fic: not schoolbook history
Title: not schoolbook history
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: Amy/Rory
Word Count: 871
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I own no Who, as usual.
Warnings: none
Summary: Post-"The Angels Take Manhattan." Amy dreams of film noir. Rory's jokes are terrible. Only so much has changed.
A/N: Written for such_heights, for fandom-stocking and inspired by her detective AU graphic.
"These are facts, historical facts, not schoolbook history, not Mr. Wells' history, but history nevertheless."
-The Maltese Falcon, 1941
After the war, everything returns to a safe kind of quiet. Which is nice and all, but Amy can’t help but mistrust it a little. She suspects that if she looked hard enough, she’d find danger, or aliens, or,
“A Maltese Falcon,” she announces suddenly, one night when she and Rory are lying in bed.
“A what?” Rory says, lifting his head from her shoulder.
“A Maltese Falcon,” she answers. “Like in the film. Someone could be missing theirs and it could be up to me to find it. Only it could be, you know, not a statue this time, but an alien device. Super dangerous.”
“Oh,” says Rory, putting his head back down. “It’s an Amy train of thought.”
“No, I’m serious!” Amy flicks his arm. “I want to be a detective.”
“Mhm. Why’s that?”
“Only because it would be the most awesome thing in the history of ever. Think about it, Rory. Every kid grows up playing private eye. We could live it, with the advantage of having also seen all the films. And the remakes. And The Matrix, for good measure.”
“Good old Mels and her obsession with crime noir. She must have made me watch The Big Sleep at least a dozen times, and when I told her I was sick of it, she looked at me like I’d said I thought the Earth might be flat. God, I miss that girl.”
“So do I,” Amy sighs. “If she doesn’t come and visit soon, I shall be cross.” Rory doesn’t say anything, and Amy chews on her lip for a moment. Then she gives him a little nudge with her elbow. “Hey, it wasn’t just Mels, though. Come on. Didn’t you ever want to be a detective when we were kids?”
Rory snorts. “I suppose. But that was also before I had any real appreciation of what being shot at was like. And aren’t detectives supposed to be good at finding things? Took you twenty minutes to find me at the hospital last week because you couldn’t remember that they call a canteen a cafeteria here.”
Amy gives him her best death glare. “It would have helped if you had said, ‘Meet me in the cafeteria,’ and not ‘Meet me in the canteen,’” she says archly.
“Okay, fair.”
“Anyway, lack of familiarity’s no object,” Amy continues. “We’ve worked out what was happening on loads of alien planets we’d never seen before. And sometimes it’s good not to have expectations. Fresh pair of eyes and all.”
“Amy Pond, you cannot be a detective,” Rory says seriously. Amy opens her mouth, indignant, but then his poker face fails him. “You’ll be depriving New York of its most brilliant lawyer,” he finishes, turning his head to cover a truly stupid grin.
“Awful! You’re awful!” Amy says, smacking his hand and trying to hide a grin of her own. “Ugh, Rory! That’s not even funny!”
“And yet, you’re smiling,” he says.
“I’m not, either.” She stares up at the ceiling very deliberately.
“Okay,” Rory says, in his best I-don’t-believe-you voice.
“As I was saying, before someone started making his horrible jokes,” Amy goes on. “It’ll be fun. And it’ll give me something to do, now that Rosie the Riveter and I are out of a job. Maybe it’ll inspire me to write some novels, since our daughter seems so keen on starting a publishing house, along with dominating the rest of this half of the galaxy.”
Rory laughs. “You two are a pair of terrible influences. I do already have a job, you know.”
“Well, if they’re keeping you that busy at the hospital, then you can just come out on your days off. Please? You know you want to,” she wheedles.
“Oh, thanks,” Rory says. “Now I’ve been demoted to the P.I.’s sidekick.”
Amy laughs and gives him a little shove. “Seriously, though, Rory. If the Doctor can’t get here, there must be all manner of alien funny business he’s not around to stop. So who’s going to investigate it?”
“You, I suppose.” Rory leans up to kiss her cheek. “And me, when I can join you.”
“You’re the best,” Amy says, and kisses him back. “And you’re not my sidekick, you know. We’re partners. We’ve always been, yeah?”
“Yep.” Rory starts to nod, then hesitates. “Hold on, does that make me your femme fatale?”
Amy howls with laughter. “Only if you want it to. If you want a slinky dress, though, you’ll have to buy your own. Mine won’t fit you, you’ll stretch them out.”
Rory nips at her ear. “Cheeky. I expect they look better on you, anyhow.”
“You could get a trench coat.”
“If you like, Detective Pond,” Rory says, and then yawns. “Only, could we hold off a bit on the planning? Unless you want your partner nodding off in the middle of it.”
“I seem to remember my partner being just fine when he thought it was time to make terrible, terrible jokes.”
Rory yawns again. “Perhaps his humor didn’t meet standards because he’s been awake since five this morning.”
“Somehow, I very much doubt that’s the reason,” Amy says fondly, and ruffles his hair. “But yes, go to sleep. We’ve got nothing but time.”
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: Amy/Rory
Word Count: 871
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I own no Who, as usual.
Warnings: none
Summary: Post-"The Angels Take Manhattan." Amy dreams of film noir. Rory's jokes are terrible. Only so much has changed.
A/N: Written for such_heights, for fandom-stocking and inspired by her detective AU graphic.
"These are facts, historical facts, not schoolbook history, not Mr. Wells' history, but history nevertheless."
-The Maltese Falcon, 1941
After the war, everything returns to a safe kind of quiet. Which is nice and all, but Amy can’t help but mistrust it a little. She suspects that if she looked hard enough, she’d find danger, or aliens, or,
“A Maltese Falcon,” she announces suddenly, one night when she and Rory are lying in bed.
“A what?” Rory says, lifting his head from her shoulder.
“A Maltese Falcon,” she answers. “Like in the film. Someone could be missing theirs and it could be up to me to find it. Only it could be, you know, not a statue this time, but an alien device. Super dangerous.”
“Oh,” says Rory, putting his head back down. “It’s an Amy train of thought.”
“No, I’m serious!” Amy flicks his arm. “I want to be a detective.”
“Mhm. Why’s that?”
“Only because it would be the most awesome thing in the history of ever. Think about it, Rory. Every kid grows up playing private eye. We could live it, with the advantage of having also seen all the films. And the remakes. And The Matrix, for good measure.”
“Good old Mels and her obsession with crime noir. She must have made me watch The Big Sleep at least a dozen times, and when I told her I was sick of it, she looked at me like I’d said I thought the Earth might be flat. God, I miss that girl.”
“So do I,” Amy sighs. “If she doesn’t come and visit soon, I shall be cross.” Rory doesn’t say anything, and Amy chews on her lip for a moment. Then she gives him a little nudge with her elbow. “Hey, it wasn’t just Mels, though. Come on. Didn’t you ever want to be a detective when we were kids?”
Rory snorts. “I suppose. But that was also before I had any real appreciation of what being shot at was like. And aren’t detectives supposed to be good at finding things? Took you twenty minutes to find me at the hospital last week because you couldn’t remember that they call a canteen a cafeteria here.”
Amy gives him her best death glare. “It would have helped if you had said, ‘Meet me in the cafeteria,’ and not ‘Meet me in the canteen,’” she says archly.
“Okay, fair.”
“Anyway, lack of familiarity’s no object,” Amy continues. “We’ve worked out what was happening on loads of alien planets we’d never seen before. And sometimes it’s good not to have expectations. Fresh pair of eyes and all.”
“Amy Pond, you cannot be a detective,” Rory says seriously. Amy opens her mouth, indignant, but then his poker face fails him. “You’ll be depriving New York of its most brilliant lawyer,” he finishes, turning his head to cover a truly stupid grin.
“Awful! You’re awful!” Amy says, smacking his hand and trying to hide a grin of her own. “Ugh, Rory! That’s not even funny!”
“And yet, you’re smiling,” he says.
“I’m not, either.” She stares up at the ceiling very deliberately.
“Okay,” Rory says, in his best I-don’t-believe-you voice.
“As I was saying, before someone started making his horrible jokes,” Amy goes on. “It’ll be fun. And it’ll give me something to do, now that Rosie the Riveter and I are out of a job. Maybe it’ll inspire me to write some novels, since our daughter seems so keen on starting a publishing house, along with dominating the rest of this half of the galaxy.”
Rory laughs. “You two are a pair of terrible influences. I do already have a job, you know.”
“Well, if they’re keeping you that busy at the hospital, then you can just come out on your days off. Please? You know you want to,” she wheedles.
“Oh, thanks,” Rory says. “Now I’ve been demoted to the P.I.’s sidekick.”
Amy laughs and gives him a little shove. “Seriously, though, Rory. If the Doctor can’t get here, there must be all manner of alien funny business he’s not around to stop. So who’s going to investigate it?”
“You, I suppose.” Rory leans up to kiss her cheek. “And me, when I can join you.”
“You’re the best,” Amy says, and kisses him back. “And you’re not my sidekick, you know. We’re partners. We’ve always been, yeah?”
“Yep.” Rory starts to nod, then hesitates. “Hold on, does that make me your femme fatale?”
Amy howls with laughter. “Only if you want it to. If you want a slinky dress, though, you’ll have to buy your own. Mine won’t fit you, you’ll stretch them out.”
Rory nips at her ear. “Cheeky. I expect they look better on you, anyhow.”
“You could get a trench coat.”
“If you like, Detective Pond,” Rory says, and then yawns. “Only, could we hold off a bit on the planning? Unless you want your partner nodding off in the middle of it.”
“I seem to remember my partner being just fine when he thought it was time to make terrible, terrible jokes.”
Rory yawns again. “Perhaps his humor didn’t meet standards because he’s been awake since five this morning.”
“Somehow, I very much doubt that’s the reason,” Amy says fondly, and ruffles his hair. “But yes, go to sleep. We’ve got nothing but time.”