FIC: Substitute (1/?)

[promethia_tenk]

Title: Substitute (1/?)
Fandom: Doctor Who, Amy, River/Eleven, probably Rory in future sections
Length:  944 words in this section
Rating: PG, no warnings
Spoilers: "The Big Bang"
Summary:  AU from "The Big Bang:" Amy begins to realize there's something wrong with her life.
AN: --Written for the spoiler_song  ficathon.  Prompt by beerbad : River + Eleven + Amy, AU end of S5 - Amy wakes up and it turns out River and the Doctor are her parents... somehow  (I CANNOT SHAKE THIS PLOT BUNNY FOR THE LIFE OF ME).  OMG, beerbad, I can't either.  Awesome, awesome prompt.
--This should, by all rights, be total crackfic, and yet almost nothing you can write for this fandom really feels like crack to me. 
--Also: I am an American, and this proved to be a greater difficulty in writing for a domestic setting than it does for your average space adventure.  I did my best, but I would be most grateful to anyone who can correct any really egregious Americanisms.  Don't talk to me about spelling, however; life is too short.  ETA: thanks to stick_poker  for a britpick.
--I've got ideas about how to continue this.  Feedback very welcome.


Amy (Amelia) Pond awoke, as she did most days, to the sound of birds singing outside and bickering downstairs:

“Well I don’t know where the fire extinguisher is!  Do we even have a fire extinguisher?”
“Yes, we have a fire extinguisher!  Or, at least, we did, and if I find it next week wired up to some . . . whoseamawhatsit out in the garden, I am burning down your study to teach you a lesson.”
“Fair enough.  Woah, nelly, look at that.  Get me a pot lid or something; we’ll smother it out.”

She smiled sleepily to herself and, rolling her eyes, got out of bed.  Based on past experience, the chances of the whole house actually going up in flames were not that great, but it wouldn’t hurt to be alert.  Pulling a dressing gown on over her nightie, she stretched, made a face at herself in her mirror, and, patting a little handmade doll on the head, remarked offhandedly to it: “What do you think, Augustus?  Porridge?  Sounds like porridge this morning.”  The doll, being a doll, did not, of course, respond, but Amy fancied to herself that his cute balding head nodded knowingly back.

Amy picked her way downstairs, through the familiar piles of books that littered the hall.  There was a new contraption, hanging from the second story railing, that she had to duck under, and she was wondering idly whether those were her stockings securing the blender in place when a loud blast sounded from the kitchen.  She paused in her descent:
“Everything alright down there?”
“Amy?  Is that you?” her father yelled back.  “Just a small explosion; we’re fine.”
“Speak for yourself . . .  Amy, dear, would you bring the post in?  I thought I heard the flap.”
Amy hopped down the last few stairs and stopped in the entrance to pick up the pile of letters on the mat.  As she reached for them, however, the sight of the door’s worn blue paint brought her up short.  “That’s . . .”  For a moment she felt a flash of something she couldn’t identify: blue . . . blue what?  Curious . . . .  She shook herself.  Déjà vu or something.  And giving the door an embarrassed smile, she spun around and headed for the kitchen.

It was her favorite room.  The walls were a vibrant orange that half glowed in the morning light.  Pots and pans, strange gadgets, and the odd hat or house plant or Christmas ornament all hung from everywhere.  The counters and tabletop were scattered with the same academic debris as the rest of the house: more books, thick drifts of papers.  Her dad was the cook, and while, after 21 years, Amy could still see no rhyme or reason to his organizational system, her mum did have the uncanny ability to find, say, the cinnamon if absolutely necessary.

“Morning, Mum.  Post?” said Amy, handing it over.  Her mother was still in her dressing gown, wild hair all over the place, coffee in hand.
“Thanks, honey.  Have some porridge.  There’s a new scorch mark on my ceiling, so it’s bound to be good.”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” replied her father, looking slightly singed as he offered Amy a kiss on the forehead and a steaming bowl.  Amy accepted both and pushed aside a calculus text to make room for herself at the table.
“Hmm . . .” her mother sorted through the post.  “Me, me, me . . . ‘current resident’--that’s you sweetie . . .”  Her father swatted at the proffered envelope with the porridge spoon, and her mother gave him a teasing grin as she dodged the attack and then snuck in to slip the unwanted missive under one of his braces.  “You’re welcome.  Me, me, catalogue for Amy . . . ‘Dr. River Pond.’”  She pulled back in disgust from the letter in her hands.  “Scrap,” she decided and pitched it over her shoulder.
Amy craned her head around to look at it on the floor.  “Mum, it’s from the bank.”
“If they can’t get my name right, it’s scrap.  Right--plans for the day?”
“Lunch with Rory.  And then I have an office party: boss’s birthday, I think.”
“You may have to retrieve some of your costume from the scanner in the hallway.”
“I thought I saw my stockings.”
“But the solar flares are going to . . .”  Her father looked like someone had stolen his puppy.
“You should have thought of that before you raided your daughter’s wardrobe, dear.”
He made a face at that.  “Don’t police women wear trousers these days?  You know, Amy, I could get you a job at the lab . . . .”
“Hush, we’re being supportive, remember?”
“I’m not sure I was part of that conversation.  What about Costa Rica?  Volunteering in Costa Rica?”
“Hush.”  And she gave him a smooch to shut him up.  “You coming into the University with me?”
“Only if I get to drive.”
Amy let the usual morning routine carry on around her and decided the slight prickly feeling in the back of her mind would go away once she’d had a cup of tea.

The world was ending around them: red and still and oppressive.  For the moment, however, Amy had forgotten it.  The tired old man in front of her, hunched in the cool light of his cave, was telling her impossible things: That big, empty house--just you . . . .  Where were your mum and dad?  Amy felt familiar words rising in her throat.  She’d lost them, of course.  Didn’t like to think about it.  But the old man kept on:  How?  What happened to them?  Where did they go?  Amy searched her memories.  She . . . blank.  She stammered, staggered.  Surely she should remember . . . .  It’s ok, it’s ok, don’t panic.  It’s not your fault.  Amy’s mind clutched at shadows she hadn’t know were there.



Some more little scenes here.

Comments

[stick-poker.livejournal.com]

Oh, and, yes, post; sufficiently well-deployed I didn't notice, so there you go.

[promethia_tenk]

*phew* I did research for that, I did.