Story: Psycho Savior, qu'est-ce que c'est?
Rating: Unrated (I would say adult for language and themes)
Word Count: 7692
Charcters/Pairings: Ninth Doctor, OC
Author's Summary: A young woman contemplates suicide by power steering fluid. "'Course you could just eat the gun like Cobain-- wait, what year is this? He done that yet?" No spoilers, except for the Ninth Doctor's vaguish backstory, and an assumption of perfectly justifiable PTSD. Set before the events of"Rose," the Doctor is an angry guy, and damn it, he's got legitimate pain, so move over, suicide girl.
recced because: I admit, I'm punting on this one and re-reccing an author, but I really, really wanted to close this week out with a Ninth Doctor, my Doctor, story. One of my favorite Ninth Doctor sub-genres is post-time war, pre-series and this ranks up there with the best. As usual, Kalima seasons her angst with a light, comic touch but make no mistakes, this one hurts. Putting a fresh spin on "The Doctor Saves Someone From Committing Suicide" trope, this story is told from the viewpoint of an Original Character, the "suicide girl" and turns a human lens onto the Doctor who is torturing himself/making amends for events caused by the time war. Fabulous stuff.
Her breath catches in her throat. Even the way he’s protected his balls tells her he’s not the least worried. And she’s pretty sure she didn’t say anything out aloud. She watches him watching her, his head cocked, tiny mocking smile quirking his lips. Reading her mind and mocking her thoughts. Fuck you, she thinks as loud as she can, and in a kind of toast, raises the bottle to her lips–
Suddenly, he’s snatched the jug, toasting right back at her then chugs the bottle of Harmful-or-Fatal-if-Swallowed like a frat boy at a kegger.
“Oh my God!”
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and tosses the bottle aside. “Ha ha,” he says. “Drank your death.”
“What the hell? What the hell?” she screams, a million questions in that question.
“Yeah. What the hell? What. The. Hell. Am. I?” His teeth are a white slash in the gathering gloom, a grin that sears her retinas. She gasps, stumbles back, falling against the steps, barely aware of the scrapes and bits of stone embedded in her palms as she scrambles to her feet again. “I’ll give you a hint,” he says, and his eyes are very blue. She can see the whole of creation unraveling in them. “Run.”
And she does.