#dandelion fics

[anonymousdandelion]

Sooo funny story: I misread/misremembered today’s @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt, wrote something for it, came to publish it, and only then realized my error. 😅

I somehow managed to get the prompt in my head as “evil’s attire.” Whoops. But here’s what I wrote, anyway. A bit of Good Omens fic, for a change.

Evil’s Attire

Aziraphale’s mind raced, wishing desperately that he could reverse the series of events that had led to him holding a demon’s forgotten shirt at the exact moment of an Archangel’s surprise visit to the bookshop.

Don’t panic, he told himself, panicking. It could have been worse. At least the shirt’s owner had already left.

“Yes, yes,” he said aloud, lifting his chin high and almost managing to meet Gabriel’s eyes, stalling for time while he tried to think up an explanation that wouldn’t get him rather worse than a rude note. “I was, um. Well. That is to say. Er.” It hit him, in a sudden moment of inspiration, and he straightened his back. “I am in the process of making a study of evil’s attire.”

“Huh,” said Gabriel. He paused, considering this assertion. “It stinks.”

“Yes, well. We all must sacrifice our personal comfort for the greater good.” Aziraphale nodded emphatically, now committed to his story. “It’s very important, in order to thwart the wiles of the adversary, that I properly understand his manner of dressing. One must beware the snake in sheep’s clothing. Fortunately this isn’t wool, but one can never be too careful. Know thine enemy, that’s what I always say.”

“Right.” To Aziraphale’s excruciating relief, Gabriel now looked utterly bored. “Keep up the good work, sunshine.” The Archangel rolled his eyes and wrinkled his nose in obvious disgust, no doubt to make sure Aziraphale didn’t take the rote praise seriously and let it go to his head. “Make sure to include this on your next report. And get some air freshener.”

*

When he was alone again, Aziraphale sank down on the sofa and buried his face in the shirt, breathing deeply. He sat there, inhaling the comforting scent of smoke and serpent, until he stopped shaking.

[anonymousdandelion]

Some more Doctor Who feels for @flashfictionfridayofficial .

multiverse theory

“The thing about alternate universes,” the Doctor explains, “is each one has its own timeline. They’re all independent. Some similarities, some differences. But there isn’t any way of knowing about, let alone interacting with, the other realities.”

“We’re living in another reality,” Rose points out.

“Well. Yes. But we can’t get out. Dimensional retroclosure.” The Doctor runs a hand through his hair. His other self would have been better at explaining this, he thinks. It clouds his thinking, this single-hearted human body. Makes it hard to comprehend, let alone articulate, things he should understand by instinct. “Parallel lines,” he tries again. “They aren’t meant to converge, except sometimes people like us hop between them. And sometimes events in one line ricochet through the others. Only, it’s not so straightforward as a simple ripple effect—“

“I didn’t ask for an explanation,” Rose interrupts. Her voice is taut. Usually she has more patience for his ramblings. “I asked about the worlds. All those other universes. The ones I saw while I was looking for you.”

“Yes.”

“They were all dying. But we stopped the reality bomb, and the stars aren’t going out anymore.”

The Doctor nods.

“So, those other worlds… they’re alright now, aren’t they?”

There’s a plea in her voice, unconcealed.

“Well,” says the Doctor, “it’s complicated.”

“Complicated?”

“Very complicated. Timespace is complex enough already. The full web of realities…”

He stops.

Rose looks at him, and the Doctor can’t avoid her eyes.

“You don’t know,” she says, very quietly.

“I don’t know,” he admits.

“If you’d been there,” she says — still oh, so very quiet — “you’d have saved them. I kept thinking that, every time I left a universe. You would’ve found a way. You always do.”

He closes his eyes. For a moment, he’s young again, wearing his third face, watching the final moments of a world doomed to inferno.

“Not always,” the Doctor murmurs.

He doesn’t know what else to do. What to say. One heart isn’t enough to bear this feeling; this helplessness.

There’s a warmth, a touch, a pressure. He opens his eyes to see Rose, arms wrapped around his body now, her head on his shoulder.

He’s not sure if she’s asking for comfort, or comforting him. Probably the former, but it feels like the latter.

Either way, he puts his arms around her, holding her in return.

They’re silent, together, for a long time.

[anonymousdandelion]

For @flashfictionfridayofficial . One of these days I’ll stop thinking about The Angels Take Manhattan; today is not that day.

he doesn’t like endings

“So how are my parents?” River asks, slipping her diary away into a pocket once they’ve finished establishing timelines. The Doctor is further along than her, this time. She hasn’t seen him wearing this body since Amy and Rory’s wedding.

But when the Doctor’s face changes — lips parting, eyes sliding away — she knows.

She takes a moment to breathe, to balance, to make sure she can cover the wound tearing in her heart. Then she says, voice carefully steady, “It ended.”

It isn’t a question. He doesn’t answer.

She swallows.

River knows the rules. She knows she can’t ask, shouldn’t ask, but still she can’t help herself. “Sweetie… what happened?”

He shakes his head, lips twisting into a bad attempt at smiling. “Spoilers,” the Doctor murmurs, as she knew he would.

For a minute, they just stand there.

“Just tell me this,” River says at last. “Was it… was it a happy ending?”

The silence goes on long enough that she thinks he isn’t going to answer at all. It’s probably for the best.

“There are no happy endings,” the Doctor says eventually, very quietly.

His eyes rest a little too long on her face, she thinks, as he says it.

[anonymousdandelion]

Dashed off real quickly for @flashfictionfridayofficial !

The Offer

“I’ll find you another planet,” the Doctor offers — half promise, half plea, staring at the business end of a row of nasty and unearthly weapons. “A nice, uninhabited one, with all the natural resources you need. You don’t have to take over this one. Just stand down, and let me help you.”

It’s a best case scenario, what he’s offering. Peaceful coexistence. An alien invasion, departing without bloodshed; a homeless species, resettled; the weight of his own conscience, eased.

It won’t work. He’s been through this cycle enough times to know how this goes. People always decline the best case scenario. Why does he even bother making the offer anymore, other than to lessen his own guilt? Inevitably, any potential inclination towards reasonableness is outweighed by pride, greed, or aggression; always, the invaders insist on forging ahead, and it falls to the Doctor to defeat them.

One more piece of destruction to mourn; one more tragedy added to his conscience. Every time. It never ends…

“Very well,” says the leader, and the weapons lower as one. “We accept. Please, help us. Find us a planet.”

The Doctor blinks… and blinks again.

Sometimes the universe can still surprise him, after all.

[anonymousdandelion]

Haven’t done @flashfictionfridayofficial in a few weeks! But I miss it, so for today’s prompt I drabbled a bit. Based on The Curse of the Black Spot (Doctor Who).

The Most Beautiful Thing in the World

Rory dreams of the siren. Her face, a pristine and ethereal blue; her song, calling him, breathtaking and otherworldly.

Her hand, outstretched towards his own.

Drawing him in, beautiful and irresistible…

And, suddenly, literally breathtaking. He can’t breathe. His lungs are screaming, his chest filled with water. Drowning, once again. He struggles, thrashes, desperate for air…

And opens his eyes, in bed, gasping in relief.

Amy’s arm is across his neck, apparently flung out in her sleep. Oh. That probably accounts for the drowning; he can breathe, of course, but the weight of her arm is a bit restrictive. Rory moves it, gently, careful not to disturb her.

In the dim light of the bedroom, he can see her: face screwed up, hair a mess. She’s snoring slightly.

Sighing, Rory snuggles closer… and falls back asleep, dream forgotten, content in the company of the most beautiful thing in the world.

[anonymousdandelion]

The latest @jewsinfandoms prompt inspired me to write a sequel to my Good Omens/When the Angels Left the Old Country crossover.

Of Demons and Water

Rated G, 500 words

“I don’t understand,” Uriel said, putting down its spoon. The angel’s eyes were wide in bewilderment. “Why were the other sheydim frightened because you took a bath? Do they not like being clean?”

“The bathtub was full of holy water,” Aziraphale repeated, as if that explained anything.

In which an angel and a demon are confused by a different angel and demon.

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[anonymousdandelion]

After missing several weeks of @flashfictionfridayofficial, I’m back for today’s prompt! Featuring a First Doctor POV on the end of The Dalek Invasion of Earth.

goodbye, my dear

Outside the TARDIS, Susan is crying. Barbara’s eyes are wet too, Chesterton’s arm wrapped around her shoulders; both the humans staring with obvious dismay at the scene unfolding before their eyes, yet not daring to intervene.

The Doctor stands firm, deliberately detached as he explains his decision.

I’m not a child anymore, his granddaughter told him once, and in his hearts he knows it’s true. But he’s a selfish old buffer — yes, of course he knows that too — and he didn’t want to accept it. Still doesn’t, in fact. Already he’s aching to change his mind, to relent and let Susan back onto the TARDIS; pull her inside, take off and keep her with him forever.

If he doesn’t accept this now, and follow through on his resolve, he never will.

It’s a final act of love, he tells himself: letting her go. Letting her move on. Susan deserves her own life, after all. A chance to build a home, to put down roots and find the stability he knows she longs for. Things the Doctor cannot provide.

Things he had, once, and fled from.

She’ll be all right without him. David will take care of her.

A final act of love…

But the thought of finality is too much to bear. The Doctor grips his own lapels to stop his twitching fingers from moving and opening the doors.

“One day, I shall come back,” he says — voicing the thought aloud as if he can speak it into certainty, assure himself that it’s true by making the declaration. “Yes, I shall come back.”

It’s a big universe; if he doesn’t manage to get the ship’s directional mechanisms functioning, he’s not sure how he’ll ever manage to return here, but he refuses to think about that.

If he thinks about it, he’ll find himself giving in, unlocking the TARDIS doors. He can’t do that. He must let Susan go. He must. Can’t afford to give heed to her cries any more than to his own reluctance.

“There must be no regrets,” he tells her, though he’s really talking to himself more than to his granddaughter. “No tears; no anxieties. Just go forward in all your beliefs…”

She looks so small, standing weeping in the view of the scanner. David, behind her, looks small too.

Is she really ready for this? Is he doing the right thing?

“…and prove to me that I am not mistaken in mine.”

Releasing his lapels, the Doctor reaches for the controls; sets the ship in motion before he can second-guess himself any further.

“Goodbye, Susan.”

The familiar vibrations begin around him — and on the scanner, a familiar, tear-stained face begins to fade. The only face that’s been with him longer than the TARDIS. The last piece of Time Lord, and family, and home.

“Goodbye, my dear.”

The Doctor presses his lips together, ignoring the shaken looks of his human passengers, and refuses to shed a single tear of his own as the TARDIS leaves Susan behind.

[anonymousdandelion]

Some more Classic Doctor Who for today’s @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt. Didn’t have time to write something serious, so instead…

Black Box

“Doctor,” said Steven, “I’ve just remembered. Why did the Commander on the Ark call the TARDIS a black box?”

“And why shouldn’t he, my boy?” The Doctor demanded, tossing his head. “A black box is exactly what it looks like, isn’t it?”

And he returned to whatever he was doing with the console.

Steven stared at him — wondering if he’d finally lost his wits, if the Doctor had, or if it was some sort of joke. He’d been traveling long enough in the ship to have the vivid blue of its exterior fixed clearly in his mind’s eye.

From one of the doorways leading further into the ship, Dodo beckoned.

Frowning, Steven went to her.

“He’s colour-blind,” Dodo whispered loudly into his ear. “He doesn’t see things in their true colours. You’ve been with him longer than me — didn’t you notice? Thinks everything is black or white or grey. The people on the Ark must have been the same.”

“But that’s not how colour-blindness works,” Steven protested. “You can still see some colours, just not all of them…”

“Well, it’s how it works with the Doctor,” Dodo returned. “That time I dyed my hair bright purple, he didn’t even notice.”