inception/doctor who crossover fic: the circle is small [arthur/amy pond, pg]
the circle is small. inception/doctor who, pg, 1016 words.
When he does flick a glance over, she is already staring at him, pink lips pursed around a bright red straw.
Her hair flames under the dim yellow hanging lights.
Arthur, sitting two stools down from her at the bar, tries not to stare. Instead, he looks into the depths of his glass, at the sad remnants of three cubes of ice melting steadily away into the last finger of whiskey. He is not here to look, he tells himself. He is not here to think. He is here to forget; that is what he has built this place for, to not have to think, or to remember, or to care about anything.
It is however, very hard not to look.
When he does flick a glance over, she is already staring at him, pink lips pursed around a bright red straw. She chokes when she sees him looking and hastily sets down her glass, pressing a fist to her mouth as she coughs.
"Here," Arthur says, trying not to smile. He slides his napkin down the distance between them, and she takes it with an exasperated eyeroll.
"Sorry," she says ruefully, swiping at her chin. "Really dignified of me, I know."
He shakes his head. "Don't worry about it," he says, watching as she crumples the napkin into her palm. Her nails, he notices, are lacquered a bright yellow-orange.
She notices him noticing and sticks her hand out. He takes it; she feels solidly real under his touch, not some flimsy mental construction who will melt away as soon as he opens his eyes. And, anyway, he's really not sure where he would have dredged the Scottish accent up from.
"Hi," she says. "I'm Amy. And this, I'm sorry to tell you, is the Doctor."
Arthur leans back to look past her. Her friend, a young man in a tweed jacket, is bent over the bar, staring at the lacquer of the wood with rapt fascination, running his nail down the length of a seam in the woodwork.
"Not right, not right, this is not right," he is muttering, brow furrowed. "It's a very clever facsimile, to be sure, but - what am I not picking up on?" He sniffs deeply and then wets his lips as thought he is about to lick the lacquer; at the last minute, though, he scrunches up his nose and proceeds to examine the lights above.
"Is he all right?" Arthur says, bemused.
"Oh, yeah, don't worry about him," she says. Her face falls a little into a sort of weary resignation. "This is totally normal. This is… totally, tragically normal. This is just your average Monday, with him."
"Sounds exciting," Arthur says.
"Well," Amy says, "it has its moments."
Arthur drains the last of his whiskey. She watches him, leaning her cheek on her hand.
"And what about you?" she adds suddenly. "You look like a fellow who knows a thing or two about excitement."
He can't help it; he smiles.
"I do?" he says. He rubs his thumb down the side of his mouth to wipe away the wet smear of alcohol and his grin at the same time. "I have to say that's the first time I've heard that."
"Mmm," she says. "Do you want to know what it is?"
She's sitting close enough to him now that the toe of her boot brushes his calf. He opens his hand. "Be my guest."
"The suit," she says. "Some people might look at it and say, 'Oh, he's probably the sort of bloke who irons his pants and files his utility bills in colour-coded folders, what a wanker.' Pardon my French. But you and I, ah, we know how it is, don't we? I know all about men who come in deceptive packages."
Arthur watches the Doctor stand up on his stool and start flicking some sort of slim buzzy flashlight at the ceiling. Amy follows his gaze upwards; her face softens.
"So the suit means I'm secretly a danger-fetishist with a taste for the dark side?" Arthur says drily.
"Yes!" she says brightly, clearing her throat, focusing her attention back on Arthur. "Or something like that. Which is why I try to get Rory into a little more structured once in a while, like, I get it, you're a nurse, scrubs are de rigeur in your career, or whatever, but a girl appreciates something different every so often, you know? Roleplay can be fun for both parties in a relationship."
"Rory?" Arthur says.
"My fiancé," she says. Her eyes widen. "Oh, damn. I wasn't supposed to mention that, was I? But, really, don't worry about it; at the moment that state of affairs is very much… negotiable."
"Negotiable," Arthur repeats.
"Well," Amy says.
"Aaaaaaaaah," the Doctor says, hopping down off his stool and clapping his hands together delightedly. "We're dreaming! We're stuck in someone's unconscious dream state - what, the Dream Lord? No, no, because that was just - well, that was me - but surely this sort of technology is too early for its time? Amy, I think we've gotten ourselves lost in an alternate reality again. But is it technological or organic…?"
He wets one finger and raises it, swooping around the bar like what Arthur imagines a drunken giraffe would look like, snatching up random drinks to inspect their contents and giving stern, wide-eyed stares to the crowd of projections who people the bar.
"Doctor," Amy says, swinging around to shoot a glare at him, "will you kindly shut up, please? This gentleman and I were just in the middle of something. Weren't we?"
"I," Arthur says. "Uh."
Amy turns back around in her stool and leans in close, propping her elbow up on the bar. She lowers her lashes and then looks back up under them, giving Arthur a coy, pretty smile.
"Well, that should keep him busy for awhile," she says. "Now."
She leans forward and tugs on his tie, pulling it loose away from his cooler. She tilts her head back, and he thinks he could count every freckle on her face right now. His heartbeat pulses in his throat; he is sure she can feel it under her fingers.
Her smile widens into something catlike and delighted.
"Where were we?"
When he does flick a glance over, she is already staring at him, pink lips pursed around a bright red straw.
Her hair flames under the dim yellow hanging lights.
Arthur, sitting two stools down from her at the bar, tries not to stare. Instead, he looks into the depths of his glass, at the sad remnants of three cubes of ice melting steadily away into the last finger of whiskey. He is not here to look, he tells himself. He is not here to think. He is here to forget; that is what he has built this place for, to not have to think, or to remember, or to care about anything.
It is however, very hard not to look.
When he does flick a glance over, she is already staring at him, pink lips pursed around a bright red straw. She chokes when she sees him looking and hastily sets down her glass, pressing a fist to her mouth as she coughs.
"Here," Arthur says, trying not to smile. He slides his napkin down the distance between them, and she takes it with an exasperated eyeroll.
"Sorry," she says ruefully, swiping at her chin. "Really dignified of me, I know."
He shakes his head. "Don't worry about it," he says, watching as she crumples the napkin into her palm. Her nails, he notices, are lacquered a bright yellow-orange.
She notices him noticing and sticks her hand out. He takes it; she feels solidly real under his touch, not some flimsy mental construction who will melt away as soon as he opens his eyes. And, anyway, he's really not sure where he would have dredged the Scottish accent up from.
"Hi," she says. "I'm Amy. And this, I'm sorry to tell you, is the Doctor."
Arthur leans back to look past her. Her friend, a young man in a tweed jacket, is bent over the bar, staring at the lacquer of the wood with rapt fascination, running his nail down the length of a seam in the woodwork.
"Not right, not right, this is not right," he is muttering, brow furrowed. "It's a very clever facsimile, to be sure, but - what am I not picking up on?" He sniffs deeply and then wets his lips as thought he is about to lick the lacquer; at the last minute, though, he scrunches up his nose and proceeds to examine the lights above.
"Is he all right?" Arthur says, bemused.
"Oh, yeah, don't worry about him," she says. Her face falls a little into a sort of weary resignation. "This is totally normal. This is… totally, tragically normal. This is just your average Monday, with him."
"Sounds exciting," Arthur says.
"Well," Amy says, "it has its moments."
Arthur drains the last of his whiskey. She watches him, leaning her cheek on her hand.
"And what about you?" she adds suddenly. "You look like a fellow who knows a thing or two about excitement."
He can't help it; he smiles.
"I do?" he says. He rubs his thumb down the side of his mouth to wipe away the wet smear of alcohol and his grin at the same time. "I have to say that's the first time I've heard that."
"Mmm," she says. "Do you want to know what it is?"
She's sitting close enough to him now that the toe of her boot brushes his calf. He opens his hand. "Be my guest."
"The suit," she says. "Some people might look at it and say, 'Oh, he's probably the sort of bloke who irons his pants and files his utility bills in colour-coded folders, what a wanker.' Pardon my French. But you and I, ah, we know how it is, don't we? I know all about men who come in deceptive packages."
Arthur watches the Doctor stand up on his stool and start flicking some sort of slim buzzy flashlight at the ceiling. Amy follows his gaze upwards; her face softens.
"So the suit means I'm secretly a danger-fetishist with a taste for the dark side?" Arthur says drily.
"Yes!" she says brightly, clearing her throat, focusing her attention back on Arthur. "Or something like that. Which is why I try to get Rory into a little more structured once in a while, like, I get it, you're a nurse, scrubs are de rigeur in your career, or whatever, but a girl appreciates something different every so often, you know? Roleplay can be fun for both parties in a relationship."
"Rory?" Arthur says.
"My fiancé," she says. Her eyes widen. "Oh, damn. I wasn't supposed to mention that, was I? But, really, don't worry about it; at the moment that state of affairs is very much… negotiable."
"Negotiable," Arthur repeats.
"Well," Amy says.
"Aaaaaaaaah," the Doctor says, hopping down off his stool and clapping his hands together delightedly. "We're dreaming! We're stuck in someone's unconscious dream state - what, the Dream Lord? No, no, because that was just - well, that was me - but surely this sort of technology is too early for its time? Amy, I think we've gotten ourselves lost in an alternate reality again. But is it technological or organic…?"
He wets one finger and raises it, swooping around the bar like what Arthur imagines a drunken giraffe would look like, snatching up random drinks to inspect their contents and giving stern, wide-eyed stares to the crowd of projections who people the bar.
"Doctor," Amy says, swinging around to shoot a glare at him, "will you kindly shut up, please? This gentleman and I were just in the middle of something. Weren't we?"
"I," Arthur says. "Uh."
Amy turns back around in her stool and leans in close, propping her elbow up on the bar. She lowers her lashes and then looks back up under them, giving Arthur a coy, pretty smile.
"Well, that should keep him busy for awhile," she says. "Now."
She leans forward and tugs on his tie, pulling it loose away from his cooler. She tilts her head back, and he thinks he could count every freckle on her face right now. His heartbeat pulses in his throat; he is sure she can feel it under her fingers.
Her smile widens into something catlike and delighted.
"Where were we?"