fic: dw: date night (River/Eleven, PG-13)
Title: date night
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Eleven/River
Rating: PG-13
Summary: She really loves date night.
Disclaimers: This isn't for profit, just for fun. All characters & situations belong to Russell T. Davies, Stephen Moffat, BBC, and their various subsidiaries. I also borrowed a joke from one of my favorite Futurama eps, and that's not mine either.
A/N: Spoilers through everything current. This is a belated birthday ficlet for hihoplastic! ♥!
"Nice, quiet evening, you said," River drawls, unholstering her gun from her thigh holster. It's good, she supposes, that she wore the evening gown with the slit all the way up to places that make the Doctor blush: at least she always has convenient access to her gun, or anything else she'd like to have easy access to. "Little to no chance of mortal peril."
"It's not my fault!" he shouts, sonicing wildly at the advancing robot army. "And I said little to no, not none, so I'm still technically correct!"
"The best kind of correct, my love," she laughs. "We had better run for it."
+ + + +
It hadn't started out this way, of course. In the beginning, it had been one more exciting night with the Doctor and the TARDIS, next stop: everywhere.
"You'd better suit up, River Song, because tonight, I am taking you on a date," he had said, leaning lazily against the bars of her cell. "Little to no running. Just you, me, perhaps some dancing. A nice, quiet evening."
First up had been an opera house in the thirty-second on Sigil XVI where the music floated in the air around them, long swirling ribbons of song. Rivers of them, even, the Doctor had pointed out, and she had rolled her eyes affectionately and kissed him, while on stage a soprano sang an aria about love and loss and the end of the universe.
Then, of course, a platoon of Sontarans had marched into the theatre.
"No one interrupts La Traviata In Space," the Doctor had said, holding up his sonic, and she had smiled and run after him, tugging her blaster from her clutch as she followed.
She had lost the clutch in the park behind the opera house after they had sent the Sontarans packing.
"This isn't exactly what I had in mind," he had said, fumbling with the zipper of her dress while she had untucked his shirt.
"Well, sweetie," she had grinned, unsnapping his braces with a flourish, "you promised me both nice and quiet. I can guarantee it will be nice, but I doubt very much that it will be quiet."
After that, he had taken her dancing-- "A different kind of dancing, I presume," she had laughed, eyes sparkling-- on the multicolored glaciers of Chiron Alpha in the forty-sixth century. They'd been in the middle of a slow waltz, his hand tucked lovingly against the small of her back, her head resting gently on his shoulder, when the Judoon had stormed in, looking for a renegade Apalapucian.
"They're scanning for beings with two hearts, you know," she had murmured.
"This just doesn't seem to be our night," he had said.
+ + + +
And so now they're running from the Judoon, which he continues to insist, rather emphatically, is not his fault. She only teases him because she loves the frustrated face that he makes when he protests that really, this could have happened to any couple in the universe.
"I'm sure that someone, somewhere, has been chased by an army of Judoon whilst trying to take his wife out for a romantic night on several different planets in several different centuries," he insists indignantly.
She shoots the lock off the door in front of them. "Of course, my love," she says, tugging him through the open doorway. She would disagree, because the look on his face really is priceless, but he's promised her gelato in Rome in the twentieth century if and when they make it out of this, and she has a few ideas of her own with regards to the Colosseum.
She really loves date night.
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Eleven/River
Rating: PG-13
Summary: She really loves date night.
Disclaimers: This isn't for profit, just for fun. All characters & situations belong to Russell T. Davies, Stephen Moffat, BBC, and their various subsidiaries. I also borrowed a joke from one of my favorite Futurama eps, and that's not mine either.
A/N: Spoilers through everything current. This is a belated birthday ficlet for hihoplastic! ♥!
"Nice, quiet evening, you said," River drawls, unholstering her gun from her thigh holster. It's good, she supposes, that she wore the evening gown with the slit all the way up to places that make the Doctor blush: at least she always has convenient access to her gun, or anything else she'd like to have easy access to. "Little to no chance of mortal peril."
"It's not my fault!" he shouts, sonicing wildly at the advancing robot army. "And I said little to no, not none, so I'm still technically correct!"
"The best kind of correct, my love," she laughs. "We had better run for it."
+ + + +
It hadn't started out this way, of course. In the beginning, it had been one more exciting night with the Doctor and the TARDIS, next stop: everywhere.
"You'd better suit up, River Song, because tonight, I am taking you on a date," he had said, leaning lazily against the bars of her cell. "Little to no running. Just you, me, perhaps some dancing. A nice, quiet evening."
First up had been an opera house in the thirty-second on Sigil XVI where the music floated in the air around them, long swirling ribbons of song. Rivers of them, even, the Doctor had pointed out, and she had rolled her eyes affectionately and kissed him, while on stage a soprano sang an aria about love and loss and the end of the universe.
Then, of course, a platoon of Sontarans had marched into the theatre.
"No one interrupts La Traviata In Space," the Doctor had said, holding up his sonic, and she had smiled and run after him, tugging her blaster from her clutch as she followed.
She had lost the clutch in the park behind the opera house after they had sent the Sontarans packing.
"This isn't exactly what I had in mind," he had said, fumbling with the zipper of her dress while she had untucked his shirt.
"Well, sweetie," she had grinned, unsnapping his braces with a flourish, "you promised me both nice and quiet. I can guarantee it will be nice, but I doubt very much that it will be quiet."
After that, he had taken her dancing-- "A different kind of dancing, I presume," she had laughed, eyes sparkling-- on the multicolored glaciers of Chiron Alpha in the forty-sixth century. They'd been in the middle of a slow waltz, his hand tucked lovingly against the small of her back, her head resting gently on his shoulder, when the Judoon had stormed in, looking for a renegade Apalapucian.
"They're scanning for beings with two hearts, you know," she had murmured.
"This just doesn't seem to be our night," he had said.
+ + + +
And so now they're running from the Judoon, which he continues to insist, rather emphatically, is not his fault. She only teases him because she loves the frustrated face that he makes when he protests that really, this could have happened to any couple in the universe.
"I'm sure that someone, somewhere, has been chased by an army of Judoon whilst trying to take his wife out for a romantic night on several different planets in several different centuries," he insists indignantly.
She shoots the lock off the door in front of them. "Of course, my love," she says, tugging him through the open doorway. She would disagree, because the look on his face really is priceless, but he's promised her gelato in Rome in the twentieth century if and when they make it out of this, and she has a few ideas of her own with regards to the Colosseum.
She really loves date night.