Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who
He carefully mixed the paints on his worn wooden palate. Van Gogh was usually cautious when pouring his imagination and inspiration onto the canvas but he took even more time preparing, especially with this one. He sat outside on a weathered wooden chair nearby a wheat field and leaned back taking a deep breath of the summery air. He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun's rays yet not satisfied. Feeling the sun's warmth would not be enough. He waited, clearing his mind trying to feel the sun's color; he wanted to be blinded with it in his mind's eye. Bursts of gold and yellow filled his head and a small smile played at his lips as inspiration had chosen to return this day.
He had heard people talk of muses and he had always shunned the notion, he believed that a person had to have the ability to see the wonder in the world, even what seemed mundane; to create art. That was until Amy Pond; he still held on to his former notions but found that a "muse" could visit a lost artist once in a great while. He knew he would never see her again but that fact urged him on rather than dampen his desire to paint. It made her even more enigmatic and fit to be called a muse; the girl from the future that had forever touched his heart. He knew she would see his paintings in the future and for that alone he wanted to create a masterpiece, even if she was to be the only person on earth who would ever see it. He sat up again and focus replaced the subtle sadness that usually tinted his blue eyes. His brows furrowed and his hands moved steadily across the canvas with an expertise that put to shame all who had criticized his paintings.
He thought back to the day Amy sat surrounded by sunflowers; looking up and smiling at him and again he was caught aback by her beauty as he had been that morning. He needed to remember it clearly, like it had happened yesterday...if he could re-live that moment then his art would form as it ought. He delicately painted the petals, keeping the shades of the suns yellow and gold in his mind. He held onto the memory but the others bloomed again in his mind as well, the smart but strange Doctor and his non-sensical way of speaking. There was Amy buying a bottle of wine to share with him at the cafe. They spilled in and swirled throughout his mind threatening to grow dark but with effort Van Gogh pushed the Krayafis, the death of the girl Giselle, and the harsh voices and stones hurled at him by the people in his village away and focused on the good. Those thoughts would be kept for another day, for another painting. Today though, he was painting for Amy.