first and last shots - amy pond (the eleventh hour vs the angels take manhattan)
Amy Pond is a fierce-as-fuck ginger is too grown to be waiting around all the fucking time → Look at these fucking companions
Female companions of New Who:
Rose Tyler, Martha Jones, Donna Noble, Amy Pond, River Song
Amy Pond and Rory williams in the Tardis …
#reblogging again, this time from source
“… something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue”
“Have you ever been in love, Doctor?”
The question is completely out of nowhere one night when he and Amy were sitting in the TARDIS kitchen, having a lazy Sunday of sorts. She sat at the table with a cup of tea while he was sitting cross-legged on top of the counter with some sort of device in his hands. He doesn’t even look up at the sound of her voice, doesn’t acknowledge the question at all.
So she pushes, as she always does. “Doctor, did you hear me?” she asks. “Have you ever been in love?”
“Amy, I’m nine hundred years old,” he says, still not looking up. “I’ve been a lot of places, seen a lot of things, met a lot of people—”
The way he rambles gives her a clear answer. She smiles. “What was her name?”
Though she feels she knows the Doctor so well, she knows there’s still so much she doesn’t and probably never will know. While she’s known him for fourteen years, he’s known her for a significantly less time. Compared to centuries of traveling the universe, fourteen years really is like five minutes.
So many things she doesn’t know about this impossible man she calls her best friend, and she supposes this is just another one. He rattles off something about love and chemical balances and the basic universal need for companionship and that there are lots of different kinds of love. She can’t stand it anymore so she takes her half full cup, places it in the sink, and pats him on the knee. “Good night, Doctor,” she says when he finally pauses for breath.
A few hours later, there’s a knock on her door and she sets aside the book she’s reading as it opens. In walks the Doctor, trembling all over, holding something in his hands. Amy sits up as he approaches her. “Doctor, what’s wrong?” she asks as he sits on the edge of her bed.
Wordlessly, he hands her a photograph of a girl. The way he’s holding it is like something precious, invaluable, so Amy takes it gingerly from him, careful not to damage it. It’s slightly crumpled, like it’s been sitting in the pocket of a tweed jacket for quite sometime.
The girl in the picture is beautiful. She’s sitting in what Amy thinks is the TARDIS next to a tall man in a pinstripe suit (who has some really great hair). They don’t even know the picture’s being taken; they’re too caught up in each other. The picture catches them mid laugh; she has a hand on his leg and his arm is around her. The couple looks so happy, but for some reason it almost makes Amy want to cry. She looks up at the Doctor, whose face is unreadable. “Doctor?”
A moment passes in silence. He takes the picture back from Amy and the smallest of smiles graces his features as he looks at it. “Rose,” he says finally, the name falling from his lips like something sacred. “Her name was Rose.”