Fistfights Can be Romantic.

If Matt Smith had been sober the night that Karen Gillan puked on his shoes, he never would have fallen in love with her.

However, as it was, Matt was the furthest thing from sober when the aforementioned event occurred. There was a massive party raging below him, a complete tornado of flailing limbs and booze and smoke. It had all started to grate on his nerves so, when his best friend Arthur had been distracted by this ridiculously drunk blond, Matt had plucked a dime bag of pot out of his back pocket and sequestered himself upstairs to a bedroom, locking the door behind him. Arthur was famous for his 'world class' weed, but he never shared with anyone if he could avoid it; this even included Matt, who had been told many times (by a both drunk and sober Arthur) that he was his best friend. Quite frankly, Matt was sick of the whole situation and he was sick of Arthur and sick of the stupid fucking party with its stupid people and so, with no final flare, he rolled a joint and stuck it between his lips, struggling against the urge to cough his lungs out. All the things he had heard had been correct; Arthur's weed was definitely world class.

After finishing the first joint off, Matt stuck another one between his lips, but he didn't get around to lighting it. Instead, it lay limp between his lips as he stared up at the ceiling, forehead slightly gleaming with sweat. He'd just had a thought, a marvelous thought, something about the physical fabric of time and how it really was more like grains of sand. He'd never pondered anything like it but suddenly, it seemed to make so much sense to him; he thought that, if he had been taking physics, he would have gotten top marks. The thought just kept expanding and deepening, illustrating itself on the blank ceiling that stretched above him in all directions.

And then, the ginger had fallen in. Matt had sworn that he'd locked the door but somehow she still came in, a stumbling mash of flaming red hair and yellow jumper and bright purple tights. Joint still perched between his lips, Matt sat up as fast as he could, staring at her with a look that he thought to be incredulous (which, in reality, was more of a cross between confused and completely high). The girl, who he only vaguely recognized, swayed in the doorway for a few seconds, her eyes delightfully unfocused. Then, with one step forward, she had pitched her head forward and puked, splashing the bed and Matt's trousers with vomit. To be honest, Matt probably would have been fine if only those areas had been splashed; after all, the bed wasn't his and his trousers were probably due for the bin anyways.

However, to make up for his raggedy trousers, Matt had worn his favorite shoes; these gray boots with bright red laces that he'd worn through everything that life had thrown at him. Apparently, this included sick as well, since his shoes were positively dripping with it now. The ginger, rather than apologizing, was merely clutching the edge of the bed, making a noise halfway between a sob and a giggle.

"Whoops," she burbled and it was clear that she was laughing, even with sick glistening on her lips and the tips of her hair. She patted the toe of Matt's shoe with one hand, making another half groan, half giggle noise. "You should get those cleaned up."

Matt couldn't remember being this angry in his entire life. He was generally a pretty cool cucumber about most things but this girl, this stupid ginger who couldn't hold her alcohol, had just stumbled in on him, interrupted his revelation and promptly got sick on his absolute favorite pair of shoes, which were probably completely ruined. The combination of all these things together filled him with complete rage and as a result, he did what he figured any person in his position would do.

He punched her in the face.

Three hours later, Matt was considerably more sober and considerably more horrified at what he had done. As soon as the punch had landed, there'd been a sickening crack and the girl had started screaming at the top of her lungs, drawing seemingly everyone in the house upstairs, with Arthur at the front of the crowd. To be frank, he was more pissed off about the fact that Matt had stolen his weed; when he saw that the girl's nose was dripping blood, he merely shrugged and told Matt to take her to the hospital before stealing the still unlit joint from between Matt's lips and vanishing downstairs.

Although he really knew he shouldn't have been driving, Matt had done what Arthur had told him and driven the girl (who Arthur had thankfully told him was named Karen) to the nearest hospital. Her nose was almost certainly broken and he truly felt horrible, even if his shoes were ruined. But he felt more sorry for Karen than anything; although she was probably attractive normally, she was quite a fucking mess, with her face covered in crusted blood and sick clinging to her hair. She still hadn't regained the ability to speak normally; in fact, she didn't even seem to realize that Matt was there. The wait dragged on and on; it was a busy night in the casualty ward and they kept being pushed back by patients being brought in ambulances. Finally, three and a half hours after the incident, Matt found himself supporting Karen into one of the curtained off booths and trying to provide answers as the doctor examined her nose.

"How'd this happen?" Matt felt his cheeks grow ferociously red and he unconsciously scratched the back of his neck.

"I... erm. I punched her in the face. Not on purpose!" he hurriedly said when the doctor turned to glare at him. "She threw up on my shoes so I punched her face." The thought (oh how he was sick of thinking) occurred to him that what he'd just said didn't sound any better but it was the truth so he shut up and dealt with more death looks.

"Well, it's broken," the doctor finally pronounced, letting go of Karen's face, which promptly dropped back down to her chest. "But she's obviously not sober enough for me to set it. I'll set an appointment for the afternoon and I expect that you'll be taking care of her, correct?"

That was how Matt ended up spending the night with Karen Gillan before they'd even kissed. It took another call to a now completely high Arthur to figure out where she lived but finally, at four o'clock in the morning, he found himself pulling up in front of a tiny, one story house practically buried behind a towering tree. Karen had fallen asleep on the way home and showed no signs of stirring so, with great difficulty, Matt managed to drag her ungracefully out of the passenger seat and throw her over his shoulder, stumbling under her weight. It wasn't that she was fat or anything but he wasn't exactly the strongest guy in the world and he was quite exhausted. Thankfully, the front door was unlocked; otherwise, he probably would have just sat her down on the front step and then left. Even after getting her inside, he almost dropped her anyways; trying to find a light switch with only one hand was quite the difficult experience.

The inside of the house was like a mine field. Clothes littered the floor from the entrance right to Karen's bedroom, which was at the back of the house. There were a few instances where Matt's shoes (which he was still wearing despite the fact that they were smelling worse with every second that passed) would get tangled in a pair of tights and nearly send him and his unconscious companion to the ground. When he finally reached the bedroom, he basically threw Karen onto her bed, his shoulders aching. She muttered something before rolling onto her stomach and passing out again. Matt was about to leave the room because the smell of his shoes was really quite distracting but, looking down at the pitiful girl in her bed, he remembered that she needed to be in the 'drunk' position in case she threw up again.

He had not signed up for this. All he'd wanted to do was just get really, really high and instead, he was rolling a drunk ginger girl onto her side so that she didn't die. He supposed that the shoes would have to wait to be cleaned so he just tossed them into a pile of clothes and tentatively sat down on the bed, feeling extremely awkward because not only was he in a girl's house that he barely even knew but he was in her bed. Karen didn't seem to mind; she was snoring loudly, completely oblivious to the world. After five minutes of just sitting silently, on the verge of sleep, Matt realized that the least he could do was clean some of the blood off of her face and even then, she didn't move a single inch. By the time he sat back down on the bed, Matt was completely exhausted; he leaned his head back against the wall and shut his eyes, promising to himself that he'd just sleep for an hour or so. Otherwise, Karen was going to be in for quite a surprise when she awoke and since she was almost guaranteed to have a hangover, he wanted to be able to explain what had happened the night before.

Unfortunately for Matt, things didn't work out how he had planned them. The night had definitely been taxing on his nerves and he fell asleep for a good five hours, neck slowly developing a kink. When Karen stirred at nine o'clock in the morning, eyes fluttering open and then shutting again as a massive migraine attacked her head, Matt was still asleep, snoring quite loudly. Karen didn't notice this as first; forcing her eyes open again, she picked her way through the piles of clothes to the bathroom that was attached to her bedroom and instantly downed a pain pill. Her memory of the night before was almost non-existent but she felt absolutely terrible. Groaning again, she stumbled back into her bedroom, intent on making herself some coffee.

That was when she saw Matt who, to her sober eyes, was a complete and utter stranger, sitting upright in her bed with his head tilted back awkwardly against the wall. The fact that he was fully dressed was comforting but Karen reacted the way most other women would if they found a stranger in their bed after a night that they couldn't remember a shred of.

She screamed.