Chapter 1: Six
"Jamie, what in Rassilon's name are you doing?"
The Doctor doesn't get a proper response for this, although he dearly wanted one - all he receives is a brief snort as if to say, 'You know very well.'
"Jamie." The Doctor stares forward as he feels Jamie's hands holding his hips tighter, feels the warmwet of a tongue tasting the spot behind his right earlobe. His cheeks begin to burn. "Jamie."
The tongue pulls away. "You said you were the Doctor." The Scottish accent is thick as ever, just as he remembers it. "I suppose you sort of feel like him. You shiver the same way." As if to illustrate this, he bends his head again so he can scrape his teeth playfully along the side of the Doctor's throat. The desired effect is gained.
"James Robert McCrimmon, I c- I came here to show you where the bathroom is." Because Jamie does need a good wash and change of clothes now that they've found him, two projects to which the Doctor is not actually going to be a part of in any way shape or form.
"It moved again?" Jamie almost sounds conversational. "Even the bloody kitchen never moves as much as the bathroom. I see the TARDIS hasn't changed." The Doctor registers something pressing flush against the small of his back just as Jamie begins to reach up with that lovely soot-stained hand, tug at the buttons of his shirt, and-
"Jamie, stop that this instant!"
And he actually does. "Why?" A beat. "Is that foreign lass gonna be upset?" The Scot's other hand keeps its grip on his hip, keeping him in place. Was he always this strong? "We never told Victoria or Zoe. But then, you weren't courting them. Are you courting Penny?"
"Well, then I don't see what the trouble is." And Jamie promptly goes back to the Doctor's neck, suddenly set on giving the poor man a hickey.
"Jamie!" It is already becoming obvious that he's losing his resolve. "J-Jamie. Jamie.
...oh, god, Jamie."
Chapter 2: Two
"I thought you were dead," Jamie says, between slight shifts of his wrists. His shirt gives too easily when he moves, threatening to let his hands untangle from it entirely, so he forces himself to stop fidgeting.
"They told me you were dead," Jamie hears in what almost sounds like a confession. Then he feels the tongue go back to work, sliding lightly between his shoulder blades, barely touching him at all. He shivers.
"...did you believe them?" The Scot waits for an answer, but instead he feels careful hands slip under his kilt to knead the backs of his thighs. God, he's been running so long. He drops his head and lets himself forget about everything to enjoy the massage properly.
The tongue stops far before his tailbone, and Jamie wriggles in silent request. This gets him a soft chuckle; he feels the hands slide up until they're brushing against the curve of his arse. Fingers pressing expertly over the muscle.
"Ah," he pants, and the last lick ends where his kilt begins. He lifts his hips invitingly, only to get nudged back down by the grip on his thighs. "Doctor," he begs. No reply but a calm hum, and so he pushes his knees apart but stays on his belly as desired.
He wants to get up, wants to press himself against the bed for purchase, wants to do something besides keeping perfectly still. But this is worth waiting for. He remembers.
Jamie can feel the fabric of his kilt getting gathered up in careful folds, like the skirt of a girl being lifted. He doesn't feel cold at all - he's practically burning up. Fevered.
"Doctor," he tries again. He's already aching hard and he wants it now, desperately, surely it's obvious... suddenly those hands parting him gently and there are circling, spiraling little licks that make him buck into the mattress.
"Please, in." Jamie digs his fingers into the bedclothes. The adrenaline from today is ebbing, fading, getting replaced by something else. Just as familiar. The Doctor dips in with the tip of his tongue, out as quickly as he went in, and Jamie laughs breathlessly as his face flushes over. "Stop teasing!"
There's that chuckle again. Finally, Jamie is spread further apart, and he's groaning before the finger even makes it in.
No sound comes from Jamie's mouth, but it hangs open as he shuts his eyes and forces the important parts of him to relax. The finger pushes in one knuckle, two, then pulls out. Jamie whines. Distantly, he can hear more of that slick stuff getting coaxed out of its tube... the finger returns with a second one and Jamie bucks back onto them without thinking.
"Are you already-"
"Aye," Jamie groans.
The Doctor gives Jamie a few careful thrusts before pulling out again. More sounds of the tube, rustling, a zipper going down. Jamie looks over his shoulder and catches the man's eye.
They smile to each other.
"You think I'm getting a bit old for this, Jamie?"
The boy's smile is all-encompassing. He throws an arm possessively over the Doctor's chest and squeezes. "You were old long before your hair got grey, Doctor."
"Barely a day over four-hundred and fifty!" His lower lip sticks out with not a little petulance. "Still, I suppose you're right, by many standards..."
"You're better'n the blond one," Jamie mumbles. His voice has that sated and almost-asleep tone.
"You mean my older self."
"Who looks younger. Aye." Jamie nuzzles into the Doctor's shoulder and yawns pointedly.
The Doctor engages his selective hearing. "What did you think of him, then?"
"Silly hair," comes the answer. "Not as good in bed."
The boy snorts. "You asked!"
"Jamie, you didn't!"
"It was you!"
This is immensely difficult to argue with. "I hardly think that that's fair."
"Consider it something to look forward to." Jamie drifts his fingers up and down the Doctor's side in a half-hearted attempt to get him to nod off or at least calm down. "You certainly seemed to like it."
The Doctor sniffs. "Glad to know you were both enjoying yourselves while I was kidnapped."
"It'd been ages since I'd touched you." Jamie shifts a little, but his hand keeps on going. "Wasn't the same, but it was something."
This takes some of the air from the Doctor's sails. He mulls over this, counting the heartbeats against his shoulder, and begins to wonder just how long Jamie was alone in the depths of that spaceport.
"I don't want to talk about it."
"I wasn't going to talk about the sex."
"I know." The Scot doesn't give another pointed yawn, but it is somehow clear that it is time to sleep. The Doctor sighs to himself and takes Jamie's wandering hand in his.
"Good night, then," he says quietly.
"G'night." Jamie squeezes his hand briefly, and, after a pause, begins to shift a little. The Doctor opens his eyes again and glances over.
"I don't really mind if you change," Jamie confides somewhat randomly.
The Doctor blinks. "I am happy to hear that."
"Just." Jamie swallows and shifts more fretfully, finally rolling over to his other side and stretching out. "Just don't. You know. Disappear again."
The Doctor frowns and turns also, but can only see the slope of a shoulder and the curve of Jamie's bent-down neck. This is not affording him any more clues as to what has bothered the boy so much. How long was he alone down there?
The Doctor cants his head and examines the Scot's body, but it offers no clue. On the diet he's been on since he got on the ship, it's impossible to tell by human standards. He was sixty or so when he left, but he could be, goodness, as old as one-hundred and twenty now without much difference to his appearance. Jamie's appearance hasn't given his age away for at least four decades by now.
"I'll do my best," the Doctor murmurs, and slides his own arm around Jamie's waist. The movement causes no tensing of muscles shifting away, and so he keeps it there, palm brushing lightly against the boy's abdomen. Perhaps there will be a better time to discuss this. Perhaps tomorrow.