Who: John Watson and Amy Pond When: After this Where: Orange County to Vegas What: Road Trip Rating/Warning: Low/None Status: Complete
They were in Amy’s car. The air conditioning was on, and the drive was fairly boring. But at least they had good music. Amy left John in charge of the stereo, and in charge of the snacks. Her phone was plugged into the car to keep charged, and was speaking aloud the directions whenever they needed to turn--which wasn’t that often. It was a fairly straight shot from Orange County to Vegas.
“Oi! Don’t touch that song, I love that song.” Amy said, reaching over to slap at John’s hand as he was reaching for the radio.
“This,” John said pointedly, hand still dangerously close to the dial, despite the smacking he’d just received, “is not a song. This is a travesty. And I trusted your taste in music, Pond.”
“Oi, we’ve all got guilty pleasures.” Amy argued, in her defense. “I’m sure I could point out some things that you enjoy that are a bit of a travesty themselves.” She said, then put on a little bit of speed so she could pass another car.
Amy’s idea of putting on more speed was like Marty McFly’s idea of how fast he needed to go in order to travel in time, but John remained steadfast. “No, no. All I listen to is gold. This? What is this even?” He not so secretly delighted in faux arguing.
“...I don’t know. Platinum?” Amy said, grinning. She was gripping the wheel slightly tighter than normal, just to be safe. She didn’t want to like, giggle and lose control of the car, or something. It was silly. She turned and stuck her tongue out at him for a split second, then brought her eyes back to the road in front of them.
John only scoffed, but then leaned back, pointedly leaving the radio dial where it was, as if silently intoning that even though it was awful, if Amy liked it, he’d let her have it. Which was basically how he felt all the time. Amy wants something? Amy gets it.
Like a trip to Vegas.
Admittedly, John’s never been, and he’s curious. That seems to be the way of things a lot, too. “So what are we going to do in Vegas?”
John was spoiling her. Spoiling her rotten. Not that Amy was complaining, really, she loved it. She loved him. She loved getting what she wanted. And, really, it was good for both of them.
“I have no idea. Drink? Gamble?” Amy gave a little shrug, driving dangerously fast. She turned the air conditioning up a little, but did it blindly, keeping her eyes on the road and groping for the dial without looking with her right hand.
“Oh yeah, definitely,” John said, adjusting the AC so that it wasn’t on Amy’s blind full blast setting. “Let’s keep it classy, Pond.”
No, he told himself, they would not get drunk and accidentally married.
They couldn’t. Amy was still technically married. And polygamy was illegal. She wasn’t too much worried about that. Maybe a tattoo, or something, but at least marriage was out of the question. She gave a little shrug. “What do you want to do in Vegas, Old Man? complain about the loud noises, bright lights, then get the Early Bird Buffet special and go to bed around 4?”
That’s why he’d told himself accidental marriage was right out. Because it wasn’t something that could be done.
This time.
Shup up. Shut right up. So what if he was a sap and he’d known from the second he’d met her in the grocery store that he loved her and he totally fucking planned on marrying her in the future even if she didn’t know it and he wasn’t going to bring it up because, seriously, bad form, Watson.
“Well,” he said, slowly, digging through a bag of mostly chocolate trail mix absently. “Do you mean for PM or AM? Because that makes a difference.” He shrugged, amused. “I’d just like to wander the strip. I’ve heard good things.”
“PM, silly. I can’t imagine you staying up until 4am.” She grinned, passing some slow-moving car on the left, putting on a bit of speed. “Okay, song’s over, you can put on whatever you want now.”
“It’s too late,” John said, sounding sad. “The last one has already ruined me for music. All music.”
“Oh, good. Then we can listen to it again.” Amy grinned, then clicked the “repeat” button on the car’s CD player.
“I hate you,” John said, but so clearly didn’t mean it.