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"
"He’s gotten us both killed," Amy whispered back, very softly, embracing Rory tightly. "And we died for him gladly. I still remember dying. I was so sad–not sad that I ever went with him, sad that it was over so soon. So what do we have to be afraid of now? What is there left to fear?" She pulled him down on top of her. "We chose this, Rory. Even the parts that are a bit mad. And tell me that thing isn’t turning you on even a little."
"When this is all over," Rory said, "I have the feeling I’m going to need therapy. Or guns pointed at me in order to get an erection."
Amy laughed. "We’ll end up doing it in hostage situations and on tightropes."
"Oh, baby," Rory groaned, pushing into her. They went at it for a minute or two, Rory mostly pretending not to notice the Doctor back in his seat watching and taking down data, but showing off a bit just in case, and Amy also showing off, but without the pretending.
The cockring started to beep. Rory’s rhythm halted, and his eyebrow twitched. "What does that mean?" he called back to the Doctor.
"Probably nothing. Keep going," the Doctor answered.
Rory hesitated, but at Amy’s encouragement, continued. About thirty seconds later, it began beeping more insistently.
"Is it a countdown? God, please tell me it isn’t a countdown," Rory groaned.
"Maybe it’s a metronome," Amy suggested helpfully.
Rory seemed to grudgingly take the suggestion, when it began beeping arhythmically and throwing him. "Oh, really now," he said, as the beeps increased in volume, urgency, and incoherency. "Fuck this thing," he said, stopping for a moment, then buckling as it vibrated insistently, as if objecting to the pause in action.
"Oh, for heaven’s sake," Amy said, and she pushed Rory over on the bed and straddled him. "Just hold tight, I’ll get that thing off you. Try to relax."
The cockring mostly shut up, and settled into a pleasantly resonant, subtle sort of vibration. Rory’s hands slid down her hips and settled, rubbing her clitoris with his thumb in time with her rhythm. Finally, the two were making more noise than the intrusive bit of technology, though it still let out the occasional chirp, sounding almost pleased.
And for all the complications and distractions, there really was some part of them that liked it better like this: the vague threat of death or dismemberment, and the Doctor watching in a detached but fascinated sort of way. It was that sharp tang of fear mixed with the desire to perform, a heady mix of the two forms of panic drowned in lust.
So it didn’t take them that long at all, and they screamed and grunted and yelled for all they were worth, because it was their wedding night and they could, because they were alive, and because there was no one else in the TARDIS but the three of them, so they had no reason to be discreet. With their final cries, the cockring emitted a prolonged, high-pitched tone, and opened up, falling onto the bed harmlessly. Rory tossed it across the room like it might bite him.
Afterwards, they lay breathing hard, and Amy said, "Amy two, Rory one, Doctor zero," with a coy look towards the Doctor. Still snuggled up to Rory, she held her hand out to the Doctor, saying, "Come here."
The Doctor hesitated. "I don’t know if that’s…"
"Mm, no, even if you suddenly changed your mind, I’d be too tired to do anything. Just come here a moment." She looked him in the eye searchingly. "Trust me."
So he came to her, and sat down on the bed. Amy took his hand in hers, and gave it a light squeeze. "I remember something," she said. "When Rory died," and here Rory’s embrace tightened reassuringly, "and I was starting to forget, you tried to fight it. I didn’t think about it at the time, because everything was so confusing, and that whole moment was just this big knot of sad I didn’t understand. But then later, when I woke up in the Pandorica. I just knew things. Somehow. And I don’t know how to explain it, but they felt of you. Like you’d left your fingerprints in my head."
"What are you getting at, Amy Pond?" he asked uncertainly.
"You’re a telepath."
"Yes. Is it a problem?"
Amy smiled. "Not at all. I was wondering why you don’t use it more often."
"Wouldn’t be fair, you being human and all. It’d probably be overwhelming for you."
"I’m not complaining."
"And it’s…" he hesitated, as though no word were quite right, "intimate."
"Doctor. You got a lot of data tonight, I’m sure. But does any of this tell you how Rory and I feel right now? Because it feels so good, and it’ll be gone in a few minutes. I think some things need to be experienced to be understood." She kissed his hand. "I want you to feel this. Please."
There was still a sense of reticence in him, of being afraid of getting drawn past some invisible point of no return, of making a mistake that maybe he wouldn’t be the one to pay for. So his hand shook a bit as he brushed her hair out of her face, gently resting his palm on her cheek, with his fingers splayed through her scalp.
Rory put his hand over the Doctor’s, and for a moment the Doctor looked at him as though he was afraid he’d crossed a line after all and Rory was telling him to stop, but his expression changed as he understood the true meaning of it: me too.
Their minds opened up to him: Amy’s eager, pouring every bit of pleasure and relaxation into him, making him slump happily against them on the bed; Rory’s less forceful, but nonetheless an open, unguarded invitation to share everything that was his.
When Amy tried to see if the connection ran both ways, if she could see into that eternal mystery that was the Doctor’s mind, she found it was like trying to dive in saltwater: an immense, gentle force kept pushing her back to the surface and never let her get too deep. She wasn’t even sure if it was something he did consciously to keep her out, or if she just wasn’t telepathic enough to manage it.
But she didn’t need to be telepathic to see the look of relaxation and contentment on the Doctor’s face. She felt a swell of happiness at that. Still, through the pleasant haze, she felt somehow inadequate, with her few moments of bliss set against everything the Doctor carried.
She felt him pick up that thought, but he didn’t answer it, though she thought she saw a bit of sadness on his face that wasn’t there a moment before–although really that was always there, just around the edges, something that could only be seen out of the corner of one’s eye, and maybe she was imagining it now anyway.
Sleep pulled at her, both in her afterglow and the echoes of Rory’s, an elemental, irresistible force like being dragged into the wake of something massive, enveloped by it. Amy fought it halfheartedly, keeping her eyes open to monitor the Doctor, to see if he felt that same pull, if he would spend a night in their dreams. She wanted him to, very much. She had no idea how much sleep he got, but felt somehow sure it wasn’t enough, and didn’t envy him his dreams, whatever they were. Sleep was a pleasure of the body too, and a more pressing one than even sex. Nonverbally, she felt an agreement on this from Rory–it was their job to look after the Doctor, to make sure he slept, to make sure he smiled sometimes. In a sense, they were more his custodians than he was theirs.
Before she succumbed, she saw his eyelids droop, and felt a sense of victory, even though she knew he wouldn’t be there in the morning.
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