Amy Pond

There was something Amy was forgetting.

And for the life of her, she couldn't imagine what it would be, which is certainly a defining feature of forgetfulness. As she stood outside the rather conspicuous blue police box, waiting for her slow-poke companion, she was inclined to believe it was an umbrella she was forgetting. The air had that unmistakeable smell to it that precedes a shower, even though there wasn't a cloud to be seen. Perfect conditions, she'd been told.

"C'mon!" she called over her shoulder, wrapping her arms - draped with a large, red plaid blanket - around her midsection. "You said we'd stake out a prime spot before sundown!" Amy had been promised the most spectacular display of falling stars that she would ever see in her entire life, and even if they would have second chances - they could turn around now and arrive ten minutes ago if they needed - she wanted to get it right the first time. The deep purple hue of encroaching twilight said they were running short on time.

The door to the phone box cracked open just enough so she could hear the voice calling out to her, telling her to head out on her own. Something about adjustments to the landing gear. The landing gear? Really? But she was assured that all she need do was climb to the top of the hill they were parked at the bottom of, and that he wouldn't be far behind.

Green eyes rolled, but Amy trudged on ahead without her trusted and sometimes frustrating travelling partner.

Her frustration melted when she reached the top of the hill. The grass was more yellow than green here, she noted, as she unfolded and laid out her blanket; like the colour of a drought-starved lawn, but without the dryness. But the sky seemed to stretch on forever, as far as planetary horizons go. She could forgive the man's dallying as long as she had this view to enjoy. With the pinks and gold ablaze and overpowering the impending starlight, it was gorgeous.

But she was forgetting something.

Sprawled out on her back and staring up at the expanse of heavens was when he came to join her, all floppy hair, hideous bow tie and apologies for his tardiness. The Doctor, not so raggedy any longer. "Quit yammering and sit down," she'd demanded. "You're blocking my view." And he was remarkably quick to comply.

As darkness descended, the indigo ink of it began to be spotted with twinkling diamonds. Amy blinked rapidly as a smile curved her lips. And she realised there were tears running down her face when she noticed the man beside her was saying her name, vying for her attention.

"M'fine," she assured quickly. "It must be allergies." Because nothing else made sense. "Vincent would have liked this." It was always difficult to tell if her deflections were entirely successful with the Doctor or not. Vincent Van Gogh had told her she'd suffered a great loss, but she didn't feel it.

And she didn't dwell on it as thousands of fast falling stars lit up the sky like sparklers bursting in air. Amy watched with all the wonder and appreciation of a child seeing a fireworks display for the first time.

She was aware that the Doctor in turn watched her. Because he couldn't see it any longer, but she could. And to see her see it made these sorts of things worth it. She never would disappoint. Not if she could help it. And heaven help her if she ever reached a point where she didn't see it.

Bright, unabashed laughter cut off abruptly as she realised one of those falling stars was falling to earth. (Was it still called falling to earth if the planet wasn't called Earth? Falling to barcelona, perhaps?) Her eyes were wide and round as she watched it plummet. The impact of it, some mile away by her estimate, shook the ground beneath their bodies.

She wasn't even reeling when she accepted the hand up and held on tight as she charged headlong down the slope with her companion, both too eager to discover something wondrous at the crash site to think twice.

Amy Pond no longer cared about what she'd forgotten.