Title: "Neonic Fishnetties"
Author: brokenheartedshipper/Dori (moi)
Characters, Pairings: Amy, Eleven, Amy/Eleven
Summary: Series 5 AU (meaning Rory's a no-no)
Warnings: Amy's PMSing. The Doctor must deal.
Rating: T/PG-13 for swearing and…mentions of the female anatomy, I guess?
Notes: It's been an idea floating around in my head for a while, and then I started PMSing last week and this was the humorous outlet for my venting, I suppose. Also, not dark or angsty; this is the second fic in my Amy/Eleven humor series, preceded by "Under the Influence" and followed by "It's Time to Shut Up Now."
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"Ugghhh," Amy groaned again, kicking up her leg and letting it fall back to the floor again.
"What is it," the Doctor returned flatly, his eyes not leaving page 2,187 of his favorite book, There Will Come A Time. It was a quite thrilling Gallifreyan crime novel he'd salvaged; critics had deemed it "frivolous" and "much too short," but the Doctor always loved breezy, light detective stories, like—ah!—Crime and Punishment. Marvelous short story, that was.
"Nothing," Amy sighed. They were in the Tardis library, where the Doctor often went to read and be alone, but this time Amy had insisted on following him for the sole purpose of moaning in two-minute intervals.
About two minutes later, Amy said:
"Urghmf glbr!" She raised her arms up in frustration, strangled an invisible stranger with her hands, then let them fall again. She was sprawled out on her back on the library floor, arms and legs spread-eagle, apparently trying to impersonate bonelessness.
"Amy," the Doctor sighed, snapping his book shut dramatically (he immediately regretted this decision—he should've at least kept a finger surreptitiously in his place), "you've been here for thirty minutes and all you've done is groan every ninety seconds, which can do nothing but lead me to believe you have something you wish to convey to me."
"No, it's just…" Amy shot him a pointed look (which was not nearly as clear from her horizontal position) "—Cramps."
"Ah," the Doctor replied knowingly, nodding his head. "Space travel will do that to you. Intergalactic movement isn't one hundred percent compatible with the human bone structure—it's perfectly normal to feel some aches and pains every so often." Satisfied, he reopened There Will Come A Time, beginning the search for his page number.
"No, Doctor," Amy spat, rolling her eyes and throwing in an exasperated Uh! "Not those kinds of cramps."
The Doctor frowned in thought, attempting to piece together this information.
"Oh," he squeaked, blushing.
Amy leapt from the ground (much more nimbly than someone allegedly pained by cramps should be) and scurried over to the Doctor, speaking quickly like a teenage girl begging to go out.
"It's just that usually the Tardis knows even before I do when it's going to start, and I'll go into the bathroom and there'll be Kotex and everything—" At the word 'Kotex' the Doctor slammed shut his book again and rose to his feet, spontaneously deciding to find its place on the shelves. To his detriment, Amy trailed behind, grasping his forearm.
"—but this time it's started early, God knows why, and so I guess she's a bit slow on the uptake, and also these cramps are really, really bad, Doctor, really bad, and I was just hoping maybe possibly—" Here she sped up beyond imagination "—we could just make a quick stop off at a drug store, in any First World country anytime after, oh, I don't know, 1965, and then I'll be fine and dandy, and it won't even take that long, you just have to go in and grab the Midol and the tamp—"
"All right, all right!" the Doctor splurted. "I'll do it. You don't have to say…that."
Amy popped a hip, the earnest pleading look replaced by a more familiar evil smile.
"What, you mean…tampon?"
"Ah!" the Doctor squeaked, an unintentional outburst. He cleared his throat, tilting up his chin to straighten his bowtie authoritatively.
"Menstrual cramps?" Amy prodded. The Doctor turned the color of the Gallifreyan sky and whirled around, pretending to search the shelves for…something.
"Period!" Amy shouted. "Ovaries! Uterus! Fallopian tubes!"
The back of his neck looked like it might burst into flames at any second.
Amy allowed a dramatic pause. Then she leaned up against his back, leaning onto her tiptoes to whisper into his ear,
"Vaginal cavity?"
He literally jumped, knocking over a shelf of books on cooking in the Acorn galaxy. Amy watched the spines gleefully as they toppled over one by one like dominoes.
Clearing his throat didn't do much good for the regaining of his composure, as the tops of his ears were still redder than Ron Weasley's. He spun around, hands clasped.
"All right, Amy," the Doctor said, his voice cracking the tiniest bit. "We'll make a small pit stop for your, uh…"
"Cramps."
"Yes. Precisely. C-cramps….Terrible hindrances they are, really. Cramps. Just terrible," the Doctor babbled, skating past her towards the console room in the hopes of getting their "pit stop" over as soon as possible.
Amy skipped along behind him (suspiciously fluidly, too), grinning like the mad little devil she was.
The Doctor made it to the console, then stood motionless, hands poised in the air ready for action, unsure of exactly what to do.
"How about Los Angeles, Doctor," Amy suggested helpfully. "In, say…1985. I'd love a pair of rainbow leg-warmers if they have those at Rite-Aid, while you're at it."
"Right, sure, of course!" the Doctor replied, fingers tickling the air. "The 1980s, America. Great time for teenage cinema…it'd be quite interesting to catch the premiere of a John Hughes film, say…'The Breakfast Club'…" He caught sight of Amy's hopeful expression and speedily revised, "Not that we're going to. No, no. Just the, uh, the…"
"The tampons," Amy supplied helpfully.
"Right, the—those, and then we'll be on our way."
"Okay," Amy sighed, "whatever you say." (These words being spoken by Amy understandably made the Doctor very nervous.)
By this time he had punched in a date sometime in February and was hurrying about in circles, performing his usual twirls and hand flourishes. Amy watched his nimble fingers as they flipped switches with a bit of a teasing flick, curved around levers one by one, pushed buttons with a small swirl, and finally, as they traced the Tardis' console, slow and soft and almost…reverently. Amy was surprised she hadn't noticed before.
Then, all at once, he yanked down the final level, hard, and they went soaring. Amy held tightly to the railing, watching the Doctor's grin, which was just as delighted as Amy knew it would've been the very first time he flew. She realized then that the flicking and cradling, swirling and tracing—the fondling, you might even call it—was routine. It was something the Doctor did with his Sexy every single time they flew, like a dance whose steps the two of them had learned a long, long time ago, a dance of which they never tired. There was a certain…intimacy to it all; Amy felt a bit like she had at seventeen, when she'd gone to a party and flung open a door to find her friend Peggy and that one bloke, snogging each other's faces off. Like she was intruding on something.
All of the sudden Amy felt a bizarre wave of jealousy, towards a blue wooden box, no less (admittedly, a blue wooden box who could fly through time and space and contain the soul of a living being, but still). It was in the way the Doctor touched her—the Tardis, that is. As another woman had once remarked, "It's always you and her, isn't it? Long after the rest of us have gone. A boy and his box off to see the universe." Images flew through Amy's mind at high speeds; the Doctor was teasing her unclothed form with a tiny, casual flick; he was curling his long fingers around her hip, leisurely, one by one; swirling his finger on her skin before pushing on it, focused, deep; he was motionless, paused in time, and then Wham!—hard.
Suddenly the Tardis lurched forward, and Amy, disoriented, lost her grip on the railing and fell onto her side. No, not her side—the side.
Cramps. Motherfucking cramps.
"Ah, here we are!" the Doctor sing-songed cheerfully a few seconds later. "Los Angeles, California, 1985, on the corner of the Sunset Strip, where, if I'm not mistaken, there should be—" By this time, he'd leapt lurchingly over to the doors, and now he whipped them open with gusto— "Aha! A Rite-Aid!" With a huge, triumphant grin on his face, he spun on his heel to find Amy resuming the same position she'd been so fond of in the library.
"Amy?" his tone was concerned, and he rushed over to her, kneeling by her head. "Are you all right?'
Amy forced herself to open her eyes—she'd bumped her head on the railing—and saw the Doctor's upside-down face (riddled with worry) hovering over her.
"Get me…some fucking Midol," she demanded through gritted teeth. "Right…now."
Though he would never admit it, one thing that scared him even more than daleks or Sycoraks or blind, invisible, abandoned chicken-aliens, was the unadulterated wrath of Amy Pond. He had not yet experienced it in full, and he did not care to.
Needless to say, he was already scrambling to stand upright, his feet seeming to have lost all friction with the ground as though he was a cartoon character.
"Right, yes, Midol!" he yelped. "Right away! I'll just be…I'll be back in a moment!"
"You sure as hell better be!" Amy shrieked. She did not sound jocular.
She heard the Tardis doors shut behind him, and she was immediately left alone to decipher her own inexplicable thoughts. She quickly found an explanation for it all, and muttered it to herself as she hauled herself off the floor and upstairs to bed: "Bloody hormones."