Yowzah Oneshot Collection (2)

40(G)

             Yes sir, that's my baby

         mygalfriday (BrinneyFriday)

He doesn’t know why he lets her talk him into these things. Well, he sort of does. It’s her hair and her smile and those small, capable hands sliding up his chest as she presses sultry curves against him, eyes pleading. Oh, those eyes. He gets lost in those eyes if he isn’t careful, like a man under hypnosis. They’re just the right blend of blue and green to remind him of the waters of Anura and if he stares into them long enough, he can imagine he’s swimming – or perhaps drowning would be more apt. Only River could make drowning enjoyable.

The Doctor quickly shakes himself, pulling uncomfortably at the collar of his shirt. But that’s not the point. The point is – wait. What was the point again? He shoves aside mental images of River’s eyes and the things she can get him to do with them – if only Kovarian had known she never needed a weapon to kill him. One bat of River’s eyelashes and he’d have fallen to his knees in submission. No, stop. Think.

Soft, familiar laughter reaches his ears and the Doctor flinches. Oh yes. The point is that he’d planned a nice evening on Arcateen V with his wife and instead, he’d shown up at Stormcage only to have her whisk him away instead – to America of all places. Apparently, a homicidal 51st century equivalent of a loan shark has managed to evade capture by the clerics for long enough to make them the subject of much ridicule. With an illegally acquired vortex manipulator and a knack for hiding in plain sight despite his rather hefty size, River is their only hope of capturing the unusually slippery criminal – or so she’d told him with a smug smile just before she dragged him off to play a game of undercover espionage. Well, the Doctor calls it undercover espionage. River insists on calling it foreplay.

Using the TARDIS, she’d tracked Bix Shaw (known by those in his inner circle as Pee Wee for reasons the Doctor will never hope to understand) all the way here to this speakeasy in Chicago, 1925. River doesn’t seem to have much of a plan other than getting the man so drunk he can’t stand up, let alone resist arrest. It’s the most non-violent plan she’s ever concocted, and he tends to tag along on River’s missions frequently. He might have been pleased if Shaw wasn’t becoming increasingly handsy the more River plied him with alcohol – grubby, meaty hands that had no business being anywhere near –

He tugs agitatedly at his collar once more.

At this point, he’d prefer a little gunfire.

Not that he can blame Shaw. River looks positively tempting tonight. But then, around her, the Doctor is always tempted. She’s dressed impeccably for the time period in a flapper dress of lace and fringe, the short hemline showing off spectacular legs and the plunging neckline distracting him and every other man around the table from the card game taking place. Yowzah.

She leans in toward Shaw, speaking softly and batting those damnable eyes under the pretense of flirting but all the while sneaking a peek at his hand. The Doctor has always been rubbish at cards but with River sending him telepathic instructions, he manages to act the part of the competent gangster slash card shark as well as look it.

He’s bluffing.

Smirking, the Doctor adjusts his fedora over his eyes – the moment River had mentioned he’d get to wear a hat, he’d caved to this ridiculous charade – and pushes the rest of his chips toward the middle of the table, a silent challenge. Shaw raises his brows and the men around the table grumble and throw down their cards. Shaw lays down his cards to show two threes, a one, a Queen and a Jack, and River’s eyes sparkle in triumph. Only then does the Doctor reveal his own hand, murmuring with relish, “A royal flush.”