[ 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."

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[goodwithtime.livejournal.com]

The Doctor makes the leap, small as it is, and turns her soft palm over to lay his fingers with hers. 'Gives her hand a soft squeeze. "It was," he says, tiptoeing around the verb tense before he looks away altogether. Nostalgia can be a dangerous thing, especially for a Time Lord. If you're not careful, all the things that you did and were will become the only things that you ever think you can be.

For a man who's stood at the brink of a thousand burning civilizations -- a man who lit the spark -- there is great power in the ability to forget.

"Now then," he recovers briskly, "you play a little, don't you? Can't imagine that aunt of yours let you get out of being a kid without a piano lesson or two." He scoots down on the bench to make room.

[timeforamy.livejournal.com]

Amy sees that he doesn't want to think about this any more, and tells herself that she won't push it. Not now, at least. There are so many secrets about him she wishes she could learn, but hopefully they will be revealed with time. They have that, too - time.

And she will give him what he wants, a bit of insight into the world that was hers, growing up.

"Oh, just a little," she says, affording a tone of offhandedness. Amy lifts her small hands and settles her fingers over the keys. Her eyes close a half second's time, then she lets the melody move from her hands to the keys.

Moonlight Sonata.

[goodwithtime.livejournal.com]

Now, there is one thing Amy Pond is not, and that is humble. If she's good at something, she lets you know it or, better yet, she shows you that she is until all you want to do is run home and cry into your pillow because you've been bested by a redheaded kissogram from Leadworth.

Amy begins to play. It's good. Quite good.

The Doctor leans on his elbow to watch.

[timeforamy.livejournal.com]

This is likely the most advanced piece she has been able to master, and Amy took a great deal of time at it. It was a song she enjoyed, and therefore that was reason enough to try and master it.

Which, well, she had.

The keys are familiar and comforting under her fingers, and Amy lets her eyes close. She doesn't need to look at them to know which is next in the melody. She can feel his eyes on her, and that might well inspire it that much more.

[goodwithtime.livejournal.com]

Knowing what he does about her, it almost surprises the Doctor that Amy could ever sit still long enough for anyone to teach her anything, let alone a complicated piano piece. But then again, that's the terrific thing about Amelia Pond: no matter what she does or how she does it, somehow it always ends up surprising him.

Her eyes are closed. She is deeply connected with the music; her shoulders sway gently, wrists lifted high off the keyboard in the classical pose. The Doctor watches her profile as she plays. He knows he shouldn't stare. There are at least a dozen different reasons why he shouldn't stare.

He just can't seem to recall any of them at the moment.

[timeforamy.livejournal.com]

The plethora of psychiatrists that had littered their way through her childhood and adolescent years had insisted there be something to occupy Amy (nee Amelia) from fantasies such as blue boxes and imaginary friends. But she hadn't taken to drawing or acting or anything along those lines, and when she had expressed an interest in music, her aunt had immediately jumped towards the chance. Amy had secluded herself away after lessons (the majority of which she spent in silence, speech-wise) with sheet music and the piano her aunt had rented, doing nothing but working away at the keys. Because the most amusing part of this entire attempted diversion was that Amy felt it easier to think of her raggedy Doctor when she was alone with nothing but music.

And there hadn't been a Stardust Sonata, so Moonlight would have to do.

Amy's brow furrows just slightly in hard focus, thinking back to childhood years spent alone in this fashion, when her legs grew long enough to reach the pedals and she could make use of their additions (as she did now) to her song, and the years she'd spent making it not only music but some kind of desperate call.

Did you really think he would hear you and come back? Silly girl.

But maybe she had thought that. Just a little.

Her face relaxes its strain and that lets her fingers move more freely.

[goodwithtime.livejournal.com]

It's a sad piece, Moonlight Sonata. There's an innate sadness about it and the way that the player must use the low range of the keyboard, as if in lamentation. The Doctor has heard that Beethoven wrote the piece for one of his pupils, the then-seventeen-year-old Countess Guicciardi, with whom the cranky old composer was rumoured to have been madly infatuated.

Of course, there is no parallel here. None at all.

[timeforamy.livejournal.com]

It is sad, but with an emotion tied deeply to it. Something with a thread of hope behind it, a strand which can be grasped to time and again until it disappears from simply being too weak to hold two pieces together. But Amy is strong, forceful and resilient in her heart and mind, and it would take a great deal for her to give up.

Amy's fingers trail across the keys into its final chords, gentle and almost tender. Her head comes to a slight downward tilt, a shock of ginger hair spilling across her cheek, and she pushes it back with a fingertip when her song comes to an end.

"I played it every night when I was growing up. My aunt was only glad it wasn't something louder."

[goodwithtime.livejournal.com]

The Doctor's expression sums up what he thinks about that, and about aunts in general. "Aunts are rubbish," he says, "never came up with a good use for an aunt." Although it's entirely possible that if he were to ever sit down with a few of them, he'd change his mind -- either that, or he'd try to find a way to leave all aunts on the spiral arm of some faraway galaxy.

"Come on." He gives her shoulder a bump. "Something cheerier. Chime in when you know the tune." He puts his fingers to the keys and begins to play the lower half of "Heart and Soul".

[timeforamy.livejournal.com]

Oh, she does know that tune and very well at that. Amy can't help herself, there is swelling warmth in her chest and she knows he means to make her happy. He's trying to take away the pain, and that's what she'll let him do.

Amy touches her fingers to the keys and begins on the higher melody. She knows this well, it's something else she enjoyed playing.

[goodwithtime.livejournal.com]

Clunky at first but, then again, that's the way it is with "Heart and Soul," at least until you've got a rhythm between you. The Doctor notices that Amy puts her fingers down on each key with a very decisive touch. She knows this song. Other than "Moonlight Sonata," it's one of the first in a piano repertoire book.

Incidentally, the Doctor had far less success with being a childhood prodigy when, before he was accepted into the Academy at the age of eight, his parents made him take music lessons. The Doctor lasted one session, after which he took apart the teleharmonium he'd been playing and was politely asked not to return.

He has not played many instruments until now, but he finds he's getting the hang of accompanying Amy. 'Not hard, really, when she's carrying the song with that kind of smile. "That's it, Pond! Put your --" he cracks a grin "-- well, your heart and soul, into it!"

[timeforamy.livejournal.com]

That prompts a laugh, and Amy doesn't realize that laughter also compliments the melody they're bringing out together. It's a good accompaniment, something bright and unrestricted, that belongs solely to be created between two people. More would crowd it and less would bring a forlorn hint of loneliness, so two is just the right mix for this song of laughter.

Amy's fingers dance across the keys with purpose, tossing back her hair so she can look at him with her bright, shining eyes.

"Then best put both of yours into it, Doctor!" She's grinning at him in a disarming way, whether it's meant to have that effect or not is unknown, but the truth is that Amy has little else to think of now other than the music, and her companion.

[goodwithtime.livejournal.com]

Together, their fingers flying across the keys, barely avoiding several collisions as they figure out the companion melody, it's easy for the Doctor to forget the things he's hiding. Amy is nimble, graceful and dancer-like with her joy. Between the black and the white accompaniment, it's easy for him to push down the gray that comes in the shape of a man Amy does not remember.

"A little faster, then?" He rolls his shoulders, shaking down the rough tweed to give his elbows some room, thumping out the joyful tempo. He could forget everything but the happiness in her face. "Come on, Pond! Do keep up!"

[timeforamy.livejournal.com]

"Keep up, me? I'm leaving you in my dust!" Amy's voice is a delighted crow, something filled with childish enthusiasm and all sorts of feelings which should have likely been left behind years ago. He brings these joys out in her, though, back and again, so she can be happy the way she was before.

Amy breaks into a faster pace that runs right along with him, her painted nails flying across the keys in little, coloured streaks.

[goodwithtime.livejournal.com]

Bent over the piano -- mad as Beethoven or Bach or Mozart when he hasn't taken his Ritalin -- his hair flopping into his eyes only to be pushed back by a hand (when he can spare it), the Doctor laughs and pounds the keys like a mad musician. "Heart and Soul" was probably never meant to be taken this fast, or with so many improvisations, but this is of little concern to either of them. They're in it for the fun, and if their fingers happen to bump on the way to Middle C, well, then sod old Hoagy Carmichael.

He reaches over her to tickle the high range of the piano, then drags the sides of his fingers down the keyboard in a sliding glissando. "Big finish!" he announces, rattling the keys in expectation before plunging into a final, thumping revisit of the major melody.

[timeforamy.livejournal.com]

Amy flies with him, happy and alive, as if nothing bad could ever happen to her. She has surrendered any fear that might have existed in favor of happier feelings, the kinds he brings to her just by smiling in her direction. The piano sings beneath her touch and his combined, a song millions know and can sing back to the world if asked.

The song comes to its final ends and Amy laughs again, her shoulder bumping against his in time with the last notes.

[goodwithtime.livejournal.com]

They land on the last note together (a miracle, considering the race to the finish was nothing more than a lot of noise masquerading as rhythm), and the Doctor raises his hands off the keyboard with a dramatic flourish, his grin at full capacity.

"Well done, Pond!" He brings his palms together for some appreciative applause. "We should get you doing vaudeville in the '30s. You could play piano and I could, I don't know, spin plates or something. We'd be the hit of the boardwalk."

[timeforamy.livejournal.com]

Amy giggles again, and she spins on her perch on the bench to face him. The music is still in her eyes, happy and bright and saying things that words wouldn't normally be able to do. There was happiness that had been gone for a long time, and now it was here again.

"People wouldn't give us coins, they'd throw full bills!" she cried. "It would be amazing!"

[goodwithtime.livejournal.com]

"Right. That's that. We'll pencil in some time this weekend. 'Haven't been back to Atlantic City since seeing Rex the Water-Skiing dog perform in 1935. Wonderful mutt. Terrific water-skiier. 'Bit shy when it came to autographs."

[timeforamy.livejournal.com]

"A water-skiing dog?" Amy gives him an incredulous look. "Are you serious?" But she knows that he is, because after all of the things he's shown her, the last thing he'd do would be invent a dog that could water ski. It isn't even alien.

[goodwithtime.livejournal.com]

"Come on, Amy," the Doctor says, half admonishing, "'more things in Heaven and Earth' and all that. The most extraordinary things happen right under your nose --" he points at the middle of her face "-- water-skiing dogs are an excellent example. I should take you to Rigel-7. There's a pastoral planet there -- farmland from one end of the continent to the other -- and it's the only planet in the universe that breeds self-stacking sheep."

[timeforamy.livejournal.com]

"Self stacking sheep? What for? Why do they stack?" Amy is running along with his frequency of chaos, and happily at that. She isn't sure that she wants to stop at any point, be it now or in the future. There is a buoyancy about him that overflows into her, and she is taking it in as much as she can.

[goodwithtime.livejournal.com]

"Space limitations, of course," he replies, as if it is the most obvious answer in the world, "the planet's only got a thirty-foot diameter."

[timeforamy.livejournal.com]

Amy regards him incredulously. "How can anything survive on a planet with that diameter? The inhabitents must be so small then, right?" That was the only answer she could think up right now.

[goodwithtime.livejournal.com]

"Come on, Pond," he says. "Open up --" he taps a finger to the center of her forehead "-- this. The universe is a big place. Or, well, in this case, a very small place. In any event, it's a place."

He thumps a final chord on the piano and swivels his hips on the bench. "Let's go. Plenty more to see. Can't waste a moment of it."