Doctor Who fic: serpentine smile
This was originally sparked by the Porn Battle X prompt: Amy Pond/Eleven/Vincent Van Gogh, paint. Somehow, instead of being a porny threesome, it turned into naked gen banter. Yeah. I've no idea either.
Title: serpentine smile
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: Eleven, Amy, Vincent
Rating: PG
Word count: 3,047
Spoilers: Major spoilers for 5.10 - Vincent and the Doctor
Beta: Huge thanks to sangre_fria and krazykipper.
Vincent's been staring at her for the last ten minutes. It's kind of creepy, though at least he doesn't look away whenever she catches him, or pretend he's not staring like Jamie Welch used to when he had a crush on her in year nine. He was definitely creepy. And nowhere near as cute as Vincent.
To be fair, there's not a lot else to look at in his room. Unless of course you count a sprawling collection of paintings that one day any major art gallery in the world will kill to get their hands on. Amy's wandered around the cottage twice since they got back from the church, and she keeps finding new works shoved carelessly into corners or hidden behind others, or, in one case, used as a tea tray. Amy thinks she's seen that one in the Tate. Without the tea stains.
She's too wound up to sleep. You can't witness the death of a Krafayis and then just fall asleep. So Vincent's staring, the Doctor's pacing, and Amy's looking at art, caught up in the thought of being the only one of your species, alone on a planet, and wow, that is just too depressing.
"I would love to paint you," Vincent says eventually.
Amy starts.
Vincent sounds nervous, as though he can't imagine her ever saying yes. As though it's a ridiculous imposition and he's expecting her to laugh at him.
"Well, sure." Because it's Vincent Van Gogh, and this is awesome. Really awesome. "I mean, yeah, hell yeah." She imagines walking into the Musée d'Orsay and seeing herself on the wall. A perfect serpentine smile on her face, the start of a meandering story that she'd still be in the middle of living. "Yes," she says again, just to be sure he's heard.
"In the nude," he says, sounding more confident now. "You have beautiful lines, the sort of curves an artist dreams of."
"Oh," she says. Her voice squeaks slightly. She gulps. Not what she was expecting. Vincent paints sunflowers. And cornfields. And swirling, magical starry nights. And occasionally monsters staring out of church windows. Not nude Scottish girls. She'd be naked in the Musée d'Orsay. That'd be-
Vincent looks disappointed but resigned. "I understand if it's too-"
-Weird.
Weird, but cool. Incredibly cool. And it'd piss her aunt off no end if she ever knew. Bonus points for that.
"Oh, no, that's fine. It's just-" Amy nods her head in the direction of the Doctor. She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.
"Ah, you think he would not approve?" Vincent asks, stepping closer and lowering his voice, as though they're sharing a secret.
Amy shrugs. "Honestly, I haven't a clue." She really hasn't. The one thing she can be sure of is that the Doctor will never fail to surprise her.
"Why would I disapprove?" The Doctor's twirling something. A paintbrush Amy thinks. She hopes he puts it down before he breaks it.
Amy raises an eyebrow and grins at him. "I didn't know you were listening." She should have known he would be. He never misses a thing.
The Doctor puts down the paintbrush and gives them his full attention. "I'm always listening. So, why would I disapprove?"
"Because-you're old. Like, really old. And a bit of a fuddy-duddy, quite frankly. I mean, look at you."
"I am not a fuddy-duddy. And what do you mean 'look at you'?"
"Well, honestly, a bow-tie?"
The Doctor clasps his hand protectively over the tie and glares at her. It's absurd how fond he is of that thing. "It's a classic. And bow ties are cool."
"No, they're really not. Honestly, if that doesn't scream fuddy-duddy, I don't know what does. I'm just saying-"
"I most certainly am not a fuddy-duddy," the Doctor says. He looks incredibly offended. He starts to pull off his clothes. "Want to paint both of us?" he asks, throwing his jacket onto the floor. He picks it up immediately, and Amy doesn't bother to disguise her snigger. Vincent looks amused too. "What?" the Doctor asks, somewhat sheepishly. "The floor's dirty, and it's my favourite jacket. I don't want to get paint on it."
Vincent nods approvingly. "Yes, both of you." He squints at them, turning his head this way and that, as if he's calculating the light of their souls. He probably is. "Intertwined, I think, the way your souls are intertwined." His voice is so low Amy can barely catch the words and he seems to be focussed on some point in space only he can see.
"And I'll have you know that the Valtairans told me I was the most exciting person they'd ever met," the Doctor carries on. Amy rolls her eyes. The Doctor doesn't notice. "Not that they'd met many people. Or any, really. That's what comes of being a gaseous life form. Not a lot of opportunities for socialising with other species." The Doctor pauses. He blinks and shakes himself out of his rambling to focus on Vincent. "Our souls are intertwined? You can see that?"
"Of course. It's obvious. Don't you see it?" Vincent asks. He sounds almost childishly curious. Amy adores him. He gives her the warm fuzzies. If she could pick him up and put him in her pocket and take him back to 2010, she would. After he painted her, of course. A chance in a million, this.
"Well, yes, but I'm me," the Doctor says, with a total absence of arrogance. "I see things other people don't. And so do you, clearly."
Vincent sighs. "Sometimes it is more of a curse than a blessing. Most of the time, if the truth be told."
"No, don't think of it that way!" Amy exclaims. She's carefully not thinking about entwining or intertwining or whatever it was Vincent said. Naked entwining. Which is difficult when the Doctor is standing in front of her stark bollocks naked.
Eyes up.
And she can still picture the Doctor naked, no matter where she looks in the room. Sunflowers just aren't sufficient distraction, and neither is focusing on the hole in Vincent's hat.
Amy swallows. She concentrates on reassuring Vincent. That's all she needs to be thinking about, not how pale but unexpectedly fit the Doctor is. Must be all that running around, saving the world. Saving the universe. Not many people get to put that on their resume. April 2010 - saved the universe again. Better than a gold gym membership for keeping toned.
So much for focus. Back to Vincent. Fully clothed Vincent.
"You, um, you need to think of it as something special. A gift. Like your artistic talent. Something that helps make your art more-" Amy grasps for words. She's feeling ridiculously nervous all of a sudden.
"Emotionally telling," the Doctor suggests.
Amy nods. "Yes, that, exactly."
Vincent doesn't look entirely convinced, but he's definitely more cheerful than when they first arrived, so Amy reckons they're having some positive effect on him.
And now she needs to get naked. For the painting. She shrugs off her coat, and then hums The Stripper - dada da da, dada da da - as she untwirls her scarf and throws it on the floor. She gets the distinct impression neither of them recognise the tune. A wasted effort. Though it made her feel braver, so not totally wasted. Boots next, then tights (carefully, because for all the wonders of the Tardis, she's yet to find a supply of tights) and then pulls her top off. They make a messy pile on the floor.
Another thing nineteenth century cottages don't have is central heating. She could really do with some about now. Goosebumps just aren't attractive. Though at least the cold's making her nipples stick out. She drops her bra on a chair.
"An interesting garment, that," Vincent says, pointing to her bra.
Amy tries not to blush. "It's called a bra," she tells him. "You can't buy them around here."
"Where do you want us?" the Doctor asks, prancing around the room striking crazy poses. He purses his lips and flips back his hair and ends up sprawled across the table.
Amy's grateful; it's hard to feel embarrassed about herself when the Doctor looks like a right prat. She's going to start giggling in a minute, but she really wants to avoid doing that because once she starts, it's going to be really hard to stop. And the Doctor will think she's giggling because she's nervous, which she really isn't. She's just getting naked with a 900 year old Time Lord and one of the greatest artists who ever lived. Nothing to it.
Vincent seems unperturbed by the Doctor's poses, caught up in contemplation of his painting. "If it weren't dark, I'd suggest going outside. There's an old olive grove just outside the village. It would be a perfect combination, the softness of your bodies curled up together and the twisted branches. Maybe another time. So for now, perhaps-" Vincent looks slowly around the room. "The woodpile would make an interesting background. The swirls of the rings," he says, dreamily circling with his hand as though he's imagining the painting. "But maybe it wouldn't be entirely comfortable for you?" he asks. He sounds as though he hopes they'll contradict him and assure him that they're both more than happy to get splinters in their bums for the sake of art.
No way.
The Doctor shakes his head and gently breaks the news to Vincent. "Not the woodpile. Definitely not."
"Splinters. In bad places. Ouch." Amy winces at the thought.
Vincent looks disappointed for a moment, but bounces right back. "Well, in that case, there's my bed in the other room. It's a bit of a mess, mind you. Living alone, you know what it's like. I forget to make it sometimes."
They traipse through to the other room, Amy in the rear doing her best not to ogle the Doctor's rear. Though it's a very pert rear. Pale but pert. Rear is a very silly word when you say it too often, she thinks idly.
Vincent wasn't understating the case when he said his bed was a mess. It's laden with books and art supplies, a plate with half a shrivelled apple and a penknife, and for some reason - Amy isn't going to query - a hammer and three chisels. Vincent sweeps them all carelessly onto the floor and kicks everything under the bed.
"So, entwined, huh?" Amy says, standing awkwardly by the bed.
"Apparently," the Doctor says, looking equally awkward.
"The trick to a good pose is to feel comfortable. Natural," Vincent says. He's digging around in the corner, picking up brushes and discarding them. "Aha," he says, apparently having found the brush he was looking for. Amy wonders which works he's painted with that same brush - maybe the church this afternoon. This is going to sink in properly eventually. Vincent Van Gogh is painting her. Awesome.
Vincent wanders into the next room, and Amy can hear him opening drawers and sorting through canvasses. She hopes he isn't going to paint over one. "Use a new canvas," she calls out. "Please don't paint over anything."
"After you," the Doctor says, motioning to the bed.
"Oh, really? Now's the time you suddenly go all gentlemanly on me?"
"I'm always a gentleman!"
"Sure you are," Amy says. "A perfect gentleman, just like that time on Chalchiuhtlicue when you elbowed your way past me in the Tardis door so you could be the first person ever to see a triple eclipse?"
"Ah. That." The Doctor does at least look slightly abashed. "That was a rare exception. And I apologise for it. It was most unchivalrous of me, you're right, and won't happen again."
He looks incredibly earnest, but Amy isn't going to let him get away with it that easily. "What about the time on Ksetrapālas when you pushed me into a puddle of yurkk urine? That was disgusting. My jeans haven't been the same since. They were my favourite pair, too, I'll have you know." She glares for good measure, hands on hips. She's aware the whole naked thing probably takes away from the disgruntled but dignified look she's going for, but she does her best.
"I saved your life."
"Well, yes, you have, but that doesn't excuse yurkk pee. Yurkk pee," she repeats for emphasis, scrunching her nose up at the memory. She doesn't know what yurkks eat or drink, but the end result isn't sweet smelling.
"No, I mean I saved your life then. With the yurkk urine. Beazouls can't stand the smell."
"I can't stand the smell. Nothing with a nose could stand that smell. And what the heck is a beazoul?"
"Beazouls are creatures that would probably, with say a 95% likelihood, have eaten you if I hadn't ensured you smelled too bad for them to be tempted."
"And you couldn't just tell me that? Or let me, I don't know, say, stick my shoes in the puddle so I drove away the beazouls but didn't get pee all over me?"
"Ah, yes, that probably would have been better. Next time." He grins cheerfully.
Amy scowls back at him. "Next time? There isn't going to be a next time." She's never getting anywhere near Ksetrapāla or a yurkk, let alone yurkk pee, ever again.
"Never say never, my dear Pond," the Doctor says, and pushes her onto the bed. He jumps on the bed too, half on top of her and smiles down at her. "Comfortable?" he asks.
Honestly, sometimes she just doesn't believe the guy. "No. Of course I'm not comfortable," she says. "You're heavy."
"You do both talk a lot," Vincent says, standing in the doorway. He has a canvas (thankfully blank) under his arm, and a palette in his hand.
Amy feels rather than hears the Doctor's little snigger. She bites her lip to avoid sniggering too. Okay, she can do this. They can do this. Be all professional about it. "You need to move across, and then I can go just here," she orders, sliding out from underneath him and moving into what she hopes is a flattering pose. She hopes her thighs don't look too big. It'd be terrible to be naked on the wall of the Musée d'Orsay and have everyone looking at her big thighs.
At least she doesn't have cellulite.
"Relax," the Doctor whispers in her ear. His arm is around her waist and he's rubbing little circles on her belly with his thumb - it's oddly comforting. "It'll be a piece of cake."
"So, what, you've done this before? Been an artist's model? I suppose there aren't many things you haven't done." Every now and then she forgets just how old he is, how much he's seen and done. She'd love to hear about all of it, but even just sharing this part of his life is amazing.
"Oh, I can assure you there are many things I haven't done, and many things I may never do."
He sounds suddenly serious and sad, and Amy turns her head and kisses him. Just an innocent, brief kiss on the lips. Then she looks up at Vincent. "All right Mr. De Mille, I'm ready for my close-up."
"My name is actually Vincent Van Gogh," he says, a puzzled expression on his face, and Amy smiles, leaning back into the Doctor.
"Trust me, we know your name," she says. "Everyone knows your name."
*
The painting's there, in the exhibition. Not quite centre stage, but close. They wait a minute for a small group of Japanese tourists to move on to the next painting, then stand side by side in front of it.
It's beautiful. It's full of soft light and discreet shadows, their skin golden in the lamplight, Amy leaning back into the Doctor's arms. There's a sunflower on the bedcover beside her hand - Vincent must have added it later. It catches the light, bright and cheerful, and yet it's their smiles that Amy can't stop staring at. They're both smiling as though they have a secret. Amy wonders what all the art students have made of that over the years, how many different explanations there are for the painting.
She traces the lines of them in the air as they stand in front of it. "So, you and me," she says. "We're intertwined, huh?"
"It would seem so, yes," he says softly. He doesn't seem to have any doubt, or even to mind being linked at some soul deep level with someone as insignificant as Amy Pond.
"But why? Why me? I mean, I'm nobody special."
The Doctor grabs her by the arm and drags her out of the gallery, into the next one and across to the staircase. They get a few funny looks along the way, but no one stops them.
The staircase is quiet. The Doctor clasps her shoulders and stares right into her. It makes her feel more naked than she did in Vincent's bedroom, as though the Doctor can see right inside her. And yet, she doesn't mind. They're a part of each other, and maybe she'll never know more than a fraction of who the Doctor is, but she's glad for him to know her. He smiles at her, a smile full of determination that she should believe everything that he's about to say. "You are most definitely special. As was Vincent Van Gogh. As for that matter, am I too. The whole human race is bloody marvellous. You're full of quirks and determination and crazy ideas that you make happen, but you, Amy Pond, you stand out. Don't ever think you're not special." He gives her a little shake for emphasis, then lets her go.
"Okay, I've got it. I'm special," she says. Because if Vincent saw something and the Doctor says so, maybe what she sees in the mirror isn't all there is to Amy Pond. Maybe she really is a little bit special. She slots her arm into his. "Can we go back to the exhibition now? I want to see a certain very special painting of a hot naked Time Lord again."
It turns out, Time Lords can blush. It's another secret Amy keeps behind her smile.
//
Title: serpentine smile
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: Eleven, Amy, Vincent
Rating: PG
Word count: 3,047
Spoilers: Major spoilers for 5.10 - Vincent and the Doctor
Beta: Huge thanks to sangre_fria and krazykipper.
Vincent's been staring at her for the last ten minutes. It's kind of creepy, though at least he doesn't look away whenever she catches him, or pretend he's not staring like Jamie Welch used to when he had a crush on her in year nine. He was definitely creepy. And nowhere near as cute as Vincent.
To be fair, there's not a lot else to look at in his room. Unless of course you count a sprawling collection of paintings that one day any major art gallery in the world will kill to get their hands on. Amy's wandered around the cottage twice since they got back from the church, and she keeps finding new works shoved carelessly into corners or hidden behind others, or, in one case, used as a tea tray. Amy thinks she's seen that one in the Tate. Without the tea stains.
She's too wound up to sleep. You can't witness the death of a Krafayis and then just fall asleep. So Vincent's staring, the Doctor's pacing, and Amy's looking at art, caught up in the thought of being the only one of your species, alone on a planet, and wow, that is just too depressing.
"I would love to paint you," Vincent says eventually.
Amy starts.
Vincent sounds nervous, as though he can't imagine her ever saying yes. As though it's a ridiculous imposition and he's expecting her to laugh at him.
"Well, sure." Because it's Vincent Van Gogh, and this is awesome. Really awesome. "I mean, yeah, hell yeah." She imagines walking into the Musée d'Orsay and seeing herself on the wall. A perfect serpentine smile on her face, the start of a meandering story that she'd still be in the middle of living. "Yes," she says again, just to be sure he's heard.
"In the nude," he says, sounding more confident now. "You have beautiful lines, the sort of curves an artist dreams of."
"Oh," she says. Her voice squeaks slightly. She gulps. Not what she was expecting. Vincent paints sunflowers. And cornfields. And swirling, magical starry nights. And occasionally monsters staring out of church windows. Not nude Scottish girls. She'd be naked in the Musée d'Orsay. That'd be-
Vincent looks disappointed but resigned. "I understand if it's too-"
-Weird.
Weird, but cool. Incredibly cool. And it'd piss her aunt off no end if she ever knew. Bonus points for that.
"Oh, no, that's fine. It's just-" Amy nods her head in the direction of the Doctor. She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.
"Ah, you think he would not approve?" Vincent asks, stepping closer and lowering his voice, as though they're sharing a secret.
Amy shrugs. "Honestly, I haven't a clue." She really hasn't. The one thing she can be sure of is that the Doctor will never fail to surprise her.
"Why would I disapprove?" The Doctor's twirling something. A paintbrush Amy thinks. She hopes he puts it down before he breaks it.
Amy raises an eyebrow and grins at him. "I didn't know you were listening." She should have known he would be. He never misses a thing.
The Doctor puts down the paintbrush and gives them his full attention. "I'm always listening. So, why would I disapprove?"
"Because-you're old. Like, really old. And a bit of a fuddy-duddy, quite frankly. I mean, look at you."
"I am not a fuddy-duddy. And what do you mean 'look at you'?"
"Well, honestly, a bow-tie?"
The Doctor clasps his hand protectively over the tie and glares at her. It's absurd how fond he is of that thing. "It's a classic. And bow ties are cool."
"No, they're really not. Honestly, if that doesn't scream fuddy-duddy, I don't know what does. I'm just saying-"
"I most certainly am not a fuddy-duddy," the Doctor says. He looks incredibly offended. He starts to pull off his clothes. "Want to paint both of us?" he asks, throwing his jacket onto the floor. He picks it up immediately, and Amy doesn't bother to disguise her snigger. Vincent looks amused too. "What?" the Doctor asks, somewhat sheepishly. "The floor's dirty, and it's my favourite jacket. I don't want to get paint on it."
Vincent nods approvingly. "Yes, both of you." He squints at them, turning his head this way and that, as if he's calculating the light of their souls. He probably is. "Intertwined, I think, the way your souls are intertwined." His voice is so low Amy can barely catch the words and he seems to be focussed on some point in space only he can see.
"And I'll have you know that the Valtairans told me I was the most exciting person they'd ever met," the Doctor carries on. Amy rolls her eyes. The Doctor doesn't notice. "Not that they'd met many people. Or any, really. That's what comes of being a gaseous life form. Not a lot of opportunities for socialising with other species." The Doctor pauses. He blinks and shakes himself out of his rambling to focus on Vincent. "Our souls are intertwined? You can see that?"
"Of course. It's obvious. Don't you see it?" Vincent asks. He sounds almost childishly curious. Amy adores him. He gives her the warm fuzzies. If she could pick him up and put him in her pocket and take him back to 2010, she would. After he painted her, of course. A chance in a million, this.
"Well, yes, but I'm me," the Doctor says, with a total absence of arrogance. "I see things other people don't. And so do you, clearly."
Vincent sighs. "Sometimes it is more of a curse than a blessing. Most of the time, if the truth be told."
"No, don't think of it that way!" Amy exclaims. She's carefully not thinking about entwining or intertwining or whatever it was Vincent said. Naked entwining. Which is difficult when the Doctor is standing in front of her stark bollocks naked.
Eyes up.
And she can still picture the Doctor naked, no matter where she looks in the room. Sunflowers just aren't sufficient distraction, and neither is focusing on the hole in Vincent's hat.
Amy swallows. She concentrates on reassuring Vincent. That's all she needs to be thinking about, not how pale but unexpectedly fit the Doctor is. Must be all that running around, saving the world. Saving the universe. Not many people get to put that on their resume. April 2010 - saved the universe again. Better than a gold gym membership for keeping toned.
So much for focus. Back to Vincent. Fully clothed Vincent.
"You, um, you need to think of it as something special. A gift. Like your artistic talent. Something that helps make your art more-" Amy grasps for words. She's feeling ridiculously nervous all of a sudden.
"Emotionally telling," the Doctor suggests.
Amy nods. "Yes, that, exactly."
Vincent doesn't look entirely convinced, but he's definitely more cheerful than when they first arrived, so Amy reckons they're having some positive effect on him.
And now she needs to get naked. For the painting. She shrugs off her coat, and then hums The Stripper - dada da da, dada da da - as she untwirls her scarf and throws it on the floor. She gets the distinct impression neither of them recognise the tune. A wasted effort. Though it made her feel braver, so not totally wasted. Boots next, then tights (carefully, because for all the wonders of the Tardis, she's yet to find a supply of tights) and then pulls her top off. They make a messy pile on the floor.
Another thing nineteenth century cottages don't have is central heating. She could really do with some about now. Goosebumps just aren't attractive. Though at least the cold's making her nipples stick out. She drops her bra on a chair.
"An interesting garment, that," Vincent says, pointing to her bra.
Amy tries not to blush. "It's called a bra," she tells him. "You can't buy them around here."
"Where do you want us?" the Doctor asks, prancing around the room striking crazy poses. He purses his lips and flips back his hair and ends up sprawled across the table.
Amy's grateful; it's hard to feel embarrassed about herself when the Doctor looks like a right prat. She's going to start giggling in a minute, but she really wants to avoid doing that because once she starts, it's going to be really hard to stop. And the Doctor will think she's giggling because she's nervous, which she really isn't. She's just getting naked with a 900 year old Time Lord and one of the greatest artists who ever lived. Nothing to it.
Vincent seems unperturbed by the Doctor's poses, caught up in contemplation of his painting. "If it weren't dark, I'd suggest going outside. There's an old olive grove just outside the village. It would be a perfect combination, the softness of your bodies curled up together and the twisted branches. Maybe another time. So for now, perhaps-" Vincent looks slowly around the room. "The woodpile would make an interesting background. The swirls of the rings," he says, dreamily circling with his hand as though he's imagining the painting. "But maybe it wouldn't be entirely comfortable for you?" he asks. He sounds as though he hopes they'll contradict him and assure him that they're both more than happy to get splinters in their bums for the sake of art.
No way.
The Doctor shakes his head and gently breaks the news to Vincent. "Not the woodpile. Definitely not."
"Splinters. In bad places. Ouch." Amy winces at the thought.
Vincent looks disappointed for a moment, but bounces right back. "Well, in that case, there's my bed in the other room. It's a bit of a mess, mind you. Living alone, you know what it's like. I forget to make it sometimes."
They traipse through to the other room, Amy in the rear doing her best not to ogle the Doctor's rear. Though it's a very pert rear. Pale but pert. Rear is a very silly word when you say it too often, she thinks idly.
Vincent wasn't understating the case when he said his bed was a mess. It's laden with books and art supplies, a plate with half a shrivelled apple and a penknife, and for some reason - Amy isn't going to query - a hammer and three chisels. Vincent sweeps them all carelessly onto the floor and kicks everything under the bed.
"So, entwined, huh?" Amy says, standing awkwardly by the bed.
"Apparently," the Doctor says, looking equally awkward.
"The trick to a good pose is to feel comfortable. Natural," Vincent says. He's digging around in the corner, picking up brushes and discarding them. "Aha," he says, apparently having found the brush he was looking for. Amy wonders which works he's painted with that same brush - maybe the church this afternoon. This is going to sink in properly eventually. Vincent Van Gogh is painting her. Awesome.
Vincent wanders into the next room, and Amy can hear him opening drawers and sorting through canvasses. She hopes he isn't going to paint over one. "Use a new canvas," she calls out. "Please don't paint over anything."
"After you," the Doctor says, motioning to the bed.
"Oh, really? Now's the time you suddenly go all gentlemanly on me?"
"I'm always a gentleman!"
"Sure you are," Amy says. "A perfect gentleman, just like that time on Chalchiuhtlicue when you elbowed your way past me in the Tardis door so you could be the first person ever to see a triple eclipse?"
"Ah. That." The Doctor does at least look slightly abashed. "That was a rare exception. And I apologise for it. It was most unchivalrous of me, you're right, and won't happen again."
He looks incredibly earnest, but Amy isn't going to let him get away with it that easily. "What about the time on Ksetrapālas when you pushed me into a puddle of yurkk urine? That was disgusting. My jeans haven't been the same since. They were my favourite pair, too, I'll have you know." She glares for good measure, hands on hips. She's aware the whole naked thing probably takes away from the disgruntled but dignified look she's going for, but she does her best.
"I saved your life."
"Well, yes, you have, but that doesn't excuse yurkk pee. Yurkk pee," she repeats for emphasis, scrunching her nose up at the memory. She doesn't know what yurkks eat or drink, but the end result isn't sweet smelling.
"No, I mean I saved your life then. With the yurkk urine. Beazouls can't stand the smell."
"I can't stand the smell. Nothing with a nose could stand that smell. And what the heck is a beazoul?"
"Beazouls are creatures that would probably, with say a 95% likelihood, have eaten you if I hadn't ensured you smelled too bad for them to be tempted."
"And you couldn't just tell me that? Or let me, I don't know, say, stick my shoes in the puddle so I drove away the beazouls but didn't get pee all over me?"
"Ah, yes, that probably would have been better. Next time." He grins cheerfully.
Amy scowls back at him. "Next time? There isn't going to be a next time." She's never getting anywhere near Ksetrapāla or a yurkk, let alone yurkk pee, ever again.
"Never say never, my dear Pond," the Doctor says, and pushes her onto the bed. He jumps on the bed too, half on top of her and smiles down at her. "Comfortable?" he asks.
Honestly, sometimes she just doesn't believe the guy. "No. Of course I'm not comfortable," she says. "You're heavy."
"You do both talk a lot," Vincent says, standing in the doorway. He has a canvas (thankfully blank) under his arm, and a palette in his hand.
Amy feels rather than hears the Doctor's little snigger. She bites her lip to avoid sniggering too. Okay, she can do this. They can do this. Be all professional about it. "You need to move across, and then I can go just here," she orders, sliding out from underneath him and moving into what she hopes is a flattering pose. She hopes her thighs don't look too big. It'd be terrible to be naked on the wall of the Musée d'Orsay and have everyone looking at her big thighs.
At least she doesn't have cellulite.
"Relax," the Doctor whispers in her ear. His arm is around her waist and he's rubbing little circles on her belly with his thumb - it's oddly comforting. "It'll be a piece of cake."
"So, what, you've done this before? Been an artist's model? I suppose there aren't many things you haven't done." Every now and then she forgets just how old he is, how much he's seen and done. She'd love to hear about all of it, but even just sharing this part of his life is amazing.
"Oh, I can assure you there are many things I haven't done, and many things I may never do."
He sounds suddenly serious and sad, and Amy turns her head and kisses him. Just an innocent, brief kiss on the lips. Then she looks up at Vincent. "All right Mr. De Mille, I'm ready for my close-up."
"My name is actually Vincent Van Gogh," he says, a puzzled expression on his face, and Amy smiles, leaning back into the Doctor.
"Trust me, we know your name," she says. "Everyone knows your name."
*
The painting's there, in the exhibition. Not quite centre stage, but close. They wait a minute for a small group of Japanese tourists to move on to the next painting, then stand side by side in front of it.
It's beautiful. It's full of soft light and discreet shadows, their skin golden in the lamplight, Amy leaning back into the Doctor's arms. There's a sunflower on the bedcover beside her hand - Vincent must have added it later. It catches the light, bright and cheerful, and yet it's their smiles that Amy can't stop staring at. They're both smiling as though they have a secret. Amy wonders what all the art students have made of that over the years, how many different explanations there are for the painting.
She traces the lines of them in the air as they stand in front of it. "So, you and me," she says. "We're intertwined, huh?"
"It would seem so, yes," he says softly. He doesn't seem to have any doubt, or even to mind being linked at some soul deep level with someone as insignificant as Amy Pond.
"But why? Why me? I mean, I'm nobody special."
The Doctor grabs her by the arm and drags her out of the gallery, into the next one and across to the staircase. They get a few funny looks along the way, but no one stops them.
The staircase is quiet. The Doctor clasps her shoulders and stares right into her. It makes her feel more naked than she did in Vincent's bedroom, as though the Doctor can see right inside her. And yet, she doesn't mind. They're a part of each other, and maybe she'll never know more than a fraction of who the Doctor is, but she's glad for him to know her. He smiles at her, a smile full of determination that she should believe everything that he's about to say. "You are most definitely special. As was Vincent Van Gogh. As for that matter, am I too. The whole human race is bloody marvellous. You're full of quirks and determination and crazy ideas that you make happen, but you, Amy Pond, you stand out. Don't ever think you're not special." He gives her a little shake for emphasis, then lets her go.
"Okay, I've got it. I'm special," she says. Because if Vincent saw something and the Doctor says so, maybe what she sees in the mirror isn't all there is to Amy Pond. Maybe she really is a little bit special. She slots her arm into his. "Can we go back to the exhibition now? I want to see a certain very special painting of a hot naked Time Lord again."
It turns out, Time Lords can blush. It's another secret Amy keeps behind her smile.
//