Ockham's Razor, by Desdemon
Title: Ockham's Razor
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Five/Turlough
Rating: PG
Warnings: extreme silliness and maybe a hint of fluff
Summary: Most things have a simple explanation, if you're not too thick to see it.
Author's Note: Concept inspired by taleya's angsty beauty Misconceptions.
Certainly it had been unexpected. Although the Doctor had seen almost immediately that Turlough would be one of those - one of his traveling companions that assumed they had to provide some sort of service for their room and board aboard the TARDIS, an entirely erroneous conclusion that occasionally led to awkward situations for the Doctor, and, in extreme cases, made it necessary for him to more or less defend his own honor against embarrassing overtures.
As it had happened before, then, the possibility of Turlough creating a problem was not out of the question. However, the Doctor had watched him carefully, and he had deflected all of Turlough’s rather ham-fisted attempts at seduction - fairly obviously, he’d thought. He’d talked right over the boy’s fluttering eyelashes and absurd handling of his own tie, every time, and he had made a point to blatantly ignore Turlough whenever he leaned against something (usually the TARDIS console, to the Doctor’s inconvenience). He had allowed Turlough to touch him, casually, fingers brushing wrists and elbows, light pressure on his back or shoulders - if only to prove that he was totally unaffected by such gestures. Indeed, he had firmly demonstrated his immunity by doing the same to Turlough. Every time he pedagogically guided Turlough with a hand flat on the small of his back, congenially gripped a shoulder, or conscientiously adjoined himself to Turlough to better see a control panel or in the interest of presenting a united front against unfriendly parties, the point, he’d thought, was well made.
So of course it was unexpected when, one day, Turlough put down the spectrum filter file that he had been using to adjust the vortex loop parameters, crossed the room to the exposed roundels where the Doctor was trying to remember which faulty bit of wiring he had decided to fix, spun him round, and kissed him rather fiercely.
Lest he give Turlough the wrong idea, the Doctor broke away. “Turlough, I thought we’d discussed this,” he said, in what he’d hoped would be a gentle but authoritative tone, but what was instead in somewhat of a higher register than he’d expected.
Turlough frowned at him. “No,” he said. “If I’m not mistaken, we haven’t ever talked about this, actually.” He took a step forward, so that the Doctor was forced to back against the wall to avoid him.
“Well, I discussed it, anyway, with myself, I know I did, and I - I decided that this was a very bad idea,” the Doctor said, with the vague feeling that he wasn’t really communicating the salient points of the argument. It was difficult to express himself clearly while sidling along a wall and clearing his throat to avoid squeaking.
Turlough planted one hand on either side of him, halting his escape. “And you didn’t care to inform me of this decision? That wasn’t very considerate, Doctor. You’ve let me embarrass myself for nothing.” However, Turlough looked anything but embarrassed, and the Doctor had a sinking feeling that this would very shortly not be nothing. Indeed, his stomach barely had time to drop before Turlough was so close that the Doctor could feel the heat from his face and body, overshadowed by the alarmingly immediate sensation of Turlough’s lips once again meeting his own.
The Doctor turned his head aside, took hold of Turlough’s waist, and pushed him firmly to arm’s length. He was not above physical resistance, if it came down to it, and this was rapidly becoming one of those extreme cases the Doctor so dreaded. “Now, look,” he said, turning his head back to stare at Turlough, wide-eyed and emphatic. “I know what you’re doing, and I know why you think you have to, but you’re wrong. Any welcome I give someone onboard the TARDIS is unconditional, no matter how you’ve been treated in the past. All of this is simply unnecessary.” He found himself able to breathe, now, having finally come to the point, certain it would all be a matter of apologies and hand-waving with that said.
“What are you talking about?” Turlough made a sound throughout this sentence that the Doctor could only describe as giggling, which confused him very much. “I’m not doing this because I think I have to,” he said, with a kind of derision that made the Doctor feel as if he should be insulted, especially with the giggling involved.
“I see,” he said, to stall for time while he worked it out. “Did someone force you?” he asked at last. “Have you drunk or eaten anything from a strange planet when you didn’t know what it was, anything at all?”
Turlough’s eyes were positively dancing, and the giggles could scarcely escape for the smile, wide and gleeful. The Doctor found himself staring. “What is it they teach in those hellish schools?” Turlough asked, shoulders shrugging with amusement. With the movement the Doctor became aware that his hands were still on Turlough’s waist, and Turlough’s hands were on his upper arms, presumably to fight him off, though they were slack against the cloth of his jacket. “Ockham’s razor? The simplest explanation is the right one, I believe?”
“Friar William; a Franciscan; meant it less as a problem-solving theory and more as a personal philosophy, actually,” the Doctor said, more or less automatically.
Turlough ignored this completely and said, slowly and with great certainty, “There is no hidden agenda in me kissing you, Doctor. I wanted to do it, so I did it. Simple as that.”
“Oh,” the Doctor said, quite at a loss. He felt as though he should remove his hands from Turlough’s hips, but in truth he was having trouble switching gears.
“Anyway, you’re not surprised by this,” Turlough protested. He dropped his arms, and the Doctor took it as an excellent cue to remove his hands from Turlough’s waist without embarrassment.
“I’m not?” The Doctor couldn’t help but frown and stand a little straighter against the wall.
“No, you’ve been flirting with me for weeks and weeks,” Turlough said. He waved his hands. “All that touching, and everything. You must have noticed that I noticed,” he said, almost indignantly.
“I absolutely did not,” the Doctor said, actually indignant. His well thought-out physical contact with Turlough had had a very specific purpose, and it was disconcerting to hear that it had been misinterpreted like this. “I haven’t been flirting, I have been politely sociable. Agreeable, you might say.”
“You’ve been flirting,” Turlough said with a knowing smirk, raising an eyebrow at the Doctor.
“Companionable, even!” The Doctor found himself, most unpleasantly, on the verge of being flustered.
“You’ve been flirting, Doctor,” Turlough said, folding his arms.
The Doctor wavered. He thought back, reviewing hands grasped and skin against cloth. “Oh, God,” he said, in a scratchy voice. “I’ve been flirting.”
Turlough nodded in satisfaction, and uncrossed his arms to pat the Doctor’s shoulder.
“All this time, I’ve been flirting, and I had no idea,” the Doctor said.
“You don’t have to sound so broken up about it,” Turlough said. “I mean, what were the consequences, really?”
“But that’s not the point,” the Doctor said, not taking the hint, and as he spoke it became true. “What might the consequences have been, if it had been someone else? Or if you really had thought you had to humor me in order to secure your place here, what might the consequences have been then?”
“There would have been an awkward kiss or two, not unlike the recent past, and then you would have explained the situation like you did to me and everything would have been rosy again.” Turlough’s dry tone woke the Doctor out of what was working up to be a fine miserable stupor, and he noticed for the first time that Turlough was a good deal closer to him than the last time he’d checked. “Doctor, you really have got a flair for the dramatic.”
“Do I,” the Doctor said, distracted by Turlough’s sudden proximity, which was increasing with every second.
“You do,” Turlough all but whispered into his mouth, and this time the Doctor had enough time to close his eyes and part his lips before Turlough’s mouth filled the corners of his.
Now that the Doctor didn’t have to worry about saving Turlough from himself, he realized, softly and irrefutably, that he wanted this. That he’d been waiting for this, somehow, storing up all of those little touches inside of him, when he’d thought they’d mattered so little. He could feel it now, in the way that Turlough’s fingers in his hair set his scalp tingling, sent shivers down his back; in how precious Turlough’s body felt in his arms; in the deep stomach pangs that got him every time Turlough rocked his head back with another earnest, thorough kiss. He’d decided, incredibly, with no self-knowledge whatsoever, that Turlough was something he wanted. And here it was, fulfillment before the wish. Wry disbelief sent a laugh bubbling out of his throat.
“Oh, that’s a high compliment,” Turlough said, breaking away for some hoarse, kiss-tempered sarcasm.
The Doctor ran his hands up Turlough’s back to the base of his neck. His fingers played with Turlough’s hair. “Yes,” the Doctor said. “I thought so.” Pleased to see Turlough looking nonplussed instead of himself, the Doctor took advantage of the confusion and pulled Turlough in to kiss him again, gentler than Turlough kissed, head tilted; he hummed, low and even, an equivalent to a smile, and felt Turlough’s soft, surprised sound in reply. Then the Doctor felt arms around his shoulders and neck, and hips against his hips, and very shortly the next sound out of his mouth was a moan, as was the next, and the next after that.
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Five/Turlough
Rating: PG
Warnings: extreme silliness and maybe a hint of fluff
Summary: Most things have a simple explanation, if you're not too thick to see it.
Author's Note: Concept inspired by taleya's angsty beauty Misconceptions.
Certainly it had been unexpected. Although the Doctor had seen almost immediately that Turlough would be one of those - one of his traveling companions that assumed they had to provide some sort of service for their room and board aboard the TARDIS, an entirely erroneous conclusion that occasionally led to awkward situations for the Doctor, and, in extreme cases, made it necessary for him to more or less defend his own honor against embarrassing overtures.
As it had happened before, then, the possibility of Turlough creating a problem was not out of the question. However, the Doctor had watched him carefully, and he had deflected all of Turlough’s rather ham-fisted attempts at seduction - fairly obviously, he’d thought. He’d talked right over the boy’s fluttering eyelashes and absurd handling of his own tie, every time, and he had made a point to blatantly ignore Turlough whenever he leaned against something (usually the TARDIS console, to the Doctor’s inconvenience). He had allowed Turlough to touch him, casually, fingers brushing wrists and elbows, light pressure on his back or shoulders - if only to prove that he was totally unaffected by such gestures. Indeed, he had firmly demonstrated his immunity by doing the same to Turlough. Every time he pedagogically guided Turlough with a hand flat on the small of his back, congenially gripped a shoulder, or conscientiously adjoined himself to Turlough to better see a control panel or in the interest of presenting a united front against unfriendly parties, the point, he’d thought, was well made.
So of course it was unexpected when, one day, Turlough put down the spectrum filter file that he had been using to adjust the vortex loop parameters, crossed the room to the exposed roundels where the Doctor was trying to remember which faulty bit of wiring he had decided to fix, spun him round, and kissed him rather fiercely.
Lest he give Turlough the wrong idea, the Doctor broke away. “Turlough, I thought we’d discussed this,” he said, in what he’d hoped would be a gentle but authoritative tone, but what was instead in somewhat of a higher register than he’d expected.
Turlough frowned at him. “No,” he said. “If I’m not mistaken, we haven’t ever talked about this, actually.” He took a step forward, so that the Doctor was forced to back against the wall to avoid him.
“Well, I discussed it, anyway, with myself, I know I did, and I - I decided that this was a very bad idea,” the Doctor said, with the vague feeling that he wasn’t really communicating the salient points of the argument. It was difficult to express himself clearly while sidling along a wall and clearing his throat to avoid squeaking.
Turlough planted one hand on either side of him, halting his escape. “And you didn’t care to inform me of this decision? That wasn’t very considerate, Doctor. You’ve let me embarrass myself for nothing.” However, Turlough looked anything but embarrassed, and the Doctor had a sinking feeling that this would very shortly not be nothing. Indeed, his stomach barely had time to drop before Turlough was so close that the Doctor could feel the heat from his face and body, overshadowed by the alarmingly immediate sensation of Turlough’s lips once again meeting his own.
The Doctor turned his head aside, took hold of Turlough’s waist, and pushed him firmly to arm’s length. He was not above physical resistance, if it came down to it, and this was rapidly becoming one of those extreme cases the Doctor so dreaded. “Now, look,” he said, turning his head back to stare at Turlough, wide-eyed and emphatic. “I know what you’re doing, and I know why you think you have to, but you’re wrong. Any welcome I give someone onboard the TARDIS is unconditional, no matter how you’ve been treated in the past. All of this is simply unnecessary.” He found himself able to breathe, now, having finally come to the point, certain it would all be a matter of apologies and hand-waving with that said.
“What are you talking about?” Turlough made a sound throughout this sentence that the Doctor could only describe as giggling, which confused him very much. “I’m not doing this because I think I have to,” he said, with a kind of derision that made the Doctor feel as if he should be insulted, especially with the giggling involved.
“I see,” he said, to stall for time while he worked it out. “Did someone force you?” he asked at last. “Have you drunk or eaten anything from a strange planet when you didn’t know what it was, anything at all?”
Turlough’s eyes were positively dancing, and the giggles could scarcely escape for the smile, wide and gleeful. The Doctor found himself staring. “What is it they teach in those hellish schools?” Turlough asked, shoulders shrugging with amusement. With the movement the Doctor became aware that his hands were still on Turlough’s waist, and Turlough’s hands were on his upper arms, presumably to fight him off, though they were slack against the cloth of his jacket. “Ockham’s razor? The simplest explanation is the right one, I believe?”
“Friar William; a Franciscan; meant it less as a problem-solving theory and more as a personal philosophy, actually,” the Doctor said, more or less automatically.
Turlough ignored this completely and said, slowly and with great certainty, “There is no hidden agenda in me kissing you, Doctor. I wanted to do it, so I did it. Simple as that.”
“Oh,” the Doctor said, quite at a loss. He felt as though he should remove his hands from Turlough’s hips, but in truth he was having trouble switching gears.
“Anyway, you’re not surprised by this,” Turlough protested. He dropped his arms, and the Doctor took it as an excellent cue to remove his hands from Turlough’s waist without embarrassment.
“I’m not?” The Doctor couldn’t help but frown and stand a little straighter against the wall.
“No, you’ve been flirting with me for weeks and weeks,” Turlough said. He waved his hands. “All that touching, and everything. You must have noticed that I noticed,” he said, almost indignantly.
“I absolutely did not,” the Doctor said, actually indignant. His well thought-out physical contact with Turlough had had a very specific purpose, and it was disconcerting to hear that it had been misinterpreted like this. “I haven’t been flirting, I have been politely sociable. Agreeable, you might say.”
“You’ve been flirting,” Turlough said with a knowing smirk, raising an eyebrow at the Doctor.
“Companionable, even!” The Doctor found himself, most unpleasantly, on the verge of being flustered.
“You’ve been flirting, Doctor,” Turlough said, folding his arms.
The Doctor wavered. He thought back, reviewing hands grasped and skin against cloth. “Oh, God,” he said, in a scratchy voice. “I’ve been flirting.”
Turlough nodded in satisfaction, and uncrossed his arms to pat the Doctor’s shoulder.
“All this time, I’ve been flirting, and I had no idea,” the Doctor said.
“You don’t have to sound so broken up about it,” Turlough said. “I mean, what were the consequences, really?”
“But that’s not the point,” the Doctor said, not taking the hint, and as he spoke it became true. “What might the consequences have been, if it had been someone else? Or if you really had thought you had to humor me in order to secure your place here, what might the consequences have been then?”
“There would have been an awkward kiss or two, not unlike the recent past, and then you would have explained the situation like you did to me and everything would have been rosy again.” Turlough’s dry tone woke the Doctor out of what was working up to be a fine miserable stupor, and he noticed for the first time that Turlough was a good deal closer to him than the last time he’d checked. “Doctor, you really have got a flair for the dramatic.”
“Do I,” the Doctor said, distracted by Turlough’s sudden proximity, which was increasing with every second.
“You do,” Turlough all but whispered into his mouth, and this time the Doctor had enough time to close his eyes and part his lips before Turlough’s mouth filled the corners of his.
Now that the Doctor didn’t have to worry about saving Turlough from himself, he realized, softly and irrefutably, that he wanted this. That he’d been waiting for this, somehow, storing up all of those little touches inside of him, when he’d thought they’d mattered so little. He could feel it now, in the way that Turlough’s fingers in his hair set his scalp tingling, sent shivers down his back; in how precious Turlough’s body felt in his arms; in the deep stomach pangs that got him every time Turlough rocked his head back with another earnest, thorough kiss. He’d decided, incredibly, with no self-knowledge whatsoever, that Turlough was something he wanted. And here it was, fulfillment before the wish. Wry disbelief sent a laugh bubbling out of his throat.
“Oh, that’s a high compliment,” Turlough said, breaking away for some hoarse, kiss-tempered sarcasm.
The Doctor ran his hands up Turlough’s back to the base of his neck. His fingers played with Turlough’s hair. “Yes,” the Doctor said. “I thought so.” Pleased to see Turlough looking nonplussed instead of himself, the Doctor took advantage of the confusion and pulled Turlough in to kiss him again, gentler than Turlough kissed, head tilted; he hummed, low and even, an equivalent to a smile, and felt Turlough’s soft, surprised sound in reply. Then the Doctor felt arms around his shoulders and neck, and hips against his hips, and very shortly the next sound out of his mouth was a moan, as was the next, and the next after that.