Oh simple things, where have you gone?

Title: "Somewhere only we know"; 1/2
Author: estherthomas
Words count: 2008
Characters / Pairing: Amy Pond, Eleventh Doctor
Rated: T
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters. 
Summary: "It’s heart-wrenching. But he is in Leadsworth and she is here with you, all captivating red hair, charming lips, and a Scottish repartee. You end up calling yourself a space Gandalf."   
Notes: I owe everything to this perfect human being for being my beta-reader. I also wanted to say that the idea of this point of view came from my favorite fic, "Constellations and microscopes" by stupidbloodyidiots. I wanted to underline it because I was so uninspired lately and Anne just gave me so much strength thanks to her talent. Please go read her fics because she is one of my favorite writers (if not my favorite) and she is worth it. I owe her everything. 

"Ah, what a dusty answer gets the soul when hot for certainties in this our life!" - George Meredith



He promised you everything, and after weeks of negociations involving passive-agressive seduction techniques, he finally gives you a planet. It’s more than what you could have ever dreamed of. Selmaria is known as one of the most beautiful planets of the Taelor system, and you know why. The sky is made of different patterns stitched together like a canvas. A veil of orange like a sea of amber with strokes of lilac and azure. Beside you stands the mighty desert, stretching endlessly to the east. But you can also feel the coolness of the forest in front of you, like a shelter protecting you from the assault of the sun. The concert of colors of the landscape reminds you of the Talisman by Paul Sérusier.

You look at the Doctor and he smiles at you. He looks content. He asks you if you’re impressed yet. You nod. How could you not be? You take his hand in yours, and the two of you walk into the forest. You lie there under the canopy of the trees, looking at each other, talking of nothing consequential. And then the silence. You can smell the scent of his skin. You can’t put an adjective to it, but you don’t care. You have inhaled it more often than not. You keep it for later, just in case. He left you before… he can do it again.

You are not sure yet of your decision to take her with you. Of course you’re lonely and you need someone. But you’re afraid of putting her in terrible danger like you did with the others; the lucky ones. Not sure if "lucky" is the proper word, though. It never ends well. But you push that to a corner of your mind, because you have a brand new TARDIS, a brand new companion, and those memories are just scoria of a painful past. Amelia Pond, like a name in a fairy tale. You put everything into her: your hopes, your redemption, your guilt. Bad mistake… but you are so human.

You would dream of Amy Pond if you could still dream; but reality is mesmerizing too. Apart from the boyfriend. She told you that she was getting married in the morning and you pretented you didn’t care (-ish). You never saw her like that. Not really. You’re such a liar. Lovely impossibility, you like to call it. It surely is impossible. As for the lovely part, you would not bet on that. It’s heart-wrenching. But he is in Leadsworth and she is here with you, all captivating red hair, charming lips, and a Scottish repartee. You end up calling yourself a space Gandalf.   

You like the way he looks at you when he thinks that you’re not watching. He eyes you greedily – almost predatorily – and he relutanctly stops when you catch his eyes. You would die to know his most secret thoughts, to make them yours. This man is like a Rubik’s Cube. He is made of different colors, from black to write with a lot of tinges. So young and so old; a paradox. You have wonderful adventures and you store up memories that you wear proudly like a talisman, like a pendant on a chain.

Everything that ever happened or ever will… you are getting married in the morning, but you are not sure yet. That reality is dissolving, echoing from afar.

He is playing with buttons on the console, and you take mental pictures of every details: the soft yet angular curves of his profile, his fine features, the smoothness of his hair, the way he stands. You blush unexpectedly and a rose blooms. You are sure he noticed.

It is always the same thing. You lose them, eventually. You saved her today, but what about tomorrow? You stand next to her on the beach feeling the cold through every pore of your body. You have noticed the way she looks at you. If only. You’re also quite confused because of River. She flirted with you, and you obliged. But even if she is attractive, you just want Amy.  

You discovered that time can be rewritten, but what will be the price? You shiver. Her hair brushes against your cheek as she passes you, and you’re intoxicated. It has kept the smell of sea spray. Later when she kisses you in the TARDIS, you discover the taste of salt on her lips. It’s delicious and wild, but you can’t forget that tears are salty, too. And something breaks in you. She has lost him, and she can’t even remember it, but you do. It consumes you while her proximity sets you on fire.

He brought you to the Trojan Gardens, and now you’re in the fields of Provence wandering through dusty paths with Vincent Van Gogh. You could be dreaming as well, but the electricity that is running through your body when the Doctor takes you in his arms proves you wrong. You’re so awake! You have dreams about him that you’re quite ashamed of, but they are divine and you can’t help yourself. You imagine him tender and diligent, a bit clumsy, too… but at least there is no bowtie involved. You extrapolate his body from the few glimpses you have from time-to-time, and you walk out of the bathroom with a simple towel around you so that he doesn’t have to. He usually presses his hands against his eyes, but you have noticed that sometimes his fingers are reluctant to obey. Bless!

You play hide-and-seek with her all the time. She tries to seduce you, but she doesn’t know that she has already possessed you. It’s a torture. It hurts, but it is a good kind of hurt. You like the contrast between the orange of her hair and the milky white of her skin. You try not to think too much about the latter.

You are now in Space Florida and, in retrospect, it was not such a good idea. She is wearing a small red bikini, and she is a bit tipsy after a couple of piña coladas. Her hands are drifting to inappropriate places. This is bad… really, really bad, but she is so beautiful under the moonlight and you are drunk on her. You want to taste it just once, you the eternal pilgrim. She is a mystery - and that is what you do, every day, every second; you solve them. Liar; you fool. You are bewitched, both enslaved and emancipated; hungry, insatiable, in love. Her lips are the red of a coral reef, or a field of poppies, and you drown in it like a sailor in a tempest. Days after, you still have grains of sand in your hair, vivid testimonies of the cracks in your armour.  

You didn’t have to guess this time, because you were not dreaming. He was really there, his skin against yours and you burned, burned, burned. He kissed you endlessly, and his lips left wounds on your body like runes on a scroll. Your imagination didn’t do him justice. He’s avoided you since then. You try to confront him, but he runs away. So you leave a note in his jacket. You laugh and blush, and return to your watercolor painting.

He is in the console room, pretending to read. You say "pretending" because he caught up the book so quickly that he didn’t notice that it was upside-down. You laugh as he pretends that it is perfectly normal. You have always won at hide-and-seek.

You try to stay away from her because of the ghost of a boyfriend she can’t even remember. You feel guilty, and you don’t want to be weak ever again. You find a note in your pocket and unfold it. It’s a Dylan Thomas poem, We Lying By Seasand. You close your eyes and flashbacks come and go in your head like a storm. A rush of desire runs down your spine. And you know that she has won. You have two hearts, after all; it is harder to bind your love. Ipso facto. Silly old Doctor.

He is in the Pandorica and he wants to talk to you. You walk slowly, and you don’t even know how your legs manage to keep carrying you. One step after the other and finally he is in front of you with a terribly sad look in his eyes. You are afraid. You don’t want to talk to him because you know that it is goodbye. You know that he is going to die to save the universe. You know that you are about to lose him forever; that his body that you love so much is going to burn like a firework; that he will never have existed for you. You can’t stand the idea, you fight against it with all your strength. You are angry at Rory because he will live and the Doctor will not; you are mad at River because she can’t save him, and you want to slap him because he wants to sacrifice himself for you all. Most of all, you hate yourself for your worthlessness.

You have to tell her what she means to you. You have to tell her properly before the end. You need to tell her why you are doing all of this; to give her her parents back. You can feel her despair, her sadness, and her reluctance to accept your decision. But you just need to smell her scent one last time, to touch her soft and pale skin, to breathe the essence of violets in her hair. The Doctor and Amy Pond, and the days that never came.

You have to tell her. Please, tell him. She has Rory now; he is back. What is the point? You think that you’re stupid to stay quiet because soon it will be too late. You are just a disaster, after all; you only bring pain and misery. You love him and you have to tell him that Rory’s return doesn’t change a thing. You smile at her. Even now, at the end of the world, she is magnificent. You just want to kiss him, but something is holding you back. You are blaming yourself and you are crying. You wait for this stupid bloody idiot to take the first step, but you know he will not. Maybe he doesn’t love you. You want to kiss her, but you have to tell her about her parents first. You’re exhausted, so old. You mumble words and pray for a miracle. He says that you will not need your imaginary friend anymore, but you will always need him. You want to throw it at the face of the universe but you are just collapsing. The only thing you manage to say is "Gotcha!" and you knew he was going to say that, and you know that she will read between the lines. You hope so, you hoped so.