carmen_lj | fic: the latest one

Title: The Latest One
Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating: G
Characters: Eleven, Amy
Summary: "Saving the world in your nightie. That’s a new one. A good one, but definitely a new one." (Or, one of those post-ep fics where they muck about in the TARDIS for a bit.)
Spoilers: For season five eps so far.

The Latest One

“Saving the world in your nightie. That’s a new one. A good one, but definitely a new one. I did stop an invasion in my pyjamas once, but never a nightie. You might want to put on some clothes before we land this time though.”

“Right,” says Amy, trying to follow the Doctor’s movements around the console. There’re so many buttons and levers and they’re just begging to be pushed or prodded. “Churchill. Winston Churchill. Can’t meet him in my nightie, obviously. And I can’t blow up your ship if I accidently press anything, can I?”

“That’s right,” says the Doctor. He inserts himself between Amy and the console. “And, yes, but it would take an awful lot of button pressing and in exactly the right order. Please don’t try to work it out, she’s only just rebuilt.”

Amy looks up at him. “He’s the Prime Minster,” she says.

“I know.”

“He’s dead.”

The Doctor stares at her. “Oh, Amy.”

“Does that happen a lot? Prime Ministers just calling you up like that?”

“On occasion. There was a bit of a, well, never mind, ages ago now. Though by the 21st century all they seem to remember is this one little time when I blew up 10 Downing Street.”

“You what?”

“It was in a very good cause.”

“Saving the world?”

The Doctor shrugs a nonchalant shrug and manages not to look the least bit modest.

“Clothes,” says Amy. She pulls her robe closed and looks down at her feet. “And shoes.”

“Wardrobe,” he tells her. “Shall I show you, or would you like to explore?”

“How long’s it going to take to get to London...Earth...wherever Churchill is?”

“Depends on her mood.” He runs one hand over a console panel in an alarmingly sensual manner. “I’m sure she’ll give you enough time to get changed.”

“Right.” She turns away, turns back and he’s watching her and she rolls her eyes. “Directions?”

“Ah, yes! Of course.” He explains to her how to reach the wardrobe room. She stares at him for several seconds before she realises he isn’t joking.

“Yeah,” she says, “there’s no way I’m going to remember all that.”

-

“Here we are,” says the Doctor. “See, it wasn’t that difficult, was it?” He opens the door. On the other side a deluge of water is rushing towards them. The next moment, they’re engulfed.

At least it’s not sick, Amy thinks. She kicks her legs and struggles to swim up. The current’s strong but not overwhelming and after a couple of determined strokes she breaks the surface and gasps in great breathes of air. A moment later, the Doctor joins her. “Well,” he says, soaked and grinning, looking equal parts absurd and wonderful, “seems we’ve found the swimming pool.”

“This isn’t a swimming pool, it’s a river! What’s a river doing in your spaceship?”

“I have no idea. Maybe there’s something wrong with the plumbing.”

It’s easy to stay afloat and let the current carry them along, and the Doctor seems quite content to let it. He’s lying on his back, hands clasped over his stomach, thumbs twiddling. Amy pokes his side and he turns to look at her, expression serene.

“Where are we going?” she asks.

He frowns, and purses his lips. “Down,” he says. “Definitely down. Are you getting cold? I’m cold.”

-

Amy’s wrapped up in several very large, very warm towels and when the Doctor comes back, he’s carrying two mugs of cocoa.

“All those faces that we saw back in Leadworth, on the hospital roof...they were all yours?” Amy asks. She sips at the cocoa.

“Yes,” he says. “Once upon a time.”

“Better looking than a frog.”

The Doctor puts down his cocoa and clasps his hands in front of him. He meets her eyes with a level gaze. “I’m not a prince.”

“Prisoner Zero called you a Time Lord.”

“Lord, yes. Not a prince.”

She looks at the floor. “This is a very odd castle.”

“I’m a very odd lord.”

“No wonder you got along so well with the Royal family.”

“Ah, now about what Liz said...not all of that was, precisely speaking, the truth.”

“Which bits?”

“The embarrassing bits.”

“Are true?”

“Are lies! Scurrilous lies.” He grabs the cocoa, downs it and wipes his mouth clean with the back of his sleeve. Amy screws up her nose.

“Charming.”

“Very,” he insists.

-

When they do, eventually, find the wardrobe room, the Doctor has to admit it’s not where he thought it was. “It happens,” he says.

“What, rooms rearranging themselves?”

“Yes. She gets bored or annoyed. Or confused.” He drops his voice to a whisper. “Sometimes she gets very confused. I mean I love her, but on the odd occasion I do wonder if there’s a diode loose somewhere.” The lights dip and the Doctor coughs loudly.

“So how did you know all those directions you gave me were the right ones?” Amy asks.

“Instinct,” he says. “And practice. Centuries of practice. How about a parasol?” He picks one out of a great oak cupboard, half its contents spilling over the floor, and twirls it round his wrists. “No? It’s got little frills.”

“I don’t like frills.”

“Ribbons?”

“No.”

“Heels?” There’s an edge to his voice this time.

Amy peers around a fluffy white monstrosity of a coat and narrows her eyes. “Why? What’s wrong with heels?”

He steps towards her, then speaks as if he’s imparting a great secret: “Tend to make running difficult.”

She matches his tone: “You do a lot of running, I’ve noticed.”

“How strong are your ankles?”

“Very.”

“Good.”

She’s off down another aisle of clothes and he follows. “Travel with a lot of Victorians?” she calls.

“Just the one. But she did like her dresses.”

“Scots?”

“Yes! How about a kilt?”

“I’d rather be strangled by a sheep’s entrails,” she says sweetly.

“I used to be Scottish,” he says.

She turns to look at him. “Say loch.”

“Loch.”

“Hmm.”

He skips up to join her. “What does that mean? What do you mean hmm?”

She smiles, stays silent.

-

Eventually, she’s dressed.

“Red! Excellent choice.”

Amy looks at him suspiciously. “What’s wrong with red?”

“Nothing. It’s a good colour. Very bright. Very noticeable. Very helpful if you get into any trouble.”

“If I get into trouble? I’m not the one who left an alien in someone else’s house for twelve years! Or the one who dropped us into the mouth of a whacking great space whale, am I?”

“Exactly,” says the Doctor. “Which means it’s all the more likely it’s going to be entirely your fault this time.”

“I’m not sure that’s how probability works. Besides, it’s not like we’re going to the front lines; we’re going to see the Prime Minister. What could possibly go wrong?”

“Aha!” The Doctor spins and points a finger alarmingly close to her eyes. “There, see, that’s done it. Now something is definitely going to happen. Something terrible, or dangerous. Something interesting, anyway. Ready, Pond?” He looks up at the ceiling. “I do believe we’ve landed.”