A Big Ball of Wibbly-Wobbly, Timey-Wimey Stuff

Sun, 23 Aug 2009 21:12:15 GMT

Random pointless icon dump time! Don't know if anybody will care, but I've been making too many and I figured I might as well stick some up here.

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Uhh, credit please, and comment if you feel like it?

Art from The Bee Charmer, Gauche in Movement & Ugly in Sense of Face, Silhoutte Masterpiece Theater, Fuck Yeah Brigitte Bardot, Fuck Yeah Gemma Ward, Jack Shoegazer, and the Bui Brothers.

Also, good luck at school, everyone! I wish everybody could've got to hang out more, but the times when we did get together were a lot of fun. I'll miss you guys!

On Holiday by Mistake (4/?)

Sun, 16 Mar 2008 17:07:17 GMT

Finally, another chapter done~

Title: On Holiday by Mistake (4/?)
Characters: Eighth Doctor, Iris Wildthyme, Withnail, Marwood, Uncle Monty (DW/Withnail & I crossover)
Spoilers: For Withnail & I, if you haven't seen that yet...
Rating: PG-13 for language
Summary: A ghastly accident-- amnesia, again-- awkward unwanted sexual tension in a shack in the English countryside. Just what Iris likes best.
Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me. In fact, I do not actually have any possessions at all. So this is all right, then.

Chapter 1 ~ Chapter 2 ~ Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Almost the very instant they walked into Monty’s cottage, Marwood was between Iris and Withnail, clinging to Withnail’s coat sleeve as though his life depended on it.

“You’re never leaving me again,” he hissed frantically into Withnail’s ear, to Iris’s intense amusement. “You don’t know what I’ve been through. That man is desperate for a shag, and I am likely to be on the receiving end of it if we do not leave, and soon.”

“But we can’t leave now,” said Withnail, completely unimpressed by the look of terror on Marwood’s face. “We have just discovered a spaceship crashed in the woods over there.” He gestured vaguely over his shoulder. “Iris says there is an alien conspiracy, and there is nothing to do but stay here and thwart it.” He threw himself onto a chair and grabbed a wine bottle off the table.

“Oh, no.” Marwood turned to Iris, a bitter smile on his face. “You can stay here and investigate any and all aliens you find, but I am leaving tonight.”

“How would you feel if we allowed an alien invasion to take place while we sat idly by?” Withnail asked reprovingly. “Besides, you are supposed to be some great hero, according to Iris, and it looks as though heroism will be required. You had better get to it.” He attempted to prise Marwood’s fingers from his coat unsuccessfully.

“The only invasion there is likely to be tonight is that of my arse.” Marwood glared fiercely at Withnail. “You would understand the gravity of the situation if it were your arse, Withnail you selfish bastard.”

“Are my ungrateful nephew and his friend back?” Monty called from the next room. He soon bustled into the front hall, a large dish of beef held in two-oven mitted hands. Marwood stepped swiftly behind Withnail’s chair. “And did you two have a nice walk?”

“Very nice, thanks,” Iris said, giving Withnail a significant look. “Penrith’s very peaceful country.”

“You won’t believe what we found, Uncle,” Withnail began, missing the look. “In the trees down by the river there’s a—“

“A sort of a barrow,” Iris cut in, “looks like an old grave, made by whoever lived here before us. Do you know anything about the first peoples in this area?”

“Ah, to be as free as Nature first made man, ere the base laws of servitude began, when wild in woods the noble savage ran,” Monty sighed. “They were a luckier people than we.”

“Mm,” Iris responded, her lips twisting up at the corners, “only in the modern age have we developed troubles.”

“In the state of nature, Man need not deal with car payments or tax collectors or televisions,” Monty admonished. “Talking of televisions, dear girl, what is all that mess that I had to clear off the kitchen table?”

Iris’s eyes widened in alarm. “You didn’t throw any of it away, I hope?”

“An interesting device like that? I should hope not,” Monty cried. He smiled at Iris as though they were together part of some inside joke, and shifted his grip on the heavy pan of meat. “You must tell me, what does it do?”

Iris laughed nervously. “Ah, nothing yet—just an experiment, y’know. I’ll see if I can get it to do something before I brag about it, huh?”

“So modest,” Monty murmured, “Withnail could do to learn some lessons from her, don’t you think, Marwood?”

Marwood smiled weakly back at him, and Iris took this opportunity to slip out of the room and look after TARDIS detector. She found its parts in a box in the corner of the kitchen, mostly undamaged despite what was doubtfully careless handling on Monty’s part. Iris sighed in relief, and promised herself that next time she would be more careful not to leave anachronistic technology lying about the house.

~~~

After dinner, Monty put on a record and poured everyone a snifter of brandy. Iris took hers into the dining room, where she spread the various pieces of the TARDIS detector out across the table and got back to work. She lit herself a cigarette and let it dangle between her lips as she began to assemble the electromagnetic pulse unit.

“What are you working on?” Marwood asked from behind her. She jumped.

“I see you’ve maintained your ability to sneak up on people, you slick bastard,” she said mildly. “Not totally sure what I’m makin’ yet.— Well, I mostly know. It’s gonna be a huon particle detector.”

“’s that?” Marwood spun a chair around and sat down, folding his arms across the back.

“Huon particles are old bits of energy—made by us Time Lords. We’re tinkerers, we are—always have been. Anyhow, eons ago they prodded and prodded at these funny particles until they gave off immense amounts of energy and blew lots of stuff up. Then they realized they could use them in the powering of TARDISes—spaceships, remember?” Marwood nodded. “There’s huon energy in your TARDIS, and there oughtn’t to be any anywhere else on this little backwater of a planet.” Marwood looked vaguely offended at this—Iris held up her hands in supplication. “Don’t get me wrong—’s a nice little planet. You lot are good at drinking and music and late-night TV. But when it comes to this saving-the-universe-with-brains-and-gadgetry stuff, Earth is not the joint to be on.”

Marwood nodded slowly, as though he understood what was going on. “Is it going to work?”

“How should I know? I’m making it up as I go along. Which has served me well enough so far, so hey.” She grinned.

Iris glanced across at Marwood sideways; he looked pale and drawn and hung over. “You’nna be all right? If you’ve got any groceries left around this joint after Monty’s had at them, I could cobble together a hangover remedy—I’m good at hangover remedies. Lots of practice, y’know.” She winked broadly.

He shook his head. “It’s not that.”

“C’mon, doll. I know that angsty face. What’s up?” She nudged him in the ribs with part of an old radio.

Marwood didn’t speak immediately; he ran a hand through his wild, curly hair and gnawed at his lip for a moment before he knew what he meant to say. “I find myself hoping this will all be some sort of dream,” he confessed finally, “some mad fantasy born from Danny and his wares, maybe, or just a particularly absurd nightmare. To suddenly be someone entirely different than the man you thought you were…I keep thinking that I’ll wake up—or that you’ll realize after all that no, it isn’t me, and that your Doctor is still out there somewhere.”

Iris’s face twisted into a curious expression; Marwood wasn’t sure whether she were about to laugh or cry. “Oh, it’s you, sweetheart, no doubt of that.”

“But how can you be sure?” he moaned. “It doesn’t make any sense!”

“Well, lessee, aside from you having the exact same face?” she snorted. “But I’d know you in a different face, even—it’s a Gallifrey thing. When I look in your eyes I can just tell—it’s hard to explain—we’re all a little telepathic, you know—it has something to do with that. But I know it’s you.”

“Telepathic?” Marwood asked, exasperated. “I don’t suppose you can fly, as well?”

Iris laughed. “That would save me a lot of trouble. But hey, I didn’t think of it before…maybe I could trigger some of your memories telepathically. Poke around in your brain some, see if I could find what you lost.”

Marwood scooted his chair back instinctively. “Would it hurt?”

“Only if you wanted it to,” Iris smirked wickedly. She backtracked when she saw the look of apprehension on Marwood’s face. “I mean, ah, I’m totally kidding, it’s completely painless. Come here—it’ll help if I can touch you.” She scooted her chair towards him and he shrank back slightly, his bright blue eyes locked to hers. “Honestly, now, I’m not gonna hurt you, I promise. Do you mind…?” She laid her hands on either side of his face at the temples.

“No, go right on ahead, I never mind when you randomly grab and examine me,” Marwood complained.

“Is that an invitation? Right, right, sorry, never mind.” Iris let go of Marwood’s temples to tuck her hair behind her ears. “I’m a bit nervous about this, m’self, too, but oh well—but ah, try an’ relax, right?”

“That’s all very well for you to say,” Marwood began angrily, but Iris shushed him and took his head in her hands again.

“Now, you just relax, and I’ll have a look ’round—not at anything you’ve been up to, per se, I’m actually looking for the Doctor’s thoughts. I won’t pry, honest.” She gave him a weak smile. “Well, yes I will, but I’ll try to be good. Look—you can trust me. I’ve spent a lifetime getting you out of scrapes and getting pulled out of scrapes by you. You used to trust me, or mostly trust me, or at any rate, you would’ve realized how important it is that we find your TARDIS. And surely you’re curious?”

“Curious?” Marwood looked at her blankly.

“About the Doctor. About who you really are. Odds are that if I can pull up your old memories, you’ll see them too.” She arched an eyebrow at him. “So whaddya say?”

“All right, all right, let’s just get on with it, then.” Marwood breathed deeply and closed his eyes. “Go ahead.”

“Right then.”

Iris had never really been fond of using telepathy. Sure, it made sex more interesting, but she’d never had a knack for finding her way around in other people’s minds—it was tricky enough to know her own. And Marwood’s mind was uncomfortably swirly, and blurry about the edges, doubtless from the residue of some hash or alcohol. His consciousness was tenebrous and elusive, and Iris was a minute in concentrating before she was sure her hold on it was secure. The edges came somewhat more into focus and then, feeling rather motion-sick, Iris reached out into Marwood’s mind to see what she could see.

What was immediately apparent to her was that there wasn’t much to it. Most of what she could see was a horrible, dingy little apartment, ill-lit, with old dishes and underwear all over the floor. Withnail, too, seemed a permanent fixture, blurred about the scene in his overcoat and y-fronts, simultaneously passed out on the couch, slumped over a chair, and shouting at something in the kitchen. Iris wondered if there was a reason Withnail was only wearing his underwear in Marwood’s brain, but then remembered her promise not to snoop and tried to look deeper. She concentrated deeply and left the flat, pushing back through vague memories of alleyways and toast.

All she found was a wall.

It was white, and it was smooth, and it went up so high that Iris felt dizzy just looking at it. She prodded at it with her mind; it didn’t feel hard, as it didn’t feel of anything, but it resisted her probing easily.

“So you’re the root of the problem,” said Iris to herself, faintly conscious of her lips moving what felt like a hundred miles away. “Poor Doctor. Amnesia looks like your old TARDIS interior. No wonder you’re so screwed up.”

Then Iris pushed against the wall with the whole of her mind, summoning all of the force of her memories and her psychic training against the wall. She seemed to be making no progress, until suddenly there was a thick fog. When it cleared, she was inside the Doctor’s TARDIS.

She saw herself flying out the doors of the TARDIS and she felt a heavy despair grip at her heart. Her longish, curly brown hair whipped about in the wind of the vortex, and she strode over to the controls. The TARDIS was screeching like a wounded animal; she had never known her to make that noise, in all the hundreds of years she had lived there. She checked the scanners wildly; the dimensional transducer was giving her readings all over the place, and the molecular converter was flickering dangerously.

“No no no no no,” she felt herself saying, “you can’t crash, old girl, it’s just not possible—you would’ve told me if something were wrong—”

A large spark flared on the opposite side of the consul and the room began to fill with smoke. Iris coughed into the arm of her velvet coat and pulled out her sonic screwdriver, frantically hoping to save the most important circuits.

But she was too late. She heard a nasty popping sound as the dimensional stabilizer gave out, and the TARDIS gave a nasty lurch, thrown all at once out of the vortex. She had just enough time to swear before the pressure became too great and the scene before her swirled.

Without any warning, she was outside of the TARDIS, staggering through a cold alleyway. She stared up into the gray sky above her and felt a wave of nausea wash over her. Grime caked to her shoes and she was uncomfortably aware of the rank smell of her burnt velvet coat. She did not know what she was doing there. She did not know whose feet were holding her up. And then, all of a sudden, those feet weren’t holding her up, anyway.

Iris opened her eyes, her own eyes, and flew backwards away from Marwood, nearly falling out of her chair in the process. She was pale and sweaty, and her hands were shaking; she laughed hollowly in an attempt to reassure Marwood.

“Man, baby doll,” she said, wiping her nose with the back of her hand, “you sure do have a crap life. But at least you’re predictable in a crisis—I should’ve guessed your emergency crash-land coordinates. Man, did you know that that city retains its stink even in memories? Oh, but look what you’ve done—my nose is bleeding. This is all your fault.” She brandished her bloody hand at Marwood.

“What—what was that?” Marwood was shaking too—his mouth hung open like a fish’s. “What did you find?”

Iris groaned and pinched her nose shut with a handkerchief she found in a pocket. “You don’t remember? I dug all that out of your brain and you still don’t remember?”

“It’s not my fault!” he cried, exasperated. “Whatever the fuck that was, it never happened to me, and trying to watch it made my head hurt like a bastard. God, I need a drink.” He stood, grabbed his glass, and staggered towards the next room.

“Wait a mo’—I’m comin’ with you.” Iris stood woozily and followed. “We need a family meeting, is what we need. Right now.”

Withnail uncle and nephew were playing poker in the sitting room, slouched back lazily in their chairs and allowing their eyelids to droop heavily. Marwood very nearly skipped into the room and snatched a bottle from off the table. He tipped the remainder of its contents into his glass, still shaking.

“What the fuck is the matter, Marwood?” Withnail yawned. “You look as though you’ve seen our landlord.”

“It’s her,” Marwood rasped, and downed the whole glass at a go, “she’s mental, I tell you. She’s done something to me head!”

“Julius Caesar said the exact same thing to me once,” said Iris, smirking, “but I had to tell him, no, Jules, Mark Antony will get so jealous and I wouldn’t wanna get in a fight with the bugger—you should’ve seen his biceps. But this is not why I have gathered you all here.”

“Do you have some development to announce to us?” Monty asked, stifling a belch behind a flipper of a hand.

“I do, actually,” said Iris, putting a hand on either hip and thrusting out her chin. “I have found the TARDI—the thing I was looking for. It’s in London.”

“You genuinely found the—I beg your pardon?” Monty looked up at her sharply.

“A thingywhat. Has to do with that jumble of parts I left all over the table,” Iris said airily. “It’s in London. And we’re going there tomorrow.”

“What are we rushing off for?” Withnail complained.

“But you hate it here,” Marwood reminded him. “And that’s wonderful, Iris, that really is—are you sure we can’t leave tonight?” He shot a wary glance at Monty.

“Of course we mustn’t leave tonight, dear boy,” said Monty, completely misinterpreting the glance and smiling coyly at Marwood, “We will have to be well-rested if we are going to hunt the elusive TARDIS on the morrow.”

“We don’t all have to go, actually,” Iris shrugged, “but I’m certainly leaving, and I’m taking Marwood with me.” Marwood nodded fervently.

“Well, I’m not staying in this cottage with only him for company!” Monty gestured at Withnail.

“Well then, it’s settled!” cried Iris triumphantly. “Tomorrow, we go to London.” And tomorrow, I get home, she added inwardly, and smiled to herself.

Fitz FST~

Tue, 04 Mar 2008 04:21:40 GMT

I have a ridiculous, terrible, jam-packed week coming up, and so what have I done with my time?

I have made an FST.

1. Nada Surf - Happy Kid

I'm just a happy kid
Stuck with the heart of an old punk
Drowning in my id
Always hungry like it's on junk
I'm just a happy kid

Fitz enjoys his angst. It's not like the worst stuff ever has happened to him-- but being moody is fun. Also, self-mockery. This song is upbeat and yet bitter-- like, ah, him. XD;

2. Don't Make Me a Target - Spoon

Here come the man from the stars
we don't know why he go so far
and keep on marching along
beating his drum

...

Don't make me a target

At first I was always expecting Fitz to just give up and leave-- he's so flinchy. And yet, somehow, he doesn't. Don't think he knows why, either.

3. While my Guitar Gently Weeps - the Beatles

I look at the world and I notice it's turning
While my guitar gently weeps
With every mistake we must surely be learning
Still my guitar gently weeps

This is a great song for a guitarist, and you know Fitz has got to dig the Beatles. I can totally see him playing this. Emoting through his guitar is probably a concept with which he's terribly familiar.

4. Guys Like Me - Aimee Mann

Cause guys like me we're real good at the gate
You'll agree with the odds on the slate
And put your money on a bona fide heavy weight
And take it off guys like me
Take off guys like me

Self-esteem issues and wallowing-- who could resist such a song? Ohh, Fitz. ♥

5. Last to Know - Neil Finn

Way down the track
made the wrong turn
Finished up where I started
You noticed a change come over me
Fell in love with my own reflection yeah
How does it feel beneath your own wheel
Feels like an accident waking up
Under a bus with my fingers crossed
Now is the time we could make it up

This song, too, is just a good guitar song-- it's the sort of thing he could sound really good playing, even though the viola is a big part of what makes it brilliant. But! Gradually coming 'round from being such a selfish, disaffected youth is Fitz's whole journey-- and this is a song about pulling your head out of your ass. So.

6. Waltz - Fiona Apple

Everyone else's goal's to get big headed
Why should I follow that beat being that I'm
Better than fine

He has to be very independent, and I've always thought he must be driven by some sort of innate optimism. Granted, he's spent years and years trying to squash it, but Fitz keeps on keepin' on. It's something to admire~

7. Independence Day - Elliott Smith

I saw you caught between all the people out making a scene
And a bright ideal, tomorrow
Ooh, don't go too far
Stay who you are

Everybody knows
Everybody knows
Everybody knows
You only live a day
But it's brilliant anyway

Another guitar song, and I just thought that Elliott Smith's tone suits him really well. Also, existentialism-- can't you see Fitz being very morbidly happy with Sartre? Or Waiting for Godot. I bet he'd find Waiting for Godot hysterically funny.

8. Counter Spark - Sondre Lerche

You could be sad but never torn
You saw the light when it was on
You never turned or looked away
Your eyes were focused, mine were grey

Your sentences were concentrated
You made your points so understated
Where I would mumble, you would say
Your eyes were focused, mine were grey

I made up conversations with my symbolic language
Saying everybody wants to be like you
But I'd rather fall in love with you

You got the picture from the start
You saw right through me in the dark
You saw that I couldn't behave
with eyes so focused, yet so frail

I chose you from a million
You were the choice of billions
wishing they would try to be like you
But I'd rather fall in love with you

All right, so it got a bit shippy. I didn't mean to, but it just sort of happened. I think, though, that even if you don't actually ship Doctor/Fitz, which I don't really, you've got to agree that Fitz has got a man-crush on the Doctor and they do have a very loving relationship. And this whole song is just them, to me-- from the eyes to the Doctor appreciating Fitz where no one else would. And I just love this song~

9. Nobody Takes Me Seriously - Split Enz

I don't wanna suffer these conditions no more
Haven't I the right to say
I don't wanna suffer these conditions no more
Nobody takes me seriously anyway
Nobody takes me seriously anyway
Nobody takes me seriously anyway

Rebellion and silly angst. Oh Fitz~ we cannot take you seriously in spite and because of your angsting~ but this is also why we love you ♥

10. My Little Japanese Cigarette Case - Spoon

It's just my Japanese cigarette case
bring a mirror to my face
and let all my memories be gone

I wasn't really going to go into that whole messy Faction Paradox thing, but I suppose you can take this song that way if you really feel like it. Mainly I was thinking that Fitz needs to smoke so he can cope. Also he is probably addicted.

11. Some Unholy War - Amy Winehouse

If my man was fighting
Some unholy war
I would be behind him
Straight shook up beside him
With strength he didn't know
It's you I'm fighting for
He can't lose with me in tow
I refuse to let him go
At his side and drunk on pride
We wait for the blow

I really love the generally-acknowledged fanon that Fitz stuck with the Doctor up through the war. He is stubborn and brilliant and loyal, and secretly braver than all the other companions put together. Just don't tell him that.

12. Action Adventure - Andrew Bird

so when you think you’re on the fast track
you find it’s just a cul-de-sac back
in that adult lifestyle community
where all your little boys, your action toys are duty free

ooo please don’t get too excited
oooo maybe you’re not invited to my action adventure
my action adventure dream

All this time, Fitz has had it figured out and you don't. He totally knew that. And smirks at you because of it. Also, I love Andrew Bird so much.

FST + Cover uploaded here~

Comments'd be fun, if you're'nna take it, just so's I can see if people like it or no~ :D?

On Holiday by Mistake (3/?)

Mon, 25 Feb 2008 04:08:11 GMT

Good God, this took me so much longer than I'd hoped it would. Would you believe me if I told you it was because Withnail wasn't falling into a hole properly? Probably not. It was probably because the scene I'd been basing this whole chapter around turns out to go in the next one. Anyhow, here's part three~

Title: On Holiday by Mistake
Characters: Eighth Doctor, Iris Wildthyme, Withnail, Marwood, Uncle Monty (DW/Withnail & I crossover)
Spoilers: For Withnail & I, if you haven't seen that yet...
Rating: PG-13 for language
Summary: A ghastly accident-- amnesia, again-- awkward unwanted sexual tension in a shack in the English countryside. Just what Iris likes best.
Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me. In fact, I do not actually have any possessions at all. So this is all right, then.

Iris wasn’t very good at small towns. She was happiest in the city, where she could walk outside in the middle of the night and discover that no one else had gone to bed yet, either. She liked a town with more than one block for their bar district. Penrith had only the one pub, and that pub didn’t even have a decent jukebox. To make matters worse, Iris had discovered, upon finding the general store, that it had shut hours ago. But this was no great barrier to a woman with a hairpin and years of experience of getting out of jail cells. She was inside the store in under a minute.

Iris passed up all the candy and soap and other bits and bats that always collect in the front of a general store and headed for the back. She found, dusty and neglected on a low shelf, a secondhand radio, three TV tubes, a rotary telephone, and a couple old batteries. She stuffed all of these in her pockets (which were bigger on the inside), left either 200 dollars or 200 cents Diplosian on the counter, she couldn’t remember which, and walked out towards the pub, whistling to herself.

One thing Iris didn’t mind about the country was the stars. The night sky glittered with thousands of them, and the moon was so bright, she could see Marwood and Withnail staggering blearily toward her from the pub when they were still hundreds of yards off.

“You boys have fun?” She fell into step with them when they had caught up.

“We’re going to be poached,” said Withnail, miserably. “It’s all his fault.”

“You’re the one who got into an argument with him,” Marwood pointed out, only mildly irritated.

“You’re the one who pranced at him.”

“I didn’t prance at him; just because he accused me of prancing does not mean I undertook to prance at him.”

“What are you talking about?” Iris laughed.

“Well you see,” Withnail began, “we encountered a poacher in the bar who—”

And then suddenly Withnail’s head was out of Iris’s line of vision. There was a thrashing of limbs, a thump and a yelp; when Iris and Marwood turned to look, Withnail had fallen off a ledge into a deep hole in the ground, some thirty feet across.

“What fucker put a hole in the middle of this field?” he demanded, pulling himself quickly up. Iris reluctantly turned her gaze from the sky to the ground and the giant scar in the field. “It’s four fucking feet deep!” Withnail shouted, “What would you want with a four-foot hole in your field? I bet it’s here just to trap unwary Londoners, whom the owners of this property then eat for breakfast.” He rested his elbows on the lip of the hole and glared petulantly.

“Hey,” said Iris suddenly. “Hey. Wait a mo’. I know what kind of hole this is. I mean, not a hole. This is an impact crater. You smell that funny smell?” She hopped into the crater. “That’s the smell of burnt dirt. Mmyep, look here!” She brushed her fingers over the dirt and brought them away coated in dark dust. “Something landed here! Hahaha, now we’re getting somewhere!”

“Like your aliens?” Marwood glanced around. “You think something from outer space landed in this field?”

“Doll, you’re’a have an awkward time if you’re afraid of aliens. Being as you are one, an’ all. Get down here and help me look for tracks, won’t you?”

“Stand aside,” Withnail commanded, coming up from behind her. “I’ll take care of this.”

“Darling, you couldn’t tell an ATV track from your backside, let alone possible evidence of hydrogen propulsion waste product, or suchlike. We’re looking for—”

“It went this way,” said Marwood, calmly. He had walked to the other side of the crater; he prodded at the ground with his toe. “All the grass is crushed down over here.”

“Hey mm?” Iris ran over, teetering slightly on the uneven ground in her tall boots. “Damn, you found something. You’re not feelin’ a burst of bein’ clever comin’ on, are you?”

“I still don’t remember anything, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Well, fine. But I think you’re right…” Iris ran her hands over the ground, testing the compacted dirt underneath her fingers. “Definitely been something this way. But lord, I can’t tell what it is, in this light—!”

“We’re going after the bastards. I’m not letting an aliens mess with my planet.” Withnail stood up straight and attempted to puff his thin chest out.

“Withnail—Withnail you’re drunk. You’re in no mood to combat anyone, let alone whatever the hell it is that landed here,” Iris sighed.

“And maybe it’s someone looking for Iris and the Doctor,” said Marwood reasonably.

“Yeah, a rescue party, for us,” Iris smiled wanly. “That happens all the time, people actually bothering to rescue us. Well, I suppose we can hope, eh?” She hoisted herself out of the hole easily and bounced to her feet. “Mm, I love being young. Well, look, lads, I don’t fancy taking this on in the middle of the night—I’m off for Crow Crag. You coming, Withnail? Let’s just go home.”

“You are both cowards—I refuse to back down from this extraterrestrial threat.” He folded his arms.

“Might as well approach this scientifically, and do all the research during the daylight when we can see what kind of evidence we’re treading on.” Iris yawned and brushed her hair out of her eyes. “We’d better get in—b’sides, I wanted to get started tinkering on my project tonight. And you boys need to get to bed before one of you barfs on my coat.”

“Mm,” Marwood agreed. He grabbed Withnail by the wrists and hauled him out of the crater.

“Can you hold him up, or do you need my help?” Iris asked wryly, setting out for the cottage.

“I am not drunk!” Withnail insisted hotly, leaning heavily into Marwood.

“’Course you aren’t, you’re just walkin’ like that for fun.”

Gradually, the three of them staggered to the cottage at Crow Crag.

~~~

Iris tossed herself into a chair at the dinner table and emptied her pockets. She wedged one of her industrial-strength fingernails into the grooves on one of the screws that held the TV together. She soon had the TV down to its raw components; she groaned, prodding at the frayed wires and suspiciously crispy cathode-ray tubes. “Now would be a good time for you to remember who you are, y’know, Doc,” she said, mostly to herself. “You were always better at this stuff than me—more my style to sit by the side of the road and stick out my long pretty legs ’till somebody fixes it for me. Oh, I hate work.” Marwood didn’t notice her saying this, though, as he was having a loud and very distracting argument with Withnail about a gun. Iris ignored them and continued working, and soon the little cottage was quiet and dark, save for the small gas lamp she had illuminating the table. She wasn’t entirely sure what she was making, but she knew that at least some of the chemicals in the TV tubes and the batteries would light up in the presence of huon particles, from the heart of the TARDIS, and that she was going to find that damn timeship no matter what.

She sat up abruptly some hours later, a crick in her neck and a hint of drool in the corner of her mouth.

“How did I fall asleep? I never fall asleep,” she complained. She looked about her blearily; the chairs cast eerie shadows in the light of the lamp that reminded her of monsters she’d fought light years away. Gradually, she became aware of a quiet creaking coming from the stairs.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked, archly. “Creeping about like that in the night, you could give a girl the wrong idea about your intentions.”

“Be quiet,” came Withnail’s voice, a strained stage whisper. “Have you heard him?”

“Heard who?” She didn’t bother to make her voice any quieter. “What the hell, Withnail.”

“We’re going to die,” he moaned, “he’s going to kill us all. It’s all his fault—he attracted Jake’s attention, and now we are going to die.”

Iris stood and walked over to the staircase. There, she was treated to the sight of Withnail in a long nightgown, shotgun clutched in his hands and frizzy hair sticking up straight. “Is this that poacher you’ve been going on about? Because he is not going to kill you. I don’t know anyone who’d bother to kill you.”

“You don’t understand,” he hissed, rocking back and forth in terror, “he is completely hatstand. He will stop at nothing until he has poached us and sold us to the locals for their stews.”

Suddenly, the door groaned as pressure was applied to it; Iris could see it shaking in its frame.

“Well,” she said quietly. “You go upstairs, y’ great coward, I’ll deal with this.”

Upon which Withnail turned and fled up the stairs, his great nightshirt billowing about him.

Iris drew her blaster from her coat pocket and crept toward the door. Her double heartbeat sounded loud in her ears and she shook herself—no puny poacher was a match for Iris Wildthyme, renegade Time Lady, scourge of the galaxies. Probably.

Steeling herself, she threw the door open and leveled her blaster at whoever and whatever was on the other side.

“Right, you bastard, what’re you playing at?” she snarled.

The bastard turned out to be a fat old man in a sweatervest. He peered at her forlornly through thick glasses.

“I’m sorry to have frightened you,” he apologized in a reedy voice, “but I think it only right that you let me into my own cottage now.” Rain dripped off his curled and gelled hair.

“…you’re not a poacher, are you.” Iris lowered the blaster and stepped back to let him indoors. She was going to revenge herself on Withnail for working her up like that.

“I most certainly am not.” He waddled past her and peeled off his coat. “I am a thespian—well, I was a thespian, but one can never truly leave it behind, can one?”

“Oh I say,” said Iris, the facts suddenly aligning themselves in her mind, “you’re the homosexual uncle, aren’t you? Well, bully for you!” She clapped him on the damp shoulder; he peered at her in astonishment. “Tricky being out these days, isn’t it? Good thing most people are too high to notice.”

“Withnail told you that I…” his piggy eyes narrowed, and he looked even piggier.

“Ah, no, you’re just a bit flaming, that’s all. B’sides, so many of you theatre types, y’know what I mean?” said Iris, waggling her eyebrows and reveling in her lack of political correctness. “What was your name again? ’m sure Withnail told me but it utterly escapes me now.”

“Montague Withnail,” said he, starting to get a bit huffy and pink. “But you have not told me who you might be, or how you came to be in my cottage.”

“Hmm? Oh, Iris, Iris Wildthyme—friend of your nephew’s, happened to be up in Penrith, sick old aunt, but she’s better now so that’s all right—got lots of aunts anyway, hardly matters if I lose one—what was I saying—oh yes, decided to drop by on him an’ Marwood, see if they’ve been able to fend for themselves in a town where you half to walk half a mile to buy fa—cigarettes.” She smiled innocuously. “Oh, talking of those two—you should go upstairs and check on them. They were acting a bit strangely earlier—you should poke your head in their rooms and see if they’re sleeping. But be very very quiet.” She tried very hard not to snigger.

“Ahh,” he said thoughtfully. “That is a good idea, Iris, thank you. Do you know which room is Marwood’s, by any chance?”

Well huh, thought Iris to herself, and tried to suppress the twinge in her gut. “I don’t, actually—bet Withnail took the largest bed, though.”

“You’re a very clever sort of girl, aren’t you,” said Monty idly, giving her a fond smile. Iris gave a sickly grin that hopefully didn’t look so sickly in the half light.

“I’ll see you in the morning, then, miss,” said he, and padded silently up the staircase.

Iris stood at its foot and listened intently. A minute later, she was rewarded with Withnail’s horrified shriek of Monty, you terrible cunt!

Iris smiled and went to make herself a bed on the couch.

~~~

She awoke the next morning to the smell of eggs and coffee, and Marwood nudging her in the side with his knee.

“Hoi,” he said, prodding at her harder, “Wake up. Monty’s made breakfast.”

“Gnnnf.” She sat up and attempted to straighten her wild, poofy hair with her fingernails.

“Also, Withnail’s going to murder you for the fright Monty gave him last night. Reckons it was your fault, not warning us.”

“Let him try,” she said airily, tugging her coat about herself and standing. She
blinked sleepily at Marwood. “Good God you look beautiful in that sweater. I shouldn’t wear that around Monty if I was you, you know.”

“What?” Marwood shot her a look of sheer terror.

“Mm, nothing—just saying, eh?” She raised her eyebrows significantly at him and glided off to the kitchen for a plate.

“So,” Iris declared after she’d finished breakfast to the table at large, “I’m going out for a stroll, now. Looks relatively okay outside. And there’s things I want to check out.”

“Like the crater?” Withnail asked sharply. He had just come down, and was tucking into his scrambled eggs voraciously.

“What crater? I’ve never seen a crater about here in my life, and I must have walked every path in the county,” said Monty, brushing toast crumbs off his expansive stomach.

“Oh, it’s not a proper crater, really,” said Iris, giving Withnail a Look, “just a funny little hole in the ground. Withnail fell into it yesterday.”

“Ha ha! My boy, you really must be more careful.”

“The terrain is very treacherous, you know, Uncle.” Withnail threw his napkin down on the table and wiped egg off his chin with the back of his hand. “I think I shall have to accompany Iris on her walk. She needs looking after.”

“I do not need looking after!” cried Iris, who had been very keen to poke around without any distractions. “Do I need looking after, D—Marwood?”

“Actually,” said Marwood mildly, “I was thinking I might come along. Take in the air, that sort of thing.”

“Oh, but you simply must stay here with me, dear boy!” Monty laid a plump hand on Marwood’s sleeve. “He told me you’re a wizard in the kitchen, and I was going to prepare us a proper luncheon. I’d hoped to have your help.”

“Yes, Marwood, why don’t you help Monty?” Withnail stood and gave Marwood a diabolically innocent smile. “Then we can all go on a hike this afternoon.”

“Maybe you ought to stay here with your uncle,” said Iris, glancing nervously at Monty.

“Oh no, he’s a perfectly useless cook—all he knows how to do is open bottles.” Monty smiled indulgently. “You two go off—I insist!—and we shall see you later.”

“All right then.” He’s been in worse scrapes, said Iris to herself, and stood to fetch her boots. “Come on then, Withnail.”

She tried to ignore Marwood’s glare of pure hatred and retreated out the door as quickly as possible.

~~~

Iris walked briskly down the front path, enjoying what sunshine was breaking through the clouds. Withnail had to jog to catch up to her, and Iris noticed as he came up behind her that he’d brought the shotgun with him.

“And what do you think you’re doing with that?” she asked him shortly.

Withnail stared blankly back at her. “We’re going alien hunting. I wanted to be prepared.”

“Is that what you think we’re doing? Because that is really not what we’re doing. Also, hunting is never as much fun as it looks. The thing that is supposed to get killed is so rarely the thing that is.”

“I want to kill something,” said Withnail determinedly. “I want to kill it and eat its flesh. And then fashion a scarf out of its pelt.”

“Baby doll, most aliens don’t make good scarves.” Iris giggled at him in spite of herself.

“I have not had a proper meal in three days,” Withnail insisted, “and Monty’s bound to fix us a bunch of vegetables. He seems to fixate on them.”

“Well, maybe I could carry the gun for you until—”

“You have made it perfectly clear already that you do not trust me,” he said coldly. “I fear I shall have to keep this for my own protection. Probably you will turn on me at any moment, clobber me over the head, and haul me up to the mothership.”

“Probably I will,” grumbled Iris, coming up over the crest of a hill and finally spotting the crater. “Right, here we are. Now, if you see anything interesting, don’t touch it or move it.”

“Or you’ll do me for tampering with evidence?” Withnail sneered.

Iris shivered. “Trust me, I wouldn’t do you for anything.”

She hopped into the crater and dropped to her knees, scanning the ground for anything interesting that might have broken off during the landing. Soon, her fingernails were crammed with dust and her knees were bruised, and she’d found a button.

“There’s that pair of tracks here,” Withnail hissed from above her. He crouched on one knee and shaded his eyes with a hand.

“Tyre or big-thing-being dragged or, I don’t know, bunny rabbit?” Iris squinted up at him, cranky in her certainty that her nose was going to get sunburned.

“I can’t be sure, I haven’t seen many bunny rabbits in the wild. I shall follow them to their source and see what I find.”

“You do that,” said Iris, returning to her dirt.

It wasn’t long until she heard Withnail shouting something at her from a great distance. Rolling her eyes, she clambered out of the pit and looked for Withnail.

He had wound his way down through the countryside, and was a speck at the bottom of the gently sloping hill, waving his long arms frantically. He was almost lost in a small grove of trees that was struggling to get by at the edge of a dry streambed. He began waving the gun in order to make himself more visible; Iris instinctively ducked, and hurried down the slope as fast as she could.

When Iris caught up to him, Withnail dramatically put a long finger to his lips and intoned, “Quiet. I have found something, and I do not want to disturb anything lurking within.”

“Highly dangerous rabbit warren?” Iris murmured, allowing him to lead her through the small woods.

“Much better. Look.”

A small landing pod nestled amongst the trees, buried up to its nose in unhealthy-looking shrubbery. It was only about six feet tall, Iris reckoned, and it had three fins that made it look like a daft and very lost fish. It had wide tracks, like a tank, which evidently had been lowered out of the body of the craft for land transport. Iris personally thought they were a bit lame. “Give me a hovercar any day,” she muttered to herself, and Withnail gave her a funny look.

“Can you get inside it?”

“I can get inside anything,” Iris grinned. She circled the craft to the side with the hatch and looked for a lock. “How does this thing have yucky treads but no useful locks or switches by the door? Is it voice command, maybe? Open, you bastard,” she addressed it hopefully. The windshield glinted at her in the sun, obviously unimpressed. “You know what? Fine.” Iris thumped the side of the craft with the heel of her palm as hard as she could—and to her surprise, the front hatch swung up, revealing the whole of the driver’s console.

“You didn’t do that on purpose,” said Withnail, leaning forward and poking the barrel of the gun into the pilot’s seat.

“Oh shut up, and get that gun out of there, you’ll damage something.” Iris hoisted herself into the cockpit to examine the machinery. There were rather more switches than she was used to on her TARDIS, but the craft still had a wheel for manual steering. Then she noticed the UHL readout, and got worried.

“Oh, by all the bastard sons of Rassilon and Omega, no no no please no,” she moaned.

“Is there something in there?” Withnail stood to attention.

“Just circuitry. Bad circuitry. This thing is equipped to travel through the Vortex, Withnail—this is no ordinary small-fry star-system hopper, crashed on earth ‘coz he forgot to fill up on gas. He probably means to be here. F’chrissake, he has rudimentary time travel.” Iris kicked her feet up into the copilot’s seat to stretch, and nudged something with her toe. She leaned forward and picked up the small metal box in both her hands. “Well. Our worst fears are confirmed. Hooray for us.”

“We’ve run out of booze?” Withnail asked, only half-kidding.

“Worse—this device is a remote detonator for an explosive. I’m rather beginning to think that the TARDIS’ crash was due to sabotage. Just what I wanted—Doctor’s lost his memory again and we’re being hunted. I’m going to need a cigarette.”

Fic: On Holiday by Mistake (2/?)

Sun, 03 Feb 2008 00:55:38 GMT

I come bearing more fic! *proud grin*

Title: On Holiday by Mistake
Characters: Eighth Doctor, Iris Wildthyme, Withnail, Marwood, Uncle Monty (DW/Withnail & I crossover)
Spoilers: For Withnail & I, if you haven't seen that yet...
Rating: PG-13 for language
Summary: A ghastly accident-- amnesia, again-- awkward unwanted sexual tension in a shack in the English countryside. Just what Iris likes best.
Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me. In fact, I do not actually have any possessions at all. So this is all right, then.

Iris contemplated the run-down little cottage from its front walk. On the whole, she thought to herself, it was not one of the more sophisticated domiciles she had encountered during her travels; it seemed to be primarily composed of rocks and mud. On the other hand, it had walls, and she was frozen through. She sucked in a deep breath and rapped on the door with her pink, raw knuckles.

She heard a sharp yelp and a thump from inside, followed by a stream of violent invective. It was in English, to Iris’ vexation—it had been too much to hope that she’d land somewhere civilized, for once. There were assorted further crashes and bangs, and then the door swung open.

Iris saw a tall young man of about thirty, dressed in nothing but his underwear and a long tweed coat. His long face was unshaven and dirty, and he stared at her through red-rimmed eyes. His dark hair stood straight out from his head in a wild halo and hardly blew in the stiff breeze. “How dare you,” he groaned, “how dare you knock on this fucking door, at eleven o’clock in the fucking morning? And who the hell are you, anyway?”

The tall young man saw, by degrees as his vision cleared, a tall young woman, with ginger hair that hung down to her waste. She was probably very pretty, but she was badly bruised along her high cheekbones, coated in mud, and she was giving him a murderous glare. He straightened and pulled his coat closed about him.

“I,” said Iris, a distinct edge in her voice, “am cold, and damp. I just woke up in your field out there, and I should very much like to come in and clean myself up.”

“Ah,” said the man, half-smirking, “happens to me all the time. Do come in.”

The man flounced back inside and Iris followed, with some trepidation. The inside of the cottage was hardly cleaner than the outside; the sitting room into which Iris was led had tiny, grimy windows, and every flat surface was covered with dirty dishes and empty bottles. The young man threw himself down in a chair beside the fireplace, produced a cigarette seemingly from thin air, and lit up. He gestured wordlessly, imperially that Iris join him, and so she did.

“Oh, thank God,” Iris sighed. She reached into the inside pocket of her now muddy suede coat and took out one of her own cigarettes. “Worst part of hanging out with the Doctor—apart from getting stranded in the wilds of some uncivilized planet—is never being allowed to smoke indoors.” She inhaled gratefully and stretched out her long, bare legs—she was now regretting the miniskirt she’d put on that morning. She caught the man staring and resumed her glare. “Who are you, then, and why do you live in such a horrible little house?”

The man’s eyes widened in irritation and he stared down his nose at her. “This isn’t my horrible little house—do you think I would hang such awful pictures?” He gestured at the sepia photographs that covered the walls. “Sentimental trash—you’d think my Uncle Monty would have acquired some taste during his miserable, homosexual life. It’s his cottage, by the way—my Uncle Monty’s. And you may call me—Donald Twayne.” The man raised an eyebrow in what he doubtless thought was a mysterious and intriguing way. Then he let it drop again with a look of resignation. “No, perhaps not—reminds me of that puffed-up American author. My name is Withnail.” He did not extend his hand.

“I’m Iris—Iris Wildthyme.” She peeled off her coat to examine the state of her fitted, button-up shirt; it, too, was spattered with mud. “I’ve been traveling in these parts and I’ve afraid I, ah, got lost. Where are we?” There, she’d asked it—the worst embarrassment was over.

“Buggered if I know,” said Withnail darkly, “my friend drove us here. In the country somewhere—Penrith. That’s it. Nasty little place—haven’t even laid on the electric in this dump.”

“Well,” mused Iris, “at least it’s not Wales. But what are you doing here if you don’t live here?”

Withnail glowered. “Can’t you tell? I’m on holiday.”

“Ah.”

Iris sighed, reached over her chair, and took up the poker. She poked at the smoldering fire in the grate. “You haven’t seen any other travelers about recently, have you? I had a friend with me, but we got separated… a little taller than me, long curly hair, velvet jacket, thinks he’s clever?”

“I haven’t seen anybody since we got here except the fucking farmer—I think I shall go insane.” Withnail shivered and took another deep drag on his cigarette. “You should ask my friend, though—he might’ve seen ’im. Hoi!” he shouted suddenly, “Someone here to see you!”

“What?” called a faintly familiar voice from upstairs. “What are you on about now, Withnail?”

“We have a guest,” said Withnail, “you had better get her some food, and bring out the wine, as well. She looks parched, and so am I.” He shared a conspiratorial smile with Iris.

Withnail’s friend clattered down the stairs and stuck his head into the room. His full-lipped mouth hung slightly open, and his long, curly hair framed a classically pretty face. “Oh, hello,” he said, blinking rapidly. “Withnail…?”

Iris stared for a moment, and then began laughing hysterically. “Doctor!” she cried, and flung herself across the room at him. He was swept up in her arms before he knew what was happening—he gave a small squeak of surprise. “Oh, god, darling,” she sighed into his hair, “I was so worried about you!” She sniffed. “But wait a bit—you smell funny.” She held him at arm’s length to inspect him properly; he just stared back at her. “That’s not your usual aftershave. And what is with this sweater? Not that I will ever object to you in a nice tight sweater, but I’ve never seen you outside of that coat of yours…Oh, for God’s sakes, man, say something!”

A tight grin flitted across the Doctor’s face. “Have we, ah, have we met before?”

Iris’s stomach sank. “Doctor…?”

“And I’m not a doctor of anything, actually, I’m an actor, we’re both actors.” He continued to grin nervously. “My name’s Marwood, and you’re…?”

“Oh, no,” Iris breathed, “oh, no no no no no. Not again. You bastard, if this is a joke, I will remove your man parts with a hot pliers and make you eat them.”

“Honestly, you must have me mistaken for someone else,” he said, attempting frantically to scramble away, but Iris’s tight grip on his forearms would not relax.

“You really don’t…” She let go of his arms and sank to her knees. “This is so fucking typical of you. Slightest amount of trouble and you forget what a fucking bastard you are. Simply can’t deal with how much of a fucking bastard you are, is what I always said. And once again, here I am, having to pick up the pieces. You bastard. You shit-arsed bastard, you’ve lost your memory, again.”

Withnail was smirking in the corner, enjoying the show very much. “You’ve done it this time, haven’t you? She’s going to pull your balls off.”

“Look, whoever you are—” said the Doctor, or rather, Marwood, his words running together in desperation.

“I’m Iris,” says Iris. She grimaced at the pleading she could hear in her own voice. “I’m Iris Wildthyme, and we’ve known each other for seven hundred and fifty years. I have proposed to you three times. You’ve saved my life…twelve times, and I’ve saved yours eight. Well, eight and a half—you’d probably have been okay, back there on Navaros, but you never know…” She stood and began to pace. “Oh God—if you don’t know who you are, you don’t know where the TARDIS is, either. We’re stranded. We’re stranded in bloody Penrith. You bloody bastard.”

Withnail could no longer stand not being the center of attention, and burst out in raucous, high-pitched laughter. “Seven hundred and fifty years? What an utter load of bollocks! You must be even more plastered than I am.”

“You,” said Iris, pointing at him, “are going to shut up while I think. Now, now, let’s see…memory loss, memory loss…oh, hellkite.” She dashed over to Marwood and grabbed him by the ears, forcing his head down so she could examine it. “I hope there wasn’t head trauma… if it was bad you would’ve regenerated, I suppose, but, oh God, if it damaged your stupid bastard brain we could all be bollocksed…” She ran her fingers through his hair, gently probing his scalp.

“Get off of me, you mad woman!” Marwood shook her off roughly; Iris gazed back at the frightened young man, worry plain in her blue eyes. “You have made some terrible mistake, and I think it would be best if you left now, really.”

“How can I prove it to you?” Iris demanded. “Here—you’ve a scar on your chest right about here—” she brushed her fingertips lightly over his right breast, “—that you got when your body rejected a cardiac probe that was still stuck in your vascular system.”

Marwood frowned. “I do have a scar there, but I’ve never had surgery…”

“Ha, I bet you think you haven’t—never been to the doctor at all, have you? Never really get sick?”

“Well, I’ve been run down, lately—”

“But you never get colds, do you?” Iris asked with an all-knowing smirk.

“Well, no…”

“Since you ran into him, have you seen him have to eat?” Iris asked Withnail.

“Loads of times,” he replied matter-of-factly. “We share a flat in London, you know.”

Iris’s eyebrows shot up. “You share a…for how long?”

Marwood shrugged. “I don’t know—two, maybe three years?”

“Good lord.” Iris plopped down in a chair. “We did land far apart, didn’t we? I thought you’d’ve arrived about the same time as me… So you’ve been stuck here alone for years…!”

“Not alone,” Marwood hastened to reassure her, “I did have him.”

Iris looked back and forth slowly between the two men. “Fuck. Not only have
you lost your memory again, you’ve gone gay, haven’t you?”

“What?” Marwood yelped. “Withnail and I are not—!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Iris waved her hand in dismissal. “Whatever you say, love.”

“What I say,” said Marwood, beginning to lose his temper, “is that none of this proves that I’m some ancient friend of yours. All this proves is that you know someone who knew about my scar—I bet you’re working for Danny, aren’t you? Well, you can tell him that we don’t want anything from him, thanks all the same.”

Iris laid her forefinger over her lower lip and frowned pensively, until she realized she was copying one of the Doctor’s gestures and drew her hand hastily away. “Here,” she said softly, “I know how to prove it to you.”

She took his fingers and hers and placed his hand over his left breast. “Feel your heartbeat?” She asked. Their eyes met, and for an instant, Iris thought she saw the flash of intense intellect that she associated with the Doctor. Marwood nodded.

She moved his hand, gently, across his chest until it lay over his right heart. “Feel your second heartbeat?” She watched, full of concern, as his eyes widened and he backed away from her in fear.

“I can’t have two hearts—what would I do with two fucking hearts?” he cried, terrified.

“All Gallifreyans have two hearts; it’s perfectly normal, and you’re perfectly healthy,” Iris’s voice was soothing and low. “Gallifrey is the planet you’re from—it’s where I’m from, too. We’re time travelers, you see—it’s how we’ve known each other so long.”

“No, I’m not a fucking Gallifreyan.” It was Marwood’s turn to plead. “I’m from London, England. On the Earth.”

“Then explain to me,” Iris laid her hand on his arm, “why you have two hearts. Why your parents never took you to the doctor to have you them examined—surely your mother would have noticed something was up, wouldn’t she? Do you even remember your mother?”

“Of course I remember my mother!” Marwood snapped.

Iris sighed. “Do you remember her first name?”

Marwood thought for a minute, and then stared into Iris’s eyes in mute horror. “I…I…”

“Darling,” said Iris, “you landed on Earth in your adulthood—you haven’t got an Earth mother. In fact, I wouldn’t guess that you’ve been here any longer than you’ve been sharing a flat with Withnail.”

“No,” groaned Marwood, “this is ridiculous, this can’t be happening—”

“You think I’m pleased about this? This is the third bloody time you’ve pulled this shit on us!” Iris raked her hair back from her forehead. “Look—you’ve got to help me. I need to get your memories back. You need to go back to your old life.”

“What if I like my own life perfectly well?” Marwood shot back. “I don’t really care to go off and live with a bunch of aliens.”

“Yeah, ’coz all of this is just lovely.” Iris glared sourly. “I refuse to belief that you’ve been happy here, after living amongst the stars for centuries. You are…” she bit her lip and studied him. “A traveler. A hero. A protector of the weak and downtrodden. You should be off saving someone from a Cyberman invasion, not trying to make a living as some…actor.”

“But he can’t be an alien,” Withnail burst out, “he couldn’t even get a gig playing an alien! And he’s certainly no hero—almost pisses himself in fear when someone looks at him funny in the pub.”

“Oh shut up, Withnail,” Marwood groaned.

Withnail continued anyway. “Besides, there’s no such thing as aliens—I’ve never heard such rot in my life. Two hearts or no, I—”

Iris strode over to her coat and pulled a bright pink laser gun from the pocket. “You want alien?” she growled, “I’ll give you alien.”

“Now look here,” Withnail began with a sickly grin.

“No, you look here.” Iris loosed off a shot over Withnail’s shoulder; the laser neatly took off the corner of the mantelpiece. Withnail shrieked. “I don’t know how many times you stupid apes need to get invaded by Daleks and Haemovores and fuck knows what else before you develop some consciousness of the worlds beyond your own. I am telling the truth. Do you accept this or no?”

Withnail nodded his head; Iris watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down with satisfaction.

“Good. Now, I am stranded on this stupid planet, and I need Marwood’s old memories to find his time machine and get out of here. So we agree that getting Marwood’s memories back is what we’re going to do now—yes?”

Withnail and Marwood exchanged an uneasy glance. “Iris, please,” said Marwood. “I don’t know what to think.” He exhaled loudly through his nose and shook his head. “I’m going for a walk—I need some air.” He grabbed his leather coat and headed out the door.

“Marwood, wait—!” Iris ran outside and hurried after him down the muddy path. “I’m sorry, Marwood, I’m sure I’m going about this all wrong—it’s just, you scared me so bad…” She grabbed his arm and made him slow. “But please don’t run off or do anything stupid. I’ll just come after you, you know.”

“I need to think,” Marwood said, quietly. “I need to sort things out. It’s all too much! One minute, I’m trying to rejuvenate, trying to get back to my roots, take in the country of my ancestors, and the next, I haven’t got any ancestors! I don’t even know my own name!” His voice sounded hoarse when he shouted, just as the Doctor’s did—which made sense, really, Iris thought to herself.

“Your name is the Doctor,” she told him. “Not Doctor anything, just ‘the Doctor.’”

“How did I get a fucking stupid name like that?” Marwood asked bitterly, kicking the ground.

Iris laughed. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

She was excessively pretty, when the sun hit her hair and it shone, and Marwood found himself smiling back at her. “Well, go on, then.”

Iris looped her arm through Marwood’s and they walked through the countryside and she told him everything, starting with the time they first met, when the Doctor was still in his first incarnation and his hair hadn’t even gone white yet, and working her way through the centuries. She told him about the Daleks and the Cybermen and the Master, and she told him about Susan and Sarah Jane and Romana and Ace and Benny and Fitz. She left virtually nothing out, except the bits that were especially embarrassing to her, and Marwood drank it in, nearly silent the whole time.

“All of that really happened?” Marwood asked when she had finished. They were coming up the path to the cottage again, and the sun was rather lower in the sky than when they had left.

“Cross my hearts and hope to die,” Iris replied.

“It’s a lovely story,” Marwood admitted. They stood together in silence for a moment, contemplating the burnt-orange evening sky.

“All right,” Marwood said quietly. “I’ll think about—I’ll let you try to work out what happened. Ha, I can’t think of a worse place to be stranded, for you.”

“I agree completely,” Iris sighed. “But, ah—if you’re sure you’re going to help me…?” Marwood nodded curtly. “I’m going to need some supplies. I need to find your time machine—best way to get you to remember who you are, I figure. And to find your time machine, I’m going to need to build a sort of a…time-disturbance detector.”

“A…a what?”

“If I can find,” Iris said, beginning to talk faster, “a hotspot for temporal anomalies—y’know, I bet that’d be where your TARDIS is. Probably givin’ off all sorts of funny wave patterns, after that nasty crash we had… it’d be good luck for me if we haven’t sucked London into the void.”

“It was there last time I checked,” Marwood replied gravely.

“Good. Good. So, parts—where can I get parts?” Iris skipped up the front walk to the cottage door.

Marwood shrugged. “There’s bound to be some sort of shop in town. Withnail and I had meant to go to the pub tonight, anyway—you can come with us and do your shopping.”

“Brilliant!” Iris exclaimed, and hugged Marwood impulsively. He smiled weakly back.

“Come on, Withnail!” Iris shouted, “get out here! We’re going down to the pub!”

Withnail responded with alacrity—he was outside, fully clothed, within thirty seconds. And so the three of them set out for town together.

~~

I also thought I'd post the playlist I've been listening to as I've been writing~ stuff that reminds me of W&I or Iris or the Doctor or all three. Some of it's because of the lyrics, some of it's because of the mood, some of it's just because. But you can get it here, and you can see the cover and track listing here. Hope you enjoy!

Fic Post: On Holiday by Mistake (1/?)

Mon, 28 Jan 2008 01:32:55 GMT

So tilderific really made me want to write more often, and so, I, ah, did.

Title: On Holiday by Mistake
Characters: Eighth Doctor, Iris Wildthyme, Withnail, Marwood, Uncle Monty (DW/Withnail & I crossover)
Spoilers: For Withnail & I, if you haven't seen that yet...
Rating: PG-13 for language
Summary: A ghastly accident-- amnesia, again-- awkward unwanted sexual tension in a shack in the English countryside. Just what Iris likes best.
Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me. In fact, I do not actually have any possessions at all. So this is all right, then.

She hadn’t seen him in decades—she tried not to think about it, afraid that she knew exactly how many years it had been. But there he was, the same Doctor she’d seen last, tripping about the bazaar in his velvet coat, a playful smile on his lips as he haggled with a bookseller. Iris tugged her long suede coat about herself to ward off the breeze and leaned against the wall of the nearest building to watch him wheedle and charm the vender into selling him the book for what was no doubt half price. When he’d paid and stuck the book into one of his deep pockets, Iris saw her chance and sauntered quietly up behind him in the crowd.

She waited until she was standing directly behind him to ask, “What did you buy?”

“Hmm? Oh, it’s a book of local mythology, quite similar to what you see on the planet Colano Alpha…or was it Colano Beta?” the Doctor hummed to himself vaguely as they walked along together, and then stopped short. “Iris?” He turned on his heel to face her, an almost hunted look on his face.

“Hallo, love!” Iris said, grinning. She spread her arms for an embrace that he made no move to return. “You missed me?”

“It’s good to see you in one piece,” he replied carefully.

“Sometimes people get lucky,” Iris grinned a steely grin, “even when you leave them with a broken TARDIS in the middle of some yucky wilderness without any booze.”

The Doctor pressed his lips together in irritation. “The way I remember it, it was you who suggested I leave. Vehemently, with thrown crockery for emphasis.”

“Well obviously I didn’t mean it.” Iris laughed, rolling her eyes. “Lord, but you can get a bit snippy this incarnation, don’t you? Ha, hardly your fault though, I quite forgive you… I was all achy and bitchy and old, then, I regenerated almost right after I got off that rock of a planet.” She looped her arm through the Doctor’s and started walking, dragging him along with her. “D’you like the new body? I rather do—very glam. Love these long legs! Being young again is such a relief after years and years in that terrible arthritic tub…”

“Ginger hair,” the Doctor mused, brushing hers out of his face, “I was quite hoping I’d be ginger this time…” He actually had to hurry to keep up with Iris as she lead him rapidly through the street; she was so tall that her stride was quite as long as his.

“Ooh, excellent, a bar!” Iris exclaimed, spotting a dark, divey-looking place, or so the Doctor thought. “Here, Doctor, I probably owe you an apology for something—can I buy you a drink? Instead of apologizing for anything, that is.”

“Iris,” he sighed, running a forefinger over his lower lip, “I really need to get back to my TARDIS—I only stopped on this planet to pick up some parts she needs. The poor old thing has been having a terrible time, and I hate to leave her alone…”

“Ah, but you’ve parked her now, she isn’t going to run off!” Iris caught up the Doctor’s hands in her own. “One drink—then you can get back to your TARDIS and get on with your repairs. Please?” She batted her eyelashes playfully.

The Doctor barely kept himself from rolling his eyes. “Oh, why not…for old time’s sake.”

“There’s the spirit!” Iris cried, beaming.

He shrugged and let himself be pulled inside the cool, dark bar.

~~~

Iris ran a bright red fingernail around the rim of her glass—empty, yet again.

“You know what should be dimensionally transcendent?” she asked idly. “Beer mugs. Honestly, they’re never as big as you think they are, and it’d help if they really were…”

The Doctor snorted into his cup. “Iris, I think you have managed to end up even sillier than me, this incarnation.”

“I was beginning to wonder about that,” said Iris, seeing her chance to start in on the interesting, personal stuff. “You don’t seem as garrulous as you were last time I saw you, Doctor, and I think you might actually have gotten skinnier.” To the Doctor’s utter dismay, she pinched one of his thin, pale cheeks. “Go on, then—tell Iris what’s wrong. And don’t try to deny it!”

“Ah, I suppose I’m a bit down in the dumps after dropping Fitz and Anji off home,” he said airily, waving a long-fingered hand in dismissal. “I’ll come ’round soon enough—I know it was for the best. All the same, it’s been lonely, having the TARDIS all to myself.” The Doctor saw Iris’ expression and hastened to add, “Although that was not an invitation, mind you.”

Iris spread her hands, feigning innocence. “Hey, I just want to know where you’re going that you wouldn’t bring anybody along—must be some pretty dangerous danger you’ve got goin’ on, there.”

The Doctor arched an eyebrow at her, puzzled. “You didn’t get Romana’s invitation?”

“Calling all renegades back to Gallifrey? ’Course I did, and I’m ignoring it—most ominous-sounding invitation I’ve ever received, including that time that Joseph McCarthy asked me to have brunch with him. D’you remember that guy? I never knew whether to laugh or cry when I saw him, which was so awkward that one time at the Senate when we—”

“Iris.” The Doctor’s voice was quiet, his tone grave. “There’s trouble afoot—I’ve been running into more and more anomalies in my travels, timelines that have crossed or even started unraveling… there’s something coming, and Romana knows it, too.”

Iris’ bright blue eyes widened, her lipsticked mouth forming a small O. “Well. So it isn’t just me seeing funny things in my old age.”

“I think it’s the Daleks, Iris.” The Doctor drained his glass and set it on the table with a thunk. “A war is brewing—I can just feel it, can’t you? So I’m answering Romana’s summons—but first I have a few modifications to make on my TARDIS. That’s why I’m on this planet, actually—I have to completely overhaul the quantum accelerator, and I’ve run out of extra…” he waved his hands, “…oh, you know, thingies. The funny curvy bits in the middle that make it go.”

“Oh, them!” Iris nodded. “Those go all the time, and they’re so terrible to replace—really a two-person job, they are.” She gave the Doctor a sidelong look. “Don’t suppose you’d like my help? I’m feeling useful today. Well, that or drunk, I can never tell which.” She grinned.

“My dear Iris,” said the Doctor, barely managing a deadpan, “I have seen you repair your TARDIS with string and chewing gum. And thus I don’t have the slightest idea why I should let you near mine.”

“Because I will otherwise reminisce at you for just ages about Venice and the Forest of Kestheven and that one time in the sixties when we—”

“Fine! Fine!” The Doctor threw up his hands and stood. “I give up. Let’s get this over with, then.” He strode rapidly toward the door.

Iris smirked in triumph and toddled slightly unsteadily after him.

~~~

“Have I told you how much I like your desktop theme?” Iris asked, poking languidly at one of the TARDIS’s displays. “Nope, no change. Your fiddly bit still doesn’t seem to be fiddling.”

“It is so nice,” said the Doctor sarcastically, “to have someone to discuss this technology properly with.” Iris could only see his legs sticking out from underneath the burnished brass of the TARDIS console—just as well for her, likely.

“Hypocrite—you don’t know what it’s called either, I bet.”

The Doctor swore under his breath. “Ooh, my finger! This is absurd…”

“Here, Doctor,” said Iris, in her reasonable voice, “you want to trade for a little while? I’ll pry at the terrible fiddly bit and you can—”

“I think I can handle it, Iris, thank you,” said the Doctor through gritted teeth. “Maybe if I try a different setting…” Iris heard the whir of the sonic screwdriver change in pitch. She rolled her eyes.

“Shove over, then,” Iris said abruptly, dropping to her hands and knees and crawling under the console beside the Doctor. She settled herself against his shoulder, much to his chagrin, and stared up at the mess of wiring over their heads. “Good lord. Did you connect the hyperdrive capacitator to the huon processor on purpose?”

“No, Iris, I just thought it looked like fun and I’d see what happened— of course I did it on purpose.” The Doctor was not shouting.

“Ooh, what’s that?” Iris frowned up at a funny metal disc with a glowing, green orb in the center. “Honestly, Doctor, I’ve never seen anything like it. Have you been letting strange people into your ship again?”

“Apart from yourself, you mean?” The Doctor asked mischievously.

“Honestly, darling, hand me that sonic screwdriver, would you?” Iris plucked it
from his hand and aimed its narrow beam at the disc.

And that was when everything went to hell.

The cloister bell bonged immediately, ominously, and a few other sirens about the console room chimed in for good measure. The quiet hum of the TARDIS engines became a low rumble for a few seconds, and then the time rotor roared and wheezed to life.

“Oh no. Oh no no no no no…” the Doctor struggled to his feet despite the TARDIS’ erratic pitching and yawing. “Iris, quick, get to the other side of the console, I’m going to need you to take the time path coordinator.”

Iris obeyed wordlessly. She pulled herself up to the console and frantically tried to stabilize their flight path. “Doctor, it’s not responding to anything I do!” she cried finally.
“Sonic screwdriver?” the Doctor barked. She tossed it across the console to him and he went back to hastily rewiring the circuitry he stood over. “I have to warn you, if this doesn’t work, there’s going to be a bit of a jolt…”

He connected the circuit and another alarm blared out.

“Doctor, now it’s saying the shields are down!” Iris thumped the offending display with the heel of her palm. “Oh, for the love of—”

Then came the jolt the Doctor had warned of. Iris was thrown backwards off her feet and landed in a heap near the door. Which would have been all right, if the security locks on the doors hadn’t gone offline and the doors hadn’t burst open. Iris looked behind her in terror at the swirling maw of the vortex and tried to cling to the steel supports of the console.

“Doctor!” she shrieked. “You idiot man, do something!”

“Iris!” the Doctor bellowed, his voice ragged, “hold on!” He started edging around the console, his hair whipping wildly about him in the vortex winds.

But she couldn’t; the vortex winds pulled at her until she was stretched out perfectly horizontal, her feet pointed at the door. Her fingers ached so badly that she began to see pulses of bright yellow light before her eyes.

She looked up at the Doctor and grinned wanly. “Sorry,” she said, before her fingers slipped from the support girder and she went flying backwards into the void. Before she blacked out, she thought she heard the Doctor scream her name one more time, which was nice.

~~~

Iris came to in the middle of a field, her coat and shirt soaked through from the dew on the grass. Above her the sky was gray and full of wispy clouds, and she shivered in the chill air. She sat up with a groan and glanced around; there were no structures nearby save a nasty little shack. Above all, she could not see a blue police box anywhere, and her own TARDIS was back on the planet she and the Doctor had just left.

Iris stood, rubbed the back of her neck experimentally, and tugged her coat more closely about her. And, for lack of anything better to do, said, “Well, craaaaaaap.”

...that would make a great band name!

Sat, 03 Mar 2007 01:37:59 GMT

I just createed the community great_band_name and you all should go join, and post band names we think up therein. *nod*

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