Work Text:
The first night Amy Pond spends without the Doctor is nearly impossible.
It's not the first night she's spent sitting up awake wishing the Doctor hadn't left her. But this time the shock is fresher because she's finally gone on the journey she's waited twelve years for, and now it's…interrupted.
Yes, she had agreed to the separation – temporary, if all goes well – but that was before she could imagine just how empty her life would feel without him for hours on end, now that she'd actually traveled with him. She realizes how tiny her life is in the scope of things, and how much she grew going from era to era with the Doctor. She wants desperately to feel that sense of wonder again, to fling open a door and be somewhere new and fantastic. She could fling open her closet door and see only clothes she'd worn a thousand and one times before. Her house feels like a prison. And that line of thought eventually reminds her of River Song, which doesn't help.
Amy Pond has nothing left to live for on Earth, and she doesn't understand why the Doctor can't see that. She belongs with him, she knows it, and she knows he knows it too. But oh, it doesn't always work that way. Easy for him to say, she thinks, with his nine centuries of experience.
Frustrated, she kicks off her covers and pads over to the window. She opens it, and leans out, not caring if she falls into the backyard because she's fallen into the belly of a star whale and crawled out again, and she can carry on.
The sky is enormous, a hundred million far-off lights twinkling in the inky Leadworth night. Amy imagines the Doctor is everywhere in it, hopping from star system to star system in his impossible box, saving species and civilizations and helping everyone.
It makes the ache subside a little, and as time passes she relaxes, kneeling on the floor and relaxing up against the wall, leaning her cheek against the window frame as she watches the stars.
Somewhere before the sunrise, she drifts off to sleep dreaming of the Doctor.