Still tweaking this one, but I'm mostly satisfied.
h/t Monty Python and the Holy Grail, because I couldn't resist.
Why is it always the gingers? The Doctor shifts his weight onto his right leg and sighs. All the Earth woman he's travelled with have disobeyed him at one point, but the red-headed Companions take particular glee in flouting his rules whenever possible. And yet even Donna at her sassiest can't hold a candle to Amy Pond when the latter woman decides he is being obtuse or overprotective.
Of course, if she had just listened to him in the first place, they wouldn't be locked in this storage unit at all. They'd be safely ensconced in the TARDIS right now, ferrying those eggs to the bird-like creatures on Garvonne waiting anxiously to foster them. Instead, they're stuck at the bottom of this overheated chamber, an ominous black liquid is seeping in from under the door and the wound on his left forearm is beginning to seriously hurt.
He could yell at Amy for this, but there's no point – she wouldn't be able to hear him over the noise of the massive pistons and plus he isn't actually sure he has the breath to shout. Maybe to wheeze.
Ow – something smacks into his right elbow. Amy has thrown a lug nut at him. The Doctor looks up to see that she has sorted some of the piles of debris and uncovered – is that a pickaxe? How positively medieval of the Zartlax! Steam from the black liquid is rising now and clouding the room, but he can still clearly see Amy waggling her eyebrows at him. And smirking, damn her.
She beckons him over, so he stands up slowly, testing his balance. It takes an alarmingly long time for him to cross the room and Amy has actually started towards him, arms outstretched, when he reaches the pickaxe. The Doctor pushes her hands away. "Merely a flesh wound," he gasps. "Just a little scratch. Now, what have we here?"
"I'm no expert on power tools, Doctor, but I do believe this could cut through those fancy locks," Amy purrs. "If you don't mind using some brute strength for a change. I know your manliness is all tied up in your screwdriver, but perhaps a little less Sonic and a little more muscle?"
But he has stopped listening by now, because buried in the discarded debris are five coal-encrusted hexagons, their pictograms nearly invisible in the dirt. "Amy! You've done it! You've found the totems!" He reaches down to grab the keys to the Garvonnian royal armory – oof, they're heavier than they look – and beams at her.
Amy's mouth has fallen open just for a second, but she quickly slings the axe across her back and assumes a triumphant stance. "Of course I have," she says. "That was my plan this whole time. I knew there was something funny about this room."
"Of course."
"If not for me, you'd still be arguing with that lumpy old ambassador for hours in that horrid cafeteria-place. Now we can just forget them and head back to Garvonne!"
The Doctor can't help it – he laughs out loud. By now they are ankle-deep in the viscous fluid and his arm is throbbing painfully, there are only 2 hours left before the negotiations end and the Zarflax decide to break the peace treaty, the eggs are probably in danger of freezing, and Amy will have to carry all five of the totems herself. And yet he isn't worried.
How could he be, with this Scottish loony by his side? Amy is a loose cannon, nearly as dangerous as the weapon on her back. With one mouthy remark, she has cost them several hours and saved them several months. Reckless and vivacious and brilliant and maddening, that's his Amy. She is filthy with coal and sweat (and possibly Zarflax slime) and she has never looked more beautiful.
"Right!" he says. "Let's go tell the galactic senators this peace conference is over. Forever."
"Last one there's a rotten Garvonnian egg!" Amy hollers, and beats him to the door. He wouldn't have it any other way.