Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who, but am grateful we are allowed to play within it's endless universe. A thank you to the BBC and all authors and actors therein.

This story is best read in 1/2 width.


Languages aren't really anything he gave much thought about. You can speak as much German, Gaelic, French, Sigmeesian, Calpyt-Ar, Chinese, and Gaernaa (what even half of those may be) as you like, but it will never prepare you for that moment when even you don't know what you're saying. Word engendering and backwards writings, emphasis where there should be none, changes in pitch to signify familial relation in one culture or self-censorship in another.

There's even a language - if you can call it that - which consists primarily of clapping one's limbs in a syncopated pattern combined with the subtle cracking of certain bones. Best as he could make out, he'd ordered chips by snapping his left hand while he slapped his thigh with his right which was then followed by cracking three knuckles and his elbow.

He seems to wrap his tongue around strange lyrics, words and phrases with masterful ease, regardless of his confusion. But his accent! Like a Scotsman trying to speak Russian while imitating a Canadian accent. He'd never heard anything so barmy in his life, though the peoples of impossible races and worlds don't seem to take notice.

Even that marvelous blue box has a language of her own.

She hums with a blatant disappointment and he irritably responds with something (undoubtedly rude) in a tongue he doesn't recognize. This earns him a shock from one of the hanging wires he's sparking at and fumbling with. The lights dim and fire into life successively, and he can tell she's laughing at him.

Her speech is that of color and noise, grinding gears and ear-ringing songs. Sparks and whistles and frightening cloister bells. Sometimes he even understands her. But only when he stops trying to.


Please review, constructive criticism is welcome.