"Taste Your Beating Heart"
Author's Note: I fic entirely inspired by the final scene of Flesh and Stone. Aw, you gotta love Eleven/Amy! ^_^
Set sometime after the kiss, and from the Doctor's point of view.
Hope you enjoy it, guys!
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.
"I'm 907, and look at me." It's hard when you're a Timelord. "I don't get older…" There are so many rules. "…I just change." So many regulations. "You get older…" Sure, you can travel back and forth limitlessly within the intricate regions of time and space, "…I don't." and have the biggest and smartest mind in the whole of the Universe. "And this…" But when it comes back down to all the really simple stuff, such as cooking, or feeling, or loving; "…can't…" all those human-emotions that seem to have taken over what was once something cold and unfeeling; "…ever…" everything that makes humans humans, "…work." is just too much to comprehend. Like kissing.
Timelords. Don't. Do. Kissing.
"Oh, you are sweet Doctor, but I really wasn't suggesting anything quite so…long-term."
She never really noticed after that. The way he kept looking at her, the way he "accidentally" brushed his hands across parts of her body more often than he had before; towards such blatant things she was uncannily oblivious. Or was she?
He couldn't help but notice the occasional smirk that sparked on her features as his fingers travelled absently across her skin, or the way she eyed him, almost victoriously, whenever she caught him…looking. No, he never looked. He only…observed.
She followed him though, in his thoughts. She was always there, somewhere. It didn't matter if he was under some immense pressure to fix some unsolvable problem within the midst of a universal meteor shower, or if he was being held captive by the brash race of Ranchai Lomosai 8, a gun pressed to his back; she would be there, dominating. Like a star fighting against the impending darkness…
The Doctor brought the palm of his hand to his forehead in an attempt to straighten out his unruly thoughts. Inevitably, they didn't settle. He was in the control room of the TARDIS, his bow-tie hanging lose about his neck, the gentle hum of the console accompanying his silent, and rather troubled, reverie. Only the sound of skin slapping skin broke the quiet, as the man in tweed once again tried in vain to stop his reeling mind. "C'mon!" he said, clenching and unclenching his fists before turning to face the beating blue light of the central tower. He rested his slightly sweaty hands on the railings at his back, tilting his head towards the ceiling as he clamped his eyes shut. This had to stop. Now.
"Amy Pond." He shook his head, his hair flopping across his face. "Mad, impossible Amy Pond." His eyes opened slowly, and he frowned, his tongue pressed against the side of his cheek. "Beautiful Amy Pond." His frown morphed into a scowl and he shook his head. "No." he said simply. His thoughts, his hearts, screamed; they wanted her. He wanted her. "No!" He flung himself off the railings, shrugging off his jacket and throwing it roughly in the direction of the jump-seat.
Anger ripped at his insides, and he stood, one hand pressed against the cool rim of the console while the other hung limp at his side. Longing raged through his veins; a need greater than anything he'd ever experienced crashed through his body. His mind swam with only her. Only her… And it killed him; it was killing him. It was like he was starving himself. Torturing himself. He needed her. And he needed her now.
He turned on his feet; a cold sweat plastered his forehead. "Am-eewhuh!" He was instantly met with the fierce, hazel gaze of his companion who, somehow, had entered the control room without him realising. He swallowed, his breath catching in his throat. She stood not far away from him, her arms folded almost impatiently across her chest, her eyebrows raised. She bit her lip.
Dressed in nothing except an old, baggy shirt of his that hung just above her knees, he couldn't help but find his stare travelling over every inch of her being. His hearts thumped wildly in his chest - feral, untamed. Fire clawed at every fibre of his being; his legs threatened to fail. She edged towards him. With every step the sensation increased tenfold. He'd felt like this before, of course, many a time, but this was different. This was…uncontrollable. He could take on the Daleks, the Cybermen, the Weeping Angels, and even the poodle-people of Hjulo. But this… This scared him.
Oh Amy, Amy, Amy.
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