Sometimes Amy felt as though she could see the future. Not like that…but rather, their own futures, now indeterminable, a resultant of the time spent with the Doctor. Running. Always and forever running. It was a mite scary, yeah, thinking about it, but she could see no other future. Running with Rory at her side, River and the Doctor not far ahead, forever, till the end.

It was dark in the bedroom around her; they had stopped home for her parents wedding anniversary. Rory's light snores and the ticking of her wristwatch on the nightstand the only sounds, and the glow from the alarm clock the only vestiges of light offered her, the shade being pulled down.

She cautiously stuck a leg out from under the covers, and then the other. She stood, padded out of the room, down the steps, minus the third, which she had to skip to avoid the creaking, and out onto the patio. It was bathed in moonlight, and she turned her face to the velveteen blanket of night.

She'd dreampt again. Of that indeterminable time ahead of them. The one time which they could never know, or visit. Their own futures. Part of it, she was sure, was the leftovers of the Days That Never Came. The version of reality where there was a crack in her bedroom wall, and fish custard was the strongest promise anyone could make.

The other part of her knew that it was another set of visions and times. She'd had all of time and space running through her head, so why shouldn't some things feel like déjà vu? River still came round on Thursday, and talked of her husband on occasion, but now that they were traveling with him again full time…

Though he never said it, she knew what the look Rory used to get on his face meant – it was for the best. But they had both thrown it out the window with a word from her father in law. She was Amy Pond – the mad, the impossible – and sometimes, just sometimes, she didn't care if it wasn't for the best anymore, even if they had gone full time again. Life was hard to live when you'd run with the Doctor. A normal, everyday sort of life, that is. They had found that out the hard way, trying so hard to commit to things. Rory going full time, she being a bride's maid…

She was just glad that she hadn't been having the dreams then. They wouldn't have helped her to settle. Now, with all the running, she could avoid them.

Screaming, footfalls pounding in her head, eyes watching her, malevolent voices, cold and unfeeling. A great stifling sort of feeling – nearly claustrophobic in a sense – threatening to stop her from breathing, seeing, hearing, feeling, even thinking. It muffled everything around her unbearably. Something was coming. No creature, or person. But rather the inevitable.

Rory would think her morbid.

That was one of the first things the Doctor had called her 'cheery girl, this one' he'd rambled sarcastically at her, not even truly meaning for her to hear him say so. Her whole life, she'd been misunderstood. She remembered the times in the other reality, when psychiatrists were evil blighters who she'd bite as soon as look at, much less listen too.

Amy Pond wasn't morbid. Amy Pond was a realist, with her head stuck in the clouds, but her feet firmly on the ground. Split, between childhood fantasy, and adult realisms.

Death was a very, very real thing.

The inevitable thing. Death always was, is and would be (she'd learned to think of things in all tenses, because time wasn't a straight line, and she knew that now, and it frightened her thinking about it, and how much her decisions played in her life, and where things connected and her mind was such a jumble how on earth did the Doctor ever manage to think straight at all?). Death was constant and forever.

She'd learned that young, in the other life. Running with the Doctor only cemented it.

And intuitively, Amy Pond knew that the stifling thing in her dreams was death. In many ways she thought of death now as the unending expanse that was outerspace – airless, scentless, uni-tactile, and black, with bright blotches.

Death was being lost in outerspace without the TARDIS air shell to help you breath.

She shivered, as she looked up at the death in the night sky.

Death followed the Doctor like a rat carried the plague. But all the same, if there was to be death, she'd want no one else by her side.

Amy Pond would embrace the blanket of night soon, the suffocating numbness of outerspace. Deep down, she knew it. Maybe, maybe it was always going to end this way for her. She'd done some reading up on the Schrödinger Theory of Quantum Mechanics in her free time.

She felt like Schrödinger's cat. Boxed into two realities, but each with the same outcome – death. It would always find her, always find the cat, no matter what. The poison of the Universe's box would blacken her blood, still her heart, and quiet her breathing, and soon.

"Please, Doctor, please, be with us when the end comes. I don't' care if you can't save me. If the end comes, it won't be right unless you're there with me. And it won't be your fault. I'm only human Doctor, Only human,"

Amy blinked.

She was going to die.

Amy blinked, turned, making her way back into the house, and up the stair, and went back to bed.

Before she slept, Amy blinked.