Vincent and Amy
A/N: There is no way that I was the only one absolutely enthralled by Vincent's crush on Amy, right? I've been playing with this idea in my head for the longest time, and last night/this morning, it just begged to be put to paper. Er, as it were. This is my first piece of Doctor Who fic in a very long time, and it is my absolute first piece involving Amy Pond, so I can only hope I've done her justice. Please, enjoy.
It was not exactly a new experience for Amelia Pond to be left behind by the Doctor, but that didn't mean she was any more comfortable sitting with this unfamiliar man in his unfamiliar home. Granted, she realized, smiling to herself, it wasn't so long ago that she was staying with her unfamiliar Doctor in his unfamiliar blue box. And, after all, it was not some alien being she was sitting with this time—it was Vincent Van Gogh. Even after all this time, she almost found it hard to comprehend that she was sitting with the actual Vincent Van Gogh.
Amy raised her eyes from the rim of her mug to study the man sitting beside was studying the dregs at the bottom of his own mug, apparently lost in another world. The firelight seemed to emphasize his age, playing across the wrinkles and the stray white hairs in his beard. His brows hung heavy above his eyes, knitted as though he was deep in thought. She wanted, so badly, to know what he was thinking about. What was making him appear so lost, so sad?
It took several moments for Amy to realize that Vincent's clear blue eyes had fixed on hers, but even as she felt her cheeks burning at burning at the fact that she'd been caught staring, she couldn't look away. It seemed to her that now it was his turn to study her as intimately as she had just been studying him.
"You have such lovely eyes. They are soft, kind, but also very strong." He broke eye contact for just long enough to drain the last bits of coffee from his cup. "I would like to be able to paint them. Remarkable."
A thrill ran through Amy at the thought of The Vincent Van Gogh painting her, but she kept quiet. What if she did something to alter his future or something? What if, instead of painting one of his wheat fields or still lifes, he painted her ridiculous face? It was hardly a fair trade for the world, however brilliant a story it would make. Clearly, he took her silence as discomfort or even disapproval, because he waved a hand through the air, dismissing it. He seemed embarrassed now, was looking anywhere but at her.
"No, I know it is a ridiculous thing to try. The result would only be an insult to the real thing before me. Don't worry; I will not even attempt it." He put his mug down on the small table before them. Amy felt compelled to explain herself.
"Please, don't say that. I love your paintings. They're beautiful." He looked up, maybe in surprise, and Amy was the one to catch and hold his gaze this time. "I would be so honored, but there are so many other things that you need to paint." Now he was looking at her strangely, and she realized that perhaps she'd said too much. "To...to show the rest of the world how beautiful things are through your eyes." A moment passed, and a wistful smile made its way across Vincent's bearded face.
"It is as I have said," he mumbled. "You are very kind." He placed his hand over hers, and though his skin felt rough (likely from scrubbing paint from his hands), it was warm, and when he began stroking the back of her hand with his thumb, a pleasant feeling made its way through her body, shooting up her arm and filling her with a warmth that was at once strange and familiar. "You are crying."
That was absurd. What did she have to cry about? She was sitting at a table with Vincent Van Gogh, and he was holding her hand and looking at her with such...admiration. Before she could say anything, he reached over with his free hand to tenderly brush away the tear that she'd only just become aware of. His touch lingered, until he was cupping her cheek. She leaned into the touch and opened her mouth to tryto explain herself, but she could find no words. Instead, without knowing who moved towards whom, her lips were pressed against his, his hand snaking around the back of her head to pull her closer. His fingers twined through her hair, tugging, caressing. It was she who made the move to deepen the kiss, and for a moment she found herself smiling against his lips at that. Their kiss was no duel, no fierce battle for dominance, because what place did that have in this room, surrounded by the masterpieces of a man who would never know his own greatness? She felt him shift on his chair, and then he was even closer to her, the heat from his body real in a way that she had not felt in a long time. Or had she? This, like the spark from his hand on hers, felt familiar in a strange sort of way. The beard, though...that was definitely wrong. Or was it? She raised a hand to touch it, test its feel with her fingertips. He responded with a soft growl low in his throat, a curling of the corners of his lips. Why did the beard feel wrong like this? It wasn't as though she had done much kissing lately, not since long before she'd boarded the TARDIS.
The Doctor was clean-shaven, wasn't he? The thought nearly startled her into pulling away from the artist next to her. That was ridiculous. Of course she hadn't been kissing the Doctor. And even if she had, why would she have such difficulties remembering it? It was probably just some quirk of time travel, that's all. Memory loss. Kissing Vincent Van Gogh.
Amy returned her attentions to the man with his hand pressed against the back of her neck. The kiss seemed to have changed, grown still more urgent. She moved her hand from his beard to his shoulder, where she could feel muscle, tense under his skin. He, in turn, moved his hand from down along her arm, down her side, to finally come to rest lightly against the side of her knee. Their mouths tasted of strong, bitter coffee tempered with—what, her tears? It was now that he dragged his mouth away from hers, though the rest of his remained physically as close as ever.
"More tears," he observed with traces of shame and sorrow in both his voice and his features. "Have I hurt you?"
Amy shook her head, palming the wetness away from her eyes. "No," she managed, sniffling once or twice and looking her friend in the face. "No, I'm not hurt. Not physically, anyway..." She trailed off. How could she explain herself to Vincent, when she had such trouble explaining herself to...herself? Thankfully, the man merely smiled softly and took her hands between his own.
"I understand," he said with a slight nod, then lifted her finger to his lips. He pressed a soft kiss against her fingertips, then released her. "Truly, Amy Pond, I understand." They sat together in a peaceful silence for several long moments, until it became just a bit too much for Amy, and she rose to her feet.
"I should go find the Doctor," she announced, straightening her coat and readjusting the brilliant red scarf around her neck before making her way to the door. "Where's he got to now?"