A/N: Have I mentioned lately how much your reviews are making me absolutely giggle and grin? Love that you're loving this. It's great fun to write. Here's another slice. (No, IPS-folk. Sorry. Not pie. Not yet...*snicker*) I'm sorry about the long delay in updating. I have been out of town and unable to update for the last ten days. Hopefully, the updates will be a bit quicker. You may see the rating on this one bumping up sometime very soon, btw. I hope nobody will be too upset about that.

Teach not thy lip such scorn, for it was made
For kissing, lady, not for such contempt.
~William Shakespeare

Women get the last word in every argument.

Anything a man says after that is the beginning of a new argument.

~Author Unknown

I.

He stiffened as the energy sizzled through him and then he sighed. "Okay. So it was a bit of tactical error, that," he conceded to the console of the TARDIS that was only inches above his face. The Doctor was flat on his back staring up at the underside of a panel working. He'd been grumbling all morning, flinging and slamming bits of her around just a bit harder than necessary, and she'd finally had enough, sending a jolt down his arm strong enough to leave it numb and tingling for a few moments.

He wasn't however talking about the part he'd been forcing back into its proper space inside the TARDIS's circuitry as the error he'd made though, and both he and the listening time machine knew it.

"She bloody well shoved me, yelled like a fury, turned around, and clambered up over the side of that pool, pretty as you please! Without waiting for me to explain even! And it's not like I haven't tried..."

She'd been looking at him with those huge green eyes, and all the desire had gone out of them, leaving them huge still, but with fear instead. The sensations he'd gotten from her mind had been fragmented, little jagged shards of ice, reflections of something seen in a shattered mirror, and he needed time to unravel just exactly why she'd responded with such fear. Hadn't he had this contact with her before when Prisoner Zero had been in her head? Why was she looking at him like he was a monster now? He'd been trying to formulate some kind of explanation, still battling the images and sensations that were flowing over him in her fear and confusion, still struggling to get some kind of barrier back in place when she'd shoved him hard away from her yelling something about playthings and privacy and then climbed out of the pool to flee. He'd tried to follow once he could get his bearings, both mental and physical, back, but she hadn't been anywhere he'd looked, and he eventually decided that was statement enough and decided to give her a bit of time to calm down before trying to explain.

He'd gone looking for her again in a fit of contrition that first evening after she'd taken off, wanting to explain what had happened, wanting to apologize for mucking about in her head uninvited. He'd rehearsed it in his head for hours, and he thought he had it down pretty well, actually. He would tell her that despite the considerable provocation he'd been given, he had to admit it had been rude especially since she was of a species that didn't exactly...er...play by all the same rules of engagement...as his did when it came to romantic matters, and so he'd wanted very much to try to explain if for no other reason that to get that crucifying and betrayed look out of her eyes.

It had now been two days since Amy had so much as talked to him. She'd been avoiding him like he was carrying some variant of the Tygellian plague, looking at him with that mixture of fury and fear that he found brought out his own savage temper, made him feel guilty and therefore made him want to grab her and shake her and call her a silly child. The one time he'd actually been able to find her was in the TARDIS kitchen this morning, and she'd very pointedly gotten up, placed her dishes in the sink, and stalked off.

"Just got right out of the water and took off," he muttered. "Yelled some nasty things at me before she went, too." His mood blackened.

The TARDIS nudged him mentally, reminding him that he had, for several minutes at least, just stood there on the little pool ledge looking quite guilty and saying not much of anything as he fumbled for an explanation and Amelia's worry and anger had grown to impossible levels before the mighty push had occurred...

"Well...yeah...okay...right, but..." He was sure there was a comeback to that, somewhere... He frowned, felt around on the floor beside him for his dropped sonic screwdriver, wrapped his fingers around it as sensation and control returned to that hand.

"Does she really think I'd do something to her that was wrong? Does she really not trust me at all? Why would that be? When have I ever been less than trustworthy toward her?"

The TARDIS flashed brief images up for his view: child Amy in a soft red jumper and a knit hat perched sleepily on a suitcase waiting in an empty, cold, midnight garden, waiting for a man in a blue box to keep a promise. And waiting. And waiting... Next up was an Amy he'd never seen, an Amy the TARDIS was pulling up from the wells of infinity itself or maybe from Amy's own recollections to show him, an Amy on a brown and green plaid couch, arms stubbornly crossed, tears of fury running down her face, resolutely refusing to look at the flustered man in the chair opposite her as he tried to keep his tone professional, tried to convince her that there was no such person as the Raggedy Doctor once again before he gave up and reached for his prescription pad to "fix her delusions" with the power of pharmacology. Then it was a much older Amy with the same girl-child eyes in that same garden watching the man who asked her to trust him, who broke down her hard-won and long-cherished walls of self-protection with a careless sort of effortless glee once again stepping out on her without even a backwards glance.

The Doctor squeezed his eyes closed against the images that kept coming in a ruthless mental slideshow, and he brought his hands up in the tight space to cover his face, slipped them upwards to pull at his hair as a sliver of Amy's pain and confusion became his own. When the TARDIS was done with him, he opened his eyes.

"Right. Got it. I'm an ass of the first and highest water. Message received. Reckon you'll quit hiding her and let me go talk to her now?"

The TARDIS hummed softly, a relay clicking gently. As he slid out of the access panel, he felt the deep satisfaction of his time machine and companion echoing through him.

II.

Amy just didn't want to see him. Didn't want to talk to him. Didn't want to deal with it. Wasn't going to deal with it. It was fine. Everything was fine. As long as he stayed away from her. Which he was doing. Or she was doing. Or was happening on its own. Or something. So it was fine. Everything was fine. Right?

Rory had found her sitting and staring off into space, thinking hard with a dismal expression and clumsily patted her on the shoulder, and she almost took his head off for it. He had looked at her with the wounded eyes of a spaniel, and although she hated herself for the verbal attack, she took only minimal time to murmur a hasty apology before she fled him. She could feel his eyes following her mournfully, but she really, really just refused to deal with that whole issue right now...

She dipped into the kitchen briefly, stopping just long enough to grab something to snack on, and then she headed down the long corridors to the place she'd made her refuge. She didn't know exactly where it was in relation to the rest of everything else in the TARDIS; that was a question she'd long ago stopped asking. She could find this room, though, now, whenever she needed a place to hide, and it seemed as though the distances were shorter every time. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure Rory hadn't followed her, placed her hand against the door, and pushed her way inside.

The room was a long large rectangle. It had rich wood-paneled walls and a curving arched ceiling. Small warmly-glowing lamps lit the dark corners and cast a golden light over everything. The furniture looked antique but was also supremely comfortable and inviting. There were couches large enough to stretch out on full-length, and indeed, she had done so the past two nights, sleeping under a warm woven blanket of cherry-red she'd found folded across the back of one of the wingback chairs instead of going to her rooms and risking dealing with Rory or the Doctor.

Like so many things on the TARDIS, there were bits of it that didn't make any sense at all. Set into three of the room's four walls, quite irrationally, were elaborate stained-glass windows depicting fantastical and very elaborate scenes from stories she didn't know. Some source of light streamed through them as though it were full-day outside somehow, and the afternoon sun was coming through to bring life to the jewel colors of the glass. Everywhere in the room, too, were books. It seemed to be some sort of reading room as best she could tell. Some of the books she could read and others were a fantastic puzzle with writings in them that she could only trace a finger across and wonder at the strangeness of. There was even a fireplace with a flickering greenish blaze that always sprang up whenever she entered the room from coals that always seemed banked and ready. Over the mantel, there was a giant clock, but it didn't seem to tell time in any way she could understand. It had four hands, one of which spun backwards, and a dial with two smiling moons and a sun on it. She only ever saw the sun when the light from the stained-glass windows was gone. The clock did not tick, hum, or make any noise that she could hear at all. It was eerily silent for so large a thing. She had stopped questioning the mechanics of the windows, the clock, and the green fire quite soon after finding this wondrous little pocket of peace. It was, after all, the TARDIS, wasn't it?

She now crossed boldly over to the chair she'd chosen as her favorite with a sigh, preparing for an afternoon of reading. She'd found a set of stories she rather liked, what was apparently a collection of fairy tales from some world or other, and she was enjoying them quite a lot. There were fairy kings and queens, winged princes and princesses with magic powers. She settled in the chair, grabbed the cherry-red blanket and drew it up around her. It was always just cool enough in this room to make such things comforting and cozy. She took up the big book and began turning pages. The soothing sound of the crackling green flames and the warmth of the blanket combined to make her drowsy, and it wasn't very long before the heavy volume slipped from her fingers to the thick rug with a muffled thump as her eyes slid closed and she began to dream.

III.

The Doctor was trailing down yet another corridor. He'd been walking for some time now, letting her lead him where she would.

Is it going to be sometime today, then? Or ought I to have packed a lunch? He couldn't keep the slightest touch of sarcasm out of his tone. He knew his ship well enough to know that she could have made the route instantaneous if she'd wished. She was doing this on purpose, and they both knew it.

What is it you want from me before you're going to let me find her? Why don't you just get it out of the way, then, and let's get on with it?

He rounded a corner only to see a dead-end in front of him. He felt frustration well up inside him. The TARDIS made no response.

Look. This won't do, okay? I'll just go back to the control room and sit there until she comes out. Probably what I should have done anyway. If you're going to fight me, too, there's just no point.

He turned, started to stalk back up the corridor when a branching that he hadn't noticed before caught his attention. He glanced at it, paused briefly.

Another goose-chase, then? No. I'm tired of this. I've no idea what's down that hall, and the way you're going, it's probably only more hall, so...

And yet.

There was something down there teasingly calling to him, something half-forgotten, something like the half-caught scent of a favorite fragrance that drifted on the wind...

He stood a moment longer, looked down the hallway he knew, could map in his mind, would lead him back to the TARDIS control room. He'd been looking for hours, and he was no longer in a conciliatory mood to say the least.

And yet.

Damn.

He headed down the corridor toward that tiny singing twinge in his mind.

IV.

He pushed the door open gently and stuck his head around the casing to peer inside curiously. That little musical tickle had become a call that was impossible to ignore, and he'd followed the siren song of it along these forgotten hallways to this portal. Somewhere behind this door was Amelia Pond.

When nothing was thrown at him, he sidled into the room cautiously.

Oh, of course. You softie. You would bring her here. Haven't let anybody in here in, what, over a hundred years? None of the companions. And you even started hiding it from me after awhile. And you accuse me of playing favorites.

The TARDIS's amusement rolled over him again, slow, vast, gentle. The flames in the fireplace flickered blue in their heart with it, but otherwise, nothing changed.

He saw her at once. She was curled into the big chair like a sleeping cat, face pressed against its high wing side. The book she'd been reading lay open on the floor where it had slipped from her still-dangling hand, its weight too much to bear as sleep had overtaken her. She had burrowed under the soft red woven blanket until only the curve of her cheek, the bloom of her mouth, and the spill of her hair could be seen, a study in shades of warmth. He took a moment just to drink in the sight of her like that, allowing himself the pleasure of committing it to memory, of taking one good moment selfishly and hoarding it.

He quietly paced forward, leaned down to pick up the book she'd dropped and began to leaf through it. He sprawled on a handy couch where he could see her face so he would know the moment she was awake. He watched her sleep for another few moments, then he sighed softly, returning his attention to the volume in his hands.

What the hell is she doing reading the history of the Rishell Empire? Bloody boring stuff, this. I can see how it would put her to sleep. He shrugged his shoulders and tried to figure out what she'd found interesting enough about it not to toss aside immediately.

V.

She was with him. They were surrounded by water. She could not touch the bottom no matter how much she strained downwards with her toes in the warm swirling wetness. The entire world was shades of blue. Even the air was blue, somehow, shimmery, a silver blue that glowed softly, like the last light of the evening before the moon appears. He was the only thing she had to hold on to in this vast world of liquid. The water's temperature was very comfortable, and she supposed, in that way of the logic of dreams, that was why she had chosen to put on no suit for this little swim. However, if the water itself wasn't warm enough by itself to keep her from feeling chill, then there was always the heat she felt coming from the man she was pressed against. She felt his fingers slide into her hair, and she tilted her head back for him, waiting for his kiss, hungering for it.

Doctor.

His name left her lips in a whisper. A prayer. A plea.

He smiled, and his mouth met hers. Gently, a brush, a whisper in return for her own. It was a taste of sweetness, but not what she wanted, needed, not what would keep her alive, afloat in this world of water and instability. He had to give her more, had to satiate this growing craving, or she felt as if she would die...

Doctor.

She didn't know if she said his name again or if it only echoed through the corridors of her mind, but she felt his response all the same. She felt that spring of desire tightening inside him, winding with a steady twist, felt his tongue flicker inquiringly at the seam of her lips, and she opened her mouth with a little sound of need to let him in, let him slide the rough velvet of it against her own.

She wrapped her legs around his waist again, felt one strong hand slide down her back in a long firm stroke to pull her against him, hold her there hard, and her head fell back when she felt his lips finally leave her mouth after a timeless time, begin to nibble down the column of her neck, find all the sensitive little spots there. His other hand still cupped her face, his fingers gently caressing her, and she rubbed her face into the sensitive digits like a cat being stroked. He growled gently against her neck, and she felt his teeth lightly nip the tendon where neck and shoulder join.

Doctor.

Urgency now, and she was wriggling against him, alive in his arms trying to communicate her desires, but he would not be hurried, would not be rushed, continued to kiss her, his mouth now moving across her collarbone, tiny delicate kisses, almost chastely given, and her breath now coming irregularly, hard, as she felt his hand slide up and around her side, begin to slide up her ribcage, fingers walking with wicked, teasing slowness...

Doctor, please.

Amelia? Amelia. Amelia! You have to wake up now. Right now. Come on. Stop that! Oh, nothing but trouble going to come from all that. Come now, wake up!

Her eyes fluttered open, and she saw the Doctor's face, pupils dark, faint flush along the cheekbones, right above her own. Somehow now, the water was gone. His hands were on her shoulders, gripping gently. She did not even hesitate. She slid her fingers up into his hair and pulled herself up to press her mouth to his own, trying desperately to have the thing she wanted to satisfy this overwhelming craving.

Aaaannnddd review, please.