My fanfiction and other random ramblings

Srebrna, Skald Arkadii (and thoughts on writing)

But if you can still dream – 10

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I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.
Hamlet II, 2

The Doctor – Lucid dreaming

From what Jack could get the Doctor to tell, the Time Lords’ superior psychology and physiology had some interesting traits. Like an ability to discern immediately if one is currently dreaming or no. Lucid dreaming, it was called, and the Doctor prided himself on being always sure not only where and when he was but also if what he saw was reality or product of his overactive imagination.

But this took some time, at least a few seconds. As they were usually wake-induced lucid dreams, they would fit almost perfectly into whatever had been happening just a moment before and thus would wake no doubts – at least at first – as to their being real. Sometimes Jack would find the Doctor looking through half-closed eyelids at a console, which at the moment displayed either gibberish in Gallifreyan or simply gibberish, and talking to himself. Apparently lost in his daydreams, of course – consciously.

So, as the Doctor stressed over and over again, he always knew if he was dreaming or not. Sometimes, though, he chose to ignore it and let the dream carry him away. Sometimes he really wanted for this to be reality and didn’t want to remember it was only a dream. So he chose not only to ignore the fact that he was dreaming, he chose not to check.

Jack strolled into the TV room, a can of Coke in one hand and an overlarge dish of popcorn in the other. He plopped on the sofa and placed the popcorn between himself and the Doctor. One look at the alien told him to stay quiet and not disturb him – his eyes were half-closed, his lips – mmm – moving and his glasses were pushed up into his hair. Either he was doing some time-and-space arithmetics or he was dreaming about Rose again. Jack could sympathise, he certainly dreamed about Rose – and the Doctor – enough to be able to relate.

He was watching whatever Rose left in the DVD reader the evening before and it was beginning to look quite good. Even though everybody looked to be in love with someone (sometimes recently passed away), it was still good.

She came, silently, and said something, but at first he registered only the fact that his hair stood on its ends as her breath bathed his skin. Then his mind processed the words and he was able to reply, at least partially reasonably. Then he was finally able to turn to her and look at her – from quite a short distance – and he calmly invited her to join in, under the pretense of getting to understand the love threads. As he watched her expression soften – from a small smile of I-am-making-fun-of-you to a delicate, new smile of… of something else – he noticed her breath catching, and he froze. He shouldn’t have, as she took the opportunity – and his head – into her own hands – and he was lost in the world of Rose, of minty chocolate she filched from the cupboard, of honey she laced her tea with and of something fascinating which made him finally shake the astonishment and kiss her back as he had wanted to for quite some time already. When she broke the contact – poor humans and their breathing requirements – he didn’t dare to open his eyes and look at her.

He opened his eyes and looked at Rowan Atkinson being a difficult plane passenger and letting the kid get through the gates. Then he noticed Jack, casually slouching next to him on the sofa.



“Is there another can of Coke? I think I need something cold.”

“Sure. But perhaps you should take some ice.”


“You look as if you have bitten yourself. You’re bleeding.”


Written by Srebrna

2013/07/31 at 09:39

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