Word Count: 1800
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be.
It's funny, Amy realises, what they think about her and the Doctor. Because she knows that they all think it–every last one of them. People they meet along the way ("I thought you were her fiancé."), Aunt Sharon ("Don't you trust that man, Amelia. He'll only break your heart."), even Rory ("You ran away with another man!"). And sometimes Amy thinks that even River thinks it. Not the older versions of her, of course, but the younger ones occasionally seem to. The more they see River, the younger she is and the more cautious she seems to be. Because, as it turns out, the more Amy knows the Doctor, the less River does.
Still, her and the Doctor? That'd be an explosion if there ever was one–a royal space bang alright. Amy's not even sure the universe could handle it. God knows she couldn't. He's a bit too bossy, too arrogant, too temperamental–he's too a bit too like her, come to think of it. They're a bit a bit too alike and it's a bit more than problematic. Because even she has to admit that it'd be fun, wild, spectacular, but such a mess. One she's willing to bet neither of them would be willing to clean up afterwards. Because she knows that, in the end, neither of them would be willing to give ground and they'd only break each other's hearts.
No, it would definitely be a bad idea. They're much better off as, well, whatever it is that you would call them. They're fine the way they are. Even she's not crazy enough to think otherwise.
Only, sometimes, when she looks at him, she thinks that he sees it too. Because every now and then when he looks at her, she can see it in his eyes and she knows that even he occasionally thinks it. They would be quite a match, alright. Who knows the sort of troubles they could get themselves into then? And, well, let's be honest, they've always been drawn to trouble. How else would they have found one another? Oh, he sees it alright. He doesn't have to tell her he does, because she knows him all too well.
And, more than anything, it worries her. Frightens her a bit, honestly. Because if he can see it then maybe she can too. Yes, it would a mess, but it would be fun and wild, and, well, she's always been the sort to go out with a bang. She never could resist what she shouldn't have. After all, what's life without a little risk here and there?
But then, the moment she sees that he sees it, it's gone. He grins at her in that usual, idiotic sort of manner, and she knows he's realised what a mistake it would be. So she smirks back, changes the topic, and makes fun of his bowtie. Then he rambles some nonsense she pretends to only half listens to, because that's just what they do. It's how they stay safe.
He's busy fixing something or other on the TARDIS when Amy realises that maybe once, even twice, upon a time she could have done it. She could have fallen in love with him.
In some ways, she supposes she did the first time when she was seven. She was young and he was the magical man who came from the stars, fixed the scary cracks in her bedroom wall, and promised to take her on an amazing adventure. He was like a dream come true; her knight-in-a-big-blue-box. She laughs at it now, but he really was. He was her entire world back then. How could she not have loved him then? And so when he promised her five minutes, she believed him. But then five minutes turned into twelve years and eventually Amelia Pond lost hope.
She almost did it again the second time when he fell back out of the sky–looking exactly the same–, convinced her that he was real, and saved the world. All in twenty minutes. He as crazy, as brilliant, as magnificent as she had remembered. Her imaginary friend–her dream man–had come to life. And, really, how was she supposed to resist? But then, as quickly as he had come, he disappeared for another two years. And she hated him–oh had she hated him–for so long. Resented him, despised him, loathed him for leaving her and making her wait again.
But when she looks back on it now, she's glad–so very, very glad. Because you see, if he wasn't such an idiot, if he wasn't such an awful driver, if he hadn't made her wait twelve–fourteen–years, she thinks it would have played out differently. They would have played out differently and she's afraid that, in the end, there probably would have been a bang and they probably would have gone up in flames.
No, she decides, they definitely would have.
And so, for once in her life, Amy is grateful that the Doctor made her wait.
There are TARDIS-blue dandelions on the planet Persion III and the Doctor has an absolute field day with it. She's sure he's seen flowers like them before, but that doesn't stop him. Because he's the Doctor, he does the most ridiculous thing he can possible think of and makes himself a crown of blue dandelion ("Crowns are cool."). And then, because he's the Doctor, he makes one for her and Rory as well.
Rory doesn't wear his, of course, but she laughs and decides to humour the Doctor and lets him put a flower tiara on her head. He laughs and Amy realises that she's wearing her blue jacket and he's got his blue bowtie on and now, even though they look absolutely ridiculous, they sort-of match. Even Rory is amused.
But then, for some reason none of them quite understand, one of the planet's inhabitants–a little, chubby pink person–comes over, shakes the Doctor and Amy's hands, and congratulate them. Before any of them can even ask for what exactly, another pink person comes and does the same, then another, and another. A few of the older, female ones even kiss Amy on the cheeks and wish her luck, but they never say why.
As it turns out, on Persion III TARDIS-blue-flower-crowns-slash-tiaras are the oldest, most traditional, and most romantic way to propose to someone. The Doctor's eyes widen ("This could be slightly problematic"), because engagements are essentially unbreakable on this planet. Rory isn't so amused anymore ("You can't get engaged to him – we're married!") and pulls the crown off the Doctor's head. Amy just laughs, winks at the Doctor, and tells him he owes her a proper snog now.
And when, for the briefest of seconds, he looks as if he's considering it, she doesn't say anything.
Later, when she's sitting with her legs swinging outside the TARDIS door, he comes and sits beside her. The wind from outside breezes against them (how space can have wind, she still doesn't understand) and it sends her hair ablaze and the petals from her flower tiara dance against it. If he finds it odd that she's still wearing it, he doesn't say anything.
And she half expects him to lecture her on opening the door when they're travelling through space, but he doesn't. She supposes it he's realised telling her to do something usually has the opposite effect on her, or perhaps he knows she knows how to handle herself well enough by now. Either, way it doesn't really matter, does it?
Amy doesn't even know which of them breaks the silence first, maybe it's him or maybe it's her or maybe it's both of them–they've always been a little in synch like that, after all. Not that it matters once they start talking, because then there's no stopping them. He goes on at a million words a second, telling her all these details of some solar system ("Have I impressed you yet, Amy Pond?"). She pretends not to listen ("I'm bored. Can we go to a planet yet?") when really, she'd be upset if he ever stopped. It's just the way they are; she couldn't change it if she wanted to.
He talks himself in circles until he finally gets to the point where he's lost track of what he's trying to tell her–not that that's anything new–and she rolls her eyes at him, but grins anyways. He laughs and grins back at her big and proud, and it stops her in her tracks because suddenly she sees it.
Because they are two of a kind and they would be quite the pair. Wild, impossible, but brilliant. It would be a spiral, but one hell of a ride. And, because they're two of a kind, he gets that look in his eyes and she knows he sees it too. He closes his eyes, leans his forehead against hers, and mumbles her name under his breath ("Amy. Amy, Amy, Amy. Amelia Pond".), and it would be so easy, she thinks, to just do it. To just kiss him and get it all over with. Because, really, it's just that simple.
Only it never is.
He brushes a hand against the back of her head, pressing against the blue flowers, and kisses her on the forehead before he sighs and stands up. He gets half way to the controls before her temper gets the better of her and she jumps up and calls out to him. But when he turns around, there's nothing unusual–nothing special–in his eyes and she knows it's gone. In a minute, she won't even see it anymore.
She changes the subject ("Sooo, can we go to a planet now?") and the words fall out of her mouth and the grin tugs at her lips without her having to even think about it, because it's just how they are. He grins in his crazy way and starts talking about sheep and some sort of Dream Planet and she can't help but laugh.
When she turns to close the door, the space wind catches her hair again. Only this time, it lifts the flower tiara off of her head and pulls it away. She watches it for a moment, the blue flowers dancing against the space, and for a moment, she thinks it might be the most beautiful thing she's ever seen. But it's only for a moment and it doesn't take long for the flowers to drift too far for her to see, lost to her forever. It's only beautiful for as long as it can last.
And it's a shame, Amy thinks as she shuts the TARDIS door, because that's just the way things are.
Note: I honestly have no idea where this idea came from. I was at work and the link about what everyone thinks about them came into my head and I decided to just run with it. Originally I meant for this to be like 500 words, then I said 1000, but once the last scene got so long, I gave up and made the rest longer.