Author's Notes:
I almost didn't write this, figuring someone else would beat me to it. But if they have, I haven't found it (and I'd love to read it).

"So, what was it you were saying about getting me sorted out?"

Amy's behind the Doctor now, hands sliding across his chest. Ignore her, ignore the manicured fingers skittering down his buttonholes, just set the TARDIS looking for the one who isn't Jeff — Cory? Maury? — in any case, not the one with the computer and, apparently, a taste for websites featuring women wearing inflatable blueberry suits, and the Doctor briefly contemplates what Amy would look like in an inflatable blueberry suit, which is to say, ridiculous, not that there's anything wrong with inflatable blueberry suits or the people who love them, and exactly how far down are those fingers going to go? And then the Doctor nearly jumps out of his skin.

"Hands, Pond!"

He whirls around, grabs those wandering hands by the wrist. "Time for you to go to bed." Quickly adding, "Alone."

An eyeroll. Why are his companions always so good at that? "Fine," Amy says, and lopes towards her room, calling back over her shoulder, "If you need me, I'll be in the shower, getting all naked and soapy. And did I mention naked?"

"Good night, Amy."

Almost a full five seconds go by before he hears, "You do know what 'naked' means, don't you?"

"Good night, Amy!"

* * *

Rory, that's it; Rory, and the TARDIS homes in on a small village pub packed so tightly with revellers even the non-smokers are spilling out into the street, and where the Doctor's hopeless attempts to force his way through the crowd are simultaneously rebuffed and met with requests to bring out another two pints. But there, off to the side, is a pair of muscular men pushing a three-foot tall novelty cake festooned with pink and white ribbons.

Okay, not going to be his most dignified entrance, but compared to that time he'd had to greet the Devanian Empress while wearing only his scarf, this should be a cakewalk. So to speak.

Scoot in behind the men, grab an edge of the cake as they wedge it through the back door ("Hello, boys. Sorry I'm late"), briefly introduce the one in a thong and a bowtie to a 22nd-century sleep aid, and there the Doctor is, only ten minutes later, crouched inside a cramped cardboard cake waiting to have a word with Amy's groom-to-be.

How should he break the news? Lovely to see you again, Rory, and yes, I frequently travel by cake. Congratulations, Rory; here to give you a free trip in time so I'm not tempted to shag your girlfriend. Hello, Rory, did you know Amy can do the most remarkable things with her tongue?

(Only later, as the blowsy horns of "The Stripper" kick in and someone starts rolling the cake into place, does it occur to him that the question he should have been considering was why he'd knocked out a bloke.)

There is a Rory, as he discovers very quickly, but this one happens to be a blushing, buxom blonde wearing a light-up princess' tiara and a tight t-shirt with an illustration of a margarita and the words "RORY'S HEN NIGHT" emblazoned on it. And judging by the look of horror on her face, as well as the glowers he's getting from every other similarly intoxicated and t-shirted woman in the pub, his otherwise extremely clever plan has a wee snag in it.

"Right," he says, "I'll just be going, then."

He leaps out of the cake just barely ahead of a tide of drunken women yelling and splashing beer on him. Which is perhaps not his most pleasant night, but way ahead of someone actually trying to kill him, and still, he considers, several notches ahead on the dignity scale than the scarf incident — but that is, of course, before he slips in a pool of beer and tumbles headlong into a meticulously decorated layer cake featuring a heart-shaped dot-matrix photo of the happy couple, which he strongly suspects is now all over his nose.

Okay, now it's getting awfully close to the scarf incident. All he needs is a little more nudity and an unfortunately timed involuntary sexual response to complete the evening, and it's probably best to complete his escape before either becomes a possibility.

When he finally slams open the TARDIS doors, he sees Amy sitting in his chair, combing through wet hair and pinning it to her head. The neckline of her robe loosens as she moves, revealing a long vee of pale skin between her breasts. The Doctor makes a mental note to find Amy a longer robe, preferably a full-length one made out of carbon steel sealed with a deadlock.

Chunks of genoise and buttercream tumble from his suit and plop sadly on the floor. That'll be a joy to mop up later, never mind how he's going to wash that squashed spray of blue rosettes out of his hair.

Amy pads over to him on long, bare, toned, perfect legs that he is not noticing at all, certainly not. She extends an index finger, swiping it slowly across the curve of the Doctor's jawline.

"Mmm," she says, licking her finger clean with that very pink and flexible tongue he isn't noticing either. "Chocolate."

The Doctor doesn't have to say anything this time; just points in the direction of Amy's room, and she's gone, giggles echoing down the corridor behind her.

Lucky man, that Rory, the Doctor thinks. A lucky man indeed.