challenge #6 entry - free-for-all
Title: the intergalactic adventures of Doctor Faustus et al
Author: londoncrow
Rating: pg
Word Count: 657
Summary: Through her eyes Amy creates the magic.
1. Crash of the Byzantium
He remembers a child called Amelia, who wrote over a period of many years, on the back of a school notebook, the adventures of a renegade policeman from a land behind her bedroom wall. She is humanly and gentle, but strong for humanly and sincere.
Through her eyes Amy creates the magic. The Doctor feels a marvelous spectre just to take her by the arm and walk her through his garden; the planets and alignments are as if they just popped into existence, and every whatsit and thingymabob on the TARDIS has a new name, all of which make him grin to ears. She digs her feet into the control plateau and declares, in all simplicity, that she's leaving the TARDIS now and he needn't try to stop her for he outright won't.
And what an idea that is when they're plunging upwards to the ceiling because gravity is reversed. Amy can feel her hair brushing past her cheek; she's worried because it's dark and the sound of breathing cannot compete with the whirling above. Her fingers touch gravel, stone; the wave-like creases guide her to him.
Now she's got a tarot card in her pocket. He's playing with chances a bit, telling her to walk blind, and now he's the one who's worried. Pressing his forehead to hers, face in creases. She wonders what he looked like then. Space teeth, space eyes.
The climax eventually draws to a close, and because Amy Pond had only just found herself within intimate proximity of the Byzantium's unholy soldiers, The Doctor holds her hand. It feels strange and heavy, antique, timeworn; the strange quirks, they've always been a bit of a forte.
Three slowly clocked down into two, as Amy's mind danced about the pictures it had captured. The Doctor sticks out inherently, a burgundy bow-tie sitting bold on his collar. The planet could use a bit of earthly decor; perhaps a few country mountains, some cottages, a little lighthouse.
“You know when adults tell you everything's going to be fine?”
She chuckles and breaks him off. Deja vu incites warmth and a bit of bubbly: she loves that he sees the child in her, when the rest of the world cannot see the child in us all.
The silence is mutual, but kindly so.
“I guess these adventures will never be a relaxing stroll, eh, Doctor?” Amy then asks.
The Doctor, who has the patience of a young boy when he finds eccentricity, is silently examining something-or-other about the resolute planet when Amy kicks him back into gear. “What?-oh-yes-wait, no-that isn't fair.”
She begins back to the blue box in the wings, hanging in the undertones of a fog, feet crunching down with every step. Arms swinging. His fingers tingle.
“You've only been with me for a little while. I'll take you some place nice, yes, without all these - drawbacks. Now, which planet has nice weather this time of year...”
His eyes are up as if he's honestly pooling all of his concentration into the subject. She flips her direction and holds onto his braces with a smile.
“I'm only kidding. I'm Amy, remember? Aliens and monsters are ...”
His grin is indescribable. “... cool?”
She cocks her head a little, as if shining a slight bit of adoration and fondness his way, before giving him a quick peck on the cheek.
It isn't a question of darkness. It simply isn't dark-the monsters can shock, and move, and destroy and have done plenty before. But there's something more. Time can be rewritten, he says, and each time he does something in Amy's chest jumps with excitement. He is her promise of life, one she knew as a child, and revered, in the highest sense, every waking moment of her childhood from that point on.
River Song writes in a little blue book. Crash of the Byzantium. The mad man and the fairy tale.
Perfection.
Author: londoncrow
Rating: pg
Word Count: 657
Summary: Through her eyes Amy creates the magic.
1. Crash of the Byzantium
He remembers a child called Amelia, who wrote over a period of many years, on the back of a school notebook, the adventures of a renegade policeman from a land behind her bedroom wall. She is humanly and gentle, but strong for humanly and sincere.
Through her eyes Amy creates the magic. The Doctor feels a marvelous spectre just to take her by the arm and walk her through his garden; the planets and alignments are as if they just popped into existence, and every whatsit and thingymabob on the TARDIS has a new name, all of which make him grin to ears. She digs her feet into the control plateau and declares, in all simplicity, that she's leaving the TARDIS now and he needn't try to stop her for he outright won't.
And what an idea that is when they're plunging upwards to the ceiling because gravity is reversed. Amy can feel her hair brushing past her cheek; she's worried because it's dark and the sound of breathing cannot compete with the whirling above. Her fingers touch gravel, stone; the wave-like creases guide her to him.
Now she's got a tarot card in her pocket. He's playing with chances a bit, telling her to walk blind, and now he's the one who's worried. Pressing his forehead to hers, face in creases. She wonders what he looked like then. Space teeth, space eyes.
The climax eventually draws to a close, and because Amy Pond had only just found herself within intimate proximity of the Byzantium's unholy soldiers, The Doctor holds her hand. It feels strange and heavy, antique, timeworn; the strange quirks, they've always been a bit of a forte.
Three slowly clocked down into two, as Amy's mind danced about the pictures it had captured. The Doctor sticks out inherently, a burgundy bow-tie sitting bold on his collar. The planet could use a bit of earthly decor; perhaps a few country mountains, some cottages, a little lighthouse.
“You know when adults tell you everything's going to be fine?”
She chuckles and breaks him off. Deja vu incites warmth and a bit of bubbly: she loves that he sees the child in her, when the rest of the world cannot see the child in us all.
The silence is mutual, but kindly so.
“I guess these adventures will never be a relaxing stroll, eh, Doctor?” Amy then asks.
The Doctor, who has the patience of a young boy when he finds eccentricity, is silently examining something-or-other about the resolute planet when Amy kicks him back into gear. “What?-oh-yes-wait, no-that isn't fair.”
She begins back to the blue box in the wings, hanging in the undertones of a fog, feet crunching down with every step. Arms swinging. His fingers tingle.
“You've only been with me for a little while. I'll take you some place nice, yes, without all these - drawbacks. Now, which planet has nice weather this time of year...”
His eyes are up as if he's honestly pooling all of his concentration into the subject. She flips her direction and holds onto his braces with a smile.
“I'm only kidding. I'm Amy, remember? Aliens and monsters are ...”
His grin is indescribable. “... cool?”
She cocks her head a little, as if shining a slight bit of adoration and fondness his way, before giving him a quick peck on the cheek.
It isn't a question of darkness. It simply isn't dark-the monsters can shock, and move, and destroy and have done plenty before. But there's something more. Time can be rewritten, he says, and each time he does something in Amy's chest jumps with excitement. He is her promise of life, one she knew as a child, and revered, in the highest sense, every waking moment of her childhood from that point on.
River Song writes in a little blue book. Crash of the Byzantium. The mad man and the fairy tale.
Perfection.