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Related Stories: The
Source Key
A Doctor Who/Buffy
Crossover
.acknowledgements.
.awards.
.links.
.contact.
Submit a Review
Related Stories: The
Source Key
A Doctor Who/Buffy
Crossover
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Three Years Ago
James McCrimmon propped in his bed with a battered volume of The Elegant Universe on his knees.
Beside him, his wife sprawled on her belly, her feet swinging in the air as she thumbed through pictures
on a vidreader from their recent holiday to Barcelona.
She hummed something out-of-tune and terrible as she flipped from one blurry image to the next. She
was an awful photographer because she was always laughing at something, and he was always laughing at
her, which made for fantastic holidays but dreadful holiday photos.
Her hair had grown long now, to the middle of her back, and though it had been blonde when they first
met, it had darkened several shades to something between honey and candleflame. She twirled the tip of
one lock over her lips like a child.
James couldn’t resist. He smoothed his hand over her back and down the curve of her hip. Glancing over
her shoulder, she hit him with her dazzling smile.
“What?” she asked.
“You,” he answered.
“Shut up.” That smile again, and then she returned to her vidscreen.
Six years, they’d been married now. Six years. To him it seemed a blink. Even less than a blink. Things
happened so fast these days he had to struggle to slow them down.
He returned to his book, but the words on the page started to double and swirl. It had taken him a while
to realize that this meant his body was tired.
Then came a nip of pressure between his eyes. That was new.
He removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. The pressure fish-hooked behind his eyes, a
sensation not yet like pain, but like the first lightning jabs foretelling a storm.
“You all right?” his wife asked.
“Yeah,” he answered. “Bit of a – sort of – jabby thing – right here – behind my eyes.”
She rolled to her side to stare at him. “Maybe it’s your glasses? You due for a new prescription?”
He set the book aside on the endtable. “You know, I really have no idea,” he answered. “But this
happens to humans, right? You get random, irrational pains.”
“Sure, yeah” she said. “But you’re only part human.”
“I’m half human,” he protested.
She grinned. “I still only see about one part out of twenty.”
James balked, incredulous. “I have one human part I’ll show you—”
He grabbed her up, pulling her into his arms, but she turned it on him, flipping him to his back. She was
so much better at this part than he was.
“Fancy another go, eh?” he said, leering up at her.
She smacked his chest. “There you go, baiting me with seduction. It won’t work—”
“Oh, it’s working,” he answered. “Definitely working.”
“Yeah? Show me.”
But as she pulled him toward her, the pain in his head lashed out in a burst of fiery whiteness, like his
head was splitting open and everything was spilling out.
Then it was gone.
He awoke on the floor with her beside him, his head cradled in her lap.
“That’s it,” she said. “I’m phoning a doctor.”
“I am the Doctor,” he protested.
“You were the Doctor. Now you’re my husband, I’m entitled to worry.”
She fumbled blindly for the phone from the endtable, but he sat up, blinking, and took her hands in his.
“Rose,” he said. “I’m fine. It’s passed. See? It’s over now. I’m fine.”
She studied his face, unconvinced.
“And nothing’s happened like this before?” she asked. “Not in the lab? Not while you’re working?”
“Not ever.”
“B-but you were unconscious.”
“Yes, I was,” he said.
He got to his feet, and as she watched him stand, he could tell that she fully expected him to totter
over at any second.
“There now,” he said. “All better.”
Rose locked her arms around him. “Don’t scare me like that,” she said.
James brought his arms around her, buried his face in her hair. “I won’t,” he said. “I promise.”
But he had seen something, in that searing flash. He had seen something that made his heart tremble.
He’d seen himself in a blue corridor, bathed in blue light, and when he came to an unmarked door, he’d
said to Rose, “Now I’ll just be a minute” and stepped inside.
Just that. A simple memory. One among billions. Harmless.
Only he couldn’t recall what was on the other side of that door. And that left him terrified.
James McCrimmon propped in his bed with a battered volume of The Elegant Universe on his knees.
Beside him, his wife sprawled on her belly, her feet swinging in the air as she thumbed through pictures
on a vidreader from their recent holiday to Barcelona.
She hummed something out-of-tune and terrible as she flipped from one blurry image to the next. She
was an awful photographer because she was always laughing at something, and he was always laughing at
her, which made for fantastic holidays but dreadful holiday photos.
Her hair had grown long now, to the middle of her back, and though it had been blonde when they first
met, it had darkened several shades to something between honey and candleflame. She twirled the tip of
one lock over her lips like a child.
James couldn’t resist. He smoothed his hand over her back and down the curve of her hip. Glancing over
her shoulder, she hit him with her dazzling smile.
“What?” she asked.
“You,” he answered.
“Shut up.” That smile again, and then she returned to her vidscreen.
Six years, they’d been married now. Six years. To him it seemed a blink. Even less than a blink. Things
happened so fast these days he had to struggle to slow them down.
He returned to his book, but the words on the page started to double and swirl. It had taken him a while
to realize that this meant his body was tired.
Then came a nip of pressure between his eyes. That was new.
He removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. The pressure fish-hooked behind his eyes, a
sensation not yet like pain, but like the first lightning jabs foretelling a storm.
“You all right?” his wife asked.
“Yeah,” he answered. “Bit of a – sort of – jabby thing – right here – behind my eyes.”
She rolled to her side to stare at him. “Maybe it’s your glasses? You due for a new prescription?”
He set the book aside on the endtable. “You know, I really have no idea,” he answered. “But this
happens to humans, right? You get random, irrational pains.”
“Sure, yeah” she said. “But you’re only part human.”
“I’m half human,” he protested.
She grinned. “I still only see about one part out of twenty.”
James balked, incredulous. “I have one human part I’ll show you—”
He grabbed her up, pulling her into his arms, but she turned it on him, flipping him to his back. She was
so much better at this part than he was.
“Fancy another go, eh?” he said, leering up at her.
She smacked his chest. “There you go, baiting me with seduction. It won’t work—”
“Oh, it’s working,” he answered. “Definitely working.”
“Yeah? Show me.”
But as she pulled him toward her, the pain in his head lashed out in a burst of fiery whiteness, like his
head was splitting open and everything was spilling out.
Then it was gone.
He awoke on the floor with her beside him, his head cradled in her lap.
“That’s it,” she said. “I’m phoning a doctor.”
“I am the Doctor,” he protested.
“You were the Doctor. Now you’re my husband, I’m entitled to worry.”
She fumbled blindly for the phone from the endtable, but he sat up, blinking, and took her hands in his.
“Rose,” he said. “I’m fine. It’s passed. See? It’s over now. I’m fine.”
She studied his face, unconvinced.
“And nothing’s happened like this before?” she asked. “Not in the lab? Not while you’re working?”
“Not ever.”
“B-but you were unconscious.”
“Yes, I was,” he said.
He got to his feet, and as she watched him stand, he could tell that she fully expected him to totter
over at any second.
“There now,” he said. “All better.”
Rose locked her arms around him. “Don’t scare me like that,” she said.
James brought his arms around her, buried his face in her hair. “I won’t,” he said. “I promise.”
But he had seen something, in that searing flash. He had seen something that made his heart tremble.
He’d seen himself in a blue corridor, bathed in blue light, and when he came to an unmarked door, he’d
said to Rose, “Now I’ll just be a minute” and stepped inside.
Just that. A simple memory. One among billions. Harmless.
Only he couldn’t recall what was on the other side of that door. And that left him terrified.
.Chapter Index.
Three Years Ago
Present Day
The Inventor
The Doctor
Thunderstruck
Sacre Coeur
The Missing Memory
The Birthday Party
Homesick
Storm Stones
Brilliant and Infuriating
Dreams and Schemes
The Clockwork Tower
Shaken Foundations
Code Burgundy
Three Years Ago
Present Day
The Inventor
The Doctor
Thunderstruck
Sacre Coeur
The Missing Memory
The Birthday Party
Homesick
Storm Stones
Brilliant and Infuriating
Dreams and Schemes
The Clockwork Tower
Shaken Foundations
Code Burgundy
Summary: After a trip to the ruins of Sacre Coeur Cathedral,
the TARDIS crashes into the world in which Rose and the
Meta-crisis have lived happily for the past nine years. Soon
after the Doctor's arrival, a massive storm breaks between
worlds, wreaking havoc on the planet's precisely controlled
weather systems. Tensions increase as Rose, Amy, Rory, and
River must help the Doctor figure out the secret of a memory
hidden within his mind, a memory that is somehow linked to
the destructive storm so powerful that it threatens to
destroy the universe.
Set shortly after Amy and Rory's wedding.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 53,000
Pairings: Amy/Rory, Rose/Meta-Crisis Doctor
Disclaimer: For fun and fun alone. OCs are mine, all else
belongs to Russel T. Davies, Stephen Moffat, and BBC.
the TARDIS crashes into the world in which Rose and the
Meta-crisis have lived happily for the past nine years. Soon
after the Doctor's arrival, a massive storm breaks between
worlds, wreaking havoc on the planet's precisely controlled
weather systems. Tensions increase as Rose, Amy, Rory, and
River must help the Doctor figure out the secret of a memory
hidden within his mind, a memory that is somehow linked to
the destructive storm so powerful that it threatens to
destroy the universe.
Set shortly after Amy and Rory's wedding.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 53,000
Pairings: Amy/Rory, Rose/Meta-Crisis Doctor
Disclaimer: For fun and fun alone. OCs are mine, all else
belongs to Russel T. Davies, Stephen Moffat, and BBC.
