AN: Wow! Second update in a day! I must be procrastinating pon something... Sorry? What did you say? Script Frenzy? Summer Mocks? Pssshh.

AN2: This chapter is a little bit...odd... I know where I want to go with it, but I'm not convinced it's the right thing. Mainly because now I feel like a horrible person. All my chibis are weeping.

Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who. The BBC does. Obviously.

The Doctor had been watching them for a while now. The way they could sway from elated closeness to a sort of resentful chill with just a few short words was beginning to worry him. They were married now, wasn't all that stuff supposed to be worked out before the wedding? Once or twice, he tried to ask Amy, subtly, what was on her mind. But every time she simply shut him out, laughing and running and smiling, as happy as could be.

But the Doctor wasn't fooled; her eyes grew distant whenever Rory stalked off to think things over by himself. He had to resign himself to watching, then, for now.

He didn't comment when Amy decided to try sleeping outside, prattling on about the starry night, and Rory said he'd rather stay indoors. He didn't comment when, over dinner, Rory said he didn't think it was very responsible of Amy to be sleeping outdoors like a kid, and Amy responded with a rather pointed look and said that there wasn't anything to be responsible about so why shouldn't she have some fun?

The Doctor didn't comment when she convinced him to sleep outside as well.

Rory had, by now, gone inside and was apparently asleep – or at least in bed. Still, the Doctor didn't miss the way Amy's voice grew low, and slightly furtive. He hesitated, but Amy's pleading and wheedling eventually worked. They gathered up sleeping bags and mugs of cocoa and then made their camp a little to one side of the campfire that seemed to burn continually at the centre of the settlement.

For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. They just sat, leaning against an old tree, wrapped in their sleeping bags and sipping cocoa, each lost to their own thoughts. Eventually, the Doctor became aware of Amy's eyes on his. He looked round at her, half-smiling, ready to make a joke and skip over the moment, but somehow her gaze held him. The air seemed to crackle; time seemed to stop.

Slowly, as if in a trance, Amy reached out to take his hand. That wasn't new; they held hands so often, running or laughing or walking. So why did it feel new, this time? Why did the hairs all along that arm stand up? Why was the Doctor suddenly so aware of the way he was breathing, the pulse hammering through his fingers, the hush that had descended around them?

Eventually, he spoke. He had to; her stillness was unbearable; it scared him to death.

"Amy," he began, and that was as far as he got. His voice, usually so effervescent, so fluent, cracked and faltered. But it had done what it was supposed to do – the moment passed, the world struck up around them again, and Amy's eyes flitted away.

Then, finally, he managed to make that stupid joke; managed to tap her fondly on the forehead; managed to get the balance back into their talk. They talked – about the Orchids, about the village, about where they would go next. It was late, very late, when they next fell silent. The Doctor had almost begun to think that Amy had fallen asleep, and he wouldn't have blamed her for it, when she called to him, softly.

"Doctor."

It wasn't a question; it wasn't even a statement. For one, freezing moment, the Doctor thought she was dreaming. Then, before he could even begin to unpick that particularly unsettling thought, Amy sat up. He followed her, and when he opened his arms, Amy didn't hesitate. Curled into each other under the silent trees, the Doctor thought they were only now, finally, really beginning to talk.

"Doctor, you know me and Rory have been…well," Amy ended lamely, not knowing how to end that sentence.

"I know," the Doctor answered. "I saw, I heard. What's going on?"

And then, miraculously, Amy didn't push him away. She started to tell him everything, and her words were enough to bring a tear to his eye. Knowing that Amy felt torn, knowing that she would rather stay on the TARDIS and delay this deepest, most basic wish, suddenly meant more to him than she could ever know. In fact, as the Doctor kept on listening, he realised more and more that she couldn't ever know. If she did, she would never go, and as wonderfully selfish as that thought was, he couldn't do it. He couldn't.

So he rearranged his features into what he hoped came across as a concerned-yet-distant look, and set about making things right between Amy and Rory.

"Look, Amy," he said eventually, when her stream of words had petered out. "Rory loves you. So much. And all he's doing right now is trying to be the person he thinks you want."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, he's being impulsive, and daring, and outgoing – and a little bit more reckless – because he thinks if you're not bored of him you won't leave without him."

The 'with me' was unsaid, but Amy heard it anyway.

"I know that…" she mutters. "And I do love Rory, I'm more in love with him than ever, but it just feels like we never want the same thing."

"You want each other," the Doctor said simply. "The rest is just detail."

"You think?"

"I think," he confirmed, catching her face between his hands and forcing her to look at him. "And you know what? I think he's right."

Amy tried, instinctively, to jerk away, to hide to hurt that had clouded her eyes, to protect herself from the rejection she had been fearing since the day she woke up, age 7, and he wasn't back yet. But the Doctor held her, made her meet his look.

"I don't mean I want you to leave," he added gently. "OF course I don't! But if you don't stop and settle, Amy, he's always going to feel like you want something else. Someone else," he added pointedly, and he knew she understood.

There was a long, uncomfortable pause. The Doctor found himself casting his eyes around wildly, looking for something, anything, to focus on rather than the face that was still looking steadily at him. Then Amy's eyes drew him back, and he couldn't look away.

Then she said something, and it took him a while to register it. At first he thought he must have misheard, and then he laughed, because it had so obviously been a joke, then he stopped. She was still looking at him, waiting, half afraid, half fearless, for an answer.

"Sorry, what?" he asked, and it was more of a plea than a question. If she said that again – well, he didn't know what he would do. How strong he could be.

"Give me one night."

AN: Dun dun duuuh! Oh, I do like making these characters suffer :) Am very very curious to know what you think will happen next - and also what you think SHOULD happen next.