A/N: This is my very first Fanfic, so please be kind- let me know how I can improve, as I have a MAJOR project planned if I can get enough feedback on what I need to work on or on what works.
All quotes belong to Steven Moffat's brain and the BBC.
"A mysterious summons, you think I'm just going to go?"
He refused.
When she came along, he knew he wouldn't be going within a hundred years of where she was asking. He loved a mystery. He had wanted to follow through so badly he could taste it. But then he saw her. And he remembered. Another summons. Another time. Another body. And how that turned out.
He couldn't do it again.
The idea she would once again be put in danger by being near him- with him- turned his blood cold. He had actually considered it, when he first walked into the diner. Him, his Ponds, River Song, and a mysterious beckoning- how could he resist? She was the first person he'd noticed when he came back from getting his special fizzy straw. He of course greeted Amy and Rory first, quickly, then just as quickly turned to approach her slowly, basking in her presence. From what little he did know of her and from all he could guess, she was no more an angel than he was.
And he loved it.
He'd decided to try his hand at flirting with her. By worlds, not even a slap could detour his body from once again focusing on her. Briefly, he had considered actually taking her where she wanted. But when she followed Amy downstairs, clearly upset, he drew to mind the picture of her in the café with barely concealed tears, and whispering, "Spoilers." And suddenly the picture changed to a similar, though far more horrendous scene. She was strapping herself into a chair, saving him, even though he hadn't the slightest idea who she was or would be to him.
And it made him angry.
And conflicted.
He was already attracted to her, lightly touching her whenever he could get away with it. Unconsciously his body automatically faced her at every opportunity, turning toward her, leaning into her, looking to her for reassurance, and always before he looked at anyone else. It invariably took a moment longer to make his body turn from her, even to respond to the others. Constantly he stood as near to her as he dared. But the more he felt himself pull toward her, the more determined he became to repel her. He couldn't change what had happened- she wouldn't let him.
But he could try.
If she could only see how dangerous he was, if he could only push her away, if he could get her so angry she would never want to see him again, she would live. She would never sacrifice herself. He would never feel this bittersweet guilt every time she was near. And, because he was a selfish, self- centred old man, he could even convince himself that it wouldn't count if she changed their history. But that mysterious, sexy, incredible woman he had already begun to admire and cherish just stood there, face a mask, and let him cut her deeper and deeper, never reacting as he had hoped she would and yet never ever wanted her to. He used his words to tear her down, but remained unable to break her.
It terrified him.
And captivated him.
So, just this once (as he said to himself every time she was involved) he used his little Amelia as an excuse, and led that fantastic-no- amazing woman, capable of more love, mystery, and trust than he'd ever dreamed of earning, closer to her fate. Because no matter how hard he tried, when it came to her, he couldn't run.