CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Amy Pond, Rory Williams
SETTING: During the events of The Christmas Invasion.
DISCLAIMER: Amy & Rory are Moffat's, The Christmas Invasion is RTD's and Doctor Who is the BBC's. Either way, I own nothing.
A/N: Unbetaed, and I'm not too sure how well my experiment with writing in the present tense has gone, so, please, do me a favour and tell me if you spot any mistakes. Please.
December the 25th, 2005, and Christmas dinners across the land go to waste as the world cowers in fear of the spaceship hanging over London like a billboard advertising the human race's imminent destruction. Some weep, some run to their loved ones and some stare blankly from the roofs of tall buildings as the cranberry sauce begins to slowly congeal.
And one sixteen year old girl called Amy Pond makes a trifle in the kitchen of a house in a tiny English village called Leadworth.
Her boyfriend, Rory, fidgets awkwardly by the fridge and flits between watching the television, awkwardly propped up on the kitchen table and currently wailing about the alien threat facing the planet; his girlfriend beat eggs whilst cursing under her breath and her Aunt Sharon, who was currently trying to scale the garden shed with a determination rarely seen outside of professional sports matches.
"You know, you...you could probably leave the trifle now. I'm sure your aunt wouldn't mind, what with the current...situation." He mumbles, somehow managing to simultaneously gesture towards both the television and the scene outside.
Amy turns on him with all the force of a burning pit-bull, "Christmas is practically the only time we spend more than five minutes in the same room. I am not messing this up. Cream."
Rory blinks in confusion at her outstretched hand until it finally clicks and he hands over the half-full jug sat on the cabinet beside him. His thank you is a stressed frown before it's taken and the contents poured in a pan on the cooker with a faint hiss.
"And I can't do with all her friends from the pub hearing about the time I messed up the trifle. They already know all about the time I fell in the duck pond and the time I tried to put a tampon in the wrong way round." Amy scowls as she stirs the pan.
Rory's eyebrows shoot up several centimetres, a fact Amy completely misses as she continues to wish a painful death on anyone who has so much as heard of her aunt. Rory sighs. He had come here to escape the bickering and moaning of his own family. It seemed that even the impending destruction of the Earth couldn't lighten the mood with his Grandma round. After the third argument of the morning (over the merits, and otherwise, of Strawberry Delight Quality Streets) he had forsaken his Mum's roast potatoes and fled, not expecting to find Amy picking pieces of broken eggshell out of a Barney the Dinosaur mug while her aunt mounted the shed.
"What time's the Queen Speech on?" Amy's abrupt end to her death threats catches Rory by surprise.
"What? Umm...three, I think. Why? You've never watched it before in your life."
Amy glances across at the clock. 14:52. She shrugs, "I want to hear the Queen talk about aliens."
"They record it, like, a week before Christmas, you know," Rory points out, but, if Amy hears him, she ignores it, "And they're not really aliens."
"Because they don't exist, for one."
Amy snorts, and, even though she has her back to him, Rory is sure that she's rolling her eyes in that way she can that, somehow, makes him feel like the ridiculous one for not believing in monsters from outer space and mysterious men in disappearing boxes. "Tell that to Aunt Sharon. Or have you got any other reason why she's trying to climb Mount Shed-erest?"
"Well," Rory bites his lip, "How much has she had to drink?"
Amy chuckles, and to Rory it's a sound like wind chimes in a summer breeze, "Don't worry. I've kept an eye on the sherry."
She seems in a better mood now, so Rory smiles, even as the television continues to predict their doom and Aunt Sharon begins another attempt to haul herself up onto the shed's roof. He leans back on the kitchen cabinet, his hand narrowly missing a bowl of sponge cake, and smiles some more. He's quite looking forward to Amy's trifle, to be honest; Amy sometimes joked that her aunt hadn't cooked since 1995, and it was true. Years of practice had made her a great cook, and she was fiercely proud of her cooking, especially her fish-fingers and custard. Rory had to admit, she did find a way to actually make them edible. She was even better with food that was actually eaten by normal human beings.
Amy's humming now - 'Last Christmas' - and when Rory joins in, she turns around and grins. Rory blushes, like he did when they were seven, and looks over at the television, embarrassed, "Oh, hey, the Speech is starting. I think."
"Ooh!" Amy dashes over, still holding a wooden spoon covered in cream. She begins to lick it absentmindedly as the words SPECIAL BROADCAST appear at the bottom of the television screen, and Rory wrinkles his nose because he just knows, no matter how good a cook she is, she's going to put the spoon back in the pan without washing it.
The view on the television switches from a worried newscaster to what looks like a grand office as Amy jumps up on the cabinet next to Rory. There's an old, wooden desk with a pair of British flags, one on both sides, and a Christmas tree in the background, but the only sign of the Queen is in a picture propped up on the table. Instead, behind the desk sits the Prime Minister, Harriet Jones. Amy scowls.
"Hey! What's happened to-" Rory shushes her as the Prime Minister begins to speak.
"Ladies and gentlemen, if I may take moment during this terrible time. It's hardly the Queen's Speech, I'm afraid that's been cancelled."
Amy's scowl deepens, and the PM turns to talk to someone out of shot.
"Did we ask about the Royal Family? Oh. They're on the roof."
She turns back, and Amy and Rory instinctively bite back their smirks at the thought of the Royal Family being in the same position as Aunt Sharon.
"But, ladies and gentlemen, this crisis is unique and I'm afraid to say, it might get much worse. I would ask you all to remain calm. But I have one request-"
"A decent hair cut?" Amy jeers, then yelps as Rory smacks her in the arm. Bored, she returns to the task of licking her spoon clean.
"-Doctor, if you're out there, we need you."
The spoon stops half-way to her mouth, and stays there.
"I don't know what to do. If you can hear me, Doctor; if anyone knows the Doctor, if anyone can find him, the situation has never been more desperate."
Amy leaps off the cabinet like a cat strapped to a rocket, sending cream flying everywhere. A splatter hits Harriet Jones in the face barely a second before Amy reaches the television and leans in so close it's like she's trying to crawl into the screen. Rory knows there's no point asking her to move, not when she doesn't even seem to notice the cream steadily dripping onto her favourite slippers.
"Help us, please Doctor, help us."
The screen switches back to the newscaster, looking just as nervous as before, but any interest he might have held was long gone. Of far more note is the fact that Amy had flown into an impromptu dance routine around the kitchen, leaving Rory to dodge the spoon she was wielding like a dangerous weapon.
"Doctor Knight better have seen that. Ha! Oh, I wish I could see his face. And Doctor Harrison's! She must be going mental. They better call me to apologize," She looks hopefully out at the hallway where the phone lies. When it refuses to ring, she turns back to Rory with a wide grin, "This is brilliant!"
Rory gets the distinct feeling that he's missed something, "Umm, sure."
"You don't seem that happy." Amy frowns.
"Yeah, course I am," There's a long moment where Amy stares at him expectantly, and Rory is sure he's missed something now, "Why should I be happy, again?"
"Because we've finally got proof, idiot!"
"Proof of what?
"Proof that the Doctor's real! Though I don't know how the Prime Minister knows him. Maybe he crashed in her garden, too. Maybe that's the reason he never came back, he's been too busy helping her." Amy's eyes grow wide, and Rory's heart sinks. That look never boded well.
"Maybe I should ring in! I mean, not that I know how to find him, or anything. But I could still help! I bet I'd be great at fighting aliens. They'd probably hire me to do it full-time. I wonder if it pays well. It'd be worth it to prove Mrs. Hewitt wrong. Never get a half-decent job, my...you're not saying anything."
"Should I be?"
"You should be celebrating! No-one can call me crazy now, not when the Prime Minister's said I'm right."
Rory decides it's probably not a good idea to ask what it is she's talking about, "Did she? Because I swear she just said we're screwed and asked for a doctor..."
"Yeah! The Doctor! My Doctor."
Oh. Rory wrings his hands nervously. The questionable existence of Amy's beloved Raggedy Doctor was never a good topic to get into, especially when there are sharp objects in the room. He still has the scar from the last time it came up, "Are you sure? I mean, there are a lot of doctors out there, you know? She probably meant one of them."
"Oh yeah? Aliens invade and she wants something to sort out her cough? Come on, Rory."
"But, well, it can't be him."
"It's just that...well," Rory braces himself. He'd gone too far to back out now, "He doesn't actually exist, does he?"
If Amy's rage before was like a burning pit-bull, this was an alligator with a flamethrower. Rory starts looking for escape routes; maybe he was going to have to join Aunt Sharon on top of the shed. Amy advances on him, spoon held out like a knife. He starts to edge towards the door. She opens her mouth. Rory gets ready to run.
"I-" Suddenly, she's cut off. From across the kitchen, there comes the hiss of burning cream as it bubbles over the top of the pan and hits the burning ring below. Then, from the garden, there's the sound of creaking wood, a loud thud and an undignified squawk. Both Amy and Rory freeze and stare at each other for what seems like far longer than a second. Then, they leap into action.
And in Amy's haste to save her trifle, and Rory's haste to save her aunt, PM Harriet Jones and her message for the Doctor is all but forgotten.