fic: momentum
Title: Momentum
Rating: PG (angst)
Wordcount: ~1100
Characters: Eleven, River, mentions Amy and Rory (Eleven/River)
Disclaimer: I don’t own Doctor Who.
Summary: He aged, and she watched.
A/N: Well, this turned out a lot bleaker than I planned. It's angsty, and alludes to the Doctor’s self-hate.
More random scenes, and I may have lost track of the prompt. :/
For the spoiler_song ficathon and winninghearts' promt: Eleven/River, he has no plan to save himself, and she will not kill him. They live out their days in a disintegrating world, loving but never touching.
This prompt has three other fills as well (that I know of)! :D (So excited to see what you guys made of it!)
I took spellings and names from this transcript.
~
“So, this woman… What have you done to her?”
The Doctor leant back in his seat. Winston kept blowing smoke in his face and he couldn’t raise a finger. “Sorry?”
Churchill slapped the table, rattling the (9th century) porcelain cups. “These handcuffs, man! Naturally!”
“You think just because she’s cuffed me she hates me?”
“Then you hate her?”
“How could I?”
“The papers I had to fill out to see you… can you not give me a straight answer?”
“Guess.”
It was so very long ago now, the resolution; the vow; the status quo. The creatures of the Silence had been reasonably well-behaved, Madame Kovarian had still been alive… most of the Universe had merely been frayed at the edges. They’d agreed, verbally, for obvious reasons.
River had learnt to master her voice and her eye, and she certainly never mentioned it.
No one ever mentioned it.
He compressed his discontent; it smouldered in his chest like embers; flared and faded from so-called day to so-called day.
Those first days, he’d faced her chained to a chair, a five-course meal between them. The eye-drive wearing soldier of his choice would have raised the (16th century) goblet and the (19th century) spoon to his lips, had he ever asked.
The eleventh day and the eleventh dinner and the smallest table thus far - and the moment one of the guards had blinked, he’d resorted to biting. She’d stabbed him with a fork.
Captain Williams’ hand had not been gentle on his shoulder for two haircuts after that.
His lovely, lovely Amelia Pond had supplied him with a soundproof chamber and all the glassware he could ever want, and he’d ruined all of it without heed to what place it was supposed to hold in history.
“We’re working on something,” said River, when Amy had had them cuffed to a great statue of Bastet; a paw each.
“Yes, you keep saying that. You’re always saying that. Tell me, how much longer do you need? A day, an hour, ten minutes? Will it be ready at half past eight?”
“I’ve been to Easter Island.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I’ve seen… They remember you. They’re not the only ones.”
“Please.” He should have found the Teselecta.
The first time the sinking feeling in his stomach had shown up as readings on a screen, the Doctor had said, “See? That’s time falling apart. Happy anniversary, dear.”
Her clipboard had narrowly missed his head.
The latest time he’d said: “Oh, there goes Neptune.”
River had said, “It’s going to be a lovely day, more sunspots than ever. Drinks later.” She’d tucked a stack of papers under an arm and blown him a kiss, and he had been happy to see her hand shaking, even if her voice didn’t.
She only cried the first time; that had been the only time he didn’t. She didn’t age, didn’t change, but he hoped she carried every death in her heart, and he loathed himself for it.
He had lived in the cuffs and the eye-drive.
There had been guards, and locks, and sensors.
He’d calmed down and thought it through and realised he couldn’t keep asking her. She had to make the decision on her own. She was the Dream Lord, and the Valeyard; the judge and the jury, and what he deserved.
Millions; billions gone. Because he wanted to see the stars.
A thousand feet above Winston’s excuse for an infrastructure, in a hot-air balloon so timeless he could taste bile just thinking about it, they finally agreed, officially. To behave, to not touch.
She - they - had some sort of plan, and all he could do was wait for that plan to work or for River to give up.
He got a train/office, access to anything he could wish for, and River’s desperate relief.
One of the rumours was true: the Doctor was a monk.
He had been given a fourposter (18th century) and Caesar’s old room. He let a couple of dodos enjoy it.
There had been a wall; fifty foot long and clear, thick, bullet-proof glass. Amelia Pond had ordered it, and Captain Williams had installed it. It was annoying, and addictive, and no matter how much the Doctor pleaded, River never removed her eye-drive.
They had a library, of sorts, where River kept quite the collection of gossip. He moved an issue of ‘Archaeology today’ to the floor and claimed the seat it had lain on. “What are you reading?”
“‘Daily Mail’. First page, look at this… Wed or dead?”
“Stop it.”
“When you stop reading mother’s, ah, stories.”
Gloves didn’t work, but River was getting better at telepathy, and she was really very good at leaning close and blowing in his ear.
If only Kent wouldn’t measure everything. Well, he didn’t mind that, exactly, but he could do without the display of a chronon chart every faux morning.
They had Vincent and Agatha and Dickens and Marco Polo for tea, and Cleo eventually forgave them both.
The Doctor congratulated River on the mysterious progress she alluded to making, and she thanked him and smiled and looked more determined every time.
At first, he measured time solely by the ache in the pit of his stomach, the itching of his teeth, and the length of his hair - when it reached his collarbones, he cut it short.
He still used the last one, though it was slowly becoming more and more of an affectation. Time still passed for him, and every mirror told him so.
He aged, and she watched.
He obtained some (20th century) brylcreem; it made the silver in his hair shine. He only wore the cuffs on special occasions; the current pair was gold and engraved with Gallifreyan.
He got a monocle. He got a cane.
He looked like his original self, in fact, and that was the universe for you, falling apart or not.
The Silence attacked, and they had to move and keep moving, to and towards what passed for the end of the world.
In Amelia’s office on a careening train, the readings were disastrous; a chunk of the Universe was gone; billions and billions of lives, and half of River’s sunspots.
It was an arbitrary thing, this Time, but he did his best to come to terms with it. Reality disintegrated exponentially, starting in the nuclei of every cell in his body. Time bent and broke in ways it was never meant to.
When he felt it especially acutely, when he couldn’t walk or speak or blink, Amy sat with him and stroked his hair, while River watched and said soothing things and clutched her research.
Rating: PG (angst)
Wordcount: ~1100
Characters: Eleven, River, mentions Amy and Rory (Eleven/River)
Disclaimer: I don’t own Doctor Who.
Summary: He aged, and she watched.
A/N: Well, this turned out a lot bleaker than I planned. It's angsty, and alludes to the Doctor’s self-hate.
More random scenes, and I may have lost track of the prompt. :/
For the spoiler_song ficathon and winninghearts' promt: Eleven/River, he has no plan to save himself, and she will not kill him. They live out their days in a disintegrating world, loving but never touching.
This prompt has three other fills as well (that I know of)! :D (So excited to see what you guys made of it!)
I took spellings and names from this transcript.
~
“So, this woman… What have you done to her?”
The Doctor leant back in his seat. Winston kept blowing smoke in his face and he couldn’t raise a finger. “Sorry?”
Churchill slapped the table, rattling the (9th century) porcelain cups. “These handcuffs, man! Naturally!”
“You think just because she’s cuffed me she hates me?”
“Then you hate her?”
“How could I?”
“The papers I had to fill out to see you… can you not give me a straight answer?”
“Guess.”
It was so very long ago now, the resolution; the vow; the status quo. The creatures of the Silence had been reasonably well-behaved, Madame Kovarian had still been alive… most of the Universe had merely been frayed at the edges. They’d agreed, verbally, for obvious reasons.
River had learnt to master her voice and her eye, and she certainly never mentioned it.
No one ever mentioned it.
He compressed his discontent; it smouldered in his chest like embers; flared and faded from so-called day to so-called day.
Those first days, he’d faced her chained to a chair, a five-course meal between them. The eye-drive wearing soldier of his choice would have raised the (16th century) goblet and the (19th century) spoon to his lips, had he ever asked.
The eleventh day and the eleventh dinner and the smallest table thus far - and the moment one of the guards had blinked, he’d resorted to biting. She’d stabbed him with a fork.
Captain Williams’ hand had not been gentle on his shoulder for two haircuts after that.
His lovely, lovely Amelia Pond had supplied him with a soundproof chamber and all the glassware he could ever want, and he’d ruined all of it without heed to what place it was supposed to hold in history.
“We’re working on something,” said River, when Amy had had them cuffed to a great statue of Bastet; a paw each.
“Yes, you keep saying that. You’re always saying that. Tell me, how much longer do you need? A day, an hour, ten minutes? Will it be ready at half past eight?”
“I’ve been to Easter Island.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I’ve seen… They remember you. They’re not the only ones.”
“Please.” He should have found the Teselecta.
The first time the sinking feeling in his stomach had shown up as readings on a screen, the Doctor had said, “See? That’s time falling apart. Happy anniversary, dear.”
Her clipboard had narrowly missed his head.
The latest time he’d said: “Oh, there goes Neptune.”
River had said, “It’s going to be a lovely day, more sunspots than ever. Drinks later.” She’d tucked a stack of papers under an arm and blown him a kiss, and he had been happy to see her hand shaking, even if her voice didn’t.
She only cried the first time; that had been the only time he didn’t. She didn’t age, didn’t change, but he hoped she carried every death in her heart, and he loathed himself for it.
He had lived in the cuffs and the eye-drive.
There had been guards, and locks, and sensors.
He’d calmed down and thought it through and realised he couldn’t keep asking her. She had to make the decision on her own. She was the Dream Lord, and the Valeyard; the judge and the jury, and what he deserved.
Millions; billions gone. Because he wanted to see the stars.
A thousand feet above Winston’s excuse for an infrastructure, in a hot-air balloon so timeless he could taste bile just thinking about it, they finally agreed, officially. To behave, to not touch.
She - they - had some sort of plan, and all he could do was wait for that plan to work or for River to give up.
He got a train/office, access to anything he could wish for, and River’s desperate relief.
One of the rumours was true: the Doctor was a monk.
He had been given a fourposter (18th century) and Caesar’s old room. He let a couple of dodos enjoy it.
There had been a wall; fifty foot long and clear, thick, bullet-proof glass. Amelia Pond had ordered it, and Captain Williams had installed it. It was annoying, and addictive, and no matter how much the Doctor pleaded, River never removed her eye-drive.
They had a library, of sorts, where River kept quite the collection of gossip. He moved an issue of ‘Archaeology today’ to the floor and claimed the seat it had lain on. “What are you reading?”
“‘Daily Mail’. First page, look at this… Wed or dead?”
“Stop it.”
“When you stop reading mother’s, ah, stories.”
Gloves didn’t work, but River was getting better at telepathy, and she was really very good at leaning close and blowing in his ear.
If only Kent wouldn’t measure everything. Well, he didn’t mind that, exactly, but he could do without the display of a chronon chart every faux morning.
They had Vincent and Agatha and Dickens and Marco Polo for tea, and Cleo eventually forgave them both.
The Doctor congratulated River on the mysterious progress she alluded to making, and she thanked him and smiled and looked more determined every time.
At first, he measured time solely by the ache in the pit of his stomach, the itching of his teeth, and the length of his hair - when it reached his collarbones, he cut it short.
He still used the last one, though it was slowly becoming more and more of an affectation. Time still passed for him, and every mirror told him so.
He aged, and she watched.
He obtained some (20th century) brylcreem; it made the silver in his hair shine. He only wore the cuffs on special occasions; the current pair was gold and engraved with Gallifreyan.
He got a monocle. He got a cane.
He looked like his original self, in fact, and that was the universe for you, falling apart or not.
The Silence attacked, and they had to move and keep moving, to and towards what passed for the end of the world.
In Amelia’s office on a careening train, the readings were disastrous; a chunk of the Universe was gone; billions and billions of lives, and half of River’s sunspots.
It was an arbitrary thing, this Time, but he did his best to come to terms with it. Reality disintegrated exponentially, starting in the nuclei of every cell in his body. Time bent and broke in ways it was never meant to.
When he felt it especially acutely, when he couldn’t walk or speak or blink, Amy sat with him and stroked his hair, while River watched and said soothing things and clutched her research.