Thankfully, Rory's eyes resumed normal vision in the quicker of the two estimates, and with a quick shower and quite a few mollifying kisses from Amy, the man quickly resumed his Christmas cheer.
Amy, after more than a few glances in the mirror, decided that flour-coated cheeks brought out her eyes and merely changed into a decidedly unflattering Christmas jumper and jeans.
The Doctor however, was not cleaned so easily. But luckily, it turns out that three showers, a good scrubbing, and an ear cleaning takes roughly the same amount of time as it does to roast a turkey. So, in a good half hour, the Doctor had Amy's oaken table groaning, heaped with food. The notorious turkey, various puddings, steaming fresh rolls, salad, spaghetti, juices, coffee, and a bottle of what appeared to be wine - they somehow all managed to fit on one round table meant for two.
Amy laughed. "Doctor, there's no way you could have made all of this."
The Doctor turned around, offended. Shrugging off his apron, which had miraculously stayed spotless despite the enormous amount of food being carted from kitchen to table, he retorted, "It might have looked like a mess to your weak human eyes; perhaps you're susceptible to a low-level perception filter that's coated this house for ages, but I merely used the mess as a distraction so I could surprise you with all this!" He waved ecstatically towards the table.
Rory nodded skeptically. "Or... you were just making a mess in our kitchen for no good reason, and then you went back in time and made all of this."
The Doctor stuck out his tongue and pulled up a chair. "All right, all right, enough chit chat. Let's eat!"
The trio sat back in their chairs, utterly content. Rory leaned back, hands clasped behind his head, eyes closed peacefully. Amy, struck silent for once, merely folded a spare napkin into assorted birds. The Doctor, however, appeared to have become even more excited than usual, rambling on about the last time he'd had a Christmas dinner with some family called the Tylers - Amy was too drowsy to pay proper attention.
Eventually the Doctor ceased his chatter, noticing his friends' quietude. He smiled a small smile to himself and busied himself with clearing away the dishes. Like a good child, he thought, how domestic.
When he returned, Amy and Rory looked slightly more energetic.
"Oh, lookie there, you're alive!" he grinned.
"Doctor," Rory began, "that was quite honestly the best cooking I've ever had." He flashed a sidelong guilty look at Amy, who raised an eyebrow, then shrugged.
"Quite honestly, I agree," she said whole-heartedly.
The Doctor beamed. "Oh stop it, you two. I'm just proud you didn't faint halfway through. Time Lord cuisine is no joke. I'm willing to bet my bowtie you two don't even know the names of half the spices in these dishes, and they are quite, quite powerful. In fact, last time I cooked - for Virginia Woolf - she passed out stone cold! Oh, look, more sentences I should just throw away," he added hastily, as Amy's and Rory's eyes widened in shock. "Not to worry, not to worry, you're strong people, you'll be fine. Just... maybe don't drink any more cider if you feel woozy, all right?" Contrite, he pulled a bottle off the table and stowed it away in his pockets. When Amy and Rory looked none too reassured, the Doctor changed subject. "Tell you what, let's let me make you a good cup of tea, eh? And with completely Earthen ingredients, too. Well, maybe not entirely. But, well, let's see now."
And he bustled off with the last of the dishes, leaving a stricken Rory and an Amy with one of those oh-well-he's-our-last-of-the-time-lord-son-in-law-what-do-you-expect expressions.
