nuclear ball of sunshine (threat)

"Because they are!" He pulls himself upright with a bit of difficulty. Deep breath, eyes wide, shaking off vertigo. Keeps doing this anyway, even though it can't be comfortable. Gestures toward the garden. "I set aside an entire perfectly good pair of boots for this--"

Then you can do the cleanup -- except if she says that, he's going to go run the vacuum for the third time in two days.

Amy gives him another glance up and down. He'd gone outside after breakfast, maybe an hour or so ago. She'd heard the back door slam, some screwdriver buzzing... but hadn't heard him come back in. He must have finally fixed it -- breaking her most reliable shenanigans indicator in the process, damn him.

"Okay! Fine! I believe you. You are ridiculous." She sits beside him, peeking over his shoulder at the book. It's actually a binder -- pencil sketches and the occasional bright pop of color. "And if you're lying to me, so grounded. What are you reading? Is that a... comic book?"

"Graphic novel. Or it will be, someday. Clyde asked me to look over his draft. No peeking, I told him I wouldn't show anyone yet. --No, hang on. What do you mean, grounded?" That properly wounded face, like some sad little animal. Baby deer -- no, giraffe, going off the way his hair's sticking up. "Why would I be lying to you?"

"I dunno. Why do you do anything?" And when has he ever told her the entire truth? "Been asking myself that for the last ten years. --That's the real question, isn't it?"

"What?"

"Oh, y'know. The one they'll still be asking at the end of the universe, or whatever. Who is the Doctor, sure. But the other half is stuff like, ...and why is he eating dirt?"

"Look, you asked me whether I could figure out what was wrong with your flower bed. And I did!"

"Yeah, with a gadget or something. Sometimes I think you do this stuff just to gross me out. --You do, don't you."

"No!" Oh, that grin means trouble. "It's not the only reason."

"Well, Mrs. Fisher says her grandkids are starting to follow suit, so... maybe try to be a better influence, yeah?"

"Alright, alright. --Oh, I'm supposed to be wrangling them in a few days. Did I tell you that? Or did I forget again?"

"Wednesday. You remembered to put it on the fridge calendar this time." She raises an eyebrow. "Wrangling? They're kids, not unruly horses."

"Well, it sounds better than babysitting. They're not babies. They're just smaller, less experienced people. And hyperactive. And clever. --And anyway, they do engage in horseplay. Frequently. So yes. Wrangling."

"Okay, but. Hold on. I'm surprised you remember you're supposed to watch them. Watch out, you might get better at this linear time thing if you're not careful."

"Well, I wrote it down. Keeps it from getting lost."

"Can't help that much if you didn't remember doing it..."

"No, no. In the TARDIS, on the console. The calendar's for you and Rory."

"I wondered where all of my sticky notes went."

"Sorry." He grins, sheepishly. Not that sorry. "I've got a system, and the TARDIS was being stubborn about where she was putting things. Needed to make sure I don't forget any of the kids' birthdays, y'know."

Sometimes, Amy wishes the TARDIS would translate those notes. Still, she knows a little bit about the Gallifreyan writing system. Enough that she's found a couple of sticky notes with her name on them, and a couple with Rory's, and one with them both together.

So he's got theirs written down too, then. And their anniversary.

"...Are you staying?"

"Amy. Didn't you hear me, earlier?"

"What?"

He shrugs. Like it's obvious. Like she's just looked right past the answer. Turns his attention back to the book then. Not looking at her. Making a point.

She rolls her eyes. Fine. If he wants to play it like that...

Those scuffed-up leather boots are sitting out by the back door, the ones she hardly ever sees him wear these days. Dried mud peeling and crumbling off them, falling to very carefully placed (if ineffective) paper towel.