A/N: I won't lie. Ten was my Doctor, and always will be, but this is my sort of good luck letter to Eleven. Because...I'm holding up with the new Doctor. Not coping amazingly, but I'm getting there. And I hope this fic shows just how I feel about this regeneration. But anyway, this is my first time writing for both Eleven and Amy, so please tell me how you think I did! I'm pretty sure I've got Amy's personality down, but I'm still struggling to find the substance in Eleven, so any constructive criticism is greatly appreciated, since it can only make me better! Also, any comments on spelling and tense mistakes are welcomed with open arms. That, and any reviews, of course!
~M&M

Disclaimer: The Eleventh Doctor and Amy Pond do not belong to me, but to Steven Moffat. Wow! It feels weird putting his name in the disclaimers now...
Rating: K
Set: Just after The Beast Below, and a little bit after Victory of the Daleks

Laying the large pile of clothes she'd accumulated throughout her search on the floor, Amy knelt down and lightly touched the pair of shoes in front of her.

She wasn't acting suspicious, she told herself. Of course not. Because it was for a very normal, and personal reason that she was here. That reason being that she didn't have any clothes, just a thin, white nighty that, thanks to a certain alien, reeked of vomit. And let's face it, when you're about to travel all the way across the universe and back several centuries to meet Winston Churchill, you'd better have something fairly nice to wear.

After finally tracking down an outfit that she considered presentable, and several other articles of clothing she'd decided to stash in the room the Doctor had given her, it had been out of pure curiosity that she'd taken a peek at the men's wardrobe. She couldn't help it; she'd just been reunited with her imaginary friend, and anyone else in her situation probably would have done the same.

But a stolen glimpse into his personal quarters had provided only more questions. Like why did a man who preferred to wear braces, boots and bow ties have a closet filled with long, pinstriped suits? She clearly remembered what he'd been wearing the night he'd first met her-the raggedy costume that he'd always worn in her childish dreams-but these blue and brown suits, the dark ties thrown over a tall chair, and the rather large pile of worn out trainers in the corner simply didn't suit the Doctor. Ever since he'd donned his bow tie and tweed jacket, that clothing had been her definitive image of him, and she didn't see why he'd ever bothered with this style. And on top of that, it didn't escape her attention that all of these suits were a few sizes too small, and had obviously been tailored for someone much thinner than the alien she was traveling with.

Lifting up the shoes in front of her, Amy smiled. When she'd been about eleven, Rory had persuaded his mum to buy him a pair of Converse, and she'd been dead jealous. At the thought of Rory a sudden sting of guilt pierced her heart, and she let the shoes fall to the ground with a light thump. She jumped at the sound, swallowed back the nagging thoughts of another certain article of clothing hanging in her closet back home, and reached out once more to run a pale finger across the sneakers.

She glanced down at the knee length boots she'd chosen out from the women's wardrobe, which matched her dark jacket and short skirt perfectly, and then back at the pile of clothes she'd so unceremoniously disposed of. The idea was tempting...but no. She loved these boots, and anything else would clash with her now-perfect outfit. Although, Amy thought with a smile, there was a lovely jumper and a black miniskirt at the bottom of that pile that would look perfect with a pair of All-Stars. She turned back to the pile of shoes, which seemed bigger than ever before now that she could see its true potential, and quickly picked out several pairs.

Daintily hooking her fingers through the rough laces she climbed to her feet, scooped up her other clothes, and ran from the room, her heart pumping with excitement all the way. Did they even wear miniskirts in the 1940s? Well, she thought with a giggle. Churchill was just going to have to deal.

Whether or not Churchill would even get the chance to deal though, relied on her ability to get back to the console room. After finally dropping off her now rather heavy load in her bedroom, she'd managed to lose her bearings, and was slowly trying to find her way back.

But after several wrong turns her heart leaped in relief as she walked through the entranceway into the console room, eyes immediately fixing on the ship's owner. The Doctor sat above her, slouched against the humming wall on one of the room's higher levels. His feet were crossed impassively, his eyes were closed, and his face was angled upwards, as if he were taking in the room through smell alone. Amy quickly clumped up the staircase, crossed her arms, and slid down the wall until she was sat beside him.

"What do you think?" There was no answer. "Doctor."

She nudged him with her foot, and his head snapped forward with a greater weight than she could have imagined. His eyes instantly found hers, and began the continual bore into her soul that usually occurred when he looked at her. And when he spoke, he sounded annoyed that she'd woken him from his meditation, as if they weren't about to hurry off and visit Winston Churchill. He was weird like that. "What?"

She gestured to her outfit. "What. Do. You. Think? Think Churchill will dig the skirt?" Oh god, her accent was coming out.

He frowned. "You'll be taller than me in those boots."

She crossed her feet, unconsciously imitating him as she did so, and laughed. "Yeah? Well, deal."

"What?"

"Deal with it." He offered a slight smile, and looked out across the vast room. But his smirk didn't quite reach his eyes, and for the first time since she'd come in, it occurred to Amy that something might be wrong. "You okay?"

He turned his neck to look at her slowly. "Why wouldn't I be?"

It wasn't as if she hadn't guessed something was up since she'd come on board. When she'd first met the Doctor, she'd only been a child, and had been oblivious to his faults. He'd been an adult; the most grand and spectacular adult she'd ever met, or could ever hope to meet. But now...after his outburst on the Starship UK, she could, for the first time ever, see him through adult eyes; through eyes less fantastic. And it did hurt. Because when the symbol of everything that is good in your life, everything you have to hope for, is screaming at you just because you had the incentive to care, all you can see is his face, twisted in hate in the dim tower-light. He'd rendered her speechless. And that wasn't a very easy thing to do. Because her younger, more fantastic self would have never have imagined him yelling at her. And now, after a whole lifetime of seeing him as a perfect, imaginary friend, she was still adjusting to the fact that he was real, and that he was alien, but his earlier outburst had been the wake-up call she'd needed.

Something told her she shouldn't mention the sneakers she nicked right about now. And while the mysterious closet with clothes she couldn't quite convince herself were really his was still begging to be claimed, she knew she had to address what was important right now instead of what her strange, scatterbrained thoughts urged her to ask about.

So she pushed all thoughts of suits and trainers out of her mind. "It's just, with what happened back there, with the Starwhale..."

"No." She stared at him. "That's all over." It was all he was going to offer on the subject, so she continued.

"Then what's up?" He turned away again, right hand falling to the floor to touch something, and for the first time Amy realized what lay on the ground on his far side. It was a long, brown coat, with several pockets and dark buttons running up to the lapels. Having noticed that she'd seen it, the Doctor snatched his hand away from the object, and closed his eyes. He leaned his head back against the TARDIS' wall and sighed, as if weighing whether or not he should jump...

And when he finally did jump, it came out as a mumble, like it usually did when he was emotional. "A few days ago, I lost a very close friend of mine."

"O-oh," she whispered softly. Whatever she'd expected to hear, it wasn't this. "What did...?"

"He left." The Doctor gave a bitter smile and slid further down the wall. "Wasn't his fault, though. He didn't even want to go."

"Why's that?"

He paused, readying himself to jump yet another hurdle. She could tell this was fairly new for him. "Because he knew...he knew that if he left, I'd end up like this." At a confused look from his companion, he continued. "Confused. Uncaring."

"You're not-" Amy started, but the Doctor interrupted her.

"When I told that you I didn't care, I meant it. And he knew I'd be like that if he left. It's that simple really. Just a confused, uncaring, mad man with a box." He returned her stare, eyes continuing to bore into hers, and said one word that made her skin crawl...

"Screaming."

She swallowed nervously. So much for her figuring out what was wrong with him. The Doctor had read exactly what was plaguing her mind. She took a deep breath. "Where did he go?"

He reached up to rub his eyes, concealing them from his companion. "He didn't leave."

Amy took a second to absorb the new, and slightly confusing information. "But you said-"

"Yes, well there's a pretty simple explanation for that, isn't there?"

"What's that?"

"I lied."

Amy raised an eyebrow in irritation. "Then what happened?" She spaced each word apart, verbally begging him to be straight with her. And he was.

He kept his fingers over his eyes. "He died."

Amy gave a hiccup of surprise. How did she get here? A little while ago she was just a strange little girl with an imaginary friend and a maybe-wedding. And now she was drifting further and further away from her wedding, through time and space with an alien who was even stranger than she was, and who might or might not be that same imaginary friend from her childhood. And on top of that, how was she meant to respond to this? Because now they weren't bantering about aliens or Churchill; they were talking about death.

So she did the only thing she could think of; the only thing she knew how to do. She continued. She pursued. She dealt. "How?"

"He...died to save a friend."

Her eyes popped. "You?"

He let his hand drop away from his eyes and laughed. "Oh, no. Someone much more precious than me."

Amy bit her lip. She suddenly had a feeling she knew who's suits she'd found. Sure, she didn't know his name, but from what she could tell he'd meant an awful lot to the Doctor. Her mind wandered back to the pair of Converse hidden in her room, and a surge of guilt ran through her. She couldn't just let them sit there, could she? She had to tell him...

"Doctor, I-"

"Right!" He leapt to his feet and offered her a hand up, which she accepted in bewilderment. "No sense in standing about here! Not when we've got Churchill to see to!" He waved his hands about at the mention of the prime minister and ran down the stairs to work to console. Behind him, Amy walked down the steps slowly, stopping once to glance back at the coat that still lay alone on the balcony. She had a feeling it wouldn't be there when they got back.

But even more importantly, he'd rendered her speechless.

That seemed to happen quite a lot.

A few days, one Churchill, several Daleks, and whole lot of dealing later, they lay side by side, staring up at the stars on a deserted hill on the outskirts of London.

Unable to cope with the comfortable nook their conversation had woven itself into within the past half-hour, Amy sat up so abruptly she barely knew she was doing it, and stared down at the sort-of stranger she'd come to trust.

"Doctor?"

His eyes slid to hers suspiciously, as if to say, What do you want now? But his expression was kind, and she knew he was happy to oblige. "Mhmm?"

"That...friend of yours," she licked her lips nervously. He went still. "What was his name?"

His reaction was so instantaneous she barely saw it coming. His breath hitched, and his eyes scrunched up, as if he was in the most unimaginable pain, and his fingers gripped the moist grass beneath him, as if to pull the earth apart in sheer despair. Amy almost reached out to touch him, but then pulled back in shame. She'd done enough damage.

She looked back to the sky, trying to calm her nerves, which danced across her body with more guilt than abandoning Rory had ever produced. She nearly missed what the Doctor said next.

"He wouldn't want me to end up like this. He'd want me to care." She glanced back at him. His eyes were open again, and his face was more relaxed, but he stared up at the stars, unable to look at her.

"And you do," she replied. After a few moments, he turned to meet her gaze with his. "Back there, when the Daleks escaped, you were mad. Really, really angry and upset. But you didn't scream at anyone. Not like before." She smiled. "And that's good."

He stared at her, and then closed his eyes. "Good," he whispered to himself, and then took in a deep breath. "I haven't had anything good happen to me in a while."

She gave his hand a quick squeeze before looking around at their surroundings, leaving him alone with his thoughts. A few hills away, she could just make out the trees blowing softly in the wind, the moon rising over the sleeping city, and an old man scanning the sky through his telescope. For a moment she closed her eyes as well, breathing in the cool night air as she let herself delve into her thoughts.

She and the Doctor's friend had both liked Converse. And even though that was all she knew about him, Amy had a feeling they would have gotten along, and couldn't help but feel that he might as well have been here; sitting next to her.

Except he wasn't. He was dead. End of story.

And do you know what? That was fine. Because sometimes...sometimes, you just have to be like Churchill and deal. And Amy was okay with that. Because the grass beneath her was cool and damp against her skin, and above her the sky was alight with millions of stars that were just waiting to be explored, and at her side was the most grand and spectacular man in the universe. And she was seeing things through eyes more fantastic.

She snapped back to the moment; back to this alien sitting next to her. "You know what I think?"

He opened his eyes and looked up at her. "What's that?"

"I think he'd be proud of you."

A few moments passed, and then he smiled. "I should hope so."

Their eyes met through the darkness, all of infinity held in the glances between a dead man and his companion. Their eyes bored into each other, exchanging comfort and reading souls with perfect accuracy.

And then she dropped back beside him in defeat, and let her eyes wander the sky. Almost instinctively, her hand meandered upwards, and she pointed to one of the small lights dotting the heavens. "What about that one?"

Beside her, the Doctor smiled.

A few days ago, I died.

"Bit grainy up close."

But that doesn't mean I cannot live today.

Thank you so much for reading! And if you enjoyed it, please review! It would mean a lot to me. :)