Doctor Who Fic: if what ties were sound
if what ties were sound eleven/amy, pg.
when everything is too new, and there are only a few minutes to spare. the eleventh hour. 1,672 words.
notes: for anythingbutgrey. ♥
-
They stand against a set of stairs. Amy’s skin starts to itch. Her hands waiver over the pockets at her hips; he is watching her, and she’s too aware, with everything standing wide and vast and right over her head.
“This is it?”
She asks, and he scoffs, just as she turns to study him. There is a part of her that keeps looking, just to make sure. Force of habit, she thinks. But he smiles, that sort of sly and irresponsible way that pulls at her nerves.
“It is this,” he says, leaning against the wall. He grins then, “Suppose I were to tell you things, all things, extraordinary things, and you would look at me, quite like that, and how do you think I’d feel, Amelia Pond?”
“Amy,” she says crossly.
“Put a little feeling into that, Amelia Pond.”
Her eyes narrow, and she whirls around, choosing to ignore the Doctor for the moment. She studies the stairs. She counts the steps, one by one and then two by two, as far as she can see where it goes. It’s like the most ordinary thing in a pile of extraordinary things. It seems odd and quite insane.
Closing her eyes, she exhales. She thinks reality and then frowns. She remembers being a child and having that sort of taste, being the girl that everybody knew with that strange, odd sort of imaginary friend. But she’s not just a girl, or never was a girl to begin with; this is too much that way, and she wonders if he knows that too.
Her eyes open. She looks back at him and he smiles. There’s the odd reassurance. His hands reach for his tie and pulls at the ends, adjusting it. He’s the odd one, the one that the other girls might’ve pushed her to. She thinks of Rory too and sighs, brushing her fingers through her hair.
“But this is really it,” she half-asks then, rubbing her fingers over the low railing. She lets them hover, then rest against the iron frame. She wonders where they go, but doesn’t ask.
Her fingers start to move again. They walk slowly, up the slight arch, but stop when Amy cannot reach. Her gaze travels ahead and slowly, she cranes her neck back just so she can see where the stairs go.
The iron seems cold when her fingers stop. She searches for something, anything to see. Behind her, the Doctor moves away from the wall. His shoe scuff against the floor and there’s a quick burst of color that spins into view in front of her.
She sees blues and greens, bit of orange and reds. Everything seems endless, she thinks, or far too endless; her eyes follow the mix of colors as they seem to disappear. There’s a shudder and she catches herself, her hand curling tightly around the railing.
“What is that?” she asks again, and then gasps, stumbling into the stairs as everything shudders again. She nearly slips and the Doctor catches her, Amy facing a heavy burst of gold above the two of them. It dances quickly, spins into circles and then spirals. It stops.
Her eyes are wide. The Doctor laughs delightedly.
“She likes you.”
His hands pull at her arms and he draws her back, half-against him so that she can still see. Amy twists. She feels his fingers dig lightly into her hip. Her heart is racing and she looks for the gold again, hopes for the burst of gold again, and feels like that little girl all of the sudden.
She sees herself briefly; wide eyes and mess of hair, if only to remember the feel of his hand around hers. It was security then. Now, it’s this feeling, these knots that shift and sway in the pit of her stomach.
“She likes you,” he says again, as it sounds all sorts of wild. He starts to hum and sigh, blinking as she catches his gaze. “She’s never been wrong, you know. Rather great at that whole judgment thing. And a few rows, here and there.”
She lets herself nod. The Doctor’s hands come away from her arms and move to her hips. They press easily, lazily, as if he were entirely too comfortable with the lack of space between them.
Her eyes close again. She sees her bedroom. She sees the wedding dress hanging off in the corner of her bedroom, the veil half-cocked over the hanger. She sighs softly.
“You look guilty.”
His mouth brushes against her ear.
“What?”
She inhales sharply. “No, what? Why would you say that?” and keeps her eyes close tightly. She’s being ridiculous, she thinks. She pulls away from him. “I’ve got things on my mind. Lots of things. Respectable sorts of things.”
He chuckles and steps back. He spins around and walks to the center again. She stays standing by the stairs, if only to watch him and reassure herself; guilt, of course, is there. She won’t tell him. She doesn’t have to tell him.
She chooses to sit instead. The steps are cool against her skin and she shivers, fixing her nightgown over her knees. He moves easily, touching buttons and turning things. The noises are crooked and quick, slaps and bangs and little horns that play like toys. She’s a little awed by the whole thing, the way he fits and how she doesn’t, and the way he seems to enjoy her mere presence.
When he stops, he looks back over at her. He frowns. She shrugs.
“So what will it be, Amelia, where would you like to go? I have a few fantastic places in mind, quite the connoisseur that I am.”
He walks quickly to her, standing over where she sits. His hands pull at his coat. They drop too and his arms start to swing, just as he looks down at his feet.
“Can I have a proper minute?” she asks, suddenly shy. Her hands come to her face and she laughs softly into them. She’s breathless and surprised. She has no idea where to stop. And, she thinks, be back in time.
“Just a minute.”
“You could,” he says. “You may,” he says too.
He stays quiet. For her, she suspects. She listens to the buzzing around her. Everything is spinning and turning, without waiting for the two of them to make a decision. There’s a tiny part of her that feels vindicated again; it’s not the right feeling, the feeling that she wants either, and she’s not entirely sure where that’s supposed to put her too.
She jumps when the Doctor pokes her shoulder. He laughs and offers her his hand. He watches her with that look, the very same look that made her say yes for the first and second times. She smiles. He grins too.
“Hand.”
“My hand?” she asks, frowning. “What - why?”
“Why not?”
They stare at each other. His hand remains in front of her. She looks at him and then her hand, reaching forward with some hesitation. One by one, her fingers curl into his palm. He grins again and pulls her to her feet.
She lets him drag her away from the stairs, passing the center and the controls. They sputter and spit and the Doctor laughs, right in front of her, winking at it. He stops when they reach the door and she begins to think this is it, that she’s going to be able to see all the things that she’s been waiting for.
He lets go of her hand and moves around, taking her by the waist and then moving her forward. One of his hands curls into hers, his fingers long as they swallow her own. Her lips purse and they study the door together, Amy lost and unsure. There are nerves too and that anticipation, the very anticipation that pushed her to check and double-check, hope and listen for his sounds.
“Now say nothing.”
Her breath catches. Her eyes flutter close. She’s flushed too; aware of the way he seems to hover over. He’s quiet. She waits. It feels like he’s waiting too. Slowly, his other hand moves off her hip and into her hand. He pulls them forward and presses their hands into the door. He doesn’t push.
“That’s my girl,” his mouth brushes over her ear, “and so now, here is where I get to tell you that my extraordinary things are unlike any extraordinary things -”
Her heart races after my and extraordinary. She feels his mouth as it opens slightly, right over her skin. It seems entirely too intimate for someone like her, but then she lets herself be carried into the moment.
“ - you’re quite sure of yourself, yeah -” she injects briefly, and her thumb starts to run against his fingers and right over his skin.
“Amelia, Amelia.”
“I understand. Extraordinary things. Big things, small things. I get it.”
She flushes. The knots tighten in her stomach. She even laughs, if only to hide the nerves. They’re not even nerves, she thinks.
“Good,” he still says, and says it too much like he means it, like he means it in this lonely sort of way, a sort of way where he’s reaching for her and hoping that she might reach back. It feels like an apology, but unexpected, and as her eyes open, she catches his fingers as they move over her hands.
They move back and down to her wrists, curling around them and letting her hands rests against the door. She feels the wood and the iron, the very same pressure and coolness from the stairs. Her ears start to ring with the buzzing again and she swears, swears she feels him smile into her skin. He doesn’t pull back either nor does she ask him to.
For a moment, she leans back against him. Her hands stay at the door. Extraordinary things, she thinks. It’s all about extraordinary things.
It takes another minute, and then he laughs. “Push,” he says.
when everything is too new, and there are only a few minutes to spare. the eleventh hour. 1,672 words.
notes: for anythingbutgrey. ♥
-
They stand against a set of stairs. Amy’s skin starts to itch. Her hands waiver over the pockets at her hips; he is watching her, and she’s too aware, with everything standing wide and vast and right over her head.
“This is it?”
She asks, and he scoffs, just as she turns to study him. There is a part of her that keeps looking, just to make sure. Force of habit, she thinks. But he smiles, that sort of sly and irresponsible way that pulls at her nerves.
“It is this,” he says, leaning against the wall. He grins then, “Suppose I were to tell you things, all things, extraordinary things, and you would look at me, quite like that, and how do you think I’d feel, Amelia Pond?”
“Amy,” she says crossly.
“Put a little feeling into that, Amelia Pond.”
Her eyes narrow, and she whirls around, choosing to ignore the Doctor for the moment. She studies the stairs. She counts the steps, one by one and then two by two, as far as she can see where it goes. It’s like the most ordinary thing in a pile of extraordinary things. It seems odd and quite insane.
Closing her eyes, she exhales. She thinks reality and then frowns. She remembers being a child and having that sort of taste, being the girl that everybody knew with that strange, odd sort of imaginary friend. But she’s not just a girl, or never was a girl to begin with; this is too much that way, and she wonders if he knows that too.
Her eyes open. She looks back at him and he smiles. There’s the odd reassurance. His hands reach for his tie and pulls at the ends, adjusting it. He’s the odd one, the one that the other girls might’ve pushed her to. She thinks of Rory too and sighs, brushing her fingers through her hair.
“But this is really it,” she half-asks then, rubbing her fingers over the low railing. She lets them hover, then rest against the iron frame. She wonders where they go, but doesn’t ask.
Her fingers start to move again. They walk slowly, up the slight arch, but stop when Amy cannot reach. Her gaze travels ahead and slowly, she cranes her neck back just so she can see where the stairs go.
The iron seems cold when her fingers stop. She searches for something, anything to see. Behind her, the Doctor moves away from the wall. His shoe scuff against the floor and there’s a quick burst of color that spins into view in front of her.
She sees blues and greens, bit of orange and reds. Everything seems endless, she thinks, or far too endless; her eyes follow the mix of colors as they seem to disappear. There’s a shudder and she catches herself, her hand curling tightly around the railing.
“What is that?” she asks again, and then gasps, stumbling into the stairs as everything shudders again. She nearly slips and the Doctor catches her, Amy facing a heavy burst of gold above the two of them. It dances quickly, spins into circles and then spirals. It stops.
Her eyes are wide. The Doctor laughs delightedly.
“She likes you.”
His hands pull at her arms and he draws her back, half-against him so that she can still see. Amy twists. She feels his fingers dig lightly into her hip. Her heart is racing and she looks for the gold again, hopes for the burst of gold again, and feels like that little girl all of the sudden.
She sees herself briefly; wide eyes and mess of hair, if only to remember the feel of his hand around hers. It was security then. Now, it’s this feeling, these knots that shift and sway in the pit of her stomach.
“She likes you,” he says again, as it sounds all sorts of wild. He starts to hum and sigh, blinking as she catches his gaze. “She’s never been wrong, you know. Rather great at that whole judgment thing. And a few rows, here and there.”
She lets herself nod. The Doctor’s hands come away from her arms and move to her hips. They press easily, lazily, as if he were entirely too comfortable with the lack of space between them.
Her eyes close again. She sees her bedroom. She sees the wedding dress hanging off in the corner of her bedroom, the veil half-cocked over the hanger. She sighs softly.
“You look guilty.”
His mouth brushes against her ear.
“What?”
She inhales sharply. “No, what? Why would you say that?” and keeps her eyes close tightly. She’s being ridiculous, she thinks. She pulls away from him. “I’ve got things on my mind. Lots of things. Respectable sorts of things.”
He chuckles and steps back. He spins around and walks to the center again. She stays standing by the stairs, if only to watch him and reassure herself; guilt, of course, is there. She won’t tell him. She doesn’t have to tell him.
She chooses to sit instead. The steps are cool against her skin and she shivers, fixing her nightgown over her knees. He moves easily, touching buttons and turning things. The noises are crooked and quick, slaps and bangs and little horns that play like toys. She’s a little awed by the whole thing, the way he fits and how she doesn’t, and the way he seems to enjoy her mere presence.
When he stops, he looks back over at her. He frowns. She shrugs.
“So what will it be, Amelia, where would you like to go? I have a few fantastic places in mind, quite the connoisseur that I am.”
He walks quickly to her, standing over where she sits. His hands pull at his coat. They drop too and his arms start to swing, just as he looks down at his feet.
“Can I have a proper minute?” she asks, suddenly shy. Her hands come to her face and she laughs softly into them. She’s breathless and surprised. She has no idea where to stop. And, she thinks, be back in time.
“Just a minute.”
“You could,” he says. “You may,” he says too.
He stays quiet. For her, she suspects. She listens to the buzzing around her. Everything is spinning and turning, without waiting for the two of them to make a decision. There’s a tiny part of her that feels vindicated again; it’s not the right feeling, the feeling that she wants either, and she’s not entirely sure where that’s supposed to put her too.
She jumps when the Doctor pokes her shoulder. He laughs and offers her his hand. He watches her with that look, the very same look that made her say yes for the first and second times. She smiles. He grins too.
“Hand.”
“My hand?” she asks, frowning. “What - why?”
“Why not?”
They stare at each other. His hand remains in front of her. She looks at him and then her hand, reaching forward with some hesitation. One by one, her fingers curl into his palm. He grins again and pulls her to her feet.
She lets him drag her away from the stairs, passing the center and the controls. They sputter and spit and the Doctor laughs, right in front of her, winking at it. He stops when they reach the door and she begins to think this is it, that she’s going to be able to see all the things that she’s been waiting for.
He lets go of her hand and moves around, taking her by the waist and then moving her forward. One of his hands curls into hers, his fingers long as they swallow her own. Her lips purse and they study the door together, Amy lost and unsure. There are nerves too and that anticipation, the very anticipation that pushed her to check and double-check, hope and listen for his sounds.
“Now say nothing.”
Her breath catches. Her eyes flutter close. She’s flushed too; aware of the way he seems to hover over. He’s quiet. She waits. It feels like he’s waiting too. Slowly, his other hand moves off her hip and into her hand. He pulls them forward and presses their hands into the door. He doesn’t push.
“That’s my girl,” his mouth brushes over her ear, “and so now, here is where I get to tell you that my extraordinary things are unlike any extraordinary things -”
Her heart races after my and extraordinary. She feels his mouth as it opens slightly, right over her skin. It seems entirely too intimate for someone like her, but then she lets herself be carried into the moment.
“ - you’re quite sure of yourself, yeah -” she injects briefly, and her thumb starts to run against his fingers and right over his skin.
“Amelia, Amelia.”
“I understand. Extraordinary things. Big things, small things. I get it.”
She flushes. The knots tighten in her stomach. She even laughs, if only to hide the nerves. They’re not even nerves, she thinks.
“Good,” he still says, and says it too much like he means it, like he means it in this lonely sort of way, a sort of way where he’s reaching for her and hoping that she might reach back. It feels like an apology, but unexpected, and as her eyes open, she catches his fingers as they move over her hands.
They move back and down to her wrists, curling around them and letting her hands rests against the door. She feels the wood and the iron, the very same pressure and coolness from the stairs. Her ears start to ring with the buzzing again and she swears, swears she feels him smile into her skin. He doesn’t pull back either nor does she ask him to.
For a moment, she leans back against him. Her hands stay at the door. Extraordinary things, she thinks. It’s all about extraordinary things.
It takes another minute, and then he laughs. “Push,” he says.