A/N: This is an odd piece, but I hope you like it. I'm rapidly getting slightly obsessed by this pairing and was inspired by my almost instant dislike to Rory. Poor Rory. (Sorry, Rory.) So slight spoilers for 5x06, it's un-beta'd but read, review and most importantly enjoy.
"Who's this?" Amy fondled around in a large box, retrieving a battered, old painting.
"That, Amy, is the beautiful Anne Boleyn. Boy, can she dance. Me and her, we transcended dance. Although," he paused, head cocked with a thoughtful air, "It was probably me that got her beheaded."
"Probably?"
"Most certainly. Oh dear." The Doctor spared a thought as Amy smirked at this odd man before her. A few beats passed before Amy ran an absent finger along a silver button, eyeing the Doctor as she moved slowly towards him.
"How?" Her eyes twinkled far too brightly to not conceal an ulterior motive. Plus, she doubted very much that he and Anne Boleyn transcended dance. He just wasn't that type of man.
"How?" He questions her question in the same way he questions every question.
"Yes, space cowboy, how. How did you dance?"
"How did I dance?" He clears his throat as Amy advances towards him, her eyes positively gleaming. If he didn't know any better, he'd almost believe she enjoyed these moments of awkwardness on his behalf.
"Show me."
"Show you. Right." He rocks to and fro from the balls of his feet to his heels, stopping precisely after four consecutive movements. Some Time Lord math, Amy presumed. "Listen. Amy-"
"Don't Amy me." And off she went again. He had a habit of picking the feisty ones: Rose, feisty; Jack, flirty and feisty; Martha, feisty (at times) and Donna, the feistiest of all. The Doctor gulped involuntarily; partially frustrated she interrupted him again, because talking was his most favourite pastime. "Shut up, or show me."
Shut up? Him? He scoffed; he was the one giving orders on this ship. Amy tapped her foot, an elegant eyebrow raised as she awaited his answer. Never one to bow down to a challenge, "You're going to regret you ever asked me this, Pond."
He took one of her hands and pulled her into what looked like a 1940s dance hall, decorated with war posters and cabaret acts, and a distant smell of stale alcohol exuded from an apparently non-existent bar.
"This is weir-" The Doctor placed a hand over her mouth as he flicked furiously through a box of vinyl records. If she wanted to dance, dance she would.
"I'm in charge now, Pond. That means you keep this shut." Amy arched an eyebrow, not at all content at being silenced in such a manner. So, being Amy, she took action to stop it. "You just licked my hand!"
Amy had, indeed, just licked his hand. It was the only fool-proof method she could think of that would get him to let go. "Well you bit mine!"
"For your own good!" He stood open-mouthed, eyes flicking from his saliva-covered hand to Amy, who merely smiled innocently and waited. "Right," he wiped his hand down his trouser leg, started the record player and pulled Amy onto the dance floor. "You asked for it, Pond."
"I do love it when you're authoritative, Doctor." Flattery, he promptly decided, would get her nowhere. Taking her left hand with his, he slotted her fingers in-between each of his, Amy feeling the sticky residue against her palm. His other hand fell softly on her side, his thumb absently stroking the smallest amount of flesh apparent between the end of her jumper and start of her skirt. His eyes were level with her eyebrows until they dropped to her eyes, and he quickly looked over her shoulder as the music flowed around the hall gently, oozing with a freedom this new Doctor had almost forgotten.
As they moved in musical harmony, slowly rotating in off-centre circles, Amy felt her eyes become heavy and her head found its way to the top of his chest, resting there as their bodies touched and his hand slipped from her hip to the small of her back. Her hair tickled his neck but this was the quietest he had ever known Amelia Pond, a sound that claimed light pleasure on his mind. That was until a clearing of the throat was sounded some 50 yards away. Amy's eyes flickered open, turning her head to the object of said sound, her mouth falling into a guilty smile at who she saw before her.
"Rory, you're awake." She'd forgotten she'd left him sleeping in a room concealed somewhere, bored of his enactments of his supposedly expert slicing and dicing of fish. Or vampire. Whichever way he saw it, Amy had grown tired and left him to it, deciding she wanted something a bit more substantial to talk about. Or dance about, as it had quickly transpired.
Reluctantly she pulled away from the Doctor and smiled brightly at a dissatisfied Rory, who held up a dripping oil painting of a side-burned man and a young blonde woman. "Sorry, knocked it into the sink. A sink. Some sink. Sorry." Though why he was apologising to the man who was slow-dancing with his fiancée was a myth. Still, Rory thought, he hadn't had to pay any petrol money. Did spaceships even use petrol, Rory wondered, his mind quickly drifting off into alien territory.
Amy, meanwhile, tried (and failed) to stifle a giggle, which quickly evaporated at the sorrowful look on the Doctor's face. "I think you two should go and get dinner," he motioned solemnly for the photo and the music instinctively stopped because everything was lost.
The TARDIS had lost the mood, Rory was fast losing Amy to the Doctor, Amy didn't even have chance to find the Doctor before she lost him to an unknown woman from a painting and the painting was lost to the past.
Not everything that was lost could ever be found, and that was something the Doctor knew all too well.
