#doctor heal thyself

[santacoppelia]

Just a little something about 15th, 14th and healing.

There was this one thing that has been living rent free in my head since I watched The Giggle on Saturday. Well, a lot of things, really, but...

When 15th hugged 14th for the first time... It hit an emotional chord really hard.

This made me think of all the times that my therapist insisted on me loving and understanding my past self (and how good it finally felt when I was able to accept that chubby, weird, obsessive, anxious little person I was as a child and a teenager... And I accepted all the anger and fear and hurt they had inside, and how much it still drove my adult self).

Also reminded me of a common theme on conversations, about how younger generations are doing the "emotional healing" for all the generational trauma that previous generations never knew how to process. How younger generations are addressing and working on what older siblings, parents and grandparents tried so hard not to see, but that were marking the life of every generation.

And... the main idea it left stuck in my emotional fridge was "make sure to be the adult you needed when you were younger". That's a truism I'm pretty sure I found here a long time ago, or on an IG post, one of those things that sound so "self help" that it is almost embarrassing to admit how helpful you find them when they actually come true (happened to me).

That hug is all of these things, on a Timelord scale.

Ncuti is so perfect to be the Doctor Who who finally addressed the trauma, was ready to be present for all his past selves (not only in the heroic way, as was in the 50th Anniversary Special, but emotionally too), accepts all of the past... And lets it heal.

15th will be so fresh and ready to run new adventures. This hug was the most stellar presentation he could have received... And I'm so ready to see him run, have fun, be cheeky and smart and compassionate and THE MOST STYLISH EVER.

Go on, Doctor. Heal and be happy. We all deserve it, and you've reminded us all about it.

[remyfire]

I love when they co-doctor together

[a-wartime-paradox]

Physician, Heal Thyself, a sequel to the BBC Eighth Doctor Adventures

This post pertains to entirely fictitious and made-up information, apart from anything highlighted in green.

In 2024, after Russel T. Davies had returned to Doctor Who, a new series of original novels for the Eighth Doctor began named "Physician, Heal Thyself" (PHT), based on the Eighty Doctor's last words in The Night of the Doctor.

Before the first of these novels was published, a prelude was posted online by BBC Books (and later included in PHT 1) which included a post-The Gallifrey Chronicles Doctor, with Fitz and Triz, within a the TVM!TARDIS, as it was reset to that at the end of The Gallifrey Chronicles. However, this TARDIS collided with another TARDIS, which, it turns out, is home to the Eighth Doctor, earlier in his timeline - specifically, the Eighth Doctor of the Audacity boxset and it's sequels (this scene also featured in the audio story Blinovitched!, in one of Audacity's sequels). This breach of the Protocols of Linearity caused the "time differential" to "shorten out", which, on the Blinovitched! side of things made it look like only that Eighth Doctor survived, now with somewhat-hazy memories of the BBC Eighth Doctor Adventures happening in his past (retroactively explaining any EDA references in BF continuity, except for Charley stuff depending where you place that), but also more strongly remembering the Doctor Who Magazine adventures, and probably other "Greenpeace gap" adventures as I think that is the most logical place to slot Audacity, for now.

(there is an entire episodes worth of interaction between the two Eights, Trix/Fitz, and the companion of Audacity)

However, on the Prelude to "Physician, Heal Thyself" side, it is revealed that the EDA/PHT!Eighth Doctor also survived the Blinovitch encounter, but the only way to do it was to assert his unique identity with respect to Audacity, and so, with the help of Trix and Fitz, he reset the TARDIS console room back to the octagonal/pentagonal/whatever room from Escape Velocity and beyond. This process also left the Matrix within the Doctor's head to, well, fall out, and now it's still out there, but no one quite knows where (at least as of yet), and there's probably not enough information left incorrupt to bring back Gallifrey to its former glory (hooray!).

The first novel of Physician, Heal Thyself (codenamed PHT 1) would was a standard "the Doctor finds an alien plant, but something's amiss", whilst also concentrating on the after-effects of the Prelude. Early on, perhaps in PHT 10, Fitz will die. I know this was a contraversial decision, but he'd been there for most of the EDAs. Time to move on. But the Doctor will be stricken with grief for a long time, and Trix will help him through, along with whatever new companion they pick up.

Recurring characters in this series could be: The Emperor (villain, but also existential fear for the future of the Doctor), Marnal (villain/friend, keeps switching, sometimes lives in the TARDIS; often tries to find that discarded bit of Matrix), the "man with a rosette" (less of an enemy than the Master usually is, but only allies in order to fight the Council of Eight and bring back Gallifrey), the Council of Eight (I've heard their book is shit, so perhaps their quality gets revived, or perhaps they are killed off early on, I'm unsure), and the Infinity Doctor.

One of the novels would feature the scene with the Minister of Chance seen in The Tomorrow Windows, which seems to imply the Eighth Doctor will live through a Death Comes to Time - like event.

That's all for now

[groundcontrol21]

Sicktember #14

Prompt #14: “I Might Be A Teeny Tiny Bit Sick, But It’s Fine”

Fandom: Three Musketeers

Title: Keeping Vigil

Summary: With his three brothers all sporting various injuries and in need of care themselves, Aramis ignores his own health as he tends to them. D’Artagnan is less than pleased to find this out, but can he do anything about it?

Notes/CW: I did not use the prompt verbatim in this, but it's practically all there (you'll see it) and it's fine. CW for mentions of and passing description of emeto-related things. Skip from "...the sound higher and more urgent this time" to "'Wait.' Aramis sighed" to skip over the paragraph.

D’Artagnan could not say how much time had actually passed, but it felt simultaneously as though he had passed a century and yet no time at all in a haze of pain and bandages and bitter-tasting tonics poured down his throat. He had half-memories of crying out and being soothed, thrashing and being stilled with a touch, but they were all distorted in a drugged fog. Now, though, he was sure he was waking more fully, blinking at unfamiliar walls and a throbbing ache in his leg that was splinted and covered in bandages. He was finally beginning to clear the worst of the drowsy, heavy feeling in his head, when he felt a convivial hand pat his shoulder, before helping him sit up to take another drink of water. 

“Congratulations,” he heard Aramis saying, “you are the first to remain fully conscious for more than an hour after their injury.”

“What’s my reward?” Even with the water, D’Artagnan’s voice still croaked from disuse, and he rubbed at his throat, trying to clear it. His leg gave a twinge.

“Consciousness.”

“Mmm,” D’Artagnan groaned as Aramis laughed, “I want a better one.”

Aramis’s brow furrowed. “Is the pain bad? I have a couple different tinctures—“

“Nothing yet.” D’Artagnan waved a hand and dragged himself up further against the headboard. “I want to extend my record.”

Aramis smiled cheekily, swiping his fingers quickly beneath his nose. “Perhaps it was a bit of an unfair game in any case, as you were heavily drugged.” His voice took on a serious note. “You were in a lot of pain.”

Thankfully, D’Artagnan could not remember much of how his leg had come to be bandaged and bound like a mummy, but the memory of his brothers falling alongside him shifted vaguely to the front of his mind with a shudder. “The others?” he asked. “Athos and Porthos?”

Aramis sniffled and gave a small cough before answering. “Porthos’s head sustained a major blow. He didn’t wake for a worryingly long period, but he’s been awake now here and there, long enough for me to check on him.” Aramis blew out a breath, and added, as if an intercession, an afterthought. “He’s getting better, slowly but surely.”

“Good.”

“And Athos, he was doing almost the best of us all, his stomach wound stitched up nicely, until a little infection set in.” He sighed shakily, the sound almost snagging on another cough. “It was… scary for a little while, but the fever is low and I’ve been draining the wound. He should heal well in time.”

“Good.”

“I’ve informed Treville that we will remain here until everyone is fit to ride back to Paris, or at least until we can manage a cart for you to ride in with that leg of yours, since I suspect that will take the longest.”

Aramis sniffled again, and D’Artagnan could maybe excuse it, could chalk it up to the herbs in some poultice or another bothering him, if his cheeks did not appear slightly flushed, if his voice was not seeming hoarser and hoarser the more they spoke and the more alert D’Artagnan became. 

D’Artagnan cocked his head. “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

Aramis wrinkled his nose in thought for a moment, before saying, “That you could use a bit of a shave?” 

A quick palm over his jaw told D’Artagnan this observation probably had some merit, but Aramis cleared his throat, and D’Artagnan would not let the man get away with deliberate redirection. “Anything else?”

But perhaps there was nothing deliberate about it, for Aramis crinkled his brow again, pondering deeply as though D’Artagnan had set him a riddle, even as he sniffled again and wiped at his nose. 

D’Artagnan sighed. “I mean, about you?” 

Aramis looked up at him in surprise, sniffling wetly. 

“And why you’re doing that?”

Aramis’s already pinkish cheeks blushed scarlet, and he gave another small cough. “There is a chance,” Aramis said, sighing, “that I might—potentially—be a little bit sick, but it’s fine.”

“I assume you haven’t informed the others about this hypothetical illness?”

“Of course not,” Aramis said, right according to cue. “They, much like you, have enough to trouble themselves over already.” He sniffled again and tried giving his nose another wipe, but this time it was not enough, and he shook with two tightly stifled sneezes. “Heh’KNGT! Eh’KNXT!”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes as the man produced a handkerchief from his pocket and gave his nose a blow that was simultaneously the quietest and wettest thing he had ever heard. “Have you taken anything for your theoretical congestion?”

“I brewed myself some tea earlier.” When D’Artagnan continued to look unimpressed, Aramis sighed. “I have another pot of water on the boil now, and if I have any left over after wound cleanings and no one else wakes up and needs any, I’ll breathe in some steam.” He rolled his eyes. “I’ll be fine, D’Artagnan, there’s truly no need to worry.”

When D’Artagnan assured him that he did not want another draught of pain medicine for the time being, Aramis took to the chair which sat at the front of the room, perched in a strategic location which allowed him to oversee all goings-on of the makeshift infirmary like the benevolent tyrant he was. All was silent for a little while, and D’Artagnan contented himself with listening to the deep, snore-like breaths of Porthos in the bed across from him, and watching the chest of the Athos-shaped lump in the bed at the back wall rise and fall melodically. 

Then of course, there were the sniffles and snuffles and increasingly erratic breaths from the fourth member of their brotherhood, which crescendoed at last out of his grasp and into two more hastily stifled sneezes. 

“Ihh’NKSHHT! Hhh’IXT!” He blew his nose again, so softly that had D’Artagnan not been listening for it he might not have noticed it. 

“Well, I already know you’re sick, so there’s nothing to hide,” D’Artagnan said. “No use doing that.”

“Hmm?” Aramis gave a congested hum, and regarded D’Artagnan over the folds of his handkerchief with eyes so glassy and tired it was a wonder they stayed open. He sniffled, completely blocked-up again, but tucked his handkerchief away nonetheless. 

“Holding them in like that. It can’t be comfortable.”

“I don’t want to wake anyone.”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes and cupped a hand to his mouth. “Athos! Porthos!”

“D’Artagnan!” Aramis hissed, horrified. “Stop it!”

“They’re stealing the wine! They’re stealing all the food!” D’Artagnan called, but his brothers slept away, the patterns of their breathing not so much as having changed. He turned his attention back to Aramis and fixed him with a smug look. “See? Nothing. Just let yourself sneeze, for God’s sake.”

It was Aramis’s turn to look completely put-out. Still, the next sneezes which assaulted him were not stifled, merely muffled into the fabric of his handkerchief. “Heh’shoo! Ehh’hehh’shoo! Hish’huhhh!” Somehow, the sound was still entirely shy and mouselike, and D’Artagnan still reasoned that those couldn’t be entirely unrestrained or natural. 

He let his thoughts drift for a little while, only coming back to awareness when a bit of shuffling and squirming in the bed at the wall across from him caught his attention. “Athos looks a little restless,” he noted.

D’Artagnan looked over at Aramis, and his heart broke at the sight of the man sitting in the chair, staring off into space with half-lidded eyes, his mouth parted slightly to breathe as he rubbed his nose absently with his handkerchief. D’Artagnan immediately felt guilty for having said anything at all, and this guilt multiplied tenfold when the meaning of his words finally broke through Aramis’s fog and sent the man rocketing from his seat with a handful of throaty coughs. 

His feverish eyes landed on the clock on the wall, then darted to where Athos lay, writhing slightly. “Oh, damn, it’s time for another fever reducer!”

“I’ll get it,” D’Artagnan said, and threw the blanket off from his body.

“No you won’t, D’Artagnan!” He called as he rushed to the table to prepare the dose, crushing leaves beneath his pestle, which he brandished in D’Artagnan’s direction when the man tried to swing his legs around to the floor. “Stay there, or I’ll hit you!”

A low voice from across the room mumbled, just loudly enough to hear, “Can’t hit D’Artagnan, he’s hurt.”

“Porthos!” Aramis cried, nearly upending the bowl of herbs. “I’ll be right with you. How are you feeling?”

Porthos’s reply was a long groan that, all things considered, D’Artagnan could very much identify with. The throbbing in his own leg was becoming persistently harder to ignore, but he would be absolutely damned if he mentioned this to Aramis before had treated everyone else.

He noticed the way Aramis’s hands, normally steady and sure, were anything but as he prepared the herbs to steep. There was a frenetic quality to his movements that worried D’Artagnan, and he held his breath as Aramis poured the water he had been boiling into a cup, hands shaking so badly D’Artagnan was sure the man would burn himself. 

He saw the pallor of Aramis’s skin stood in contrast to the red set high on his cheeks, and D’Artagnan could not help but say, “Maybe you should make yourself a fever-reducing draught, Aramis.”

That earned him the type of glare from Aramis that could kill lesser men surer and swifter than any sword strike or musket ball. 

“Aramis?” Porthos said dazedly. “Thought Athos had the fever.”

“He does,” Aramis said darkly, adding cool water to the cup so the mixture would be a suitable temperature for Athos to drink. “D’Artagnan’s pain draught makes him say odd things.”

“Mmm,” Porthos hummed, still sounding confused. “Hate head wounds.” D’Artagnan nodded his commiseration to the man, before belatedly realizing Porthos had closed his eyes again. 

Aramis had taken the fever tea to Athos and was helping the sedate man tip his head up enough to drink it, when Porthos groaned again, the sound higher and more urgent this time. “Gonna be sick.”

Aramis paused, the cup at Athos’s lips. “Can you…” He broke off, the sound of Porthos’s retching permeating the room and rendering the rest of his question unnecessary. “Wait.” Aramis sighed. “I guess not.”

“I’m sorry,” Porthos said miserably.

“No, it’s my fault,” Aramis rushed to assure him. “I didn’t put the bucket back after I cleaned it last.” D’Artagnan followed his gaze to the aforementioned bucket, which still sat by the hearth. “Just give me one moment.”

Aramis was still coaxing a mostly-unconscious Athos to drink his tea, and quite honestly looking a good deal worse than the man in the bed as he did so. That decided it for D’Artagnan, who swung his legs over the side of the bed. It would be hard going, but there were enough things he could grab onto between his bed, the bucket, and Porthos’s bed to steady him, and if not, D’Artagnan was sure he could hop on one leg for a bit. His balance was good enough.

He maneuvered himself to standing by using the bedframe. There was pain in his leg of course, but that pain had been there even when he was lying down, and he wasn’t even sure standing had worsened it at all. D’Artagnan grabbed for the wall a bit ahead of him and took a jump, but failed to anticipate how much the jolting impact would send shockwaves through his injured leg despite it not touching anything. He grimaced, and could not bite back his moan.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing!” Aramis shouted.

“Getting the bucket,” he ground back through gritted teeth. He tried for another small hop, but he was sweating now, the pain almost unbearable, and black dotted his vision. 

D’Artagnan lost track of how long he stood there, breathing heavily and willing himself not to collapse, but a hand appeared, warm and steadying at his back. 

“Drink this for the pain,” Aramis said in his ear, “and I’ll help you back to bed.”

D’Artagnan accepted the cup without question and threw back the bitter liquid in one gulp. He leaned heavily on Aramis as the man half-dragged him back to his bed, all of his limbs progressively leaden and uncooperative, and fell into unconsciousness just as soon as he was lying down once more.

***************

D’Artagnan blinked sluggishly back to awareness, feeling as though he’d swum through molasses and was just trying to break the surface. His head lolled to the side as his thoughts came trudging back to him, and he saw that the floor beside Porthos’s bed had been cleaned and the bucket replaced after all. 

He sought out Aramis next, who was watching him from his chair. “You drugged me,” he mumbled, tongue still slow and heavy. 

“You were due for another round of your pain draught soon anyway. Heh’NGSHHH’uhh! Snf!” Palming his throat, Aramis winced and strained painfully to swallow in the aftermath, the motion taking far more time and energy than it should have. 

D’Artagnan took a breath and reminded himself that strangling the man would do his sore throat no favors. “You need to tell them,” he said firmly. 

Aramis laughed airily. “That I gave you a dose slightly early so you wouldn’t hobble off again and damage yourself further? I don’t think so.”

D’Artagnan’s mouth did not so much as twitch. “Aramis.”

The humor bled from Aramis’s face as he sighed, congested. “Why? I can’t think of a single reason why they need to know.”

“Because we don’t hide things from each other, Aramis,” D’Artagnan said simply. “You know that.”

“It isn’t hiding if it never comes up! It will only make things harder for me, as you’re doing right now. Each of you should only be worrying about getting better yourselves, not worrying about me as well.”

“You don’t get to make that decision for us!”

“What do you want me to say, D’Artagnan?” Aramis cried in a rare display of temper. But as quickly as it had come, it fled from him, leaving him somehow more deflated and weary than he had been before. “Yes, I’m sick. I’m tired, I’m achy, I have a fever, my head is pounding, my throat is killing me, I keep sneezing, and I can hardly see straight. But I’m not the priority right now. Someone has to care for all of you, and I can do it. So just let me.”

Aramis went to the worn journal that lay open on the table near the door. D’Artagnan knew from experience it was there he kept notes of what tinctures he had given and when, observations of wounds and swellings as the days progressed, jotted bits and pieces of passing knowledge he heard from traveling physicians. D’Artagnan craned his neck to watch as Aramis scribbled a few notes, before scrunching his nose against his wrist. 

“Heh’KNXT! Ihhh’KSHT! Snf!” Aramis shook his head briefly before writing a few more sentences and laying down his quill. He moved toward D’Artagnan’s bed, but he had hardly taken a step before he wobbled precariously, legs trembling. 

Aramis clamped a hand over his eyes and moaned softly. After a few shaky seconds, he changed course and dropped back into his chair with another moan, his face ghostly pale and cheeks flushed scarlet. He reclined his head against the wall. 

“Aramis,” D’Artagnan said, feeling his own chest grow tight with worry. “You need to lie down.”

Aramis’s hand dropped to his lap, but his eyes were still shut tight, his voice thin and tired. “I can’t exactly physically do that, now can I?”

D’Artagnan blinked. “What?”

“Look around, D’Artagnan.” His eyes cracked open.  “There are only three beds in this room.”

“So where have you been sleeping?” 

Aramis patted the chair, and though it had been the answer D’Artagnan was expecting, it did nothing to stifle his cry of horror. 

“Aramis!”

“It’s easier this way, anyway, in case one of you needs something,” he said placatingly. “Quick access.” 

D’Artagnan thought a moment, then scooted until his back was flush with the wall, and patted the newly vacated space on his mattress. “Come lie down beside me, then. It will be just like sharing a pack while we camp.”

It was Aramis’s turn to look horrified. “No,” he said with a sniffle and a rub at his nose.  “You don’t want to catch this.”

“So it is bad, then?”

“Your body is under enough stress as it is, trying to heal your leg. It doesn’t need to add anything else to the mix.”

“We’ll switch places, then. Help me to the chair, and then you take my place and lie down.” Aramis opened his mouth, but D’Artagnan cut him off before he could begin speaking. “Don’t argue. It’ll be good for me to be upright for a little bit.” When the man still looked extremely perturbed at the prospect, D’Artagnan rolled his eyes. “Aramis, I’ll be in a chair, not sparring.”

Aramis shook his head. “I can’t be in your bed. You still might fall ill that way.”

“Can you take an infection just by using the same bedclothes?”

“Why else do you think they burn them after a patient has died of plague?”

“We’ll ask the innkeeper for new ones,” D’Artagnan promised. “We have hours yet before nightfall, we’ll think of something.” The man still made no move to rise, and at this point, D’Artagnan was not above begging like a child. “Please, Aramis, just lie down and rest.”

Aramis hunched forward like a marionette with its strings cut. “Alright.” 

He helped D’Artagnan out of the bed again, fussing at nearly each breath D’Artagnan took. “I’m fine, Aramis,” he assured him truthfully. “The pain draught is still working well.”

With Aramis’s aid, he hobbled to the chair, and the movement this time went much more smoothly. He sank into the chair with a contented sigh, and just so Aramis could not misconstrue the exhalation as a noise of pain, he was sure to add, “It feels nice to be sitting for a change.”

Once Aramis was satisfied that D’Artagnan was not lying and would not, indeed, spontaneously break the rest of the bones in his body merely by virtue of not lying down, Aramis went to lie down himself. He made a noise, half-moan and half-sigh, that sounded so relieved as he melted into the bed and into a heap beneath the covers in one fluid motion, that D’Artagnan felt some tension from his own shoulders relax in sympathy. 

But Aramis’s relief was short lived; though he looked half asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, his body had other plans. “Heh’TSCHOO! Heh’KSHHoo! Snf! Hhh’ihh’ISHHH! Snf! Snf! AHH’KSHH’uhh!”  His sneezes, one after the other, were completely exhausted, and he coughed wetly in the aftermath, a fit which had him burrowing into the blanket as he shivered and tried to regain control of himself. He sounded absolutely miserable, and D’Artagnan wished he could rub his back, knowing how much Aramis craved physical touch as comfort. 

Aramis groaned once the fit had stopped, the sound hoarse and crackling. “Now you definitely need new bedsheets.”

“Yes, Aramis,” D’Artagnan said, doing his best to keep the note of exasperation from his voice. “We’ll sort it, don’t worry. Just sleep.”

But the instruction proved a bit supercilious, as the room filled with the congested snores the instant D’Artagnan had finished speaking. He smiled to himself, and settled into the chair for a bit of a vigil of his own. 

[libraryoftricksters]

Missing him

[monkeesrainbowroom]

will i ever be normal again

[georgiacooked]

If you're still doing sketch requests, I'd love to see the Eighth Doctor! Maybe Dark Eyes or Night of the Doctor era. Thanks :-D

SKETCH REQUESTS

"Physician, heal thyself"

[seaweedstarshine]

[just after having helped River make a getaway from a heist of an astatine lace shawl — the rarest substance in the universe — without her even needing to ask beyond a simple “hello sweetie” scrawl in the sky] [Eleventh Doctor] “I can see its worth — but Alice is right! What’s so special about a lace shawl?” [River] “Ah, well, lace, you see, is the traditional gift for a thirteenth wedding anniversary…” [Eleventh Doctor] “Wedding anniversary? Whose wedding anniversary?” [River] “Spoilers…!” *winks* [Thirteenth Doctor, reminiscing] “I love River.”

HAPPY THIRTEENTH WEDDING ANNIVERSARY TO THE DOCTOR AND RIVER SONG!

Sources: Diary of River Song: The Furies, Diary of River Song: The Lady in the Lake, The Day of the Moon, Doctor Who Magazine Special Edition #33, The Wedding of River Song, The Big Bang, The Angels Take Manhattan, The Many Lives of Doctor Who: Without a Paddle, The Time of the Doctor, Forest of the Dead, Let's Kill Hitler, Diary of River Song: The Wife of River Song, Eleventh Doctor Year Two: Physician Heal Thyself, A Good Man Goes to War, Eleventh Doctor Chronicles: Broken Hearts, The Husbands of River Song, Doctor Who Confidential: When Time Froze

[t0ast-ghost]

Star Trek II: Wrath Of Khan thoughts:

For this post if I could simply embed the entire movie and just write the word, ‘queer’ I would. Unfortunately you are all stuck with this, happy pride month!

Spoilers for the entire movie will be featured in this post

Going forth:

- I know what the kobayashi maru is so I know they’re not in danger but that’s some good acting Bones

- “‘Physician heal thyself.’” “Is that all you’ve got to say? What about my performance?” “I’m not a drama critic.” Thinking about this pose thinking about this pose thinking about thi-

- “Galloping around the cosmos is a game for the young, Doctor.” He’s feeling something and projecting

- “Aren’t you dead?” That’s certainly a way to greet your husband

- They’re so cute. And sad. And cute.

- tiny guys hehe. The boots got sluttier somehow

- McCoy got him glasses cause he can’t read the book without it and bring up that post that’s saying how Spock and McCoy’s gifts go together but McCoy got the logical thing and Spock got the emotional one

- Don’t quote me on this but the things I would do to that man… I wouldn’t.. but holy shit that outfit is killing me.

- hi checkov

- Carol Marcus? Doesn’t she have Kirk’s-? okay then I won’t spoil that just yet

- Creature in a jar moving under the sand

- BOTANY BAY????? Oh wait a sec I should’ve seen that coming it’s called wrath of khan

- Did they kill Chekov?

- hello Khan. That’s a very long and dramatic reveal he’s kinda hot tho

- Thinking about genetic engineering and augmentation and how they’re illegal but star trek presents cases where people now exist and it’s not the fault of the person that they are what they are so they have to question if an entire person should be illegal because of the actions of others… anyway I don’t wanna get deep into this right now, back to the movie

- Are they going to kill Chekov? (edit: not sure why I’m so fixated on thinking they’re gonna)

- WOW THAT IS CERTAINLY A SWEAT DROP

- brain worms… this sounds recently familiar

- HES READING HIS BOOK WITH THE GLASSES THEY DIDNT NEED TO SHOW HIM DOING THAT BUT THEY DID AND ITS ADORABLE OMG

- The conversation between Savik and Spock is so precious. And it’s in Vulcan. And she says “He’s more human than I expected” and it’s like that’s her commenting on Spock’s husband

- Kirk does not want to do this inspection

- McCoy does a little bounce

- “For everything there is a first time. Wouldn’t you agree, admiral” “mmhhmm” “Would you like a tranquilizer?” *Kirk shakes his head*

- I think this one has a more solid plot. I’m enjoying so far :)

- Does McCoy serve on this ship or is he just following along?

- (Had to stop watching around here because I left for the weekend so these thoughts are potentially a bit different)

- wowah! Cool ship!

- uh oh. Chekov on the monitor with the brain worm!

- khan is kinda- yeahh

- I LOVE SAAVIK! RAHHH! Also apparently Saavik is canonically half Vulcan half Romulan according to the trivia

- I like how Bones is just there :)

- Putting Spock in black… they knew what they were doing

- They’re husbands your honour. Spock knows Kirk wants to take command and isn’t to proud to get in the way of making his wife happy

- “You are my superior officer. You are also my friend. I have been and always shall be yours.” Kissing would have been less romantic

- George Takei’s voice is majestic

- “He tasks me. He tasks me and I shall have him. I’ll chase him round the moons of Nibia and round the Antares maelstrom and round perdition’s flames before I give him up.” Not obsessive at all.. nope this is something completely and totally normal to say about your nemesis

- “Uhura, have Doctor McCoy join us (Kirk and Spock) in my quarters.” Hmmmmm.. gotta inform the whole polycule about the shady government experiment

- lmao BOTH Spock and McCoy know who Carol Marcus is

- oh so terraforming… NEVERMIND REALLY FAST TERRAFORMING

- “Really, Dr. McCoy, you must learn to govern your passions. They will be your undoing.” Flirting, gentlemen?

- How and why does Starfleet continually put Spock and McCoy together? Like this alert would be sent out 24/7

- Spock and his awesome daughter Saavik

- falling

- Kirk with the breast flap down

- such a good moment… such a great moment (sorry for shitty photos)

- Kirk has to put on his little glasses <3

- Kirk does NOT fuck around

- Poor Scotty. He’s got so much emotion about his dead crew mate and the doctor apologizing to him 🥺🥺🥺

- Saavik making up rules to make sure the admiral is safe. Love her.

- “Jim, be careful.” “We will.” MCCOY IS SO BITTER. Like ‘no wishes of luck for me, Spock? Fuck you!’

- The collar on that uniform is silly

- hehe McCoy got scared by a rat. OH HE ALSO GOT SCARED BY A DEAD BODY

- Kirk’s little disappointed “oh my god” as he finds Chekov in the cupboard

- “Suppose they went nowhere.” “Then this’ll be your big chance to get away from it all.” McCoy’s not leaving Kirk, but he still looks like he wants to strangle him sometimes

- Kirk not afraid to punch a bitch

- WAIT THATS KIRKS SON?!? Isn’t it?? I thought David was Carol’s brother. But nope!

- aww dammnit I knew they were still mind controlled :/

- Saavik saving David. Y’know it would be pretty cool if there was something about Saavik, David, and Johanna meeting and maybe serving on a ship of their own.. idk just thoughts.

- ewwww brain worm.

- OH THE ECHOING “KHANNN”

- mmmm Kirk without the jacket. The white turtleneck with sleeves… also McCoy and Saavik are slaying with their turquoise and orange turtlenecks

- “Food the first order of survival.” I bet the fanfic writers had a field day with this one (cause cause it’s a reference to Tarsus IV)

- Imagine this: you’re stuck underground with your husband, your other husbands adopted daughter, your ex, her son (who’s also your son), and your old Russian navigator who’s unconscious and tried to kill you while being mind controlled by a worm which came out of his ear

- David’s got Kirk’s curls <333

- Kirk has a thing for people who look good in blue. Change my damn mind.

- “I don’t believe in a no win scenario.” He immediately calls Spock afterwards cause he’ll never lose with his husbands around

- “You lied.” “I exaggerated.” Yep, he IS that bitch

- Saavik is learning so much from them

- They still just.. let anyone onto the bridge. Like David is just there now

- oh no Scotty! Well McCoy was miraculously there to catch him

- CHEKOV BACK ON THE BRIDGE!

- Once again. Kirk does not fuck around! He just killed those guys

- “To the last I will grapple with thee.” WOW. Okay. Well.

- Khan’s about to terraform this bitch

- McCoy stopping Spock from going into the chamber..

- “You’re not going in there!” “Perhaps you’re right. What is Mr. Scott’s condition?” SIKE BITCH SPOCK JUST FUCKING NERVE PINCHED HIM. McCoy you should’ve been tipped off by the fact he 1. Said you were right and 2. Gave up trying to self sacrifice so easily

- wait why’d Spock connect to McCoy’s psi points and say remember? Remember what?

- I like there’s just a sign that flashes the word ‘radiation’ in red letters

- McCoy and Scotty BEGGING Spock not to do this. Break my fucking heart why don’t you?

- Kirk’s little run to the engine room <3

- I know he’s dying but those boots are so slutty

- Solely watching Kirk’s face is already like watching 10 puppies get killed

- “Don’t grieve, admiral.” Has me crying already. Your closest and longest friend is watching your slow descent into death and you ask him not to grieve you. You want him to know your death meant something. It meant he’d be safe and that is nothing to grieve. I’m going to be sick

- don’t touch me I’m thinking about this

- SAAVIK IS CRYING OMG GIRL ME TOO

- Kirk’s voice breaking.. god. Shatter my fucking heart why don’t you?

- if they play bagpipes at my funeral I’m rising from the dead (violins would be nice though)

- NOO HIS CUTE LITTLE GLASSES BROKE

- “They’re just words.” “But good words. That’s where ideas begin. Maybe you should listen to them.” POP OFF DAVID ! Good line

- SON REVEAL! NOT CLICKBAIT

- There’s 8 minutes left of this. Did they leave this one with Spock dead?

- “He’s really not dead, as long as we remember him.” Good words McCoy. But perhaps maybe you might have some.. assistance remembering him?

- got distracted and drew Kirk but I love the last little Spock narration. Really brave to end a WHOLE MOVIE with one of the best most well known characters being dead

Well that movie did have its pros and… khans

…

See you next time

Masterpost

[greenerteacups]

Your Hermione (through Draco's loving, rose-tinted glasses) has been one of my favorites to read. He doesn't shy away from her faults but sees her qualities (intelligence! an appreciation for the rules but creativity around them! confidence! a touch - a gallon - of bossiness!) as strengths instead of the annoyances they sometimes appear to be through Harry's eyes in the original books.

You once wrote on your favorite and least favorite tropes for Draco. I'm curious, what are they for Hermione? Was she the character you saw yourself in in the books, or was that someone else?

And a million times over - thanks for creating such a rich, beautiful text. I've been reading fanfiction for 10 years, and this is one of my favorites.

Thank you so much! Hermione was my favorite character, and as a bookish, socially challenged kid, most definitely the one I saw myself in the most. She made it seem cool to work hard and try, which was not the vibe of my school at the time, and she was the character that I imprinted on. Honestly, it's cheesy, but she probably changed my life.

My favorite version of Hermione is probably "loving hierophant." I like her bossy, righteous, imperious, book-smart but stupid about people, and most of all, a wonderful, wonderful hypocrite. Hermione holds everyone to incredibly high standards, including herself. That means she believes in people intensely and gets cross at them easily when they disappoint her. She's sensitive about certain topics, especially the "not having friends" thing, but she hates the vulnerability it brings up, so she responds by getting defensive and redirecting attention to things she's good at, i.e. books and rules. This is also her reaction to vulnerability in general; Hermione needs to be In Control, and intimacy is the one area where that's literally impossible.

She's capable of observing her own faults in others much more easily than she is of observing them in herself; she'll criticize Harry and Ron for being tactless and then turn around and say something incredibly rude without blinking. This also applies to Harry's inability to pick his battles; Hermione's a little better than he is, but they both have different triggers, and she's not necessarily less bellicose than he is. (This doesn't stop her from lecturing him about a need to "be the hero" in OOTP, one of my all-time favorite Hermione Hypocrisy moments, because. Babygirl. Doctor, heal thyself.) She's scrappy and once she's engaged someone as an enemy, she fights with no holds barred; rules are for people who choose to play by them, and once someone breaks them, she's willing to open the umbrella of what she can do to deal with them. She doesn't have the most consistent moral code in the world! She's often inconsistent, and that's what's wonderful about her. She's a realistic depiction of a fifteen-year-old girl who cares just so fucking much, about everything, all the time, and is furious and desperate and passionate and brilliant, and wants to solve every problem, even when it means contradicting herself. She's still figuring herself out, and I love that about her. I love that she's wrong sometimes. I love that she's rude and messy, and she isn't good at expressing her needs.

In my view, the core tension of her character is her desire to be righteous and her absolute determination in pursuit of her goals. She is an ends not means type of person, and that's a decent philosophy when your enemies are dragons and dementors, but the minute you start dealing with people, your moral bets are off. This is the place where I think canon leaves her, and it's the place where the best fanfic takes her up.

[mist-fire]

Thirteenrose Master Fic List

I'm aware of the fact that honestly, there's not enough fics for this ship (a tragedy) to warrant a master list, but I wanted to share some of my very favorite thirteenrose fics.

All below the cut!!

last sunrise in the wasteland, by Shaedan

A tragic, angsty fic of how Thirteen would handle being able to interact with Rose, one last time.

i'm on my own, you're at the beach hundreds of miles away, by thelemonisinplay

Rose only has 36 hours in her universe to solve a problem, and then she's heading home. Angsty lovely closure.

'cause I followed my star (that's what you are), by quantumshade

Lovely little one-shot, where instead of regenerating into Ten during the Christmas Invasion, the Doctor regenerates into Thirteen.

A Door Once Opened, by BlueMargaritasAndYum

Rose comes back, but she's got a wedding to attend to, and what better way to do it, then have the Doctor be her fake girlfriend. Super sweet, soft fic that I loved.

Back Here in Another Universe (After All You've Been Through), by regenderate

Fantastic reunionfic one-shot, that I have no notes for. It ate that up.

Pink and Yellow Roses, by CupofSonic

Another by CupofSonic! Multi-doctor one-shot, ultimately ending with a thirteenrose reunion. Beautiful prose and an excellent understanding of the characters.

I'll Take You There Someday, by Allamarain

You want Thirteen pining after Rose, even after thousands of years? Look no further than this angsty hurt filled one-shot that breaks your heart in the best of ways.

The Reason (Is You), by MarbleHeart

Featuring two of my favorite tropes: Thirteen looking like Rose for a reason, and a reunionfic! Gorgeous fic!

Heal Thyself, by Allamarain

I love Tentoo as much as the next person, but what if he was too much? What if Rose couldn't fix him? This explores that, in the first longer form story yet on this list!

One Ring to Bind Them, by CupofSonic

Multi-doctor fic that has them mourning over Rose, until suddenly, they don't have to mourn anymore.

You're So Northern, by MiJasmine

What do I need to say about this? Short, soft, fluffy reunionfic!

i had a feeling so peculiar, by tablox

Love the hints of Bad Wolf throughout this one! The Doctor is searching, but can she find Rose? Reunionfic

Here I Love You, by Maiden_of_the_Moon

A desperately mourning Doctor talks to sixteen year old Rose in a club. ANGST fest galore, but beautifully written.

It's Me Here, Riding A Light Through The Universe, by Allamarain

What if Rose had never met the Doctor until she was twenty three? This story explores that! Another long form fic by Allamarain that I THOROUGHLY enjoyed.

You Will Find Me Time After Time, by mltrefry

This is seriously one of my favorite thirteenrose fics ever. When the stars never went out, Rose was trapped in the other universe, but now, for a completely unrelated problem, she has returned. Will she meet the Doctor? Another longer one!

When The Chaos Calls Me Out, by Melusine0811

Thirteen follows the ache of a broken bond to Pete's World, where she finds Rose alone and hurting, the Metacrisis nowhere to be found. What's an alien to do? Longer form, and absolutely brilliant!

i wished on a star (it brought me you), by rcsetyler

Broken and alone in Pete's World, Rose tries to find the one person to lessen her grief. A wonderful reunionfic.

come on, come home to me, by nounpolycule

Short and sweet reunionfic of what might've happened if Rose was stranded in the same place the TARDIS had stopped.

Pertinacia by lumidaub

The first incomplete and first comic of this post, but don't let that dissuade you! This comic is gorgeously drawn, with just the right amount of ridiculousness. Very excited to see where lumidaub takes it next!!

your bouquet of golden roses, by lifeitself

Also incomplete, and unlikely to be finished, but truly one of the most gorgeous and well written pieces of media that I have had the fortune to consume in the past few years. The last chapter is a decent enough stopping point, and the story and prose itself are so so worth it.

a collapsing star, by sunshinemachine

A little twisted and convoluted in the best of ways, this is an angsty one-shot that will keep you on the edge of your seat!

No More, by Singing_Siren

What can I say other than a masterfully executed reunion one-shot!

World in Flux, by withthekeyisking

Rose takes a bit of a unique path back to her original universe, but she muddles along the best she can, hoping to eventually find the Doctor. Great one-shot!

Interwoven, Entangled, by regenderate

Multi-doctor fic showing how Rose fits in with the rest of the Doctors, featuring one of my very favorite hcs, Bad Wolf as Disability!

forever (wondering if you knew), by sherlgrey

Silly little multi-doctor speed dating fic, and ends with some gorgeous thirteenrose.

[zuvluguu]

In a society that profits off of disease, the best plan of action is to learn to heal yourself. Start by listening to your body, really pay attention to what it is telling you because it’s speaking to you directly. Feeling tired? Rest and take a nap, don’t ingest caffeine. Feeling a bit ill? Don’t ignore it and exhaust yourself forward, listen. This is where it starts. By paying attention to your vessel and giving it the nourishment it’s asking for. Not when it’s too late because your body can wait, no. You know best, not your doctor. You because you feel the pain and endure the illness. You because you’re the one directly impacted in the end, and they reap the benefits. Tune into yourself, assess your vessel, and research the natural remedies necessary to heal you. Mother Gaia loves her children enough to give us all that we need to soothe our pain and ailments. She loves and gives freely, wishing for her children to be well and thrive. Heal thyself. It is your power and your responsibility.

[youcouldbewonderful]

physician, heal thyself

night of the doctor is literally one of my favorite pieces of dw media it deserved to be a full episode (looking at you, moffat)

[wykart]

Summary:

After spending his first month marooned, this time voluntarily, on Earth, the Doctor’s home address is accidentally shared amongst his past companions. Expecting pitchforks and torches, the Doctor readies himself to face the consequences of deciding to stay. There's one person in particular that he was hoping to avoid.

I wrote this to force myself to like Tenant's return and the whole bigeneration thing. Also to make him talk to Yaz, and just about everyone else.

[edupunkn00b]

House Call

Photo by Insung Yoon via Unsplash

Rated: T - WC: 1553 - CW: swearing, medication, vomiting and nausea, terminal illness

Wilson's been away and House goes to investigate.

(For my Sanders Sides friends, there are some familiar archetypes in this material. You might find it worth the read.) -

Thunk-thunk-thwack. Thunk-thunk-thwack. House had swiped this squash ball from Wilson a year, maybe a year and a half ago by now. It had been so long since Jimminy Cricket had been to his office, he still hadn't noticed his theft. Bouncing the ball against against the floor, then the wall, House tilted his chair further. The steady thwacking and the faint creak of his chair nearly drowned out the sound of the latest batch of interns’ greetings. Maybe farewells. He looked out the window and watched the parking lot lights click on. Farewells, then.

Desiccated leaves had collected in Wilson’s parking spot, the cement tire stop now edged in enough moss he could see it from three floors up. Were the maintenance guys even bothering anymore? House stared as a fresh eddy of fall's detritus danced over the vacant spot, one last thwack of rubber against his palm deciding for him.

He put down the ball and picked up the small amber bottle on his desk, then pushed up from his chair.

He had a house call to make.

It took an embarrassingly short time to pick Wilson’s lock. As soon as he opened the door, he was struck with the scent of sickness. Not just the sour-sweet odor of vomit, but plastic and rubbing alcohol, stuffy air and sweat. Pain.

“Working from home, my ass,” he muttered, kicking aside a blue recycling bin overflowing with empty electrolyte bottles. He closed the door with his elbow and the hall was plunged into darkness. After a moment, House’s eyes adjusted, a blueish glow spilling in from the kitchen and a dim splash of yellow from the opposite hall.

He followed the light and was greeted by the unmistakable sound of retching.

“Really tied one on last night, I see,” he said before he stepped into the bathroom. Dressed in a faded Princeton Rowing Crew hoodie and flannel pants, Wilson curled over the toilet, dry heaving into the bowl. “You know you need protein more than electrolytes for a hangov—”

Wilson straightened and looked back at him, eyes bloodshot under a thick woolen beanie. He was jaundiced, skin stretched over the sharp, too, too sharp bones of his face. The flesh around his lymph nodes was red and puffy.

His eyebrows had fallen out.

In the corner next to the trash bin was a small red sharps collector and red plastic bag half-filled with drained IV bags in various sizes. Oh.

“So the cancer doctor gets cancer,” House muttered, eyes narrowed and grip tight on his cane. “‘Medice, cura te ipsum,” he said with a little flurried jazz hand. [Physician, heal thyself.]

“What the hell do you think I’m doing?” Wilson snapped—no, panted— back at him before falling silent again. House could count the veins in his eyelids, the shadows underneath a dark bruised purple. Cheeks sunken beneath his high cheekbones, his lips trembled, chapped, thin, and pale. He didn’t need a meter to tell him Wilson was hypoxic, most likely from his vomiting and whatever damned cocktail he’d dosed himself with.

Wilson's eyes cracked open and House caught a glimpse of shiny brown before he turned away from him and addressed the collection of bottles laid out on the counter. “Opening up a pharmacy?”

“Wouldn’t hurt to get a side gig.” If it weren’t for Wilson sounding so fucking broken, they could’ve been bickering in his office about Cuddy’s latest HR memo. “Metastatic cancer treatment’s expensive.”

“You’d get a better margin turning tricks. Though you’d have to keep from puking on your johns.” House scowled down at the empty glass vial in his hand before tossing it in the sink. He picked up a large amber bottle and turned to glare at Wilson. “You’re combining talquetamab and nilutamide?”

He barely shrugged.

House stared. Wilson’s eyes had fallen closed again, head lolling against the side of the shower. He looked so…

“Get up.” House snapped and hobbled across the room. He leaned hard on his cane, the tip wedged into the corner of the tub and the wall. Keeping his weight on his good, well, his better leg, he reached for Wilson’s upper arm.

Wilson’s eyes shot open, darting and wild, softening only once he focused on House’s face. He’d fallen asleep. Or, given the mix of chemicals he was marinating in, more likely lost consciousness. “Still me,” House muttered and grabbed his arm. His whole hand wrapped around Wilson’s bicep. “You should be in bed.”

Eyes closing, he shook his head and fumbled blindly at the tank before his arm dropped back in his lap. The meaning was clear. 

“Nope.” House didn’t let go of his arm. “I’ll bring you a bucket. Now come on, Dr. Wilson—” The catch in his throat was nothing more than the jolt of pain that shot through his hip as he helped him to his feet. Wilson had always been trim, annoyingly light on his feet. Now, though? Now he was like a bird, hollow-boned and just as fragile.

Wilson’s bedroom didn’t have much furniture. A bed and a nightstand. A tiny desk littered with marked up and flagged medical journals and thick, ominous envelopes from the hospital staff’s insurance company. There was an IV stand next to the bed and a cooler emblazoned with Property of Princeton-Plainsboro in big, red letters. The bedding was twisted, the comforter half-draped over the floor. Between the late hour and the pajamas, House guessed Wilson had been hoping to sleep off the meds. When did that ever work?

House waited to speak again until he’d gotten Wilson settled under his covers, a plastic-lined pail next to his bed, and a fresh bag of saline drip, drip, dripping its way into his arm. “You mind?” he said after sitting heavily on the edge of his bed. Besides the desk chair across the room, there was some fluffy Edwardian number that looked like he’d managed to free from the grip of his ex-wife’s claws. It also looked like it weighed more than Wilson did and House wasn’t delusional enough to try to drag it over just for the sake of propriety.

Wilson didn’t answer, but he let his hand rest in the space between them. House drummed his fingers against his cane grip before blurting out, “How long?”

Deep chocolate eyes searched his. He’d broken capillaries in his sclera, maybe even a little opportunistic conjunctivitis for flavor. Wilson tried to hold his gaze. “‘Til I’m dead?”

“I don’t need an oncologist to tell me that.” House cleared his throat and refocused. It was easier to watch the pulsepoint between his eyebrows. “How long were you planning on keeping this a secret? It’s been, what…” He lifted Wilson’s hand, forefinger and thumb meeting around his bony wrist. “Eighteen months?” Wilson looked away, a huff of laughter turning into a rattling cough. 

House waited until he'd stopped and wiped his mouth with the cloth on the nightstand. But he didn’t let up. “Your last annual was six months ago and you’re too far along for that to have been when you caught this.”

“Twenty-three,” Wilson muttered, head heavy on the pillow. “Found a mass in the shower.”

“Two years?” He stabbed his cane against the floor. “Two years!?” Wilson still wouldn’t look at him. Two fucking years. That was… that just after Amber and… “God dammit, Wilson, you idiot! You’ve been hiding this from me for two years? Who else knows?” Who was keeping this from him? Who was helping Wilson hide his sickness?

Wilson didn’t speak.

Anger came easy. “Who. Else. Knows?” House’s voice was low and dangerous and Wilson’s continued silence confirmed it. “Oh…” He looked away, slowly nodding. “Everyone.” His… friend had told everyone he was dying but him.

“No-one,” Wilson whispered, fingers grazing the edge of House’s sleeve. “If I couldn’t tell you…” House watched Wilson’s hand as it fell against his own, words not making any sense. “There was no-one to tell.”

“Bullshit. If you’re not going to be straight with me—” House pushed on his cane but he couldn’t make himself stand. 

Wilson’s fingers curled against his hand. “Why would I lie now, House?”

“Everyone lies,” He spat back but he didn’t move away. Wilson’s hand was so damn cold. “You’re telling me you didn’t tell Cuddy?”

He sighed, breathe wet and rattling in his lungs. “Would I be here with stolen meds if she knew?” 

“You moron!" He pounded the floor with his cane, punctuating each word. "Why didn’t you…” House's throat seized, choking out the rest of his question. Why didn’t you tell me?

Wordless, Wilson turned his head and closed his eyes. House didn’t need him to actually say it, did he? The rest of his words sat in the air between them, each of them quiet enough he kept time off some clock ticking out in the living room. Wilson was still enough that House thought he might have fallen asleep. He was considering moving over to the chair when Wilson’s eyes cracked open and he turned his hand next to House’s, palm up. An invitation. A request.

“You know now,” Wilson whispered.

The rubbing alcohol he’d used to prepare Wilson’s IV hung in the air, stinging his eyes and drawing out hot, heavy tears. He nodded and took Wilson’s hand. “I know now.”

[soylent-crocodile]

War Medic (Prestige Class)

(art by Rialll on deviantart)

(This is the first in what ended up being a trio of prestige classes for martial characters that fulfil the Healer-Tank-DPS roles of MMORPGs. It's old, but I'm quite proud of it!)

Healing is, generally, considered the role of clerics and similar faithful. These specialized healers are premier methods of keeping one's heart beating, but sometimes they are simply not available, or could simply use some backup. This is the job of the war medic, a soldier or warrior who is trained to patch up his allies in the thick of battle.

Role: War medics are invaluable both on and off the battlefield, wielding a deadly weapon in one hand and keeping their allies alive with the other. Alignment: War medics can be any alignment HD: d10

Prerequisites

Skills: Heal 5 Feats: Combat Medic Ability Scores: Wis 13 Other: Proficiency with all Martial Weapons, Possession of a Medical Kit

Skills A war medic gains 6+int mod skill ranks per level A war medic’s skill list is Bluff (Cha), Diplomacy (Cha), Handle Animal (Cha,) Heal (Wis), Knowledge (local) (Int), Knowledge (nature) (Int), Linguistics (Int), Sleight of Hand (Dex), and Survival (Wis)

Weapon and Armor Proficiencies A war medic gains no weapon and armor proficiencies.

Surgical Precision (Ex)

A war medic’s doctoral training lets him heal as well as harm. As long as he is wielding a light or one handed melee weapon and has a free hand, he deals an extra 1d8 precision damage, as a rogue’s Sneak Attack ability. Unlike a rogue’s Sneak Attack, this damage does not increase as the War Medic levels up.

Med Kit (Ex)

A war medic’s greatest tool is his med kit- he carries within it supplies needed to heal ailments of all types, from mundane wounds to magical curses. His med kit contains a number of supply points equal to his wisdom modifier+his level in war medic. At the start of his day he may spend an hour cleaning and salvaging his supplies. If he does, he regains a number of supply points equal to his wisdom modifier. Additionally, at any settlement sized large town or larger he may fully refresh his supply points by shopping for one hour and spending 10g. These supply points can also be spent as uses of a healer’s kit.

As a standard action, a war medic with a free hand may spend 1 supply point to give any creature within touch range 2d6 temporary hit points plus his wisdom modifier. These hit points wear off after 2 hours. At levels 4, 7, and 10, he adds 1d6 to his temporary hit points. This does not trigger an attack of opportunity.

Trained Healer (Ex)

A war medic is as much a healer as he is a warrior; he adds his level in war medic to his heal skill. Additionally, he halves the required time taken to perform any heal action that takes longer than a full round.

First Responder (Ex)

At level 2 a war medic adds his wisdom modifier to his initiative.

Medic’s Trick

At level 2, then at level 3 and every two levels thereafter, a war medic gains access to a medic’s trick chosen from a list. A war medic can only apply one trick to his surgical precision damage at a time, and these abilities do not stack with themself unless stated otherwise. The DC of a medic’s trick is equal to 10+his level in war medic+his wisdom modifier. All penalties applied with medic’s trick can be ended early with a successful Heal check with the same DC as a standard action.

Heal Thyself (Ex) A war medic with this trick may spend a swift action and a supply point to give himself temporary hit points as with his med kit. 

Immediate Care (Ex) A war medic with this trick may choose to use one of his attacks in a full attack action to grant temporary hit points with his med kit, rather than a standard action.

Hobble (Ex) A war medic may apply this trick to his surgical precision. If he successfully lands a hit that deals surgical precision damage, that creature must make a fortitude save or have its movement speeds reduced by 10, to a minimum of 5, for 1 minute.

Worsening Condition (Ex) A war medic may apply this trick to his surgical precision. If he successfully lands a hit that deals surgical precision damage, that creature must make a fortitude save. If they fail, they take a -2 penalty to saves for 1 minute.

Myopia (Ex) A war medic may apply this trick to surgical precision. If he successfully lands a hit that deals surgical precision damage, that creature must make a fortitude save. If they fail, they treat all creatures including willing targets as though they had partial concealment for 1 minute. Blind creatures and creatures with blindsight are immune to this effect, but creatures that can see through fog or similar concealment are not.

Break Fantasies (Ex) A war medic may apply this trick to surgical precision. If he successfully lands a hit that deals surgical precision damage, that creature must make a fortitude save. If they fail, they must make a concentration check with DC equal to 10+the war medic’s level in war medic+his wisdom modifier in order to cast a spell during the next 1 minute.

Strike the Vein (Ex) A war medic may apply this trick to surgical precision. If he successfully lands a hit that deals surgical precision damage, it inflicts bleed 1. This ability stacks with itself.

Blue Shield (Ex) A war medic with this trick gains proficiency with light and medium shields if he does not already have them, and may apply his surgical precision damage if he is wielding a shield in his free hand.

Bedside Manners (Ex) A war medic with this trick may use his wisdom in place of charisma for Bluff and Diplomacy and gets a +2 bonus to those skills.

Alternative Medicine (Ex) A war medic with this trick treats Use Magic Device as a class skill and may use his wisdom in place of charisma for Use Magic Device. He may apply his surgical precision damage if he is wielding a wand or scroll in his free hand.

Supernatural Healing (Su) A war medic with this trick may choose to heal damage with his med kit rather than give temporary hit points.

Extra Mercy (Ex) A war medic with this trick gains an additional Mercy from those available to him.

Combat Feat (Ex) A war medic with this trick gains a feat chosen from the combat feat list.

Mercy (Ex)

At level 2 and every two thereafter until level 8, a war medic chooses a mercy from the paladin’s mercy list, although he gains it at a heightened pace. At level 2, he gains access to the paladin’s level 3 mercies, at level 4, he gains access to the paladin’s level 6 mercies, at level 6, he gains access to the paladin’s level 9 mercies, and at level 8, he gains access to the paladin’s level 12 mercies. Saves related to mercies instead have a DC equal to 10+the war medic’s Wisdom modifier+his level in War Medic. This ability functions like the paladin ability of the same name, except it applies to temporary hit points granted by his med kit, rather than his lay on hands, and as noted above.

Floating Mercy (Ex)

At level 10, a war medic gains a floating mercy. At the start of each day, while refreshing his med kit, a war medic may choose one mercy from among those available to him. That mercy applies to his med kit for the rest of the day.