...and at once I knew I was not magnificent

The girl called Chuck has come to realize that it’s not easy to look away from Ned the Pie Maker...

billietennant — Fri, 22 Feb 2013 23:33:00 -0500

The girl called Chuck has come to realize that it’s not easy to look away from Ned the Pie Maker while he’s in the kitchen. There is something about the way he moves in there, something that is so much more fluid than he ever is around her.

Chuck knows that the Pie Maker has a system when he’s baking. She knows that he always has the dough ready before he starts, and she knows that he can tell just by looking how much flour he needs to keep that dough from sticking to the countertop. She knows that he can knead that dough into perfect circles to create the perfect crust for his perfect pies.

Chuck has watched countless times as the Pie Maker wrapped his long, thin fingers around graying, rotten fruits. She has watched as they’ve morphed into the most vibrantly beautiful, delicious things she has ever laid eyes on. She is aware that the touch that brings those berries back is the very same touch that brought her back, and that a second touch can also cause her—and those wonderful fruits—to die again within seconds.

But it doesn’t stop Chuck from watching the Pie Maker while he bakes. There’s something innately sensual about the way he works. His large hands work the dough into the pliable crusts he needs. Thin plastic gloves, so much like the ones he wears around her, cover his hands as he works with the alive-again fruits, coaxing them into the perfect filling for his pies. He presses the dough together, working diligently to get the wonderful curves around the edges. And then, as carefully as possible, he slides them into the oven behind him, closing the door and wiping his forehead with his arm, almost inevitably leaving behind a smear of flour.

The girl called Chuck has recently admitted to herself that she’s actually jealous of the Pie Maker’s baking ingredients (although maybe not the fruits). She finds herself a bit envious of the kneaded dough, the pressed crust, the cared-for final product… Only in their “unusual circumstances” version of “us” could a girl be jealous of baked goods.

It isn’t until her flour-dusted Pie Maker meets her eyes over the counter and smiles that Chuck realizes she’s staring again. And she doesn’t even have time to climb off her stool before the Pie Maker is by her side with a long piece of plastic wrap.

When Chuck’s lips meet the Pie Maker’s through that ordinary plastic wrap, she can’t help but smile. She may be jealous of the baked goods in the kitchen, but they can’t have the Pie Maker’s crooked smiles and plastic wrap kisses.

And that alone makes her happy and not in the least bit jealous.

“I’m sorry, boss. The god rabbited.” Phil could feel himself...

billietennant — Mon, 29 Oct 2012 14:17:00 -0400

“I’m sorry, boss. The god rabbited.” Phil could feel himself slipping away. Maria’s face shone in his mind like a beacon.

“Just stay awake. Eyes on me.”

His daughter’s little smile was there, too, her dark eyes identical to his. God, he’d miss her. “No. I’m clocked out here.” I’m sorry, angel. Daddy’s so sorry.

Fury’s voice was dark. “Not an option.” There was more fear than threat in the words. Phil almost smiled at the leak of emotion.

“It’s okay, boss.” Breathing was hard now. “This was never going to work…” a last gasp at precious air “…if they didn’t have something…to…”

It was dark. So dark. Fury was gone. The pain was gone. The weight of the gun was gone. All he saw was his wife, his little girl. They’d survive without him. They’d go on.

—

Eighteen years later, Agent Emma Coulson stood beside Nick Fury, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, her focus on the voice in her earpiece. Fury debated telling her how much she looked like her mother, how she carried herself like her father, how her determination echoed both of her parents, way back when.

He figured she knew.

Natasha never thought she’d have an undercover job...

billietennant — Thu, 30 Aug 2012 02:27:54 -0400

Natasha never thought she’d have an undercover job stranger than posing as Tony Stark’s assistant.

That seemed to be the truth…until Coulson told her she was going undercover in Hollywood to take down a mob-infested movie studio that was fronting a weapons dealership.

A box of hair bleach and a $100,000 wardrobe later, Natasha touched down in Los Angeles with Clint - acting as her bodyguard - at her side.

She never expected that playing movie star would lead to seeing Clint in a whole new way.

I may write this out as a full story if I can make it work. If not, just…enjoy this for what it is and use your imaginations, heh.

It was nearly four in the morning when Natasha fell into the bed at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, not...

billietennant — Wed, 29 Aug 2012 00:30:37 -0400

It was nearly four in the morning when Natasha fell into the bed at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, not even bothering to take off her shoes or her jumpsuit. Her head didn’t land on the mattress, however, instead making contact with Clint’s ribs. He groaned in response, his hand falling on the back of her head as she rolled her cheek onto his skin.

“You okay?” It was a ritual - one of them came home exhausted from a mission, and the other simply made sure they were “okay”. They couldn’t ask for more than that, really.

“Mmm…” she breathed. “Tired. Sore. So very sore.”

He smiled in the dark. Her accent always came out a little when she was tired. “Take off your suit, Tash.”

She grunted. “Not in the mood, Barton.”

“Not for that,” he replied, poking her shoulder hard enough to roll her off him. “First off, it’s not comfortable for sleeping. Secondly, I can’t give you a massage through all that leather.”

The word “massage” woke her up immediately, and he laughed when she was suddenly on her feet, shoes being stepped off and zipper hissing open. As he flipped on the little lamp beside the bed, she was crawling back onto the mattress, dressed only in the very thin grey tanktop and panties she somehow managed to fit under her catsuit. He swallowed his arousal, determined to make this nothing more than pampering Natasha.

She lie down on her belly, turning her face so she was looking at him, her green eyes hazy. “I may fall asleep on you, Barton,” she murmured, folding her arms under her head. “Don’t think that’s a sign to stop.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. Carefully, he straddled her, resting his weight on his heels and his knees around her waist. “Close your eyes and think of something happy.”

She did as she was told, and he couldn’t help but echo her expression when her lips curved softly. He wished right now that he had some sort of lotion or oil around, especially as he rubbed his hands together to warm them and noticed how rough they felt. Natasha wouldn’t complain, but it would have been nicer. Finally, he settled into a more comfortable position and put his hands on her shoulder blades.

He’d barely applied pressure when Natasha purred. “Jesus, Tash, you’re stiff.”

“So are you.” Her voice was tinged with playfulness, but he still nearly choked on the air he’d been inhaling.

“Keep talking like this and I might accidentally snap your spine.”

If it had been anyone else, Natasha would have flipped herself over and he’d be the one near death. Instead, she giggled beneath him, sending waves through his body, and snuggled deeper into the covers. He palmed the knots under her skin again and began to knead them gently.

“Fucking hell, Barton. I’m not porcelain. Go harder.”

The last time he heard those words from her, he had her screaming in seconds. Again, he found himself thinking of the least sexy things he could - baseball, his grandmother, whatever the hell was behind Fury’s eyepatch - instead of the soft body under his. He put more pressure on her, happy to hear the groan of pleasure it elicited from her.

He worked slowly, starting at the tops of her shoulders and working down to just where his knees touched her. She was breathing evenly, every so often letting out a mewl of encouragement, or offering advice as to where he should place his hands. When he started to reach the more dangerous parts of her anatomy, (and since this was Natasha, there were plenty,) he finally lifted himself off her and sat down next to her on the bed.

“Feeling better?”

He thought she might have fallen asleep - her eyelids were closed, but lightly, and her lips were parted just a little - but she spoke. “Yeah.” Her voice was breathy, airy. “Thank you, Clint.”

His lips curled at the word; she rarely called him by his first name. “You’re welcome, darling.” He braced himself - whenever he called her by a nickname other than “Tash” or “Tasha”, she swatted at him. This time, though, her small, slender fingers found his in his lap and linked together.

“Lie down.”

He did as he was told, slipping under the blankets and facing her. When he was still, she shifted her body, pressing her stomach against his and wrapping her legs around him. She fit her head beneath his chin and he shivered a bit when her warm breath rolled over his shoulder. He swore he felt her lips brush over his heart, but she was cuddling closer before he was sure. “Good night, Barton. Thanks again for the massage.”

“Always.” She was snoring softly in his arms before the word was out of his mouth. He smirked and rested his cheek on top of her head. “Good night, Tasha.”

#1 Valya is seven when she and Peter are in a playground near her parents’ apartment. She’s the...

billietennant — Mon, 06 Aug 2012 14:04:00 -0400

Valya is seven when she and Peter are in a playground near her parents’ apartment. She’s the daredevil of the two at that age, swinging from the highest monkey bar or sliding down the tallest slide headfirst.

Peter’s not surprised when she takes to the swings, ignoring his father’s calls to be careful and pumping her little legs as hard as she can. The smirk on her face tips him off, and before he can try to stop her, she’s launched herself off the swing and into the sand below.

Her scream echoes through the trees and Steve Rogers is on his feet, running towards the kids faster than anything. Peter jumps off his own swing and hurries to Valya’s side, skidding to his knees in the sand. She’s holding her wrist, her face streaked with tears, and he’s stunned - he’s never seen Valya cry before.

Steve looks down at her and touches her hand gingerly. “I think you broke your wrist, Valya,” he murmurs. “I have to call your parents.”

As he struggles just a bit with the cell phone Tony had convinced him to carry, Peter reaches out and pats Valya’s head, like a puppy. “It’s okay, Val,” he says quietly, though he’s terrified. He kneels up and kisses her, just barely catching the edge of her lips. “It’s okay.”

—

It’s Peter’s eleventh birthday, and he just wants a normal party. ‘Normal’ isn’t really in Tony Stark’s vocabulary, but he does his best for his adopted son, buying streamers and balloons and tablecloths that match the pointed party hats the nine children around the room end up wearing like sugared-up little unicorns.

At the end of the day, when the cake is gone and the children are filtering out of the room and home to their parents, Valya leans over and pressed her lips to Peter’s. He immediately puts on his best grossed-out face, and cries out, “Ew, Val! Why’d you do that?”

She shrugs, her eyes sparkling. “I just wanted to.”

Peter’s sure he’ll never understand girls.

—

Rockefeller Junior High holds its Holiday Dance at the beginning of December every year, and Peter wants nothing more than to ask Gwen Stacy, the new eighth-grade girl in his advanced science class. But he’s too shy and too nervous and before he gets up any kind of courage, Eugene—no, sorry, Flash Thompson asks her.

So instead he convinces Valya to be his date. It’s fairly easy, as the promise of a Venti latte from Starbucks will get her to do anything for him. Her father drops her off at the school just before seven, with a smile on his face and a blush on Valya’s that Peter doesn’t understand. She looks pretty, he notices, but he pretends not to as he eyes her cerulean dress and sparkly shoes.

The dance is drawing to an end and Peter and Valya have had a lot of fun. There’s some slow song playing and Peter is gazing at Gwen and Flash, who are dancing in the middle of the room.

“You like her, eh, Pete?” Valya asks, and he’s stunned out of his reverie. He nods, unable to say the words, and she smiles, pulling him up and out onto the floor near the other couple. It takes him a moment or two to fall into it, but soon enough he’s swaying in time to the beat, holding Valya maybe a little too far away from him.

She leans in and kisses him, quickly, easily, and when she pulls away he’s the one who’s blushing. Putting her lips close to his ear, she whispers, “Look at how she looked away when I kissed you. Don’t worry, Pete. She likes you, too.”

—

Gwen’s father dies when they’re seventeen. Peter won’t tell anyone why he doesn’t attend the funeral, but he catches Valya on her way home from the cemetary, and she knows he’d been there. She follows him home to his aunt’s house, parking herself on his bed while he dries off and changes his clothes. He doesn’t say anything the whole time, just quietly goes through the motions before flopping down beside her, face first into his pillow.

“I miss her, Val.”

She smiles. “So why don’t you go to her, then?”

“I promised her father I wouldn’t.”

“I’m pretty sure you can break that promise. He wanted what was best for her, but I think what Gwen needs now is her boyfriend.”

Peter rolls onto his side, looking up at her. “I don’t deserve to be her boyfriend, Valya.”

“Bullshit.” She lies down next to him and kisses him. It’s innocent, comforting. “Any girl would be lucky to have you as a boyfriend, Spider-Man.”

They lie there together, listening to the rain falling outside, until the doorbell rings. Peter’s gone for a few minutes, and when he comes back, his eyes are red and he looks exhausted.

Valya simply holds out her hand and pulls him back onto the bed.

—

Valya wishes she’d inherited her mother’s way with emotions. She can be good, hiding them at least until she’s alone, but when they come in a rush that she’s not expecting, that’s when her father’s genes kick in and she loses control.

I got into the photojournalism course at Penn State, Val.

She wants to erase the text, pretend that her lifelong best friend isn’t leaving her once they graduate. She wants to scream, to curse, to cry. Instead, she grabs her bike and pedals like mad to Stark Tower.

Peter meets her at the door of the apartment on the twenty-third floor, and she throws herself into his arms, kissing him like she’s never kissed anyone before. There have been boyfriends, sure, but she’s never before felt the need for this kind of passion in a single kiss.

He’s shocked at first - she can feel the hesitance in his stance. But soon enough, his arms are around her and his lips are moving beneath hers and he’s kissing her just the way she’s kissing him. He pulls her even closer, pressing their bodies together, and she can feel the tears on his cheeks that she hadn’t noticed before.

When they pull apart, she holds him close and looks up into his brown eyes. “Congratulations on Penn State,” she chokes out.

“I’ll come home all the time, Val. I promise you. It’s only, like, four hours away.”

“I know.” She sniffles, clinging to his shoulders. “But I’ll still miss you, Pete.”

He smiles, that silly, crooked smile that always makes her laugh. “Oh, Valya…” He kisses her again and then hugs her tightly. “I’ll miss you even more.”

It’s Clint’s favorite picture because it’s...

billietennant — Sun, 05 Aug 2012 00:15:00 -0400

It’s Clint’s favorite picture because it’s so real. It’s not often one sees Natasha Romanoff as truly happy as she was that afternoon.

Valya was four, and Natasha was just home from a mission and wanted nothing more than to just be Mama. So she’d packed her daughter and her partner into a borrowed S.H.I.E.L.D. jeep and driven to a nearby park.

The picnic she’d somehow packed without him noticing was ignored once Valya discovered the joy of flying a kite. They didn’t have one, but luckily the family sitting a few feet away was willing to let her try with their extra one.

While Natasha stood behind her daughter, her hair dyed blonde from the mission she’d just finished, Clint couldn’t help but fall even more in love with both of them. They looked so much alike, so much like mother and daughter, no one would have ever expected this life wasn’t what Tasha had ever planned for.

He snapped the photo with the little Polaroid he kept in his bag. (Natasha teased him for it all the time, but sometimes he just really liked the look of the little plastic photos.) Natasha was grinning, bottom lip pulled between her teeth; Valya’s smile was a bit less bright, her determination to keep the rainbow-colored kite in the air overwhelming her obvious joy.

Over the years, when Clint thinks his little girl is growing up too fast, he’ll pull that photo out of his wallet and smile. No matter what, she’ll always be their воробышек, and they’ll always be Daddy and Mama.

Valya was barely ten when she hit her first bullseye and scared the hell out of her best friend and...

billietennant — Fri, 03 Aug 2012 15:19:00 -0400

Valya was barely ten when she hit her first bullseye and scared the hell out of her best friend and childhood sweetheart, Peter Parker.

Natasha was sitting on the terrace at Stark Tower, one eye on the report in front of her, the other on the two children playing a few feet away. Clint had bought Valya a little target with suction cup-arrows for when she wasn’t with him, a way to practice without injuring anyone or destroying anything.

Peter had been jealous when she told him, so Natasha promised to bring it along the next time they were together.

Now, Peter was standing a few feet from the target, and Valya was behind him, moving his arms into position and talking him through it, looking so much like Clint that Natasha couldn’t help but smile. Peter wasn’t coordinated enough, however, so the little arrow arced too high and suctioned itself right to the glass partition around the area.

Valya laughed, maybe a bit too cruelly, and Peter hung his head, flinging the bow to the floor. “This is stupid!”

“No, Pete!” she cried, immediately apologetic. “I’m sorry! Here, watch me. I used to not be able to hit the target, either, until Daddy showed me over and over.”

His frown didn’t fade, but he stepped to her side and eyed her as she got into position.

FWACK!

The arrow hit the dead-center of the red bullseye, and Valya gasped. Peter moved away from her, his eyes wide and his mouth falling open.

“You said you never made a bullseye!” he cried, staring at her.

“I didn’t!” Valya said in response, her voice awed.

“But you just did it! Look, right in the middle!”

“But I’ve never done it before, Pete! Never, ever!”

Peter looked up at Natasha, his brown eyes terrified, as if Valya had aimed the arrow at him. “Tasha, Valya lied to me!”

“She’s not lying, sweetie,” Natasha said, putting on her best consoling-mother voice and moving to put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Valya’s never hit the bullseye until today.”

He was shaking under her hand, and her heart went out to him. He’d always been a shy, nervous kid. “I- I don’t want to play this anymore, Valya.”

Valya sighed, but Natasha saw the resignation in her daughter’s face. “Okay. C’mon. Maybe Uncle Bruce has something we can do instead.”

As the two kids ran off, nerves lost almost instantly, Natasha smiled. She was still standing there, looking at the small plastic arrow attached to the bullseye, when Tony stepped out onto the terrace beside her.

“Did Valya scare Peter?”

“Yep.”

He laughed. “Like mother, like daughter, scaring the hell out of boys twice her size.”

Natasha’s eyebrow shot up. “Watch it, Stark, or you’ll be running right after them.”

“See?” Tony grinned. It was a millisecond before he was fleeing back into the complex. Natasha laughed to herself, flexing her fingers over the knife strapped to her thigh.

Like mother, like daughter indeed.

Lily makes the decision as a motorcycle tears through the midnight silence. She packs up what...

billietennant — Wed, 01 Aug 2012 17:41:16 -0400

Lily makes the decision as a motorcycle tears through the midnight silence. She packs up what she’s left in the apartment over time, debates leaving a note. She catches her reflection in the mirror over the dresser. There are photos tucked around the outside - photos of her, of them, of the last twenty years together. It’s unnatural - no, unfair, she thinks blandly - that she’s never changed and he’s only gotten more beautiful. She doesn’t deserve him. The realization causes her to close the door - literally and figuratively - as she leaves, nothing left behind to say she was ever really there.

Ben gets in after one, as usual. Work has been keeping him later and later, rushing him to meet deadlines and print schedules, and while he knows it’s valuable for his career, he hates leaving her alone all night. He opens the door quietly, so quietly, knowing she’s asleep a few rooms away. But as he closes it behind him, he feels the difference in the air. He calls out to her, fear and panic threatening to overwhelm him, but he forces himself to stay calm. She doesn’t answer, so he goes to the bedroom, hoping to find her lost to deep, encompassing sleep.

Lily finds the bus station almost subconsciously. She steps up to the ticket window, requests the ticket that will take her the furthest soonest. Clutching it in her cold, trembling hands, she sits down on a bench to wait. Her City stretches in front of her, all lights and sounds and impersonal buildings - all the same sights as every other day. But this is different. This is her last night here. Her heart flutters. He’ll know she left. He’ll know it was her own doing, not someone else’s. He’ll probably call, begging her to come home, but he’ll know she can’t. He’s probably reaching for the phone now…

Ben stands in the kitchen, beside the sink. The dishes are done - there’s still water dripping off some of the plates. She hasn’t been gone long, but she’s gone. He reaches for the phone on the wall, but his hand stops on the receiver. She hadn’t left a note, a message on the voicemail, nothing. If he called, what would she say? Would he be able to get her to come home? She was always saying that New York was too much for her. She needed to breathe. She needed to find a place she could be herself - that she could call home. Then she’d laugh at her clichéd thoughts and snuggle closer, but he knew she was at least partially serious.

Lily takes a breath as the announcement calls for her boarding. She watches as the hot air from her lungs mingles with the chilled air around her; she can almost see the crystals forming as the mist floats away from her. There’s a beautiful poetry in that, she thinks, in the way your breath just flows from you, mixes with fresh air, and gives someone else life. The announcement sounds again, loud and frightening in the silent terminal, and she gets to her feet. Someone else will take her place in the City. That’s how it always works.

Ben pulls his coat tighter, tucking it beneath him as he sits down on the front stairs of their building. He looks up at the stars, glittering through the thin clouds of winter that promise snowfall soon. He thinks of Lily when he sees those stars. So distant, so unreachable, but so damn beautiful he doesn’t know the words to use. He wants to scream, to find her and curse her and tell her he never wants to see her again, but that won’t help matters. It’ll be just as bad as knowing she’s left. At least, if he says nothing, she can’t blame him and it won’t give her more of a reason to leave. And the part of him that wants to blame her for everything, for up and leaving and breaking his heart and destroying twenty years together… He just can’t do it. He’s known her since she was five, been her childhood sweetheart at seven, her lover at 16, her fiancée at 25. He knows too much about her, knows her heart too well, to blame her for something that’s not her fault. He realizes he’s just breathed her name, heard it disappear into the night after her, watched it fade away.

Lily wonders what the weather will be like. She’s dressed for a New York City winter, but Michigan…isn’t it colder there? She and Ben always joke that there are really only two seasons in New York - summer and winter. She looks out the window of the bus - mostly empty because, she assumes, most people would rather fly than take a nineteen-hour bus ride to Lansing. The stars are shimmering overhead and she inhales slowly. Ben loves to look at the stars - he says it reminds him how small his place in the world really is. She only hopes that thought helps him understand why she’s leaving, why she has to go. She catches a particularly bright star just ahead of her and imagines it’s her guiding light, leading her to where she should be.

Ben checks his watch. It’s been nearly an hour. Lily’s disappeared before, but never for very long. He stands, heads back inside, and it’s then he notices her things are gone from the bedroom. He swears, his eyes filling with tears, and this time he really does pick up the phone. He’s shocked when she answers, her voice small and quiet. She tries to hang up, but he begs her, telling her he just needs to know she’s there. After a few moments of silence, he tells her he can’t do this - if she’s really gone, it’s over.

Lily agrees almost immediately.

Ben’s tears are staining his work shirt, his free hand is running through his red hair so roughly he wonders if he’s going to pull it out. He sobs to her, realizing he’s trying to make her angry at him so he can be angry at her, so they can fight and really make a breakup worth it. But all he hears is her gentle voice, thick and exhausted, telling him she loves him but she can’t. Again, he wants to swear. He desperately wants to be mad. He wants them both to be wrong so that maybe it can be fixed, but he knows deep in his heart that this is right for Lily and, by proxy, right for him. It’s the most painful thing in the world, that knowledge that the love you’ve spent your life building is over.

Lily hangs up during a silence on Ben’s end. She’s crying, which surprises her a bit, and she quickly rubs the tears off her cheeks with the heel of her hand. She opens her phone again and sets Ben’s number to go directly to voicemail before slipping it into the pocket of her coat. As her gaze slides back to the scenery rolling past, she swears she can see Ben’s face next to hers in the reflection on the glass. She closes her eyes and prays for sleep.

Ben sits on the bedroom floor, the phone still clutched in his hand, hitting the redial button. Lily’s voice chirps happily on her outgoing message, and he hangs up and dials again. And again. And again. Shattered, he throws the phone across the room and it cracks the mirror. When he stands to clean it up, he sees his own reflection lined up with a photo of Lily, sound asleep. Her face is peaceful, but he knows the sadness is there. He braces himself on the edge of the dresser and cries. He knows he’ll recover. He knows she’ll be okay. He knows that one day, he’ll be better, she’ll be better, and maybe, just maybe, they’ll find each other again.

There’s no substitute for time when it comes to healing.

iPod Challenge 1. Pick a character/pairing. 2. Put your music player on shuffle. 3. Write a ficlet...

billietennant — Wed, 01 Aug 2012 17:39:00 -0400

iPod Challenge

1. Pick a character/pairing.

2. Put your music player on shuffle.

3. Write a ficlet for each song that comes up. Your time limit for each story is the length of the song. Do not go over.

I. The Mountains Of Mourne - Keith Harkin (Celtic Thunder)

He took her to London, generations before she was born, while people from all over Europe were travelling in, trying to build a new, better life for themselves. They met with Aidan, a handsome eighteen year old from a small village in Ireland. He told them of his fiancé, Mary, who was still there, waiting for him to come home with news, with work and money and a place for them. Aidan told them of the letters he wrote her, of the stories he’d heard in London. It was nothing like he’d been told. There weren’t jobs everywhere–the ones that were available were quickly filled by men older and more experienced than him.

But as he admitted that he wouldn’t go home to Mary without something to make her happy, Amy slipped her hand into the Doctor’s and smiled. She knew the feeling.

—

II. All Right Now - Free

“Are you okay, Pond?” The Doctor eyed her curiously as she stood in the street, grinning at nothing.

“I’m fine,” she laughed. “I just… I can’t believe I’m here.”

“I’ve taken you to planets all over your galaxy and a dozen others. I’ve taken you to see ancient Venice, to see the UK in a hundred years, and you’re most excited by New York City on New Year’s Eve in 1999?”

“Doctor,” she said, her hazel eyes glittering. “You forget. I’m twenty-one. I can’t turn down a good party.” She gestured widely to the massive crowd around them as they stood in Times Square, the twilight just starting to fall and the people beginning to get excited. “And I’m pretty sure this one was probably the best my generation has ever and will ever see.”

“So you’re all right, then? You haven’t gone mad, standing there, smiling like you’ve just won the lottery even though, as far as I’m concerned, this is incredibly boring?”

Amy swatted at him as he watched her, a laugh forming in his throat when he backed away from her hand. “This is not boring. And wait until midnight. I’ll show you what a real party is.”

And when the clock changed over, and the crowd exploded in a shower of confetti, noise, and movement, Amy flung her arms around his neck and kissed him hard, thrilling when he actually kissed her back. Caught up in the moment or not, she was glad it wasn’t all on her part this time.

“You all right, Doctor?”

“I am now.”

—

III. Before I Speak - Kyle Riabko

Amy Pond didn’t like this. Not one bit. The Doctor had already decided to keep his distance, and they’d barely been travelling together two weeks. She wasn’t going to stand for it. Not when she’d waited fourteen years. Fourteen years.

“Doctor!” she cried one day, one afternoon when he wouldn’t listen to her, when he was babbling on and on and on about something she didn’t understand.

“What?!” he said, sounding more frustrated than he deserved to.

“Why are you avoiding being near me?”

“What?”

“Is that all you can say, Doctor?” she sniped, and it sounded way more obnoxious than she’d meant it to. “You know what I mean. Ever since I kissed you, you’ve been ignoring me. You didn’t give me a chance to explain before you backed off. I’m not okay with that, Doctor. You’re always going on and on about how I’m ‘the girl who waited’, and then you jump in and judge me on one impulsive movement. How dare you?”

The Doctor sighed and put his hands on the console, not looking at her. “Pond, I’m not judging you. I just…can’t be near you until I’ve sorted myself.”

“What?”

He raised an eyebrow in amusement. “You’re so quick to judge, Amelia,” he teased. “Did you ever think I might have to think about my feelings, too?”

—

IV. The Guilty Ones - Kyle Riabko (companion piece to Before I Speak)

Amy stared at him before acting impulsively. Again. She launched herself across the TARDIS, throwing herself into his arms and crushing her lips to his before he could speak. This was unknown. Crazy. But unbelievably sweet. Better than any of her dreams had ever been.

The Doctor clutched her, his hands tangling in her hair. She could feel his guilt in his kiss, but it didn’t stop him. His body was too involved to listen to his brain. She liked having this control over him. Her pulse raced, too, jumping all over the place, knowing it was so wrong but not caring at all. She let him take the lead, or at least let him believe he was, when he pushed her back against the console. His hands wandered the front of her t-shirt, brushing sensitive parts of her anatomy, setting her skin on fire.

“Amy,” he whispered, his voice sleek and cool. He so rarely called her that. It was amazing to hear his voice, lustful and heavy, using her name as they travelled through the sky, invisible to anyone who could judge them…

—

V. These Four Walls - Gavin Creel

The Doctor lie in Amy’s bed, feeling her asleep against his side. They’d done nothing he should be ashamed of, and for the first time, he wasn’t. He knew how Amy felt about him–he knew how he felt about her. But he also knew it could never be. At least, not outside the TARDIS.

When they were inside this box, this magical, ancient, brand-new box, he felt alive. He didn’t want to hide anything from Amy. He wanted to tell her everything, of everyone he’d loved and lost and hurt and saved. He wanted to tell her that while they stayed here, they were free to be happy and safe and loved and together.

He didn’t want to think about what it would be like once she left him. She would. They always did. But for now, he only wanted to think about being here, inside the TARDIS, with her. Always with her.

In here, they were always. They were forever. They were timeless and never ending and perfect. There was no Rory, no Rose, no past. Only the future. Only The Doctor and Amy. The magic, imaginary friend and the girl who waited.

He wrapped an arm around her and smiled as she sighed, her breath wafting over his chest. “Oh, Amelia,” he murmured softly, brushing his lips over her hair.

—

VI. Can’t Buy Me Love - The Beatles

“Doctor, why won’t you let me buy you a souvenir?”

“Pond, what makes you think I need a souvenir?”

She put a hand on her hip and quirked her head in that oh-so-Amy Pond way. “How do you remember all of these amazing places if you don’t pick up something to remind you?”

He wanted to tell her that his memories were more than enough. That he could close his eyes and remember her smile, her awe, her reaction to things that should have been so outside her reach. That she was his souvenir.

“I’m a Time Lord, Pond.” It was his default response. She never argued, and he didn’t have to explain.

—

VII. If Only - Hanson

Amy watched The Doctor as he tinkered away at the console. She was supposed to be reading the book he’d tossed at her, the one that would teach her what she needed to know about flying the TARDIS. After all, she’d asked. But she was distracted.

As always.

She was overwhelmed with the urge to tell him how she felt. Oh, she was sure he knew. He knew everything when it came to her. He must have had some psychic link to her brain or something. But did he know that she needed him? That she only made it those fourteen years because she knew she had to be there when he came back?

Did he know that she’d never actually been with another man because she wanted him to be her first? That she’d told Rory that she wanted to wait, not out of virtue but out of the hope that The Doctor would come back to her and sweep her into bed and give her the most romantic night of her life?

Rory. She loved him. She always had, really. Even when she dressed him up as The Doctor. But this was the actual Doctor. The one she’d waited for. And he didn’t seem to want anything to do with her in a romantic sense.

If only I had the guts to tell you, she thought.

And when he looked up as if he’d heard, she buried her head in the book.

If only she’d seen the look on his face when he glanced at her.

—

VIII. Dream A Little Dream - Kevin McHale

Amy liked to sit at the open TARDIS door and look at the stars. And when she did that, The Doctor would pretend to do other things, but he’d really be watching her. Silhouetted by stars and space breezes blowing her ginger hair around… It was the stuff of poetry, of love songs and sonnets. Of fairytales.

Amy dreamt of him. He knew it. She’d doze off sitting beside him while he worked, or when a trip took a little longer than it should. She’d murmur his name, or subconsciously reach for his hand in her sleep, clutching his fingers like he was her last link to something real.

When she sat at her perch, he wondered if she was thinking of him. The stars reminded him of her, after all. Of the glitter in her eyes when she got excited. Of the sparkle in her smile when a particularly crazy idea came to her. Of the glow in her soul when the potential for danger made her dance with joy.

His crazy, star-filled dreamer. His Amy Pond was something special.

—

IX. Ballroom Blitz - Tia Carrere

It had been his idea to crash one of Casanova’s parties. Stupid, really. How could a man like Casanova turn down the fiery, beautiful Amy Pond? How could The Doctor have thought he wouldn’t get jealous?

It was never meant to become a fight, though. Or, scratch that. It was never meant to become Casanova chasing The Doctor around with a blade while Amy stood there laughing. “Pond, a little help, please?” he cried as he zoomed past her.

Amy threw her head back. “You started it, Doctor!” she cried. But she did finally speak up. In a way.

Grabbing him as he passed her again, she pulled him into a passionate kiss. He started to complain, but he could almost hear her thoughts. He won’t force a girl, Doctor. If I’m not interested, he’ll back off.

Behind them, The Doctor could hear Casanova stop short, his voice curt and disappointed. “It seems the lady has made her choice.”

Amy broke the embrace. “Yes. She has.”

—

X. Ready To Fall - Joey Fatone

The Doctor was in love with Amy Pond.

He supposed he’d known it since she admitted who she was back in Leadsworth.

He hadn’t really been in love with anyone since Rose, though he knew quite a few people had fallen for him since. But he didn’t think he could handle the heartbreak again, so he’d stayed back.

Falling for Amy was the stupidest thing he could have done. He couldn’t promise her anything. He couldn’t give her what she wanted. Amy was independent, strong, willful. But she was still a romantic. He knew that. And though he could love her as best as he could now, he’d have to leave her one day.

Plus, she had Rory. Oh, Rory.

But all of that faded when she walked into the console room.

She’d asked to attend Prince Charles’ and Princess Diana’s wedding. “Just to say I was there,” she said with a shy smile he’d never seen on her face before. Amy’s romantic side was showing, and who was he to deny her?

Now she stood before him in a beautiful green gown, her red hair piled on top of her head and held back with a delicate tiara. She looked very much like the royalty she’d have to pretend to be to pull off the ruse of being at the event.

“Amy…” he whispered.

She stepped up and straightened the bow tie around his neck and the lapels of his tuxedo. “Yes, Doctor?”

He lowered his lips to hers and kissed her, oh-so-softly.

He couldn’t promise her forever, but damn it, he’d try.

petrichorose: The sun was blinding as they stepped out of the...

billietennant — Mon, 30 Jul 2012 21:29:33 -0400

petrichorose:

The sun was blinding as they stepped out of the TARDIS, but it didn’t keep them from seeing the young redhead standing in front of them.

“W-where did you two come from?” she asked, eyebrow arched, but a smile playing on her lips.

The Doctor and Rose traded a look. This certainly wasn’t what they’d planned when they set the coordinates. “Uh, hullo,” Rose ventured. “I’m Rose Tyler, and this is The Doctor.”

“Nice t’meet ya,” the ginger girl said. “I’m Amy Pond. But I think I asked you where you came from, not who you are.”

The Doctor hooked a thumb at the TARDIS. “We came from in there, Amy Pond.”

“And why is there a…police box in the middle of the beach?”

Now The Doctor and Rose shared a knowing smile. “Why don’t you take a look inside?”

Amy stared at them. “I’m not going into a box that two weirdos came out of. You could be trying to kidnap me.”

Rose laughed. “Oh, I like her, Doctor.”

“Amy, we’ll stay right here. Nowhere near the TARDIS. Just…go look.”

Slowly, Amy walked past them, leaving a wide breadth between them. She carefully pushed the bright blue door open and stuck her head inside, sure to leave the rest of her body planted firmly in the sand.

“Oh… Oh, my god.”