A thoughtful and humorous and angst and short collection of drabbles starring the wondrous Doctor Bowtie (yes, that's my name for him now) and Amy. SPOILERS FOR UP TO "COLD BLOOD" AND "VINCENT AND THE DOCTOR"! You have been warned. Feel free to spoil yourself. Just giving the warning. Limited myself to fewer than 200 words per drabble and minus titles. 4 and 7 are chronologically in order. Self-challenges are… challenging. XD There is a little OOC in some sections. Eh. All for the entertainment. Shipping love for Eleven/Amy. Not all but most of these. Somewhat inspired whilst listening to the song work of Ingrid Michaelson, if anyone is a fan. Happy 19th birthday, LittleBro! See you for sushi and chocolate cake later! What, everyone wants to review? D'aaaaaaw! I love you toooooooo!

…I still have Ten's sonic screwdriver. Not giving it back. It will have to be pried from my cold, dead fingers first. XP



It feels like they are back in 19th century Montmartre, Paris; solemn; under the crunching, dried leaves; painted in Vincent Van Gogh's deep blue oils; bursting. "The way he talked about the sky, Doctor…" She says with her foam of reddish hair nestled against his head in the grass, "I wish I could express myself that way…"

Her muddy, white-and-red high-tops face towards north. His dark, laced boots face towards south.

He gives their arms a purposeful wiggle— spiraled together; tilting heavenwards; clutching each other's fingers as if the dearest spark of life remains strong— and whispers, "I believe you could, Amy Pond."

He is the southern node; trapped in a frighteningly unexceptional and never-ending cycle. She is his northern node; moving for something far greater than what he could grasp.

And so… he feels he must grasp her.



"I've been meaning to ask you… where did you get the tattoo on your back, Doctor?"

He stops what he is doing immediately (left hand on one of the console's jammed cranks, right foot planted to the frame for assisting in some leverage). "Come again, Pond?" His eyebrows shoot up higher as her question processes. After many demands for further explanation when all that greets him was her amused, astonished silence at his own ignorance of his body, she drags him to the wardrobe where he is instructed to unbutton his teal shirt and she helps the removal, holding a mirror out.

The reflection back from her handheld mirror and the full-length one reveals a partly see-through, swirly design on the lower part of his vertebral column. It sends a chill spiking through him. ('No…not this time too… no matter how many times I…')

"How did you know…?"

"Oi!" She lowers the smaller mirror, a fine dust of pink gracing her cheeks, "I didn't peep on you or anything! You stripped down in the hospital in front of me, remember? What does it mean anyway?"

"…Nothing," and he shifts his arms through his shirt sleeves before smoothly re-buttoning.



Amy Pond did not hit like a girl. It is always closed fist. Never open. He staggers onto the floor, uninjured, breathing as heavily as she is. They are tired; ragged; pained as their breathing.

"You've got to hold onto it, Amy." His brown hair hangs slacken over his eyes. He sits, kneeling still to the taupe-colored carpet of the spare bedroom. She shuts her eyes, shaking back the goofy-looking, adorable man in scrubs pulling into her mind's eye from her deepest, faintest dreams. Fighting him back. He… didn't exist.

"You got to," He repeats like a mantra, dispassionate, and his voice betrays him cruelly.



He rambles to the point of incoherency only when he is truly distressed. To silence the babble, she presses her mouth back to his, presses her hand not tangled in his hair to the space below his ribs.

A low giggle erupts from his throat at her touch— a -giggle- of all bloody things— and she pulls back from mashing him up against the corridor wall, annoyance furrowing her young, petite features.

"Doctor… what could possibly be so funny about this situation?"

"Nothing really." He admits, his hands balled up to the coral wall above his head and completely avoiding any of her, "Blimey, I'm terrified at the moment."

"Terrified... of…?" She draws out, waiting. Her hazel eyes narrow curiously after the clarity hits her, "Me? Terrified of ME?"

"You attacked me! With your mouth!" His hands decide to gain some kind of pathetic form of courage and begin pushing her shoulders away from him halfheartedly.

"Why were you laughing then?"

"It felt -weird- there…"

Just brilliant… she is horny and the fit, extraordinary, if not slightly rapable alien man is ticklish.

This is going to require more work than she initially planned.



"How many psychiatrists was it, Amy... how many did you go through when you insisted I was real?" He urges her to speak, fishing out from his tweed jacket of transdimensional-pockets-with-random-gadgets a tiny medical flashlight, and examines her dilating pupils gently. "Yes, that's right, focus on me... how many was it?"

She murmurs, blinking the light out begrudgingly, "Four. The last one I kicked in the shin."

"Good girl." He kisses the top of her head, hoisting her to her feet and letting her lean on him, "Some fresh air, I think, and those nasties in your system should thin out. What did we learn?"

"...Don't take strange gifts from foreign planets?"

"Always a good cautionary lesson. That... and don't ever give your name to Carrionite. Bad news there."



It is silly to cling to an engagement ring that wasn't his. That had nothing to do with him. But he does.

He does long past the final decision his companion makes to "grow up" and leave the fantastical adventures with him behind to settle—as every one of them does eventually. To marry a man; not as charismatic as the Doctor; not someone who should have made her laugh half as much as Rory did; but he has not the heart—hearts, he corrects— to explain why it should have been important to her.

A half a year (her time), he visits her flat in the town she is in. She chuckles to herself in the modernly furnished kitchen; her foam of hair tied in a low knot; bare and long fingernails digging into the floured dough; as he quietly circles the engagement ring between his hands in his lap, she wonders politely envious to who the lucky girl is.



"Amy… Amy! Amelia Pond…! WHERE do you think you are putting those—!" He slaps her drifting, lustful hands from his rump. She still hasn't let him move an inch from the wall he is pinned to.

Okay, she did smell rather nice... And her tongue was talent… extremely talented… and her taste, well...

"How many years did you leave me behind, Doctor?"

At the sudden and unusual question— seeing how he knows that they both already knew the answer— for the sake of avoiding anymore complications, he replies calmly, "…Fourteen."

"The least you can do for my fourteen years of disappointment and my childhood dreams being shattered and the irreversible psychological damage done is to put those promised five minutes of yours to good use…" A hungry smile creeps over her as she considers aloud, "Maybe a half an hour…"

Regardless if she had a point in that twisted logic, he takes her by the wrists and ducks out of her reaches, tidying his unraveling bowtie.

"I haven't given up, you know," she feigns a warning, her earlier smile unwavering, and crosses her arms behind her. He unsuccessfully squelches a smile that strives to match hers.


The Doctor's tattoo: The Third Doctor had one on his arm and received it as a sign of being exiled by Time Lords. Left the last line ambiguous as to whether or not "Nothing" was the actual meaning.