Disclaimer: I don't write Doctor Who. Damn.
"Origins, and a Yellow Roadster"
i'm wishing, wishing further
for the excitement to arrive
Amy Pond starts her first year at university wondering exactly how she ever came to be there. She's living in student halls with an outspoken girl called Mels, and a funny bloke called Rory from the other side of the corridor seems to have become her best friend after they bonded over the Macarena at a party three weekends back. Her schedule is unbelievably free, because apparently Art History and Classical Studies and Journalism classes don't take up much time, so she spends at least half of each Wednesday and Friday taking the Underground in and out of London, like something important will come of it.
Back in Leadworth, she was a big deal, all lengthy limbs and red hair; if she hadn't been so butch in primary school, she'd probably have had a proper boyfriend by now. Well, a proper boyfriend who wasn't Jeff. But here in London, no one pays her much attention. That is, until she's almost run over by some miserable canary-yellow excuse for a roadster on her way back from the Greenwich Observatory.
"Oh my gosh! Oh my goodness! Are – are you okay?"
The driver leaps out as Amy springs back, and she's too busy breathing heavily and cursing under her breath that she doesn't look up until he – because that much she could tell, from the voice – is standing right beside her and she notices his shoes.
Amy's never set much in store by what other people wear, but this bloke's got a unique sense of style if ever she saw one. It starts with dark boots and trousers, which were forgivable if not semi-professional, and crescendos into a brown tweed coat – complete with elbow patches – and a blue bowtie.
Thank God he missed, Amy thinks to herself. I was almost assassinated by a granddad in a yellow roadster.
But his face, like his voice, isn't old. In fact, he wouldn't be much older than her. He's got long, floppy hair that falls in his eyes a bit, and the eyes themselves are a confusing myriad of grey and blue and green and hazel, searching Amy's own as the person they belong to reprimands himself for being so careless.
"I'm so sorry – I must be a much worse driver than I thought – that's new, I promise – I didn't actually hit you, did I?"
Amy smiles, if only because this strange bloke is so concerned. He should be less worried about me and more worried about the fact he's wearing tweed in broad daylight. But she bites this thought back and says, "Oh, no you didn't. I'm fine. I mean, maybe there's a bit of shock there, but medically, I'm fine."
The driver beams at her, then quite clumsily extends his hand. "Sorry! I should probably introduce myself after almost hitting you with a car – I'm the Doctor. Well – no – that's what they call me up at the Observatory, bit of a joke. I'm John Foreman."
Amy reaches her hand out and shakes John's. "I'm Amelia Pond. Friends call me 'Amy'."
"Do I count as a friend?" John Foreman asks earnestly.
"I don't know," says Amy, a smile tugging at her cheeks again, "you did just almost hit me with your car."
"I s'pose I can consider that one. But there's nothing wrong with Amelia, is there? It's pretty fairytale."
Amy laughs. "So's 'the Doctor'. What's that about?"
"I'm the youngest person with a doctorate in Astrophysics, up there at the Observatory."
She raises her eyebrows. "You – you work at the Observatory? You have a doctorate? What are you – a genius?"
"What's so funny?" John asks, still earnest. Amy thinks he must be earnest all the time.
"You – a doctor – you look about five!"
Indignant, John stammers, "I'm twenty-three, actually!"
Amy stops. "You're kidding. You are a genius. You must be."
"Why? What do you do for a living?"
She shrugs noncommittally. "Uh… nothing at the moment, really. I've just started uni – Journalism, Classics, Art History... I'm liking it, but – you're an astrophysicist – oh my god. An astrophysicist. With elbow patches!"
They're not far from where Amy would usually catch her ferry, so John offers to walk her there. She can't say she minds terribly, because as ancient as his clothes seem to be, John certainly isn't, and even though half the things he says make her think puberty's just a wild stab in the dark, there's some endearing quality he possesses: like he thinks everything in the entire world is important, and worth chronicling. She decides two minutes into their walk, after he almost trips over a tree branch, that she likes this about him.
Upon their arrival at the dock, Amy finds that the ferry is two hundred meters away. Headed – quite conveniently – in the direction of London. She fights the urge to swear, and John squints at the boat in the distance.
"You seem to have missed your ferry," he remarks.
"Yeah, I was a bit busy being almost run over by a twelve-year-old in tweed."
John furrows his eyebrows. "There won't be another for at least twenty minutes."
Amy sighs and tries to look around for something to sit down on while she waits. "Well, there's not much I can do in twenty minutes."
"Nonsense! You can do loads in twenty minutes!"
"Fine then," says Amy, taking a step closer to him. "Let's get coffee."
"What?"
"It's the least you can do after almost running me down. Besides," she adds, pressing her lips together, "you know this area better than I do, Doctor."
"You're Scottish," John says, once they've found a café and Amy's ordered her coffee and John's ordered tea and she's not sure if he actually is a little kid or not.
"Have you just noticed?"
He ignores this. "What brings you down here? Why not go to university in Edinburgh or Glasgow or something? Don't Scots horrifically despise the English?"
Amy laughs. "I moved to Leadworth when I was a kid. It's a little town up north, not really worth a spot on the map. I had to come and live with my aunt Sharon because my parents just kind of dropped off the face of the Earth."
John frowns, but Amy keeps going. "It's not that they died, I don't think – I mean, they could be dead, for all they've said to me the past twelve years, but – I don't know, they just sort of went away one night and didn't come back." She chuckles. "When you say it like that, it sounds like Sharon tried to cover up the fact they slid off the road coming home from the museum or something."
Suddenly, she stops herself. "Oh, God. That's really touchy-feely and I am so sorry – I hate that sort of thing – why did I just dump that on you? I'm not a sob story, I promise. It's not like, my defining characteristic, I just…"
John shakes his head. "I don't mind. Hearing about your life, that is. Other people have interesting stories, and the stories are almost always important."
Amy raises her eyebrows at him mid-coffee sip. She moves the mug away from her lips, only far enough away to be able to speak. "Are you a living, breathing Hallmark card?"
He looks up, and his eyes are half obscured by the floppiness of his hair. His tea's done, but his hands are still wrapped around the mug. She thinks he might be bobbing his knees up and down under the table but it's more a habitual gesture than any sign of nerves or discomfort. She realizes it's been more than twenty minutes.
"What happens if I miss the ferry again?" she decides to ask.
John runs a hand through his hair; his eyes become fully visible. "I s'pose you could take the bus, or the train. There's a train here. Do you like the boat, though?"
Amy shrugs. "I like travelling. Seeing the world differently than how I usually would is what I'm after. Boat, or no boat."
There's a moment of silence and then John claps his hands together. "Don't take this the wrong way – please don't think I'm being forward – but I live closer to London than I do to here and I'll probably be going the same way as you anyway – so – just, er – if – if you like – you could ride home with me. I mean, not to my home. To wherever you live. Where do you live?"
She's laughing by now, if only at how perfectly sincere he is. Aunt Sharon always told her not to get into cars with strangers, but Amy's grown to live a bit more dangerously than Sharon would probably approve of. Living with Mels has taught her to do things as though she'll never do them again. (Mels herself is very literal on this front: she bought home a fishy bloke called Jim the other night, and what eventuated led Amy to the extreme of crossing the corridor and waking up a befuddled Rory – bless him – with the odd request of sleeping on his couch.)
So Amy leaps upon the opportunity to be driven home by an astrophysicist in the car that almost ran her over, and she thoroughly enjoys herself. John drives haphazardly, but takes great care in making sure Amy doesn't get thrown around too much. They arrive at her halls of residence and she wants to kiss him goodbye, but also doesn't, because he acts like a seven-year-old and dresses in such a way she can only describe as Antiques Roadshow Chic.
She gets his number, and he gets hers; John makes her repeat it, just to make sure he got it right, and she obliges even though she's not sure his phone – an ancient, battered, blue Nokia – actually works.
When Amy climbs out of the car and shuts the door behind her, John says, "Well, Amy Pond, I had a wonderful time with you today. I'm sorry for almost running you over."
She smiles. "Thanks for not killing me before we actually got to know each other. That was excellent. Great timing." She pauses, then adds, for the sake of parallel structure: "I'm sorry this didn't turn into dinner."
John blushes, but Amy doesn't give him much time to think on it. She's best when people don't have time to dissect her.
"I'll see you some other time, then?"
From the driver's seat of the canary-yellow roadster, the place where he saw her first, John nods. "Until then, Amelia Pond."
"Nice meeting you, Doctor," she agrees, relishing the nickname, before she spins on her heel and lopes through the door of the halls of residence.