That kind of week
Jun. 29th, 2010 09:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ladymercury_10Title: That kind of week
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: Eleven, Amy, Rory
Word Count: 976
Rating: G
Disclaimer: I own no Who, as usual.
Summary: The Doctor is suitably impressed. Although he has many reasons for not sharing this with Rory, the main one is that exactly five seconds later he’s doubled over in a fit, clutching his belly while Amy wipes the blood from his lips. Post "Vampires of Venice"
When he drops the screwdriver it rolls swiftly under the refrigerator. Just out of reach. He tries poking his foot under to roll it out again, but his shoelace gets caught and he nearly lands flat on his back. Only with a truly preposterous amount of arm flailing does he manage to keep his balance. He ducks down to pry it out and is seized with a coughing fit. He’s been just a bit under the weather since Venice, but it’s nothing that can’t take care of itself. He sits back on his heels, leaning an arm on the door for support and coughing enthusiastically.
Blood, though, he wasn’t expecting.
(He thinks there’s a pun in there somewhere–something to do with expectorants.)
It’s been that kind of week.
The wiring in the door, now that was a surprise. The sixteenth century isn’t exactly known for its use of electricity. Hadn’t even thought about that. He’d stumbled into a railing and slid down the stairs, reeling from the shock he got, lay blinking at the stars that spun around Rory’s face. (There are puns everywhere, he swears he can smell them.)
Painful as all get out, but invigorating.
Then there were the bells. They’d been pealing so loud it caused him actual pain. Took a swing on a clapper just to shut them up. His ears are still ringing.
Venetian vampires, though. He’d had a good romp, seen Amy and Rory make up again. Has them both in the TARDIS now to keep him company. Not a bad week, not at all. But now there’s this blood, and he really doesn’t know what to make of it.
“Oh, Doctor. I hate to say it, but I think you’ve a touch of pneumonia,” Amy says.
“That’s absurd. Time Lord physiology is different,” he harrumphs, stifling another cough.
“I know. But you can’t get all soaked through in the rain and not change into something dry after and still expect your body to be pleased with you no matter what planet you’re from.”
“Pond, I have been to dozens, hundreds, maybe thousands of planets, I’ve been ‘soaked through’ more times that I could possibly count, and never, not once, have I ever caught anything remotely resembling pneumonia. That is a human,” he coughs, “a thoroughly human,” coughs again, “disease.”
Coughs again.
Amy thumps his back and smiles knowingly. “I’ll get Rory.”
He opens his mouth to protest but thinks better of it. Rubs his sore chest and glowers after her instead.
The Doctor is an awful patient. He makes both Amy and Rory frown uncomfortably at the wisecracks he makes when he’s told to remove his shirt and jacket. Literally jumps when Rory places the cold stethoscope on his back. Sighs exaggeratedly (nearly triggering another fit) when asked to breathe deeply.
“We done yet?” He reaches towards his pile of clothes.
“Give me that screwdriver-y thing,” says Rory.
“What? Why?” The Doctor works up the buttons of his shirt with one hand and places the other over his jacket protectively.
“I don’t suppose you have an x-ray machine in here, and the blasted thing can do everything else.”
The Doctor narrows his eyes. “Clever,” he murmurs, not entirely uncomplimentary. Taps a few buttons, gives the whole thing a twist and hands it over. “Careful, now.”
Rory points the screwdriver at his chest, bathing it in a bright green light. “Take a deep breath.”
The Doctor lets his hand fall from his shirt placket, inhales obligingly. He’s starting to feel a bit dizzy, wobble a bit. Amy links her arm in his and he relaxes against her.
A long moment passes. Rory’s frowning right through his chest. “I’m no radiologist, but I can tell you what fluid in the lungs looks like, and it looks like,” he waves the screwdriver about like some kind of flashlight-cum-medical scanner, finally pointing it at a patch of the Doctor’s lung, “that.”
The Doctor is suitably impressed. Although he has many reasons for not sharing this with Rory, the main one is that exactly five seconds later he’s doubled over in a fit, clutching his belly while Amy wipes the blood from his lips.
When he can sit up again, Rory’s standing in front of him with his arms crossed. “Yeah, definitely pneumonia.”
He hasn’t slept in this bed since before his last regeneration. Amy sets a glass of water on the bedpost and folds two pills into his hand.
“No aspirin,” he protests weakly.
“No aspirin,” she agrees, kissing him on the forehead. “Rory found it in the cupboard. Says it looks like it’ll help, short of stopping off at the chemist's.”
He opens his hand and squints at the tablets. “Pan-species antibiotic. Yeah, it’ll do. Clever boy.” Pops them into his mouth and drinks the whole glass down.
“You want me to get you anything? Soup? Tea? A book?”
His eyes are already shut and he just shakes his head. “No…yes. Tea. Later.” His hand fumbles about until it reaches hers, and she takes it. “G’night, Pond.”
“Sleep well, Doctor.” She gives his hand a squeeze and goes to join Rory, who’s waiting in the doorway.
He’s running a fever and starting to feel a bit shaky. The racking cough has left him pains in his chest, in the pit of his stomach, and he’s more than just a little under the weather, but he knows it’s nothing like to do him in. Never had pneumonia before, and it’s just the sort of adventure for which he needs to save his strength. He eases into the pillows and drops right off to sleep.
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: Eleven, Amy, Rory
Word Count: 976
Rating: G
Disclaimer: I own no Who, as usual.
Summary: The Doctor is suitably impressed. Although he has many reasons for not sharing this with Rory, the main one is that exactly five seconds later he’s doubled over in a fit, clutching his belly while Amy wipes the blood from his lips. Post "Vampires of Venice"
When he drops the screwdriver it rolls swiftly under the refrigerator. Just out of reach. He tries poking his foot under to roll it out again, but his shoelace gets caught and he nearly lands flat on his back. Only with a truly preposterous amount of arm flailing does he manage to keep his balance. He ducks down to pry it out and is seized with a coughing fit. He’s been just a bit under the weather since Venice, but it’s nothing that can’t take care of itself. He sits back on his heels, leaning an arm on the door for support and coughing enthusiastically.
Blood, though, he wasn’t expecting.
(He thinks there’s a pun in there somewhere–something to do with expectorants.)
It’s been that kind of week.
The wiring in the door, now that was a surprise. The sixteenth century isn’t exactly known for its use of electricity. Hadn’t even thought about that. He’d stumbled into a railing and slid down the stairs, reeling from the shock he got, lay blinking at the stars that spun around Rory’s face. (There are puns everywhere, he swears he can smell them.)
Painful as all get out, but invigorating.
Then there were the bells. They’d been pealing so loud it caused him actual pain. Took a swing on a clapper just to shut them up. His ears are still ringing.
Venetian vampires, though. He’d had a good romp, seen Amy and Rory make up again. Has them both in the TARDIS now to keep him company. Not a bad week, not at all. But now there’s this blood, and he really doesn’t know what to make of it.
“Oh, Doctor. I hate to say it, but I think you’ve a touch of pneumonia,” Amy says.
“That’s absurd. Time Lord physiology is different,” he harrumphs, stifling another cough.
“I know. But you can’t get all soaked through in the rain and not change into something dry after and still expect your body to be pleased with you no matter what planet you’re from.”
“Pond, I have been to dozens, hundreds, maybe thousands of planets, I’ve been ‘soaked through’ more times that I could possibly count, and never, not once, have I ever caught anything remotely resembling pneumonia. That is a human,” he coughs, “a thoroughly human,” coughs again, “disease.”
Coughs again.
Amy thumps his back and smiles knowingly. “I’ll get Rory.”
He opens his mouth to protest but thinks better of it. Rubs his sore chest and glowers after her instead.
The Doctor is an awful patient. He makes both Amy and Rory frown uncomfortably at the wisecracks he makes when he’s told to remove his shirt and jacket. Literally jumps when Rory places the cold stethoscope on his back. Sighs exaggeratedly (nearly triggering another fit) when asked to breathe deeply.
“We done yet?” He reaches towards his pile of clothes.
“Give me that screwdriver-y thing,” says Rory.
“What? Why?” The Doctor works up the buttons of his shirt with one hand and places the other over his jacket protectively.
“I don’t suppose you have an x-ray machine in here, and the blasted thing can do everything else.”
The Doctor narrows his eyes. “Clever,” he murmurs, not entirely uncomplimentary. Taps a few buttons, gives the whole thing a twist and hands it over. “Careful, now.”
Rory points the screwdriver at his chest, bathing it in a bright green light. “Take a deep breath.”
The Doctor lets his hand fall from his shirt placket, inhales obligingly. He’s starting to feel a bit dizzy, wobble a bit. Amy links her arm in his and he relaxes against her.
A long moment passes. Rory’s frowning right through his chest. “I’m no radiologist, but I can tell you what fluid in the lungs looks like, and it looks like,” he waves the screwdriver about like some kind of flashlight-cum-medical scanner, finally pointing it at a patch of the Doctor’s lung, “that.”
The Doctor is suitably impressed. Although he has many reasons for not sharing this with Rory, the main one is that exactly five seconds later he’s doubled over in a fit, clutching his belly while Amy wipes the blood from his lips.
When he can sit up again, Rory’s standing in front of him with his arms crossed. “Yeah, definitely pneumonia.”
He hasn’t slept in this bed since before his last regeneration. Amy sets a glass of water on the bedpost and folds two pills into his hand.
“No aspirin,” he protests weakly.
“No aspirin,” she agrees, kissing him on the forehead. “Rory found it in the cupboard. Says it looks like it’ll help, short of stopping off at the chemist's.”
He opens his hand and squints at the tablets. “Pan-species antibiotic. Yeah, it’ll do. Clever boy.” Pops them into his mouth and drinks the whole glass down.
“You want me to get you anything? Soup? Tea? A book?”
His eyes are already shut and he just shakes his head. “No…yes. Tea. Later.” His hand fumbles about until it reaches hers, and she takes it. “G’night, Pond.”
“Sleep well, Doctor.” She gives his hand a squeeze and goes to join Rory, who’s waiting in the doorway.
He’s running a fever and starting to feel a bit shaky. The racking cough has left him pains in his chest, in the pit of his stomach, and he’s more than just a little under the weather, but he knows it’s nothing like to do him in. Never had pneumonia before, and it’s just the sort of adventure for which he needs to save his strength. He eases into the pillows and drops right off to sleep.
