In the Afterlight

by Kass

Deep thanks are due to kouredios for watching with me, talking with me, and reading this story for me! Sanj gave this one a read, too; thank you, hon. Inspired, in part, by this picspam: Previously, On Doctor Who. Title borrowed from Robyn Hitchcock; thanks, Robyn.


The first time, it's pretty clearly a mistake. Or at least Amy thinks it's a mistake? She and Rory are occupied. More specifically, he's leaning against the wall and she's leaning against him, and they're kissing, slow and languid.

And then the door opens.

"Brilliant," the Doctor effuses, "I've just found the most -- oh!"

Amy can hear the surprise in his voice. Rory stiffens beneath her, and not in the good way.

"Do you mind," she calls, without turning around, and then starts kissing Rory again.

"Mind?" The Doctor sounds puzzled. "Of course I don't mind. You're both over the age of majority in any jurisdiction that matters; consenting adults; for that matter, married, if memory serves --"

Amy breaks the kiss again. "Close the door!" she yells, and there's a moment's pause during which she can picture the exact startled face the Doctor must be wearing, and then the door closes.

"That's better," she says. "Where were we?"

If there's a faint imprint of the Doctor's voice and presence on the rest of their lovemaking that day, they both have the good sense not to mention it.


Rory is lying flat on his back, Amy kneeling over him, tossing her hair out of the way as a prelude to better things to come.

"There you are," the Doctor says brightly as he opens the door to their room.

"bit busy," Rory groans, throwing one arm up over his eyes as though to shield himself, and Amy swallows a giggle.

"Right," the Doctor agrees, and departs.

"Sorry," Amy offers, shrugging, and gets back to it.


This time they are right in the middle of things, Rory kneeling behind Amy who is quite enjoying being on hands and knees.

She doesn't think she oriented them toward the door on purpose, but she isn't surprised when the door swings open, revealing the Doctor carrying a bottle in one hand and three thin flute glasses in the other.

"Sorry," says the Doctor, his high cheekbones pinking, and backs away so quickly she's surprised he doesn't drop any glassware.


The next few times they fool around she feels faintly as though she's waiting for something which never happens. Not her orgasm; those are pretty much a given. But it feels as though something indefinable is missing.

A week goes by before she realizes: she's waiting for the Doctor to walk in again.

She'd been starting to anticipate the interruption. Thinking in terms of tableaux, choreographing their sex to ensure the most spectacular possible visual, and then their audience disappeared. She ought to be relieved, not oddly disappointed.

Though that's not all that's bothering her. Something doesn't make sense. Yes, the TARDIS changes shape to suit her own ineffable whims, but surely the Doctor knows his way around her aeries and corridors better than this string of interruptions would suggest. Which implies that he'd been bursting in on them on purpose.

If that's true, then why did he stop? And as she turns it over in her mind, she realizes the real question might be, why does she care? Why is her reaction to the Doctor's ostensibly accidental voyeurism a desire to give him an even more smashing show?

And if he wants what she increasingly suspects he wants, why doesn't he just ask?


Does he think about them? Does he dwell on what he saw, what they have?

He must have had lovers. And if they were human, they're long gone. For that matter, if they were Time Lords, that might be even worse.

Is that why he keeps his distance?

No use asking; Amy knows the Doctor well enough for that. But it doesn't stop her wanting to know.


"You know," she begins, "he hasn't walked in on us in a while."

She's a bit breathless, which seems entirely fair when Rory is nibbling his way up her inner thigh. He looks up, briefly, then returns to the task at hand. Single-minded dedication: one of the things she loves best about Rory, and it serves them well in bed, too.

But she can't not say this, now that it's been percolating in her head. "Don't you wonder--"

Rory lifts his head. "I don't," he says, "but obviously you do."

Amy isn't sure how to broach this one, and she has the sneaking feeling she's going about it all wrong, so she starts over. "Did you ever fool around with blokes?"

To his credit, Rory doesn't blanch, doesn't protest, just places a tiny kiss at the top of her inner thigh. "A bit."

"Did you like it?"

He licks a line against her skin, then bites gently. Amy shivers. "Wasn't bad," he says. "I mean, it was just..."

"Just the odd handjob between friends?" Amy hazards, wondering despite herself which of Rory's friends -- which of their friends, from the life they knew before -- might have been involved.

Or maybe it was during his lifetime as an auton. Though she doesn't have the sense he strayed far from the pandorica. Still, surely he wasn't celibate for two thousand years? She's never wanted to ask.

"More or less." He runs his hands up from her knees to her inner thighs, holding her in place. "Why do I think I know where this is going?"

"Because you've known me for a long time?" Amy offers.

"Just -- tell me you weren't with him. Before."

"What?" Amy's genuinely horrified. "Rory, no! You know I wouldn't--"

"I couldn't blame you."

"I said no," Amy says, stubbornly. Because it's true. They weren't. They hadn't. "And if this is going to upset you--"

"This had better not be because you think he's better-looking than me." The words are teasing, but is she imagining the note of worry beneath them?

"No," Amy says firmly. "Look, you're neither of you hard on the eyes, but that's not the point."

"Hm," Rory says, and bends to mouth at her skin again. Amy shivers.

"Don't you get the sense he's lonely?" she asks, her voice going a bit breathless as he finally puts his mouth where she wants it. "I mean, he's the only one left."

Rory doesn't answer, and soon she's too distracted to press the question.

Afterwards, as they lie spooned, he presses his lips to her hair and murmurs "yes."


"You ask him," Amy says.

"Why does it have to be me?" Rory protests.

"Because if I ask he's going to say no." Amy can't explain why, but she's convinced that it's true.

They find the Doctor fiddling with the TARDIS, twining wires together and crooning to her almost too softly for Amy to hear. She watches his quick fingers and wonders whether she's about to become intimately acquainted with them.

"So," Rory says, and then stops, obviously at a loss.

"Hm?" The Doctor looks up, notices them, closes the compartment he was working in. He stands up and leans against the wall, waiting.

"We have a bit of a proposition for you," Rory manages. His face is endearingly flushed -- it makes Amy want to kiss him silly -- but he isn't backing down.

"Oh?" The Doctor sounds genuinely curious. Can he really not know? For someone so wise, he can be surprisingly clueless.

There's a long pause before Rory shrugs to Amy in what looks like apology, and moves in to press the Doctor against the wall. For the first instant Amy wonders whether the Doctor is going to fight it, but after a tense moment his arms come up to hold Rory in place. They kiss for a long time. Amy can hear her own breathing in the silence of the room. Her own breathing, and the little sounds their bodies make as they touch.

When they break, the Doctor pushes Rory back, gently. His lips are reddened and his hair is mussed. "Rory?" His voice is quiet, more tentative than usual. He's looking for an explanation.

"It's an invitation," Amy says. She's surprised by how hard her heart is hammering now. She's thought about this maybe ten thousand times, and she never imagined being this scared, but she does her best not to show it.

"If you want to join us," Rory adds. His hand on her shoulderblade is a comfort; she leans into it gratefully.

"If I want," the Doctor repeats, looking from Rory to Amy. His gaze is intent and it makes her insides curl. "Yes," he says -- his voice lowering -- "I do want. Very much."

Amy takes a breath, but before she can say anything, the Doctor composes his face in a rueful smile.

"But it's really not a good idea," he says, brisk and jaunty. She can see him buttoning himself back up again, retreating into some whimsical new idea which will keep them at arms' length. Again.

"Since when do you let that stop you?" The words burst out of her before she can consider them. The Doctor stares at her, his face startled. He expected them to make the offer and just give up? That's a bit insulting, really. Who exactly does he take them for?

"Point," the Doctor concedes, and after a long pause (Amy holds her breath) he grins, incandescent. "All right! Let's do this!" And strides off down the hall.

"...wait, where are you going?" Amy's confused, and a bit piqued. Where's her kiss?

"This way," the Doctor calls back over his shoulder.

Rory shrugs and follows. Amy resists the temptation to roll her eyes (who would see?) and follows, too.


The room is just large enough to hold an enormous bed. The walls are draped in red brocade; it looks like a brothel from a classic American Western.

"Oh my God," Amy breathes. "This is--" Ridiculous? Obscene? Was this room even here, before, or did the TARDIS create it just for this moment?

The Doctor flings himself bodily into the center of the bed, arms and legs akimbo. He bounces slightly as he lands. It's endearingly ungainly.

Rory, never one to be left behind, follows suit, landing beside him. Amy climbs on beside the Doctor, and as she lies down, he cradles her head in his cool hands and finally -- finally! -- she gets her kiss.

Slow, tender, full of yearning. This is nothing at all like the hasty, ill-conceived peck she planted on him just that one time, impossibly long ago.

When the Doctor breaks the kiss, gasping, she sees that Rory is biting the back of his neck. The Doctor tilts his head, exposing more neck and shivering lightly, and she can't help giving Rory a wicked grin before moving to unfasten the Doctor's bow tie.

Figures that his neck would be an erogenous zone. She should have thought of that. She's never going to be able to look at that tie the same way again.


Rory on his hands and knees, the Doctor behind him, both of them shuddering, Amy sliding two fingers inside herself because she can't help it.

Amy pillowed in Rory's arms, the Doctor between her spread legs. How he quirks one eyebrow, looking smug, and then bends to her.

The Doctor gasping, Amy on top setting their rhythm, Rory lying beside them and murmuring quiet filthy encouragement that just inflames her more.


Her eyes are closed and she's grinning up at the ceiling, surrounded by the embrace of naked man. Men.

"That was--" Rory's voice on her left is full of admiration. "That thing you did," he adds, "with your hands....?"

"One does pick up a skill or two," the Doctor says beside her right ear, pretending to be blasé.

Amy can feel the blush rising across her too-communicative skin.

"Might have to teach me that one," Rory says.

"With pleasure," the Doctor agrees.

"Shut it, you two," Amy grumbles, turning onto her right side and pushing the Doctor a bit until she can lie with her head pillowed on his chest. She's still not used to the coolness of his body; even this feels strange and new. Warm Rory spoons behind her and presses a tiny kiss between her shoulder blades. She relaxes, for this one moment incomprehensibly happy.

Beneath her ear, the Doctor's two hearts beat in counterpoint, combining with the rhythm of Rory's breathing into a rhythmic oscillation which builds and falls, cradling her, taking her wherever she wants to go.

The End