DW: In the Courts of Either/Or (Amy/Eleven)
Inspired by BPAL's Dublin.
Title: In the Courts of Either/Or
Author: voleuse
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Amy Pond/Eleven
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Armless griefs mount lewd and headless doubts.
Notes: Spoilers for 5.05.
The Doctor had an odd habit of watching her out of the corner of his eye, like he was waiting for her to disappear, or maybe to disappoint him. Whenever she looked back, he would shift or pull a face, and then he was showing off for her again, bouncing on his toes like he was a kid instead of being all broad shoulders and agile fingers, dressed up like he was a stripping librarian.
Amy wondered what he would think of her in her librarian outfit. She wondered if he'd tug the braces from her shoulders the same way she had, impatient and fumbling, or if he'd tease her, fingers tracing the edges until she went mad with the waiting. She wondered if he would clutch at her shoulders again, and if she pressed him down onto the bench by the TARDIS controls, would he gasp again when she darted her tongue against his upper lip.
She wondered if he thought about the same things whenever he watched her when he thought she wasn't looking.
*
The Doctor grinned at her, all proud, as he swung open the door of the TARDIS. "Behold Dublin," he announced, and the fog billowed in like a fist. "Well. We'll get to the beholding eventually," he corrected, then he grasped her wrist, his fingers warm against her skin as he tugged her outside, and the ground squelched as she stepped upon it.
"Doctor," she said, looping her fingers with his as her eyes adjusted to the gloom, "this isn't Dublin. Dublin is a city." She turned on her heel, taking in the looming trees and something that looked suspiciously like a cairn.
"Excellent, Amy," the Doctor said, "you're right. We're actually a bit outside Dublin." He cocked his head, as if he was listening for a signal. "The Danes are invading tomorrow. I think."
"The Danes." Amy shut her eyes and counted to five. "So we're in the past." She opened her eyes. "Or the future? I don't know much about Denmark."
"Very much your past," the Doctor corrected. "The tenth century, to be vaguely precise." He strode forward through the fog, and Amy skipped to catch up with him, their clasped hands twisting awkwardly.
"And what are we doing here?" Amy asked. "Are we going to stop the Danes? Save Dublin?"
"There's an inn I know," the Doctor said. "It has excellent mead." He halted, and Amy thought he looked perturbed. "That is, it would have."
She cleared her throat. "Doctor?"
"Yes?" He turned his gaze to her, quiet and so very calm.
"Are we getting mashed?"
His laugh was a song and she danced half-around him. He caught her by the elbow and they twirled.
*
"I've never had this before," Amy confessed. She took a swig from the bottle, and the wine trickled honey-sweet against her tongue. "I like it." She stumbled on a tree root, and the Doctor looped an arm around her waist, eyeing her with concern.
"This shouldn't be happening," he murmured. "All around bad choices today."
"Not really." The TARDIS was in sight, so Amy stopped, leaned against the trunk of a massive, gnarled tree, trapping the Doctor's hand against the small of her back. "The mead is lovely. The night," she gestured at the moon, barely visible through the canopy of wizened branches, "is lovely."
"Enough of that, I think." With his free hand, the Doctor prised the bottle from Amy's grasp.
"You are lovely," Amy continued. He blinked at her, startled. Uncomfortable, when she rose on her toes and brushed her lips against his.
"Amy--"
"And a prude," she concluded. He narrowed his eyes at her, his gaze suddenly hot. "Or not."
She edged her fingers between the buttons of his shirt, and he dipped his head. He pressed his lips to her temple, to the curve of her cheek. He breathed in, a great gust of air, and she smiled when he finally, finally kissed her, a groan rumbling in his chest.
He tasted like mead, and bread, and a thousand days of want. The bottle thunked against the tree as he brought his arms around her, and Amy twisted, cursed the long skirt she'd worn to blend in with the town's inhabitants. She grasped his shoulders and he dropped the bottle, hands sliding down as she arched. The Doctor's fingers dug into the heavy fabric of her skirt, and Amy wound her leg as best she could around his, her moan echoing weirdly in the forest.
"Tomorrow," the Doctor said, his mouth hot against her throat, "tomorrow this won't have happened, Amy." He sounded lonely. He sounded resigned.
Amy pushed at his chest, and he flinched back. His glance scattered over her, all focus and distraction at once. "I'm a time traveler, Doctor." His hearts beat wildly beneath her hands. "I get to remember everything."
The Doctor nodded, but when Amy kissed him, he mumbled, "We'll see."
###
A/N: Title and summary adapted from Stanley Kunitz's The Thing That Eats the Heart. Link courtesy of breathe_poetry.
Title: In the Courts of Either/Or
Author: voleuse
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Amy Pond/Eleven
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Armless griefs mount lewd and headless doubts.
Notes: Spoilers for 5.05.
The Doctor had an odd habit of watching her out of the corner of his eye, like he was waiting for her to disappear, or maybe to disappoint him. Whenever she looked back, he would shift or pull a face, and then he was showing off for her again, bouncing on his toes like he was a kid instead of being all broad shoulders and agile fingers, dressed up like he was a stripping librarian.
Amy wondered what he would think of her in her librarian outfit. She wondered if he'd tug the braces from her shoulders the same way she had, impatient and fumbling, or if he'd tease her, fingers tracing the edges until she went mad with the waiting. She wondered if he would clutch at her shoulders again, and if she pressed him down onto the bench by the TARDIS controls, would he gasp again when she darted her tongue against his upper lip.
She wondered if he thought about the same things whenever he watched her when he thought she wasn't looking.
*
The Doctor grinned at her, all proud, as he swung open the door of the TARDIS. "Behold Dublin," he announced, and the fog billowed in like a fist. "Well. We'll get to the beholding eventually," he corrected, then he grasped her wrist, his fingers warm against her skin as he tugged her outside, and the ground squelched as she stepped upon it.
"Doctor," she said, looping her fingers with his as her eyes adjusted to the gloom, "this isn't Dublin. Dublin is a city." She turned on her heel, taking in the looming trees and something that looked suspiciously like a cairn.
"Excellent, Amy," the Doctor said, "you're right. We're actually a bit outside Dublin." He cocked his head, as if he was listening for a signal. "The Danes are invading tomorrow. I think."
"The Danes." Amy shut her eyes and counted to five. "So we're in the past." She opened her eyes. "Or the future? I don't know much about Denmark."
"Very much your past," the Doctor corrected. "The tenth century, to be vaguely precise." He strode forward through the fog, and Amy skipped to catch up with him, their clasped hands twisting awkwardly.
"And what are we doing here?" Amy asked. "Are we going to stop the Danes? Save Dublin?"
"There's an inn I know," the Doctor said. "It has excellent mead." He halted, and Amy thought he looked perturbed. "That is, it would have."
She cleared her throat. "Doctor?"
"Yes?" He turned his gaze to her, quiet and so very calm.
"Are we getting mashed?"
His laugh was a song and she danced half-around him. He caught her by the elbow and they twirled.
*
"I've never had this before," Amy confessed. She took a swig from the bottle, and the wine trickled honey-sweet against her tongue. "I like it." She stumbled on a tree root, and the Doctor looped an arm around her waist, eyeing her with concern.
"This shouldn't be happening," he murmured. "All around bad choices today."
"Not really." The TARDIS was in sight, so Amy stopped, leaned against the trunk of a massive, gnarled tree, trapping the Doctor's hand against the small of her back. "The mead is lovely. The night," she gestured at the moon, barely visible through the canopy of wizened branches, "is lovely."
"Enough of that, I think." With his free hand, the Doctor prised the bottle from Amy's grasp.
"You are lovely," Amy continued. He blinked at her, startled. Uncomfortable, when she rose on her toes and brushed her lips against his.
"Amy--"
"And a prude," she concluded. He narrowed his eyes at her, his gaze suddenly hot. "Or not."
She edged her fingers between the buttons of his shirt, and he dipped his head. He pressed his lips to her temple, to the curve of her cheek. He breathed in, a great gust of air, and she smiled when he finally, finally kissed her, a groan rumbling in his chest.
He tasted like mead, and bread, and a thousand days of want. The bottle thunked against the tree as he brought his arms around her, and Amy twisted, cursed the long skirt she'd worn to blend in with the town's inhabitants. She grasped his shoulders and he dropped the bottle, hands sliding down as she arched. The Doctor's fingers dug into the heavy fabric of her skirt, and Amy wound her leg as best she could around his, her moan echoing weirdly in the forest.
"Tomorrow," the Doctor said, his mouth hot against her throat, "tomorrow this won't have happened, Amy." He sounded lonely. He sounded resigned.
Amy pushed at his chest, and he flinched back. His glance scattered over her, all focus and distraction at once. "I'm a time traveler, Doctor." His hearts beat wildly beneath her hands. "I get to remember everything."
The Doctor nodded, but when Amy kissed him, he mumbled, "We'll see."
###
A/N: Title and summary adapted from Stanley Kunitz's The Thing That Eats the Heart. Link courtesy of breathe_poetry.