Amy Ponds of the 99% (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
allchildren) wrote2010-07-08 02:02 am
allchildren) wrote2010-07-08 02:02 am
Entry tags:
it's a thing in progress. respect the thing.
Once upon a time -- after "Victory of the Daleks," I think -- I decided it was time for Amy and the Doctor to do the sex, and wrote some of that. BUT my thoughts were still percolating and I wasn't ready to finish my fic, so I let in marinate and LO AND BEHOLD Moff goes and introduces some very unignorable canon on precisely that topic. Bother, said I! Now if I don't want my fic to be Jossed or AU, I have to address this canon. You know, a couple of paragraphs of banter and we're through.
...1413 words later, here's a scene that, all things considered, I doubt I will ever use. (Note that I am NOT amnestying the actual sexytiems scence, mwahaha.) And so! Enjoy, internet?
Written and set post-"Flesh and Stone," in dogged pursuit of Amy/Eleven, PG.
Appropriately rebuffed following the incident in her bedroom, Amy allowed the Doctor several ample minutes to do his Doctor business — much running around turning dials and ranting about her centrality to life, the universe, and everything — and the half-suspicious, half-scandalized glares he threw at her to punctuate this monologue — before saying anything.
"Have you got it sorted, then?"
"Yes," he declared, banging on a blue boringer and sending it into a spinning tizzy. "Not quite. I don't totally have a handle on this all, so, not entirely sure where to take you. But I've an idea. I've got ideas." He tucked his arms over his chest in what appeared to be his idea of intellectual authority's most unimpeachable pose. "Some excellent, excellent ideas."
"Mm." Amy couldn't help giving him the mocking furrowed brow as she nodded. "Now, to return to our previous topic, of sorting me."
"Ach," said he, and swatted at his overhanging hair. "Amelia, please —"
"Calling me that isn't going to make me feel any younger."
"You, perhaps, but —-"
"And you can't possibly pretend that two hours when I was seven is somehow more memorable to you than days and days with me as a grown woman."
"You don't know what I can pretend —"
"Doctor. Please. We're all adults here," she smiled at his cringe, "I've been rejected before. I would just like to know your reason. Your real one."
"And I'd like a waffle," he replied snottily, tightening his chest-hug. Then a moment of clarity: "Hang on, do you fancy waffles? Cos I think we've got a wafflemaker. Wait, do you remember how we found the kitchen that one time?"
Not quite what Amy had in mind, but a good end to the night nonetheless.
Now that her decision and desire was out in the open between them, she worried briefly that there might be some tension or awkwardness. Yet things proceeded much as they had been, save for her ongoing investigation as to his real reason for refusing her. These questions she would drop at random, in isolation from one another. It wouldn't do to interrogate the Doctor — he'd never answer to anybody. Instead, she treated it as a game, or a puzzle, coming together piece by piece.
Gliding along the Grand Canal, she leaned over to dip her fingers in the water, and as she bent beside him, whisper in clear enunciation, "Does it not work?"
His expression was withering. "'It' works. Don't be stupid. It —" he paused, feeling the attention of the gondolier on his back, and tugged his bowtie. "Thank you for your concern."
Amy was gleeful. "Figured as much. Something I heard once about Liz One." She leaned back and snickered, turning her head sharply to elude his indignant splash.
He'd found another museum. Amy plodded along behind him, secure in the knowledge that even at her most receptive she couldn't appreciate this wing, whose work all had crucial elements in dimensions she couldn't perceive. She amused herself otherwise. "Incompatible with humans. Wait, no, Liz One. Hate humans. Nope, quite clear with the Atraxi. All right. Don't hate humans, loves humans, feel maddeningly paternalistic towards all humans, blah blah, nine hundred and seven, something about documentaries and crying children. That it?"
The Doctor made a show of enjoying the hell out of the seventh dimension artwork he was currently taking in.
"Bit boring," Amy observed loudly. "Bit of a cliche, you're not my bloody stepfather. And still doesn't explain Liz One."
"Okay, forget the 'Virgin' Queen. Perhaps you've had an awakening. New mouth, right? Gay? Ambi—timebi—stop me if I'm anywhere close—"
"It's been too long. No. Saving yourself for River Song. No, definitely not. It hasn't been long enough. Still getting over someone else." She gave him a long, appraising look, and the Doctor pushed up the console viewscreen slowly and made eye contact. Amy had never seen him look quite so bemusedly bereft.
"I'm sorry," she said. "Doctor. I'm sorry." Uncertain, she laid a hand on his forearm; but to her surprise, he cracked a sudden smile.
"It has been long enough," he said after a moment, and waggled the fingers of his free hand at her. "Do you know, I think it has."
"Amy," he said, coming to find her in her favorite of the TARDIS sitting rooms, a purple-walled refuge of pillows and rugs and books and warm lampglow light. She was cozied up under an afghan, ensconced in the squashy depths of a massive chaise, eyes only barely tugging up from their raptly held attention on the page of the 28th century novel she'd found. "Ah, never mind, it can wait."
"'Kay," she murmured absently, and he'd proceeded several feet back out into the corridor when she registered the oddity of the Doctor interrupting her in that room at all, and called, "Hold it," loudly enough to carry into the hallway, bringing him back into the room with a coltish peek 'round the doorframe.
"You said, when you invited me along with you, you said that I'd waited long enough." Amy expelled this sentence in one breath. "I don't like to wait when it comes to you, Doctor. I never know when later's going to be."
His mouth compacted, as though this had not occurred to him and it required a great deal of thought. He sat on a mushroom-shaped ottoman beside her chaise, fists balled over his clamped lips. She rolled her eyes. "What. Spit it out. Are we lost? Because I told you you were reading that chart upside down."
"Well, you were right. But I meant to do that, and I'll have you know I found a new constellation that way a few months back." Amy snorted, and the Doctor grinned, fake drumming on her armrest like a particularly plush bongo. She watched him amusedly and he watched her back; he shook out his bony shoulders; he laid his nervous hands to rest on his gangly knees.
"You've been asking me for my reasons, quite insufferably I might add, and I haven't known what to say, because all I can think of, when you say that, is what about yours."
Amy gaped.
"Amy, you — were a child before I met you and I gave you all these expectations. I made you grow up too fast."
"A child with a hell of a scary crack in my wall which you saved me from."
"You — were a kissogram, you said it was a laugh —"
"It is, and you've no right —"
"I'm not." He fixed her with a steady gaze. "I'm not judging your job, but I don't want you to think that you can kiss me the night before your wedding to dear old Rory and have it just be a laugh because of all the things I am, a laugh is one I am not."
There was a thick silence.
"You want me to take you seriously."
"Yes."
"You want me to know what I am getting into and know what it means to get back out."
"Yes." He looked pained. "Amy — people have been hurt. People I've cared a great deal about, have been — you have your whole life with him, all that time to really grow up, at stake. I want you to —"
"Take you seriously! Fine!" Amy let out an exasperated huff. "Hair of an idiot, least punctual time traveler that ever was, liar, thinks bowties are cool, and by the way I've got your TARDIS key again. I take you seriously, you blowhard." She waved him away, tugged her afghan up over all likely key-containing pockets, and gave him such an annoyed scowl a Weeping Angel would have been jealous. "I'm reading."
"Fine then!" he retorted, "Read away! In my study! In my time machine!"
"I will, thanks!" she shouted. "Good luck finding the waffle iron ever again!"
With an injured cry he stalked away, a muffled "Dammit!" reaching Amy's ears considerable seconds later.
Seventeen minutes after Amy found the Doctor in the wrong kitchen, straddled his lap, and kissed him as though she had been waiting to do this all her life, which she had. He did not hesitate; he kissed her back. She stopped to breathe, finally, eyes bright, and he nuzzled his forehead up against her nose and mouth. He said, savoring the words and what they meant, "New rules."
...1413 words later, here's a scene that, all things considered, I doubt I will ever use. (Note that I am NOT amnestying the actual sexytiems scence, mwahaha.) And so! Enjoy, internet?
Written and set post-"Flesh and Stone," in dogged pursuit of Amy/Eleven, PG.
Appropriately rebuffed following the incident in her bedroom, Amy allowed the Doctor several ample minutes to do his Doctor business — much running around turning dials and ranting about her centrality to life, the universe, and everything — and the half-suspicious, half-scandalized glares he threw at her to punctuate this monologue — before saying anything.
"Have you got it sorted, then?"
"Yes," he declared, banging on a blue boringer and sending it into a spinning tizzy. "Not quite. I don't totally have a handle on this all, so, not entirely sure where to take you. But I've an idea. I've got ideas." He tucked his arms over his chest in what appeared to be his idea of intellectual authority's most unimpeachable pose. "Some excellent, excellent ideas."
"Mm." Amy couldn't help giving him the mocking furrowed brow as she nodded. "Now, to return to our previous topic, of sorting me."
"Ach," said he, and swatted at his overhanging hair. "Amelia, please —"
"Calling me that isn't going to make me feel any younger."
"You, perhaps, but —-"
"And you can't possibly pretend that two hours when I was seven is somehow more memorable to you than days and days with me as a grown woman."
"You don't know what I can pretend —"
"Doctor. Please. We're all adults here," she smiled at his cringe, "I've been rejected before. I would just like to know your reason. Your real one."
"And I'd like a waffle," he replied snottily, tightening his chest-hug. Then a moment of clarity: "Hang on, do you fancy waffles? Cos I think we've got a wafflemaker. Wait, do you remember how we found the kitchen that one time?"
Not quite what Amy had in mind, but a good end to the night nonetheless.
Now that her decision and desire was out in the open between them, she worried briefly that there might be some tension or awkwardness. Yet things proceeded much as they had been, save for her ongoing investigation as to his real reason for refusing her. These questions she would drop at random, in isolation from one another. It wouldn't do to interrogate the Doctor — he'd never answer to anybody. Instead, she treated it as a game, or a puzzle, coming together piece by piece.
Gliding along the Grand Canal, she leaned over to dip her fingers in the water, and as she bent beside him, whisper in clear enunciation, "Does it not work?"
His expression was withering. "'It' works. Don't be stupid. It —" he paused, feeling the attention of the gondolier on his back, and tugged his bowtie. "Thank you for your concern."
Amy was gleeful. "Figured as much. Something I heard once about Liz One." She leaned back and snickered, turning her head sharply to elude his indignant splash.
He'd found another museum. Amy plodded along behind him, secure in the knowledge that even at her most receptive she couldn't appreciate this wing, whose work all had crucial elements in dimensions she couldn't perceive. She amused herself otherwise. "Incompatible with humans. Wait, no, Liz One. Hate humans. Nope, quite clear with the Atraxi. All right. Don't hate humans, loves humans, feel maddeningly paternalistic towards all humans, blah blah, nine hundred and seven, something about documentaries and crying children. That it?"
The Doctor made a show of enjoying the hell out of the seventh dimension artwork he was currently taking in.
"Bit boring," Amy observed loudly. "Bit of a cliche, you're not my bloody stepfather. And still doesn't explain Liz One."
"Okay, forget the 'Virgin' Queen. Perhaps you've had an awakening. New mouth, right? Gay? Ambi—timebi—stop me if I'm anywhere close—"
"It's been too long. No. Saving yourself for River Song. No, definitely not. It hasn't been long enough. Still getting over someone else." She gave him a long, appraising look, and the Doctor pushed up the console viewscreen slowly and made eye contact. Amy had never seen him look quite so bemusedly bereft.
"I'm sorry," she said. "Doctor. I'm sorry." Uncertain, she laid a hand on his forearm; but to her surprise, he cracked a sudden smile.
"It has been long enough," he said after a moment, and waggled the fingers of his free hand at her. "Do you know, I think it has."
"Amy," he said, coming to find her in her favorite of the TARDIS sitting rooms, a purple-walled refuge of pillows and rugs and books and warm lampglow light. She was cozied up under an afghan, ensconced in the squashy depths of a massive chaise, eyes only barely tugging up from their raptly held attention on the page of the 28th century novel she'd found. "Ah, never mind, it can wait."
"'Kay," she murmured absently, and he'd proceeded several feet back out into the corridor when she registered the oddity of the Doctor interrupting her in that room at all, and called, "Hold it," loudly enough to carry into the hallway, bringing him back into the room with a coltish peek 'round the doorframe.
"You said, when you invited me along with you, you said that I'd waited long enough." Amy expelled this sentence in one breath. "I don't like to wait when it comes to you, Doctor. I never know when later's going to be."
His mouth compacted, as though this had not occurred to him and it required a great deal of thought. He sat on a mushroom-shaped ottoman beside her chaise, fists balled over his clamped lips. She rolled her eyes. "What. Spit it out. Are we lost? Because I told you you were reading that chart upside down."
"Well, you were right. But I meant to do that, and I'll have you know I found a new constellation that way a few months back." Amy snorted, and the Doctor grinned, fake drumming on her armrest like a particularly plush bongo. She watched him amusedly and he watched her back; he shook out his bony shoulders; he laid his nervous hands to rest on his gangly knees.
"You've been asking me for my reasons, quite insufferably I might add, and I haven't known what to say, because all I can think of, when you say that, is what about yours."
Amy gaped.
"Amy, you — were a child before I met you and I gave you all these expectations. I made you grow up too fast."
"A child with a hell of a scary crack in my wall which you saved me from."
"You — were a kissogram, you said it was a laugh —"
"It is, and you've no right —"
"I'm not." He fixed her with a steady gaze. "I'm not judging your job, but I don't want you to think that you can kiss me the night before your wedding to dear old Rory and have it just be a laugh because of all the things I am, a laugh is one I am not."
There was a thick silence.
"You want me to take you seriously."
"Yes."
"You want me to know what I am getting into and know what it means to get back out."
"Yes." He looked pained. "Amy — people have been hurt. People I've cared a great deal about, have been — you have your whole life with him, all that time to really grow up, at stake. I want you to —"
"Take you seriously! Fine!" Amy let out an exasperated huff. "Hair of an idiot, least punctual time traveler that ever was, liar, thinks bowties are cool, and by the way I've got your TARDIS key again. I take you seriously, you blowhard." She waved him away, tugged her afghan up over all likely key-containing pockets, and gave him such an annoyed scowl a Weeping Angel would have been jealous. "I'm reading."
"Fine then!" he retorted, "Read away! In my study! In my time machine!"
"I will, thanks!" she shouted. "Good luck finding the waffle iron ever again!"
With an injured cry he stalked away, a muffled "Dammit!" reaching Amy's ears considerable seconds later.
Seventeen minutes after Amy found the Doctor in the wrong kitchen, straddled his lap, and kissed him as though she had been waiting to do this all her life, which she had. He did not hesitate; he kissed her back. She stopped to breathe, finally, eyes bright, and he nuzzled his forehead up against her nose and mouth. He said, savoring the words and what they meant, "New rules."
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