Amy (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
such_heights) wrote2010-06-07 01:33 am
such_heights) wrote2010-06-07 01:33 am
Entry tags:
fic: the sound of silence (doctor who; eleven/amy/vincent; for kink_bingo)
The Sound of Silence
Doctor Who ; Eleven/Amy/Vincent ; PG-13 ; spoilers through 5x10 ; for the 'silence' square on my![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kink_bingo card.
The silence makes it easy, somehow.
The quiet's glorious, Amy thinks, as she stares up at the night sky. She's aware of everything in the silence: the tickle of cold grass at the back of her neck, the breeze moving over her legs, and the sounds of the Doctor and Vincent breathing, their hands tight in hers.
Her own breath stutters, uneven, in her throat. The world's alive with colour and magic, and she can feel every particle of it on her skin. She turns her head from the overwhelming sight of the stars, back to earth, to where Vincent's fingers are laced between her own.
There are so many things she wants to say to him. She wants to tell him about how she'd found a book full of his paintings in her primary school library, and that she hadn't really understood them but they'd inspired her to save up to buy paint and paper, with the money her aunt sometimes gave her in erratic bouts of kindness.
She'd painted the things she saw around her - her room, the garden, the village. She also painted the things she saw only in dreams, landscapes of her and the Doctor, in fantastic lands where the sky went on for miles and the sun never set. She remembers doing a project on his work when she was thirteen, and all the sadness she'd felt when she first read the story of his life. She hadn't understood how someone who made such beautiful things could be so unloved.
She's always loved Van Gogh, in that pure, devoted way that we all love our childhood heroes. It's the way she loved the Doctor, too. And now that love is changing, moving its fixed point from an artist to a person, Vincent. A beautiful and broken person who can now be more real to her than all the images of his motionless face she'd pored over, years ago.
Her gaze moves from his hand, still linked with hers, to his face. He's watching her, a small smile on his face. He opens his mouth to speak, but she shakes her head. Still holding his hand in hers, she moves to rest her finger against his mouth, silencing him. He nods, just a little. She disentangles their hands and shifts, reaching out to rest her palm against his cheek. She strokes the pad of her thumb along the soft skin under his cheekbone, her eyes wide with wonder.
She hears his breathing growing a little shallow, and she can feel the way her own breath has become ragged in her chest. The space between them is thick with silence and cold air. Amy moves to fill it, leaning over to kiss him, the way she's been wanting to since they got here, not letting go of the Doctor's hand.
Vincent laughs delight into her mouth and cups her face. She can feel the still-drying paint on his fingers tint her skin, like she's his latest work of art. His kiss is roughness and tenderness mixed up together, both wanting and questioning. She deepens the kiss, losing herself in the taste and smell and feel of him.
She can't remember the last time she kissed someone like this, slow and lazy. It's not a performance for a crowd, a stag night or a 21st, and it's not a fierce crush of mouths that only serves as a prelude to sex, quick and almost enough. Intimacy's not a word she's ever had much use for before.
She breaks the kiss gently, and turns to look at the Doctor. She can't forget him, not with his hand in hers, pulsing with the promise of the universe. He's barely moved, but he's watching them, something solemn in his expression that she's afraid to understand.
The silence makes it easy, somehow. Even the Doctor understands not to say a word, and he answers the unspoken question in her eyes by squeezing her hand a little tighter. She glances at Vincent, and they both move, curling around the Doctor. She rests a hand over his chest, feeling the beat of one of his hearts, and motions to Vincent to do the same.
The Doctor looks fragile as he turns to her, and she kisses him in reply. She starts at his cheek, the corner of his mouth, a scattering of light touches until he responds, tangling his fingers in her hair and kissing her with a depth of feeling that startles her even as she replies in kind. She reaches out to capture Vincent's hand again, and brings it to rest by her collarbone, warm in the space between the Doctor and her.
The Doctor arches up, a long, lean curve, and Amy pushes the jacket from his shoulders, her hands running down the firm lines of his back. The Doctor curls his fingers around the nape of Vincent's neck and draws him in for a kiss of his own. Amy watches them, aching with a slow-burning want as she listens to the soft, wet noises their mouths make as they slide together. She can hear every hitch in Vincent's breathing, the sound of the Doctor's fingers grasping at the loose fabric of Vincent's shirt.
She shrugs off her coat, unwinding her scarf and laying it aside carelessly as they both reach to draw her in. Buttons and fastenings come undone through fluid motion of hands and limbs, and soon their bodies are covered by nothing but moonlight and shadows. They lie together, entangled in the grass, touching each other but only to feel, to be held, no further action in mind.
Amy traces out the patterns of freckles across Vincent's chest while the Doctor mouths kisses along her shoulders, and she wonders how she could have thought it was quiet here. She can hear the wind high above, the rustle of owls in the treetops and the whispering of small animals in the grass. When she listens carefully, she can hear water running, and a sound that she imagines is the sound of nature herself, always growing and changing and breathing. It's the world the way Vincent sees it, she thinks, as if he can pass on his visions through touch alone.
They spend the rest of the night like that, entangled and quiet and mesmerised by the stars above. Amy drifts in and out of sleep, but it becomes hard to tell the difference between dreams and the waking world, or which is more improbably wonderful.
In the morning, the sun rises over three lovers, three sets of hands entwined, and three sleeping faces, with matching smiles that say they have learned some new secret of the universe.
Doctor Who ; Eleven/Amy/Vincent ; PG-13 ; spoilers through 5x10 ; for the 'silence' square on my
kink_bingo card.The silence makes it easy, somehow.
The quiet's glorious, Amy thinks, as she stares up at the night sky. She's aware of everything in the silence: the tickle of cold grass at the back of her neck, the breeze moving over her legs, and the sounds of the Doctor and Vincent breathing, their hands tight in hers.
Her own breath stutters, uneven, in her throat. The world's alive with colour and magic, and she can feel every particle of it on her skin. She turns her head from the overwhelming sight of the stars, back to earth, to where Vincent's fingers are laced between her own.
There are so many things she wants to say to him. She wants to tell him about how she'd found a book full of his paintings in her primary school library, and that she hadn't really understood them but they'd inspired her to save up to buy paint and paper, with the money her aunt sometimes gave her in erratic bouts of kindness.
She'd painted the things she saw around her - her room, the garden, the village. She also painted the things she saw only in dreams, landscapes of her and the Doctor, in fantastic lands where the sky went on for miles and the sun never set. She remembers doing a project on his work when she was thirteen, and all the sadness she'd felt when she first read the story of his life. She hadn't understood how someone who made such beautiful things could be so unloved.
She's always loved Van Gogh, in that pure, devoted way that we all love our childhood heroes. It's the way she loved the Doctor, too. And now that love is changing, moving its fixed point from an artist to a person, Vincent. A beautiful and broken person who can now be more real to her than all the images of his motionless face she'd pored over, years ago.
Her gaze moves from his hand, still linked with hers, to his face. He's watching her, a small smile on his face. He opens his mouth to speak, but she shakes her head. Still holding his hand in hers, she moves to rest her finger against his mouth, silencing him. He nods, just a little. She disentangles their hands and shifts, reaching out to rest her palm against his cheek. She strokes the pad of her thumb along the soft skin under his cheekbone, her eyes wide with wonder.
She hears his breathing growing a little shallow, and she can feel the way her own breath has become ragged in her chest. The space between them is thick with silence and cold air. Amy moves to fill it, leaning over to kiss him, the way she's been wanting to since they got here, not letting go of the Doctor's hand.
Vincent laughs delight into her mouth and cups her face. She can feel the still-drying paint on his fingers tint her skin, like she's his latest work of art. His kiss is roughness and tenderness mixed up together, both wanting and questioning. She deepens the kiss, losing herself in the taste and smell and feel of him.
She can't remember the last time she kissed someone like this, slow and lazy. It's not a performance for a crowd, a stag night or a 21st, and it's not a fierce crush of mouths that only serves as a prelude to sex, quick and almost enough. Intimacy's not a word she's ever had much use for before.
She breaks the kiss gently, and turns to look at the Doctor. She can't forget him, not with his hand in hers, pulsing with the promise of the universe. He's barely moved, but he's watching them, something solemn in his expression that she's afraid to understand.
The silence makes it easy, somehow. Even the Doctor understands not to say a word, and he answers the unspoken question in her eyes by squeezing her hand a little tighter. She glances at Vincent, and they both move, curling around the Doctor. She rests a hand over his chest, feeling the beat of one of his hearts, and motions to Vincent to do the same.
The Doctor looks fragile as he turns to her, and she kisses him in reply. She starts at his cheek, the corner of his mouth, a scattering of light touches until he responds, tangling his fingers in her hair and kissing her with a depth of feeling that startles her even as she replies in kind. She reaches out to capture Vincent's hand again, and brings it to rest by her collarbone, warm in the space between the Doctor and her.
The Doctor arches up, a long, lean curve, and Amy pushes the jacket from his shoulders, her hands running down the firm lines of his back. The Doctor curls his fingers around the nape of Vincent's neck and draws him in for a kiss of his own. Amy watches them, aching with a slow-burning want as she listens to the soft, wet noises their mouths make as they slide together. She can hear every hitch in Vincent's breathing, the sound of the Doctor's fingers grasping at the loose fabric of Vincent's shirt.
She shrugs off her coat, unwinding her scarf and laying it aside carelessly as they both reach to draw her in. Buttons and fastenings come undone through fluid motion of hands and limbs, and soon their bodies are covered by nothing but moonlight and shadows. They lie together, entangled in the grass, touching each other but only to feel, to be held, no further action in mind.
Amy traces out the patterns of freckles across Vincent's chest while the Doctor mouths kisses along her shoulders, and she wonders how she could have thought it was quiet here. She can hear the wind high above, the rustle of owls in the treetops and the whispering of small animals in the grass. When she listens carefully, she can hear water running, and a sound that she imagines is the sound of nature herself, always growing and changing and breathing. It's the world the way Vincent sees it, she thinks, as if he can pass on his visions through touch alone.
They spend the rest of the night like that, entangled and quiet and mesmerised by the stars above. Amy drifts in and out of sleep, but it becomes hard to tell the difference between dreams and the waking world, or which is more improbably wonderful.
In the morning, the sun rises over three lovers, three sets of hands entwined, and three sleeping faces, with matching smiles that say they have learned some new secret of the universe.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Page 1 of 2