With the permission and amiable bullying... I have caved and wrote the sequel I wanted to her oneshot: "this bipolar love affair". :DD Please, it is rather important to the plot if you read hers before mine. Or else you might get lost. EDIT: Now a twoshot instead of oneshot. I've been persuaded.
Doctor Who is BBC's property. But I stole the Tenth Doctor's sonic screwdriver. And now I am stalking the Master for his. Cause it's orange. I love orange.
"Bloody! … rocks! … —Doctor!" The positive, flourishing ions in the atmosphere prevent him from calling back to her with mild, practiced exasperation. But he knows, KNOWS somewhere his intensely… planet-like, to put it a bit unkindly… companion is waddling unsteadily in the grass patches behind him. "Doctor!"
Of course, she would be the only one he knew who would be unaffected by the ions…
"We are on the Eye of Orion, Amelia Pond." He twirls at the heel, a softly chiding tone and purposely sounding out every syllable to her name; she manages to stop from colliding bell- first into him somehow. "It is one of the most beautiful and peaceful planets ever formed, and all you can think about at the present moment is how the little rocks on this beautiful planet hurt your feet?"
"They are not little rocks, okay? They are very -big- rocks!" Her hazel eyes are beginning to narrow dangerously. And he is beginning to be unsure if this trip was a good idea.
"…you know what else? These shoes have NO SUPPORT in them!" She screeches, emphasizing the first two words with skyward punches to the air with one of her muddied, baby blue Converses. "And I am PREGNANT WITH YOUR CHILD! SO I CAN COMPLAIN ABOUT WALKING ON ROCKS FOR AS LONG AS I BLOODY WELL PLEASE!"
How support in a shoe that has anything to do with the rocks, the Doctor doesn't fathom a guess then.
If they were on Manussa or Kolkokron, he would completely understand her distress. They were planets full of mean and nasty rocks. But he wouldn't take her there, anyway. They weren't relaxing. And the pregnancy bit… well... there was nothing they could do about that.
It all wouldn't matter to her in a half an hour, anyway. By then, the calming effects of this planet would set in and she would tire herself out, falling asleep bathed in the phosphorescent light of the moon, swollen feet dipping in the cool lake water, and his arm sliding protectively to wrap around her shoulders.
Admittedly, he is a tad jealous of Amy.
No matter how many times the Doctor regenerates… and he only has less than a handful of opportunities left to him now… his hair continues to refuse transforming to that rare (sunny and wonderful) ginger. He could fantasize in the shelter of the TARDIS without interruption— tweed-sleeved elbows leaning dreamily over the console— of what shade of ginger his hair could possibly be in the future.
His bony, Time-Lord fingers work; threading; kneading; the long, rust-colored strands spilling over his lap as she lay her head down, linking her hands over the space of her baby bump, still mumbling absently to him about the dolls she had sewn in his likeness as a little girl; like he is a skilled, gentle artist at work; like he is creating a masterpiece with her.
"Fancy touring a flower planet this time before the baby is born? You like flowers, don't you, Pond? You had a garden of them once. Well, in the dream reality, you did. I know a planet blanketed in perfumed flowers! Doesn't that sound nice, Pond?"
His hands are quick to operate the various dials and switches and funny-shaped knobs in front of him, his bow-tie questionably askew from his excitement; his stormy blue eyes are moving rapid-pace from here; there; left; right; up; down; the screens of the console; the ceiling of the TARDIS; turning radiant on her standing beside him.
"Yeah, if the smell of heavy perfume didn't make me nauseous," she complains, the flat of a palm pressing into the small of her back as her features grimace, her button-nose wrinkling at some invisible odor. His shoulders slump, his hands falling slightly down at his sides and curling inward as he hesitates at her words, and the child-like radiance fades from his eyes.
"…oh…aha…" Amy forces a laugh, a little panicked by his reaction, "y-you know… I don't mind if it's flowers. Flowers don't smell bad and they don't make me feel nauseous…"
When the Doctor doesn't look away from the console moodily, one of her hands slips into his.
Stormy blue meets hazel, quietly.
She breaks the silence, squeezing comfortingly before moving away, smirking, "Well, Grumpy Face? What are you waiting for?"
It takes a minute but his grin returns as if it has never left. Her stomach does a complicated somersault and Amy realizes that she would give… a lot to see that expression on him more often.
"You won't regret it. Florana not only has the flowers and seas of warm milk but also a large body of water in the southwest where the bubbles can lift you three feet in the air before dropping you back in." He is back to hovering over the switches and do-dads and dull-colored knobs, talking a mile a minute to her, the grin spreading.
She twists her mouth contemplatively.
"We'll have to come back when I'm not carrying one of the only two living Time Lords in the existence."
They don't speak of Rory.
There is nothing to talk about. Nothing. Nothing about his backlash at Amy when they all discovered that she was having not a human's baby, or his baby, but a Time Lord's (—two heartbeats, it should have been obvious, the parents think to themselves). Not the threats issued by the Doctor for Rory to stay the hell away from her (—it wasn't even her he was protecting from the impending violence). Or the sprain in Amy's wrist (—she excuses herself immediately after eating, glancing out from the corridor as the Doctor smiles habitually in her direction, and leaves to cradle it to herself alone in a spare bedroom).
Amy doesn't go into labor until a week past her due date. He would have been happier with another month. Maybe two months. At least to mentally prepare…
He is very sure the floating coral city they arrived at knew how the handle this birth. The medics of Splendurosa had extraordinary medical technology and reveled to dealing with humanoid births. Even away from the ward she is in— twenty stories away from his position on the main floor and exiting the building— he can still hear her screaming in agony. The joys of having up to forty kilohertz hearing…
He needs a place to prowl about nervously and sort out his thoughts aloud to himself with the necessity of privacy.
The TARDIS remains unsympathetic towards him, dead-bolting itself and sealing up the opening of the outside lock. As if insisting he returns inside the hospital building. Returns to the human woman giving birth to his child. It makes sense. Absolutely. But he wants to prowl.
"What are you…doing…?" The side of his fist strikes the navy POLICE BOX door, halfheartedly.
Just when the Doctor is partly considering going on something irrational, like throwing the TARDIS keys on the ground and stomping them flat—just because he could get away with it and sonic them back into proper order later—, the hospital communicator he had been given vibrates in his trouser pocket. Several times. This means…
He steps away from his frustratingly opinionated spaceship and retrieves the small, round, yellow item while holding the metal button in the center. "Yes?"
"Hullo, Doctor, is it you?" One of the medics replies, cheerfully.
"Yes… How is Amy?"
"Oh, quite well. If what you spoke of is true about the Time Lord chemicals in her humanoid body, she should recover easily in another full day."
His grip tightens on the slim communicator. He bites his lower lip hard. "…what about the baby, then?" The Doctor whispers uncertainly.
"…Healthy. The delivery couldn't have gone any more beautifully."
A shaking breath escapes his dry lips. One he did not know he had been holding in.
He murmurs a short thank you before shutting off the transmission. His forehead drops forward to touch the communicator, his eyes closed. A moment passes. The corners of them crinkle as he starts to slowly laugh, running his hands over his face and dark hair, hearts pounding; rejoicing.
"Amy, you magnificent girl..."
The infant boy is not a ginger. For the tiniest of moments, he is disappointed.
But it is tiny... because the Doctor is soon distracted by the pile of tan-colored quilts being placed in his arms. He stares astonished, terrified of the wrinkled, pink face peeking from them, gurgling contently and making other... strange but captivating noises. His race, his son is staring back at him passively and somewhat curious.
He unfolds the top quilt, pressing his hand shyly to the infant's fleshy chest. Two little heartbeats drum sweetly against a little ribcage.