Looks Like You've Won - fic (1/1)
Title: Looks Like You've Won
Rating: PG
Summary: Sometimes it's just them running across the universe as fast and as far as they can. But other times things end up being really, really bad.
Disclaimer: Doctor Who isn't mine, no copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: Today has been kind of a blah day. I have a big test for school tomorrow, and I've already taken two practice tests yesterday and today, so in order to take my mind off things, I wrote out a bit of a plot bunny. Also I'm having writer's block for a few other stories, and for some reason this idea flowed out easier than just staring at a blank document for half an hour, which I took as an incentive!
Amy doesn’t know how it happens, not really, and by the time her brain catches up, she figures she never stood a chance anyway.
They land on a planet, which she points out, is not Rio-and she dressed for Rio again because he said he had persuaded ‘the old girl’ to take them there. However, it’s a strange, wonderful planet in all its glory. Who is Amy Pond to resist such an adventure?
She dances from place to place, trailing her fingers over buildings and trees and everything she can touch (including some things she can’t as well.) The colors of this planet are so vivid it almost hurts to keep her eyes open for too long. She does anyway, because she can almost taste all the blues and greens and reds and she wouldn’t miss this for the world.
There are whispers in the air and the faces of the people are pinched, like they’ve just swallowed a sour lemon. She misses the signs of a mystery, too caught up in the planet. He doesn’t miss anything, though.
Which is how he tells her airily, eyes still sweeping guardedly around their surroundings, that he wants to head back to the TARDIS to get a device, and he rattles off an incredibly long name.
“A what?” Amy asks incredulously.
He repeats the name.
She gives him an affectionate shove and tells him he’s mental. He spends the rest of the journey giving her a lecture on different types of alien fungi, which he wants to look at with the device-thingy. (She still can’t pronounce the name, and not for lack of trying.)
She pats the doors of the TARDIS fondly when they reach it, slipping inside and looking back at him to ask if he’s coming. He’s standing outside, not moving, so she takes a step back towards him.
His face is finally what alerts her. His heart is in his throat and his eyes are a bit too bright, and-“Doctor?”
He sweeps his eyes over her face and without hesitation, closes the doors. It takes her a second to actually realize what he’s done, and too late, she hears the key locking the doors.
The first half hour she spends hitting, kicking, and yelling. The door won’t budge though, and it’s the second realization she has that really stops her. She remembers the angels, and how he told her to wait in the TARDIS, which she didn’t do. So whatever’s out there-whatever caused him to lock her inside, must be worse than the angels. Her blood curdles at the thought and she slumps to the ground.
The second hour Amy spends doing what she does best: being clever. At first she tries a bobby pin, next a paper clip. She rummages through cupboards and closets for anything, anything.
When she can’t find anything, she slams her palms against the closest, hardest surface in frustration, wincing when the wood digs into her skin. She ends up heading to the infirmary, having hurt her hands a bit too badly. Amy pulls wooden splinters out of her hands and rinses her blood down the drain, thinking vindictively that if he wanted to keep her from getting hurt, well, he’s already failed.
She wraps her hands in clean, stark white bandages, and continues her search. The TARDIS tries to hum comfortingly in her head-she hears it, the faint, golden whisper of reassurance.
Instead, she ends up yelling at the machine, something about it’s stupid, stupid Time Lord and well, why doesn’t she give up, since he’s so determined to die? Amy regrets her words almost instantly and the TARDIS gives a faint reply of warmth and forgiveness.
Or, what she hopes is forgiveness, since it’s a bit hard to converse with a sentient time machine.
Amy tries to make herself something to eat, but she’s so worried she puts pepper on her toast when she means to use jam. Finally she gives up, with a disgusted look at the peppershaker, and paces around the console room. She falls asleep a few hours later, twisted in discomfort, around one of the console room’s emergency seats. Her head falls back against the metal railing halfway through and when she finally wakes up, her neck is sore and her whole back aches.
She panics, unsure how long she’s slept, and blinks, disoriented, around the room. Everything looks the same.
A few hours later (it feels horribly, horribly longer), the door creaks open and he walks in. Anger burns, fresh and new, and she ignores the fact that his tweed jacket is missing and his shirt is ripped in a few significant places.
Amy Pond explodes in a whirl of red hair, pale skin, and sleep-smudged eyeliner. “What the hell, Doctor? You don’t just lock me in here whenever you think it’s best! You don’t get to make that decision! I can take care of myself, and I can certainly decide what I can or can’t handle and you know what? That was selfish!”
(She’s too caught up in her anger and worry to notice that he flinches at the word selfish.)
Instead, he takes a swift step towards her, and presses his lips to her forehead. His mouth is cold, and her skin heats in response. He reaches up to tangle his hands in her fiery hair, fingers supporting the base of her head, right where it meets her aching neck. She’s rooted to the spot. He lets out a shuddering breath, so quiet she can barely hear it. She feels like a pillar, like she’s the only thing that’s holding him up.
“Doctor?” she asks, and her voice squeaks.
He steps away, and before she can do much of anything, heads through the corridor leading away from the console room. From far off, she hears the shower start.
Amy Pond is left standing there in bemusement, a soot smudge on her forehead from his lips.
Rating: PG
Summary: Sometimes it's just them running across the universe as fast and as far as they can. But other times things end up being really, really bad.
Disclaimer: Doctor Who isn't mine, no copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: Today has been kind of a blah day. I have a big test for school tomorrow, and I've already taken two practice tests yesterday and today, so in order to take my mind off things, I wrote out a bit of a plot bunny. Also I'm having writer's block for a few other stories, and for some reason this idea flowed out easier than just staring at a blank document for half an hour, which I took as an incentive!
Amy doesn’t know how it happens, not really, and by the time her brain catches up, she figures she never stood a chance anyway.
They land on a planet, which she points out, is not Rio-and she dressed for Rio again because he said he had persuaded ‘the old girl’ to take them there. However, it’s a strange, wonderful planet in all its glory. Who is Amy Pond to resist such an adventure?
She dances from place to place, trailing her fingers over buildings and trees and everything she can touch (including some things she can’t as well.) The colors of this planet are so vivid it almost hurts to keep her eyes open for too long. She does anyway, because she can almost taste all the blues and greens and reds and she wouldn’t miss this for the world.
There are whispers in the air and the faces of the people are pinched, like they’ve just swallowed a sour lemon. She misses the signs of a mystery, too caught up in the planet. He doesn’t miss anything, though.
Which is how he tells her airily, eyes still sweeping guardedly around their surroundings, that he wants to head back to the TARDIS to get a device, and he rattles off an incredibly long name.
“A what?” Amy asks incredulously.
He repeats the name.
She gives him an affectionate shove and tells him he’s mental. He spends the rest of the journey giving her a lecture on different types of alien fungi, which he wants to look at with the device-thingy. (She still can’t pronounce the name, and not for lack of trying.)
She pats the doors of the TARDIS fondly when they reach it, slipping inside and looking back at him to ask if he’s coming. He’s standing outside, not moving, so she takes a step back towards him.
His face is finally what alerts her. His heart is in his throat and his eyes are a bit too bright, and-“Doctor?”
He sweeps his eyes over her face and without hesitation, closes the doors. It takes her a second to actually realize what he’s done, and too late, she hears the key locking the doors.
The first half hour she spends hitting, kicking, and yelling. The door won’t budge though, and it’s the second realization she has that really stops her. She remembers the angels, and how he told her to wait in the TARDIS, which she didn’t do. So whatever’s out there-whatever caused him to lock her inside, must be worse than the angels. Her blood curdles at the thought and she slumps to the ground.
The second hour Amy spends doing what she does best: being clever. At first she tries a bobby pin, next a paper clip. She rummages through cupboards and closets for anything, anything.
When she can’t find anything, she slams her palms against the closest, hardest surface in frustration, wincing when the wood digs into her skin. She ends up heading to the infirmary, having hurt her hands a bit too badly. Amy pulls wooden splinters out of her hands and rinses her blood down the drain, thinking vindictively that if he wanted to keep her from getting hurt, well, he’s already failed.
She wraps her hands in clean, stark white bandages, and continues her search. The TARDIS tries to hum comfortingly in her head-she hears it, the faint, golden whisper of reassurance.
Instead, she ends up yelling at the machine, something about it’s stupid, stupid Time Lord and well, why doesn’t she give up, since he’s so determined to die? Amy regrets her words almost instantly and the TARDIS gives a faint reply of warmth and forgiveness.
Or, what she hopes is forgiveness, since it’s a bit hard to converse with a sentient time machine.
Amy tries to make herself something to eat, but she’s so worried she puts pepper on her toast when she means to use jam. Finally she gives up, with a disgusted look at the peppershaker, and paces around the console room. She falls asleep a few hours later, twisted in discomfort, around one of the console room’s emergency seats. Her head falls back against the metal railing halfway through and when she finally wakes up, her neck is sore and her whole back aches.
She panics, unsure how long she’s slept, and blinks, disoriented, around the room. Everything looks the same.
A few hours later (it feels horribly, horribly longer), the door creaks open and he walks in. Anger burns, fresh and new, and she ignores the fact that his tweed jacket is missing and his shirt is ripped in a few significant places.
Amy Pond explodes in a whirl of red hair, pale skin, and sleep-smudged eyeliner. “What the hell, Doctor? You don’t just lock me in here whenever you think it’s best! You don’t get to make that decision! I can take care of myself, and I can certainly decide what I can or can’t handle and you know what? That was selfish!”
(She’s too caught up in her anger and worry to notice that he flinches at the word selfish.)
Instead, he takes a swift step towards her, and presses his lips to her forehead. His mouth is cold, and her skin heats in response. He reaches up to tangle his hands in her fiery hair, fingers supporting the base of her head, right where it meets her aching neck. She’s rooted to the spot. He lets out a shuddering breath, so quiet she can barely hear it. She feels like a pillar, like she’s the only thing that’s holding him up.
“Doctor?” she asks, and her voice squeaks.
He steps away, and before she can do much of anything, heads through the corridor leading away from the console room. From far off, she hears the shower start.
Amy Pond is left standing there in bemusement, a soot smudge on her forehead from his lips.