Fight or Flight ( Doctor Who Fanfiction )

Vincent Van Gogh

"So, this is one of the last paintings Van Gogh ever painted. Those final months of his life were probably the most astonishing artistic outpouring in history. It was like Shakespeare knocking off Othello, Macbeth and King Lear over the summer hols. And especially astonishing because Van Gogh did it with no hope of praise or reward."

"Thanks for bringing me," said Amy, flapping her red scarf at the Doctor.

He nodded awkwardly. "You're welcome."

"You're being so nice to us," she said skeptically. "Why are you being so nice to us?"

He looked offended. "I'm always nice to you!"

"Yeah, but not like this! These places you're taking us: Arcadia, the Trojan Gardens, and at Omara's request you even took us to a bar on purpose. Now this? I think it's suspicious."

She grinned at me, and I raised my eyebrows, peering around her to see his reaction.

"What? It's not. There's nothing to be suspicious about," he sputtered.

Amy and I gave each other a Look.

"Okay, I was joking," she said, more suspicious than before. "Why aren't you?"

"I think he's buttering us up," I guessed, nudging Amy's shoulder with mine. "I think he has plans to go somewhere we're going to hate. This is our preemptive apology."

Amy threw him a melodramatic gasp. "Is that true?"

"I'm not buttering you up!" Once again, he looked offended. "Am I not allowed to just treat my friends to things I know they'll like?"

"Not without ulterior motive you're not," I grinned.

He glowered at me, and I could tell he was not having any fun with this. I sighed and rescinded. He was hard to make fun of lately; he'd been taking everything so seriously, just like he was now.

Bored of him, I retuned in to the man leading a group around the Van Gogh exhibit. We'd walked around the first floor a bit, but this was the exhibit Amy was most excited for, so we essentially glossed over all the others.

"...the greatest artist of all time, but when he died you could sold his entire body of work and got about enough money to buy a sofa and a couple of chairs. If you follow me now..."

"Who is it?" A particularly loud child asked behind us.

"It's the doctor," replied another.

All three of us looked over our shoulders.

"He was the doctor who took care of Van Gogh when he started to go mad."

"I knew that."

While Amy jumped from frame to frame, I walked along with the surprisingly low-key Doctor.

"Amy would hate me if I told her this, but I don't really like Van Gogh's work."

The Doctor ogled at me. "How?"

"Sh!" I laughed. "He's just not bad, just not my style. His paintings don't look very real. They give me a headache."

"He was an impressionist, Omara, they aren't supposed to look hyper-realistic."

"I know that," I defended. "I know. I just don't like it."

"Look!" Amy called, gallivanting past us with her museum pamphlet aloft. "There it is, the actual one!"

" 'The Church at Auvers'," I read off the plaque. "It's gloomy."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Amy tutted. "Not every painting has to be bright and pretty. Our girl isn't much of an art critic."