fic: before we go on
title: before we go on
author: saywheeeee
rating: PG-13
pairing: eleven/amy
spoilers: none
word count: 843
disclaimer: this author is painfully aware that she does not own the Doctor.
Amy awakes to the feeling of a hard surface beneath her and the Doctor breathing air into her lungs. Her whole body convulses, and suddenly she is free, choking and heaving, the Doctor above her, holding her head up from the stone floor.
For a terrifying moment she can’t draw breath, her chest is tight, she can feel her eyes widen in fear-then the Doctor sits her up and strikes her with his fist between her shoulderblades, and something moves deep within her, and she can cough. She coughs for a long time. The Doctor steadies her with his arms and pounds her back when she needs it, and tells her to be patient, and not to try to talk, and not to try to move. This is easy to obey, and she leans back against him and fights the water in her lungs until she loses track of how long it’s been.
When she can finally breathe again, the air coming in deep heaves instead of gasps, the Doctor asks if she can sit up, and that’s when she realizes she’s naked. “Oh god,” she wheezes, trying to curl herself into a ball. The Doctor jumps to his feet and moves out of her sight. Amy shivers and wraps her arms around herself. They’re shaking. She’s sprawled in a cold puddle, half-drowned, on the floor of the Eptilune Temple on Haridaan, at night, with the Doctor, completely naked.
Oh god.
A shirt falls into her lap. The Doctor’s.
“Hope it’s long enough,” comes his voice from above her. “Though…you do seem to like short…”
Amy scrambles to her feet. The Doctor is facing away from her, slipping back into his tweed jacket, beloved bowtie hanging limply from one hand.
“Where are my clothes?” Amy chokes as she struggles into the roomy garment. The sleeves fall past her fingertips, and the shirttails hang down past her hips, clinging to her still-dripping skin.
“That’s the part you’re supposed to know,” the Doctor replies, clasping his hands behind his back and bouncing on his feet. “My half of the story is hauling you out of the tank and saving your life. Which, by the way, that glass was hard to break, you owe me.”
His right hand, the one fiddling with his bowtie behind his back, is dripping blood. For a second, Amy can’t breathe again.
“All right, you can turn around,” she manages, flinging the wet mop that is her hair over her shoulder and straightening the collar of her borrowed shirt.
He obliges, spinning on one foot. “What I really want to know is…” He stops, mid-emphatic-gesture, and his eyebrows shoot up. “…oh, that’s not going to work at all.”
Amy follows his incredulous gaze down the length of her body and becomes suddenly aware that the sopping dress shirt is doing very little to conceal her form. If she had any energy left to waste, she would be blushing.
The Doctor says “Right!” and abruptly turns around again, shrugging off his jacket. “What I really want to know,” he continues, and tosses the jacket over his shoulder for Amy to catch, “is why they chose you. This century it’s considered horribly rude to sacrifice guests, even to the big name deities. Did you say something about one of their mothers?”
Amy buttons the Doctor’s jacket and folds up the sleeves. It’s not perfect, but with the shirt underneath it’s modest enough. Still short-but she does seem to like short.
“I remember the word ‘heathen,’” she replies, wringing out her hair. “I may have laughed at one of their gods.”
“You-Amy, I shouldn’t even have to-”
“His name was Fugluck.”
The Doctor makes a strangled noise that she could swear is a stifled giggle.
“Really, now.”
“You get this one, Pond.”
Amy grins and wriggles her arms in the Doctor’s sleeves. The elbow pads aren’t quite at her elbows, and the shoulders are too broad. And yet somehow it still fits, and it’s delightfully scratchy, and smells wonderful.
“You’re sure you’re all right?”
The Doctor’s turned around, concern vivid in his eyes. He’s wearing nothing but his trousers and suspenders, and his long fingers are tying the bowtie around his bare neck. His eyes are fixed on her face, and she notices for the first time that he looks as exhausted as she feels.
Amy swallows hard. “I’m all right.”
He steps towards her. “I’m sorry I brought you here,” he says quietly, placing his hands on her shoulders, on his jacket. Her jacket, she realizes a little belatedly. His shoulders.
She smiles, and she hugs him, feeling his bare skin against her cheek, feeling his breathlessness between her arms. “I’m not,” she says into his bowtie.
They stand there until they’ve both dripped dry, and then they run out of the temple holding each other’s hand, out into the chilly air, Amy’s legs in the moonlight, the Doctor’s boots heavy on the grass, two heathens running from Fugluck, Lord of the Deep, and not waiting until they get home safely to laugh.
author: saywheeeee
rating: PG-13
pairing: eleven/amy
spoilers: none
word count: 843
disclaimer: this author is painfully aware that she does not own the Doctor.
Amy awakes to the feeling of a hard surface beneath her and the Doctor breathing air into her lungs. Her whole body convulses, and suddenly she is free, choking and heaving, the Doctor above her, holding her head up from the stone floor.
For a terrifying moment she can’t draw breath, her chest is tight, she can feel her eyes widen in fear-then the Doctor sits her up and strikes her with his fist between her shoulderblades, and something moves deep within her, and she can cough. She coughs for a long time. The Doctor steadies her with his arms and pounds her back when she needs it, and tells her to be patient, and not to try to talk, and not to try to move. This is easy to obey, and she leans back against him and fights the water in her lungs until she loses track of how long it’s been.
When she can finally breathe again, the air coming in deep heaves instead of gasps, the Doctor asks if she can sit up, and that’s when she realizes she’s naked. “Oh god,” she wheezes, trying to curl herself into a ball. The Doctor jumps to his feet and moves out of her sight. Amy shivers and wraps her arms around herself. They’re shaking. She’s sprawled in a cold puddle, half-drowned, on the floor of the Eptilune Temple on Haridaan, at night, with the Doctor, completely naked.
Oh god.
A shirt falls into her lap. The Doctor’s.
“Hope it’s long enough,” comes his voice from above her. “Though…you do seem to like short…”
Amy scrambles to her feet. The Doctor is facing away from her, slipping back into his tweed jacket, beloved bowtie hanging limply from one hand.
“Where are my clothes?” Amy chokes as she struggles into the roomy garment. The sleeves fall past her fingertips, and the shirttails hang down past her hips, clinging to her still-dripping skin.
“That’s the part you’re supposed to know,” the Doctor replies, clasping his hands behind his back and bouncing on his feet. “My half of the story is hauling you out of the tank and saving your life. Which, by the way, that glass was hard to break, you owe me.”
His right hand, the one fiddling with his bowtie behind his back, is dripping blood. For a second, Amy can’t breathe again.
“All right, you can turn around,” she manages, flinging the wet mop that is her hair over her shoulder and straightening the collar of her borrowed shirt.
He obliges, spinning on one foot. “What I really want to know is…” He stops, mid-emphatic-gesture, and his eyebrows shoot up. “…oh, that’s not going to work at all.”
Amy follows his incredulous gaze down the length of her body and becomes suddenly aware that the sopping dress shirt is doing very little to conceal her form. If she had any energy left to waste, she would be blushing.
The Doctor says “Right!” and abruptly turns around again, shrugging off his jacket. “What I really want to know,” he continues, and tosses the jacket over his shoulder for Amy to catch, “is why they chose you. This century it’s considered horribly rude to sacrifice guests, even to the big name deities. Did you say something about one of their mothers?”
Amy buttons the Doctor’s jacket and folds up the sleeves. It’s not perfect, but with the shirt underneath it’s modest enough. Still short-but she does seem to like short.
“I remember the word ‘heathen,’” she replies, wringing out her hair. “I may have laughed at one of their gods.”
“You-Amy, I shouldn’t even have to-”
“His name was Fugluck.”
The Doctor makes a strangled noise that she could swear is a stifled giggle.
“Really, now.”
“You get this one, Pond.”
Amy grins and wriggles her arms in the Doctor’s sleeves. The elbow pads aren’t quite at her elbows, and the shoulders are too broad. And yet somehow it still fits, and it’s delightfully scratchy, and smells wonderful.
“You’re sure you’re all right?”
The Doctor’s turned around, concern vivid in his eyes. He’s wearing nothing but his trousers and suspenders, and his long fingers are tying the bowtie around his bare neck. His eyes are fixed on her face, and she notices for the first time that he looks as exhausted as she feels.
Amy swallows hard. “I’m all right.”
He steps towards her. “I’m sorry I brought you here,” he says quietly, placing his hands on her shoulders, on his jacket. Her jacket, she realizes a little belatedly. His shoulders.
She smiles, and she hugs him, feeling his bare skin against her cheek, feeling his breathlessness between her arms. “I’m not,” she says into his bowtie.
They stand there until they’ve both dripped dry, and then they run out of the temple holding each other’s hand, out into the chilly air, Amy’s legs in the moonlight, the Doctor’s boots heavy on the grass, two heathens running from Fugluck, Lord of the Deep, and not waiting until they get home safely to laugh.