Veni, Vidi, Vici – Sir Pond
Author: Tari_Roo
Rating: PG (Gen)
Disclaimer: I own nothing, I profit from nothing, however if I did Rory would wear roman get up all the time.
Summary: 51st century Renaissance Fair. Jousting tournament. Sir Rory Pond. Yet another advantage of knowing the Doctor. Right?
*drwho*drwho*drwho*
"What? No, no, no…. No!"
"Come on, Rory! It'll be fun. Who doesn't love knights and jousts and armour?"
Rory stared at the Doctor, who was flitting around the small, canvas tent like a butterfly in heat, a butterfly attracted to neuvo-faux medieval style technology. "Would you look at this hauberk! Devollian plasti-steel blend, with …" the Doctor licked his fingers, sniffed abruptly and grinned, "Gamma tree resin. Fascinating. This'd stop a rampaging Hippogriff!"
"There has got to be another way, Doctor!" Rory exclaimed, trying to herd the Doctor back to the main thread of their, his, dilemma. His Doctor-generated-dilemma.
"Oh, pish tosh, Rory. Buck up… its only a little jousting tournament. Haven't you always wanted to be a knight, armour shining, Heath Ledger hair flowing behind you, a fair princess to save?" The Doctor was suddenly right in his space, crossing the distance between them in a heartbeat, flighty one moment, intense the next. Mercurial. Liquid emotions sucking you in. "And besides, I'll be right beside you, ok, behind you… ok, cheering you on. Oh, alright – I'll be watching from the safety of the stands. They have honey mead, Rory. Honey Mead!"
Rory sighed, and painted on his 'resolve' face. It was the face he practiced for years in his bathroom, pimply adolescent face trying on an expression he hoped would impress Amy. Now, it got more use – more on the Doctor, than Amy. But it came easier when you had two millennia worth of 'unreal' memories to draw on and the man who had been the indirect *cough* direct cause of that. "Actually, Doctor, no. I didn't want to be a knight. And this was your idea, so you should be the one in this ridiculous get up, not me…"
As ever, the Doctor heard only what he wanted to, and piped in, smile bright, sharp, "No, you wanted to be a doctor, and ended up a nurse. A Nurse who became a Centurion, the last Centurion. I think you have a plethora of the right 'stuff', Rory Pond to be a fantastic knight – the right kind of knight. It's those weirdos who dress up in historical costumes and re-enact famous defeats you have to worry about."
Before Rory could marshall up further logical, sensible arguments about why this was a terrible, terrible idea, the Doctor spun a complete 360, conveniently (ha!) towards the flap of the tent marked 'exit' in faux-old style English. "I believe in you, Rory Pond. See you on the battlefield!" And with that, he was gone, the 'authentic but less smelly' canvas flapping despondently, matching Rory's mood.
"It's Williams," Rory sighed, placing his hands on his hips and sighing. "And you make me dress up in 'historical' outfits all the time." Looking around the tent, hoping somehow (wasn't impossible) that it had faded away into a bad dream, Rory pursed his lips as he stared at the 'historical get up' he was supposed to put on. "And what the hell does that say about me, huh?"
Strapping on the armour felt… familiar and strange at the same time. The hauberk was unfamiliar and felt awkward underneath the plate armour, but luckily the 51st century manufacturers of 'authentic' medieval armour had kept it lightweight and flexible. The word authentic was tossed around a lot in this place, but as far as Rory knew (and remembered) authentic was a lot smellier, heavier and uncomfortable. The body molding properties of the plate armour was disconcerting… and kinda cool. The armour had less leather than Rory liked, suddenly missing the smell of well worn, well oiled leather, and the sword was wrong. A broad sword instead of a gladius. Longer, heavier (they got that right at least) and requiring a much different technique in battle.
Exhaling loudly, Rory tied on the sword, and jiggled a little, getting a feel for the armour. Too light, too modern, not… right. There was a helmet – one of those ridiculous full face ones with a slit to see out of, and a foppish feather on top. And then there were the lances. Most were outside, but there was one in the tent. For practice maybe. Rory lifted it off the rack, and groaned. It was nowhere close to wood, only looked like it. It was also light, and flexible. Hardly a weapon at all. Rory titled his head as he studied the lance – maybe it being less weaponlike wasn't a bad thing.
"You decent?" The Doctor stuck his head through the flapping opening and grinned. His mouth opened, no doubt to compliment or wax lyrical about Rory in faux-medieval armour, and Rory held up an imperious hand. "Just don't, ok. I feel ridiculous enough as it is."
"Fantastic!" the Doctor beamed and backed out of the tent, but shouted over the rumble of the crowd outside, "Sir Pond. Has a nice ring to it!"
Rolling his eyes, Rory clanked out of the tent, helmet under his arm and followed the erratic trail of the Doctor to the tourney ground. In all fairness to the Doctor, this place was pretty incredible and had Amy been with them, she would have been as giddy as well… the Doctor at the contrast and contrariness of it all. A massive futuristic city in the distance, tall skyscrapers reaching into the clouds and on the outskirts, a Disney-version of Camelot with a medieval slash renaissance fair. If it wasn't for the aliens in tunics, and era appropriate outfits, and the city on the horizon, you would think you were on Earth at a really good imitation of a fair. According to the Doctor, the fair ran all year round, all seasons. The folk of Formosa VI (yeah, yeah, I know, Formosa!) loved the Fair. It was almost a national pastime. 'They don't even play modern sports! Just medieval ones' the Doctor had laughed … and then skipped down the street between brightly coloured tents and a jester with two heads.
Rory hurried to catch up to the Doctor, which was a little tougher than you'd think as the press of people only intensified the closer you got to the tournament grounds. "Doctor! Doctor, wait!"
He only caught him as the tents gave way to steel pretending to be wood stands, and a cheering crowd. The jousting arena was far bigger than any original back on Earth would have been, but it was a popular sport. The only one, really. "Doctor!"
Rory grabbed his shoulder and spun him around, which the Doctor turned into a mini-dance, arm in arm, all the while grinning like a loon. "Are you excited, Rory? I know I am… a real live joust! A tournament extraordinaire!"
"Doctor, you still haven't explained why…"
Taking Rory firmly by both shoulders and staring into his eyes intently, the Doctor said firmly, suddenly a rock in the river of people around them. "Rory, it all rests on you. The future of this world. Its past and present. And all you need to do … is win!"
"What? Why? I don't…" Rory trailed off as the Doctor didn't move, and stared, stared into his very soul. His old, tired, patient soul.
"Do you trust me, Rory Williams?"
Rory pursed his lips, stared intently back, and tried not to feel lost in that indomitable gaze. "Yes," he drawled, reluctantly, knowing exactly which card the Doctor was about to pull out of his sleeve. His voluminous, magician's sleeve that probably had a colony of pigeon-rabbits living in it.
The Doctor though just smiled, a sad, world weary smile. And then he gave Rory's shoulders a squeeze, one that he felt even through the armour, and Rory had a brief thought that he narrowly escaped a kiss to the forehead. "Your horse is in third stall on the right. Answers to the name of Stacey Apple Rose, but I think he prefers George."
And the Rory was alone. Alone in a crowd of crazy, fanatical aliens who loved watching morons knock each other off horses with long sticks. Sighing, Rory followed the signs towards the stalls. An officious looking squire, or was it courtier, Rory could never remember, asked him for his papers and waved him in to the contestants area after a cursory look at the psychic paper.
For a second Rory thought that either a) the Doctor was messing with him – a distinct possibility, or b) he had the wrong third stall on the right, because what was in the stall was not a horse. It was very very large and intimidating, but definitely not a horse. When 'George' looked up from his feed, Rory revised that opinion to 'holy hell, what is that?' Horse-like, yes. But far more like a hippopotamus. A hippo with long skinny legs, and a lion's tail. "Er, hello?" Rory stammered. George went back to his feed bucket… which contained steaming entrails!
"Ah…" Rory flummoxed.
A very officious trumpeting and commotion began outside and the other contestants and their steads made general getting ready motions and movements. Rory looked around and wondered he could ask for help and as he turned back towards George, he came nose to eyeball with the mutant hippo snout and gulped. "George?"
A whuffle of agreement and George did not seem that impressed with him and that doubtful look was more than enough to stiffen the iron in Rory's blood. No mutant hippo-horse was going to look at him like that. So Rory grabbed the bridle and said firmly, "I don't know what the Doctor told you, but I don't intend on making a fool of myself, so no funny business, and I'll see that he gives you entrails up the wazoo. Ok?"
George snorted in agreement and Rory clambered onto his back – and was horrified to find it was a comfortable seat and George's gait quite… pleasant. "On, noble steed, on," Rory sighed. George farted.
The contestants were mostly human, the odd alien face behind a visor visible, and all of them were riding 'Georges' and Rory followed them out onto the arena ground. The formalities were about to begin. In a twist of good fortune, the first since the Doctor had popped into the bathroom during his shower and whisked him off for an adventure… and it said a lot for the Doctor, that that whole scenario wasn't as stalky and creepy as it sounded, Rory wasn't up first.
There was a lot of trumpeting and announcing – cheering crowds and screaming fans. It was kinda – exciting, despite his reservations. Rory caught a brief glimpse of the Doctor in the stands, waving a Rory-banner and he didn't try wonder how the crazy guy had managed to wrangle one of those. Fortunately the preliminaries were over quickly, but all too soon, he was waiting in line, watching the happy fools try impale each other with lances, or un-hippo their opponent.
The atmosphere in the arena was electric. The announcer was very dramatic and excited, and frequently leaned out of his little booth for a better look, voice booming through the arena. And mostly due to the 'futuristic' enhancements in the armour and lances, no one actually got hurt. Just a lot of bruised pride and derrieres.
"And our next bout, good people, is between Sir Pond and Sir Hwdstxctysshh-y!"
Caught a little off guard, Rory flinched, but George was already moving, no doubt treading a familiar path to their end of the arena.
It amazed Rory how easily combat came to him. It was almost like sense memory flowing through his limbs, long forgotten drills suddenly remembered, the taste of sun drenched sandy dust on his lips. Only those memories had never happened, and long lost plastic articulated robotics couldn't transfer muscle memory to flesh. Somehow though, his brain filled in the gaps, or rather kicked in the memories. It felt so right, slamming down that visor, tightening the strap, gripping lance and reins with equal gentle force and urging George on.
The impossibility of it all was lost in the thrill of adrenalin soaked competition.
The first bout went a lot better than expected, the other knight only narrowly missing him, but missing him none the less and even as the inertia-contained contact reverberated through Rory, it felt… wonderful.
George danced between his thighs, light and nimble at one moment and a thundering powerhouse of raw energy the next, racing along wooden railings towards a rapidly approaching knight. The pounding of hooves into compact dirt, the crash and thunder of contact, all merged into a symphony accompanying his beating heart.
Rory felt alive.
In between bouts, as he sat waiting for his next opponent, Rory spotted the Doctor randomly bobbing about the crowd. He failed, persevered and succeeded in getting a Mexican wave going. Badgered the commentator in his booth. Slopped honey mead down his suit and looked forlorn. Got the hooligans in the nose bleed terraces to sing something about Rory. Spilt second glimpses of utter brilliance in between the joy and furor of combat. Rory knew he was grinning, both as he kneed George on, and hurtled towards a waiting lance, or sat basking in the afterglow of another victory. Bloody brilliant.
In the end, it was over too quickly. His final opponent was a massive man in black armour riding George's bigger, hairer cousin. The pair never stood a chance. George was running before Rory even touched his flank, massive snout snorting actual steam. Rory stoodg high in the stirrups, braced, knees ready to take the impact, arm poised, reins interlocked through his fingers.
One last crash, one final blow, and the crowds went wild. Victory was his.
Reining George in, drenched with sweat and giddy with delight, Rory was swamped by a jubilant crowd and swept towards the Victor's Stand. The King of the Day proudly presented Rory with his prize and in between the cheering and back slaps and robust hand shaking, Rory caught a final glimpse of the Doctor wearing what was surely normally a woman's hat, ducking through the crowd, holding Rory's prize.
George was whuffling in his ear, a half empty mug of mead in one hand and a bevy of buxom beauties were pressing for autographs… and a kiss when Rory felt someone tug on his elbow and then the Doctor was there – sans hat, but mildly mead-stained. "Ladies, ladies, he's a handsome bloke, I know. Married unfortunately, I know, I know – tragedy. But quite the happy marriage, I assume. Don't really want to upset the missus so…"
Rory had no idea how the Doctor did it – conflab people into submission, but no matter Rory's bemusement, the Doctor did it with style and before Rory could really take it all in, the Doctor was frog marching him towards the exit. The crowd seemed inclined to party on without him.
The noise outside the arena was slightly less intense, more festive and the Doctor instantly slowed his pace, and turned to shoot Rory a wild, happy grin.
"Well done, Rory, well done! Finest hippogriff riding I ever saw!"
"He's not… wait… Doctor!"
Rory hurried after the prancing Doctor and cried, "What in the hell was that all for?"
"You had fun, right?"
"Yeah… but."
The Doctor waved him off, and laughed, "Just teasing, Rory old son. This was what it was all for!" With a flourish the Doctor revealed Rory's trophy… inside a tiny glass dome thing. "Wha?" Rory gulped.
Still walking, long legs confidently moving forward, the Doctor exclaimed, "A Clockwork Orange, Rory. Fascinating creature." If it was a creature, Rory had indeed not seen its like. Its colour was it's only similarity to the fruit, as it was more of a rotating ball of clockwork cogs and spirals, folding and spinning in and around itself, a miniaturized maelstrom of movement and motion.
Rory opened his mouth but the Doctor smoothly interjected, "I know, you are thinking Kubrik had more secrets than even we know, but that is not the point. This beauty is rare, oh so rare. Now usually the Formosan Spring Fair Tourney champion is presented with a glittering laurel or miniature house in the mountains, but this year… this little chap finagled its way into trophy position."
Still watching the complicated dance of cogs and spirals on the rotating orange ball, Rory sighed, "And what… is it?"
"Ah, Clockwork Orange's are drawn to temporal anomalies – they just love 'em. Makes their little cog hearts whir with pleasure. Couldn't resist a place like this – a walking talking temporal contradiction." The Doctor was peering into the glass dome, nose nearly pressed flat, somehow still walking through the crowd without bumping into anyone.
"And?"
"Well, dear Rory, as delightful as they are, Oranges have a tendency to turn temporal anomalies, even fake ones like this fair into the real deal. Had we come next year or the next, we'd be finding a lot less 51st century and a lot more 15th. Makes for some interesting cuisines, let me tell you."
Grateful that somehow in the celebrations, he had lost his sword, Rory noticed that George was following them, long legs daintily picking their way through the crowd, hairy snout snuffling after them. "Drawn to temporal anomalies, you say?" Rory hmmmed, slowing to let George catch them.
"Yes, like moths to the flame. Honey to a badger. Mice to intestinal cheese."
"Temporal anomalies like time travelers?"
The Doctor paused at Rory's unimpressed tone, and his crestfallen expression did little to make Rory smile. "As innocent as it looks, it can sense a trap, snare if you will, a mile away. Better…"
"Was I bait?"
The Doctor's eyebrows beetled together and he drawled, "Welll… no. Not really. Ok, ok yes, you were, but it would like you – be drawn to your own temporal timey wimey mind."
Rory glared, and stroked George's nose. "And why not you? Why me?"
The Doctor fidgeted, an embarrassed eye in a festive storm of people, "Well.. I thought, you know – boys night out. Only its day. Fishing trip sorta thing, but non-flying fish are so boring now and ew.. wormsonhooks.…"
Rory continued to glare and the Doctor looked more crestfallen and chastened, but it was like disciplining a dewey eyed puppy. Hell, Puss'n Boots had nothing on the Doctor. And Rory could still hear the roar of the crowd, feel the beat of George's hooves, smell the excitement of combat. The Doctor was smiling … pleased with himself, so Rory huffed and grumbled, "What are you going to do with it?"
"What? Oh, the Orange!" The Doctor whirled it around, patted the dome fondly and the Orange responded with a brief light show. "Oh, I'll keep it in the TARDIS. She'll love it – it'll love her. Be a good replacement for that temporal dissonance resonator I can't get working."
While the Doctor smiled at the Orange, who winked back, Rory sighed, "So, this is actually a run to the hardware store… for the TARDIS?"
"If you like," the Doctor beamed and turned on his heel, heading towards the TARDIS.
And as usual, Rory found that he didn't actually mind, not really. George snuffled his hand again, and Rory patted his surprisingly soft snout. A paradox wrapped in an enigma. Impossible to understand, or dislike. Infuriating and loveable. The best and worst of friends.
"Come along, Pond!"
Rory shook his head and murmured to George, who stared solemnly back, "Entrails before we go?"
The long lashed blink was affirmative and Rory ambled off, lightweight, no clinking 'wrong' armour, feeling like home. The Doctor was waltzing along, ear pressed to the glass dome. Rory shook his head, and pushed the thoughts bustling around his head to one side. The Doctor had been right, the honey mead alone was worth it.
"Oooo, look. Sir Pond action figures!"
Maybe.
*Fin*
AN: *very small author's not* Hope you liked obviously, but this note is more a request. Having read maybe three Dr Who fics, and being relatively (i.e very) new to the fandom, do you know of any other good Rory & Doctor centric fics? If so, please rec. Thanks for reading