Rating: All Ages
Word Count: 934
Author's Summary: "The most tranquil place in the universe, and you're lamenting a lack of ungulates."
Characters/Pairings: Eleven, Amy/Rory, the TARDIS
Recced because: Okay, this story was written for a prompt I left in last year's Eleventyfest fic exchange, but I'd rec it anyway, because it's as soothing and tranquil as the Eye of Orion itself. Besides, sometimes (usually Mondays), you need something soothing and tranquil. It's a deceptively simple slice-of-life piece that serves as a lovely coda for "The Doctor's Wife," in which everyone, Time Lord, companions, and TARDIS, gets a much-needed moment of peace after a difficult ordeal.
"Do not--" Amy pointed a finger at him and he stopped for a moment mid-pick, but still brought the small sprigs pinched between his fingers to the tip of his tongue. Amy grimaced, before continuing, resigned. "--put that moss in your mouth, Raggedy Man."
The Doctor chewed, spat, and flicked the rest of the moss from his fingers to the ground. "Permian age," he said, looking pointedly at Amy. "Relatively speaking. This planet's Permian age, must be." He smoothed his jacket, ignoring Amy's eyeroll.
"You can taste the time," Rory said.
"Not exactly." The Doctor waved a hand, clearly glad Rory had brought it up and trying to be nonchalant about it. "But basically . . . yes."
Amy tossed her hair. "Show-off."