Amy tried to like fish-custard; honestly she did. She quite lost track of how many times she crept downstairs at night to quietly cook up some fish fingers and choke them down slathered in cheap, cold custard. All so she could feel closer to Him – to her raggedy Doctor. But no matter how many times she ate it and how hard she tried to like it, fish-custard just made her gag. She stopped trying after eating it actually made her throw up one night, and switched to the food she had been snacking on that night: vanilla ice-cream. Right out of the tub.
It had been her favourite food ever since. All it took was the smallest piece, the most tiny scrap, the slightest sweet, ice-cold morsel melting its way across her tongue to take her back to that conversation on that night in that kitchen with that mad man from the blue box, so shortly before he went away and so long before he came back again.
And now, depending on how you looked it, it had been either forty minutes or – what, about a month? It was hard to keep track – since she'd last had a bowl, and, she decided, she missed it.
She'd been contemplating this issue for the past half an hour or so, a half-hour they'd spent floating around in a vortex somewhere. The Doctor did that, sometimes; he'd set them adrift to float around in a vortex of space and time, just staring out over it, like a tourist at the top of the Eiffel Tower looking over the entirety of Paris: able to go anywhere and everywhere but at a loss as to what to do next. The first few times, the scope and wonder of it had kept Amy enthralled too, but before too long, she found it got boring very quickly.
Usually, though, she just waited for the Doctor to snap out of it, no matter how boring it was, and usually, she ended up watching him instead.
The Doctor was sitting in one corner of the doorway of the TARDIS, his head leant against the door frame and a distant expression on his face. Staring. Just staring out into the ever-shifting, ever-changing colours of the vortex, the colours that made Amy's eyes ache. Neither of them had said a word in what felt like forever and the silence was almost like a living thing, like a dark, sinister creature with grasping tentacles wrapping around her throat.
But no. Enough was enough. She'd had enough of sitting around, watching the Doctor watch the vortex. She was standing in a ship that could travel through space and time, was bigger on the inside than on the outside, and had a swimming pool. If the Doctor wanted to mope, he could go ahead; but she was going to find that pool if it was the last thing she did.
"Well!" she said, getting to her feet. "Not that this isn't fascinating, but if we're not going to Rio, then I'm going to find that swimming pool you promised me."
No response. Not entirely unexpected, but a little disquieting, nevertheless. He'd been like this since they'd left Wales and she had no idea what was wrong with him and even less of an idea how she could help.
"Doctor?"
Still nothing. She walked over to the door and tapped him gently on the shoulder.
"Doctor!"
To his credit, he didn't jump at the unexpected contact: he just turned his head, looked up at her, and gave her a sad little smile. "Hmm?"
"Are you alright?"
"Yeah." A pause. "Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"
Amy frowned. There was something wrong; something was off, but she didn't know what. But if the Doctor didn't want to tell her what it was, she couldn't make him. He'd tell her eventually: he always did. Until then, Amy just had to leave him to it.
"I'm going to go have a look around," she announced. "Find that swimming pool, eh?"
"Yeah." He gave her a genuine smile, the one that lit up his face and made her heart flutter a little. "Don't get lost."
"As if. You know me, brilliant sense of direction. I'll be fine."
Of Introspection and Ice Cream: Part 1 of 3 (Amy/11)
Of Introspection and Ice Cream
Amy tried to like fish-custard; honestly she did. She quite lost track of how many times she crept downstairs at night to quietly cook up some fish fingers and choke them down slathered in cheap, cold custard. All so she could feel closer to Him – to her raggedy Doctor. But no matter how many times she ate it and how hard she tried to like it, fish-custard just made her gag. She stopped trying after eating it actually made her throw up one night, and switched to the food she had been snacking on that night: vanilla ice-cream. Right out of the tub.
It had been her favourite food ever since. All it took was the smallest piece, the most tiny scrap, the slightest sweet, ice-cold morsel melting its way across her tongue to take her back to that conversation on that night in that kitchen with that mad man from the blue box, so shortly before he went away and so long before he came back again.
And now, depending on how you looked it, it had been either forty minutes or – what, about a month? It was hard to keep track – since she'd last had a bowl, and, she decided, she missed it.
She'd been contemplating this issue for the past half an hour or so, a half-hour they'd spent floating around in a vortex somewhere. The Doctor did that, sometimes; he'd set them adrift to float around in a vortex of space and time, just staring out over it, like a tourist at the top of the Eiffel Tower looking over the entirety of Paris: able to go anywhere and everywhere but at a loss as to what to do next. The first few times, the scope and wonder of it had kept Amy enthralled too, but before too long, she found it got boring very quickly.
Usually, though, she just waited for the Doctor to snap out of it, no matter how boring it was, and usually, she ended up watching him instead.
The Doctor was sitting in one corner of the doorway of the TARDIS, his head leant against the door frame and a distant expression on his face. Staring. Just staring out into the ever-shifting, ever-changing colours of the vortex, the colours that made Amy's eyes ache. Neither of them had said a word in what felt like forever and the silence was almost like a living thing, like a dark, sinister creature with grasping tentacles wrapping around her throat.
But no. Enough was enough. She'd had enough of sitting around, watching the Doctor watch the vortex. She was standing in a ship that could travel through space and time, was bigger on the inside than on the outside, and had a swimming pool. If the Doctor wanted to mope, he could go ahead; but she was going to find that pool if it was the last thing she did.
"Well!" she said, getting to her feet. "Not that this isn't fascinating, but if we're not going to Rio, then I'm going to find that swimming pool you promised me."
No response. Not entirely unexpected, but a little disquieting, nevertheless. He'd been like this since they'd left Wales and she had no idea what was wrong with him and even less of an idea how she could help.
"Doctor?"
Still nothing. She walked over to the door and tapped him gently on the shoulder.
"Doctor!"
To his credit, he didn't jump at the unexpected contact: he just turned his head, looked up at her, and gave her a sad little smile. "Hmm?"
"Are you alright?"
"Yeah." A pause. "Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"
Amy frowned. There was something wrong; something was off, but she didn't know what. But if the Doctor didn't want to tell her what it was, she couldn't make him. He'd tell her eventually: he always did. Until then, Amy just had to leave him to it.
"I'm going to go have a look around," she announced. "Find that swimming pool, eh?"
"Yeah." He gave her a genuine smile, the one that lit up his face and made her heart flutter a little. "Don't get lost."
"As if. You know me, brilliant sense of direction. I'll be fine."