[ For timeforamy ; Air-Paris ]

[mmkaternater]

[ OOC: Follows this ]

There are approximately 400 billion stars in the Milky Way. A respectable number, for any galaxy. But that's small potatoes when compared to the number of stars found in the entire universe -- something like ten to the power of twenty-four -- which is a very pragmatic, comfortingly mathematical way of saying that space is big.

Really big.

Bigger than your whole town, much bigger than the little flat you have in the city, with the leaky shower head and the upstairs neighbors who like to stomp around wearing wellies filled with bricks. Space is bigger than your township, your borough, bigger than all the places you have ever been, combined and multiplied by themselves until the math makes you dizzy and you have to lie down for a while. Big. Ten to the power of twenty-four. Countless suns, all burning out in the black. Of those, maybe a little more than half have planets. Of those, approximately half have some form of life. Of those, approximately sixteen-million-five-hundred-and-forty-seven-thousand-one-hundred-and-eighty-six have intelligent life, or some variation of it. Comparatively speaking, that is a depressingly small percentage. But, then again, "intelligence" is relative, especially across star systems.

The Doctor is in the TARDIS's control room, hunched over the console, his nose inches away from a chronofribrilator feed that, apparently, requires up close and personal inspection in order for it to function properly. He's muttering to himself, soft space-themed mutter. Once in a while his eyebrows will jump, as if he's just thought of something, but then he will return to his work, subdued. He left Amy in his bed down the corridor, asleep. He does not quite know what to think about that.

He does know that he needs to take her somewhere -- somewhere spectacular -- and he needs to do it right away. What are you doing, old man? You can't honestly expect to carry this off. Not when you're not even being entirely honest with her. Not when she's only just lost her --

He hears bare feet on the catwalk above his head. "Pond!" he announces, "glad you're finally awake. Listen, we're just about to make landfall. Oh, er', well, spacefall, I suppose you could say. Air-Paris: the entire City of Lights, replicated perfectly, floating in the Sunset Constellation of Ursa Minor Minor. Sort of like Starship U.K., but with much more wine and cheese."

Comments

[goodwithtime.livejournal.com]

Actually, the Doctor thinks, the people of Air-Paris -- with their little green space pooches and holographic landmarks -- have probably seen far more unusual sights than a redhead in an oversized smock. He considers this while he simultaneously considers her legs. 'Blushes. Looks away.

He busies himself with the parking sequence, jamming his foot against one of the ballast pedals when it gives off an annoying squeak. The TARDIS settles with a puff of air. "That's my girl," the Doctor croons, petting her console. "Won't be but jot."

'Tingly presence on the back of his neck and he turns to see Amy coming back into the control room. A rush of warmth suddenly gallops up his spine at the sight of her. The TARDIS produces a high whistle, as if privy to the Doctor's thoughts.

[timeforamy.livejournal.com]

He's noticing a good bit more about her, and this pleases Amy a great deal. She has incorporated the beret into her choice of attire, the hat now sitting at a jaunty angle atop her firey hair. But the outfit she has chosen is black, a dress that flares about the mid thigh and boots climbing up her shin. It is more fancy than some of her ensembles before, but things are different - a bit - today.

Without missing a beat Amy maneuvers down the TARDIS walkway, her arms lifting to settle lightly around his neck. Her smile is radiant.

"What, you like it?"

[goodwithtime.livejournal.com]

"It's very..." the TARDIS gives off a puff of steam "...yes, well, let's not dawdle. Plenty of places to go, things to see, diplomatic relations to..." he fumbles "...diplomatize." He gently removes her arms from around his neck, running a finger between his collar and his throat. He's going to have to check the TARDIS's heating system when they get back.

He swings his arms to gather momentum, leaping off the top of the console with a wild pinwheel of limbs. "Air-Paris!" he announces brightly, throwing open the doors. "All the best bits of the real Paris without all the tourism. Well, some --" as a family of three-headed aliens walk past them, snapping photos.

He offers Amy his arm.

[timeforamy.livejournal.com]

Amy smiles, giving him space to flounder about and notes the flush in his face. She's having a definite impact on his feelings and that isn't something she minds. But there is time for those things later, and now Air-Paris is waiting. What better way to explore it than with her raggedy Doctor, her beloved imaginary friend from childhood who was always more real than anything else? It was perfect, really. Some kind of perfect vacation from the life that wanted her back, that was waiting behind her.

Amy has a sudden, wild urge to never go back/

Air-Paris! Amy feels a bubble of euphoria in her chest.

She slides her arm through the Doctor's offered one. "Here we go!" Her voice is triumphant and pleased. The universe has more to offer than she could have dared to dream up, and this is something truly out of a fairytale.

[goodwithtime.livejournal.com]

They step out of the TARDIS and the Doctor threads his arm out of hers to lock the double doors. He puts the key into a pocket. That's another thing, he thinks, resuming Amy's arm as they thread their way into the busy thoroughfare, a TARDIS key. He's given them to companions in the past -- you never know when you're going to be separated from your time machine and your companion is lousy at picking interstellar locks -- and it has just made good, logical sense to hand them over.

But this time, well, this time is slightly different. The Doctor sort of equates it to a human asking another human to move in with them. Which is actually no different than what's already happening, but still, a key...

He doesn't have time to finish the thought: the whole of Air-Paris is spread out before them, glittering like a bright jewel. Cafes, bistros, little shoppes; it's all there, all gorgeous, and, strangely, it all smells like the interior of an expensive handbag. Truthfully, the Doctor finds it a bit overdone. But the look on Amy's face is enough to keep him smiling.

"So then, what do you want to do first? Tour the Louvre 2.0? They have art from two hundred different galaxies. 'Even a Trilirian Impressionist who sneezes paint out of his giant nostrils --" the Doctor pushes two fingers to the underside of his nose to demonstrate "-- and fwack! against the canvas. Very messy. Slightly...disgusting, when you think about it."

[timeforamy.livejournal.com]

Amy has never once been asked by someone to move in with them in any respect, whether it one which involves a key to an impossible blue box of a time machine or something else in a more human respect. There have been boyfriends in her past, sure, but none of which have come into that category of serious. There are a million reasons as to why, of course, most involving the knowledge that no one - no man, certainly - would ever be able to live up to one imaginary man's standard in her mind. Whether Amy made this known to the possible suitors or not was irrelevant.

And right now she is surely not aware in the slightest that the Doctor has this on his mind.

"I'd love to! Art from so many different galaxies!" Amy lifts her head to give him a dazzling smile, her eyes shining as bright as the stars which they have just sailed through. "And at the risk of sounding oh so completely human," and here her lips twist into a little smirk, "I'll go as far as to ask, are there crepes in Air-Paris?"

[goodwithtime.livejournal.com]

"Ah, the human's a bit peckish, is that it? Come on. This is Paris, there's sure to be something about." They pass through narrow alleyways and broad, cobbled streets. Everything about Air-Paris seems slightly anachronistic, as if the entire city has been frozen in time. Apt, seeing as this is the 42nd Century and the real Paris has long since been relegated to an intergalactic rubbish dump. No, this is a little bit of human ingenuity and a lot of interstellar marketing savvy.

The road opens up into a posh little cafe district. All along the boulevard, bistro windows are open to the balmy evening air, shining their yellow light out onto the stones. "Ah ha --" the Doctor has apparently spied what he was looking for. He drops Amy's arm and jogs toward a cart parked on the side of the boulevard, a piquant red-and-white striped umbrella sticking out of the top.

The Doctor waves Amy over. "Best Crepes in Three Systems," he says, pointing to the sign, "good enough for me. What do you think?" He smiles cheerily to the vendor -- a comfortingly French-looking fellow with a little pencil mustache.

[timeforamy.livejournal.com]

Amy has an urge to show the Doctor just what her definition of 'peckish' entails, what with abruptly throwing her arms about his shoulders and peck repeatedly at his neck 'til he begs for her mercy. But that can wait for later and Amy isn't even certain as to whether Time Lords are ticklish.

She bounds up to the pleasant looking crepe vendor and claps her hands once, excitedly regarding him and the Doctor. "So many choices!" Her eyes are as wide as those of a girl who still believes in fairy tales and happy endings. "I don't know how I'll choose!"

Amy turns to the Doctor. "What do you think?"

[goodwithtime.livejournal.com]

The Doctor puffs his lips, as if to say, Please!, and holds up two fingers for the vendor's benefit. The pleasant-looking French crepe vendor smiles, nods, and then uses his two, long, green tentacle arms to assemble two orders of crepes. The Doctor raises his eyebrows in Amy's direction. 'Grins gamely.

[timeforamy.livejournal.com]

"Oh, so it's a surprise, is it?" Amy fixes him with a bemused raise of her eyebrows in turn, one hand perching to rest on her hip. That's part of the fun, though, when it comes to the Doctor - the art of the surprise.

[goodwithtime.livejournal.com]

Well, actually, the Doctor was referring more to the cart owner's long, tentacle arms (which are now adding dashes of spice and chopping vegetables into a fine dice) which are most certainly out of Amy's regular range of experience. But he smiles -- that big, bright number that wins him over with old church ladies (most of the time) -- and pushes his hands into his pockets.

"I surprise you, don't I? I'm full of surprises. 'Mr. Surprise-A-Lot' they used to call me." Beat. He looks sheepish. Mumbles, "No they didn't. Never called me that. Nevermind. Rubbish."

[timeforamy.livejournal.com]

"That sounds a bit like a name for a Care Bear." Amy teases him with this and her smile, the latter of which is bright. But he does surprise her, and it is something she will never grow tired of.

"You do, though. Surprise me." She pauses and then raises up on the balls of her feet, her lips touching to his cheek. It's a light kiss, but her lips are warm.

Well, can't she surprise, too?

[goodwithtime.livejournal.com]

The Doctor blushes redder than the windmill at the 42nd Century Moulin Rouge and quickly checks with the tentacled crepe vendor (who merely smiles politely, as if he has seen this all before -- 'probably has, as a matter of fact).

"Cheese?"

The Doctor starts. "Sorry -- what?"

"Would you like cheese?" the vendor tries again, barely able to control the smirk that's slowly spreading across his thin, pink cheeks.

"Yes. Kiss. Cheese, sorry --" he glances at Amy "-- cheese?"

[timeforamy.livejournal.com]

"Absolutely," Amy says, "cheese."

She's managed to make him blush and she finds the redness in his face completely endearing. This is new, this kind of flirtation between them, but she is enjoying it a great deal. He's tentative around her, and there's no reason to be - but all of that can change in time.

Amy gives the crepe vendor a bright smile.

[goodwithtime.livejournal.com]

The vendor wraps both crepes in a bit of newspaper and hands them over, holding up a narrow palm when the Doctor reaches for his pockets to pay. "Non," he says firmly, "l'amour." And he looks back and forth between Amy and the Doctor until the Doctor thinks he is going to be dizzy. "Thaaaanks," he says carefully, giving Amy's shoulder a bump when they get back onto the main thoroughfare.

"What was that?"

[timeforamy.livejournal.com]

Amy is admittedly a bit on the confused side herself, but part of her can guess as to the vendor's response. After all, l'amour falls into the realm of slight, brief French that she understood before.

"What was what?" she asks, accepting one of the crepes in her hand. The smell is delicious, she can't help but lean in for a bite before speaking anything more than that.

Nothing on Earth would ever taste this good, that's for sure.

[goodwithtime.livejournal.com]

"Oh, come off it, Pond," the Doctor retorts, eyeing her as he begins to peel the newspaper away from his own crepe, "l'amour --" he makes his eyes all moony "-- that. I've never gotten free crepes before."

[timeforamy.livejournal.com]

Now her eyes glitter and Amy regards him around a mouthful of crepe. She swallows and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, then turns her eyes back to the Doctor's startled face.

"He thinks we're..." here she makes a tilt of her head "you know. Is that bad?"

[goodwithtime.livejournal.com]

Despite centuries of experience and a prodigious brain between his ears, it takes the Doctor a second or two to apprehend her meaning. "He thinks we're --" he glances over his shoulder "-- really? How do you know? Perhaps he's just one of those fellows who enjoys giving out free crepes."

[timeforamy.livejournal.com]

This could be, but Amy doesn't much think so. She's very convinced that she knows what she saw in the alien's features, even if they aren't features she's ever had the pleasure of seeing before. Still, she is fairly sure she knows what she saw.

"It's something a woman tends to pick up on," she says, "feelings, all that. And I did kiss you. That means something, doesn't it?"

[goodwithtime.livejournal.com]

The Doctor considers her for a moment, his expression thoughtful, green eyes watching her mouth when she presses her lips together to rid them of crepe crumbs.

"Yes," he says quietly. He then takes a gigantic bite of his own crepe, speaking around a mouthful -- "It means you're buying lunch. Come on, Pond!"

He sets out at a brisk walk, munching as he goes.

[timeforamy.livejournal.com]

I'm buying lunch? That's what my kissing him means?

For a moment Amy is completely astonished, surprised that the idea of her kissing him is a prompt for his wanting her to buy lunch. But what happened last night is still fresh in her mind, and she knows it meant something to him, too.

She keeps up with him at a fast walk, her hand tucking into the curve of his elbow.

"Yeah? Getting lunch free of charge might mean more than a kiss, you know." Her smirk is cheeky.

[goodwithtime.livejournal.com]

He shoots her an unfamiliar look -- "more?" -- before her fingers slip round his elbow and pull him back on track. "Oh look --" he pulls her toward a shopfront just off the boulevard, a large plate glass window revealing the interior of a quaint little

"-- piano bar!" the Doctor enthuses, pointing at the neat baby grand that sits in the center of the place. "Looks old, too. Earth old. That piano should be in a museum somewhere, not being made to play New Wave Yu'oal Flesh Punk Classical."

[timeforamy.livejournal.com]

Amy forgets about the idea of kissing - or more than kissing - for a few moments, when the piano comes into her line of sight. She lets out a pleased cry and lets her arm thread more comfortably through the Doctor's.

"That's beautiful!" she cries, "so antique, it's amazing! I only played a bit when I was younger, never anything too serious. Do you play?"

[goodwithtime.livejournal.com]

"A bit," the Doctor admits as she wrings his elbow, "I met Beethoven once. 'Had a bit of trouble with conversation, old Ludwig. He locked me in a cupboard for half an hour until I gave him the melody for his Ninth --"

Then, off Amy's look "-- he wrote most of it. I just, you know, hummed a few bars. Shall we go in?" He stuffs the last of the crepe into his mouth and stuffs the paper into the pocket of his coat, offering her his arm.