AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello there. So basically this is about Amy rejecting the Doctor's hug in the mid-series six finale. It really got to me. Now, so long afterwards, it's a bit irrelevant, but I figured: why not post this anyway? It was written immediately after watching the show, so now that it's been just sitting around for so long, I feel no enthusiasm to try and fix it or extend it. So it's very short and merely okay. I apologize!
All rights to BBC, yeah? I believe they have all of it. Oh, and 'whirr-chunk' is the TARDIS sound. Don't patronize me! /okay maybe I deserve it though.

Tears. That was odd.

He lightly touched his cheek with his hand, his finger catching this odd salty moisture as it slipped down his skin. He stared at it for a moment, though it was nearly impossible to see at this point – transferring from one place to another, both possible of absorbing moisture.

Forever the mad man, he licked it to make sure it was, in fact, a tear. How obvious it was! However, the Doctor – this Doctor, at least – wasn't too keen to believe he was really crying. He had cried before, in his past regeneration: when the Master died, after the Battle at Canary Warf – or more specifically, Rose. Never as this man, this regeneration. Save, perhaps, the few pent-up tears of losing Idris.

But never because of a simple social rejection.

He knew, oh! he knew, that it was so much more though.

There was nothing that pained him more than seeing children crying - and almost anyone of any age was a child compared to him. So seeing his best friend shedding tears was completely and utterly heart-wrenching for the Doctor. Amy had grown so much upon him, taken such a hold of his hearts that over the past few weeks he felt her slowly walk away, still grasping onto him. Oh, she was so strong too – his clever, mad Amelia Pond. It was a funny kind of hurt, having her pull at him like that. It was so painful, but it was worth it to feel her warm hands still gripping him.

Today… she had let go. She hadn't ripped his hearts out or wrenched apart his soul. No – she had simply let go. And now he was left there, still feeling so much. But he was cold. Her soft hands weren't warming his soul anymore.

Why had she pulled away?

He was sorry. He was so sorry.

That line had never worked much. It never took away the pain. Maybe it eased the mind, but what point is there of the rational, logical thinking of the brain when your whole body is numbed by the pain felt by your heart, based solely off of beautiful, shining, cruel emotions.

There was no denying that they were cruel. They could be beaming, like when the light catches upon a diamond and out springs – only for your own personal viewing – a rainbow. Or feeling vanilla icecream melt on your tongue on a hot day. The sensation of having somebody lightly brush their hand over the underside of your arm, tickling beneath the elbow.

Then… then there's the pain. When you see the news flicker before your eyes on a dull television set, your eyes filling with sorrow, until it comes to the point where a flashy young newscaster pops up and says something superficial, unrelated, and unaffected. And you realize how little these horrid happenings mean to people.

Placing a hand onto the TARDIS console, the Doctor whispered roughly, 'I'm getting old. I'm getting old.'

One loud, harsh cough later, he began running around the TARDIS, pressing and pulling and typing and twirling all sorts of different levers and buttons. 'Back to the Ponds, Sexy!' he cried, sliding around on the floor which was, he considered, far too slick considering the way the TARDIS flew.

Whirr-chunk, whirr-chunk.

He beamed a smile for the Ponds as he flung open the door. 'And I'm back!'