The TARDIS had parked itself a distance away from the little town, probably to ensure Amy doesn't see the ship of her childhood and screw the whole timeline up. He can see her house, though—it's the only house with its lights still on, and he doesn't think he'll ever forget the silhouette of her backyard shed.

(The new shed's got old, it's ten years old at least! Twelve years. I'm not six months late, I'm twelve years late.)

Plus, he can feel the wrongness of that crack in her wall, still sucking up little Amelia's life, and she doesn't even know it. Probably why the TARDIS parked so far away, as well.

His slacks are thoroughly wet by the time he gets close enough to the house to hear the shouts.

(This matters. This is important. Why did you say six months?)

He hears a door slam open as he quietly opens the wooden gate into the yard. He takes a spot on the little rickety bench and waits.

"Amelia Jessica Pond! You come back this instant!" A shrill voice comes through the wood that the Doctor dislikes immediately.

"I'm not going anywhere!" Amy's yell is even more determinedly Scottish than the last time he heard it. "Nowhere to go in this stupid, backwater town!" She dissolves into furious cursing and slams the door so hard it shakes in its frame.

(Why did you say five minutes?!)

"It's that Zucker girl, it is, corrupting you, giving you drugs I shouldn't wonder, encouraging those senseless ideas of your blue box coming to take you away! Well, I can tell you, Amelia, imaginary friends don't come to life!"

"It's Amy!" She shouts through the window. She swings open the rickety gate, walks past the Doctor sitting in the shadows, and sprints up the hill. Her silhouette is illuminated by the moon. A whisper is carried back to him by the wind. "And I know they don't."

(Sorry, something's come up, this will have to be goodbye.)

The Doctor hesitates, then walks towards her. He plans to say something inspiring and kind, but instead he shucks off his cloak and throws it at her.

"It's cold. Wear something."

She jumps back immediately, hands raised in some form of ludicrous defense posture. The cloak falls pathetically to the ground. He'd just washed it, too. "Who the hell are you?"

Well, this is working wonderfully. "I'm the—John. John Smith."

"I've never seen you before. And I've seen everyone here."

(Yeah, I think it's goodbye. Don't you think, Rory? Definitely goodbye.)

"I'm visiting." The Doctor says. He's grateful that in the dim light, she probably can't see the way he's drinking in the sight of her. She's not Amy, not his Amy, not quite yet, but she's as close as he'll ever get again.

"You're Scottish." Her hands are balled into fists and she's-she's trembling.

"So are you." He points out.

"Yes, but I live here." Her hands are balled into fists and she's-she's trembling.

(Goodbye!)

"Are you about to cry?" He asks. Wait, that's on one of the cards Clara gave him. It's impolite to ask if someone's about to cry, they get offended.

"Shut up, no I'm not." She picks up his cloak and throws it at him. "Weirdo old man shows up in the middle of the night and then has the nerve to ask if I'm crying—"

Amy cuts off abruptly, making a sort of choking noise that proves to the Doctor that yes, she is about to cry and if she'd gone on speaking, she'd have made it obvious. She sits down hard on the hill, her shadow making long waves on the damp grass.

(So, is this how it works, Doctor? You never interfere with the affairs of other planets and peoples?)

He strides up to her and sits down a bit awkwardly. She sniffs and turns away but doesn't start running again.

"So... family troubles, is it?"

"I hate my aunt." Amy bursts out.

He winces. "Ah. Er, why is that?"

"She-she's so patronizing all the time and she acts like I'm just a stupid little girl who believes in fairytales still and it just feels like—" She swallows. "Like, I don't even believe in that stuff anymore, obviously."

"Obviously."

(Unless there are children crying?)

"But it's—I feel better when I think about it, you know? I'm stuck in this stupid little town where everyone knows everyone's stupid little fights and I know every single house and stone and street and sometimes when I think about staying here, anywhere, I just feel so awful and trapped and like I'll never amount to anything important, like she says and..."

She takes a shuddering breath and blinks. Then scowls at him. "Why am I telling you this? And what sort of name is John Smith, anyway?"

"It's a good name!" He defends automatically.

"It's not. It's basically the name equivalent of the color beige."

"That's not very nice."

"Well, I don't feel very nice."

And suddenly he just starts laughing. It feels so good to do this again, to banter with a Pond about meaningless things and—and he's missed her so much. He stifles his laughter because he's pretty certain it'll turn to tears.

"It's not funny, Eyebrows." She says, but he's sure she's smiling too.

And if all he accomplishes on this visit is to make fifteen-year-old Amelia Pond smile, then he'll consider it a job done.

"Is that all you have to talk about, Ginger?" He decides Ginger is appropriate. He can't call her Pond, that was Eleven's name and he'll keep it for Eleven.

(I'll always remember when the Doctor was me.)

Amy scowls again. "Yes."

"Are you sure? I've got all the time."

"Oh, you do, do ya, Eyebrows? So if I told you that when I was seven, a man in a disappearing police box told me the crack in my bedroom was a portal to an alien prison, you wouldn't call another therapist for me?" The forced humor in her tone doesn't hide the bitterness, and the Doctor feels a sharp twinge of guilt.

He expects it to stay, to eat him up from the inside like it always had before, but instead it lingers for a bit and then... disappears. Like it's done what it's come to do, like he's getting... closure. It's a welcome surprise, like a houseguest who finally catches all your polite hints and departs on time.

"I'd say that any technology sufficiently advanced is indistinguishable from magic." He replies, smiling.

"What?"

"Tell me something, Ginger. Are you a liar?"

Amy stiffens, suddenly guarded from a lifetime of so-called therapists patronizing her. "No."

"And are you, to your knowledge, insane? Do you see visions? Do other people appear to you?"

"I... no."

"So, it was just that one man, that one time?"

She eyes him. "I've gotta tell you, Eyebrows, people don't usually react this way."

"People are idiots. If the answer is yes, then the logical assumption is that he was real. Maybe he's never coming back, maybe he is. But if that pushes you to be something better, to see more, then don't let go of it, even when some fool humans tell you to be dull and common like the rest of them."

Amy looks away and brushes an angry thumb under her eye.

"Can I tell you something Ginger?"

"Whatever you want." She says, and if she sounds a bit choked up then that's not any of his business.

"I think that... you should just be patient. And if you are, then your life will be something you'll never forget."

(If he sounds choked up then that's not any of her business, either.)

"You could—you could go to sea and fight pirates. You could fall in love with someone who will wait a thousand years for you. You could give hope to a painter, you could save whales, in outer space if you wanted to. You can make your own story, Amelia Pond. You can choose how it ends."

The guilt comes again, and he waits for the no she can't, she can't choose it, I killed her, but it just... doesn't.

She did choose, he realizes. And he shouldn't take credit for her choice, for their choice. It's selfish of him, to take credit for her bravery.

"Are you crying, Eyebrows?" He can hear the smirk in her voice.

"I've got to get going, Ginger. The Smiths will be waiting for me, you know." He can leave. He can leave her and know that she'll be alright. He can leave and know that she'll be alright and maybe, maybe he'll be alright too.

(Raggedy Man... goodbye.)

"You should go back too. Maybe not to your aunt if you don't want to, but it's cold out here."

"I guess." She sighs. "Maybe I'll see you around, if you're visiting?"

He can't resist. "You'll be seeing me around, Ginger. Just maybe not in the way you'd thinkto."

By the time she turns around to look at him, he's striding over the next hill to his TARDIS.

(Later, when she talks over the conversation with Rory and Mels, she'll realize that she never told him her name, but he called her Amelia.)

"Did you take care of it?" Clara asks him the next time she sees him, just like she said she would.

"I took care of it." The Doctor smiles, and closes the chapter called Pond, just like he said he would.

Notes: I used to say that Eleven was hands down my favorite Doctor. Then I rewatched Twelve's run, and he jumped up so far on the list, it was a bit alarming. But we can't forget Ten, obviously... so now I say my favorite Doctor is whoever I'm watching at the moment. And at the moment, I'm between rewatching Eleven and the Ponds and Twelve and Clara... so you got a weird amalgamation of both.

Also, this is alternatively titled "The Incredible Adventures of Eyebrows and Ginger" because I just think it's neat.

P.S. The Taylor Swift titles are necessary because Midnights (3AM Edition) is the greatest thing to happen to mankind since ever, no I won't be taking criticism. The companions think the Doctor is "bigger than the whole sky" but the Doctor thinks the same about them, and that's the poetry of Taylor Swift.