Amelia Pond lay quietly in the nook of her bed. The restless night had left her blankets sprawled across the soft skin of her stomach and neck, though the majority found its home across the marble floor. She contemplated every single thought as she tried not to spend so much concentration on her eyelids remaining shut in the darkness of the room. Among them, past the throbbing of black, screeching of silence and the morbid offspring of the two, her head and every voice in it fell on the face of the Doctor.
Yet it was only a faint image. He was smiling. No, his face was emotionless as he stood in front of her, his eyes flickering from olive to brass, and he held something in his warm, steady hands. No, they were empty, and hung at his side. His tweed coat had been carelessly dropped at his feet, and he stood straight up, almost uncomfortably, and his thumbs gently tugged against the clips of his suspenders.
The more she began concentrating on the single image, the quicker it dwindled from her mind and was lost in the blackness. Her lips lightly pursed in frustration, and there was a faint stinging in the corners of her eyes. Amelia bit the inside of her lip as her right hand clenched an edge of the blanket, yet when her mind instructed it be pulled over her face, her hand froze and the grip weakened until the soft fabric slipped from her fingertips.
Dark brown hair. No, lighter. Short, brown hair. No, longer than usual. Green eyes glistening under the hairless mounds where eyebrows should be. Yet it flickered to brown eyes and his tweed coat was securely wrapped around him, and he held an envelope between the fingers of his left hand.
Blindly, Amelia fished once again for the edge of the blanket and her hand hesitated questioningly as her mind mistook the cold, smooth floor for bitter, soft skin. She paused, and her fingertips unconsciously brushed against it once more. No, mistaking the bitter, soft skin for the cold, smooth floor. The throbbing of her temples, coupled with the empty pounding in her chest, she disregarded its gentle brush against her hand, and instead, slowly reeled her arm back to the safety of the settled bed.
She enthrallingly watched his damp lips move in creation of words, and dryly swallowed as his tender voice refused to accompany it. Amelia felt herself quietly pant under her mess of long, red hair and her eyes softened at the image of the Doctor raising his arm to her, presenting his right palm, and a smile slowly spread. Flick. He stood with his back to her, and his coat obeyed the strict position of his folded arms, his shoulders slightly hunched, and she felt the crisp of her breath as it left her lips.
An echo rhythmically knocked in her ears and she felt the fading consciousness of her arm land across her bare stomach, yet both were quickly cloaked with the thin layer of soft fabric. For a mere second she felt a smile spread inside of her and it bled instantaneously into his and then shocked from her head. A small bead of sweat, she felt, ran down her throbbing temple, and she vaguely felt it disappear, soaked into whatever cloth just as his face soaked back into her sight.
It had become more clear, as he quickly, and yet slowly, led his tongue across his lips and pressed them firmly together. Her mind had become more clear, and the expression and light of his eyes danced in front of her, though he stood motionless.
"Amelia…"
She could almost hear his voice, and she felt her fingertips against a thick layer of glass as she tried to listen more intently. His skin slowly blurred, and his hair color faded, and his crimson bowtie unraveled itself to fall swiftly from his neck. Yet these things, his left hand folding to reach inside of his pocket, the stitching of his right cuff slightly torn downward, both shoes messily left untied with one revealing a spotted sock whilst the other a plain grey, she threw her insight and curiosity to ruin with these screaming details, and she vacantly stared.
Her hand lightly gripped the edge of the blanket and held a quiet breath and she felt her body slowly move forward in the blackness, freefalling through consciousness. His lips. His pink, damp, delicious lips silently curved and dropped and pursed and as she stared at the blurred figure, as her skin trembled in the fall, the thought that bled into the canvas of her eyes and the words that carved into her tongue were,
"Fuck, I need those on my skin."
Flick. He stood there, smiling that coy smile, and her exchange faded as the dark blood quickly ran down his forehead, though he still smiled as it dribbled down his chin. The screaming fall tore the blankets from her skin and the cold, smooth floor aggressively bashed into her forehead. For once that night, her mind screeched silent, and reality stepped over her, uncertain of whether to help her up or drag back the blanket to cover her corpse.