Before she'll even get up from the sofa, even come in view of the living room window, Amy readjusts her beret. Even then, she slouches, hangs back behind the curtains as she turns to say to Rory, "Cup of tea?"
"Amy, I miss the Tardis. She would have made tea for us."
"We can make our own tea, Rory! Anyway, you miss it so much, off you go, I'm not stopping you, you can do what you please." But she stands with her chin tipped up, eyes on him, unblinking: 'Dare you'. He relents, sighs, accepts the offer of tea. "He's gone too far this time, Rory. I'm not going back, not ever."
"He did say he could fix it."
"I don't care," and she retreats into the kitchen, where Rory hasn't yet been able to convince her to reopen the blinds. He follows her, leaning in the doorway.
"Amy, you can't just sit here watching TV forever."
"Not forever. Just for a couple of months until I can go outside again."
"It's not healthy. More than three hours of television today has been cited as a major cause of depression, especially in women, and you're already at less than your best and-"
"Rory?"
"Yeah?"
"It's four o'clock." It takes a moment for the implication to sink in. Then he scatters, the panicked, slippery steps of a fleeing dog, back to his chair and the remote control for Deal or No Deal. "You're such a trog," she shouts after him, enjoying her momentary power. "Seriously. It's random boxes. There is no point to it at all, it's not even a game-"
"There's a science to it, Amy."
"There's… there's really not."
But the theme music has started and he doesn't respond. She shakes her head, then readjusts her beret again, just in case. Goes quietly about making the tea, moving as little as possible from the shoulders up. If she was in any mood to make excuses she might note that the whole terrible debacle has been wonderful for her posture. But she's not in any mood to make excuses. Not for him anyway. She catches her reflection in the ceramic hob. One delicate red curl, no more than chin-length, has refused to be tucked away. Delicately, longingly, she wraps it around her finger. Then, with sudden violence grabs off the beret and stares in defiant horror on her mutilated, uneven locks.
She never should have said she liked Rosemary's Baby.
"Amy…" Rory is calling her from the living room. Probably for no more than to see a particularly interesting configuration of randomly selected boxes.
"I'll be there in a second."
"Amy, you really need to see this."
So she pulls on her hat again, tucks in all the hair around her ears, and drifts back. Hovers behind his armchair until she sees what he called her for. Her lips part in voiceless shock. Eventually, "Oh my god…"
On screen, they haven't even gotten as far as random configurations of randomly chosen boxes. They're still at the start, with the host talking to the latest contestant about why they're there to pick boxes.
And there he is.
Making his box wear a bow tie.
Saying, "Well, actually, Noel, the money's not a massive thing for me. It's just that my best friend isn't talking to me and I thought I might… I don't know, impress her or something."
"Rory, turn it off."
Semi-finals week on Masterchef, and each potential candidate is asked to cook a dish which is personally special to them. Twitter lights up, full of speculation about the favourites and the kind of things they might come up with. There is one cook, however, who dominates the topics. He trends. Trends, despite the fact that, if anybody thought to ask, none of them actually remembers him being there last week.
Even the over-serious Australian chef in charge practically glitters with excitement as he goes to this man's bench. Far away, in the real world beyond television, Amy puts a cushion over her face.
Next week, that chef won't be the favourite anymore.
He lifts the lid off a great black casserole dish.
Fish fingers, gently cooked sous vide, but not in water.
They are their International Tour Guide's favourite couple ever. He's said so. They have just received their first vote ever in a record three weeks, but they're still smiling. The camera has taken them off to the side to ask how it feels to finally have a dent in their otherwise universal popularity.
"I don't mind. Do you mind, sweetie?"
"Not at all. I understood their reason, won't happen again.
"I mean, John and Amanda are just such a lovely pair, it's hard to blame them for anything."
"Well, exactly, River, and even if they weren't, I just think that forgiveness is such an important virtue to carry with you in this life-"
Amy turns determinedly from the television and goes to the shopping. Online, of course
"No!" declares the latest medic to join the staff at Holby City. "They can't close Holby General, I won't allow it! Or at any rate, I'll save the Casualty department, because that's her favourite program!"
Sunday night, and crime drama takes a less-than-unexpected turn for the surreal.
"Alright, Sherlock, now I know you're making fun of me."
"Don't be a fool, John, it's the only logical answer. The underdeveloped features, the bizarre dress. The air of knowing it all betrayed by the childlike glee in everyday things-"
"Now, hold on, my dear Mr Holmes, you have a smiley face full of bullet holes sprayed on your living room wall; that is not everyday."
"John, when all other options have been eliminated whatever is left, however improbable, must be true. The man is undoubtedly, indubitedly and without mistake, an alien. This attempt to emulate an average human has all the hallmarks of an outsider's sarcastic appraisal. Clark Kent was never more obvious a metaphor! And more than that, John, this before us is an alien with an extreme weight on his mind. Look how he stands, the slouch, literally cap in hand, albeit my cap-"
Through all this, the alien in question nods sincerely to camera. He knows in his hearts it's not a show that Amy watches, but he's hoping she'll find this on Youtube. If he's honest, he just wanted to be on it himself.
"Right, that's it!" Pond cries, stamping her foot. "What's the oldest thing on TV? He won't have gone there."
"Comedy Central," Rory says, before he's really thought about it, "Mid morning through lunchtime, all the classics." Slow realization edges across his face. "And I just said that out loud. And now you're going to ask me how I know about daytime cable. And I'm going to ask you not to do that."
"Put it on. Put it on now."
Friends on the main channel, and Phoebe is learning another hilarious life lesson. This time about moving on, when her new and otherwise-perfect-for-her boyfriend made a terrible, terrible mistake with her hair.
"Turn it over!"
Cheers on plus-one. Surely Cheers is safe. Surely Cheers is sacred.
And yet, Doctor Crane is waiting for a visit, a former associate from out of town. "Oh," he frets, "he must hate me. We left it on such bad terms. If only I had just accepted his apology all those years ago…"
"To recap, our main story tonight, the stalemate between very sorry hairdresser, The Doctor, and his bestest friend in all the universe ever, Amelia Pond, continues into it's third day."
"Oh, my God, he's got Fiona Bruce. Why is he dragging Fiona Bruce into this?"
"Fiona Bruce said your name!"
"Shut up, Rory."
By Saturday night, Amy has retreated to the bedroom entirely. She's discovered knitting. It takes up time and she has to look at it, which keeps her from looking at anything else, distracts her. In addition, there is no television in the bedroom.
From downstairs, "Amy?" It's all over Rory's voice; he knows exactly how she's going to react, but he called anyway. That's why she doesn't refuse. That's why she delicately sets down her work, adjusts her hat and climbs off the bed.
"Amy, seriously!"
"I'm coming, I'm coming."
Sullenly tromps her way downstairs, leans warily around the living room door. For the first time since all this began, it takes her breath away. She hasn't even words, just sits down, one hand raised to cover her open mouth.
It's him.
That actor. The freak, the stalker, the one that goes about on Earth pretending to be somebody he most very definitely is not. The one that won't leave them alone. He's been kidnapped. The ransom video is being shown.
He sits, gagged and bound, on a wooden chair in an empty room. On the right, River, holding a gun that won't be invented for another four centuries to the side of his head. On the left, and behind, dancing in the back of the video, there he is. Wearing a t-shirt over his shirt and braces printed with the words, 'I'm sorry, Pond'.
River leaning into shot, nodding at this display. "I have to live with that! He is single-handedly destroying British television and I had to go on a bloody Coach Trip. Please, Mum, just forgive him."
"Look, I can do the Drunken Giraffe!"
"Not on the ransom video, sweetie, please."
And by now, Amy has her phone in her hand. And her other hand creeps up, slowly, and pulls off her hat.
"Hello, Intergalactic Apology Line, Doctor sorry, how can I help?"