fic: toast and jam (doctor who, eleven and young amelia)
Title: Toast And Jam
Word Count: 724
Characters/Pairings: Eleven and 7-year-old Amelia
Summary: The Doctor is sick.
Warnings: Not a spoiler in sight. For the "Hurt/comfort" theme at docwholand
Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC and Steven Moffat. I am just playing around.
Previous: 1 | 2 (not required for context)
Also, in case it's news to anyone, I am also taking requests if there's anything in particular you guys want to see. :)
In all of her time on the TARDIS, Amelia Pond has never seen the Doctor sleep. It’s one of the things she’s noticed about him over the last couple of months, and so when she stumbles down from her room after a good night’s rest to find him all but passed out on the swing below the console, she knows something’s wrong. She starts towards him slowly.
"Doctor...?" He doesn't respond, and Amelia stumbles a little as she picks up her pace and raises her voice. "Doctor, are you all right?"
"Mm?" He shifts slightly, stirring as she draws near, blinking drowsily at her. "Ah, Pond-- sorry. Bit... nodded off... just for a moment... mmhhr..." He shimmies himself into a more upright position and rubs at his forehead. "You want to do something? 'Course you do, you're Amelia Pond, you always want to do something, you're adventurous like that. I--"
It's not until he stands up that he wobbles a little and trips over his own feet. That's normal, Amelia thinks, almost believes, but then he doesn't even bother to flail his arms out in an attempt to catch himself when he falls. He just lands with an ungraceful thump and a groan, and she rushes the rest of the way to his side.
"Doctor! What happened? Are you sick? Are you dying? You told me you're actually really old, and when people get really old they just fall over and die, that's what Rory said, you're not falling over and dying are you?!" The Doctor rasps out a laugh and shakes his head lightly, rolling it to the side to look at her before shakily sitting up.
"Shh, calm down. I'm not dying, Amelia."
Amelia sniffs in a way that seems to help her both compose herself and put on an indignant air. "Then why're you acting so funny?"
"Think I had a bit of bad beef." He holds up an arm to his mouth and coughs against it. "... figuratively speaking. I hope. Just feeling a bit..." He grunts as he pushes himself up, wibbly but standing. "...indisposed. Green around the gills. Help me to my room, will you?"
("You have a room?"
"Of course I have a room."
"With an actual bed?"
"Yes, with an actual bed. Why is this so surprising?")
It's a few hours later when Amelia checks on him again-- he did have a room, much to her surprise, and she had helped him into his very real, very soft-looking bed (she had even taken his boots off for him!) before leaving him to rest. He had wanted to be alone, but there's only so long Amelia Pond can do that for, and his time is up.
She sneaks into his room, the door creaking in that faint way, like the doors in old, comfortable homes, or in haunted mansions filled with ghosts. The tray in her hands tilts a little with the uneven weight and she straightens it out, stumbling through the darkness until she's beside the lump she knows is him.
"I don't remember much about my parents," she starts, quietly, awkwardly, "but I remember that when... when I had a mum... if I got sick... she'd tuck me into my bed nice and tight, smooth my hair back and kiss my forehead. And she'd make me toast and soup. I know you're asleep now, and I'm not your mum, but... I made you some. I remembered you don't like bread and butter so I hope toast and jam is alright."
She sets the tray on the table beside the bed, balanced precariously on the little bit of room he has on the edge, and watches him for a moment. He's quiet and still and wholly unmoving, and it scares her, scares her so much that when she curls up in the easy chair in the corner of the room, Amelia Pond hopes she never, ever has to see him look so helpless and weak again.
She doesn't even realise she's drifted off, but when she wakes again she finds herself tucked into the comfort of his bed, and the Doctor's long gone. The only thing that suggests he was even there at all is the tray still left on the bedside table, empty save for crumbs and a note:
All better. Thanks, Mum.
The Doctor
Word Count: 724
Characters/Pairings: Eleven and 7-year-old Amelia
Summary: The Doctor is sick.
Warnings: Not a spoiler in sight. For the "Hurt/comfort" theme at docwholand
Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC and Steven Moffat. I am just playing around.
Previous: 1 | 2 (not required for context)
Also, in case it's news to anyone, I am also taking requests if there's anything in particular you guys want to see. :)
In all of her time on the TARDIS, Amelia Pond has never seen the Doctor sleep. It’s one of the things she’s noticed about him over the last couple of months, and so when she stumbles down from her room after a good night’s rest to find him all but passed out on the swing below the console, she knows something’s wrong. She starts towards him slowly.
"Doctor...?" He doesn't respond, and Amelia stumbles a little as she picks up her pace and raises her voice. "Doctor, are you all right?"
"Mm?" He shifts slightly, stirring as she draws near, blinking drowsily at her. "Ah, Pond-- sorry. Bit... nodded off... just for a moment... mmhhr..." He shimmies himself into a more upright position and rubs at his forehead. "You want to do something? 'Course you do, you're Amelia Pond, you always want to do something, you're adventurous like that. I--"
It's not until he stands up that he wobbles a little and trips over his own feet. That's normal, Amelia thinks, almost believes, but then he doesn't even bother to flail his arms out in an attempt to catch himself when he falls. He just lands with an ungraceful thump and a groan, and she rushes the rest of the way to his side.
"Doctor! What happened? Are you sick? Are you dying? You told me you're actually really old, and when people get really old they just fall over and die, that's what Rory said, you're not falling over and dying are you?!" The Doctor rasps out a laugh and shakes his head lightly, rolling it to the side to look at her before shakily sitting up.
"Shh, calm down. I'm not dying, Amelia."
Amelia sniffs in a way that seems to help her both compose herself and put on an indignant air. "Then why're you acting so funny?"
"Think I had a bit of bad beef." He holds up an arm to his mouth and coughs against it. "... figuratively speaking. I hope. Just feeling a bit..." He grunts as he pushes himself up, wibbly but standing. "...indisposed. Green around the gills. Help me to my room, will you?"
("You have a room?"
"Of course I have a room."
"With an actual bed?"
"Yes, with an actual bed. Why is this so surprising?")
It's a few hours later when Amelia checks on him again-- he did have a room, much to her surprise, and she had helped him into his very real, very soft-looking bed (she had even taken his boots off for him!) before leaving him to rest. He had wanted to be alone, but there's only so long Amelia Pond can do that for, and his time is up.
She sneaks into his room, the door creaking in that faint way, like the doors in old, comfortable homes, or in haunted mansions filled with ghosts. The tray in her hands tilts a little with the uneven weight and she straightens it out, stumbling through the darkness until she's beside the lump she knows is him.
"I don't remember much about my parents," she starts, quietly, awkwardly, "but I remember that when... when I had a mum... if I got sick... she'd tuck me into my bed nice and tight, smooth my hair back and kiss my forehead. And she'd make me toast and soup. I know you're asleep now, and I'm not your mum, but... I made you some. I remembered you don't like bread and butter so I hope toast and jam is alright."
She sets the tray on the table beside the bed, balanced precariously on the little bit of room he has on the edge, and watches him for a moment. He's quiet and still and wholly unmoving, and it scares her, scares her so much that when she curls up in the easy chair in the corner of the room, Amelia Pond hopes she never, ever has to see him look so helpless and weak again.
She doesn't even realise she's drifted off, but when she wakes again she finds herself tucked into the comfort of his bed, and the Doctor's long gone. The only thing that suggests he was even there at all is the tray still left on the bedside table, empty save for crumbs and a note:
All better. Thanks, Mum.
The Doctor