A Who Fic!
This is actually my third fic ever officially completed. And first to be actually posted on my journal...wow. The other two were posted in fic-a-thons without going here first. Eventually I'll try and post them here as well. So it's all official like. How very odd.
This was completed for the fic-a-thon over at doctor_rose_fix for sapphire_child 's prompt:
Don't Think About the Trainers
11/Rose (And why 11 decided to take over I don't know. But he makes me quite nervous, so I hope I did him right)
PG
With a HUGE thank you to my beta liciaphoenix who puts up with my flustering at her.
~~~
Flip switch, turn the turney knob, don’t think about the trainers. It would be impossible and illogical, and anyway it’s Amy. Here. Red hair…ginger. Still not. Me I mean, she’s always been. Scottish. Not London. Married. Not…not.
It wasn’t her. Clearly.
Babble about planets, how Rory is so slow today, tug hair. Don’t think about the trainers.
It was Amy. She was lounging on the TARDIS chair, jean skirt and converse on her feet. “Cute and practical, can’t expect me to go all doudy just because we up and got ourselves hitched,” she’d explained to Rory that morning. He was still in their room trying to get organized. She’d hidden all his pants. Just because.
The Doctor kept twitching. Don’t think about them.
Why did those trainers make him think about her? Or, actively not think about her…as the case may be. Or should be? Stop thinking about them.
He wasn’t leather. Was even less of converse and ties. He was bow-ties now, and cool things. Not new. Not new-new. The definition had changed. He was cool now. Different, but not new. So stop thinking about them.
“Doctor?”
It was Amy. Looking concerned.
“You alright?”
“Yes. Fine.” Pause… Am I not acting fine? Is she all right? Should I be concerned? No thinking about trainers. I’m fine, right? … “Why?”
“Only, you’ve been around the console about a dozen times, and there haven’t been any explosions yet…which is a bit weird. For you, I mean.”
Right. Hmm. Perhaps a no to fine.
“Ah”
“And you keep staring at my shoes.”
Definitely a no then. Not working. Initiate plan of action! No. Create plan first, then initiate.
He danced in place, pulled his hair some more and wished he had the fez back. Plans came!
“Well they won’t do you any good. We are going…to the beach! I promised you ages ago! A nice sandy beach. You won’t want trainers there. Go on and change!” Pull lever, switch flip, vworpvworp, please have those coordinates right.
Amy was giving him her look. The “there is something missing here but you wont’ tell me” look.
He’d seen it over the chipped mug in the kitchen, the locked door with a rose vine painted around the handle, and his sudden change of subject when Scooters came up.
“Go! And tell Rory to shake a leg or I’ll sic…something dangerous… on him! Like lobsters! Got pincers they have, pinchpinch, get a move on!”
“You’re mad you are.” Amy laughed. But she went to change.
Don’t think about-
She never wore trainers. She had always preferred boots.
He had pointed out one day that they were “silly and heavy. No good for running at all, really. You should try being more practical.” He never said it aloud but ‘jeopardy-friendly’ was her middle name, and they both knew it.
She had smiled and thrown logic back in his face. “Heavy works for me. Better for stompin’ and kickin’ should the need arise. And keeps my feet out of puddles, or sewer muck. An’ they make me taller.”
Well the combat-ready combat boots made sense. And he liked, no… he had liked her a bit taller. She was perfect obviously, but slightly taller put her eyes closer to his. Which was nice.
The beach was a bit of a fiasco.
There were, in fact, lobsters. And they had to save Rory. Who was apparently, “why did nobody mention this to me, any other random crustaceans that might kill you by being consumed?” allergic.
But Amy was in sandals. So that was all right. He didn’t have to not think about the trainers.
This was completed for the fic-a-thon over at doctor_rose_fix for sapphire_child 's prompt:
Don't Think About the Trainers
11/Rose (And why 11 decided to take over I don't know. But he makes me quite nervous, so I hope I did him right)
PG
With a HUGE thank you to my beta liciaphoenix who puts up with my flustering at her.
~~~
Flip switch, turn the turney knob, don’t think about the trainers. It would be impossible and illogical, and anyway it’s Amy. Here. Red hair…ginger. Still not. Me I mean, she’s always been. Scottish. Not London. Married. Not…not.
It wasn’t her. Clearly.
Babble about planets, how Rory is so slow today, tug hair. Don’t think about the trainers.
It was Amy. She was lounging on the TARDIS chair, jean skirt and converse on her feet. “Cute and practical, can’t expect me to go all doudy just because we up and got ourselves hitched,” she’d explained to Rory that morning. He was still in their room trying to get organized. She’d hidden all his pants. Just because.
The Doctor kept twitching. Don’t think about them.
Why did those trainers make him think about her? Or, actively not think about her…as the case may be. Or should be? Stop thinking about them.
He wasn’t leather. Was even less of converse and ties. He was bow-ties now, and cool things. Not new. Not new-new. The definition had changed. He was cool now. Different, but not new. So stop thinking about them.
“Doctor?”
It was Amy. Looking concerned.
“You alright?”
“Yes. Fine.” Pause… Am I not acting fine? Is she all right? Should I be concerned? No thinking about trainers. I’m fine, right? … “Why?”
“Only, you’ve been around the console about a dozen times, and there haven’t been any explosions yet…which is a bit weird. For you, I mean.”
Right. Hmm. Perhaps a no to fine.
“Ah”
“And you keep staring at my shoes.”
Definitely a no then. Not working. Initiate plan of action! No. Create plan first, then initiate.
He danced in place, pulled his hair some more and wished he had the fez back. Plans came!
“Well they won’t do you any good. We are going…to the beach! I promised you ages ago! A nice sandy beach. You won’t want trainers there. Go on and change!” Pull lever, switch flip, vworpvworp, please have those coordinates right.
Amy was giving him her look. The “there is something missing here but you wont’ tell me” look.
He’d seen it over the chipped mug in the kitchen, the locked door with a rose vine painted around the handle, and his sudden change of subject when Scooters came up.
“Go! And tell Rory to shake a leg or I’ll sic…something dangerous… on him! Like lobsters! Got pincers they have, pinchpinch, get a move on!”
“You’re mad you are.” Amy laughed. But she went to change.
Don’t think about-
She never wore trainers. She had always preferred boots.
He had pointed out one day that they were “silly and heavy. No good for running at all, really. You should try being more practical.” He never said it aloud but ‘jeopardy-friendly’ was her middle name, and they both knew it.
She had smiled and thrown logic back in his face. “Heavy works for me. Better for stompin’ and kickin’ should the need arise. And keeps my feet out of puddles, or sewer muck. An’ they make me taller.”
Well the combat-ready combat boots made sense. And he liked, no… he had liked her a bit taller. She was perfect obviously, but slightly taller put her eyes closer to his. Which was nice.
The beach was a bit of a fiasco.
There were, in fact, lobsters. And they had to save Rory. Who was apparently, “why did nobody mention this to me, any other random crustaceans that might kill you by being consumed?” allergic.
But Amy was in sandals. So that was all right. He didn’t have to not think about the trainers.