fic: nocturne (eleven/amy)
nocturne. eleven/amy, g, 981 words. He's shown her every world, but this is the only world that takes her breath away. Written for the season five ficathon.
He shows her worlds upon worlds; worlds covered in trees, and worlds covered in sand; worlds where dolphins can speak; worlds were the sky is upside down; worlds where there are no shrimp, and worlds where the people only have four toes; worlds where right is wrong and wrong is right and the Doctor needs to fix that; worlds where the stars blink in harmony, worlds where the grass makes music.
And every time, after Amy gasps and grins and grips his hand tightly, marveling at the wonders, she tries to pretend that it has no effect on her at all.
"I liked the last one better," she sometimes says, the air around her thick with nonchalance.
She smiles and he knows she's only kidding; but every time he takes her to a newer, better planet in the hope that she may be knocked breathless.
He'd never tell her this, because he knows she'd call him out for showing off; but nothing makes his hearts speed like the knowledge that only he can can take her breath away.
In the sky there is only one star.
Amy's not sure how that's possible, but she doesn't question it. She knows by now that anything is possible.
It's dark, so dark around them. She turns around and can barely see the TARDIS. She can see the outline of the Doctor's face and she can feel his hand in hers and she feels safe.
The air is warm, and dry, and Amy wonders how many paradoxes this world contains.
He guides her for a while, and her heart speeds up. She can't see where she's going and she starts to get scared. She refuses to blink, even for a second.
(She won't ask the Doctor where they're going. She knows that he'd be able to tell from the sound of her voice that she's frightened.)
Eventually he stops, but she doesn't realize that until she's a few steps ahead of him and he starts to tug on her arm. "Oh," she says. "Right. I knew that."
"I'm going to let go of your hand for just a moment, Amy. I'm going to take my jacket off for us to sit on, that's all," he tells her, and she knows that he can tell she's nervous.
"Whatever," she says, but she doesn't put much effort into sounding all that okay.
She feels him take her hand and guide her down. The ground is soft, and warm, and humming, and unlike anything Amy's ever experienced.
"Lay down with me," he tells her, and she can faintly see the light on his face below her.
She lets her head drift down, and she draws herself close to him. "What are we looking at?" she asks.
"Shhh," he says, his voice barely audible. "Can you hear that?"
"Hear what?" she asks.
"The ground. It's singing to us."
She presses the side of her face toward the soft soil and listens, deeply. The music she hears sounds like the rainbow, and glitter, and the forest behind her house on a summer night.
She inhales sharply as a wave of nostalgia hits her and her throat starts to choke up. "Oh my God," she says, her voice cracking.
He takes her hand in his, rubbing her thumb with his. "Now look up," he tells her. "That star."
"The only one in the entire sky."
"It goes on forever," he whispers. "Can you see it?"
She stares at it and starts to feel her eyes tear up from lack of blinking. She rubs her eyes furiously, and looks back again.
"Be gentle," he says, a word of caution as an afterthought. "It's lonely."
She looks back up at the star, and she can feel its light on her face even though the entire world around her is lost in darkness. It's warm and cold at the same time; sharp and soft; beautiful and terrible.
Her eyes tear up, but not from lack of blinking.
They lay there for forever and a day; Amy never blinking, the Doctor never breathing. The ground sings and the sky shining so dark and Amy has never even conceived of such a place before.
She starts to cry.
"Amy, Amy, why are you crying? Shhh, don't cry. Don't cry," he says as he takes her in his arms. "I never meant to make you cry."
She buries her face in his chest. "It's just so...I can't find the words, Doctor. I can't find the words and that's never happened to me and I don't know how I feel because I'm feeling everything all at the same time and..." She chokes back a sob.
"It's beautiful," he says. "There's no other word for it."
"Yeah," she mumbles. She lets her face drift back upward and she can feel the cool night (day? does it matter?) air on her face. "It is."
They don't talk about that planet, not ever.
Whenever the Doctor asks her where she wants to go, she never asks to go back. Once was enough - too much, even. One time on that wonderful, gorgeous, lonely planet was more than Amy's heart could take.
Amy can feel it with her always, but never thinks about it, save for one time. She once thinks, is it still there? is it still lonely? is it still-? but her own tears cut her off.
The Doctor knows why she's crying. Sometimes he wonders if taking her there was the wrong thing to do, but when they reach the next planet (a beautiful, extraordinary planet where the ladybugs are houses and dandelions grow as tall as trees), she gasps and she grins and she grips his hand tightly and she says nothing about the last planet, and he knows he did a good thing.
She left every possible comparison back on the planet with only one star in the sky.
He shows her worlds upon worlds; worlds covered in trees, and worlds covered in sand; worlds where dolphins can speak; worlds were the sky is upside down; worlds where there are no shrimp, and worlds where the people only have four toes; worlds where right is wrong and wrong is right and the Doctor needs to fix that; worlds where the stars blink in harmony, worlds where the grass makes music.
And every time, after Amy gasps and grins and grips his hand tightly, marveling at the wonders, she tries to pretend that it has no effect on her at all.
"I liked the last one better," she sometimes says, the air around her thick with nonchalance.
She smiles and he knows she's only kidding; but every time he takes her to a newer, better planet in the hope that she may be knocked breathless.
He'd never tell her this, because he knows she'd call him out for showing off; but nothing makes his hearts speed like the knowledge that only he can can take her breath away.
In the sky there is only one star.
Amy's not sure how that's possible, but she doesn't question it. She knows by now that anything is possible.
It's dark, so dark around them. She turns around and can barely see the TARDIS. She can see the outline of the Doctor's face and she can feel his hand in hers and she feels safe.
The air is warm, and dry, and Amy wonders how many paradoxes this world contains.
He guides her for a while, and her heart speeds up. She can't see where she's going and she starts to get scared. She refuses to blink, even for a second.
(She won't ask the Doctor where they're going. She knows that he'd be able to tell from the sound of her voice that she's frightened.)
Eventually he stops, but she doesn't realize that until she's a few steps ahead of him and he starts to tug on her arm. "Oh," she says. "Right. I knew that."
"I'm going to let go of your hand for just a moment, Amy. I'm going to take my jacket off for us to sit on, that's all," he tells her, and she knows that he can tell she's nervous.
"Whatever," she says, but she doesn't put much effort into sounding all that okay.
She feels him take her hand and guide her down. The ground is soft, and warm, and humming, and unlike anything Amy's ever experienced.
"Lay down with me," he tells her, and she can faintly see the light on his face below her.
She lets her head drift down, and she draws herself close to him. "What are we looking at?" she asks.
"Shhh," he says, his voice barely audible. "Can you hear that?"
"Hear what?" she asks.
"The ground. It's singing to us."
She presses the side of her face toward the soft soil and listens, deeply. The music she hears sounds like the rainbow, and glitter, and the forest behind her house on a summer night.
She inhales sharply as a wave of nostalgia hits her and her throat starts to choke up. "Oh my God," she says, her voice cracking.
He takes her hand in his, rubbing her thumb with his. "Now look up," he tells her. "That star."
"The only one in the entire sky."
"It goes on forever," he whispers. "Can you see it?"
She stares at it and starts to feel her eyes tear up from lack of blinking. She rubs her eyes furiously, and looks back again.
"Be gentle," he says, a word of caution as an afterthought. "It's lonely."
She looks back up at the star, and she can feel its light on her face even though the entire world around her is lost in darkness. It's warm and cold at the same time; sharp and soft; beautiful and terrible.
Her eyes tear up, but not from lack of blinking.
They lay there for forever and a day; Amy never blinking, the Doctor never breathing. The ground sings and the sky shining so dark and Amy has never even conceived of such a place before.
She starts to cry.
"Amy, Amy, why are you crying? Shhh, don't cry. Don't cry," he says as he takes her in his arms. "I never meant to make you cry."
She buries her face in his chest. "It's just so...I can't find the words, Doctor. I can't find the words and that's never happened to me and I don't know how I feel because I'm feeling everything all at the same time and..." She chokes back a sob.
"It's beautiful," he says. "There's no other word for it."
"Yeah," she mumbles. She lets her face drift back upward and she can feel the cool night (day? does it matter?) air on her face. "It is."
They don't talk about that planet, not ever.
Whenever the Doctor asks her where she wants to go, she never asks to go back. Once was enough - too much, even. One time on that wonderful, gorgeous, lonely planet was more than Amy's heart could take.
Amy can feel it with her always, but never thinks about it, save for one time. She once thinks, is it still there? is it still lonely? is it still-? but her own tears cut her off.
The Doctor knows why she's crying. Sometimes he wonders if taking her there was the wrong thing to do, but when they reach the next planet (a beautiful, extraordinary planet where the ladybugs are houses and dandelions grow as tall as trees), she gasps and she grins and she grips his hand tightly and she says nothing about the last planet, and he knows he did a good thing.
She left every possible comparison back on the planet with only one star in the sky.