This is set after "The Vampires of Venice". BBCA on Demand doesn't have any more episodes up yet.

Mad, impossible Amy Pond! Why was the elusive ginger lingering in his head so often? One minute she was angry at him, claiming that he left her for too long, not realizing that it was a miracle that he came back at all. The next minute, she is kissing him, seducing him, promising him one night, but nothing more. Confusion attacked his brain. He couldn't help but feel drawn to the young woman, even though she promised nothing in return. One night of passion meant nothing to him. What was one night in 331055?

A smile crept to his lips when he remembered that day, her reaction to the vampires…at least, that's what they were at the time. She managed to keep up with his antics, his crazy schemes. How? Why? Was there really one person in the world meant for him? Was it a human? Had he met her?

Surprisingly, Rose hardly crossed his mind. Now, he wasn't sure whether his attraction to Rose was her helplessness to hide her own infatuation from him. She was easy to please. If he gave her one smile, she would follow his every wish. He might have thought it was love. Rose might have been in love, but was she in love with the Doctor, or was she in love with his image? Even if they were in love, she was living a happy life with her Doctor, with one heart.

With Rose, he had never thought of living his life with her. He had always thought it was impossible, and he didn't question the impossible. For Amy, he would travel to the end of time and back for them to be together. Rory didn't matter. Gallifrey didn't matter. As long as they were together, travelling though time, everything would be alright.

He shook his head, trying to rid himself of this daze. She was a young woman, who was engaged to her best friend. What gave him the right to take that away from her? Nothing.

As the last of his kind, he was destined to be alone, until the end of time.

Rory didn't need to remind him that she wasn't his for the taking. Amy didn't need to know about the internal battle occurring inside his head. He wouldn't regret anything. He would stay in line. He would stop touching her. No more kisses to the forehead or biting hands, hugging for elongated periods of time or wrapping his arm around her. The only thing he would regret: not taking her in his arms while she was kissing him in her bedroom, the night before her wedding.

His innocent exterior didn't falter. He acted as if it didn't matter to him. And it didn't, really. If it did, he couldn't go on living.

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