A/N: And on we go... Um, be careful in here. The quotes will warn you, but... This is not a happy place.

Giving up doesn't always mean you are weak; sometimes it means that you are strong enough to let go.

~Author Unknown

Relationships are like glass. Sometimes it's better to leave them broken than try to hurt yourself putting it back together.

~Author Unknown

I.

The Doctor moved with deceptive composure through the long white corridors. His shoulders were straight. His pace was not noticeably faster or slower than usual. He trailed the fingertips of relaxed hands lightly along the walls to feel the hum of the TARDIS more distinctly through them. He did not miss the slightly dissonant note of worry in the song of her engines, and he relented, spared a thought from his tightly-controlled mind to soothe her as best he could. She took his effort for what it was, a token of affection, but she let him know that she was not deceived by his outer appearance. She could see the maelstrom inside.

He paused before a door at the end of a corridor and stood outside for a moment, simply resting his hand on the latch. Then he pushed the door open and walked into the darkened room beyond it. The door swung shut behind him soundlessly.

II.

Rory tentatively walked up to Amy and put his hand on her arm. Startled by the touch despite knowing he was there, she jumped slightly and looked down at his grasp and then blankly back up at his face.

"Amy," he said, his voice trailing off, "what is it? Why are you looking at me like that?"

She wrenched her mind away from trying to figure out what had just happened with the Doctor, away from her worries about the lack of his presence in her mind, away from her concerns over what his last gesture had meant, and tried to deal with the crisis currently standing in front of her. She wrapped her hand over Rory's, squeezed gently, forced a smile that she knew was at best pained-looking and awkward. "Come on. Come with me."

He followed along behind her, confusion and a growing dread written on his face. "Why? Where are we going? What's going on?"

When she remained silent, the confusion turned to frustration and he lashed out. He tugged on his hand until she was forced to release it. She stopped and turned to face him again. "I'm not moving another inch until you tell me what the hell is going on! You've been practically a ghost for almost a week. In the five or so minutes I have been able to see you, you've either snapped at me or looked through me, and I know, I know, just now that I heard the Doctor's voice..." He threw his hands up in the air. "So am I just getting paranoid, or is there something you'd like to tell me?"

She looked at him, and something in her eyes stripped the anger from him like a swift blow to the stomach. "Rory...I...We can't just stand around in the corridor all day, can we? Just come with me now, okay?" Her tone was very gentle, but he didn't miss the note of finality in it, and when she reached out for his hand again, he slipped his into hers without further question and they walked down the hall toward the kitchen in silence.

III.

They sat staring at each other across the wooden tabletop. There had been a smattering of small talk and she'd made tea, more out of the need to have something to do with her hands and her energy than out of any real desire for it. The pot and two mismatched mugs sat on the battered surface in front of them. She shifted her mug back and forth minutely, a black one bearing the logo "I (heart) New NY", restlessly swirling the brown liquid inside it. Rory was watching her now, waiting, his own mug steaming quietly and ignored. She was aware of his scrutiny, and finally, she could find no further delay.

"Rory..." How was she going to say this? She didn't want to hurt him. He had been her friend, one of her only friends for so long, and she didn't want to lose him. She paused, took a sip of her tea, frantically sought the right words, the magic words, the words that would solve this problem for her.

He waited another moment, shifted in his chair and finally spoke. "Amy, look. Whatever this is, you can tell me, you know? I mean, obviously, it's not good, right? Otherwise, you wouldn't look like death warmed over sitting there all twitchy with the mug, and we wouldn't be having this incredibly awkward moment over tea here in the kitchen."

She scowled down at the table and took her active hands off the mug. "I am not twitchy... I'm just..." She sighed as he gave her a pointed stare. "Okay, right. Not the main point of this conversation. Which to be perfectly honest, I have no idea how to start, so I'm just going to start here, and work my way in." When Rory nodded warily, she continued. "You know that when we were in the dream world and I lost you, I realized how much I loved you. So, when that dream ended and I found that you were still here, we entered into sort of a golden time, right?"

Rory leaned forward and he slipped his hand around hers gently. "I know. And it really has been golden. It was such a relief that you finally realized that we should be together..."

She turned her hand over in his and gently laced their fingers together. She took a deep breath, smiled a twisted little smile as she felt a sharp stab of pain at what she was about to do. "Rory, I want you to know that I really do love you. Very much, in fact. You have been my best friend since we were, what? Eight? You've been one of the only ones who would have anything to do with me. You never thought I was crazy, or if you did, you at least made out like crazy was okay in your world, which was as good as the other to me."

Rory was smiling at her, and she could see some of the tension in him starting to leave his body. She felt like she was about to kick a faithful dog, but in the long run this had to be done...

"Which is why I feel that I owe you the truth in everything. As soon as I know it. As close as I can tell it." Her voice was quiet, restrained, and she withdrew her hand from his, reached a trembling hand down to her pants pocket where the engagement ring he'd given her had been riding around with her these past few tumultuous days, and she laid it delicately on the table.

He stirred uncomfortably, looking from the ring wobbling gently there on the table and back to her. "Amy, what's this? What are you saying? Why aren't you wearing your ring?" There was both fear and anger in his voice.

"I think you know, Rory. I can't go on with this. I mean I do love you. I will always love you. But I don't love you the way I ought to if I'm going to marry you. You need someone who wants what you want, who loves you and who loves what you love, too. That's only right. You need somebody who wants to settle down in Leadsworth, to see all those sweet dreams you have through with you, and I'm sorry, but I don't think I'm the right girl for that. Not now, Rory. Not now, and probably not ever."

He exploded up from the table, stalked over to the sink. "That's only right? You'll always love me, but not enough to marry me? Not the right girl for it? What the hell is this stuff, Amy? And when did it all magically appear? Four days ago, we were fine. You were with me, and we were planning which house we might like to try for when we got home! Remember? We talked about staying in yours for awhile until I finished medical school, and then we were talking about moving into the village proper once we had our first..." He broke off suddenly, hit his fist on his thigh as his voice became too choked to continue for a moment. After a brief pause, he went on. "Now, now, you're going to sit here and tell me that, what? You'll always care for me, but shove off? So sorry about the whole marriage thing, but can't we still be friends? How can four days make such a difference?"

She stayed seated, swiveled to look at him. "Look, it's not just four days, alright? It's been..." her voice softened from the harsh tone it had adopted in reply to his accusing one. "...it's been a lot longer than that. I don't change my mind on a whim. You've known me long enough to know that, I hope. I had been seeing problems for awhile now, searching my soul, I guess if you want to use a cliche, trying to figure out what I should do about it, and then..." Her voice cut off, and she lifted the mug of tea again, took a long swallow. She did not continue. She suddenly didn't know how.

"And then what? What? The key to the mystery lies in whatever it is that you're not bloody saying, Amelia. What happened to owing me all the truth?"

She shook her head mutinously. "And then I had a moment of epiphany that made everything clear. That's what I'm trying to explain. I've been trying to get everything sorted out, and now that I have..."

He looked at her as though stunned, and then his eyes suddenly narrowed. "Oooh. Epiphany, eh? Very good. Euphemism. I get it now. Because it just occurs to me that not only have you been hard to find these last four days, so has the Doctor... Oh very nice. Very, very bloody nice. You make sure you tell him that one. He's probably not been called that before. God, but his ego will just lap that up like a cat with fucking cream, too." He crossed his arms over his chest, stared at her, hurt in his eyes. "And how was it? Your 'moment of epiphany'? Was it everything you hoped it would be all these years? Everything you've been missing with me? Did he enlighten you properly, then? Give you lots of new... knowledge?" His tone had the bitterness of heart's blood in it, sarcastic, ugly in only the way that someone who has been hurt deeply can make it, twisting common words so they had a vulgar, cheap, gutter feel to them.

A guilty blush raced up to flood her pale complexion. She shoved her chair back, and she walked over to the door. When she reached the hallway, she paused without turning, one hand resting on the doorframe as if for support. He heard her voice, very low, come back to him. "I didn't...We haven't even..." she stopped, looked down, and then she started again, her voice stronger. "You'll believe whatever you like, of course, but I want you to know it was over between you and me before any of that particular moment of enlightenment started." She looked back over her shoulder at him, and he saw tears in her eyes before she looked away.

His voice calling out her name followed her down the corridor. The abandoned engagement ring she'd left behind continued to bounce light from its stone unabated as it softly rocked back and forth against the old wooden table.

IV.

The Doctor had been very still for a long time. He had come into the darkened room, paused long enough to kick off his shoes, and then he'd padded across floors of smooth wood. He did not need to see. He knew this space well even though he did not come here often as he might like. It was not always dark. There would be light in time, when it was needed. When he could tolerate it. For now, he needed darkness. And silence. Emptiness. A place in which to master himself.

Because right now, I am dangerous. So very, very dangerous. As dangerous as anything ever backed up against any wall is, as dangerous as anything ever teased and tantalized too long is , as dangerous as any alpha male watching his female walk away...

When she'd pushed him back and he'd heard the sudden emotional chaos in her head that Rory's voice had evoked, it had taken quite a lot of restraint on his part not to do something...well, rash. Yes. That's a good word. Terribly, terribly rash.

Images had flashed momentarily of dragging Amy off into whatever room happened to be on hand nearby and simply taking what he wanted, finishing what he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt they both wanted, of staking his claim. Because although he'd been going slow, taking his time, making sure they both enjoyed the moments, there had been no question about how much he had needed her, had wanted her, wanted her still... Wouldn't have taken much coercion. Ha. Wouldn't have taken any coercion at all, actually... He'd known her physical condition better than she had herself, been able to scent her pheromones like an exotic perfume that called to him relentlessly for a response.

Other images had involved grabbing Rory, spinning the TARDIS randomly through the vortex and simply ejecting the hapless human on the first planet they came to regardless of what class planet it was and what period it happened to be experiencing... There's always a chance he might survive it... The growling wolf in his head didn't really care if he did or not, of course.

Now the Doctor was folded on the floor, legs crossed into a seated position, sitting very still in the dark as he considered the situation again. Nothing moved in this space except the air, very lightly, very pleasantly. He had almost reached a point where he had the leading edge of his temper under control.

It's not the sex that he interrupted. That, while nice, no, wait, while mindbogglingly more than nice, is not of highest significance here. There is, after all, always more sex. No. What is infuriating/enraging/bloodboiling/seven-suns-going-supernova here is that he took her away. Again. He shows up, and she chooses him. Just. Like. That. Has her tongue down my throat, her legs around my waist, her mind actually beginning to twine with mine, is bloody well doing things I have no IDEA where she could've possibly learned one minute and the next... The next, she's a flaming mass of guilt over it all just because she's heard that whining, puling voice.

Letting her go had been so hard, but he was rather proud of himself for it.

Yes. Didn't make any scenes, didn't throw the idiot bodily down the hall. Yes. Altogether commendable behavior on my part. Ought to get a bloody medal for it, I think.

He'd deliberately shut off the bond between them, reached out with the power of his mind like a strong hand and choked it closed. It had been a matter of survival for him. At that moment, to continue to hear her mind fluttering against his with so much distress and guilt while the taste of her was still on his lips would have driven him completely mad. Also didn't really want her seeing the reaction to all that, did I? He smirked in the darkness. He tilted his head softly. He could still sense her there behind the wall he'd put up. It would take time for it to wither away completely, and just the knowledge that he'd have to fight the temptation to sip from the sweetness that was her, the utter rightness and communion that was them made a new wave of fury pass through him.

Should have known better by now. What were you thinking? Whatever did you think would be the outcome of this? You should have known she'd go running back to him, back to one of her own kind... You're going to have to figure out a way to chain all that you dared to feel, to want, to hope back down, hide it all away again, stab it all through the heart if you have to until you know it's dead or at least docile once more. No matter what the cost to you is, personally. You knew that was a possibility when you let it out. The monster never gets the girl in these stories, you know...

No. Stillness and contemplation weren't going to do it this time. He'd known that from the start, of course. That's why he'd turned his steps here when he'd left her. He'd known that this was the place to deal with the storm still raging in his heart, in his mind... He forced himself to his feet with a growl and he yelled, "Lights!"

Around the room, warm illumination sprang to life from no discernible source. Tall pillars made entirely of a solid block each of different types and colors of marble ringed the wooden floor, separating the larger inner area from the smaller outer area of the room. Around that outer perimeter of the room, there were bladed weapons of every conceivable type lining the walls. There were things that were recognizable as broadswords, spears, short swords, long swords, claymores, rapiers, daggers, sabers, katana, scimitars, and battle axes. Then there were all their variations and offspring that different peoples on different worlds had devised as ways of putting an end to each other with keen edges and wicked metals but were still mostly familiar to the eye. Here and there along the walls were also some exceptionally exotic pieces as well. Some looked as though a person might need more than just two hands to wield them. Some of the pieces were common-looking, hanging in racks with several of their kind. A few pieces that looked particularly wicked, valuable, or old were hung in special locked cases, and some three or four of those cases were actually set into the wall of the room itself, sealed shut with a great High Gallifreyan crest that had been pressed into a shimmering coppery metal while it was liquid, much like the impression in a wax seal might be formed, an indication that the object inside was not for use for any reason.

The Doctor did not take time to look at this remarkable collection. He knew what he was looking for. He walked directly over to a small flat case of polished reddish wood lying on a narrow, waist-high shelf. Flipping open the lid, he removed a beautifully-carved sword hilt of pale stone, one of the pair there. The workmanship of the item was quite ornate. There was no blade at all, only the carefully-wrought means for controlling one. He left its onyx-black mate in the box and walked back toward the middle of the open space inside the ring of columns. He paused long enough to shed his jacket and his bowtie and carelessly drop them on the bench he sat down on to put on the pair of shoes he retrieved from underneath it. He undid the first two buttons on his shirt, took up the sword hilt lightly in his left hand and walked out toward the middle of the floor beyond the ring of columns.

He held the hilt loosely in his left hand at his side as he took his place at the far end of the room on a marking on the floor. There were several such markings running down this particular portion of the floor in a long narrow strip. Each marking was inlaid into the floor by using a different color or type of wood. He fixed his gaze on the far end of the strip and waited a moment for something. When nothing happened, he called out in irritation. "Are you going to make me wait all day, then?" There was a shimmering at the end of the strip, and a figure was suddenly there, white from head to toe, lean, elegant, its face, if it had one, completely enclosed in a fencer's mask. Its hands were empty, fanned out to its sides. It bowed silently, slowly, moving with the carefulness of ritual.

"Yes, yes. You're taking all day with this. You know I've already chosen the weapon. Do get on with it," he muttered. He had no patience with the forms and protocols today...

The figure held its hand out to the side, rotated its wrist gracefully, and then it was holding a mate to his own sword hilt.

"Oh, look! You've got one, too, have you? How lovely for you. Now do you know which end of it goes up? Come. On!"

A beam of pale blue shot forward from the white figure's hilt and the Doctor sighed. "That's the best you can do, is it? This is going to be pitifully short..." The blue intensified, became neon, swirled for a moment with a suspicious gold twinkle around the edges that made him narrow his eyes. "No cheating now," he called out, muttering under his breath afterward, "Believe I've had enough of that for one day, thank you very much." Without a sound, the white fencer began to advance.

"At last. Here we go." And he switched the hilt from left to right in the motion of one drawing a sword from a scabbard, brought his own sword hilt up, forced his mind to focus all the rage and fury he was feeling into the small rare crystal encased within the stone which created a blade of virulently glowing black light.

V.

Amy had left the kitchen looking for the Doctor. To hell with a reasonable cooling-off period. She needed him. She didn't understand his last gesture or the emotion she'd felt from him just before all the emotions from him had cut off, but she knew a goodbye when she got one. She was angry, she was hurt, she was tired, and by God, she was SO done with this crap for the evening. She was going to fix this thing with the Doctor before her life got any more soap opera melodramatic than it already was. She was pacing down the corridor she'd last seen him in with angry strides, trying her best not to let the tears she felt welling up behind her eyes or the anger she was feeling at men in general get the better of her.

She walked and looked for the better part of an hour before she stopped and leaned frustrated against a wall. She looked up into the soft glow of the ceiling. "So where the hell is he, then?"

She felt something like a tiny nudge in the back of her mind. She froze. She even held her breath.

What the...

It came again, faint, ever so faint, a tiny tug, a feeling that she should go that way...

It felt like...it felt like...cinnamon and wild spices. It felt like a strong storm sweeping toward her, a rumble of very distant thunder, more felt than heard.

"Okay. So, what else have I got to do with my time?" She muttered, combing her hair back from her face and setting off in the direction this new sense seemed to indicate was right.

Oh, and it's SOOOO not a light saber. I promise. So just get that right outta your head. Doesn't even look like one. Scout's honor.