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Firstly, I don't own Doctor Who, which causes me mild sadness, but I play around with the characters anyway. :) This is a postcard from "Smith and Jones", the first episode of Doctor Who, Series 3.  It's told from the Doctor's PoV, and I hope y'all enjoy!

bana





Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.


 

 

Genetic Transfer (Doctor/Martha)

 

 

It was supposed to be a routine genetic transfer.  That was it.  Nothing more, and he’d told her as such.  Well, not exactly routine as he’d never done it with great frequency before—not this way, anyway—but the end result was still the same.  He needed time to stop the Plasmavore and to thwart the Judoons, and this really was the only way to do it without getting himself killed.  Regenerated.  Whatever.

In his haste (and he’d stick to that reason for the rest of his life), he’d forgotten he could kiss her hand and be just as effective, since human skin absorbed moisture and the Judoon scanners were really quite sensitive.  Yet as she stood there, scared out her mind yet willing to do anything she could do to help, even if he were an alien (and she’d never fully believed in the existence of aliens, not really) and a stranger (which to the British made you alien enough) and they were on the moon (the bloody moon, as she’d pointed out), he’d forgotten proper protocol and slammed his lips against hers.

Her lips were full and pliant, quivering slightly, no doubt from surprise.  Her pulse raced underneath the third and fourth fingers of both his hands.  It was a natural physiological reaction, of course, for humans during a period of stress.  There was slight perspiration on her skin, given that stress and all the running up and down halls and stairs they’d done; and amid the antiseptic clinical smell of the hospital, bananas (of all things) wafted from her, perhaps not as strong as real bananas, but it had him opening his mouth just a little wider to see if her taste concurred with his olfactory imprint of her.

He’d only barely tamped down the urge to caress the silky mocha skin of her cheeks with his thumbs, but those blasted Judoons were coming closer, lumbering and loud; and he really should stop the Plasmavore from whatever it was doing; and the screaming and sobbing from the other humans didn’t quite set the appropriate mood for a proper snog.

Genetic transfer.

He forced his mouth away from hers and ran around the corner.  He’d told his mind he’d transferred quite enough genes at that moment to give himself time.

“That was nothing?”

She sounded as dazed and breathless as he felt, and damn his mind for not letting him continue his run down the hall, and thank his mind for giving him the foresight to know his knees were a little too weak to support a full-on sprint.  Besides, he realized, as he leaned against the wall for a quick spell, he did need that moment to calm down his racing hearts and get his bearings back, to lick his lips and taste the banana that brilliantly matched her scent.

He wondered if it would change the flavor of his blood.

Maybe that was why during his mad-ramble-to-get-the-villain-to-confess he’d suggested a banana milkshake.  In fact, as soon as the hospital had returned to Earth, he’d hopped in the TARDIS and headed to a smashing diner on a planet in the Cartwheel Galaxy.  He closed his eyes, imagining the glass already in hand and tasting the concoction, until he remembered the glasses there were made of cotton, not silk.

The TARDIS hummed knowingly.

Genetic transfer, indeed.










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