Warning: May cause queasiness, and/or vomitting
I wrote this long ago, you may recognize it from fanfiction.net.
I have a twisted, and disturbing sense of humor. *runs off to therapy*
Me no owny Doctor Who
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| Tenth Doctor | |
Hangover from Hell, or Strange Bedfellows by cordelialear [Reviews - 4]  Author's Notes: | |
The Doctor awoke gradually, a dull throb boring its way through his skull, the sickening taste of bile and whiskey permeating his mouth. The sunlight streaming into the dark room, caused him to recoil turning away from the offensive light. The squeaky mattress groaned under his shift of weight. That’s when he noticed it.
It was turned away from him. It was nestled under a sheet scantily clad. It was snoring softly.
Panic swept the Doctor. Where-when was he? What happened last night? Who-what was the lump in bed next to him?
Summing up what little courage his fuzzy head could muster, he pulled the sheet back to get a better look. It wasn’t an it, it was a she. A familiar she.
Blonde curls spilled over the pillow, a youthful body totally relaxed and lost in a fitful sleep, and, completely, utterly garmentless.
Now, the first thought that came to mind was Rose. The creature before him certainly had that Rose-ish feel. But, he remembered, Rose was lost to him. His eyes scanned the frame before him, curiosity getting the best of him. No, this wasn’t Rose. Still...
The person next to him began to stir, and her movement sent a slight waft of her perfume up to him. He froze.
Scientists claim that the sense of scent is the one most closely tied to memory. The brain makes connections between certain events, people, places and certain smells. This is also true of a Time Lord, in fact it is actually stronger, the race of Gallifrey more highly evolved than the ape like creatures from Earth.
So, when the cheap perfume reached his highly evolved nostrils, his reaction was instantaneous horror. He knew this person. The stinging hand print was forever left on his subconscious.
There was a reason this sleeping woman reminded him of Rose. Rose was, after all, made up of a combination of this person’s chromosomes, and those of Pete Tyler.
The memories rushed back to him.
December 1982.
He had been drinking. He’d seen the flash of blonde, the familiarity of her youthful smile, and his only thought was Rose. He wanted to dance with Rose. But, “Rose” had been more than willing to dance, she had all but forced herself on him. He’d introduced himself as “The Doctor,” and well, that had done it for her.
Without speaking, and hoping she was too zonked to hear, or remember him, he slipped out of bed an ran directly to the Tardis. Once inside, he had launched himself into the shower desperately trying to cleanse himself of the fuzzy memories.
Six hours later he emerged, not anywhere near cleansed and purged of his drunken escapade.
As far as the Doctor was concerned, this was all one needed to denounce all forms of alcoholic beverage ever created. Yes, he was sure of that. Alcohol was evil, because alcohol could make a man, no matter how wise and other-worldly, sleep with Jackie Tyler.
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