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After Rory's gone to wash off the smell of Venice (read: of fish), Amy corners the Doctor. No mean feat in a circular spaceship, she finds.
He looks worried, as he should, when she leans in. "Look. Not that I don't appreciate the kind of early honeymoon where 'all-inclusive' means 'vampire aliens too,' but what happened to absolutely having to solve the mysterious mystery of the crack in my wall immediately?"
"Well, we - you and Rory and I - are happening to it, will be happening to it, and very hopefully not the other way around." He frowns, which would be adorable if she didn't strongly suspect it was genuine, him having stored away the memory of their kiss in one of the many chambers of his mind and locked it, for now. Forever?
Not on her watch. "Oh, let me guess: we have all the time in the world - all the time in all worlds, even?"
The Doctor makes a sad, tutting sound. Also big eyes at her. "Amelia Pond, didn't you hear sarcasm is unbecoming to young ladies such as yourself?"
"Often. Right before I bit the speaker." She smiles sweetly. It's effective, clearly, because the Doctor's listening. "I understand the TARDIS - wait, no; I've no clue about its mechanics, but I get time travel. Hurry is for people who have to get up tomorrow morning and not yesterday night." So maybe metaphors were never her strength; the Doctor is looking a little dubious too. "What I'm getting at is that we were kind of in the middle of something that night." She makes sure to waggle her eyebrow a little at the last word. Just to make sure. "We are picking up where we left off."
"But..." The Doctor eyes the far end of the control room, where the bathrooms seem to be today. Yet he doesn't move. He could get out any time he wanted, he's strong; she's seen all of him, after all. "What about Rory?"
"What about him? I love him, I'll marry him. Tomorrow." Honestly, for someone supposedly a genius, the Doctor can be a bit thick. Best to clarify. "I'm not necessarily talking about you and me snogging right now."
"Right, of course you aren't." Great; he looks more confused now. "You aren't? When are you talking about?"
"The near future - not too near, but not too far. You're the expert on that."
"Indeed I am." There's a hint of indignation, but Amy notes the Doctor is still not running away, from her and this particular pep-talk. Prep-talk, rather. He's looking her in the eye now, his fingers gently but firmly circling her wrists, and that will never not send a shiver up her spine. "You, however, are a mad, mad human, Pond. In a purely hypothetical sense - complete theory, and there will be no practice for it either, I'd like to verify beforehand - if we did some...kissing, not now and not then but some point in-between, what would poor Rory be supposed to do? Watch?"
"Kinky." She glances over her shoulder to check if Rory's already back, which might actually be quicker. Really, talks like this should not take longer than the sex they're aimed at. "But not half-bad an idea. Not sure it's covered, although I'll run it by him."
"Covered by - oh." Now he gets it. "You've told him for years that you were waiting for me; perhaps it was even a condition of your relationship."
He makes it sound a little clinical. Which it really isn't; it's the opposite: about all the dreams and hopes and fantasies. "No condition, just an extra clause that he agrees to because he loves me in return. When -"
"Not if? That's some faith, Pond."
"- when you came back before our wedding, I'd have a reservation on you."
"What am I, a hotel - although of course, on Kxaaia, they have this fourteen-star hotel floating in clouds of spun gold that - right, never mind, my point is: I am the Doctor."
The grip around her wrists is tightening a little. Amy doesn't mind at all. He's losing his footing in addition to some of the fine motor control in his hands, but then again, with regard to this situation, she doesn't think he'd ever found it to begin with.
But now he's looking. Promising.
"I know you are. That's why I want." She doesn't remember when she started feeling a little nervous and more than a little giddy about this, after all, but it's gratifying to see his breath coming faster, little gusts of air against her lips. He's standing really, really, close. Close enough to touch the tip of his nose to hers, close enough to kiss.
She's not imagining the low thrum between them, the one not accounted for by the TARDIS's vibrations. She's felt it outside too: on the starwhale, in the crashed spaceship, by the canals. She never has been imagining anything about him.
He's a madman with a box, but he's real, and he wants too.
The Doctor sighs and closes his eyes. "Amy," he says, and he does lean in, finally. Their foreheads touch, oddly warm, and she remembers the moment inside the ruins, inside the ship, inside the wood full of Angels. "Amy, I can't.
"You can." Amy closes her eyes. And waits.
Waits until she can feel his lips brush against hers, slow. Testing, too hesitant, but then this body of his is new, and his past isn't a foreign country as much as a continent, a whole bloody planet. His hands slide down to her hands, clasping them, holding not so much as holding on. She opens her mouth when he does, breathing his air, kissing him, kissing him back.
In the end, the Doctor comes for her; he always does. Amy's pretty sure this will be no exception.
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