Notes: T. Set between Series 5 and 6, and contains no spoilers. Although there seems to be some fishy compliance issues, I am pretty sure the way I set it up still works with what was said on the issue in "The Doctor's Wife." The title is from the lyrics of Suede's aptly named song, Lazy. For docwholand's mini Big Bang challenge (prompts: love and argument), and written as a gift to my dear hiza_chan.

It is when they stop asking him—when they have given up hope of ever seeing it and are satisfied with wherever they can have him—that the Doctor shows the Ponds his room. He disclaims the fact that this is just one of his personal rooms and not a bedroom, and it's the only one that he occasionally sleeps in that he is comfortable sharing—Not that he doesn't trust them! He trusts his companions with his life (always has, and hopefully, always will). He just happens to be a very, very private person at times (not often, but sometimes), and Amy can be so grabbyand if she knew where she can find the Doctor when he sleeps, well... There was that, and—

And they don't care. He could talk and they would take none of it in, listening only to the cants in his voice and hushed swishes from the unconscious, ridiculous movements he makes with his hands.

Their inattention is forgivable: the day's adventure was particularly draining—both emotionally and physically—and the effort clearly hazes their sillylittlebeautiful minds. Now, all Amy cares about is warmth and touch and ease; all Rory cares about is comforting his wife while also mourning the life (no—lives, today) he didn't have the time or expertise to save.

(The Doctor doubts he is supposed to know that last bit. Rory is a nurse and a proud one at that; he would not stand for The Doctor empathizing with his grief because he thinks Rory needs him to.)

The Ponds wanted a honeymoon to remember, so the Doctor took them gallivanting around the universe. But now they needed reprieve, and so he gave them with this part of himself: his hammock room: a space devoted to silencing his forever-hungry, forever-curious mind. He wonders if they noticed how much it cost him to do so and guesses they must have. It would explain why they fell uncharacteristically silent as they crossed the threshold: Their eyes had held no questions, and even their minimal undressing (of shoes, socks, vests, jackets—uncomfortable things to lie in) held no orders demanding the Doctor to offer more than he was willing. They only wanted to know what their Doctor wanted from them... and they would have left if asked; they would have played card games with him for hours if he were in the mood; they would have fucked him like savages, half-standing and half-swinging from the hammock, if he smiled justright.

He has not discounted any of those options (especially that last one), but for now, they will rest. The Doctor presses his cheek to Rory's chest, head rising as the man breathes, and Rory has an arm tucked around The Doctor's shoulders as best he can, and dear Amelia is sprawled over her boys with the broken promise of moving into a more reasonable position writ in her strewn limbs. Although, in regards to that last bit, she might have failed to even if she had tried since the hammock is only wide enough to fit two people comfortably (the Doctor never suspected he would ever share it, let alone need space for one Time Lord and twofull-grown humans).

The cuddling-with-two-others is far more pleasant an activity than the Doctor expected, and as he listens to the disjointed, easy banter of his two companions, he might even call it nice. He would even be comfortable enough to fall sleep if only Rory didn't persist in slipping two fingers between the Doctor's collar and neck, moving them up and down the crevice, thumb pressing into the fabric hard enough to ghost against skin.

The boy didn't even realize he was doing it, an observation which only served to distract the Doctor even more. To arouse the Doctor is no small feat, but to do so while not even paying attention? The Doctor is an old man—too old to react so wantonly. It makes him want to say something ridiculous, to interrupt the strain of conversation between his companions with a story about that one time—oh it was brilliant—this time he stopped a thousand-year war with a lamp, a deck of tarot cards, and a well-placed ladder. He wants their attention in an infuriatingly needy way that has both always and never been in him or the hims before him; he's more like a child and more like a tired, old man than he's ever been before, and he needsto be reassured and...

Amy's fingers slips between his fingers, grasping loosely. She rests her chin on him and makes one of her ridiculousgorgeous pouty faces that is too sincere to be a caricature, too Amelia to be Amy. "Doooocter."

"Yes, Pond?"

"We have all these things we have to do, right? A billion billion billion worlds, a billion billion billion times and places. A rather large amount of those billion billion billion things need us to save them because—"

"—the universe is about as competent at staying out of trouble as I am," Rory finishes. (The Doctor has always had a tally for his friends or acquaintances, counting the number of times he's almost or actually gotten them arrested, captured, poisoned, injured, lost, killed, or erased from nearly all of existence and/or memory. It was his way of remembering the overwhelming goodness of people and a way to berate himself for ever getting them into the position where they needed to be so good. He takes it all very seriously... but for all that is right in the universe, there is something wrong and downright hilariousabout how much Rory has grossly inflated the Doctor's tally.)

"Yes. That. The point is, you need to be the lanky, floppy-haired knight for the universe, and you need us to stand around looking pretty—"

"Well actually," the Doctor laughs out, "I need you to do something entirely dangerous and illogical that will, against all predictable odds and possibly against the laws of reality herself (zirself? Itself? Itself. Wait, no, no, I was right the neutral: reality zirself), end up saving the day. Rory, on the other hand, is just there to be pretty."

("Wow, thanks. Nice to know I'm useful for something.")

"Oi." Amy jabs the Doctor's side with her free hand. "The point is, we have all this to do and now we won't ever be able to because I don't think I am ever getting up."

"Ah, yes. The dreadful Hammock Syndrome Of The Slothful And Comfortable. HSOTSAC is a surprisingly rampant disease amongst time travelers and especially those special few time traveling gingers... or so the reports go."

"Syndromes are not diseases," Rory corrects just as Amy says, "Got lots of experience with catatonic travelers on your hammock, then?"

(He's forgotten how hard conversing can be with more than one human during non-emergency situations: humans always try to talk over one another and forget to wait for cues. Scrambling for a say, for a voice. It would be quite an alarming characteristic for a species if they weren't just so fantasticat it while still managing to get (some) things done.)

"I get it, Rory, you're a nurse and a very competent nurse with a mind bursting with nurse-y wursey things at that. And no, you are the first two and the last two and I will be completely remiss if I didn't admit that I'll miss this old thing when you leave. I won this hammock five regenerations ago in a potentially deadly ring toss out in the Erottimaruton Eeeeeeeeir Eight galaxy where I had to—"

"Hang on. Where's the hammock going?"

The Doctor rolls his eyes at Amy in that incorrigible way he does when humans play oblivious. "I certainly can't use it after you're gone, now can I? It'll go to whether the TARDIS stores things I don't need or want anymore, like that grotesque black beret I found last Thursday in the control panel." At this, Amy shifts on top of him until ultimately deciding to hold herself up and away on her elbows, but the Doctor is too caught up to understand the implications of the movement fully. "It was an aberration. So dull and plain and uncool. An uncool hat, Amy! To think I would ever think of headgear negatively; it's nearly an affront to all I stand for! I should—"

"Doctor," Amy interrupts in her most seriousAmy of seriousAmy voices. The Doctor's lighthearted mood is instantly subdued and replaced by a jolt of panic. He moves to get up but Rory hasn't bothered himself to move his arm, so the Doctor is held to his position. Protective Rory, always one to get in the way (Maybe that's why his life is threatened so often?).

Amy's fingers are still linked with his, but feebly so. He grasps them tight again. "What is it, dear? What's wrong?"

"Why has this hammock become useless now that we've used it? What, did we infest your little precious space with our ape selves? Ugh, you can be such—"

"No, no, no no no no, you stupid beautiful girl." He kisses her hand and makes an awful lot of movement, swaying the hammock in jutting swings. He shrugs Rory off as politely as he can and there's not so much room but he wants to get closer to Amy and so his forehead returns to its default position: resting against Amy's. "It's not like that, not at all."

"Then what is it like? Hm?" Her words sting with resentment and defensiveness. (Never one to be abandoned, never one to lose or be forgotten—never again, anyway...)

"You... Amy, you know how it is with me."

"I don't. Not really, Time Lord."

It's hardandembarrassingandpainful to put into words. Another him, a different him, would be able to without shame, and he hasin the past. The reason would fall out of his lips and it would be the end and they would move on. But not now, not when he was born with so much joy and curiosity and fishfingersandcustard. He can't and won't forget, but he doesn't want to go forward with doom in his head and hearts for a moment longer but... he really should answer her as he's always tried to answer her. She is waiting, she has waited for too long and he can't make her wait again. Just—

"I doesn't want to be reminded."

He feels breathless and upset and, for a moment, everything is Bad and Wrong and the pit of dark that stirs in his belly starts to boil. (Why are the Downs so very Down? Why can't he be well adjusted? Instead, he's a steaming pot of ugly things that creates a melodrama out of a throwaway line. He should learn breathing exercises, that's what. Humans are convinced it works; would it work for him? Hopefully. ...He just gets switchedonso easily... Bad, dangerous habit, it is.)

"I don't want to replace you."

(He never replacespeople. What a horrible slip.)

"Frail human lives are always too short. Your attention spans and ability to cope with my world of extremes too. Too short. Never enough time. Here a day, gone the next. I haterepeats."

He's not making much sense, and in desperation, he gives her a chaste kiss that goes on for too long to be platonic. Granted, their kisses haven't been very platonic as of late... but the Doctor regrets this one as he pulls away. The three of them aren't going to have sex at the moment, and the Doctor hasn't asked for permission from Rory—the husband! The two are still on their (extended) honeymoon and here the Doctor is, kissing the bride-now-wife like it's his right. He's mucked everything up. He shouldn't have brought them. Rory will be offended by the Doctor's disregard of how things have been done since they've started this... this thing between them; Amy will not understand and she will resent him. A mistake it was, to bring them down here, and...

And they don't care. Amy mumbles something like an apology and kisses him again; Rory presses a hand to the Doctor's neck, kind and encouraging, before pulling the Doctor and, with him, Amy back down.

The kiss doesn't stop even after Amy pulls back for a breath, and soon enough, Rory joins by alternatively pressing his lips to Amy's neck and then to the Doctor's. The latter finds himself surrounded by their affection, crushed by it. He touches and is touched, innocently and not so innocently; but for the second time today, his companions do so without an expectation for something too much. And so, when the Doctor has been properly reassured, the moment is immediately dispelled. Amy drops her head to the Doctor's chest; Rory perches his nose in the Doctor's hair, breathing in the light scent that he could never quite figure out.

And for the briefest of moments, the Doctor forgets there's things to be done and relaxes into his friends' embrace.