’s investment stops looking so anaemic, there’ll be nothing out of him.

She rushes back home, checks online for cooking instructions, and winds up doing what she’s done her entire life: she sticks the food in the microwave. It’s good to know all food works like this.

The brown balls crack open with these unpleasant popping noises and then she realizes she doesn’t have anything to put the remains on. If they’d just stayed as balls, it wouldn’t matter, but now they’re broken, as well as piping hot. She hopes it’s okay they’ve broken open.

It takes some rooting around the flat, but eventually, she finds a shoebox. She takes the lid, deems it sturdy enough, and picks the contents of the microwave out onto it. A couple times, she has to rush to the loo to run her fingers under the tap, her skin burnt by potato steam.

She gets the door open one-handed. It helps she only did up one of the locks when she went. Really, what’s he going to do, the way he is? When she enters, the most he manages is to lift his head and plaintively say her name.

“It’s okay,” she tells him, sitting down next to him. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t find any banana,” she apologizes. Mickey would never let her live it down if he heard her now, apologizing to this sad thing, but he’s so sad and weak and she means it terribly. “I’ve got potatoes,” she adds. “Cooked them too. Still hot.”

“You shouldn’t have,” he tries to tell her. There is polite and then there’s this.

“Don’t be stupid,” she says, taking one of the cooling pieces of... of whatever a potato is between her fingers. She regrets saying it immediately, because that’s what the Flesh are. “Never mind,” she says. “Here, eat. Open your mouth.”

He does, taking what she gives him and moving his jaw around with his lips together. She can’t help staring. The only normal bit is when he swallows. She whispers encouragement and he seems to bloom a bit and she is really, truly screwed. Losing him is going to be worse than when the neighbour boy two floors down killed her cat. The boy had only been a, a puppy? A cub? Pups are werewolves, so what are werefoxes? She can never remember, isn’t much interested in being bio-sociologically correct. Anyway, he’d been young and only playing. He hadn’t known Smokey couldn’t stand up to his roughhousing.

When this Flesh dies, though, it’s going to be her fault. She hates the thought of it already. This is why she sticks with frozen. She knows they die either way, but she doesn’t want to have to see it.

She feeds him until he stops eating. “I might vomit,” he warns. It’s almost too gross to consider, all that pulped up plant, like bits of slimy, rotting forest.

She looks down at the shoebox lid, still so full. She’d made much too much. “There’s more when you want it.” She picks up the empty cup. “More water?”

Molto bene,” he murmurs. It’s something of a surprise.
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Part 2.2 - bendingsignpost on July 17th, 2011 07:17 am (UTC) (Expand)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Part 2.2 - mylittlepwny on July 17th, 2011 06:27 pm (UTC) (Expand)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Part 2.2 - rallalon on July 17th, 2011 10:55 pm (UTC) (Expand)
fiction, fiction, fiction: Doctor Whobendingsignpost on July 17th, 2011 09:13 pm (UTC)
Evidently Deviltown, Part 3
She brings the change of clothes with her when she checks on him the following night. They’re Howard’s old jimjams and after the way that fiasco ended, she doesn’t think her mum will mind the use.

Inside, there’ve been a few changes. The shoebox lid has been decimated, for one thing. Her first thought is of how Smokey used to shred their newspapers, but it’s much more deliberate than that. Bits of cardboard litter the linoleum floor, set into the square pattern, some showing the colour of the box, some brown-side-up. She bends down to look closer. Game pieces, clear as day. Torn and chewed, like the plaything of a werepup, but recognizable.

“Playing a game?” she asks.

Positioned defensively in the corner, he goes right on not saying anything, not looking at her. When the last one did this, it gave her the creeps, but it sits on him so sadly.

“Looks like checkers,” she says. “Is it? You’re playing checkers with yourself?”

Still nothing.

“I’m going to leave these here,” she tells him, setting down the jimjams. “It’s okay if you don’t like them, they’re just until I wash what you’ve got.”

He looks at the clothing, at least. That’s a positive sign.

“I’ll be back before morning with some more food,” she says. “Gonna try to balance your diet out. Y’know, get you a diet first, then balance it.”

No reaction to that. God, he looks so sad.

She closes the door, does up the first two locks, and goes to her room. She comes back with a deck of cards, a few sheets of paper, and an old crayon.

“Here, Freckles,” she says and immediately wants to hit herself. Now she’s gone and named him. She’s a pet person, not a livestock person. This really is going to end terribly.

His mouth forms a tight line but his eyes follow her hands. It’s the most attentive she’s ever seen him.

She empties her hands, setting the contents down on the floor. “These are for you,” she says. If he draws on the walls, she really doesn’t care. “See you later.”

She backs out, closes the door and locks it properly. She stands there, listening, for movement, and hears nothing. Maybe she would have heard something eventually, but she has to go to work.
fiction, fiction, fiction: Doctor Whobendingsignpost on July 17th, 2011 09:15 pm (UTC)
Evidently Deviltown, Part 4
She comes back with a bag of things to go into the fridge. Some of it’s called fruit and some of it’s veg and she doesn’t really know where to start.

“Where did you get off to?” Jackie asks the second she’s in the flat. “It’s nearly light out!”

“Had a few errands to run,” she says, putting the stuff away, still in the grocery bag. She’s never given much thought to this sort of thing before, but she doesn’t envy the weres, always having to go out and find all of these different things to stick in their mouths. Solid food is so complicated. Even the bananas are mystifying.

She brings him the three she bought. “I wasn’t sure what kind you wanted,” she explains, setting down the brown, the green, and the yellow on the floor. The rough trousers and simple shirt he wore all week are by the door. They catch her eye. Having expected a heap, she’s startled to find shirt and trousers folded to within an inch of their life, painstakingly forced into exact lines.

Maybe because of that, the striped jimjams suit him. He goes on watching her without a word, but he’s watching her and the bananas. There’s hunger across his face, that and a flash of something else. Almost amusement, she wants to say, which is a bit weird.

“What kind do you want?” she asks, picking the fruit – fruit? – up and bringing it closer. “You can tell me, it’s okay.”

Again, that flash of something else. He points to the yellow and the green. She hands those to him and, when he waits, she hands him the brown one, too, just for the hell of it. She almost reaches for his cup to refill it, but there’s water in it already. From the shower and not the toilet, she hopes.

Looking around at the rest of the room, she’s pleased to see he hasn’t drawn on the walls, but she’s shocked to see what’s become of the cards. They’ve formed a great, intricate tower against the partition hiding his little loo. The levels populated by his cardboard checker pieces, it looks profoundly delicate. How didn’t it fall when she walked in? She’s amazed.

“That’s,” she says, “that’s really good. Did someone teach you to do that?”

He slides his hand under the blanket. He withdraws it, revealing one of the sheets of paper, folded into thirds. Brown eyes stare hard into her face. They don’t quite match each other and neither do his ears. The left ear in particular bulges out a bit. It’s not bad, though, not really.

“Is that for me?” she asks.

She holds out her hand and he passes the folded paper to her.

She unfolds it.

Balanced diet, it reads in thick crayon lines. Carbohydrate 8 : Vegetable 4 : Fruit 3 : Protein 2 : Dairy 3.

She stares. “Okay, Freckles,” she says slowly. “Who taught you that one?”

He lifts his eyebrows and doesn’t quite smile. It’s not a little mocking.

“Tell me and you get a book.”

He blinks and sits up straight. It turns out that the wall was all that kept him from wobbling, and he winds up leaning forward heavily, elbows on his knees. Crouched down with him, she wants to smooth his hair down again. Right now, it looks as fluffy as it is.

“A thick one,” she adds. “With or without pictures, whatever you like.”

He makes a face at her like an eleven-year-old being called a “big boy”. At least, he pulls the same face her cousin did the last time she babysat him.

“Fine, no pictures,” she allows. She settles back onto her heels to wait, her knees on his blanket. She should probably clean that too, come to think of it.

“No one,” he says.

It’s her turn to blink. “No one taught you? You mean you taught yourself?”

“No,” he says. “I know it. I’ve never not known it. I didn’t need to learn.”

“...Uh-huh. Okay.” She gets up, taking the paper and dirty clothing with her. The whole locking routine repeats. After searching through her room and then a quick raid of the linen closet, she returns.
fiction, fiction, fiction: Doctor Whobendingsignpost on July 17th, 2011 09:15 pm (UTC)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Part 4.1
He looks up when she enters, startled. Why, she’s not sure.

“Fresh blanket,” she says. Holding it in a bundle makes her feel sloppy, especially compared to his neat folds. She’s been working at the shop for ages and she doesn’t think she’ll ever make folds that crisp. The blanket goes on the floor and she gathers up the dirty one, needing to tug it away from him. “And your book.”

“That’s a children’s book,” he says.

“Hey,” she says. “That’s Harry Potter. Everyone loves Harry Potter.”

He looks sceptical. It’s adorable.

“Is that going to be enough food for now?” she asks. “I’ve never done this before, I don’t know how much to feed you.”

He hesitates.

“Hungry, got it.”

Back out, back in. He already has the book open, has his little light on and angled at the pages.

“I’m going to leave this here,” she tells him, putting the bread down in the bag it came in.

“Mmhm,” he acknowledges absently. He’s got what he wants and now he’s barely paying attention. She was right, he is such a cat.

She rolls her eyes and stifles a yawn. “Good dawning,” she says, a pointed reminder that manners exist. It gets nothing out of him, naturally, but she feels better for saying it. She goes to bed and falls asleep wondering if she should get him some socks.
fiction, fiction, fiction: Doctor Whobendingsignpost on July 17th, 2011 10:46 pm (UTC)
Evidently Deviltown, Part 5
Three days, three books, and a pair of socks later, he greets her with a quizzical, “I’m confused.”

Privately, she thinks it’s about time. She knows she’s bewildered by him. Internet searches for Flesh behaviour don’t come close to touching on him. She blames it on the prototype aspect of him. He’s unsuccessful for industrial usage, has to be. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been sold privately. And there’s definitely something off about him, everything off about him, which explains the steep discount Jackie caught.

“What about?” she asks, sitting down across from him. He likes being able to see her, she’s found. Anything else makes him a bit jumpy.

“Everyone in these books eats solid food, but they’re surprised when Lupin is a werewolf,” he says.

“It’s an old book,” she says.

“I can see that,” he agrees, “but it doesn’t make sense.”

“No, I mean, it’s really old. It’s from before the Turning,” she explains. “Back when we used all our teeth and stuff. When we, um, what’s it you do?”


“Right, when we did that.”

His confused frown doesn’t fade. “But weres still chew.”

“Yeah, but weres weren’t common either, back when this was written. You wouldn’t believe it, but right now? This is them having a voice.”

“I thought they were an underrepresented minority,” he says. “Minorities, plural, technically.” He does this sometimes, comes up with things he probably shouldn’t know.

“How d’you know that?” she asks yet again, fully expecting his usual non-answer.

“It was on the telly yesternight,” he says.

She stares at him a bit.

“I can hear it through the vent,” he says. “Not all the time, but sometimes.”

“We do turn it off,” she says.


They fall silent for a bit, his topic covered and hers yet to be addressed. She’s in here early this evening, has yet to change into her clothes for work.

She makes sure to sit still and calm.

He starts to shift around a bit. He was like this yesternight, too. Fidgety.

The longer she sits, the more nervous a look he gets. She kind of hopes he’ll come to the conclusion on his own, because she doesn’t much trust herself not to make a mess of it all. She knows what she’s meant to do, vaguely, by theory on her computer is very different from practice on Freckles. There’s colour in his cheeks now, enough, and if he has the energy to restlessly move around, he has energy to spare.

“So,” he says at last. His eyes are a brown accusation.

She tries to think of what to say. There are threats and gestures of imposing confidence and all sorts of things she’d feel ridiculous trying. There’s reassurance, which would be a bit less strange, but not very effective with him.

“Please,” she says. Just that. Just that one word.

For a long minute, there’s nothing but his eyes.

He closes them, after, and unbuttons the collar of the jimjams. He tilts his head to his left, tension standing up the tendons in his neck. Her mother’s prints are long faded in his skin, the scabs fallen.

She sets her hand on the top of his head, so terribly soft, and tilts him gently the other way. She’s a rightie, needs the left side.

Sitting cross-legged, refusing to hunch or lean, he makes her come to him. Her hands settle on his shoulders as she kneels, leaning forward. His tension will hurt him, she knows, just as his rising pulse will aid her.

She sets her lips against his skin. Her weight is on her knees and on her hands, pressing into the floor and into him. He remains still, so ready and able. He’s healthy enough for this, has to be. She breathes through her nose, waiting for him to stop shaking.

“Lupin was one of my favourites,” she says, voice soft as her breath. “Yeah, I know, really inaccurate portrayal, but a great guy.”

He forces each exhalation to slow, stretches each inhalation. His neck is long and pale and meant for this.
fiction, fiction, fiction: Doctor Whobendingsignpost on July 17th, 2011 10:46 pm (UTC)
Evidently Deviltown, Part 5.1
“Who’s your favourite so far?” she asks.

“Hagrid,” he whispers.

“How come?”

“He.... He makes everything better,” he says, tentative but no longer trembling beneath her hands, against her cheek. “And I like his pockets.”



“What about Dumbledore?” she asks.


She bites, quick and sharp. He spills over her tongue, over her lips, and she has to suck and swallow, has to be quick about it if she doesn’t want to dribble everywhere. She’s always been sure not to waste anything, money as tight as it is, but the thought of wasting him is even worse. Her thumbs rub circles into his shoulders and he doesn’t try to force her off before she’s ready. He slumps, slowly.

When she licks across the puncture marks, he’s still talking about Dumbledore. He looks away when she pulls back, drops his eyes and leaves them on the floor until she wipes her mouth clean and folds in her teeth. All the same, he’s leaning more on her now than she is on him.

“I love him and Dobby,” she says, pulling out the antiseptic wipe from her Flesh kit. He flinches at the first touch, then grits his teeth. The plaster goes on after. She holds her hand against it for a minute. “He comes back, later. Dobby, I mean.”

“That’s nice,” he says, low on articulation. He’s tilting a bit, too.

“Now you lie down and we put your feet up, okay?”


He lets her guide him down. She bundles up the blanket and sticks it under his feet. It’s not much, but it’s that or the books and those are old and fragile.

Before she leaves for work, she gets him water and brings out the orange bottle of juice with the obvious label. She breaks the seal on it for him, not sure he’ll be able to do it himself. She brings along some food as well. She thinks it’s a fruit, but she can’t keep track of all the names of these things.

Lying there, still and ashen, he makes her stomach clench. She burps up a little into her mouth and swallows it resolutely back down.

In the pattern of her recent days, she leaves, locks the door, goes to her room, and returns. Eyes closed, breathing steadily, he doesn’t so much as try to look at her or track her movements. She comes right up to him without him recoiling and doesn’t know if it’s because he’s so drained or if he simply knows she’s done with him for today.

She sets the small radio down beside his hand and tunes it until there’s no static. She moves his hand, presses his thumb against the tuning gear. “You change the station with this. Don’t turn it up too loud or Mum will hear and take it, probably. And don’t forget your juice, I’ve read that’s important.”

Faintly, he hums agreement, or maybe he whimpers.

She goes to work and tries not to think about it.

It’s hard, though, when the daydreams won’t stop.
fiction, fiction, fiction: Doctor Whobendingsignpost on July 18th, 2011 05:04 am (UTC)
Evidently Deviltown, Part 6
“I keep forgetting to ask,” Jackie says, sweeping out the kitchen after cutting a neighbour’s hair. “How’s Teetee doing?”

Rose glances up from her book. She’s been rereading all her old books, has to in order to remember what the hell Freckles is talking about these days. He’s breezing though her bookshelf way too fast. “Sorry, who?”

“Teetee whatsits,” Jackie says.

“Right, that’s helpful, Mum.”

“Well, I don’t remember what the number was!” Jackie huffs.

Something clicks. “You mean Freckles?” Rose asks.

Rose. You don’t have to go and name it.”


“It’s like what Pamela downstairs is always telling her little girl: Don’t play with your food.”

“Mum, Pam’s daughter eats mice.” She can’t seem to hide behind the book the way Freckles is able to. It just doesn’t work for her.

“It’s the same principle. What’re you sitting over there all quiet for, anyway?”

“It’s called ‘reading’,” she says.

“Haven’t seen that since before you dropped out of school,” her mum replies promptly. “Well before. Excuse me for being confused.”

There’s a long silence. Without the telly to cover it up, it’s much too obvious.

“How’s Mickey?” Jackie asks. “I haven’t seen him around in a while.”

“I see him during my break now,” she replies. “He’s fine.”

“You should bring him ‘round.”

“Why, d’you need him to fix something?”

“Yeah, dryer’s on the blink again.”

“Yeah, okay.” She fishes out her mobile, texts her boyfriend. They’ve both got work off tomorrow. Home improvement day it is, then. She tells Jackie and Jackie’s thrilled.

She stays on the sofa until her mum heads out for an early morning with the girls, possibly not to be back until after next sunset. She stays there, not quite twitching, until the door closes.

She’s up in a flash.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hi,” he says.

“You are so wrong,” she tells him.

“It’s a blatant continuity error!”

He’s right, in the end, and by the time she slips out of his room, it’s practically noon.

Mickey fixes the dryer, they snog a bit, and it’s all very nice.

Except, well.

No, it is.

It’s all very nice.
Melissa: who + I've got the burners litmylittlepwny on July 18th, 2011 05:11 am (UTC)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Part 6


You can't just...write this, and make me feel things, and make Rose a vampire and the Doctor this I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT and have it all be so horribly adorable with the tentative warnings and then the realization that she's not who he thought she was and then that slow building of whatever it is they're building and NOW SHE'S REREADING HARRY POTTER AND ARGUING WITH HIM ABOUT IT AND SNOGGING MICKEY IS VERY NICE EXCEPT. EXCEPT.

I fucking fainted when she had to feed on him, HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO SURVIVE THE REST. oh man. you are the worst.
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Part 6 - bendingsignpost on July 18th, 2011 05:14 am (UTC) (Expand)
fiction, fiction, fiction: Doctor Whobendingsignpost on July 18th, 2011 05:08 am (UTC)
Evidently Deviltown, Part 7
Mickey’s a great boyfriend, really. He’s funny, he is, especially when he’s got a new joke or something. She’s heard all the old ones, seen all his bits – and she means that in every way – and there’s a sense of comfort in the familiarity. He’s like a sofa she keeps sinking into. Maybe she’s not tired when she lies down, but it’s comfortable, eventually. She just has to work through the restlessness first, sometimes.

He’s handy, and patient, and generous. He fixes the dryer and the washer and everything, really. He’s always doing whatever she asks him to do, whatever she wants. He loves her so much. Her mum’s always telling her what a catch she’s found. He’s always doing these little things for her.

It’s like, when he gets that new laptop he’s been going on about, instead of selling his old one, he gives it to her, calls it an early birthnight present. She doesn’t really need it, tries to say so, but he goes on about the country-wide free wifi like it’s the second coming of Jesus fucking Christ until she says thank you. On her actual birthnight, he has work, so she goes out with her friends instead. She can’t get laid and there’s no point holing up somewhere strange until sunset if she’s not going to get laid in the process.

She comes home just as the sky is starting to make her feel prickly only to discover that her mum is out for the day. Howard, again. She’s buzzing slightly from what Shareen likes to call spiderwine. She has no idea what’s in it, besides the blood. If she’s sick, it’ll stain everything, and she really doesn’t want to have to clean tonight of all nights, home and alone on her birthnight.

Not quite alone, she remembers. She opens up the door and wobbles in, plopping down on the floor next to him. He’s reading but she doesn’t care, just starts complaining. She’s saying all these things that she might not mean while sober, that she hopes she doesn’t mean while sober, and he reads on until she runs out of breath.

“What was that bit about the laptop?” he asks after a pause.

She cranes her neck, looking up at him.

His eyes never hesitate in their tracks across the pages. He reads so quickly.

“He gave me his old laptop,” she says. “It’s slow and broken down. Didn’t even ask for anything.”

He goes on reading. He’s ignoring her. She tries to get annoyed with him and can’t, too focused on Mickey. Besides, she might as well get annoyed with a cat.

He turns the pages five times. End of the chapter. Closes the book, puts it down.

“How about we take a look at it?” he asks.

“It’s old and stupid.”

“How about we take a look and make fun of it?”

She thinks about that. “Yeah, okay.”

She gets up and fetches the laptop from her room. Coming back, she realizes she forgot to lock his door, but it’s not like it matters. She opens the laptop, types in her password and hands the thing to him.

He pokes around it for a bit, clearly without an idea of what he’s doing. At least, she doesn’t think he does. They sit with their backs to the wall, leaning, except she’s leaning on him, cheek on his shoulder. He likes her better there, on his right side, know that he knows she bites his left.

She listens to him breathe and type, his vague chatter forever under his breath. Her eyes fall shut to it, closed against the glare of the screen.

It’s nice.

She hears an odd sound and then it’s even better.

“Are you-” She lifts her head, looks at his face. “You are, you’re giggling.”

He points helplessly at the screen. “I found his porn!”

“You what- oh my god, this- What. He gave me his computer and didn’t delete his porn?”

He laughs and laughs, pulling her along with him. He reads out the titles with nothing short of glee. She laughs until it hurts, until she’s gasping.

“Stop it,” she begs through her giggles, almost crying. “Stop it.”

“Not until I figure out if ‘Virgin Love God Sacrifice’ has a Love God who’s a Virgin or a-”

She has two seconds to react before it hits, but somehow she manages to be sick in his toilet rather than on his lap.

He’s at her side before she’s done retching. His hands are warm on her back, making circles. “Sorry,” he says.
fiction, fiction, fiction: Doctor Whobendingsignpost on July 18th, 2011 05:10 am (UTC)
Evidently Deviltown, Part 7.1
She tries to shake her head, but there’s nothing for it. She’s not saying anything for a while yet. And then the noise settles in, the dialogue, and she laughs into the bloody toilet.

“Careful,” he says.

She tries to control herself but only gets down to the point of snickering. “Turn the porn off.”

“I’ve never seen telly before, you know,” he tells her. “I’m sure this is all relevant to my education.”

What education? She thinks it but doesn’t ask it. “We’ll find you something better,” she promises, lifting her head up from the toilet. “Something with a title that makes sense.”

He hands her his cup and she rinses with the water. The consistency is strange. Too sloshy. She spits into the toilet, feeling terrible. He flushes it for her, still rubbing her back. “I’ll turn the porn off,” he says. “Evidently, it’s a virgin sacrifice to a sex god.”

“I thought you lot couldn’t reproduce.”

“Neither can two gay blokes, but that’s never stopped them.” He pauses. “I assume.”

“Not gay, then?”

“Dunno,” he says. “Let me meet a man and we’ll see.” He waggles his eyebrows in a way that’s completely ridiculous and that’s her giggling again. “Oh, no, none of that. Rest, lie down, doctor’s orders.”

She keeps on giggling even as he eases her to the blanket-covered patch of floor. Not very soft with only one blanket. “You’re not a doctor.”

“I could be, someday.”

She giggles on. “You’re cute.”

“I don’t know if that was complimentary or condescending,” he says in a huff. But he turns the porn off and shuts the laptop.

Head aching, stomach rebelling, she doesn’t expect to sleep. She doesn’t expect to feel happy either, but that doesn’t stop her in the least.

She wakes to soft breathing and attentive brown eyes, but not the breathing or brown eyes she’s used to. Paler skin here, freckled across the nose. She hurts a bit, empty inside, famished. Worrying her lip, she doesn’t reach for him. Tame doesn’t mean willing and for some reason, right now, that bothers her beyond what she could ever say.

He sits up. Unbuttons his shirt and shrugs it off. He lies back down facing her, resting on his side. He closes his eyes.

It must be past noon, she thinks. Long past. If she can hold out for a few hours more, maybe four or so, she can stagger down to the corner store, pick up a pack of frozen. She’ll be fine.

His hand settles at her hip. Pulls her closer, brings her face next to his, brings her to stare into his eyelids. His hand travels to her back, to her nape. He draws her in, intentions as clear as the skin he presses to her lips.

She holds to him, to his terribly thin form, pulled with him when he rolls so gently onto his back. She lies across his chest, face in the crook of his neck. Waiting. Breathing. Feeling him do the same.

Long, sure fingers stroke her hair. They smooth out tangles, brush against her ears, her scalp.

She opens her mouth, touches with her tongue, and his hands never falter. Not at the touch, not at the shallow bite or the slow suckling which follows. His movements slow, become tired, weighted, never quite stopping, not until she does.

Warm arms fold over her shoulders. Soft words tickle her ear.

“Happy Birthnight, Rose.”

6.5k words in 24 hours. This thing is eating my brain.
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Part 7.1 - mylittlepwny on July 19th, 2011 05:22 am (UTC) (Expand)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Part 7.1 - bendingsignpost on July 20th, 2011 02:13 am (UTC) (Expand)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Part 7.1 - mylittlepwny on July 20th, 2011 02:21 am (UTC) (Expand)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Part 7.1 - bendingsignpost on July 20th, 2011 09:54 pm (UTC) (Expand)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Part 7.1 - mylittlepwny on July 20th, 2011 10:07 pm (UTC) (Expand)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Part 7.1 - bendingsignpost on July 20th, 2011 10:44 pm (UTC) (Expand)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Part 7.1 - mylittlepwny on July 20th, 2011 11:02 pm (UTC) (Expand)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Part 7.1 - bendingsignpost on July 20th, 2011 11:25 pm (UTC) (Expand)
fiction, fiction, fiction: Doctor Whobendingsignpost on July 19th, 2011 04:22 pm (UTC)
Evidently Deviltown, Part 8
She wakes up and immediately regrets it.

Lying there for a bit, waiting out the worst of the pain, she has the strangest feeling that she’s missing something. Something pressing, something important.

She opens her eyes. Stares at the wall of her bedroom.

What’s wrong with this picture?

The realization flings her into movement, throwing back the duvet and wobbling to her feet. She is in her bedroom, she is in her bedroom, she did not fall asleep in her bedroom and she did not lock his door last night.

She staggers into the hall, having a panic attack at the sound of the telly from the sitting room. Oh fuck. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck, Jackie’s home, and oh god, his door, it’s unlocked. As quiet as she can, she opens it and looks inside and, fuck, she’s not going to cry, she is not.

She closes the door, sets her forehead against the frame. What’s she going to tell Jackie? They don’t even have papers for him, he’s going to be picked up as a stray and they don’t have his papers, she can’t go and reclaim him. Someone’s going to find him and resell him or pump him full of drugs and get high off him and she just, she just, she can’t.

If Jackie finds out, she’s going to be in so much trouble, she’ll have to pay her mum back and she doesn’t have enough to pay her mum and buy Freckles back. Or, or, she could tell Jackie that he’d just up and died, and then if someone turns Freckles in, then she’ll get him and she’ll tell Jackie he’s from the same batch. It’s like Jackie knows his face or his stupid ears or the crinkles around his eyes when he reads about Quidditch or talks about Hagrid.

From the sitting room, a laugh track plays and a male voice laughs along.

She follows the sound blindly. Stares at the tuft of brown hair peeking up from the couch.

She starts yelling. She doesn’t even know what words she’s using, she just starts yelling and shouting because she is so angry and he only sits there. He sits there, twisted around to stare at her with such wide, falsely innocent eyes and he doesn’t even stop eating his weird orange veg stick thing, making crunching noises at her like the sound of broken bones and trampled hearts.

“You have no idea!” she shouts. “You have no idea what could happen to you, do you know that? Someone could kill you and we can’t even press charges for damages! You could be picked up and sent to a draining house, do you want that? Do you have any idea what could happen to you?”

“In your sitting room?” he asks slowly, eyebrows raised.

“Don’t go outside!” she yells.

“Rose, I’m not stupid.”

“Says the idiot on the couch, waiting for my mum to walk in and catch him,” she snaps.

He pops the rest of the orange thing into his mouth. His cheek bulges out like he’s doing an impression of one of those apes at the zoo. “Message on the machine,” he says. Points to it. “She’ll be back around midnight.”

Everything drains away. It’s just... blank. In her head. Sort of buzzing, really.

“What?” she asks.

“Howard’s taking her out to some sort of breakfast buffet,” he explains. “I do not want the details.” With that, he flops back over on the couch to watch EastEnders.
Evidently Deviltown, Part 8.1 - bendingsignpost on July 19th, 2011 04:23 pm (UTC) (Expand)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Part 9 - bendingsignpost on July 20th, 2011 11:21 pm (UTC) (Expand)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Part 9 - earlgreytea68 on July 21st, 2011 01:29 pm (UTC) (Expand)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Part 9 - bendingsignpost on July 21st, 2011 03:06 pm (UTC) (Expand)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Part 9 - bendingsignpost on July 21st, 2011 05:46 pm (UTC) (Expand)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Part 10 - bendingsignpost on July 21st, 2011 05:41 pm (UTC) (Expand)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Part 11 - bendingsignpost on July 21st, 2011 05:42 pm (UTC) (Expand)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Part 11 - mylittlepwny on July 25th, 2011 03:34 am (UTC) (Expand)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Part 10 - mylittlepwny on July 25th, 2011 03:32 am (UTC) (Expand)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Part 8.1 - mylittlepwny on July 23rd, 2011 05:55 pm (UTC) (Expand)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Part 8.1 - bendingsignpost on July 23rd, 2011 11:14 pm (UTC) (Expand)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Part 8 - mylittlepwny on July 23rd, 2011 05:48 pm (UTC) (Expand)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Part 8 - bendingsignpost on July 23rd, 2011 11:05 pm (UTC) (Expand)
fiction, fiction, fiction: Doctor Whobendingsignpost on July 25th, 2011 03:01 am (UTC)
Evidently Deviltown, Arc2, Part 1
“Do you enjoy doing that?” she asks him one day, cheek by his knee, watching him type. He’s not very comfortable, as far as pillows go, but neither of them have complained about it so far. “The translating, I mean.”

“I like the emails best,” he says. “The little fiddly bits where we hammer out the wording. Denotation versus connotation, emphasis, all that.”

Lying on her stomach, arms folded up against his thigh, she tries to read German and fails. He fires off that email, and then she tries to read Spanish and doesn’t fail quite so badly. She twists a bit, looks up at a pale face lit by computer light. His slight smile means he knows, but he doesn’t answer her gaze. Instead, he shifts his arm, puts his elbow over her eyes.


“Rose, I’m trying to work.”

“So you like your job,” she says, rolling onto her back, sprawling with her head on his thigh. He’s hunched and crosslegged, straightening only once every so often.

“Love my job,” he says, frowning slightly. He leans forward, leans down, elbow adjusting around her head as he types. “That’s wrong,” he mutters.

She watches him at it and then she just closes her eyes, listening to the keyboard and the multitude of whispered words he can’t quite hold in.

“You’re going to be late for yours,” he prompts.

“I hate my job,” she says. “I know there are worse,” she adds hurriedly. “Much worse. But it’s just.... I don’t want that to be the rest of my life, y’know?”

Brown eyes flick down to her face.

“You do know,” she apologizes. “Sorry.” She turns her head, looks at the laptop. “You know it a lot better than I do, I’m just talking rubbish.”

He pets her hair, almost an absent touch. “Nothing wrong with wanting more,” he says.

“Tell that to my mum.”

“No thank you.”

They chuckle a little, but it’s weak.

He types on and says, “You could do anything, Rose.”

Anyone else and she’d laugh. Anyone else, she’d call mental. Except no one else has ever said that.

“The job in the shop’s the best I got,” she says.


She goes quiet. Shrugs, her shoulders up against his leg. “Dropped out of school,” she admits. “Go mental trying to go back in and finish.”

He types on.

“Even if I did, then what?”

“Well, what do you want?” he asks.


“If you could do anything,” he says, “what would it be?”

She thinks about it.

Three minutes later, he reminds her, “Rose, your shift.”

“Right, yeah.”

She gets up, hugging him around the shoulders as she does.


“See you.”

She locks him in and walks away, still wondering.

“If you could do anything, what would you do?” she asks Mickey.

“Anything like what?” he asks. “Ultimate vacation? Bucket list?”

“Job,” she says.

“A hacker,” he answers, not stopping to think. “Like in the movies, the man in the van, that’d be me.”

“No, seriously.”

“Seriously,” he insists. His grin is wide and excited. “It’d be so cool. Except that doesn’t work in the real world, so I guess I’d be the one catching hackers and stuff. Oh- oh! I’d test firewalls. Next best thing to professional videogame tester.”

She realizes she’s grinning along.

She realizes she’d never known any of that.

It perks her up a bit and she slips her hand into his as they walk. “How would you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Become a firewall tester.”

Mickey laughs. “Rose, that’s not actually going to happen.”

And she realizes she’d seen that coming a mile off.

“Yeah, but it’s fun to pretend,” she says. What she means is, it hurts not to.

Mickey laughs again, not meanly or anything. Like she’s done something cute and he likes her for it. She used to love that laugh. It's still nice, really. “I guess? Don’t really spend much time thinking about it.”

“So you like your job?”

He shrugs. “It’s all right.”

Over the next three weeks, Rose keeps track.

Mickey has two funny stories from work, one vaguely interesting anecdote, and about thirty complaints.

In that time, she comes home to find Freckles practically vibrating with the need to tell her something he absolutely believes is amazing every single dawn.
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Arc2, Part 1 - wendymr on July 25th, 2011 03:19 am (UTC) (Expand)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Arc2, Part 1 - bendingsignpost on July 25th, 2011 03:31 am (UTC) (Expand)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Arc2, Part 1 - wendymr on July 25th, 2011 04:29 am (UTC) (Expand)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Arc2, Part 2 - bendingsignpost on July 25th, 2011 04:07 am (UTC) (Expand)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Arc2, Part 2.1 - bendingsignpost on July 25th, 2011 04:09 am (UTC) (Expand)
Evidently Deviltown, Arc2, Part 3 - bendingsignpost on August 6th, 2011 04:23 am (UTC) (Expand)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Arc2, Part 3 - earlgreytea68 on August 7th, 2011 09:42 pm (UTC) (Expand)
Evidently Deviltown, Arc2, Part 4 - rallalon on October 3rd, 2011 09:26 pm (UTC) (Expand)
Evidently Deviltown, Arc2, Part 5 - rallalon on October 3rd, 2011 09:26 pm (UTC) (Expand)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Arc2, Part 5 - mylittlepwny on October 4th, 2011 12:27 am (UTC) (Expand)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Arc2, Part 5 - rallalon on October 4th, 2011 02:08 am (UTC) (Expand)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Arc2, Part 5 - mylittlepwny on October 5th, 2011 05:41 pm (UTC) (Expand)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Arc2, Part 5 - lostmoon71 on November 2nd, 2011 04:44 am (UTC) (Expand)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Arc2, Part 5 - ningen_demonai on October 7th, 2011 10:00 am (UTC) (Expand)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Arc2, Part 5 - bendingsignpost on October 7th, 2011 04:01 pm (UTC) (Expand)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Arc2, Part 5 - ningen_demonai on October 7th, 2011 07:32 pm (UTC) (Expand)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Arc2, Part 5 - develish1 on March 13th, 2014 12:49 am (UTC) (Expand)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Arc2, Part 1 - mylittlepwny on July 28th, 2011 06:32 pm (UTC) (Expand)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Arc2, Part 1 - bendingsignpost on July 29th, 2011 11:28 am (UTC) (Expand)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Arc2, Part 1 - Este Lore on December 12th, 2013 02:21 am (UTC) (Expand)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Arc2, Part 1 - earlgreytea68 on August 7th, 2011 09:16 pm (UTC) (Expand)