He'd get drunk, if he was capable of it. Even if he liked the taste of wine, his metabolism is far too efficient at processing depressants and stimulants. Actually, neither side effect is desirable. He doesn't want to feel better, but the very idea of "spilling his guts," to a random stranger disgusts him, no matter how inaccurate the figure of speech.
What he really needs is some way to silence their ghosts. Her last words replay in his mind, tinged by every time she used that ridiculous nickname. "Raggedy Man, goodbye!"
He sits in the console room, eyes closed, hearing the emptiness even though he can't see it. "Change it," he whispers. It's too easy to imagine Amy following her around the console, Rory asking questions with obvious answers. "Change it!"
The glass ripples, a lake stirred by the breeze and turned to ice. The console room's changed. Smaller—he doesn't need the space—and darker, black and aqua. "That wasn't what I meant," he mutters.
The rotor remains still. Why couldn't Amy have listened to him for once? He could have figured something out…
No, not Rule 1.
He's so old, so vain. So selfish. He couldn't bear to lose his Amelia to anyone, not even her husband. That's why he invited Rory along, why he kept coming back to pokey little Leadsworth.
He loses people. It's all he's ever done. The voice interface in Berlin. Guilt. Also guilt. More guilt. At least it stopped there. He didn't want to see the others. Lucie. Peri. Adric. Just you and me. Again. He doesn't need to say it out loud. She understands.