Fic: Pretty one (Rory/TARDIS)
Pretty one.
Pairing: Rory/TARDIS (mentions of Rory/Amy, TARDIS/Doctor)
Rating: pg-13, nothing racy.
Warning: None really. Written in 2nd person.
Authors notes: Tamest thing I think I’ve ever written, and you know what I do actually quite like it.
He throws his arm over his eyes when she opens the door, groggily sitting up as you watch from everywhere.
“Where’goin?” He mumbles, biting his lip on a yawn as his foot shifts the sheet and you can feel the air ripple, the slight vibration in your floors as he braces himself on an arm.
“Control room, need to speak to the Doctor.” (Your Doctor) She says, pulling a jumper over her head and smoothing her sleep-rumpled hair down. You don’t get how she’s the ‘pretty one’, you’ve seen Your Doctor looking at him as much as He looks at her.
“K, come back soon.” He mumbles, falling back and bouncing slightly on the too soft for his comfort mattress. (Not too soon).
He rolls over as the door slides closed, pushing himself up to an elbow and punching the pillow hard, fidgeting as he tries to settle back down, and you tense the mattress slightly under him. Working the thought through code and subroutines as only you can, making the fabric and foam cradle him. You imagine he’s pressed against you. Tightly holding on as he holds her after one or other (or both) come back bleeding, broken and battered.
He groans softly as he slips back to sleep and you raise the temperature till he twists and slides the sheet down, letting out a long slow breath. He sleeps in his undergarments only, every night.
You watch, every angle at the same time, the walls and the floors. Turning the lights up slightly to watch the shadows form on his face and make him even more pretty.
He must sense the light for he stirs again, sitting up and swiping a hand through his already messed hair, slight sheen of sweet slicking his skin, and you miss the hands you had, the lips and the hair he ran his fingers through as you lay dying at his feet. But you wouldn’t give this up for the world, for Your Doctor, for ‘the pretty one’.
“Amy?” He says, resting back on a hand against the mattress.
You want to scream, to make him hear you, but you can’t. So you do what you can, you press into his mind, softly, a sigh instead of the scream, and you feel the moment he figures out what’s happening.
He stiffens, slightly but noticeably, you feel the vibration through the floor and the air. “He-hello?” He says, voice uncertain, still rough from sleep.
You dim the lights slightly in response, and press into his mind harder. You can ‘smell’ the fear and pheromones in the air, the scent of him makes you long for a body again. So he could touch you. Fingers stroking through your hair and down your back as he does so gently with her.
You wish you could form the words to speak, you know what you’d want to say but it’s jumbled words from being solid and muttered in tender moments by numerous strays and Him.
Pretty one, beautiful, alive, love, want, hold me, touch me, love me, want me.
“I’m sorry I didn’t save you. If you wanted to be saved, if you wanted to stay, to talk.” He says, you know it’s the truth. Can feel the guilt and sorrow through his fingers clenching into the mattress you made for him. Through the soft slip of air through his lips that makes a ripple you can almost see through the air, and you move. You slide from the wall, a little of yourself, that mist which makes you, golden and visible for the moments you aren’t encased in the heart of the TARDIS, near Him.
A thin golden tendril of yourself that slips out and reaches out to him, strokes lightly down his face and through his hair, not making it move, but you feel him shiver nonetheless.
You wind down the arm he’s resting on and try to will yourself into being solid for a few seconds, you feel two squash courts burning up to give you the energy but you touch the inside of wrist. He crumples to the bed with a soft oof as his arm moves in shock at the touch, and you make the lights brighter when you smile.
He lets out a little laugh as you move over him, reaching up and down towards his chest, towards the single vibration that tells you always where the strays are, His is different - you know Him too well.
You try to press against the skin over his ‘heart’ and feel a wardrobe and a kitchen flash out of existence to let you press a slow caress there. A benediction, and forgiveness.
You lower the lights again, enough that you can still see him, but you are the brightest thing in the room, press into his mind and try to say something, anything.
Pretty one.
His eyes go wide, and he relaxes into the mattress a little more, letting his eyes close against the press of you.
Sleep.
You feel him let go as you feed him pictures, memories from Him and His adventures, galaxies exploding, supernovas in reverse and clouds on worlds long dead and not yet born.
He lets you soothe him to sleep, the golden tendril of you still trying to touch but not too hard, you don’t want to wake him as his face relaxes and smoothes. You catch glimpses of his dreams, of a life forever among the stars, of two thousand years he lived and yet did not.
Pretty one.
Pairing: Rory/TARDIS (mentions of Rory/Amy, TARDIS/Doctor)
Rating: pg-13, nothing racy.
Warning: None really. Written in 2nd person.
Authors notes: Tamest thing I think I’ve ever written, and you know what I do actually quite like it.
He throws his arm over his eyes when she opens the door, groggily sitting up as you watch from everywhere.
“Where’goin?” He mumbles, biting his lip on a yawn as his foot shifts the sheet and you can feel the air ripple, the slight vibration in your floors as he braces himself on an arm.
“Control room, need to speak to the Doctor.” (Your Doctor) She says, pulling a jumper over her head and smoothing her sleep-rumpled hair down. You don’t get how she’s the ‘pretty one’, you’ve seen Your Doctor looking at him as much as He looks at her.
“K, come back soon.” He mumbles, falling back and bouncing slightly on the too soft for his comfort mattress. (Not too soon).
He rolls over as the door slides closed, pushing himself up to an elbow and punching the pillow hard, fidgeting as he tries to settle back down, and you tense the mattress slightly under him. Working the thought through code and subroutines as only you can, making the fabric and foam cradle him. You imagine he’s pressed against you. Tightly holding on as he holds her after one or other (or both) come back bleeding, broken and battered.
He groans softly as he slips back to sleep and you raise the temperature till he twists and slides the sheet down, letting out a long slow breath. He sleeps in his undergarments only, every night.
You watch, every angle at the same time, the walls and the floors. Turning the lights up slightly to watch the shadows form on his face and make him even more pretty.
He must sense the light for he stirs again, sitting up and swiping a hand through his already messed hair, slight sheen of sweet slicking his skin, and you miss the hands you had, the lips and the hair he ran his fingers through as you lay dying at his feet. But you wouldn’t give this up for the world, for Your Doctor, for ‘the pretty one’.
“Amy?” He says, resting back on a hand against the mattress.
You want to scream, to make him hear you, but you can’t. So you do what you can, you press into his mind, softly, a sigh instead of the scream, and you feel the moment he figures out what’s happening.
He stiffens, slightly but noticeably, you feel the vibration through the floor and the air. “He-hello?” He says, voice uncertain, still rough from sleep.
You dim the lights slightly in response, and press into his mind harder. You can ‘smell’ the fear and pheromones in the air, the scent of him makes you long for a body again. So he could touch you. Fingers stroking through your hair and down your back as he does so gently with her.
You wish you could form the words to speak, you know what you’d want to say but it’s jumbled words from being solid and muttered in tender moments by numerous strays and Him.
Pretty one, beautiful, alive, love, want, hold me, touch me, love me, want me.
“I’m sorry I didn’t save you. If you wanted to be saved, if you wanted to stay, to talk.” He says, you know it’s the truth. Can feel the guilt and sorrow through his fingers clenching into the mattress you made for him. Through the soft slip of air through his lips that makes a ripple you can almost see through the air, and you move. You slide from the wall, a little of yourself, that mist which makes you, golden and visible for the moments you aren’t encased in the heart of the TARDIS, near Him.
A thin golden tendril of yourself that slips out and reaches out to him, strokes lightly down his face and through his hair, not making it move, but you feel him shiver nonetheless.
You wind down the arm he’s resting on and try to will yourself into being solid for a few seconds, you feel two squash courts burning up to give you the energy but you touch the inside of wrist. He crumples to the bed with a soft oof as his arm moves in shock at the touch, and you make the lights brighter when you smile.
He lets out a little laugh as you move over him, reaching up and down towards his chest, towards the single vibration that tells you always where the strays are, His is different - you know Him too well.
You try to press against the skin over his ‘heart’ and feel a wardrobe and a kitchen flash out of existence to let you press a slow caress there. A benediction, and forgiveness.
You lower the lights again, enough that you can still see him, but you are the brightest thing in the room, press into his mind and try to say something, anything.
Pretty one.
His eyes go wide, and he relaxes into the mattress a little more, letting his eyes close against the press of you.
Sleep.
You feel him let go as you feed him pictures, memories from Him and His adventures, galaxies exploding, supernovas in reverse and clouds on worlds long dead and not yet born.
He lets you soothe him to sleep, the golden tendril of you still trying to touch but not too hard, you don’t want to wake him as his face relaxes and smoothes. You catch glimpses of his dreams, of a life forever among the stars, of two thousand years he lived and yet did not.
Pretty one.