Imagine post tatm; it’s starting to grow late. Amy’s wearily typing away on a typewriter, as she has been for most of the day. The living room in which she’s sitting in is dimly lit, papers of her unfinished book all ‘round the place.
Rory steps into the room, checking on his wife for the third time that evening. His brows furrow as he notices the Amy’s energy wean. A small trace of a smile appears on his lips as he shakes his head. She really ought to put aside her work for the night.
Rory pauses to gaze fondly at his wife before approaching a slightly tarnished gramophone. He lifts the pointed needle onto the spinning record before stepping back and stepping toward Amy. In the background moonlight serenade plays softly.
"You've done enough work," he says, gently guiding her arms away from the typewriter and leading her to the center of the room.
Amy casts a half amused, half exasperated expression at her husband, but nonetheless willingly lets herself be pulled away. She's far to tired to argue at this point.
The pair are pulled close together, both dreadfully tired yet have no desire to sleep at all. Amy rests her head on Rory's shoulder as they start to sway.
After a while she chuckles softly, quietly muttering about how stupid Rory is. In reply Mr. Pond twirls his wife around lazily causing Amy to giggle again.
In some respects they're glad they're here; right here in this shabby little living room over 70 years into the past. Because here and now the impossible pond and the last centurion are at ease. They are free to all the troubles and dangers of their former lives. They don't have to be great and noble heroes. They are free to just be two people, carelessly smitten with each other, dancing alone to an old gramophone.
And at that moment, that was all they wanted to be