|Tied in Loops
Author: Mira-Jade PM
When history is an open and living book, and the future is nothing but a whisper away, the only question left is where to next? 50 Sentences. Eleven, Amy/RoryRated: Fiction K+ - English - Humor/Drama - 11th Doctor & Amelia P./Amy - Words: 2,483 - Reviews: 4 - Favs: 7 - Published: 01-23-11 - Status: Complete - id: 6679154
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
"tied in loops"
Genre: Humor, Drama
Time Frame: Series Five, and beyond
Characters: The Doctor (Eleven), Rory/Amy
Summary: When history is an open and living book, and the future is nothing but a whisper away, the only question left is where to next?
Notes: This is also for my year spanning 50 Sentence Challenge. Which prompts one to write four stories a month based on four sets of fifty prompts. The fifty prompts each result in one sentence each, and then a whole story is formed from the snapshots provided in those sentences. Obviously, this challenge will slaughter grammar, and bring out the seldom seen fandom from the muse - but is a fun and curious thing that has already been incredibly interesting. If you wish to, you can track my progress in my profile.
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, but for the words.
He spins her like a top, quicker and quicker until she can't distinguish up from down behind her closed eyes – when she finally came to a dizzy stop in the TARDIS's library, Amy pointed her finger out at the first book she saw and declared, "Here, Doctor – that's where to next."
When her choice ended up putting them on Sinachel III, she had the interesting experience of setting foot on a world where the gravity did not hold one up and down, but rather from left to right – which made drinking through straws a right trick indeed.
Apparently, it was better to leave being ginger to those who were actually born . . . ginger, the Doctor reflected as he washed the copper colour from his hair, sure that this was merely the latest on his list of things-to-never-attempt-again.
"How is it possible for more than one creature to bite the same sonic screwdriver in half on more than one occasion – especially when those occasions are back to back, after never occurring in nine-hundred years?" the Doctor lamented as he welded his poor and abused friend back together for the second time that week.
"End of the world shenanigans: zip; me: another ten points," the Doctor declared smugly.
She is twelve years old when she falls off her favorite branch; and when Rory patched her together with quipping words and half smiles, she pressed her hand against the bandage on her knee like a kiss, saying, "It's just like you're a right Doctor."
"There is a Time Lord trick for cheating death," the Doctor said absently, "but that is a lot of work and effort – and I am just starting to like this body; so, if we can defeat the bad guys the old fashioned way . . ."
On the icy planet of Jixxiniopi the Doctor passes Amy his coat jacket to protect her from the cold, amd Rory watched them with a blank face before the other man actually took off his bow-tie in an act of truce, drawing a laugh from him at the absurdity of his thoughts.
They arrive in Geneva for the summer of 1816, and sit around the fire with Mary Shelly and her infamous instigators Percy Shelly and Lord Byron – weaving ghost stories in the sweetly cold Swiss air, and whispering of far off, chilling things.
Of course, the Gothic romanticism of those days was lost to Amy when they ended up trekking across the frigidly cold and breathtaking slopes after an alien entity who more closely resembled Shelly's monstrous 'fictional' character than anything else . . .
"Pond, when I said that there were buttons on the console that were to never be pushed no matter what, I really meant it," the Doctor snapped as the TARDIS pitched about this way and that, and for an alarming moment, something sparked brilliantly over their heads.
But in the end he could do nothing more than lay on the grating of the control room and let his mad, mad laughter raise and merge with hers, "I told you there was an emergency break," was all that Amy would say – the cheeky thing, and he rolled his eyes in reply.
"I thought that you were a Doctor," Amy commented wryly as she looked down at the bandage tied rather crookedly over her wrist.
"Yes, Pond, I get my three hours a night same as everyone else," the Doctor slurred sleepily, unsure as to why the sight of him in pajamas was enough to send Amy into a fit of giggles.
They wish on stars as children, he and Amy; and he never had to ask what her wish was – so he merely wished that he could cling to her through wherever her restless feet would take her.
"I'm somewhere halfway through my ninth century of living - I could give you the specific year, but that would be like asking a twenty-nine year old woman to say she is thirty – I am staying as far away from the ten-thousands as I can, thank-you very much."
Amy Pond is a woman who has perfected the slightness of smile, the curve of her wrist and the deliciously quick turn of phrase; and Rory reminds himself of this upon seeing her and the Doctor interact time and time again.
"So," Amy sat down next to Rory, her stare serious, "Helen of Troy was a 9.7 to Iseult the Fair's 8.3 – not a bad score; but Elizabeth Bathory had the best skin, and Diaochan – one of the 'Four Beauties' – had the best hair, even if she was trying to drop the moon out of the sky."
"In the end, they had to respect my insistence," Amy proudly declared as she explained her fourth trip to the psychiatrist that her Aunt had insisted on taking her to.
He takes them to see Elvis preform live upon a special request, and was oddly silent as she and Rory sang Heartbreak Hotel ridiculously loud and completely off key, his eyes lost and far away as he searched the crowd as one would look for a ghost.
"I think I saw you," Amy says slowly after a visit to New New New New – you got the picture? - York, "you were still a lanky strip of nothing, and you had on this god awful suit - with that fashion sense and your particular brand of mile a minute speech, it couldn't have been anyone else."
"If you can stop channeling your inner Mister Spock for one moment, Doctor, and tell us how to diffuse the thing instead of ranting on about how bloody brilliant it is – we'd be much obliged!"
He bears Amy's incessant teasing about River with rolling eyes and barely concealed frowns, all the while wondering how he would ever be moved to embark on a relationship with a woman who's end he has already seen . . . and for the most part, caused.
But really, wasn't he always doing so . . . bartering his heart for stolen time over and over again as he inevitably outlived even the stars themselves?
The TARDIS breathes in time with him, Amy notices one day; observing how the Doctor's snored out breaths raised and fell with the flicker of the lights, the drone of the living ship around them.
Vincent looked down at the sketch that she had produced; the sloppy lines of her charcoal rendering the same cheerful likeness time and time again, and gently asked, "Is it he who your eyes mourn?"
"Do not touch the hat," the Doctor warned Amy suspiciously, complete in the garb of a French artilleryman and dirtied with the mire of Waterloo, "Because this one is cool – even you can't deny that."
She surrounds herself in a sea of sunflowers to inspire Van Gogh to the greatness she knows he can achieve, while in her memory a whisper of a earthbound boy whispered that she was the girl with sunflower hair and starbound eyes – it is a voice, as fleeting as a dream, that she can never capture, or even think to remember, on the waking hour.
Amy throws the stetson into a supernova first chance she gets, and the Doctor viciously declared that no hat was safe around her, and refused to do nothing but drink tea for a week in mourning.
"Of course, leave it to the Abjirio's to settle on a planet that doesn't have a north," the Doctor pouted as he looked at the vaguely contradicting road signs, all the while ranting about planets with ambiguous poles and the logicality of choosing a direction based on the smell of the air.
"Just how long are you going to wait for him?" he asked his friend mournfully, thirteen years old and already trailing behind her as he held her umbrella up for her, the rain doing nothing to turn her gaze from the skies.
"And to think, that Star Trek always made this look easy," the Doctor lamented, holding his head in his hands as he tried to make sense of the muddled mess that his mind seemed to have turned into.
She closes her eyes against the Angel in her gaze, refuses to open them at the whispers across her senses, imagining that she was a match, burnt out at the bottom of a glass of water . . . itching footsteps come closer, and still, her eyes remained closed.
"Actually, it is called English, not Earthling; and the language makes less sense than Kioloo, your Majesty – but, if you're suggesting that there are tamed pets here, then I am afraid that you're going to be disappointed – I can't get them to listen to a word I say."
"Amy, come back here and put that down - there are forty-three ways to say stay-the-bloody-hell-away-from-the-red-shiny-button in Earthling – I mean, English, and you won't listen to one of them."
She finds a journal with dozens and dozens – hundreds – of faces; some old and young, some alien and nameless, those who had came before her, and awaiting those who would come after . . .
They arrive in London on the fourteenth of February in the year 1895 to see the premier of Oscar Wilde's scathing commentary on Victorian society; and the Doctor regrets the decision only when Amy takes to calling him Earnest for full on a week seeing as how he never gave her a name to address him by otherwise.
The slim stick in her hand remained a steady violet (and the alien woman on Herrok had assured her that it was violet she wanted, and not green), and Amy had to quell the disappointment that unexpectedly rose in her, even as she was thankful that she wasn't carrying the one thing within her that would make her consider giving up the whole of time and space for.
She blows the dust off of an ancient tome of literature, entranced by the spiraling gold letters and the heavily tired pages that smelled of time, smiling when the Doctor concluded his tour of 'classics' and said, "Yep, I've met that one too – lovely bloke, Victor Hugo was."
On Proserpina, there was a twenty day festive honoring the arrival of Spring; upon which Amy was proposed to three times in four separate dances (never underestimate the power of footwork and alien gifts on new worlds) and the Doctor propositioned a whopping seven times in one dance – Rory was able to annul his actual 'marriage' on the basis of bigamy, which was a foreign word to the Proserpinains.
In the depths beneath Stonehenge, his footsteps echoed in the silent air, loud in the face of a dozen ghosts of a dozen worlds, silent as they stared on the lone Centurion, and the girl in the box he had sworn to wait for.
"If it is okay with you, Viovode, I would prefer to stick to tea – I try not to drink while on the job," the Doctor said diplomatically, while Amy and Rory stared dubiously into the glasses that Vlad Drakulya had provided them, as if trying to make sure it was wine, and not another entity entirely that was served to them.
She and Rory enjoy their evening laying out on the banks of the Seine river, watching as the peasants on the river's island struggled to erect their tribute to God in the form of what would be a Cathedral in a few hundred years; behind them, pacing and unable to hold still, the Doctor's eyes were already raising towards the sky.
"On second thought, Viovode, that was a potent vintage; not as strong as Carnethian ale, but for wine, it certainly packs a kick – you are to be commended for your tastes."
Rory dances with her for the first time as her husband, and when she brushes her hand against his neck he can feel the welcoming chill of the metal on her finger – it feels like a finally sort of ending, just much as it was a first page turned.
His body, Roman trained and bred, moved smoothly in a direct contrast to his memories from before – when he wouldn't have moved like this unless he was being chased by something with claws – which frequently seemed to be the case while traveling with the Doctor.
No matter how far from home she traveled, or how far she fell; she had his hands in hers to remind her that she had somewhere to land when this was all over . . . and that was more than she could say for the Doctor, running for so long that he had no idea of how to completely stand still.
"You are not Amy," the Doctor said quietly to the creature that wore the form of his lost companion, and at his side Rory shivered at the low and dangerously ancient tone that had invaded the Time Lord's voice.
They're hovering over Earth with nothing but space and time to catch them and hold them up, and to her eyes, it was one of the most glorious things she has ever seen.
"Ponds, welcome to the great ship Enterprise," the Doctor said giddily, actually rubbing his hands together in his glee, "by Rassilon, sometimes I love this job."