A/N: Hi there! Okay, so this is my very first Doctor Who story EVER so to say I'm excited is a bit of an understatement. Anyway, this is a Tenth Doctor/Amy fanfic so if you don't like, don't read. I just discovered this wonderful ship and the possibility of it all is just dazzling. I'm new to this ship, actually, and sheryloh, a youtuber who does brilliant Doctor Who videos among others, introduced me to them. And I just fell in love with the idea. If there are any spelling/grammar errors, I'm sorry, but it is quite late for me to be writing, so be nice. But reviews are very much appreciated, especially if it's critiquing my writing of Doctor Who considering it's my first one. I'd like some advice on how I portray the characters: good or not so good? Haha. Anyway, enough rambling, back to the story. Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who...if I did, the Ponds would not be leaving, Donna Noble would suddenly remember the Doctor and not die, and the Doctor would still say "Allonsy!" All in all, I DO NOT OWN IT.

Eleven years. Two months. One week. And five days. That's exactly how long it had been since you encountered the Raggedy Doctor crashing into your garden. You were seven years old then, and now…well, now you were eleven years, two months, one week and five days older and a little bit worse for wear. Not only did the children at school let out loud guffaws at your stories of the magical doctor, but your aunt also deemed you, her one and only niece, to be mental. Therefore, you were sent to a psychiatrist…well, four of them to be exact. And you bit every single one of them. You couldn't accept the fact that your raggedy man wasn't real because he was, he just was. You saw that police box vanish into thin air with your very own wondrous hazel irises. And even though the light of that magic box had only reflected briefly in your eyes, it was forever etched in your mind and heart.

But none of that even mattered. The teasing, the probing, the biting (although you didn't mind that bit much)…they just didn't matter. Because you had Rory and while you knew not even your best friend/now boyfriend (it was complicated; you were still getting used to the fact he wasn't gay) believed you, at least he tried to understand. He pretended to believe with you just like you pretended for so many years that he would come back and take you by the hand so that you two could finally sail among the stars together.

All of that, the wishing, the waiting, and even the fairytale name was thrown into the ashes. You decided about two years ago she would begin anew; throwing away the pieces of yourself that brought back memories of him.

But as you sat in your room with Rory, studying for your senior finals, you can't help but glance at the journal on your nightstand. It held every thought, every imagination that a seven year old could conger up yet so much more. It also kept a record of how long it had been; and that's how you knew. You still count up the days, quick pen marks scribbled on the worn pages. The spine cracking, the very pages slipping, the book itself just ready to spill out and reveal your wasted dreams and his broken promises.

"Amy?" a timid voice calls you out of your reverie.

"Yeah?"

"Are you alright? 'Cause you've been boring holes of death into that book over there for about ten minutes now."

You feel your flushed face and start to laugh, just now realizing how angry the memory of everything made you. Only in Scotland did anger overrule the sadness; that, and the ginger locks didn't help very much.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Just…frustrated about this math problem," you fib, smiling assuredly.

"Oh, do you need me to help you with it? That's actually one subject I'm not absolute rubbish at."

You're about to protest, the excuse just between your flicking tongue and your parting lips, when a sudden tremor shakes your entire room. You fall roughly to the floor, Rory scrambling helplessly over to you, trying so very hard to be the hero you want him to be. He wraps his arms lovingly around you as you hastily reach out for the journal tumbling from its perch, and it's then that you discover Rory could never amount to the mad hero you've fantasized about all these years. You still clutch to him for dear life as the ground continues to shake, digging your manicured nails into his chest. He grimaces in pain and you release your hold on him just as the floor beneath slowly returns to normal. You both gaze at your surroundings a bit dumbfounded.

"What the hell was that?" he inquires breathlessly.

Your eyes land on the precious book in your hands and suddenly something clicks inside your head. You can feel your heart soaring and bile rising in your throat at the exact same time. You don't know how you know, you just do.

"Amy, you look sick. Do you want me to get your aunt?" Rory questions worriedly.

"What? Oh, God, no!" you exclaim, pushing past him towards the stairs. Your feet barely touch the steps, your body lurching forward to that same hope you obtained as a child.

"Amy! Don't go outside! You don't know what ha—"

But the slam of the door shuts him up completely. Well, for now, anyway. And you know you're acting like a total jerk and close to what your aunt would claim as a mad person, but he was here. And you had to get to him. You couldn't miss him; you couldn't let him go. Not again.

You run down streets and alleys, hardly stopping to catch your breath. He's here, he's here, he's here, these words of reassurance being said each time one of your feet hits the pavement. You make a sharp turn, your adrenaline and hope being your only motivation. And as you round the corner, you hardly register the sky darkening above you, engulfing the quiet town of Leadworth. No, your mind doesn't want to notice anything it's not searching for; and just four blocks from your house, you spot it. Your breath hitches in your throat as your eyes widen in disbelief, the flashing light of the magic box reflecting in your hazel irises once again.

There it is. After all this time. Here. In the middle of Leadworth.

And that's when you begin to wonder why he would just drop out of the sky into the middle of town instead of your garden. Before you can question this miniscule detail, before you can blink, and most commonly, before you can even think about unleashing all that built up rage, the door of the four-dimensional time machine begins to open.

The moment is probably not as you perceive it to be, the door widening in slow motion, your heart rate picking up with each agonizing millisecond. A thousand thoughts whirl around in that impossible head of yours, but one stands out the most: Did the Raggedy Man forget her Amelia Pond already?

The moment ends just as quickly, yet slowly, as it began, and when the face behind the door is finally revealed, you gasp in disbelief. It's not…him. It's not your Raggedy Doctor; it's not the same man who was wet and nonchalantly claimed there was a swimming pool in the library; the one you discovered eleven years, two months, one week, and five days ago.

His hair sticks out wildly at various ends, a pair of black eyeglasses being perched smartly on his face as if he were some genius. His attire consists of a blue suit, red tie, and trench coat, his hands hurriedly reaching into the pockets for something. He soon pulls out a small metal contraption, waving it around, the end glowing a bright blue as he does so.

Its then your eyebrows intertwine into a knot of confusion, remembering he had something quite similar to what that man was wagging about.

"He shut up the crack in my wall with one of those," you tell yourself aloud.

You don't know what moves first: your feet or your mouth, both of them darting at him crazily, but it's hard to stop either of them.

"Oi! You there! What are you doing in that police box?!" you yell accusingly.

He starts, his eyes darting around him for the source then they eventually land on you. "Me?" he mouths, pointing at himself innocently.

"Yeah, you! Who else do you think, Scraggy Boy?!" you spit. You know you would probably have a better insult to throw at him had this situation not been so ridiculous.

"Scraggy?" he scoffs. "Why does everyone have to poke at my stature? At least I'm not a pudgy bloke," you catch him mutter.

"Oi, that is not the point!" You jab him in the chest with your perfected nails. "The point is: who are you? Who are you to be travelling around in his magical blue box?!" You sound childish, you know, but at this point, you don't even care anymore.

"I'm the Doctor!" he answers automatically, as if he gets asked that question a lot.

"No, you're not. You're not raggedy. You are not my Raggedy Doctor!"

"What, your Raggedy Doctor? What are you talk—wait, what did you mean when you said his magical blue box?" he asks curiously, stepping towards you, his deep brown eyes staring intently into your blazing ones.

You gulp, those eyes reminding you so vividly of him, but yet at the same time, knowing those were not her Raggedy Man's eyes. You quickly fix your gaze on the pavement below, shaking off some very strange feelings that were erupting in the pit of your stomach.

"The Doctor…the Raggedy Doctor. But he had a mop on his head, and something of a chin, a—and his clothes were torn and…raggedy. And he said he'd be back in five minutes, but he …he lied to me," you admit, stumbling over your words though you're not sure why.

His face falls in what looks like recognition and a bit of sorrow, as if this has happened to him before. As if his future knows him significantly better than he knows himself. Like that's even possible, you scoff on the inside.

"What's your name?" his voice cuts clean into your thoughts.

"Amy. Amy Pond," you answer quietly.

"Amy, I am so sorry. I am the Doctor, but I am not the same one you met. The one you met is the future generation of me. I haven't met you yet."

"Future generation? What does that even mean?" you inquire incredulously. "Are you from another planet or something?"

"Yes," he says without hesitation. Yet again.

You close your eyes tightly, trying to wrap your head around the magnitude of it all. "So what are you then?"

"I'm a Timelord. And I travel in the TARDIS, sailing throughout time and space. That's what the magical blue box is, a TARDIS, I mean. And I know you're probably very confused right now, but we better stop talking now. Or else our time lines could get crossed the wrong way," he states, lifting your chin with his finger so you forced to finally look at him. "And I don't want that to happen. I've already harmed so many people's lives and…" he stops, shutting his eyelids as if to chase away the pain, "I can't deal with that. Besides, you seem very special. I wouldn't want to screw up another one of you." His crooked smile is heartbreaking yet dazzling and it's then you decide you're not abiding by any of his rules.

"No," you declare in defiance.

"No?" he repeats, dumbfounded.

"You heard me. NO.I am not listening to anything you say until I have reason to believe you. I am Amelia Jessica Pond and you are Scraggy Boy. My name is obviously superior to yours, therefore, whatever I say or want goes, got it?"

You sound like a brat, but you're ginger and fiery and stubborn so you couldn't care less. He gapes at you, mouth spluttering, grasping desperately for some words, something, anything, but you can tell he's at a loss.

The earth abruptly trembles beneath your feet and you lurch forward into his arms, almost as if the universe pushes you two closer and closer together at any chance it gets. But you know that's not the case as you notice the people screaming in terror, pointing frantically toward the sky. And for some reason you know, deep down, that this man holding you up steadily by his forearms is the only one who can save them from the fate drawing nearer and nearer.

"Come on, Scraggy Boy, we've got a town to save," you say, looking up at him with quirked lips.

You grab his hand, dragging him away from the claimed-to-be TARDIS toward the chaos ensuing in the streets. You can feel it again: the rush of adrenaline, the pounding of your converses, the wind capturing and spinning your locks in a frenzy of orange. And you love it.

"Doctor! My name is the Doctor!" he ultimately replies cheekily, not at all liking his dubbed name.

And as you reflect on how adamant he was on not having you travel with him, not even letting you dare speak to him any longer, he squeezes your hand with a grip you swear won't ever let go. And despite your previous statements, you're not sure you're going to either.

Review? Please? I'll give you an Ood to be your personal butler. :D