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For silveraspen.

Title: Fighter of a Thousand-and-One
Author: voleuse
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: Amy Pond/the Eleventh Doctor
Rating: PG
Summary: Wake up everyday with a new story to tell, a story that sings for change, that hopes for battles.
Notes: Set before 5.05, no spoilers.

The Doctor danced around her, his hips swiveling in an obscenely innocent way, and Amy reached out and knocked him in the shoulder. "It's as if you've never won a game of cards before."

"Of course I have, Pond." He grinned and waved his arms above his head. "This here is a victory dance." He bobbed his head like a cobra, and she slumped forward with a sigh, resting her forehead against the table. The sounds of shuffling feet and rustling cloth continued for another minute, and then a hand came to rest, gently, on the back of her head.

When she spoke, the tabletop muffled her words like a strangled echo. "I never lose at cards."

"You always lose at cards," the Doctor replied, and Amy jerked up. He snatched his hand back, as if burned. "I know everything about you, Amy Pond. I know when you're lying."

"How?" she demanded. She spun around on the bench to face him, but unlike everybody else who had ever met her, ever, the Doctor didn't startle at the extraordinary length of her legs. He didn't even shift back, so she ended up knocking her foot against his shins and bracketing his feet with her own. "How did you know I was lying?"

He smirked down, and leaned a half-foot closer to her. "Exactly like that, Pond."

Amy exclaimed, and when she shoved him, he fell over.

He was a delicious sprawl of linen and braces and limbs, his bow tie crooked and his hair mussed. His expression wavered between delight and outrage, and she considered tripping over his ankles and letting things proceed from there. She shifted one of her heels against the floor, and then the Doctor, quite noticeably, took notice of her legs.

He scrambled back like a hermit crab. Amy narrowed her eyes.


The TARDIS shuddered as it halted, and the Doctor bounced on his toes, echoing the double-thump of Amy's heartbeat. "Oh, you are going to love this one--"

Amy held up her hand. "Let me guess." She eyed his feet, incongruously sheathed in mukluks. "Somewhere cold?"

He tucked his hands into his pockets and whistled.

She skipped down the steps and walked to the door, set her hands against the cool doors and wondered if they really were wood, or if some weird alien had figured out how to make metal grow like wood, or if maybe the doors were slightly psychic, like everything else about the Doctor. She breathed deep and set her forehead against the doors.

A quiet thump vibrated against her skin, and she turned her head to see the Doctor emulating her pose. His nose bent slightly against the door. "You look ridiculous," Amy noted.

"The TARDIS is environmentally-sealed," he replied. "You'll never guess from this."

"We're visiting Santa Claus," she told him.

"No, we're visiting Santa--" he blinked. "How did you guess that?"

"I hear sleigh bells," she said. "Does he really have little elf helpers?"

"More like parasitic minions that spin children's dreams into artifacts," the Doctor corrected. "Also, they drink blood."

"Santa's elves drink blood?"

"Not so much drink it as store it to feed Santa's ravenous desire for the vitality of holiday cheer," he said. "It's rather horrific, actually."

Amy stared at him, her cheek starting to warm the metal next to her skin. "So I'll need a coat, then?"

"One with a high collar, yes." The Doctor grinned at her. "And a scarf to protect that lovely throat."

"You big flirt," she snorted, and when she pushed off the door to hunt for the cloakroom, he propped his shoulder against the door, biting his grin back as he watched her.


Amy fought not to flinch as the Doctor dabbed iodine on her throat. "Watch it," she warned.

"You just had to take off the scarf," he groused, then pitched his voice high. "Oh, Doctor, I'm sure the fanged elves don't mean me any harm at all. They're probably just offering us biscuits." He lengthened each syllable to a mockery, and Amy rolled her eyes.

"I don't sound like that at all," she complained. He dabbed at her throat once more, then his fingers traced against the jagged cuts. She swallowed. "Is it that bad, then?"

"Not bad," he murmured. He rummaged in his pockets, finally holding up three small plasters. He fumbled with the paper wrappings, swatting Amy's hand when she tried to assist him. "Only one of us is called the Doctor, here."

"Fine," Amy said. She tipped her chin up, and he applied the first, tracing over the plaster's edges with his thumb.

"All right, Pond?" he asked. She nodded, and he added the second, right under it, and the third low, closer to her shoulder. "I'm not very good at this," he said.

"No, you're not." Amy chuckled, his fingertips still brushing against her throat. "You'd think after nine hundred years--"

"Yes, well." He looked up, finally, and met her eyes. "I don't fancy getting used to this."

"This'll be the last time," Amy said. He raised his eyebrows. "Probably."

"As long as we're clear," he said, and when a smile twitched across his lips, Amy decided to exhale.


A/N: Title and summary adapted from No More Clichés by Octavio Paz.



( 3 comments — Leave a comment )
Nov. 8th, 2010 02:35 am (UTC)
This is adorable. ♥
Nov. 9th, 2010 12:36 am (UTC)
I loved this! Their banter was very in character and I adore how multi-layered this is.
Dec. 3rd, 2010 01:38 pm (UTC)
I love this, the teasing mood of it, the frisson of attraction between the two of them.
( 3 comments — Leave a comment )

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