put your trust in me, i'm not gonna die alone
for the AU ficathon, since this is now apparently a place where i post fic?
marshmorning's prompt: doctor who - amy/eleven - amy as a time lady, doctor as companion listen: there's a hell of a good universe next door
his face flushes at the sight of her and so, embarrassed, he keeps his eyes on the grass she looks just as she did then, e thinks. brilliant. flashing. quick and bright. he can't resist, so he looks up at her just the same. how could that be.
he was eleven the first time. he wandered into the garden in his pajamas and rain boots, carrying his uncle's utility flashlight. he was scrawny and too small for his age, but unafraid when he found her there, crashed and ecstatic and starving for apples.
he's seventeen this time. well, almost seventeen. taller, but many things are still the same. still unsure of his own body, his bowlegs. still failing to corral the hair, the cowlicks. still rather friendless.
this time he's nearly her height. nearly.
"and what's with the bow tie?" she crosses her arms across her chest and leans a shoulder against the box. her eyes don't leave his, though. that expression again - is it a smile? he fingers the bow tie. it had been a self-conscious choice. he had thought, briefly, that taking hold of his strangeness, his oddity, managing and fashioning it into an identity, might benefit him somehow. might help him make a friend. hadn't worked. she's the only one he'd ever made, and she was gone as quick as she appeared.
suddenly he needs to know. before he can follow her.
"why me?"
she shrugs at his question, looking momentarily distracted by the strange box. she runs the back of her hand lightly up and down the wood, admiring.
"don't know. you were cool last time. are you still cool? the last one was a bit of a bore." she says it with a sharp note, but not unkindly. he can't think what to say. how could she think him cool? was she mad? well, he already knew the answer to that. whatever else, she is definitely mad.
she seems to return from a dream then - she straightens, takes a step toward him, and puts her hands on his shoulders. “and you're brave. cool and brave, like i like my boys.”
he feels his face flush again.
“so, then, john. coming?” she indicates the box with her hands, as though framing some prize.
he wants to say yes more than anything he’s ever wanted, wants to put words to the years of dreaming she’s now drawing into action, her being here, presenting… presenting what he doesn’t know, but surely something like a gift.
but his throat goes raw and dry. he is keenly aware of his stance, his bow legs, the ridiculous tie. he opens his mouth but can’t give voice to the tremendous wanting that burns hot and bright in his solar plexus.
she watches him for a moment, reveling in something.
“know what?”she snaps her fingers and the box cracks open. an orange-gold light spills out across the garden, lighting everything, warming his face like a fireplace. he can only see a sliver of what it contains, can’t fathom it, but the word crashes into him with the very same certainty and wonder as she had.
a world he thinks. nside there’s a whole world.
“hey.”
“what?” he manages.
she moves her hands back to his shoulders, as if to steady him, and grins.
“gotcha,” and shoves him inside.
marshmorning's prompt: doctor who - amy/eleven - amy as a time lady, doctor as companion listen: there's a hell of a good universe next door
his face flushes at the sight of her and so, embarrassed, he keeps his eyes on the grass she looks just as she did then, e thinks. brilliant. flashing. quick and bright. he can't resist, so he looks up at her just the same. how could that be.
he was eleven the first time. he wandered into the garden in his pajamas and rain boots, carrying his uncle's utility flashlight. he was scrawny and too small for his age, but unafraid when he found her there, crashed and ecstatic and starving for apples.
he's seventeen this time. well, almost seventeen. taller, but many things are still the same. still unsure of his own body, his bowlegs. still failing to corral the hair, the cowlicks. still rather friendless.
this time he's nearly her height. nearly.
"and what's with the bow tie?" she crosses her arms across her chest and leans a shoulder against the box. her eyes don't leave his, though. that expression again - is it a smile? he fingers the bow tie. it had been a self-conscious choice. he had thought, briefly, that taking hold of his strangeness, his oddity, managing and fashioning it into an identity, might benefit him somehow. might help him make a friend. hadn't worked. she's the only one he'd ever made, and she was gone as quick as she appeared.
suddenly he needs to know. before he can follow her.
"why me?"
she shrugs at his question, looking momentarily distracted by the strange box. she runs the back of her hand lightly up and down the wood, admiring.
"don't know. you were cool last time. are you still cool? the last one was a bit of a bore." she says it with a sharp note, but not unkindly. he can't think what to say. how could she think him cool? was she mad? well, he already knew the answer to that. whatever else, she is definitely mad.
she seems to return from a dream then - she straightens, takes a step toward him, and puts her hands on his shoulders. “and you're brave. cool and brave, like i like my boys.”
he feels his face flush again.
“so, then, john. coming?” she indicates the box with her hands, as though framing some prize.
he wants to say yes more than anything he’s ever wanted, wants to put words to the years of dreaming she’s now drawing into action, her being here, presenting… presenting what he doesn’t know, but surely something like a gift.
but his throat goes raw and dry. he is keenly aware of his stance, his bow legs, the ridiculous tie. he opens his mouth but can’t give voice to the tremendous wanting that burns hot and bright in his solar plexus.
she watches him for a moment, reveling in something.
“know what?”she snaps her fingers and the box cracks open. an orange-gold light spills out across the garden, lighting everything, warming his face like a fireplace. he can only see a sliver of what it contains, can’t fathom it, but the word crashes into him with the very same certainty and wonder as she had.
a world he thinks. nside there’s a whole world.
“hey.”
“what?” he manages.
she moves her hands back to his shoulders, as if to steady him, and grins.
“gotcha,” and shoves him inside.