#rather proud of how the bottom right sonic came out

[thedefenderoftheearth]

slide

summary: Rose and TenToo start their journey together and it isn't always perfect but they're good together.

rating: T

word count: 2200

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30290310

On Day One, he knows the TARDIS is leaving before Rose does. She’s entirely captivated by this kiss, and he wants to be too (and is…mostly), but it’s his TARDIS, and his mind is big enough to think of both things at once–the love of his life re-entering it and the companion he’s not sure he can live without fading from it. He hates the thought but knows it’s true. He’s lived without Rose, knows he can do it…but he’s not sure if he can live without his ship. 

When Rose breaks the kiss with a gasp and bolts toward his disappearing girl, he’s certain that he can’t.  He takes the few strides to Rose, interlaces his fingers with hers because it’s the only thing he’s sure it’s okay to do. When they turn to look at each other, he wonders what he’ll be sure of tomorrow.

On Day Two, he wakes to a soft whirring sound--an electric toothbrush, he realizes. Rose is awake and coming out of the en suite. He doesn't know what to do with himself, so he flings the covers aside and hops out of the bed to meet her. 

"Oh," she says, and she won't meet his eyes. "Um. Hi. You're awake."

"Yes," he confirms. "And you have a bit of toothpaste just...there." Without thinking and before she can stop him, he licks the pad of his thumb and swipes the corner of her mouth.

"Um. Thanks," she says, and she still won't look at him properly. "Um...I thought...I thought I'd pick up your suit from dry-cleaning. And then we could go shopping, get you some things. I won't be long." She hurries from the room with her head down, not even pausing to wait for an answer.

He's puzzled, but when he's certain she's gone, he sucks his thumb. He can't taste every component of the toothpaste, can't determine the exact structure of the methylcellulose like he used to. What he can taste is Rose, and that, he thinks, could merit a full day's worth of analysis.

It isn't until he goes into the bathroom to relieve himself that he realizes why Rose did her best not to see him.

He wonders if this is a problem human males have every morning.

If so, he wonders how he could possibly bear this every morning--this heat that's spreading across his face, down his neck, and to his shoulders that makes him feel like he could disintegrate on the spot and like he wouldn't mind if he did, because at least he wouldn't have to face Rose again.

On Day Three, she catches him in the kitchen with two fingers in a jar of raspberry jam. He freezes, smiles sheepishly, grows nervous when she doesn't say anything.

"You know," she finally says, taking the jar from him and replacing his fingers with her own, "this is an awful habit to get yourself into." Her tongue darts out to clean the messy glob on her fingers.

"Dreadful," he agrees, when he can finally speak. "Terribly rude." He takes the jar back to help himself to more jam.

They pass the jar between them a few times before she stops and places it on the counter.

Sticky fingers weave through his perfectly tousled hair as she pulls his mouth to her and he wants to whine about it, but his brain shorts out as she swipes her tongue along his bottom lip and oh--all right then.

On Day Nine, they're okay. They've fallen into a safe routine: she cooks breakfast and he cleans the dishes; they share the bathroom (and it's not long before they decide it isn't big enough for the two of them); they reach together for two Torchwood IDs hanging near the door; she drives and he changes the radio fifteen times before they arrive.

Neither of them takes any risks with the other, but it's good. They're good together.

On Day Twenty-Eight, he cooks breakfast and doesn't burn the toast. It earns him a proud hug from Rose. He thinks back to a day when a shop girl from the Powell Estate pronounces a word correctly and elicits the same response from him. He wonders what happened to that girl and marvels at the woman before him who has all of herself pressed up against all of him.

On Day Forty-One, he goes on his third date with Rose. He's not sure why she keeps referring to it that way but she does and has more than once--to her mum on the phone and even to Jake at Torchwood.

He doesn't understand why she emerges from the en suite in a dress he's never seen before and strappy heels that couldn't possibly be designed for comfort (and definitely not for running) or why she smells flowery and certainly good but not quite like herself.

When they return to the flat, he doesn't understand her frustrated sounds when he kisses her, when he tries to slow their snogging back down to just that, just like always, just like normal. She finally relents and succumbs to his pace. When they're both breathless, she snuggles close to him...until she can't anymore.

He's utterly baffled when he's suddenly asked to sleep on the couch, but for the first time since he came to live with Rose--the first time in his existence--he does.

On Day Fifty, he understands why they call it "getting lucky." His brain is shrouded in a blissful haze, yet singularly focused on one thing: he has just had sex with Rose Tyler. He's done the deed, gotten busy, mattress mamboed, knocked boots--he doesn't have boots; maybe he should get some--and he feels a little bit like whooping...but his bones are liquid and he's melting into the soft down of the bed. His hair is in a state of permanent shock, his eyelids droop half-mast, and his mouth is set in a goofy sort of half-grin that doesn't seem to want to fade, but he doesn't mind. He fights to keep his eyes open just to keep looking down at an equally happy Rose falling asleep with one arm across his chest, her hand above his single heart, and her legs tangled with his.

On Day Seventy-Seven, they spend the entire day in bed. He moans loudly.

She tells him through a stuffed-up nose to "shu' ub."

"'Shut up'? Really? These could be my last words, Rose Tyler. I'm going to die!"

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am."

"It's just a cold."

"Is not. It's swine flu, bird flu, SARS--No." He gasps. "The Plague!"

"It's not the Plague. They didn't even have that here."He whines and moans and groans and "But Roooooose"s, and even though she's miserable herself, she brings him soup, blows on it when it's too hot, and patiently cleans him up when he sneezes in her face and half the bowl goes down his front.

On Day One-Hundred Twelve, they're not okay. Neither of them knows how they got to this point, but hurtful things are being flung carelessly to the air between them. Things like maybe if he came back, she'd leave with him--back to her own universe, back home. Things like maybe if the wanker did come back, he'd just steal his TARDIS, and he could be the one stuck on this stupid planet in this stupid world.

He pulls at the doorknob, tries to flee with some dignity, but the jamb sticks. He twists and pulls and jiggles the lock and finally it breaks free. Tears prickle in his eyes, and he wants to know why this stupid body has his tear ducts hardwired to his frustration. It's a dumb design; he doesn't feel like crying, he feels like running.

He winces when he hears the door slam behind him--he didn't really mean that--but it's done. He can't take it back. He runs.

On Day One-Hundred Fourteen, he runs home. She's ready for him when he walks in, and he isn't expecting that. He's expecting to at least be able to change out of the clothes he left in, the ones that are soaked through and clinging to his cold skin. Maybe even a shave and a steaming cup of tea. He doesn't get those things; they're going to have it out right now.

She unfurls herself from the blankets, rises from the couch with an un-drunk, already-cold mug of tea in her hand and strides toward him. They're toe-to-toe before he can find his voice.

"Still mad?"

She leans in close and he's nervous. "Yes," she says against his temple. "Definitely," against his jaw.

He shivers, swallows thickly, and thinks--knows--they should solve this with words, but when she pulls back to look at him like that, he thinks the words can wait.

They're both sorry, and that's enough for now.

They're a mess of tangled limbs and warm breath as they fall to the bed. His wet clothes are left on the carpet and oh, she's not going to like that later. He wonders how he has room for that thought when he's got a half-naked Rose Tyler in his arms, then he knows: he never wants to make her mad at him again.

Right now, he decides, he's going to make her very, very happy with him.

On Day One-Hundred Fifty, he thinks Rose might be pregnant. He wants to believe it's his superior Time Lord brain counting thirty days to the millisecond. He knows it's his human brain and his human something else.

He's not sure if she thinks that--that there might soon be three heartbeats between them again--but he thinks he's scared, delighted, anxious, proud, reckless, loving, loved, amazed.

He wonders if it's a human trick, to feel all these things at once and not explode into light. If so, it's better than any trick any Time Lord ever had.

On Day One-Hundred Fifty-Two, he finds out he's wrong when she throws a pillow at him and demands toffee and a backrub.

He's not sure why he isn't relieved, or of the reasons he should be.

On Day Two-Hundred Two, he drops a ring--the ring--down the garbage disposal and panics. He stares down the dark void of the drain in horror.

Neither of them are ready for the question to be asked, but that ring....It's The Ring, and he's not going to find a replacement. When his own hand fails him (as does chewing-gum-on-a-wire and the vacuum hose with a bit of nylon over the top) he admits defeat and calls a plumber.

When Rose asks what happened, he has to tell her he finally finished that sonic prototype, and it was rather less successful than one might have hoped--wellll, by that he means it was a complete failure.

She rolls her eyes and asks him what's for supper.

On Day Three-Hundred Ninety-Eight, he thinks they are ready, but she comes home with two zeppelin tickets.

"Fancy a trip?"

"Yes!" he exclaims too loudly. He's done so well so far. He's only had a few freak-outs--no, they weren't freak-outs. Slips, lapses, tiny episodes, he thinks. But oh, would he love to travel. He doesn't have the universe at his fingertips anymore, but this world is still different, still has a lot to offer. Maybe the Sphinx still has a nose because he wasn't there to meddle, and maybe the sand feels different under his feet there because the silicon dioxide content isn't the same in this universe. Maybe the Great Wall of China wasn't built, but there's one in Mexico, and maybe the view is still spectacular. Maybe the best chips on the planet aren't at their old haunt at the hole-in-the-wall on Baker and Twenty-Fourth. Maybe they're across the globe in Sydney, and maybe they can find them.

"Yes," he says quieter, and then, "Where?"

"Anywhere."

"Okay."

"Okay."

And they go.

On Day Four-Hundred Twelve, they're running for their lives from a hunter-gatherer group in the Amazon that he's managed to insult.

They run, and the humidity gives them an endless supply of sweat. Huge droplets pool from every pore making their hair stick close to their scalps and their clothes stick to their skin as though they'd just emerged from a swimming hole fully-clothed and a muddy one at that, with the way the forest wants to cling to them and never let go.

He knows it's just something in the way this adrenal-cortical system works that makes him think that maybe they're really going to die this time, something about these rubbish--wonderful--human hormones, but he says the words anyway.

"Will you marry me?"

"What?" she says between tight gasps for air.

"Marry me.”

"Her answer doesn't come immediately. He doesn't know if she's thinking or trying to find the air for the words or both, but he's dying every second.

"Okay," she says, then looks over her shoulder to the group gaining on them. "Can it wait?"

"Yes!" he exclaims. He hollers an indecipherable word, grabs her hand, and they run faster.

#ficandchips #yeah this is just me rebuilding my blog shhhh #i like never reread things i've written past a certain point #for fear of the cringe #but there is not much cringe here #and some phrases i still like #so #boop doop

[blackhakumen]

Mini Fanfic #784: Professor (Sonic x Super Smash Bros Ultimate)

6:54 p.m. at G.U.N. Fortress' Cemetery........

Shadow: (Takes a Deep Breath Before Kneeling Down and Looking at the Gravestone In Front of Him) Professor. (Smiles a Little) It's been a while since we've seen each other, hasn't it?

Here lies, Professor Gerald Robotnik. A Brilliant Scientist.... And Wonderful Grandfather of Three.

Shadow: I'd figured since today is Father's Day, I would take this opportunity to come here and pay my respects. (Chuckles a bit Lightly) Not to mention the fact that you were like a grandfather to almost everyone in the Ark. Even me.

'Wind Blowing'

Shadow: ('Sighs Sadly') Right. I.....('Clears Throat') guess I shouldn't sugar-coat this any longer, but....('Sigh') I miss you, professor. I miss you and Maria so much that...it hurts....even more so nowadays. And while I may not agree on what you did back tbeny....or your reasons for creating me in the first place.....I still consider you as family.....A grandfather even. Still, I do hope you're doing okay up there.....(Starts Chuckling Lightly Once More as Tears Starts Falling Down from his Eyes) What am I saying? ('Sniff') Of course you're doing great up there....('Sniff') You're with Maria again....('Sniff') As it should be.....('Sniff') You're probably telling her more about astronomy and science.....('Sniff') I'm sure she's loving every moment of it too.....

Before Shadow could continue speaking or rather....starts crying, Peach and Hat Kid immediately came by his side and hug him lovingly.

Peach: Oh honey..... It's okay. Your mommy and sister are right here.

Hat Kid: (Nodded While Hugging Shadow with Tears in her Eyes)

Shadow: Thank you....('Sniff') S-Sorry you have to see me like this. I-

Peach: Please don't apologise, Shadow. There is absolutely nothing wrong with letting your emotions. Especially in a time like this

Shadow: Yeah...... (Starts Taking a Deep Breath Again) You're right. It just....('Sniff') so overwhelming right now, you know?

Peach: I know, sweetie. (Kiss the Top of Shadow's Forehead) It gonna be okay. I promise.

Shadow: Thank you....(Turns Back to Gerald's Gravestone as He Wipe the Tears From his Eyes) So Um... Professor? This might come as a bit of a surprise to you, but.....(Smiles a Little) I like to introduce you to my mother, Princess Peach......

Peach: (Smiles Softly and Sadly While Waving at the Gravestone)

Shadow: (Looks Down at Hat Kid While Gently Ruffling the Top of her Head) ......And my little sister, Hat Kid. Yes, that's her actual name, in case you were wondering.

Hat Kid: (Giggles Softly While Still Hugging Shadow)

Shadow: They decided to adopt me not too long ago and.... I've became a part of their family ever since. I love every minute of it too.

Peach: (Heart Begins to Melt in Pure Happiness as She Still Held Shadow Close to Her)

Shadow: (Turns to Peach) Do you want to speak with the professor too, mother?

Peach: (Eyes Widened in a Genuine Surprise) ('Gasps') Shadow.... (Turns Back to Shadow) Are you sure you want me to do this?

Shadow: (Simply Nodded) Yeah. (Smiles Softly) I want him to get to know my mother a bit more.

Peach: (Heart Continues to Melt in Even More Pure Happiness Before Taking a Deep Breath and Turning Back to Gerald's Gravestone) U-Umm.... ('Clears Throat') Mr. Robotnik sir, my name is Princess Peach. I'm the princess of the Mushroom Kingdom and a proud mother of the Smash Family. I just wanted to tell you that...(Takes Another Deep Breath Before Speaking Again) Shadow means so much to each and everyone of us in this family and....Words... honestly cannot express how happy and bless we are to have him in our lives. So from the bottom of my heart......(Puts on a Determined Look on Her Face) I promise you and your granddaughter that I will do my very best to look after him, as well as giving him all the love, support, and care that he needs. I know he's a strong, powerful Ultimate Lifeform, but... he's my baby now....(Turns to Shadow With a Loving Smile) And I love him so much.

Hat Kid: (Smiles Softly at Shadow) Me too.

Shadow: (Smiles Softly to Peach and Hat Kid's Words) I love the both of you, too.

Peach: (Starts Looking Up From the Sky) Oh my.....It looks like it's about to get dark already.

Shadow: ('Sigh') Well, if that's the case.....(Picks a Giggling Hat Kid Up While Getting Himself Up From the Ground) We might as well get going then.

Peach: You sure you wanna leave now, sweetie. (Gets Herself Up From the Ground as Well) We can stay here a little longer if you like.

Shadow: (Simply Nodded) I'm sure. Besides.....(Smirks a Bit Playfully) I'm sure a certain little munchkin here is starting to get hungry now as we speak.

Hat Kid: (Happily Gives Shadow a Big Kiss on the Cheek)

Shadow: (Chuckles Lightly by the Kiss)

Peach: (Giggles Softly at How Cute Her Babies are Being Right Now) Okay, sweethearts. Let's head home now.

Shadow/Hat Kid: (Nodded) 'Kay.

Shadow: (Turns to Gerald's Gravestone One Last Time) I'll do just fine from here on out. Until then......(Waves at the Gravestone) Sayonara, Professor.

Hat Kid: (Happily Waves Goodbye to the Gravestone as Well) So long!~

And with that, the trio begins to walk away from the cemetery and begin to head back home to Smash Town.

@keyenuta

@caleb13frede

@26shann

@cyber-wildcat

@ma-lemons

@albion-93

@supergamemaster64

#sonic series #super smash ultimate #shadow the hedgehog #peach #hat kid #gerald (mentioned) #maria (mentioned) #hurt/comfort #sweet family moment #emotional fluff #peach is best mom #hat kid us best and adorable little sister #father's month #kind of #edited

[casascaytestt]

argentnaivety :

It really had been a tough day. Out of pent-up frustration, Silver went ahead and exhausted himself and didn’t allow himself time to catch a break. It was just one of those days where he felt a little… inexistent. He felt like he was weak. His mind boiled over the assumption that he was one of the many heroes in this world but not one with a name as valorous as certain friends he had always considered his equals.

Silver never felt like he was as good as Sonic or Shadow, or had the initiative like Amy, the steadfastness of Knuckles… He played it off like he did. He felt like he put up this facade of a hero that was confident– but really his actions were out of determination rather than having faith in himself.

While he trained alone on the outskirts of their temporary base, he fantasized about some amazing battle where he could show how much of a capable ally he was. After continuing to embarrass himself over and over these past weeks, all he wanted was to find a way to redeem it all. There was fear that when the time came for plans to be thought-up and missions to be completed, Silver would get left behind.

He adjusted his heated cuffs while the darkness of night settled in. It wouldn’t take much for a pair of emerald eyes to catch onto the glowing cyan of Silver’s gear in the approaching darkness. The feel of another’s touch on him startled him a little, but then immediate contentment once he knew who it was. A soft smile like a child who was being praised. He knew they were just checking up on him, and frankly the gesture made him feel a little more in-place in that moment. Perhaps he would have seen it a little strange coming from them, but he didn’t think about it like that; his mind was in too many other places. Hopefully Sonic couldn’t see the dampness that was still at the bottom of Silver’s tired eyes.

“ I can’t promise that. I always work myself too hard if it’s to reach a goal that’s really important to me.” His voice seemed different; he looked away before Sonic could take note of all the weird emotions shifting around on his face. “ All I did was move some boulders around. Some logs. Some other stuff. I didn’t hurt anything. ” Except his poor brain; that headache was going to hit him hard tonight.

“ Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. ” There wasn’t any intention to push Sonic away, but he didn’t want to show more weakness than he already felt he was. And to him of all people. Sympathy from his‘ peers ’ was the last thing he needed. He just wanted to know he was good enough.

He could recognize a dismissal when he saw one, could see that Silver may prefer to be left alone right now. He knew, but...while he strove to always respect the boundaries of his friends ( knew that not everyone had the same tolerance for sociability as he, and that space was something people needed at times ) another thing he could recognize was when people needed help  — even if they may not want it. ( but he’s never been able to ignore those in need of a hand. and for all the running and dashing he did, he would always take the time to stop for his friends if they need him to )

And there was a reason that he was hailed as a HERO. That the tales of the Blue Blur reached across the globe. He wielded speed and strength and drive that came easy to him, that only grew evermore as time passed on, and saving people was an instinct that came from the core of who he was. But, he never thought that the title of ‘hero’ suited him most. Not when in actuality he was just a speedy hedgehog looking for adventure. ( he was well aware of his reputation. sometimes even basked in the attention. but it was in these moments that he treasured the most. where he was simply beside those he cared for, not as the hero of mobius, but as himself, just another guy like everybody else )

Besides, there wasn’t anything heroic about being a friend. And he’d choose the comfort and warmth of friendship over the cheers and praise heroism any day. And right now? Silver looked like he could use a friend. 

“Hey now, working yourself too hard is never a good thing, Silvs.” It brought forth concern for the other hedgehog, because perhaps it was a just his imagination, but didn’t Silver look a bit too exhausted right now? Shifting just a bit closer to the other, Sonic tries to catch golden eyes, hoping to get a better look at the other’s expression in order to get a better read. It was — worrying. The fact that Silver could say he’d push himself beyond limits so nonchalantly. As if that was something expected of him. ( and Sonic knew all too well of expectations, of how they could be met with pride, could give you a boost when you need it the most. but, also how they could weight so much. burden you during every move you make, echo in your thoughts of how much faster you should be. of how much stronger you should be. of how much better you should be. and how you are never, ever, enough. ) 

And if that was anything like how Silver was currently feeling ( and how could it not be, Sonic realizes. after all, the other had the entire future resting on his shoulders ) then Sonic wanted to give him as much reassurance as he could. ( because Silver was good. was getting stronger every day, but was also plenty strong enough already. had already accomplished so much, a true hero in the purest sense of the word ) 

“I never tried moving boulders and logs with my mind before, but sure doesn’t seem like a simple run around station square. So maybe try and rest for a bit tomorrow. After all, you’ve already made a lot of progress that it’s impressive. Leave some growing for the rest of us, will you?” And he grins, hoping to add some cheer for the other, but he hopes his words are taken sincerely, because he means it. “I’m proud of you, Silver. But we kind of need you out there, you know? So don’t take yourself out of the fight early. Every hero needs their rest, too.” 

[ibelieveinahappilyeverafter]

Writing Commission - Where I Want To Be - Chapter Seven

Summary: Yamada Hizashi, better known as the Voice Hero Present Mic, is a busy man. He has classes and students to teach English to, an agency that always seemed to be in the middle of a disaster to help deal with, and a radio station that was one bad show away from being cancelled to run. He doesn’t have time for a bad day triggered by nightmares and fears and anxieties that just never seem to stop.

Luckily for him, his partners are Aizawa Shouta and Yagi Toshinori and neither of those two are very good at leaving Hizashi to suffer alone.

Fandom: Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia    

Relationship: Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic/Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic/Yagi Toshinori | All Might, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead/Yagi Toshinori | All Might

Characters: Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, Yagi Toshinori | All Might

Rating: Teen Audiences

Word Count: 29,323

Transaction Amount: $200 (USD)

WARNINGS FOR: Past childhood abuse (both emotional and physical) and anxiety attacks verging on panic to PTSD episodes. Please read with caution if needed.

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                                        Chapter Index

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                                               ⁂

The brief hour-long respite Toshinori had blessed Hizashi with had been just enough to keep him from trekking up to the roof of his agency and either jumping or throwing a couple of idiots off, but the hour had ended and Hizashi was once again contemplating either suicide or murder. He was leaning towards murder since no one would really fault him and, plus, Shouta and Toshinori would even be proud of him for picking that option out of the two! 

“Alright. Explain this to me again.” Because Hizashi, despite what people thought, could be patient and understanding. Even on his bad days he did his best to keep his own emotions in check and hear out the people he worked with when a problem occurred. “How did you end up setting one of the lower labs on fire?” 

Two support engineers, one support intern, and the director of the lab in question all exchanged looks with one another. The director clutched his clipboard as if he were about to break it in half due to fear and stress before he cleared his throat, “Well, sir, it’s actually a rather intriguing scientific act that caused the… commotion.” 

Hizashi resisted the urge to faceplant on his desk and instead cursed everyone in his agency for leaving him to deal with this mess. Typically, in cases like lab destruction, it would be dealt with by someone who actually worked in the support labs. The problem with that, however, was that that person was out sick and that left Hizashi, who understood how the support labs and the items inside worked, to deal with the problem.

Hizashi should have taken the day off sick, too. He should have just finished at school and then gone straight home, but no. He had to be stubborn and noble and care about his job. He was regretting his choices in life more and more with each passing second.

“Present Mic, sir.” The intern, a sweet little thing that looked equal parts nervous and excited with hair sticking up in all directions, gave an encouraging grin. “We actually managed to contain the fire to 67% of the lab, as well as keep all volatile projects safe and discover a quicker-burning fuel that gives a more intense burn for Wildfire. With a bit more tweaking, I have no doubt we could have a fuel that would burn through all three layers of skin, barring any quirk changes or effects, within 2.7 seconds!” 

Quiet for a long moment, Hizashi looked up at the lab director, who gave a weak, nervous smile before opening his mouth. He then must have realized that nothing he could say would help the situation because he then closed his mouth and gave an apologetic smile. Hizashi felt his headache, which had been coming in and out all day, give a throb of pain. 

“Alright. You,” Hizashi pointed to the director. “Write up a report of this and send it to whoever is in charge of your lab this week -- not me. Include the fact that not everything was destroyed and you’ve discovered something to better help Wildfire. That’ll take some of the heat off of you.” The only one to appreciate his joke with the intern, who gave a snort of startled laughter. 

“You two.” Hizashi pointed at the engineers, who straightened up nervously. “See what the damage was to everything and draw up a plan to deal with it. Don’t worry too much about cost right now but do what you can to minimize any losses. Try to reuse any supplies that didn’t end up too bad off in the fire, too. And you.” 

Hizashi stared at the intern, who gave him a cheerful, happy little grin. The kid was one of their only first-year interns who had been brought in as a special case and Hizashi could feel himself waver at the bright enthusiasm. Well, no one had said he was strong, really. “Excellent work today, but I want you to write up a one-page essay on fire and lab safety and hand it in to the lab director by your next workday. I also want you to send all the data you collected today to my email with everything you learned.” 

While he didn’t need the data, it would be interesting to see those numbers. Typically a fire that burned that hot and that fast only came about through quirks, so it would be interesting to see how far they could push the effectiveness of it. If they did a good enough job then they could have some support equipment that was on par with some of the quirks that came out of Endeavor’s agency, and it was always nice to knock him down a peg or two.

“Yes sir, Present Mic sir! I’ll even be sure to write two pages about the lab and fire safety!” The intern was out of the room like a shot, Hizashi feeling a twitch of a smile before one of the engineers cleared his throat. 

“Um, sir?” Oh. Oh, Hizashi did not like that tone. “One of the projects that was, uh, compromised today was meant to be Sonic Whip’s.” Ah. Right. Sonic Whip. One of the most terrifying women that Hizashi had ever had the displeasure to meet and who had a temper shorter than a deranged villain’s. “It was of a rather sensitive nature and… She’s expecting the first prototype tomorrow.” 

Hizashi resisted the urge to climb out his office window and escape, instead sucking in a calming breath and grabbing his phone before heading towards the door, “I just remembered I have a meeting.” It was a very important meeting, too; one with his face and a brick wall in the half-forgotten hidden lounge on the bottom floor of the agency.

Thankfully, Hizashi had long since mastered the art of looking like he was on his way to an important meeting, which meant no one tried to stop him as he marched himself through the agency and threw himself down on the first couch he saw in the empty lounge. It was dark, from no one having repaired the lights in a while, it was quiet, where it was tucked away into a back corner with thick walls, and it was always empty where everyone forgot to refill the fridge. It was heaven. 

At least, it was heaven until he heard someone collapse on the couch across from him, the sound of a grunt barely being finished before it turned into a surprised, “Yamada! I wouldn’t have thought you were in here with how quiet it was!” Oh, god, it was the only other person in the agency who could be as loud and cheerful as him. This was punishment. It had to be.

Inching his gaze to the side, Hizashi mourned the peace and quiet he had gotten for only a few short minutes as he looked at Shima Hikari, the hero known as Radiant; a light-quirk user that was no doubt going to make his light sensitivity even worse if she felt even the slightest uptick in excitement. She was looking far too cheerful considering her, and the sidekick Hizashi hadn’t even heard at first, looked like they were a few seconds away from hitting the ground in a puddle of exhaustion. 

Taking a moment to weigh the options between responding and ignoring her, Hizashi finally let out a sigh with a quiet, “Alright, you two?” 

“Peachy keen!” Shima chirped, crossing her legs and then looking over to her sidekick, who had her own legs thrown over one end of the couch and her head resting near Shima’s thigh. Poor kid looked exhausted and Hizashi took a moment to be grateful his own sidekick days were over. Sometimes, even if he truly hated to admit it, he’d rather take the paperwork over dealing with stupid villains and angry cops. “Isn’t that right, Stardust?” The kid gave a pathetic groan that sounded half exhausted and half pained. “That’s the spirit!”

“I think you’ve killed your sidekick,” Hizashi snorted, pushing himself up and biting the inside of his cheek to stop a groan at the throb in his head. “We’re supposed to be careful with those, you know. We only have a limited supply of them.”

Shima huffed, placing a hand against her chest, “Excuse you, I take the utmost care of my sidekicks, thank you very much. At least I don’t load them full of caffeine and sugar and energy drinks and hope they don’t die of exhaustion before the end of a patrol like you do.”

“And yet they love me anyways,” Hizashi snickered, readjusting himself against the couch as he flicked his eyes over the two again. They were both covered with dust and rubble, scratches across all visible parts of their skin. Stardust had one of her ankles tightly wrapped, and Shima had a bandage around her head, but neither of them looked too bad off. “Interesting patrol, then?” 

“Started with chasing a purse thief and then he led us all the way to a drug den where a deal was going on between some pretty important figures,” Shima snorted, pulling out her phone and starting to type on it at once. Hizashi couldn’t really blame her since his phone, and Shouta and Toshinori, were the only reasons he was no doubt still sane. “Seriously, though. You’re quiet as shit. What happened? Another lab blew up while you were stuck on report duty?” 

“Fire, actually,” Hizashi responded, watching with amusement as Shima’s head snapped up, eyes narrowed and studying him. They then widened with sympathy. Even Stardust, half-asleep as she was, made a noise that sounded sympathetic.

“Oh, fuck, I thought I was just joking.” Yeah, that’s what made it even worse, really. “Everyone alright? Any injuries?”

“No injuries, thankfully.” Hizashi collapsed back on the couch, groaning at the flash of pain in his back. “It’s not the worst lab disaster we’ve ever had but add that on top of everything else that’s been happening, and it’s been a long day.” Plus, his sensory overload, flashes of memory, and trauma were all acting up to make the day try and kill him once and for all. 

“We told you, right back at the beginning, to not take that job at U.A.,” Shima lectured, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “You already had a full-time job here and with that radio station of yours, and what did you do?” 

“I took the job at U.A.,” Hizashi mumbled, wincing as Shima repeated the words even louder. She truly was his punishment in life.

“You took the job at U.A.! Being a teacher is a lifestyle and you’re doing that with two other jobs! Which are also lifestyles!” Shima made a very dismissive tsking noise, Hizashi cracking an eye open to glare at her. “What? I’m right and you know it. Right, Stardust?” 

The kid cracked her eyes open, blearily staring between the two of them before looking back to Shima, “Sorry, Shima-san, but I refuse to take sides in an argument with pro-heroes when all three of us work in the same agency.”

Hizashi snorted, the serious tone of voice lifting his mood for a few moments, “Smart kid, Shima. She’s gonna be better than you one day.” 

Shima scoffed, beaming and radiating pride as she turned back to her phone, “Yeah, yeah. Oh, you might wanna go get your stuff and get ready to leave, by the way.” 

“What?” Why would he leave? Hizashi still had another two hours of his shift at the agency before he had to head over to the radio station. “Why would I-?”

A loud ping from his phone had Hizashi frowning before he was looking down at it, seeing an incoming message from one of the higher ups. It only took a quick scan of the message to see that he was, not-so-politely, being told that he was done for the day, already clocked out, and that his husband was on his way to pick him up so he could ‘get some goddamn rest.’ Shima gave a proud, beaming grin when Hizashi looked up at her. “You’re welcome!”

“I hate you?” Hizashi looked from her to his phone, feeling a shock of warmth at how much the people in his life cared for him. The fact he was already clocked out meant he legally couldn’t even try to get back on his computer and do anymore work for the day without getting into legal trouble. He was legally being told to get out and go get some rest. “Why are you so mean to me?” Which meant once he finished at the radio station he could go home and cuddle up with Shouta and Toshinori and let their warmth and safety drown out everything else.

“Aw, I see you as a friend, too,” Shima cooed, voice softer and quieter. When Hizashi glanced over, he saw she was petting at her sidekick’s head, the girl halfway to being asleep as she breathed softly. “Seriously, though, Yamada. I know what a rough day looks like, so just… take care of yourself, yeah?”

“Fuck,” Hizashi breathed out softly, pulling himself up with a groan. “I’m going to have to actually get you something decent for Christmas, aren’t I?” The ugly snort of laughter had Hizashi managing a larger smile as he shook his head. “Make sure to get some rest yourself, Shima.” 

“Just as long as you do, Yamada,” she winked, shooing him out so she could coddle her sidekick even more than she already did. Honestly, Hizashi was waiting for Shima to come in with adoption papers with how she was about that kid. 

It wasn’t until Hizashi was halfway to his office that his phone dinged again, this time a message from Shouta with a laughing emoji and a simple, ‘Got kicked out huh?’

‘I was politely told to get the fuck out and get some goddamn rest before I had a heart attack and would need to be replaced,’ Hizashi texted back, trying not to snort as Shouta sent a row of more laughing emojis. It was hilarious that everyone assumed Hizashi was the emoji abuser when Shouta’s texts typically contained an emoji with each line or sentence. ‘You don’t have to come get me.’

‘Too late. Already omw.’ Which meant Shouta had probably left to come and check on him just like Toshinori had even before he had been texted by Hizashi’s agency. ‘Get your things before they lock you out of your office workaholic.’

‘You have no rights to call me that considering your own work ethic.’ Hizashi sent a little emoji of his own before tucking his phone away and heading to get his things. Considering the type of people he worked with, he truly wouldn’t be surprised if they kicked him out before he could so much as grab his bag. They wouldn’t even feel bad about it, they would just laugh at him.

Thankfully, it didn’t take him long to gather the files he needed and head back down towards the lobby, everyone soundly ignoring him. It wasn’t the first time an agency wide message had been sent out to warn people that Hizashi was getting kicked out and, knowing him and his co-workers, it wouldn’t be the last. Hizashi hated and loved every last one of them. 

Hizashi was on the sidewalk when a pair of footsteps fell into step with his own, Hizashi feeling something in him soften and relax at Shouta’s quiet laugh, “Radiant was the one to kick you out, huh? How’d that feel?”

“Like the universe was throwing everything I’ve ever done back in my face,” Hizashi snorted, smiling when Shouta’s shoulder brushed against his own. “I could have finished my shift, you know. It’s not a patrol day.” 

“You could have,” Shouta agreed, looking at him with that look of his that was far too understanding. “But you don’t have to. You’re the one always yelling at me about teamwork and cooperation with others, after all, aren’t you?” 

“That’s because you try to take on two dozen human traffickers without any backup.” That had been far too nerve wracking of a night, in Hizashi’s opinion. Nemuri, at least, had shared in his suffering when Shouta had ended laid up in the hospital with a concussion and a broken wrist.

“Mm, you all were running late.” Ass, Hizashi thought to himself fondly. “I’d ask if we were going home, but…”

“Radio station,” Hizashi finished, closing his eyes for a moment. As much as he craved going home and finally resting, he still had work to do. He wouldn’t let a bad day ruin all the work he and everyone else he worked with at the station had been doing. Besides, it wasn’t a recording or live day, so there was at least that much. 

“You’re lucky you don’t need to record today,” Shouta snorted, reading Hizashi’s mind as he always did. “Alright. Let’s go, then.” Hizashi half-wanted to argue that Shouta didn’t need to come with him, but he knew it was a fight he wouldn’t win. 

Hizashi took a breath anyways, getting ready to gather up the energy he would need to ask about Toshinori, and dinner, and how the students were after Shouta had checked on the dorm. Stupidly, though, Hizashi forgot that he was talking to Shouta.

He hadn’t even gotten a word out before Shouta was talking again, firm enough to be heard, but soft enough to make it easy on his headache, “Toshinori made it home alright, by the way. He also started digging up American Sign Language books, but I decided I didn’t even want to ask since I knew I’d hear about it from you later. He’s also starting dinner. For a man who doesn’t eat food typically, he’s a better cook than I would have thought. 

“Oh, and I think the kid is gonna kill all the troublemakers in 1-A if they keep trying to kidnap him like they have been,” Shouta continued, Hizashi feeling tension drain out of him as he listened to the man’s voice. “They actually had him trapped in the dorms when I went to check on everything before Nemuri took over watch. He was taped to the chair and making at least two of them do handstands.”

Shouta didn’t stop for a moment, talking softly and damn near rambling as his steps kept time with Hizashi’s, not expecting him to say a single word back in response. It was a routine that was years old and familiar enough that Hizashi could let himself get lost in the words as Shouta led them along to where they needed to go. 

His eyes slipped shut for a moment, the phantom feeling of pressure around his throat and leather cutting into his skin damn near gone. He was still exhausted, and stretched thin, and felt like too much at once would put him right back where he had been, but… 

The day was almost over and he had Shouta by his side. As far as he was concerned, he would be just fine for a few more hours.

#bnha #boku no hero academia #where i want to be #allerasermic #mha #my hero academia #original #my writing

[writerlyhabits]

Covered In Mud (Tenth Doctor x Gallifreyan Daughter!Reader)

I'm back from the dead! I feel like an awful human being, I have had this request since I went on spring break who knows how long ago. So first and foremost, I want to apologize to @justheretoscrollpast for making them wait so long! I love you for being patient! This kind of ran away from me, but I’m happy with the direction it went. I feel like writing wise it’s probably not the best thing I’ve written, but because of the amount of research I did to make this work I’m pretty proud of the plot. Anyway, thanks all for being so patient, I really appreciate you guys. I hope you like it! 

Request: If you'd be ok with it, could you do another tenth doctor with a Gallifreyan daughter!reader request? Could write it with them running/racing each other through the rain on earth to meet some important people to fix something important because the TARDIS can't be used for some reason? Maybe when they get there, these people are sort of disgusted/showing disapproval at how wet they are, and the reader feels embarrassed/sad about how they talk to her but the Doctor is not bothered and comforts the reader/maybe says something back to these people? Just kind of fluffy, if that's ok, thank you again!

Why was it always raining in England? No matter what year, what month, what century, it seemed like the skies were always cloudy or already leaking water. And of course, right now it was pouring buckets. Of all days. Because chasing alien miscreants through Regency-era England is so much easier when the roads are soaked and muddy.

"No no no no, don't stop, come on!" the Doctor exclaimed, angrily beating against the device in his hands. You stopped beside him to catch your breath, taking note of the fact that the bottom portion of your petticoat was covered in mud.

"This is the last time I change my outfit to fit the era," you grumble as your dad made an attempt to quickly restore the tracker. He gives you a sideways glance with an eyebrow raised. "You never do! And I would give anything to be wearing trainers right now. I've got so much mud in my shoes, I might a well not be wearing any."

"I never forced you to change," he laughed, "that was your own silly idea." You stuck your tongue out at him in reply before turning to observe the street around you. As far as Regency England went, it wasn't anything particularly grand. People were bustling about, groups of young girls squealing as they escaped the rain, and a lot of men in top hats.

"Dad, we've hit the jackpot, look at all those top hats!" you smiled, nudging his arm. He glanced up from the device again and, after a quick scan of the street, gave a hearty laugh. "I told you they were in style! It would have even matched your coat!" You exclaimed, referring to the top hat that you had dug out of the TARDIS closet earlier that morning.

"Yes, but it wouldn't have matched my trainers; you know, the ones that don't have mud in them right now," he smirked. You rolled your eyes.

"Okay fine, point taken. Now hurry up and fix that thing! The quicker we get out of here, the quicker I get back to the TARDIS to get real clothes." He snickered as he pulled his sonic out of his jacket pocket and worked on the tracker, ducking out of the way so as not to attract the attention of passersby.

It was a charming little street, you had to admit. There was a bakery across the street that smelled heavenly, and a hat shop just down the road that housed a mass of women who were glancing out at the skies above while delightedly going about picking ribbons for their caps. You took notice of the shops next to the two of you; a flower shop was at your left, and to the right of you a quiet bookshop that was stocked with shelves of books and journals, and tables of stationary set up near the front.

You moved to pull the Doctor into the shop for a reprieve from the rain but stopped in your tracks as you looked out at the street. A middle-aged woman was crossing to the other side of the road towards the bakery with a parcel in her hands, yet stopped as if her muscles had given out underneath her. You watched the woman in concern for a few moments, wondering if she would appreciate a helping hand or just wave it off. That was the worst part of this era; you never knew who would sneer at a kind gesture, and who would accept it.

As you sat in contemplation, the sound of horses brought your attention down the road to find a carriage bustling down the street at top speed. You turned your attention back to the woman in the street, and see that she's barely moved. You felt a panic start to bubble inside your chest.

"Uh, dad?" you ask, the worry showing in your tone. He hummed in acknowledgment but wasn't paying attention. You look back at the carriage, seeing the driver shouting in the woman's direction as she struggles to get out of the way. With all that mud, the carriage is never going to be able to stop in time, you thought to yourself. Your feet started moving underneath you as you made your way back into the rain and to the edge of the street.

"Doctor?" you say a little more urgently, not taking your eyes off the scene in front of you. Get out of the way, you plead in your head. Stop the carriage, move around her! Neither of the two parties were listening to your thoughts, and your chest was starting to feel tight with anticipation.

The Doctor looked up at you, taking in the sight before him. Not even a half a second later were you sprinting into the street. He sprang up from the wall he had been leaning against, his hearts stopping as he watched you move and a shout getting caught in his throat.

"Look out!" you managed to yell, the woman turning your direction in the brief moment before you leapt towards her, bringing the both of you to the ground on the other side of the street, creating a giant splash as you landed in the mud. The carriage sped by only a moment later, proceeding to splash you with another coat of mud. Because that's what this situation needed. More mud.

The Doctor let go of the breath he hadn't realized he was holding as he watched you roll off of the other woman and get up on your feet. He wasted no time in making his way across the street, fully intending to scold you for worrying him like that, and hold you in his arms for much longer than was needed. You were far too much like your father, and it annoyed him to no end.

"Are you alright, Miss?" you asked the woman you . . . knocked over, offering a hand to help her up out of the mud.

"Oh, yes, thank you, dear," she smiled back. "I don't know what came over me, it got hard to move. Must have been all this mud," she laughed lightly. She seemed as if she was brushing something off, almost like she was trying to ignore her weakness, so you didn't press. It was only then that you became aware of the people on the street around you.

"Good lord, what a mess!"

"All the way to my boot, how preposterous!"

"Just look at the state of her petticoat!"

You hated having all the eyes on you when things fell to ruin. It made you feel so small. It always reminded you of the burden you carried on your shoulders; one of the last of the timelords and all you did was make a mess wherever you landed. The Doctor knew this about you and always made sure he was quick to the rescue. That was one weight he never wanted you to bear alone, and he did everything in his power to be sure you never did.

"Right, and I didn't see any of you making an attempt to save this woman's life, now did I?" The Doctor's voice questioned in a tone that could make anyone quiver in his wake. Except for you, of course. That was a comforting sound, your dad swooping in to protect you. The crowd around you dissipated with guilty expressions, the Doctor turning back to you with a gentle smile. "You alright?"

"Just a bit dirty, I'm fine," you smiled back. He gave you a reassuring pat on the back before reaching down to retrieve the woman's parcel out of the dirt, which reminded you of the state of the both of your outfits. "Oh, I'm sorry to have gotten you so dirty, I hope I haven't ruined your plans miss."

"No no dear, you're quite alright. I was just out getting some stationary. I've been working on a new book!" she explained rather excitedly.

"A new one? What might I recognize as your work?" you asked politely.

"Well, I'm not sure if you might recognize any of them, but I have written a few titles. Sense and Sensibility was my first . . . You might recognize, more recently, Persuasion and Northanger Abbey . . ." Your mouth fell open in awe.

"Mansfield Park, Emma, and Pride and Prejudice?" You finished, bewildered at the scenario you had just found yourself in.

"Yes! So you've read them?" She asked, seeming just as elated as you.

"Absolutely! Over and over again!  And I've got to say, Pride and Prejudice has to be one of my favorites," you gushed, earning a giggle from her.

Holy shit. I'm talking to Jane Austen. You squealed internally at the thought.

"Oh, I'm so glad to hear it! Now, I do hate to have to end this so soon, but I would much like to get home to keep working on this new idea I have," Jane explained, gesturing to the parcel in her hands.

"Yes! Absolutely! The book won't write itself," you joked, earning a laugh from the author. "Who knows, maybe this will be my new favorite."

"Perhaps! And I can't thank you enough for saving my life."

"Oh, believe me, it was my pleasure!" you heard yourself say. Jane gave you a strange look, yet still smiled warmly as she waved a goodbye and continued on her way, leaving you with your mouth wide open as you played the entire interaction over again in your mind.

I just saved Jane Austen's life.

"I just saved Jane Austen's life!" You almost yelled, turning to your dad to see him smiling from ear to ear. He started laughing infectiously, picking you up in a hug and spinning you around in the air.

"We just met Jane Austen!" he repeated excitedly, setting you back down on the ground. The two of you looked off in the direction she had walked, still just able to make her out in the crowd.

"What year is it? What book is she writing?" You asked eagerly, desperate to know which novel you had just helped get written. The Doctor gave a deflated sigh.

"Its August of 1816," he started, looking a bit wistful. "She's writing Sanditon."

"No . . . she never finishes that one," you reply, shoulders sinking as the realization hits you.

"She dies of Addison's disease July of next year."

"That's why her muscles were weak . . . That's one of the milder symptoms. She doesn't even know she's sick yet."

"No, but she will soon. I think instead of helping her book, you might have helped her realize that she's not well," your dad replied, trying to comfort you. You only pouted.

"I hate it when we meet people who are gonna die soon," you whined. The Doctor giggled at your response, pulling the repaired tracker back out of his pocket, his face changing immediately.

"Got 'em. . . We've got 'em!" he yelled excitedly as he read the monitor, making you jump. "Ready to run again?" You looked from your dad, then back to watch Jane Austen completely disappear into the crowd, before donning a smile and facing the timelord in front of you again.

"When am I not ready?"

"That's my girl! Allons-y!"

#Tenth Doctor #tenth doctor x daughter #tenth doctor x daughter reader #tenth doctor x reader #doctor who #the doctor #the doctor x reader #the doctor x daughter #the doctor x daughter reader #10th doctor x daughter reader #10th doctor x daughter #10th doctor x reader #10th doctor #Kam writes #request #kam takes forever to do shit #thanks for being patient #i love you guys #regency era #jane austen #historical figure #holy cannoli i put a real live person in my fic #i did so much research to make this work #it was actually kind of fun

[tenscupcake]

electrostatic potential (29/?)

ten/rose. teen this ch. i’m back, baby! hope you guys enjoy this chap, and that it’s at least somewhat worth the wait ;) thank you oodles to amber for the beta and for making this chapter much better! summary: as the doctor and rose traverse time and space looking for adventure, they slowly fall victim to a mysterious energy that can manipulate their emotions. though confused and unnerved by the cerebral affliction, neither of them understands its cause, or realizes that it could jeopardize their friendship. what will it take for them to discover the truth? this chapter on ao3 | back to chapter 1 on ao3

Rose has to hand it to the Doctor for keeping a relatively cool head through all this. Since they returned to the hut, he’s done his best to stay optimistic (which seems almost paradoxical, in itself), and she has taken encouragement from the fact that he hasn’t been freaking out. At least not very much. She expected him to be about a million times more worried than she is about this whole thing, but that’s far from the case. Now and then, small bursts of anxiety mar the ambiance in the garden, but he does a decent job of warding them off.

Much of the time, all his focus is on keeping her calm, and it’s miraculous how well it works. Even after all the training he’s taken her through so far, it still surprises her how much more powerful the Doctor’s mind is than hers. How irresistibly persuasive his gentle suggestions are. Trying to ignore the sensation of calm he’s offering is like trying not to drift off in a cozy bed after a long day. Why resist?

It certainly has been nice to spend a couple of hours lying in the grass with no obligations besides snogging. Normally, she might be a tad sexually frustrated by now, but with the looming questions of her health and the future, neither of them feels it’s the right time for a shag. Without breaking their link, the Doctor checks the outside world from time to time to see if the storm has calmed enough to brave the trip to the TARDIS. But over time, these pauses become less frequent. Whether he’s forgetting, or becoming more and more reluctant to part with her even briefly, she isn’t sure. But whichever way, she doesn’t mind.

The Doctor has a way with this telepathy thing. Time seems to speed up while they’re connected, almost to the point that she wants to tell him to slow it down for them.

She wonders if he would. She thinks it’s within the realm of possibility for a Time Lord to be able to manipulate time itself.

“Not quite.” The Doctor breaks them out of a kiss with a chuckle. They’ve shifted gradually over time: he’s hovering over her, supporting his weight on his elbow rather than crushing her. “I can’t manipulate time without using ethically questionable technology. But I can manipulate your perception of it. It’s difficult, though, and not without risks.”

“Should’ve known.” She grins happily, almost forgetting about her situation. But the golden glow around his tousled hair acutely reminds her of the circumstances, and her smile falters. “Want to check on the storm again?”

His smile falters, too.

“Okay.”

She wishes she hadn’t asked, because within seconds they’re disconnected and heading for the door of the hut.

The storm hasn’t just let up – it’s completely paused. In fact, it’s almost too calm, like they’re in the eye of a hurricane, and the inevitable second wave of destruction could strike any moment. It’s quiet in the absence of the torrential rain and constant crash of thunder, but the sky is still a dark, ominous gray.  The light breeze on her skin is a different temperature than the surrounding air, and storm clouds race through the sky overhead, turbulent currents still on the move. This really could be their only window to the TARDIS all day.

Every occupant of the island has sought shelter indoors, making it feel like a mistake to have stepped outside at all. A calamity waiting to happen. Rose doesn’t find it likely that anything worse can happen than being struck by lightning and nearly dying, but it’s still eerie to be outside. The village and the surrounding beach are so empty, it’s as though they’ve been evacuated pending a natural disaster. A rumble of thunder echoes in the distance with a greenish light, and Rose longs to return to the sunshine and chirping birds of the garden.

The Doctor is holding her hand, at least, but she thinks it’s more to prevent her running off again than for a sense of comfort.

And suddenly, he’s doing a much less impressive job of being optimistic. His worry starts to compound hers as they make their way across the boardwalk, walking at a rate too brisk to be leisurely. And just a minute ago he was doing so well. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that now they really have to confront what happened, if anything did? (Apart from the hundred thousand volts or whatever.) Or that if there is anything wrong, he’s going to have to take action to fix it? Is he thinking back to the last time Bad Wolf was inside her, and he had to sacrifice his own life? Is he afraid of dying again? Should she be?

God, she wishes he would go back to being cool and calm about it. This is a definite downside to the automatic communication thing.

“What is it?” the Doctor suddenly asks, looking over at her in more of a glare than anything.

“What’s what?”

“You’re tense. Walking too fast for you?” He slows down his pace, if only marginally.

“Er… no…” She’s not sure how to respond. She didn’t expect him to pick up on that. Stupid. How much longer will they both continue to underestimate the potency of this thing? They both should’ve learned their lesson by now. Always assume it can transmit. Always. “Just… you’re a bit tense is all. And you weren’t before.”

To her surprise, the Doctor sighs and turns his head to stare straight ahead.

“What’d you want the defense lessons for if you weren’t going to use them?”

“Oi! ‘S not my fault!”

Blimey, he’s grumpy when he’s nervous.

“You’re right. Sorry. I didn’t mean that. Just… I tried to explain before. You’ve got to actually try to block me out if you want to. If you’re trying to hear me, then you will.”

“I know… just… didn’t have enough time to think about doin’ that is all.”

“You’re right. Sorry. I’m just…”

“Do you not think I’ll be all right?”

“I do.” He turns to her as they stop at the top of the stairs leading down to the sand. “I’m only anxious to find out what’s going on.”

“Okay.”

They’re quiet the rest of the way, but the Doctor doesn’t let go of her hand. The sand is mushy and cold from the rain, but the air is crisp and warm, drier than usual. It almost feels like a new beginning, and she can’t help but wonder if there are more of those on the horizon.

She doesn’t feel any ill effects from this thing. In fact, there have been a few undeniable beneficial effects. She got struck by bloody lightning – and she’s got branching blood vessel tattoos on her arms to prove it – but she’s fine. She’s walking and talking and functioning normally. The Doctor scanned her pretty much everywhere with the sonic and came back with nothing. How’s that even possible?

But even worst case scenario… if there are still some remnants of Bad Wolf in her, didn’t the Bad Wolf bring life? Okay, well, it killed a few Daleks. More than a few. But it saved a bunch of people aboard the satellite. Jack. The Doctor. She always feels guilty that he sacrificed one of his lives for her that day, but on the flipside, if she hadn’t gone back to him, he would have died anyway, and she thinks he wouldn’t have been able to regenerate himself out of that one.

Whatever this is, she wants to believe it’s not a bad thing.

She thinks back to what she’d learned the other day, how strong emotions can overpower unwanted ones from the outside. She concentrates on the optimism and hope these thoughts bring help to cancel out the Doctor’s negativity, and it actually works fairly quickly. She grins to herself, proud of her progress, and doesn’t bring it up again.

With how tenaciously the Doctor is leading her through the sand, it doesn’t take long at all to get back to the TARDIS.

The infirmary has been bumped close to the console room, and before she knows it she’s perched on an examination table, gripping the edges of the the thin, hard cushion to take the edge off her anxiety.

“Why don’t you lie down?” the Doctor says absently as he swipes on his glasses and collapses onto a rolling stool. The first thing he does is get a pair of gloves from a rack on the wall, pulling them on with crinkling and slapping noises that run chills down her spine.

“’M fine,” she insists, gripping the table harder.

He pauses in the middle of searching a drawer of the nearby counter at her tone, glancing over at her.

“I just want you to be relaxed, that’s all.”

“I’m relaxed,” she lies through her teeth.

“Okay.” He resigns that she isn’t going to acquiesce, and starts rounding up supplies from various drawers and cabinets, arranging them on a metal tray. It feels a bit too much like an operating room for her liking.

“Is all that really necessary?”

“What?” he asks, turning to her with an expression of innocence. “It’s not like I’ve got a scalpel or anything, just basic, run-of-the mill diagnostic tools.”

“Like what?”

“Like…” He tears open something plastic as he walks over to her, and holds up the object in question. “Cotton swabs.”

She relaxes a little. Seems harmless enough.

“Open up,” he says.

She stares back at him, affronted.

Confused, he opens his mouth, pointing to it with his free gloved hand.

Oh.

“What are you gonna do?”

“DNA sample. Here, you can do it. Just stick it under your tongue for a bit, that’ll do it.”

He hands her the swab carefully by the very bottom, and she takes it and does as he requested.

“Can’t you figure this out with your hands, or whatever?” she asks as she hands it back to him.

“There’s a lot of information I can get from sensory inputs,” he agrees, taking the swab from her and immediately dunking it into a long tube of clear liquid. He seals a cap over it hastily. “Temperature, respiration rate, pulse… and if I can taste it, mineral levels, electrolyte balance…” He tears open another piece of plastic and pulls out what looks like a toothpick, handing it to her like he did the swab. “One more. Just scrape the inside of your cheek a little. Not enough to hurt yourself, just to collect a few thousand cheek cells.”

She takes it from him and follows his brief instruction, and he rolls away to retrieve something else.

“But I can’t analyze DNA with a simple touch,” he continues his earlier thought. “Or view cellular structures with just my eyes. Glasses or not.” He returns to her, takes the toothpick, and wipes the end of it on a rectangle of glass. A microscope slide, she guesses. He covers it with a square of plastic and sets it on his metal tray.

 He then picks up the tube with the cotton swab and wheels himself over to what looks like a fume hood from her high school chemistry class.

“Expectin’ some noxious gases?” she asks.

“It’s not a fume hood,” he says matter-of-factly. “It’s close, though. Biosafety cabinet,” he pronounces with enthusiasm. “It’s designed to protect the sample, not me. I can’t have your genetic material getting contaminated with mine, or that of the countless species of bacteria, viruses, and fungi no doubt floating through the air.”

“Right,” she rolls her eyes at the unpleasant reminder.

He gathers some bottles and boxes from a nearby cabinet and runs them over to the safety contraption. He then picks up a spray bottle from next to it and squirts its contents onto one glove, then rubs his gloved hands together, spreading it over his hands thoroughly.

He extracts liquid from various bottles and vials and transfers them here and there with some sort of high-tech blue syringe device, rushing but never seeming to make a mistake. It’s fascinating watching him work, even though she has no idea what he’s doing.

But when he’s occupied for more than a minute or so, she loses her ability to focus on watching him, and anxiety creeps up on her. She’s optimistic he won’t find anything that indicates she’s in mortal danger. But now that he’s actually collecting samples from her mouth and doing analyses on them that she doesn’t even understand, she’s feeling out of her depth. She has no idea what he may find. She could be a mutant now, one of the X-men, or some other alien invention that’s far from human.

“This sort of PCR would probably take an hour or two in your time,” he calls back to her after a minute, almost as though he knew the silence was becoming uncomfortable. Just hearing his voice is enough to bring her out of the spiral. “But with the equipment I’ve got, it should only take, oh… ten minutes?”

“Impressive.” She tries to smile, but it doesn’t quite work.

“I know,” he cocks his head to the side. Only a small, sealed vial of liquid in his hand now, he walks over to a large cube-shaped piece of equipment on a nearby counter, presses a button, and places it carefully into a rack that ejects itself from the side. He types furiously for a few moments on a user interface mounted on the front, eyes glued to the small screen. “This primer too…” he mumbles to himself. “Cover all our bases.”

She decides not to ask any questions about this particular process, figuring he’ll tell her the important stuff when he’s ready.

“Right!” he exclaims, whirling around just as a green light flashes on the machine with a crescendo of beeps that remind her of the sound the washing machines at the laundromat make when they begin a cycle. He claps his hands together, and walks back over to his tray of instruments. He places the tray on a small cart by the counter, and rolls it the few feet across the floor until it’s next to her table.

Much to her dismay, the tray has a needle on it.

“What’s ‘at for?” she asks,

“Blood sample,” he answers matter-of-factly. “Arm,” he adds, tapping the end of the cart.

She grumbles, but sets her forearm on the cart. She covers her face with her other hand, and turns her head resolutely away from her arm, even though he hasn’t started anything yet.

“What’s the matter?” he asks.

“I just don’t want to see it, all right? I don’t like needles. Or blood.” She huffs angrily.

“Rose, just out of curiosity, what sort of tests did you imagine me doing?”

“I dunno! Less invasive ones?”

“Fair enough,” he concedes. “I promise, though, I’m very good at it. I have a touch more experience than your average phlebotomist. It’ll just be one teensy little poke.”

“Right.” He ties a strip of latex tightly around her bicep.

“You know, I actually don’t need much blood. If you prefer, I can prick your finger.”

“No, that’s worse,” she says.

“I agree. More nerve endings in your fingertips.” There’s some clattering of supplies on the tray. “Make a fist.”

She does, wincing a little at how sweaty her palm is.

“Rose Tyler, single-handedly took down the emperor of the Daleks, but can’t handle a needle,” he quips.

“Shut it.”

“I’m afraid I need both my hands, but you can hold on to whatever else you want, if you’d like,” he offers, an olive branch.

On his suggestion, she reaches her hand out, keeping her eyes firmly shut, until she finds his hip, then reaches her hand around and squeezes his bum.

“Woah!” he jumps a little. “Maybe not the best idea to startle someone who’s about to stick you with a needle?” He chuckles a little.

“Sorry.” She relaxes her grip, but can’t help cracking a smile.

He lightly presses a couple fingers into the dip of her elbow, shifting in tiny increments. A cold, wet piece of cotton rubs against the skin he just touched, and alcohol burns her nose.

“There’s really no better way to do this in the future?” she asks.

“I’m afraid humans don’t ever develop the ability to spontaneously bleed,” he says through another round of chuckles. At least her silly questions are inadvertently lightening his mood. “All right, little pinch.”

It’s really not so bad. Every other time she’s gotten blood drawn it’s been worse. It’s a little pinch, like he said. But she still squeezes his bum a little for good measure.

“Okay, about ten seconds…” She feels a slight tug on the needle as he attaches a vial. “Relax your hand.”

She doesn’t try to count, fearing it’ll only make it seem longer, but it is fairly soon that the needle slips back out.

“There we are. Done.” He presses a cotton ball against her elbow, and places a piece of tape over it to hold it in place.

She opens her eyes and looks down at the harmless ball of cotton.

“Not so bad, eh?”

“S’pose not.”

He swipes up the dark red vial from the tray and walks over to another piece of equipment, adjacent to the first.

“What’re you gonna do with this one?” she asks. She winces a little, holding her other hand against the cotton and tape as her skin starts stinging. Damn needle.

“Basic blood panel. Well, basic for my standards, not the standards of 21st century Earth. Might take a little longer than the PCR.”

Next, he pulls out what looks like a Gameboy and various white cords that resemble Apple headphones.

“All right, now I really need you to lie down,” he says as he approaches the cart and sets the device down.

“Why?” she asks, apprehensive.

“I’m gonna do an electrocardiogram, and you need to be relaxed and stay relatively still for it.”

“You can’t do that with the sonic, or somethin’?”

“Rose, why are you opposed to this? It’s completely painless.”

“It’s not gonna help you figure out what’s changed, is it?”

“Rose,” he continues calmly despite her defiance. “You’ve just been struck by lightning and you got overdosed with adrenaline, can I please just check your heart?”

She sighs angrily. “Fine.”

“Thank you.”

Rose lies back reluctantly.

“You’ll also need to, erm, take your shirt off.”

“Seriously?”

The Doctor sighs, but takes her hand.

“Rose, I cannot get all the information an ECG provides just from the screwdriver. I can get simple information – blood pressure and heart rate, for example, but nuanced electrical impulses require a little something extra.” He gazes into her eyes and softens his tone to his most persuasive purr. “I just want to make sure you’re all right. It’ll only take a few minutes, and I promise I won’t make it awkward. Okay?”

“Kay,” she agrees, unable to resist those eyes.

With one light squeeze of her hand and a smirk, he turns away to give her a measure of privacy. He pulls the cart further up along the edge of the table, and busies himself with pulling the ends of the wires out of plastic wrappers.

Figuring she might as well get it over with, she wrestles her shirt off and lies back down.

She exhales deeply and slowly, trying not to be embarrassed. He has seen them before, after all. But it’s awkward now, somehow. The circumstances are too cold and professional.

He turns around, and he only glances down briefly to ensure the task is done, but she thinks she sees his cheeks flush with a tiny bit of pink.

Without letting his gaze linger, he picks up the first cord and peels off a sticker, then places the sticky pad near the middle of her chest without so much as glancing at her breasts. She’s not spending even the slightest effort on maintaining mental barriers, either, but she doesn’t feel the faintest flicker of arousal from him.

She can’t help but feel a little bit disappointed, even though she would feel awkward if he was getting aroused. But she tries not to dwell on it. It’s no surprise to her that he is good at turning himself off when he wants to.

The pads are small. Smaller than ones she’s seen on TV shows. No larger than a dime. Future technology, she assumes.

A second pad goes only a couple inches from the first, on the other side of her sternum. Four more along her ribs, just beneath her left breast, close enough that it makes her breath catch several times. But the Doctor still seems unaffected, as though he’s really just a random cardiologist and she’s just a random patient.

“Okay, just hold as still as you can. Try not to take deep breaths, and no talking.”

He punches in a few things on the device, then sets it down on the cart and stares down at it, rather than over at her.

“Should only take about two minutes.”

He periodically pushes buttons and swipes his fingers across the little screen. Rose is anxious enough that she counts a few seconds go by, but once she gets to thirty and he still hasn’t glanced over, she just closes her eyes. Without him talking to her, or even looking at her, in his effort to avoid potential awkwardness, it feels like he’s not even there anymore, and her thoughts take a downward turn again.

He’s taken blood and cells and spit and now she’s tethered to a bloody machine. She’s starting to feel more like an experiment than a human. It’s chilly in here, too, to the point that she’s suppressing shivers. The cold, clinical atmosphere of this miniature medical facility has seeped into her bones. Tests are properly running now. No turning back, deciding she doesn’t want to know. Mere minutes until they give definitive answers. What if he does find something bad? Could the results of one of these ‘run-of-the-mill’ diagnostic tests be her death knell?

It feels like more like ten minutes have passed when the Doctor finally looks away from the tiny screen.

“All right, all done.” He removes the electrodes from her skin carefully, as though peeling a plaster from a wound. Once they’re all gone, he reaches for her shirt and hands it to her before quickly turning around again. “Completely normal.” Rose breathes a sigh of relief she hadn’t realizes she was holding. “Somehow,” he adds, as though he can’t believe it.

“That’s good, right?”

“Yes,” he assures her, glancing up at her face. “Very good. Just a few more things to check while we wait on the results of the others.”

He reaches for the tray and picks up the microscope slide he’d smeared with her cheek swab, and heads over to a different counter with a microscope.

She’d forgotten she let down her tenuous barriers, because she suddenly feels a spark of nervousness from him again. It’s not like she didn’t already know he was anxious; he’s never such a mute except when he’s both severely worried and focused. She worries her own spirals of anxiety are worsening his, but only briefly. He does have much stronger barriers than she has, and could easily block such a signal if he wanted to.

It only takes him a fraction of a second to adjust the microscope, and he takes off his glasses to peer into it, twisting a few knobs with delicate precision until he finds the right position for viewing.

“Nothing remarkable here.”

He straightens up and pulls the slide out. He reaches for a clear bottle, and squeezes a drop of liquid on the slide, then does the same with another bottle of dark purple liquid. Both droplets on the slide, he covers it with a clear slip once more and places it back under the lens. After several more seconds of peering into the eyepiece again, he steps back and runs a hand furiously through his hair.

“That’s impossible,” he mutters to himself.

“What?” she asks, alarmed.

He doesn’t answer. A machine beeps, and he runs from the microscope over to the contraption that made the washing machine noise earlier, scanning the text on the screen.

“What?” he spits out at the screen, his trademark of frustrated bewilderment.

“What?” she repeats herself, angry and impatient now.

“Your DNA it’s… it’s still 100% human, but…” He dashes back to the microscope, leaving the sentence unfinished.

“But what?” she gets up this time, walking cautiously over to him.

He remains silent for a few long seconds, staring into the microscope again.

“Impossible,” he repeats when he finally pulls away. When he turns around, his eyes are wide, his lips parted in shock. He finally registers that she’s standing there, waiting, and he begins to try to explain, though it’s full of jargon.

“This serum,” he snatches up the clear bottle and holds it up, “is a cocktail of biological signals to speed up the cell cycle, along with nutrients to make accelerated growth possible. And this one,” he holds up the purple bottle, “is a powerful oxidizing agent. It damages DNA, creates additional mutations to accelerate cellular aging by a specific magnitude. Relative rates are known for most known species in the universe. At least as of the year 62700 or so.”

“The point,” she reminds him.

He takes a deep breath, stopping the incessant flow of words. “Rose, your cells aren’t aging at all. At least not visibly. They look how a Time Lord’s would. It appears there are new protective mechanisms in place, or your existing ones have been significantly enhanced.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Well, if your cells aren’t aging, you aren’t aging. At least not at nearly the same rate you should be.”

“I’m not aging?” She pauses for a moment, brainstorming the implications of that. “I’m like you?” she asks with a flicker of excitement.

Another machine dings, and the Doctor leaps over to it without responding to her question. He scrolls down the screen so fast she doesn’t know how he’s actually reading anything displayed on it.

But when he turns away, he looks even more awestruck.

“Normal, everything is normal. How is it all normal?” He looks positively unsettled by such a notion.

“Oi, don’t seem so disappointed that there’s not bad news!”

“No, I’m not!” He tries to assure her, unconvincingly. “It’s not… it’s just that… hang on.” Suddenly, he dashes out of the room altogether, his trainers crashing down the hall.

Rose growls audibly, frustrated that he isn’t finishing any of his thoughts and leaving her hanging like this. It’s her life on the line here.

But it’s only a few seconds before they come pounding down the hall again, clutching another handheld device. This one is black and covered in antennae like something from the original Ghostbusters.

“Sit down,” he commands with a nod to the exam table, either bored with or too impatient for politeness anymore. She does it anyway, hopping back up on the table and holding her breath for whatever he’s about to do. “Hold still,” he adds, stopping about two feet from the table.

Easier said than done when she’s close to hyperventilating.

He punches a few buttons on the device and points the antennae in her direction, and it makes a few bizarre noises – from whirring to whooshing to crackling – that go on for several long seconds.

And for several more agonizing seconds after the ruckus ceases, the Doctor stares down at the small user interface, utterly silent, his face contorting more and more with shock and confusion.

“That’s impossible!”

“WHAT IS IT!?” She demands, finally raising her voice.

“This device, it –” he shakes it in the air “ – measures electromagnetic radiation. All sorts. Most existing wavelengths, in fact. It also stores a database of the electromagnetic signature of thousands of living creatures – humans included. But your signature, that is, your signature now, has no match in the system.”

“What’s that mean?” her voice jumps an octave in panic.

“You have more energy coming off you than any human should. More than any organism should, actually, save for species like me. It’s far closer to the signature of a Time Lord than a human. A Time Lord or maybe –” he cuts himself short, and starts furiously pressing buttons again.

“Maybe what?”

“Protoplasm,” he says without looking up.

“Proto-what?”

“The TARDIS.”

“What?”

“Rose, the TARDIS. I told you this ship’s alive. But she’s got loads of energy signatures most living creatures don’t. Like protoplasm.”

“What’s protoplasm?”

“Morphologically unstable organic matter,” he explains, scrolling through something on the device. “It’s what allows the TARDIS to travel through space and time the way she does without her computers exploding. And what allows her to exist in a different dimension, and change the layout of the interior on a whim – Aha! TARDIS! Here it is! I manually input these data second I bought it. Didn’t come standard – this is hardly Gallifreyan technology. But I knew it’d come in handy someday.”

He starts laughing enthusiastically as he walks to the side of the table so she can see the tiny screen.

“Look at this, Rose. This is mad. Here you are” – he points to a squiggly graph that resembles a readout from a heart monitor – “here’s a reference human, and here’s the reference TARDIS I installed. You’ve got fingerprints from both. A perfect mixture of the two!” When she looks over at him, the Doctor is smiling like a lunatic the way he does when he single-handedly discovers something unique and astonishing.

“You’re happy about this, so I’m guessing I should be too?”

“It’s the TARDIS, Rose. It must be. From when you were Bad Wolf. Some residual energy must have been left behind, dormant. Hidden. But when that lightning hit you, it must have activated that presence. Not to such a degree that it would burn up your mind again, but just enough to cause changes at the cellular level. The perfect balance.”

“What are the chances of that?”

At Rose’s question, the Doctor’s smile fades as he’s struck with yet another epiphany. His eyes go wide.

“Maybe it wasn’t chance.”

“What?”

He circles around to the front of the table again and his eyes zero in on hers. He’s standing so close his thighs are touching her knees.

“Earlier, you said you felt like something told you to run.”

Rose gasps, covering her mouth with her hand.

“Could have been Bad Wolf all along. Leading you straight into the lightning strike just like it led you back to the Game Station. It planned this from the beginning.”

“Oh, my God.” She gasps out a few breaths, trying to process everything. “You sure it’s not threatening my brain, or anythin’?”

“One hundred percent positive.” He nods resolutely, leaving no room for doubt. “That’s what I was checking for.”

“Oh, my God,” she repeats, and a brilliant smile breaks through her nervous frown. “Doctor, what does this mean, though, really?”

“It means you won’t live to be a hundred, you’ll live to be a thousand, maybe ten thousand. Maybe indefinitely. It means you’ll never get degenerative diseases like cancer. It means… it means…”

“It means I can stay with you,” she finishes.

He exhales in disbelief, and it’s almost a chuckle. His expression is torn, like he wants to both laugh and cry but neither is winning out. His eyes sparkle with happy tears; trembling breaths disrupt his gorgeous smile. He runs his hands down his face, smearing some moisture on his cheeks, and takes in a ragged breath like the next one could be a sob.

“Forever,” Rose adds softly.

Suddenly spurred to action, the Doctor brings his mouth down against hers. His hands reach up to cradle her face, gentle but unyielding, as though they never intend to let her go. His lips move with the unrestrained passion he so often holds back. But it’s not rough or rushed, but sweet and tender, as though she’s the most fragile of gifts. Thankful she’s already sitting down, Rose wraps herself around him, losing herself in the soft caresses of his lips and the way his thumbs stroke her skin, in all the possibilities their future holds now. The last of the tension in her muscles melts away. Their minds gently and easily intertwine with the renewed physical closeness and they bask in relief together, and dream peacefully of a life without the threat of mortality.

When they finally break apart to catch their breath, they giggle at each other briefly, but then the Doctor turns somber.

“If you want.” He shrugs, as though he’s indifferent, but she knows better.

Evidently, so does he, because his serious façade cracks almost instantly, revealing a huge smile beneath it.

Rose shakes her head and pulls the Doctor’s mouth back down to hers.

#ficandchips #ten x rose #figured this would be a good way to kick off my return #sorry for the wait! #it's good to be back #written by yours truly

[lifeonashelf]

CLARKSON, KELLY

Since we’ve already tackled a fairly diverse musical sampling in this tome, it may not shock you to learn that I sincerely think Kelly Clarkson is awesome-sauce. And I’m not just referring to her talent (which is obviously abundant) or her register of great songs (which is also obviously abundant), I’m referring to her essence—the authenticity she embodies, and how much more fundamentally likeable she is than any other pop star of her stature or epoch. I have not met Kelly Clarkson, yet her entire vocational ethos has been so blessedly free of pretention that I kind of feel like I know her, even though the only thing I know for a fact about Kelly Clarkson is that she is a singer named Kelly Clarkson.

I never viewed one episode of the American Idol season she won and I have never seen her interviewed as far as I can recall. The impressions I have of her character are intrinsic, based on nothing more than the calmative sound of her voice and the traits I instinctively suppose a person whose voice sounds like hers must surely possess (certain voices are just like that—I don’t think anyone on the planet assumes Morgan Freeman is a dick, for instance). By that criteria alone, I am led to believe Kelly Clarkson is a kind human being, the sort of gentle soul who gleans authentic happiness from making other people happy. I am led to believe she is a humble human being, the sort of grateful and unaffected luminary who lends her resources to numerous charitable causes without requiring any fanfare for it. I am led to believe she is a wonderful mother, although I am merely presuming she has kids since I don’t actually know anything about her personal life. And I am so innately certain of these things that if someone told me they have it on good authority that Kelly Clarkson bathes in the blood of kittens to preserve her youth, I wouldn’t believe that person for a second, even if they had pictures (conversely, if someone told me the same thing about Taylor Swift, they wouldn’t even need photos to convince me).

I have an anecdote which supports my hypotheses, even if the anecdote isn’t my own. My cousin Lauren worked at a restaurant in Hawaii for a few years, and on her last day at this café, a vacationing Kelly Clarkson happened to stop in to eat there. Since it was Lauren’s final shift, her co-workers were scribbling farewell messages on her uniform with magic markers throughout the day, inscribing it like the pages of a yearbook. My cousin’s engraved vestment drew the notice of the eatery’s eminent visitor, who amiably asked about its significance; when Lauren explained the circumstances to this world-renowned superstar in her establishment, Clarkson proceeded to gush about how delightful she thought the gesture was and asked if she could add her signature to the shirt. As a result, my cousin is now the proud owner of a decidedly unique piece of apparel which is autographed by a slew of her former hospitality industry peers… and Kelly Clarkson. When Lauren told me this story, I was acutely charmed and—yes, I admit—a little envious. But I was not a bit surprised, because that is exactly the sort of genial exchange I imagine everybody who meets Kelly Clarkson probably has with her (conversely, if Lauren told me that Taylor Swift came into her restaurant, wrote “fuck you” on her t-shirt, then defecated on the floor, she wouldn’t even need the signed garment to convince me).    

While artists like Lady Gaga and Nicki Minaj have allocated periods of their careers to embodying post-apocalyptic femme-bots or community-theater sorceresses or whatever-the-fuck, Kelly Clarkson has exclusively devoted her career to embodying a performer named Kelly Clarkson who doesn’t come across as markedly different than the self-effacing lass named Kelly Clarkson who curls up on her tour bus after her concerts to watch old episodes of Friends (granted, I have no idea if Clarkson is a fan of that particular show, but she sounds like she must be). The only way I would ever recognize Lady Gaga in the wild is if she walked up to me and said, “Hi, my name is Lady Gaga”—and after I nodded and remarked, “oh, that’s kinda neat for you,” I can’t imagine I’d have much else to say to her. Yet if I happened to be at a craft store and I spotted Clarkson browsing the yarn aisles (for some reason, I also presuppose she knits a mean sweater), I would instantly know who I was spotting because she would probably look exactly like Kelly Clarkson always does, and I’d feel duty-bound to approach her, shake her hand, and thank her for being all of the things I assume she is. And if she wanted to hang out for a little while and chat about patterns, I would totally hear her out, because listening to Kelly Clarkson extrapolate on the textile arts sounds like a perfectly pleasant way to spend an afternoon. I have a strong sense that if I were to meet up with Kelly Clarkson for coffee—actually, now that I think about it, she probably prefers tea—we would totally get along; I also have a strong sense that Kelly Clarkson is precisely the kind of celebrity who actually would meet up with a fan for tea (not me, obviously, because I clearly sound like a lunatic right now).  

“The Girl Next Door” is such a tired trope (especially in my case, since the girls who live next door to me are a Goth lesbian couple), but that is indeed the model Clarkson educes: an ingenuous small-town gal-done-good who spent her teenaged weekends canning homemade jam with her grandmother and reading YA romance novels on her porch with a glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade beside her (again, I’m not sure Kelly Clarkson did any of these things; regrettably, my insights into small-town living are limited to the saccharine tableaus represented in the Lifetime Original movies I’ve watched over the years—which, consequently, I presume Clarkson also enjoys). Her comportment evokes a high-spirited yet enduringly sweet kid sister you impulsively want to protect from the leering eyes of the world, and while she is certainly a beautiful woman, my attraction to her has never ventured anywhere near the realm of the erotic (my pop chanteuse crush is Demi Lovato, whose open struggles with bi-polar disorder, depression, and substance abuse—perhaps unfortunately—make her way more my type than Clarkson is). Honestly, I can’t envision making out with Kelly Clarkson; any fantasies my brain might entertain about her would be more likely to involve tracking down whatever scoundrel inspired the fervent pathos in her performance of “Behind These Hazel Eyes” and defending her honor by punching that fucker in the face.

I guess the word I’m really looking for here is “refreshing.” While Clarkson built her renown in a realm of play-acting, her career has been defined by an absence of artifice, which is ultimately a much more substantive thing to define oneself by than prowling around in spangled booty shorts. At her peak, Clarkson’s implicit message to the young women in her fanbase seemed to be, “you don’t have to pretend to be something you’re not; just be who you are and great things will happen.” I’m certainly no prig, but if I had a music-consuming daughter who looked to pop idols for guidance, I’d much rather her absorb that philosophy than the one proffered by, say, Rihanna—whose well-publicized turbulent coupling with Chris Brown would instead tacitly edify my fictional offspring that “ride-or-die” means sticking by your man even after he beats the absolute fucking shit out of you.

Of course, Kelly Clarkson’s ascent was predominantly reliant on her faculty—I doubt millions of people bought her records solely because she’s a nice person—yet in that respect also, she handily outshined her contemporaries. While most of the circa-aughts female pop icons were essentially sonically interchangeable, Clarkson’s soaring vocals always had enough distinctive character to render them unmistakably hers—surely, no amount of Auto-Tune could have endowed the bottom-scraping likes of Fergie with enough juice to do “Because of You” justice. She was also savvy beyond her years, and it was her refusal to let her handlers dictate the course of her career that ultimately allowed her to flourish when so many of her fellow American Idol graduates floundered.

Clarkson’s sophomore album—2004’s Breakaway—turned out to be the best-selling entry in her discography, and will likely forever remain her most iconic opus. But she had to fire her manager and battle just about everyone else in her camp to make that disc happen on her terms. After riding the wave of Idol worship which lifted her safe and satisfactory debut Faithful to its logical ceiling, she was tenacious in her resolve to transcend that threshold and announce herself as an artist capable of achieving far greater heights than triumphing in a televised popularity contest. As preparations for Breakaway began, Clarkson insisted on being heavily involved in the songwriting process—disregarding the protests of her mostly-male producers, who myopically deemed that a twenty-something woman couldn’t possibly possess any insight into what the twenty-something women who comprised the largest audience for the record they were making wanted to hear. She was also adamant about integrating more diverse and dynamic elements into her sound instead of simply settling upon another cycle of tepid pop-contemporary numbers. The result was a monster of a record that offered up five chart-igniting classics and a supporting cast of remarkably strong deep cuts. As evidenced on Breakaway, Kelly Clarkson’s vision of her craft encompassed something much weightier than a series of Pez-dispenser singles and shark-costume dance numbers. She clearly wanted to make a cohesive album that never gave the listener occasion to reach for the Track-Skip button, and she succeeded brilliantly. Commencing with the anthemic title cut, the feisty “Since U Been Gone”, the masterful “Behind These Hazel Eyes”, and the show-stopping apogee “Because of You” in immediate succession, Breakaway is surely a front-loaded disc, but it’s nevertheless one that continues delivering gems long after it exhausts its radio bait: “Addicted” is as solid as anything else on the record, “Walk Away” brims with irresistible quirk, and despite being buried near the tail-end of the track listing, “You Found Me” is more indelible than most other artists’ biggest hits.

This, too, illustrates a refreshing component of Clarkson’s mien—she made an entire record worth listening to, a feat which regrettably few artists on the pop landscape ever seem to bother themselves with. None of the tunes on Breakaway resonate as throwaways; each has something to offer beyond a hummable chorus, and each is solely Clarkson’s domain, firmly entrenched in her esthetic wheelhouse and blessedly devoid of any posturized pandering or blundering Ja Rule cameos. Even at this early stage of her artistic development, she possessed a seasoned understanding of the clear difference between making a song marketable and making a song memorable, and a keen awareness that those two things are not mutually exclusive. Surely, Clarkson was just as aggressively promoted as any of her peers, but her product wasn’t aimed at the audience hungry for gyrating, hypersexual caprice—peddlers like Christina Aguilera already had that demographic covered. Kelly Clarkson wasn’t selling her navel, she was selling a much more durable commodity: fantastic songs performed by an exceptional singer. And the grandeur of her vocal acumen elevated her wares beyond the disposable and into the timeless—indeed, as of this writing, Breakaway remains a thoroughly satisfying listen; meanwhile, nobody would bother spinning an Ashlee Simpson album from start to finish today, not even Ashlee Simpson.

And unlike far too many of her colleagues, Clarkson didn’t require a force-field of studio trickery to bolster her transmission. The organic nuance and passion in her voice floated atop the reverb rather than drowning in it, and the intricate, exquisite descants she conjured revealed hours spent mining her soul for the best way to communicate the emotion each track called for instead of pondering what shoes to wear in the eventual video. Which is probably why “Since U Been Gone” still makes me pogo around my apartment every time I put it on, while every Katy Perry song sounds like it was specifically written for a lipgloss commercial.

Clarkson’s output has waned in the last decade or so—though “Stronger” is a notable high-point—but even if her most significant work is destined to remain behind her, the legacy she built for herself transcends her standing as the first and most successful American Idol victor (at press time, that is; I’m willing to entertain the possibility that Lee DeWyze or one of the seven other winners whose names nobody remembers might still create the most amazing record ever made). After weathering an era replete with shameful moments like the skinhead meltdown of Britney Spears, The Pussycat Dolls pledging the drooling males in their litterbox echelons of filthy sluttery their lowly mortal girlfriends could never aspire to, and Lindsay Lohan being Lindsay Lohan, Kelly Clarkson emerged with her class, her dignity, and her career intact. The reality-TV platform that introduced her to the world is now a footnote, but her catalog continues to stand the test of time. And even though I actually shook Randy Jackson’s hand when he ate at the restaurant where I work (take that, Lauren), Clarkson will always be the American Idol alumnus I feel most closely connected to.

Speaking of… Kelly, if you’re reading this: my last shift at Eureka is on Monday, January 28. If you happen to be in the vicinity of Claremont that night and feel like swinging by, I’d be honored to have you sign my shirt. Just don’t invite Taylor Swift, please; I heard she does some really gnarly shit to kittens.

 January 17, 2019