Gallifrey Records: The Human Nature EP, Part 4


Hey look, Part Four of the current Gallifrey Records fic! Is this a first? Have we had a four-parter fic tennis before? We might be in landmark territory, y’all. Part One, Part Two and Part Three if you’d like to catch up, or you think you missed something. We’re touching on the theme of memory loss in this story, so please savior “fic tennis” if you want to avoid the topic.


She leans forward, hand covering his on the back of the couch. Her smile could power a full city block. “It counts, Doctor.”

Just like Marseille, just like the walnut guitar, there’s something in his mind behind a veil he can’t quite draw back, fervid and familiar. An impulse to lean forward, to pin the woman at the opposite end of the couch and kiss her until he can’t breathe, lick his way to the hollow of her neck and chart the curves and lines of her body with his fingers.

Rose has known him for years, she likely wouldn’t protest. Going by the warm devotion in her eyes – and Joanie’s existence – Rose generally seems to encourage this kind of thing from him.

He feels like he’s only known Rose for a matter of days, mad days, everything about her is comfortable and foreign all at the same time, like some unexplored country he’s glimpsed on maps but never set foot in.

Except this unexplored country is actually home.

The idea is magnificently terrifying. Yesterday he followed his flight instinct, ran right off into the night, to someone else. Disaster. And now there’s nothing left but to indulge his fight instinct, to stay and confront and – well, if that means snogging the gorgeous woman on this couch, the Doctor’s willing to put in the work.

There’s still enough adrenaline trickling through the Doctor’s system from their frantic airport escape that he indulges himself for a long moment, studying Rose’s face as she watches him. Her fingers slip between his, finger pads stroking deliberately over the sensitive stretch of skin between. He inches forward, one long leg folded underneath the other, and lifts up his opposite hand.

“Do you – would you mind?” The words are unexpectedly strained; he clears his throat and tries again. “Everything with Joanie, remembering the guitar, I just think that maybe the more familiar something is, the more it helps.”

It isn’t a line, is it? Not if it’s sort of true?

Line or not, clumsy as it is, Rose doesn’t hesitate. She takes his hand suddenly, draws it to her face. Palm pressed against her cheek, she leans into his touch and closes her eyes. “I should’ve told you about Joanie from the beginning. I’m sorry. I was only trying –”

“It’s okay,” he interrupts. His thumb traces the line of her cheekbone, fingers curling as he draws them away from her ear. Guilt nudges from the back of his head, over a different blond at a party, and there’s an apology somewhere in the depths of his throat, but he swallows it back down for now. “We’re both working blind, Rose.”

She lets out a soft, stuttering breath as he caresses her forehead, charting the arch of her eyebrows; she leans closer, tilts her head to the side, exposing the angle of her jaw and sweeping line of her neck. Turning his hand, he slowly trails his knuckles across her skin, down to the collar of her shirt, before bringing it back to her face again.

Blood thumping loud in his ears, chest hot and toes curling in his trainers, he draws the pad of his thumb across her bottom lip. Her mouth opens a fraction, white teeth and pink tongue just visible, as he traces the full curve around the outside, to the gentle dip just above her top lip.


There’s a balance he’s trying to keep — respect her boundaries, but push at his own. The ones keeping him caged in a reality where he has no memories of kissing Rose before.

He shifts his hand back to cup her cheek, his voice low, “Still okay?”

She opens her eyes again, and they’re clear and bright when they meet his.

“Always okay,” she says.

He nods. There’s a memory he’s still got, from when he was young, of standing on a branch of the tallest tree at the Academy, higher than anyone had climbed it before. Surveying the campus, Koschei below him, the urge to jump down thrumming in his veins, and he’d just —fell. He’d landed in a flurry of limbs and grass and a splitting headache, but he hadn’t broken anything, and he went on to do it again the next week.

This feels like that, like whatever’s waiting for him at the bottom, it’s worth it for those few, long moments where he’s flying. The moments where something else entirely is in control.

He tips his head toward hers, eyes slipping shut, and that moment where he’d stepped off the branch, right before gravity had taken hold, hangs in the back of his mind.

Then he’s pressing his lips to Rose’s.

It’s only the lightest of touches, dry and soft and warm, but he hears the happy, relieved noise Rose makes against his mouth, and he moves even closer.

He takes her bottom lip between his own, kissing it before moving to the top one, small, little kisses that have her opening her mouth, letting him closer and closer. His tongue slips into her mouth, his body a half-step ahead of his mind, muscle memory and rhythms and instinct.

She meets his tongue with her own, tilting her head as their mouths open wider. His hand has slipped from her cheek to cup the curve of her neck, thumb trailing along the edges of her jaw. Her own hands wind into his hair, every single spot, every nerve ending, flaming to life under her fingers.

He wants more, wants it all, wants it now, and he speeds the pace of the kiss, pulling back only to return, the warm, slick texture of her tongue, the pressure of her teeth as she nips at his bottom lip.

His free hand can’t stay still, moving to her shirt, the top button already undone, and he skates his fingers down until he meets where the next one is fastened. Thumb and fingers and it’s the work of a second to undo it, to slip his hand underneath the fabric and press against the skin over her heart.

It beats steady and strong under his fingers, she’s here, this is real, they’re real, and he’s lost to the thought that they’ve probably done this thousands of times before. Did he notice then? Or was it routine? The way she smells and sounds, the softness of her skin, the scratch of her jeans as they brush against his trousers.

He wants to package it all up, dangle it like a carrot in front his traitorous mind. This is what you’re missing, this is what you need to find.

Rose pulls back slowly, small, lingering kisses as they part, and she presses her forehead to his.

“Anything?” The word is a warm breath against his skin.

He shakes his head, forehead rolling against hers, and he grins.

“No,” he says. “But we should try again.”

It’s then he learns — for the second time — of his daughter’s impeccable timing.



A high-pitched wail drifts from the bedroom, one that means Joanie’s dummy has fallen out just before she drifted off to sleep completely. It’s only been a few minutes since the Doctor put her down, there’s no way she’s done napping yet.

Barely cutting off her own wail of disappointment, settling for an eye roll instead, Rose nudges the Doctor’s nose with her own. “Be right back. Don’t move. Stay precisely here.”

She leans away and stands up, but his body remains perfectly still, arched forward on the sofa in the most ridiculous manner, like he’s about to snog thin air. There’s a dazed headiness to his expression, even as he smirks at her. “Precisely here, like this?”

“Not qui-i-ite.” Rose leans down, puts a finger under his chin and tips his head up a fraction of an inch, then shifts his arm so his hand is closer to where her right breast would be. She studies him carefully, like an artist stepping back to examine her work, tongue resting thoughtfully between her lips. “Much better. I’ll be right back.”

She hears him snickering as she turns away and walks into the dark bedroom.

Rose tries putting the dummy back in and tucking Joanie into the port-a-crib again, but she’s not having any of it. She’s rubbing her eyes, but she doesn’t want to settle down. The dummy ends up on the floor twice, and Rose spends far longer than she’d intended swaying and rocking Joanie before her little eyelids grow heavy and she’s nearly asleep again, before Rose can put her back down.

By the time she re-emerges, the Doctor’s not on the couch anymore. She can’t exactly blame him – it’s been at least fifteen minutes – but she’s disappointed not to find him sitting there, holding that pose with his bottom lip sticking out and that slightly lecherous look on his face.

Because when he’d kissed her, she’d forgotten for a few seconds. Forgotten that he didn’t remember, forgotten everything except the fact that she was here, with the Doctor, everything as it should be.

Following the sound of his humming to the kitchen, Rose leans against the doorframe and watch him peel and slice a pear (of all things – where did that even come from? Certainly they hadn’t bought it at the market). It’s one of his songs from the Suit Album, something they’ve covered together countless times on tour. One performance of this particular duet even caused a riot outside a television station in Tokyo – although the Doctor dipping her backward and snogging her during the live broadcast had probably been more to blame than the song itself.

After a moment Rose starts humming along with him in harmony, keeps going when he pauses and turns to stare at her. He joins back in, and before long they’re both singing softly, him occasionally mumbling the lyrics through a mouthful of pear.

Just as the song ends, he leaves the kitchen without a word, only to reappear with his guitar case. “I hadn’t ever imagined that song as a duet,” he says, slinging the guitar strap across his shoulders, the movement so natural it’s like breathing, “but it works!I’d like to smooth out the transition to the bridge.”

“Not in here, you aren’t,” Rose retorts, hands on her hips as she stares pointedly toward the wall to the bedroom. “Not when Joanie’s finally fallen asleep. Hold on.”

She’s in and out of the bedroom in a quiet flash, just long enough to snag her own guitar case and a few coats. Shoving a blue hoodie and brown coat into his hands, she says, “The back garden is very private, and far enough away from Joanie. We’ll work out the duet there.”



It’s a little bit like cheating, the way the suggestions Rose makes on the arrangement are invariably the right ones. Because she’s done this before, she knows what sounds best. He finds himself mostly pacified though, when she makes sure to point out which of the brilliant ideas were actually his to begin with.

They’ve played through all of the singles off The Suit Album when Rose looks at him, squinting like she’s thinking.

“Let’s try something,” she says. “I’m gonna play and you follow along. Pick it up when you feel like it.”

She resets her capo, still sizing him up, and then she eases into a song, a mid-tempo tune he can already tell was written to be acoustic. He tries not to focus too much on any one thing, not her fingers, not the lyrics, not the way she licks her lips between verses, he just listens.

About halfway through the song he anticipates a chord change, picking it up right alongside Rose and she grins at him.

They nearly finish the song, but he starts concentrating too hard at the end, reaching for the lyrics in the last verse, and it slips away. It’s almost like he can’t face any of it head on, like — for now — it needs to stay in the periphery.

“That was ‘Acute Angles,’ Doctor,” Rose tells him. “We wrote that on the bus, the very first time you bought me pizza.”

He smiles at her, and there’s another image, a pizza half-full of big slices, and the other half where it’s double cut.

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those that doesn’t like to fold your pizza in half, Rose Tyler,” he feigns shock and she waggles her finger at him.

“We have this discussion a lot, actually,” Rose says. “And you’ve never once convinced me.”

That night, they wave Donna and Jackie off — we’re fine, we swear — ordering a pizza for one more go at settling the debate.

It doesn’t happen, Rose gets out a knife and cuts hers in half right alongside the small pieces she’s cutting up for Joanie, but it feels good, domestic, maybe, but still — good.

It becomes a pattern over the next couple of weeks — repeating routines and actions and conversations, trying to spark a memory. He asks when he gets images and she suggests things for him to think on.

It comes in bits and pieces, never anything he can predict.

One night on the sofa, he’s got her shirt off, and he knows — just knows — that this particular bra fastens in front. (Joanie seems to know it, too, offering another indignant wail from the bedroom just as he’s gotten the clasp open.)

He cooks breakfast and burns her bacon to a crisp, leaving it on the pan, not because he’s forgotten it or she’s told him to, but because his brain forces the action. This is bacon for Rose, and bacon for Rose gets burnt to a crisp.

Donna leaves, and eventually Jackie, too, and shortly after a thick envelope arrives. Photographs and lyric sheets, shopping lists and ticket stubs, it’s like Jackie’s swept the whole of their kitchen counter clean and right into the envelope.

(Rose tells him that’s exactly what she’s done.)

They pour over it together, and he tries as best as he can.

When he remembers things on his own, it’s still unmoving, still just a picture, but he asks Rose every time and she always fills in the details.

A park with a single swing and a thin layer of snow on the ground, a tiny set of footprints tracked right through.

“Those were Joanie’s first proper steps,” Rose tells him, and he feels relief.

A cast on his arm, blue and itchy-looking, a black marker drawing of something running the length of it. (He knows what it looks like, but doesn’t want to say.)

“Jack Harkness, and it’s exactly what it looks like,” Rose tells him, and he feels like laughing.

A dark hotel room in Provence, with the bedcovers rumpled on only one side — Rose’s face clouds over, but she tells him of that, too — Reinette and The Cure and a slap from her mum. And he feels regret.

There’s one image he can’t stop seeing, a million different angles, a million different places — her hand in his, and they’re constantly creating new versions.

They’ve built up three weeks’ worth of hand-holding and memories and aborted attempts at seduction on the sofa when everything changes.


The Doctor wakes up one morning, and for the first time he isn’t on the sofa, he’s in the bedroom. He’s on top of the blankets and still in his trousers and socks; Rose is bundled up under several quilts, in his oxford. She’s facing away, and he’s on his stomach, but she’s got her arm stretched back toward him and his hand is resting on her hip. The details of how they got into this particular arrangement are hazy, as is the memory of the exact number of bottles of wine they’d polished off after Joanie went to sleep the night before.

His head feels thick, and he wants to get up and drink an enormous glass of water. He simultaneously wants to scoot closer to Rose’s still form, close enough to feel the expansion and contraction of her ribcage, close his eyes and pretend like this whole waking-up thing didn’t happen.

Before he comes down on the water versus cuddling debate, there’s a rustling from the other side of the room, and the very distinct sound of a dummy thumping against the floor. Next comes the rattling of bars, like some miniature convict protesting her incarceration, and a sharp, “Mama! Mama!”

The Doctor propels himself out of bed, and he’s not sure if it’s an instinct he’s honed over the last few weeks, or something from before, but he scoops Joanie out of the crib in the corner and whisks her out of the room. Rose rolls over and mumbles something, still mostly asleep, as he closes the door.

It’s the first time the Doctor can remember ever waking up alone with Joanie in the morning, without Rose there to coordinate everything that goes into her care, a complex machine whose cogs seem to turn effortlessly when Rose is around.

Right now, the cogs aren’t moving at all. The Doctor is stuck without a shirt, with a toddler in a dirty diaper, in a cottage. It sounds like some sort of bizarre fairy tale, like bears and porridge ought to march in the front door at any minute.

So the Doctor makes it a game, hide and seek with Joanie to find the clean diapers. Then it’s chase to get the dirty diaper to the outside bin before the Doctor succumbs to the stench (hazmat suits seem like a reasonable piece of emergency equipment to be standard in all rental cottages just like smoke detectors and fire extinguishers, surely there’s a law about that, he ought to call the landlord and the village council after Rose wakes up).

Next comes the tickle-monster game to herd Joanie into the kitchen, squealing as he straps her into her booster chair at the table, beside the picture-window overlooking the back garden.

He’s sitting down with a cup of coffee, scratching his bare chest as he yawns, and discussing with Joanie whether smashing banana into one’s own face is as enjoyable as she would have him believe, when it strikes him that even if he doesn’t remember all the steps that brought him to this point in his life, he is very, very glad to be here. He likes this, as wildly different as it is from the last clear memories he has, months and years on end living as a bachelor in his blue tour bus. There’s a sense of completion to the picture he’s stepped into, on this end of the looking glass — the loneliness that hunted him for so many years isn’t just at bay, it’s gone completely. 

He puts the coffee cup to his lips and takes a long swallow, then says to Joanie, “Y’know, I think all of this is going to be okay. We’re going to be okay.”

In answer, she shovels a handful of banana off the side of the table and onto his foot, then dissolves into hysterical giggles.

The Doctor leans down to scoop up some of the mush, and when he lifts his head again he sees movement in the garden.

It’s a man. A man with a camera pointed directly through the window.

The Doctor stares at him, and the photographer stares back, both of them motionless as if they’re suspended in amber. There’s no other sound, not Joanie’s laugh or the tick of the grandfather clock in the corridor; after an infinite silence, a hot rush of sound roars through the Doctor’s ears, fills his head, turns the edges of his vision white with fury. 

With malicious deliberateness, the man pushes the shutter button.

It’s too late. The Doctor is already in motion.


There’s no time to think about what the man he’s supposed to be would do, there’s only the man he is, and that man rises from the table so swiftly that his chair clatters to the ground, loud and harsh in the quiet of the morning.

The sound frightens Joanie and she begins to wail, getting right into it, without the little bit of wind up he’s gotten used to, and it stops him in his tracks as Rose rushes into the kitchen.

“What is it? What happened?” Her voice sounds panicked, hair askew, and she zeroes in on Joanie, crossing the room quickly and lifting her from her booster chair.

“Shh, it’s okay, love,” she rocks Joanie on her hip, rubbing her back and checking for injury.

The Doctor feels frozen, still gripped by anger, when the man outside raises the camera again, and the tension snaps.

He’s out the back door of the kitchen before he can even explain the situation to Rose, and the photographer spots him coming, backing up as quickly as he can.

The man’s foot catches on something in the grass and he tumbles to the ground, cradling his camera as he falls. The Doctor moves to stand over him and a million different options race through his mind.

There are a few that would feel amazing right now, his fists curling at his sides in anticipation, but they would be so short lived, and certainly wouldn’t help the problem. If he starts throwing punches at photographers, it’s only going to bring more.

He could break his camera, it wouldn’t be the first time, but, no, that was always a favorite of the Master’s — a camera worth several thousand pounds thrown into the ground with a satisfying smash — and, again, that always served to bring more media coverage, rather than less.

The photographer moves to stand and the Doctor shifts closer to stop him, feeling the cold air for the first time, the bottoms of his feet and the skin of his chest beginning to sting.

“What are you gonna do, mate?” The man on the ground says, his voice condescending. “Can’t hit me, and I already got my shots.”

Keeping eye contact with the man, the Doctor drops down, squatting beside him.

“You did, didn’t you?” He moves his hands to the camera, turning it as best he can with the strap still looped around the photographer’s neck. His fingers find the small input for the memory card, opening the compartment and ejecting it.

The photographer isn’t a big guy — the Doctor recognizes him for the airport a few weeks ago — and he seems almost pinned by the Doctor’s gaze, terrified for all his bravado that he isgoing to get hit.

Instead the Doctor slips the memory card out, curling his fist around it.

“You got the shots,” the Doctor says. “And now I have them.”

With that, he rises to his feet and strides to the door to the house, turning back one last time as he reaches it, “If you so much as even breathe around my daughter or this property again, I’ll be taking a lot more.”

He opens the door and shuts it firmly behind him, the sound of the photographer running away muffled beyond it.

Rose is still standing in the kitchen, holding a much calmer Joanie, when his eyes flicker back to her.

Trying to calm all the adrenaline fizzing in his veins, he takes a deep breath and fixes on the picture they make. Joanie’s pajamas are blue, covered in tiny little stars, and he picks out three different possible constellations before refocusing on Rose.

The bottom of his shirt doesn’t cover much on her, stopping at the middle of her thighs and leaving the smooth, pale skin of her legs on display. There’s a possessiveness to his thoughts that he doesn’t entirely mind, his daughter and her mum, and he’d do anything to protect them.

He holds out the memory card to Rose and she nods.

“I don’t think that’s the only one,” he tells her.

“We need to call Donna,” she says.

Donna confirms what they’ve already guessed — there are four of them here. A newspaper, two magazines, and a television station, all of them with rotating coverage from the last three weeks.

They log on to Rose’s laptop and it’s all there. The three of them in a small park in the village, Rose nicking a chip from the Doctor’s plate while Joanie giggles in a cafe, Joanie napping soundly in her buggy while the Doctor snags a kiss from Rose on a street corner.

There’s television footage of aborted interviews with both Craig and Joan, and he feels pleased that both of them refuse to comment; it appears they’ve made allies.



There’s also rampant speculation as to why the Doctor and Rose have gone into seclusion – entertainment media talking heads speculating on domestic troubles between them, secret addictions and recovery, something dire to do with Joanie’s health, creative retreat due of lackluster sales on their last album.

“What? Wha-a-at? What?” the Doctor sputters with increasing levels of disbelief and indignation, gesticulating at the computer so animatedly that Joanie thinks he’s trying to play patty-cake. He gets roped into a round of it, anyway.

“Sales were fine,” Rose reassures him. “They’re just grasping at straws.”

There’s a little frozen video in the corner of the screen, a large play arrow situated over the Master’s face, with the caption below, The Master comments on the Doctor shirking his responsibilities to the music industry, calls it “typical cowardice”. Rose reaches over and closes out the browser before patty-cake is over.

There’s a darkness that’s settled on the Doctor’s face, a diluted version of the thunderous fury he’d shown toward that paparazzi in the garden, and it isn’t dissipating. Rose knows that look; she’s only seen it a few times before, but if it follows through into his actions, that darkness doesn’t dissipate from the Doctor’s spirit for a long while afterward.

“You should take Joanie, go back to London,” the Doctor says. “I’ll stay here and deal with this.”

“‘Deal with this?’” Rose echoes, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. “What exactly is that supposed to mean? You gonna drop all those guys and their cameras into a black hole?”

The Doctor frowns. “I want you both safe. Out of the way. I need to room, to deal with this.”

“Ohh, I see. You need room. Is that room for your conscience to flex a little bit, maybe? Room to blunder right off into doing something stupid and impulsive and calling more attention to yourself?” She shakes her head. “That’s the worst idea you’ve had since you tried improving the efficiency on the hot water heater at the flat last month, and it ended up ruining all the floors and walls.”

His hands ball up on the table, and he hops up and begins pacing back and forth with short steps, Joanie dancing and laughing beside him. Shoving his fingers into his hair, he gives it a good yank and makes a noise of frustration.

“I can’t – Rose, I – seeing that man in the yard, knowing more of them have been following us for the last three weeks, documenting everything, stealing moments of our life as though they have some right –” The Doctor whirls around again, thumps his chest with a fist, his face screwed up into an expression of frustration and exasperation. “There’s something here, right here, pushing and shoving and I might not remember the expression on your face the first time we sang together, or the first time I saw the sun light your hair just like it is right now, or what Joanie’s first cry sounded like echoing around our hospital room, but I know – with every fiber of my being, I know – that I am not the sort of man who would stand by and let something like this happen. Let them creep into our garden, into our lives, invade and steal!”

He’s getting himself worked up – properly, frighteningly worked up – and Rose rises to her feet with her arms out, thinking she ought to stop his pacing, pull him into a hug, stroke his hair and calm him down before he gets too overwrought. Before something terrible happens, before the stress blocks up something else inside his head.


In fact, as soon as the thought crosses her mind, it takes a firm and violent hold. This is exactly what got them into this, not the Doctor himself, not exactly, but the stress of their lives.

And the way it’s only been compounded since Joanie arrived.

He’s going to wind up himself backwards another five years and what’s next? He doesn’t remember Donna? Can’t remember how to play guitar?

"Sit down, Doctor," she says, and her tone is as firm as she can make it.

He stops walking, turning to face her with wide eyes. Aside from a few bumps in the road — including a literal one where he’d tried to cross it without looking — she’s been mostly gentle with this amensiac version of the Doctor, but if she takes the same tact here, he’s going to do something they’re not going to be able to fix.

He follows her instruction, a pout she’s more used to seeing on Joanie lately crossing his features.

"Listen," she says, voice softening. "The people you’re trying to protect, they’re us, they’re your family. And family means you don’t have to do this alone.”

He gives her a slow smirk, eyebrows raising like he’s too clever for this conversation, “You’re treading dangerously close to a ‘Lilo and Stitch’ quote there, Rose.”

She takes his hand to stop from curling hers into fists, frustrated that he’s being so obstinate.

"I’ll quote the whole damn movie, Doctor," she says. "You and Joanie watch it enough that I probably could. But you need to listen. We are not going anywhere, either of us, and instead of running from us — again, I might add,” he winces appropriately, and she would regret the cheap shot, except that it appears to be working, ” — you need to start thinking of how we can deal with this together.”

He nods, squeezing Rose’s hand as his eyes flicker back to the computer screen. There’s a ticker crawling along the side of the screen displaying the most viewed photos of the last 90 days. Right at the top is a photo of the three of them — the one she’s since told him about, from their first event with Joanie.

"People responded to this, then?" He says, and points at the thumbnail. "Photos of our family on our terms?”

She grins, already following the thought down the line.

"Yeah, they did," she confirms. "They loved it."

"So if we, say, made a plea for our privacy — appealed to people’s humanity — that could work?"

It’s not an entirely comfortable idea, that they have to give even this little bit, to get back something that is theirs in the first place, but it’s better than the Doctor chaining a bunch of reporters to their desks.

Joanie moves to the Doctor’s leg, tugging on his trousers until he picks her up and swings her into his lap. She moves her little hands to his cheeks and tips her head forward, planting a messy kiss on the tip of his nose and making herself giggle.

The Doctor laughs, too, turning Joanie so Rose can see her more fully before he speaks.

"Besides, who could say no to this face?"

PART 5/5

  1. kelkat9 reblogged this from allrightfine
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    Hey look, Part Four of the current Gallifrey Records fic! Is this a first? Have we had a four-parter fic tennis before?...
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  9. gallifreyburning reblogged this from allrightfine and added:
    Hey look, Part Four of the current Gallifrey Records fic! Is this a first? Have we had a four-parter fic tennis before?...
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  12. biclaras reblogged this from allrightfine and added:
    oh my god everything about this except for bacon because fuck bacon but i have pizza downstairs brb