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Chapter Text

When Rory met Amy, she was outside his mother’s office. Her striking red hair hung around her like sagging curtains, and she had the expression of an old spinster. She wore a red cardigan, the same colour as her hair, and a white dress, dotted with red tulips. Rory waved his hand at her. But she didn’t seem to realize he was there, or perhaps she didn’t wish to answer. Her face was pudgy and streaked with tears.

The door to his mother’s office burst open, and a woman appeared alongside his mother. “Let’s go, Amelia.” The woman snapped. The ginger girl stood up from her waiting chair and took the woman’s hand. “So, you’ll come back next week? Same day, same time?” Rory’s mother asked. She smiled at Rory but motioned for him to wait. The old woman nodded, squeezing the girl’s hand. “I will. Amelia? Come along.” The girl, resigned, followed the woman, who Rory supposed was the girl’s parent.

His mum sighed when they were out of sight and turned to him. “How was school?” She inquired, spreading her arms wide in an invitation to hug. That was what mum did, Rory knew. Asking people things, hugging or holding their hands when they (her clients, she had taught him) cried.

“Fantastic!” Rory piped, hugging her back. His vocabulary was quite advanced, for a 7-year-old, or so the grown-ups told him. It was all because of his mother. She had book after book. Picture books, comic books, books that didn’t have pictures but were nice to read (novels, mum said), books with interesting diagrams. At home, at her office, and even in his father’s office. “Reads a lot, that woman,” Papa told him when he asked why. “A lot of things I don’t understand.” Rory didn’t understand, either, but he liked the diagrams.

“Papa says you should be back by dinnertime,” Rory told her. “Alright, tell him I will,” Mum answered, and from her pocket, produced a small packet of crackers. “Want one?”

Rory giggled as he popped a cracker in. “Who was she?” He asked. “That girl, I mean.”

“Oh, her?” Mum looked puzzled. “Her name,” she replied, “is Amelia Pond.”

That was how Rory met Amy.

The first thing Amelia remembered were the questions.

“How do you feel?”

“Are you alright?”

“How did he look like?”

“What did he do to you?”

“Did he hurt you?”

“What do you mean, a blue box?”

“What food did he ask for?”

“What were you wearing at the time?”

“What was his name?”

“No, I asked his name. Doctor isn’t a name!”

Then scribbling on clipboards or typing on computers. The looks they gave her.

The hospitals. Clean. Too clean. So unlike her rickety old house, with smelly clothes and dirty tables.

The touching. Strong, forceful with dry encouragements. Her loved cardigan removed, then replaced with patient scrubs.

The clinic, with the same white walls, trophies, and manuscripts the size of giant pound cakes.

The talking. With the adults, with her aunt, with her cousin. Sometimes included, sometimes excluded. Conversation she could only catch a few bits out of. Talks where they pretended she wasn’t there. Whispers between the adults with white gowns. Words she did not understand.

Then the bills. Plastic cards exchanged. White paper with numbers printed out. Her aunt, with her sighing. The look of what’s gotten into you? It was confusing, the feeling of dread and guilt. That she was inconvenient. Strange.

Then, at last, the silence. Silence so tangible. Silence that she didn’t dare break. Silence that was worse than the talking. At least, when there was talk, she could know what was going to happen. In the unfamiliar, eerie silence, she couldn’t predict a thing. What if she made one wrong move and her aunt exploded? What if there was something she didn’t know that she should? What if, in the end, she was mad enough that she would be sent somewhere? What if he was never there?

What if he was never there?

Was he even there?

Amelia looked out the old car’s window. The world flashed along, not caring about her own troubles. Her lips and teeth hurt a bit from biting the last therapist, who told her about ‘imaginary friends’ and how they would be ‘good friends’, but that there would be better friends for her, real ones.

“But he is real. The Doctor in the blue box!”

“You shouldn’t have bit him.”

Aunt Sharon’s voice hit her like a tidal wave. At last. Amelia thought. It was good to know what her aunt’s brooding was about, rather than not know them.

“He said the Doctor wasn’t real,” Amelia said, loudly and more bravely than she felt. If the adults were going to attack her beloved Raggedy Man, she was going to be the lone heroine protecting him.

“And he was right.” Aunt Sharon replied. The car slowed to a stop when they neared the house, and Amelia hopped out of the car and went inside the house. Her footsteps ever-defiant and strong-willed like the cries of a newborn baby.

Aunt Sharon sighed when she shut the door with a loud bang. The ugly scratch on the broken shed looked much more prominent than before. It had taken much money to bring her to various psychiatrists, and fixing up the shed would deflate her budget entirely.

Aunt Sharon thought of the Doctor. She supposed that, at her age, it was normal for Amelia to think of imaginary friends as real friends. But break down the shed because of that silly belief? It was something she couldn’t tolerate. Could a little girl even do that? Sharon could almost believe that ‘the Doctor’ did it, except for the fact that people didn’t travel around in police boxes. What was he, some alien? Had someone broken into the house at night? Had Amelia gotten in the way of harm? Were they both in danger? Sharon sighed, parked her car in her tiny lot, and checked the lock thrice before going into the house.

She felt her heart, weighed down by a million worries.

Amelia was on the car ride to the therapist. Another one. Again.

The atmosphere inside the car was a bit softer than before. “Last one.” Aunt Sharon had promised. “Last one, and then we’re done with people like that.” Amelia hoped Aunt Sharon meant it. It felt like a dream come true to be left alone. Not prodded and poked.

The radio station whispered soft strings of Aunt Sharon’s favourite tune. Amelia clutched at her doll, the Doctor doll she had made about a week ago. Aunt Sharon disproved it greatly, and she had probably suppressed a sigh in her mind when she first saw it. She let Amelia keep it, however, and she considered that a win over the nasty, anti-Doctor adults. She thumbed the edge of her red cardigan. She always fiddled with it so much that the end had laddered beyond repair.

“Here we are.” Aunt Sharon said, and Amelia glanced outside. The building was smaller than she expected. Grey, unlike the hospitals, the structure was about three stories high. She saw something green on top and wondered if there was a greenhouse somewhere above. Maybe even a roof garden with flowers. Amelia liked flowers. She always insisted that Aunt Sharon buy clothes with them, like the ones she wore now, the dress with red little tulips.

“Come one.” Aunt Sharon pulled her closer. “We should go. The appointment’s in five minutes.”

Amelia followed her through the revolving doors and into the building. Inside was a small information desk with a bored-looking security guard sitting behind it.

“Hello, we’re here to see Mrs. Williams, the psychiatrist. Do you know which floor her office is on?” Aunt Sharon asked, in a clipped, tired voice that mimicked the guard’s face.

“Third floor.” The guard pointed to the only elevator.

“Thank you.”

A small, normal conversation. Nothing like the one Amelia was going to have.

The elevator made a creaking noise when it closed, and Aunt Sharon decided to take the stairs next time -if there was a next time. She felt Amelia hold her hand tighter, and she glanced down at the little soul whose whole world was Leadworth. She had never been good with children. She was a horrible guardian, really, and she knew it so well. Amelia had…well. Amelia had just materialized out of thin air. One moment, she was living a normal life, with no plans for marriage or children. The next thing she knew, a five-year-old was at her table, demanding ice cream for dinner. She supposed that the ginger girl had come from somewhere, but the memories of Amelia’s parents were…fuzzy. Like a dream long gone. Sharon didn’t have pictures, diaries, or stories, which Amelia constantly asked for. After ‘the night’, as Sharon had deemed it in her thoughts, raising Amelia was harder.

She had come home after a long night’s work, exhausted and just wanting to go to bed, only to find Amelia, outside, fully dressed, sitting on her toy suitcase, fast asleep. She had carefully woken her up. When the little girl asked, “Where is he?” Sharon had momentarily wondered whether this was one of children’s irrational fears. Ghosts in the closet, monsters under the bed, that sort of thing. But the more Amelia talked, the stranger her story became. Flying blue boxes? Fish custard? This was more ludicrous than her crack-in-the-wall story. So she had told Amelia not to be silly, and brought her inside, only to find the fridge ransacked. Beans splattered in the sink, toast thrown in the bush, and bacon on the floor. Oh, and the shed! Damn that insufferable thing!

She had taken Amelia to numerous physicians, worrying that she might have been hurt by whoever ‘the Doctor’ was. And then to therapists, thinking it might be some defence mechanism. But whoever told Amelia that the man was fake got bit, and after that nobody really wanted to deal with her. Sharon worried. About how Amelia might be bullied at school because of her chitchats. (Oh, how she was wrong!) About how other people might see Amelia.

The elevator dinged.

The third floor’s wallpaper was all ivory, with vases of flowers near the waiting seat. There was another desk, and a young woman typed with surprising speed. The plaque behind it read <Williams Therapy>.

“Hello,” Sharon said. “Do you happen to be Mrs. Williams?”

The woman smiled. “No. I am her secretary, Rachel Land. Do you have an appointment?”

“Yes. I’m pretty sure-”

A door that led deeper into the building opened, and another woman stepped out. “Are you Amelia?” The woman asked, holding out a hand. Amelia took it. She had yellow hair like the colour of sunflowers, and her eyes crinkled when she smiled. “I’m Katherine Williams.” Amy couldn’t say anything. She only nodded. “Come one. We’ll come back in an hour or so, Ms. Pond.” The latter was to Aunt Sharon.

They were sitting in the woman’s office. Amelia sat on the blue beanbag, while she sat on the green one. There were pictures and little paintings around the walls. Bookcases the exact colour of tree bark held leaflets and storybooks. The woman tucked her skirt in, and Amelia suddenly realized the absence of a clipboard.

“How are you, Amy?” The woman asked. “I’m Amelia,” Amelia said with defiance. If the Doctor had said her name was nice, she would keep it.

“Oh.” The therapist said. “But Amelia can sometimes be called Amy. After all, my name is Katherine, but people also call me Kat instead. How about you?”

Amelia thought for a minute.

“I wouldn’t…hate it,” Amy said. Kat laughed.

“Well, Amy. That’s a nice doll you have.” She nodded toward her Doctor doll.

Here it comes. Amy thought. “It’s the Doctor.” She said. She clenched her tighter around her doll. She gritted her teeth as if to test her biting capacity. Kat opened her mouth, and Amy was about to do the same, though for a different purpose.

“Can you tell me about him?”

Amy reconsidered her options.

Of course. She was willing to talk about the Doctor. How she met him. What he said. What he had eaten. What he liked. And most importantly, his promise. Her little secret. But what if she didn’t like the Doctor? What if she was like all other grown-ups?

“His name’s the Doctor.” Amy began slowly. “He had a blue box. A police box.”

“Like the one back in the day?”

Amy shrugged.

“If you say so.”

“And what does the blue box do?”

“It travels about, I think. But not just anywhere. Anytime.” Amy paused to emphasize the fact. “ I think it’s broken. And very old, too. It crashed in my backyard.”

“What did he do?”

Ah. The Questions. Again.

“He was hungry. But he didn’t eat just anything. He said had a- a crav-” Amy thought.

“A craving.” She proudly concluded.

“A craving,” Kat repeated. “What did he crave for?”

“Eh, food. I guess. He liked fish custard.”

“Fish custard?”

“Fish fingers. Dunked in custard.’

“Oh.” Katherine, not really having an answer to that, wondered if she should change the subject. After a while, she intervened. “How do you think the box works?”

Amy looked up. “Hmm?”

“I mean, what does it run on? Oil?”

Amy’s imagination began to whirl, and stories began to spill out.

“What if there’s some special alien oil?” The ginger girl said, her voice marvellously ecstatic.

Katherine was, unlike her appearance, a person who held on to logic and knowledge. But, even so, the stories of children who visited her office made her sway with wonder, revelation, but sometimes shock and consternation. Some of them were bursting with anger, else sadness. Others with energy no one else could handle.

Amy seemed to be on the over-energetic side. Talking, laughing, and expanding her world off to the furthest galaxies. It was as if a dam had burst open. You only had to listen and ask the right things to know what a bright and shiny mind she was.

“If he were really an alien, where is he from?” Kat asked when the talk subsided.

“Space, I suppose,” Amy said. She was strangely aware of time slowing down. The bonfire burned down to a single candle flame, small and feeble, ready to burn up or burn down at any moment.

Katherine was hesitant to talk now. Though it was number than Amy, she could also feel the hour glancing by. “Where is he now?” She said. Then immediately regretted her words.

Because Amy balked. What? No one had ever asked her that. Where could he be? Where could he be?

“I don’t know.” She started. “He said…he said he’d be back but-”

He didn’t.

Sometimes, sometimes, it only takes a few words to snuff out a light.

Now, the only glow in the room was the fluorescent lamp.

The tears that had been vaporizing appeared again.

And this time, it flowed.

When Amy met Rory, she was outside his mother’s office. Her striking red hair hung around her like sagging curtains, and she had an expression of her Aunt Sharon. She wore a red cardigan, the same colour as her hair, and a white dress, dotted with red tulips. Her cheeks felt cold from the tears. She could see movement just out of her eyesight, but she didn’t look towards it. She was waiting for the talk to end. Again. Was it all the same in the end? Would it always end like this?

The door to Katherine’s office burst open, and Aunt Sharon appeared alongside her. “Let’s go, Amelia.” She said. Amy stood up from her seat and took Aunt Sharon’s hand. “So you’ll come back next week? Same day, same time?” Kat asked. She smiled at someone Amy didn’t bother to see and motioned her hand to mean wait. Aunt Sharon squeezed her hand, nodding.

“I will. Amelia? Come along.”

Amy, resigned, followed Aunt Sharon to the elevator outside.

As she walked her heavy steps, she saw something the colour of hay.

And a smile that would rival the sun.

That was how Amy met Rory.

Chapter Text

Amy went to school wearing a clean, crisp, pure-white shirt, her red cardigan, and a nice set of black trousers.

She returned with a dirt-covered blouse, a red cardigan with a brown stain of what (hopefully) looked like chocolate, and black shorts topped with blades of grass.

The story went as follows.

At the end of the summer, she had visited Williams Therapy more than twice, with no teeth shown during every session. Aunt Sharon was satisfied that at least one person was eager to see Amy, and thus, she decided not to bother with any other therapists. (Although the shed remained unfixed.)

Amy was brought to her new year at Leadworth Primary School on the first of September. On the morning of the Big Day (or, for Aunt Sharon, the Day of Freedom), Amy woke up exceptionally earlier than usual, wore her clothes, and ate her breakfast without complaint. She fetched her school bag she had packed the night before and was at the door five minutes before Sharon did. They arrived at school in time, and Amy hopped out of the car before Sharon could blink an eye, waved a quick goodbye, and ran towards the entrance of Leadworth Primary School.

It was 8:25 AM.

Amy saw familiar faces as she walked down the hall to her classroom, but she was only waiting for only one person.

“Mels!” She said.

If one described the complicated personality of Melody Zucker in one word, the word would doubtlessly be ‘rebel.’ It was written all over her being. Like how she never wore the red cardigan properly. And She always smiled at the teacher, like she knew what they didn’t.

Right now, she showed her rebelliousness by writing her name in cursive, which the school prohibited until next year. Amelia appreciated how Mels would always be brave enough to rise against anything and would ride with her best friend or even provide ideas. But then again, Amy would also tell her not to be too overboard. Mels usually scoffed at her when Amy scolded her and would reply: “Who are you, my mum?”

But even though Amy was too young to know the foster parent system, she knew Mels didn’t have a proper family. They had known each other ever since they tried to kill each other at Molly Jacobson’s birthday party for that last piece of cake when they were five years old. And yet, Melody never once invited Amy over. Amy didn’t know about social rules or manners, but after some time, she stopped asking around for Mels’s family. Amy only knew that Mels would disappear mysteriously every summer, then return with a tired grin and new ideas for disobedience.

“Yo!” Melody waved her hand from her seat, which was, as always, in the perfect spot for glaring at the teacher.

“How was your summer?” She said, holding out her hand. But Amy knew she wasn’t asking for any common handshake. Instead, they had their little finger dance of their secret handshake. Two digits running across each other’s palms, a silent clap, and a handful of laughter adorning the finale.

“Good,” Amy replied, sitting right next to Mels. “But I have so much to tell you. When-”

The bell rang loudly, signalling the start of a new term, a new day, and 8:30 AM.

“Abigail Foster.”

“Here!”

“Adam Mills.”

“Present.”

“Ahmet Coal.”

“Here.”

“Alice Zimmerman.”

“Here!”

“Angela Walter.”

“She’s not coming today.”

Mr. Derek Clemens liked calling attendance. It was an orderly, repetitive process, with no deep thinking required. He did not like it when someone disturbed this routine of his. He looked up from his attendance book.

“I heard she was ill?” The ginger girl said inquiringly. Making a mental note to talk with Angela’s parents about alerting the teacher when their child was absent, Mr. Clemens tried to ignore the annoying twitch in his mind and carried on.

“Amelia Pond?”

“It’s Amy now.”

Mr. Clemens looked up again.

“Sorry?”

“It’s Amy now, Mr. Clemens.”

It was again the redhead who disturbed him. “Oh?” He said. “I can’t imagine there’d be something wrong with the list, Amelia.”

“Amy.”

The little black girl beside her giggled louder than anything. Mr. Clemens huffed but didn’t let it show. He hated irregular things. His files, both digital and analogue, were arranged by subject, and every pencil in his possession was sharpened daily. He chose to be a teacher because it had something he could expect. A monthly income, regular work time, and colleagues that rarely changed. Well, he wanted to be a civil servant, but he didn’t like the atmosphere of the workplace.

“Alright, Amy.” He said. Clearly, the girl wasn’t willing to back down. “It’s A-m-y, I suppose?”

“Nooo. It’s A-e-m-y!!” The girl beside Amelia (Amy?) said.

Mr. Clemens was now trying desperately to keep his temper down. (Oh, why, why had he chosen this job?)

“Nah, Mels,” Amy said. “It is A-m-y.”

The other girl shrugged, and Mr. Clemens, finally getting settled down, fixed Amelia’s name on the roll-call list.

The leftover time passed quietly, until…

“It’s Mels.”

Mr. Clemens sighed inwardly. Seriously. He thought.

“Okay.” He said calmly. “But the list says Melody.”

“It’s Mels.”

Mister Clemens liked rules. He wanted things to stay as they were and wasn’t used to rapid changes. Couldn’t just people alert him before anything changed?

“Alright, Mels.” Suppressing a great urge to cower beneath this ambiguity, or to go on a killing spree, he fixed the name for the second time.

It was 9:00 AM.

Mr. Clemens stared doubtfully at Mels’s handwriting.

“You’re not supposed to write in cursive.” He said.

“I know,” Melody replied.

Mr. Clemens had just asked his students to write five sentences that described their summer using the past tense. Some students, like kind, rule-keeping Rory had written things such as ‘I went to Birmingham.’ While Melody just went ahead and wrote, ‘I fought the Sycorax this summer.’

Well, he could ignore that. Children had very colourful imaginations. What he couldn’t ignore was that the sentence was written in bold cursive.

“You’re not supposed to write in cursive.” He said again. “I request that you write the sentence again. This time, use block letters.

“No.”

Mr. Clemens stared at Melody.

Melody stared at Mr. Clemens.

“May I ask why?”

“This rule violates the students’ rights to display one’s ability to full power. I refuse to participate in this sort of bullshit-”

At this point, Mr. Clemens’s boiling sanity evaporated.

“Alright, to the headmaster’s office you go!”

The children giggled at his and Mels’s disappearing backs, and Amy’s laughter was the loudest.

It was 11: 35 AM.

Amy waited outside the principal’s office to go to lunch with Mels. She was taking longer than usual.

“Hello?” A voice called.

Amy saw that it was Mr. Clemens, and immediately poised her emotional defences. “Yes?”

“Is Mels coming out? I wondered if I could have a word with her or something.”

“Dunno,” Amy answered. She was getting quite impatient with Mels. “It usually takes ten minutes or so.”

“Derek, where are you off to?” It was one of the teachers.

“Coming, Mellow.” He called back. “I’ll talk with her later. Can you tell me when she comes back?”

Amy nodded.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Mels came out twenty minutes later, looking extremely annoyed. “C’mon,” Amy said. “Let’s go.”

It was 12:07 PM.

The walk to the cafeteria hall was oddly silent. Amy looked twice at Mels to know that she was there. It was strange. Usually, Mels was all talk and bounce. “You ‘k?” Amy asked. Mels didn’t really answer but held her head higher, and walked faster.

“We have ice cream today, you know.” Amy prompted again.

“I know!” Mels suddenly looked much more enthusiastic. “Buuuut we also have spinach.”

Amy gagged. She loathed spinach. “Who even pairs spinach with ice cream?”

“The Devil,” Mels said solemnly.

“Or the cook,” Amy said. Mels chuckled.

It was 12:11 PM.

The cafeteria was full of people with some latecomers like Mels and Amy trotting in. They got their plates (Amy carefully wrapped the spinach in a napkin and threw it in the bin) and sat down near the window where the outside was visible. The cafeteria was on the first floor, and it looked out onto the nice garden in front of the school yard. It was technically forbidden for students to go through that way, but most of the teachers turned a blind eye.

“Oh, by the way, what were you about to tell me this morning…?” Mels said, digging in.

“Hey!”

“Oh, it was about the man I saw this summer. He was in a blue box, Mels!”

“Hey!”

“Wait what? Tell me…”

“Hey!”

It was a boy from the upper grade. The one in the back. “What?” Amy said. She was in the middle of explaining what the blue box looked like and she didn’t want to be interrupted.

“I heard you got brought to the principal’s office.” The boy ignored Amy and spoke to Mels. “What did he say? Did he ask why you’re always such a mess? Is it because you’re the sort of bitch that doesn’t have parents or-“

Everything happened in a second.

It is probably worth mentioning that, in the busy, new-term morning, the teachers forgot to lock the French doors to the garden. It is also worth mentioning that there were also mashed potatoes that came with the ice cream, whose flavour was chocolate.

Mels threw her plate at the boy.

Amy did the same, but her chucked object was the chair.

They wrestled the boy, who was about twice their weight and height, and yet couldn’t pull a muscle at the two leprechauns that tugged, bit, and tore. It is not worth mentioning where the boy was bitten.

The giant staggered at their weight, and careened toward the French doors, and then-

They tumbled in a big lump and ended up in a heap on the garden beds. The doors creaked mournfully behind them, the roar of the students rising in a crescendo in cacophony with them.

However, even during the colossal chaos, the two children knew their job, which was to leave the boy who had offended them into a teeny-weeny chunk of ruined self-esteem.

They devoted themselves to it.

It was 12:21 PM.

Rory knew that, whenever there was trouble at school, the teachers would help him. That was what his parents had told him, and that was what he would follow. So, while the students shouted heatedly after the tumbling mess of limbs, Rory trotted out of the cafeteria to find Mr. Derek Clemens.

“Mr. Clemens?”

He was surprised to see the blond boy standing in front of him. A bit annoyed, yes, mostly because Mellow (or Ms. Grey) was trying to woo him into a date, but also glad, because he enjoyed Rory’s presence in the middle of the childish anarchism.

“Yes, Rory?” He answered.

“There’s a fight in the cafeteria. Or the garden. Or it’s both.”

Ms. Grey gasped. “Who?”

“I don’t know. Some older boy with some girls.”

At that point, Mr. Clemens, for the umpteenth time in his three-year career, considered quitting.

It was 12:27 PM.

“You, the lot of you. Stop. There. Right. Now!” The teacher’s angry voice rang across the school, and Mr. Clemens shoved the students aside in order to reach the struggling mess of limbs. Ms. Grey and he both pulled them apart. “I’m calling your guardians right now.” He said to the three students.

“Anywhere hurt?” Ms. Grey asked.

Actually, Amy’s left cheek hurt quite a lot, so she said so.

“Well, then let’s get you patched up!” Mr. Clemens huffed slightly, yet helped the students pick themselves up from the ground and led them to the teachers’ office.

It was 12:37 PM.

Mels and the boy had already been brought home. He handed Amy a paper towel for her to wipe her face with.“You just can’t pick a fight with anyone, you know.”

Amy squeezed the towel in her hand. “He was talking about Mels’s mum.” She said. “Badly.”

Mr Clemens shot a glance at her. “Yes?”

“No one talks about Mels’s mum like that. Nobody!” She began ripping the paper, crumpling the mess in her hand. “He deserved it.”

“The rules say otherwise.”

“Well then, they’re stupid.” Amy snorted and through the towels toward the trash bin. Little flecks landed outside. “I don’t understand why it has to be like that.”

“Well then, why don’t you change it?” Mr. Clemens was now extremely tired.

“I will.” She glared straight at him, and he found it hard to look back. “I will.”

“You don’t know how hurt you could have been.” Mr. Clemens scolded. Technically, the scolding was already over, but he decided Amy could do with some more. “If it wasn’t for Rory-”

Oh, shit.

The little girl’s eyes shot upwards in an angry scowl. “ Rory? Who’s Rory? ”

“Well, I mean-”

“Did Rory babble about this? That telltale!”

Mr. Clemens tried not to panic. He hadn’t meant to speak Rory’s name. It was his strict personal rule to keep school whistle-blowers anonymous.

“Well, I mean-”

“Sir? Somebody’s outside!” A voice called.

Mr. Clemens turned to see Rory, with his hay-like hair and straightened clothes. For some reason, Amy’s eyes widened.

“Of course, Rory. I’ll be right along.” Mr. Clemens held Amy by the hand and led her out of the office.

It was 1:07 PM.

When Amy went outside, Sharon was waiting by the rickety old car. “Hullo,” Amy said bluntly. Sharon opened the door for her.

“Why would you do that?” Aunt Sharon asked, adjusting the radio frequency. She sounded disapproving. Amy shrugged and looked outside. Though her appearance was nonchalant, her heart beat wildly. “That boy talked badly about Mels’s mum.” She said the same thing she told Mr. Clemens. “I’m telling you. Nobody talks badly about Mels.”

There was it again. The pressing silence. A calm before a storm. It was a feeling she hadn’t experienced for a long time after visiting Kat’s office. She waited, waited, waited for Sharon to break it and say something. For the storm to rage. For all hell to break loose.

But, strangely enough, it didn’t.

Sharon played her favourite string music all the way home, and Amy’s heart slowed down from a dancing vivace to a slow andante.

“The ice cream shop’s doing an event right now.” Aunt Sharon said. There was a murmured smile on her face. “Do you want some vanilla sundaes?”

It was one and a half past in the afternoon, and the early autumn sun rained down on Sharon and Amy as they entered the shop.

Everything was going to be alright.

This is the account of how the two children met again.

And at that time, the girl hated the boy.

Chapter Text

Over a year had passed since Amy first opened the door to Kat’s office. Now she was on first-name terms with Rachel, the secretary, and knew all the guards’ names, greeting them each time she entered.

Then there was Rory.

The boy with hay-coloured hair entered the office around the time Amy left, and he was annoyingly punctual. When he was too early, he would wait outside and wave his hand when he saw her, but Amy wouldn’t return it. For Amy, Rory was too quiet and ordered. Oh, and maybe it was that new school day that made Amy dislike him. Since then, Amy developed an irrational irritation whenever Rory and she met. There was something…prickling over her body that annoyed her greatly. To be fair, Amy hated Rory, while Mels loved her one-way emotion. She loved to aggravate her into an angry ginger ball. Amy complained about it often, and yet…and yet…

“Did you always want to be a counsellor?” Amy asked during one visit.

They were on the roof garden (yes, there was a roof garden!), tending to the flowers. Amy had told Kat during one of their sessions about how she loved flowers, and how sad she was because there weren’t any flowers that thrived in winter.

“But there are!” Kat had exclaimed. “I have some on my roof garden.”

So here they were, watering Lenten Roses and changing the dirt in the pots in Katherine’s garden. Technically, it was the house owner’s rather than hers, but that person was somewhere in London and didn’t care what went on on the roof as long as the tenants paid their money on time.

“Yes,” Kat answered, feeling the leaves under her touch. “In fact, I’ve always yearned to have the job, so…” She waved her hand about. “When everyone told me to marry, have children, and have a family, I did as I was told. But when I was told to give up my dreams-” she clipped off a brittle leaf with unnecessary force. “I did the exact opposite.” She smiled at Amy. “I’m glad I never quit because that’s how I met Brian, my husband. His cousin was suffering from pregnancy blues.” Kat chuckled and motioned for Amy to bring a new pot. “He loves me as a wife and counsellor, and I’m thankful for that.”

“Why should you be thankful?” Amy asked. “You’re just doing what you want, aren’t you?”

“Some people have it worse. I’m lucky to have a husband that supports me.”

Amy thought of Sharon, who never did go out to meet anyone. It wasn’t like Aunt Sharon was ugly, and it wasn’t like she hated going out. But Amy never saw Sharon dating a man, did she? (Although to be honest, Amy couldn’t even begin to imagine Sharon would meet anyone. )

“Then I had Rory.” Kat smiled. “I had to stop working for a while, but really, Rory was such a kind baby.”

All thoughts of Aunt Sharon flew out of Amy’s head.

“Rory?!” She shouted, almost throwing her pot on the floor. “Rory?!”

“Well, yes. Do you happen to know him?”

Amy decided that something ridiculous had happened around Rory’s birth because the vexing boy could not be the child of this kind woman. Well, they did have the same surname…but the name ‘Williams’ wasn’t a rare one. She had always assumed Rory was in the same position as her. Just some visitor, but no. Rory just had to be the family.

“Sort of.” Amy began. What should she say? He told the teacher that I was in a fight a year ago and I still hate him? “Kind of. Not…really.”

Katherine laughed. “Maybe I should invite you to Christmas dinner. You and Sharon both! Then you’ll get to know Rory. Leadworth’s not a big town, and it wouldn’t hurt to know more friends.”

No, not really. I can make do with Mels. Amy thought.

But how could she say no to Kat?

Her body prickled strangely again.

There were five days left until Christmas, and the whole town was buzzing with the special excitement the holiday brought. In Leadworth Primary School, little tiaras of wreaths decorated each and every classroom. In the little garden beside the cafeteria, (in which the traces from last year’s fights remained) glowing strings of light were installed, making an effort to look coordinated like letters. In reality, when seen up close, the lights were no more than vague squiggles. The lunch got surprisingly better, with Christmas-themed food coming up every meal. Tinsels were everywhere, and the students were so overjoyed that school almost came to a stop. Although Mr. Clemens (now called Mr. C by all the children in his class to his dismay) tried to teach them Charles Dickens’s <The Christmas Carol>, but instead moved on to making decorations at the loud objections of the students. (And yes, even after Amy passed on to another grade, Mr. C had to deal with Amy and Mels all through English class.)

“Alright, alright, everyone!” He said one wintery afternoon, after Mels’s blaring outburst at another mention of Scrooge. “No more Dickens until you come back to school, I promise. Instead-” he picked up an enormous box from underneath the table. “Wreaths!” He announced proudly. (He was quite proud of fixing up a nice activity for the children.)

He brought out all the glue, paper, bits of string, and printed-out instructions.

“I’ll pair you up–” he said, navigating through the sea of chairs.

“Molly with Carter, yes, thank you, and move your chair next to your partner, please…”

“No, Angela, you’re not allowed to work alone. There aren’t enough instructions.”

“Mels! You’re paired with Ahmet. David, you’re with…oh, Matt.”

Mr. Clemens struggled to provide someone in front of Amy, who happened to be the last one remaining.

“Amy, there doesn’t seem to be anyone left, so I guess you have to work alone, but I’m not sure whether there would be enough materials or instruction sheets-”

“I could share with her, sir.”

“Rory?”

“I could pair up with Amelia and share things with Angela. That way, she could do it alone and Amelia would have a partner.”

Mr. Clemens felt an extreme surge of gratitude and worry towards Rory Williams. While he was glad to have Rory, the calm one, with Amy, the chaotic goblin, but he was also concerned that Amy might hold Rory upside down by the ears and shake him senseless, sort of like Miss Trunchbull. (Yes, at this point, Mr. Derek Clemens believed it was a quite probable thing to happen.

“Alright.” He said finally.

Amy got up and moved her chair to Rory’s side.

The class began making.

“I heard,” Rory began. It was as if something was blocking his throat. Why did it keep happening? He coughed to clear out the non-existent barrier.

“I heard,” Rory tried again, “you’re coming over this Christmas.”

“I know.” Amy shrugged and stuck a fake leaf to her wreath. She felt weird when Rory offered to partner with her. It felt…indescribable. The prickling feeling was still there.

“Mum’s preparing Christmas Cake.”

“Hmm.”

“And flowers. You like flowers, don’t you?”

Amy turned.

“How did you know that?”

“I saw you the other day. On the roof garden, with mum.”

“You’re ridiculous. Anyway, it’s bad to follow people around.”

“I wasn’t following. I just happened to spot you!” Rory mumbled in protest, handing the instruction sheet to Angela. “I like flowers too, you know.”

“That’s just wrong! Boys don’t like flowers.”

“I do.”

There was silence for a while, except for the rustling of paper and the sounds of squeezing out glue. Rory never knew that sound could be so loud.

“…What flowers do you like?” To his relief, Amy broached the subject again.

“I don’t know. I like everything. Sunflowers, maybe.”

“I like sunflowers, too. I think we –my aunt and me, I mean– had some in the garden, but they all withered out.”

“It’s because it’s too cloudy here. Sunflowers need a lot of sunlight.”

Amy didn’t know what to say next, so she shut up. Her wreath was now covered with big and green, but fake, leaves, and she added some styrofoam berries for festivity.

“By the way,” she murmured. “It’s Amy.”

Rory fell silent, but the rest of the class was now buzzing with talk. For once, Mr. Clemens (Rory had also taken to calling him Mr. C, though not in front of his face.) didn’t bother to stop them. It was, after all, Christmas, and this was a specially provided time for his students. Oh, and not to mention that he would spend the Christmas holiday with Mellow Grey. They had been corresponding for over a year ever since he had met Amy Pond, and he sometimes considered Amy to be the weirdest matchmaker ever to exist on the planet. After all, if it hadn’t been for Amy and Mels’s fight, he wouldn’t have had that moment in which Mellow and he carried them to their office and…

The bell rang.

“Alright, all of you! Keep your wreaths safe and take it home. You don’t want pieces of art all over the corridor, do you?”

The students filed out of the classroom, each clutching their wreaths.

Rory’s wreath is completely out of season. Mr. Derek Clemens thought. Really, who would draw sunflowers on Christmas wreaths?

It was Christmas Eve, and Sharon busily prepared for Kat’s dinner invitation. She didn’t want to have to owe a favour, but Amy insisted, and how could someone refuse a nice Christmas dinner? Christ, she couldn’t even remember the last proper one she had. Her workplace wasn’t big enough for that sort of thing, and even if it had been she wasn’t popular enough to be invited. No man –for almost all the people in her office seemed to be male– wanted to know a woman with no intention of marriage. As for the women, they were usually too busy doing ‘feminine’ things for a boring person like Sharon. She sometimes wondered how it had happened. She had gleefully graduated from university with a proud diploma for something she didn’t remember now. Afterward, her life fully consisted of job-seeking, moving around from town to town, then coming back home, which she detested, and then Amy. When did the creases begin to show? When did her smiles give way to sorrow? She couldn’t remember.

“Auntie, auntie!” Amy flounced into her room, wearing her red cardigan and a blue dress with sunflowers. She looked childish and innocent. Pretty, even.

Had I looked like that when I was young?

Had Amy’s mother looked like that when she was young?

How come I don’t remember anything ?

“That’s a nice dress, where did you find it?” She couldn’t remember buying Amy anything with sunflowers on them.

“I found it in the closet in the attic. It doesn’t smell of mothballs, does it?”

“I don’t think it does, Amy.” Sharon glanced at the girl. “Well, we’ve got an hour or so. Got everything ready?”

“Yup! Oh, wait-”

Amy ran to her room and brought the Doctor doll.

Sharon sighed inwardly.

Dealing with children was hard. Hard enough to forget about all your troubles.

Sharon’s old car arrived in front of the Williams family’s house, decorated beautifully with Christmas lights, garden elves, and whatever-those-were-supposed-to-be. Amy hopped out of Sharon’s car, caught her hand, and with the Doctor doll in her other hand, sped to the door.

Brian Williams met them at the doorstep, smiling widely and smelling of food.

“Hello, Mrs. Pond!”

“It’s Miss.” Sharon corrected, holding out her hand. Brian stepped back.

“Uh, no.” Mr. Williams said. “I’m cooking, so—”

“Oh, alright.” Amy tugged at Sharon’s leave. “May we come in?”

Mr. Williams turned around to let them enter.

The house was the same as it looked on the outside. Cozy, small but neat, a small Christmas tree in the living room. A fire crackled in the fireplace gaily, and the radio chirped out The Holly and the Ivy.

The holly and the ivy

When they are both full grown

Of all the trees that are in the wood

The holly bears the crown

Amy saw Rory, sitting on the couch with a small, paper-back book on his lap. He rifled through the pages, only looking up when Kat was right behind him.

“Rory,” she said. “Say hello to the Ponds.” 

A mop of hay popped up from the couch. Rory handed a look at Amy. Amy threw the look back. They stood there for a moment until Brian and Kat called them to the table. Dinner was merry, and indeed, when it ended there was Christmas cake. Bedecked with a little tree –a brownie– on top and colorfully dyed chocolates that resembled Christmas lights on the side. Katherine cut out a piece for the Ponds herself, and Brian cut for his wife and son.

“Did you know,” Rory began, mouth full of sweetness. “That there was a musical in London?”

“I didn’t know, Rory.” Kat smiled. “And no talking while you’re eating!”

Sharon shifted in her seat. She felt like she needed to say something. Something before Amy messed up the whole occasion. 

“What sort of musical?” Amy picked at the chocolate. The remaining cake piece that supported the Christmas tree warbled. 

“Les Miserables.”

“Never heard of it.”

The tree fell with a splat on the plate. 

“It’s a musical based on a book by Victor Hugo,” Sharon said. She’d read it. She’d read it. Definitely. But when? When? At high school? College? Had she seen the musical? With a man? Alone? “Did you read it?” She asked.

“Yeah.” Rory’s eyes glittered. “I mean, it was the short one, a kid’s one, but yeah.”

“Maybe they’ve filmed it,” Brian said. 

“You can’t film a musical, dad.” 

Kat chuckled. “Well, then I guess you should see what we got you for Christmas.”

Brian shook his head. “Nah, you don’t.” He waved his fork to emphasize his opinion. “You wait ‘till the midnight bell rings.”

“You’re allowed to stay up till midnight?” Amy said. “Aunt Sharon doesn’t let me.” She glared at her aunt. Sharon played with her fork, watching the light bounce off the clean, silver surface.

“You could…” she began. “If you promise to be good for Santa.”

“Santa isn’t real.” The children said at once. Amy and Rory looked at each other. The girl threw him a glance. The boy handed it back nervously.

“If anyone goes through the chimney at night, it’s the Doctor,” Amy said. She dug out her Docter doll from her pocket. “See–”

When had that got in her pocket? I thought she had it in her hand– How can a doll fit inside a little cardigan pocket, anyway? Is it, what, bigger than the outside? Sharon thought, jumping up from the seat. “Why don’t you children play in your rooms?” She said. “Mrs. Williams, I am sure that Rory will have many things that he wants to show Amelia.”

“It’s Amy,” Amy mumbled under her breath, shoving her Doctor doll into her pocket. Rory stared at her shamelessly.

“Yeah.” He said. “Yeah.”

Rory got up from his seat. His face felt hot. Maybe just a bit more than hot. Maybe scorching.

“So– uh– it’s my room,” Rory said. 

“It’s small,” Amy said. “What’s that?”

“My CD player. I like music.”

The holly bears a berry,

As red as any blood,

And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ,

To do poor sinners good.

“Don’t tell me you like music like that,” Amy said. She still felt the prickling. All over her skin. In her stomach. Fluttering. Fluttering. Like she had moths in her stomach. 

“Well…I mean…” Rory shifted. He liked every music in general. Including the song –what was it– Don’t Stop Me Now and some David Bowie. Oh, and musicals. And carols, too. He couldn’t think of a good answer. But the girl was distracted easily.

“Ooooh, is that your present?” Amy pranced across the small room to the red box with the green bow tie. It was little and Rory had guessed more than enough that it would be some kind of music disc. Amy picked it up. Rolling the little box in her pudgy fingers, listening to the rattle within. Rory sat next to her. 

“What is it?” Amy asked.

“Not sure. A CD, I think.”
The girl rattled the box again.

“Let’s open it.”

“We’re not supposed to.”

“ You’re not supposed to. Kat’s not my mum.”

Amelia looked around for scissors.

“Well, I know she isn’t, but–” 

“Do you have scissors?”

“Well yes, I mean–”

Rory’s hand moved on its own to point at his little desk and the bottle he used for holding pencils. Amy grabbed the children’s scissors that opened only three centimeters or so. She plopped down on the floor again with scissors in hand. 

“Where do we start?” Rory said.

“Where do I start?” Amy said, grabbing the ribbon and slicing off the complicated knot. 

The holly bears a prickle,

As sharp as any thorn,

And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ,

On Christmas Day in the morn.

Amy went for the wrappings next. The red paper slid down onto the floor, pooling at their crossed knees like some magic carpet. The box was a simple ivory brown with Kat’s handwriting, Merry Christmas, Rory.

The boy winced a bit when he saw it, reminded of the Christmas promise. But the girl removed the scotch tape on the box with no hesitation.

The holly and the ivy,

When they are both full grown,

Of all the trees that are in the wood,

The holly bears the crown.

The lid was removed easily.

“It is a disc,” Rory said.

“Why don’t you play it?”
“You opened it!”

“Well, it’s your present!”

“Children, children, stop fighting!” Kat opened the door.

Amy and Rory both hid The Thing behind their backs.

“We weren’t,” Rory said.

“Definitely not.” Amy proclaimed.
“Never have I even thought of it!”

“You can go now,” Amy said.

Kat closed the door again. The kids turned to the present.

“You play it,” Amy whispered, nudging Rory back to the disc.

“And if I don’t want to?”

“I’ll do it.”

“You said it was mine– ”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t play it–”

Oh, the rising of the sun,

And the running of the deer,

The playing of the merry organ,

Sweet singing in the choir.

The rain can't hurt me now

This rain will wash away what's past

And you will keep me safe

And you will keep me close

I’ll sleep in your embrace at last

The rain that brings you here is heaven blessed

The skies begin to clear, and I'm at rest

A breath away from where you are

I've come home from so far

It was midnight. The Christmas bell had chimed, and she was about to tell them about Christmas present. With soft, bird-like steps, Kat found the children. The girl had sundown perched on top of her head and her eyes were painted with the colors of trees. The boy had sunrise in his hair and his eyes carried the fall skies. They were both closed.

Hush-a-bye, dear Éponine

You won't feel any pain

A little fall of rain

Can hardly hurt you now

They were both asleep. They leaned against one another. Breathing in. Breathing out. Breathing in. Breathing out, on the magic red carpet that would carry them to some other world. Anywhere in time and space. The girl had a doll with a red bow tie in her hand. 

So don't you fret, M'sieur Marius

I don't feel any pain

A little fall of rain

Can hardly hurt me now

Someone had turned the player to repetition.

That's all I need to know

And you will keep me safe

And you will keep me close

David carried the girl downstairs and into her aunt’s car. She breathed. 

I'll stay with you

'Till you are sleeping

The aunt pulled her niece’s covers up to her chin. She sighed, feeling her.

The parents pulled their son’s covers up to his chin. Kat looked back at the mess before going out the room. 

And rain…

Will make the flowers…

grow...

Chapter Text

Honestly, it wasn’t that hard.

All they needed was some talking, stealing red hair dye, and a quick breaking-and-entering.

The breaking-and-entering wasn’t even there if you didn’t count the barber’s cabinet as something to break into. And they were invited to Rory’s!

The idea came, like always, from Mels.

“We should do something.” She said, one afternoon in Amy’s room.

“Do what?” Amy wasn’t really listening. She was busy fastening an old button onto one of the Doctor doll’s shirts.

“For graduation,” Mels replied. She snatched away the doll from Amy’s hands. “What, like a party?” Amy said, desperately reaching for the doll Mels held away. “No.” Mels sounded smug. “Like a prank, dumbass!”’

“What’s a dumbass?” Amy asked. There were some things Mels said that Amy didn’t get. Whenever she asked Aunt Sharon what it meant, though, she would tell Amy not to repeat it, because she wasn’t grown-up enough.

Amy repeated it as soon as she was out of earshot.

“Like, more stupid. Then an idiot.” Mels attached the button skilfully. “Anyway, will you do it, or not?” She returned the doll to Amy.

“Hell if I don’t,” Amy said.

Phase 1

Mels entered the shop with a great big smile on her face.

“Hello, Mister Smith!” She said, sitting down on one of the waiting couches. But today, there would be no waiting, even if she wanted some service, which she didn’t. There was only one customer in the shop. Mels glanced around the establishment for the cabinet that held hair dyes. She found it easily enough because, like all other shops in Leadworth, the barbershop was her second home. However, even though she knew this place as she knew the back of her palm (her left one, because almost every person had seemed to indicate the right none when one said it) there was still the problem of getting the lock to open. This might require some waiting. Or not. Mels was not good at waiting.

The current customer was a lady with short blonde hair and bright green eyes, and Mr. Smith the barber was cutting it even shorter.

“Just below the neck, please.” She said, using her right hand to describe just what ‘just below the neck’ was for her. Then she closed her eyes.

Just then, Mels noticed that a purse was right next to her, with the contents spilling out onto the sofa. She glanced at Mr. Smith, then eyed the woman. She glanced at the bag. Then she glanced at Mr. Smith, engaged in his work.

Mels rifled through the purse.

It contained a pamphlet for adoption. Then a list of children. Pictures, picture after picture after picture. One of them was circled with a black pen with a memo beside it.

Erik Nielson, 2:00 PM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Clear all schedules!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Little stars made the shape of an egg around the boy’s photograph. He had red hair, though more orange than Amy’s. With freckles on his cheeks, he gave an awkward smile and a thumbs-up to the camera. Some of his teeth were missing. Maybe new ones were growing. Or perhaps someone had punched his face and knocked them out.

Underneath, bullet points and words explained that he was from a farmer family in Ireland, 7 years old, with asthma. It didn’t mention that the boy was also mildly starved and traumatized. But a heart-shaped bullet point did say that he loved carrots and dogs.

“Ehem.” Mr Smith said.

Mels looked up from her foraging. She glanced at Mr. Smith. She glanced at the bag, and then at the woman.

Mr. Smith gave her a stern look.

Mels looked at the woman very, very hard.

She opened her mouth.

It will not be worth saying how Mels got her prize. It will be worth saying, however, that a woman went out of SMITHS HAIR with a very short hairstyle, which was also very red. And Melody came out of the shop five seconds later, humming a tune.

She was never good at waiting.

Phase 2

It was a session with Kat. Well, not really. Sharon could spare money for only one session once a week with a stretch, but Amy would visit at least two times more than that if not every day. In those days, she would go to the rooftop garden and look after the flowers. Sometimes (always) Rory would be there, spotting some information about flowers. Once he had given her a Begonia, although Amy had absolutely no idea where he had gotten that from.

And it was one of those days that the girl and the boy met again. She was re-plating some Iris blossoms with her little spade when the entrance opened.

The boy looked so surprised that his hair seemed to float off from his head. “I thought…I didn’t think you would be here.” He said, his hand almost slipping on the dark blue watering ca. Amy frowned.

“I didn’t think you’d be here, either!” She lied. She had expected him. It was as if Rory was everywhere. Diagonal from her seat in English, three seats away from her in history, somehow finding a way to look at her at Lunch. In the same team at football. Walking home with her, a little ahead or behind her (and other kids, but mostly her.) He was in the corner. The darkest corner. Almost unnoticeable. But only ‘almost.’ He was always, always there, she knew. And it brought Amy’s stomach a bunch of pupates, destined to hatch into fluttering somethings.

“And I’ve already watered them!” Amy snapped.

Rory slopped a bunch of water on his shoes.

Sighing, Amy handed him a mop and got one for herself, too. The puddle kept stretching and sliding down flower pots. Rory ducked down to find where the water was spreading and headbutted Amy very hard.

“Ow?” Rory said, more of a question than an exclamation. Amy scoffed and kept mopping. She didn’t understand why the sensible boy kept being an idiot. Perhaps he was not so sensible after all. But whatever. According to Mels, they needed him.

“You know, I thought of visiting again.” She said, racking her brain for any day that seemed worth celebrating. “For the summer solstice.”

“The what?”

“You know, the one in a few weeks.”

“I know what a summer solstice is,” Rory said, his mind melting down. “I just– I–”

“Oh, and graduation.” Amy had forgotten that occasion with Rory beside her. “Can you ask your mum if I can go?”

“Yeah, sure. I– I–”

“Then why don’t you ask?”

Rory dropped his mop and ran, slipping on the water before leaving. Amy had acted! She had acted first! All his attention had paid off! She just knew!

Actually, she didn’t. But whatever.

Phase 3

“Hello, Mrs. Williams!” said Mels loudly as she and Amy entered the doors.

“Hello, girls!” She said. “Rory’s in his room. What will you be doing?”

“Erm, hide and seek, maybe,” Amy replied. Mels slipped under Kat’s arms and into the house. “This’s nice,” she remarked.

The radio was on. Is it always on? Amy wondered.

Jack and Jill, went up the hill

To fetch a pail of water, so they say

The subsequent fall was inevitable…

Rory was waiting for them in his room. She could still hear the radio, or it was her imagination playing the music.

They never stood a chance, they were written that way

Innocent victims of their story

Like Romeo and Juliet

It was written in the stars before they even met

That love and fate, and a touch of stupidity

Would rob them of their hope of living happily

The endings are often a little bit gory

I wonder why they didn’t just change their story.

We’re told we have to do as we’re told but surely

Sometimes you have to be a little bit naughty

“I love the musical.” She said, looking around. “Did I you see it? ‘Cos I did when I was in London, in nineteen-eighty– last summer, I mean.”

“No,” Rory replied sheepishly. He gently lifted his glance, cradled it in his arms, wrapped it in green and red ribbons and paper, then handed the look to Amy. She opened it viciously. “What do you want to celebrate?”

“Graduation.”

“Winter solstice.”

Rory looked at Amy. “Winter solstice?” He asked.

Amy sighed. “Summer,” she said. “Summer solstice.” He puts everything askew. She thought. Mels giggled. Amy threw Rory’s look at her.

Just because you find that life’s not fair, it

Doesn’t mean that you just have to grin and bear it

If you always take it on the chin and wear it

Nothing will change

Even if you’re little, you can do a lot, you!

Mustn’t let a little thing like, little stop you

If you sit around and let them get on top, you

Might as well be saying

You think that it’s okay

And that’s not right!

“Why don’t we…” Mels contemplated, smiling widely. “Play hide and seek?”

“Not fair,” Amy said. “It’s Rory’s house. He’s got one over us.”

“I won’t.” Rory blurted. “I promise I won’t. I’ll be really easy to find. Really! I promise.”

Amy re-wrapped the look and gave it to Rory. He received it gratefully, only to discover it was of doubt.

“Promise.” He said, his blue eyes desperate for some recognition.

Cinderella, in the cellar

Didn’t have to do much as far as I can tell

Her Godmother, was two thirds fairy

Suddenly, her lot was a lot less scary

But what if you haven’t got a fairy to fix it?

Sometimes you have to make a little bit of mischief

Amy shrugged. “Fine.”

But mostly, mostly because of Mels.

And a teeny-tiny bit because of Rory and his blue eyes.

Mels ran out of the doors, Rory tagging behind.

“Where are you going?” He whispered.

“Like I would tell you!” She shot off.

A little bottle clinked in her pocket, barely heard over her loud footsteps. Rory tiptoed off downstairs.

“Ten…nine…eight…” Amy opened her eyes and looked around, checking no one was near enough to hear. “Seven…five…three…twoo…” She mumbled. “One!” She whipped around.

When she went out of the door, she ran in headlong with Mels.

“Where were you? Oh, and you’re found.” Amy said, linking an arm around her. Mels rolled her eyes. “In the bathroom, moron.” She said. “I put it in. Might have slipped a bit. But I did.”

In the slip of a bolt, there’s a tiny revolt

The seeds of a war in the creak of a floorboard

A storm can begin, with the flap of a wing

The tiniest mite packs the mightiest sting

Every day, starts with the tick of a clock

All escapes, starts with the click of a lock

If you’re stuck in your story and want to get out

You don’t have to cry, you don’t have to shout!

“Good,” Amy said. Then, remembering, she asked, “I brought the doll. Want to play?”

I will be strong enough to carry all the heavy things

You have to haul around with you when you a grown-up

And when I grow up

When I grow up

When I grow up

I will be brave enough to fight the creatures

That you have to fight beneath the bed

Each night to be a grown-up

“Is he hot?” Mels asked.

“No, he’s funny.”

Amy cut the dark blue paper, turning it into a little telephone box.

“But,” Mels rolled the Doctor doll over and over in her hands. “How can he travel in time?”

“Because he’s got a time machine, dumbass,” Amy said, reveling in her new vocabulary usage. The door opened.

And when I grow up

I will have treats everyday

And I’ll play with things that mum pretends

That mums don’t think are fun

And I will wake up when the sun comes up

And I will spend all day just lying in the sun

And I won’t burn ‘cause I’ll be all grown up

When I grow up

“I thought we were playing hide and seek,” Rory said. His hair was ruffled, his clothes rumpled. Fine dust had settled in the mop of hay. “I’ve been hiding for hours!”

“Well, we just haven’t found you yet!” Amy answered, admiring her work.

When I grow up

I will be brave enough to fight the creatures

That you have to fight beneath the bed

Each night to be a grown-up…

Mels looked at Rory with pity in her eyes, though Rory was oblivious to it.

Just because you find that life’s not fair

It doesn’t mean that you just have to grin and bear it

If you always take it on the chin and wear it

Nothing will change…

Just because I find myself in this story

It doesn’t mean that everything is written for me

If I think the ending is fixed already

I might as well be saying I think that it’s ok

And that’s not right

It will take years. Year after year after year will take for Amy to ‘know’ what Rory was to her. Until the pupates hatched into butterflies in her stomach.

But today was not the day.

Today was the day that Mrs. Katherine Williams discovered a little red stain on the floor of her shower stall. Thinking back to the visit of the two girls, she decided to leave a note to Sharon about the dangers of precocious puberty. She also planned to call Melody’s guardian, too but mysteriously forgot about it.

Today was also the day that Erik Nielson, a boy with orange hair and missing teeth, came from Ireland to be adopted by Mrs. Harrison and Mr. Harrison of Gilford Lane. He arrived in Leadworth, trying not to get his hopes up. But the first thing he noticed about them was Mrs. Harrison with very short hair, which was also very red.

Maybe, just maybe, a little girl had her convinced that having similar hair colours may make Thomas feel more welcome. If she had, it worked.

And Rory Williams graduated Leadworth Primary with his hair orange-red. His picture is still plastered in the photo album, with Mels and Amy guffawing beside him.

Chapter Text

Amy grew up to be a good student. A ‘normal’ student. The sort who never talked about a man from the sky and a blue police box that was a time machine.

Or so people thought.

When she walked home with Rory (never other kids, only her, only her ), she would ramble about him, the Raggedy Doctor.

She would still go –unofficially– to Rory’s mother’s office time and time again until she knew every nook and cranny. Even when Sharon stopped funding the weekly visits.

She told everything she knew (which wasn’t a lot) and everything she didn’t know (which was a lot) about the Doctor. Rory heard all of it. Her stories carved themselves into both their hearts, each syllable screaming its name.

“You should write it down,” Rory told her one afternoon. They were at the duck pond. Though there weren’t any living ducks, sad rubber ducks floated around the pond, green with moss, unkempt grass, and stains of who-knew-what.

“Why?” Amy replied. She was fingering the edge of the bench as if to peel the paint off. She looked thoughtful. Perhaps it was the impact of speaking about how humans may have originated from another species for three hours or so.

“So you won’t forget it.”

“I never forget it!”

“Well, maybe so you can pass it on to other people.”

“I’m passing it on to you. Don’t you count as ‘other people?’”

“You know what I mean!”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Like writing,” Rory said, “publishing.”

Amy cocked her head. “Could I do that? I’m just a kid.”

Helpless, Rory only stared at the ground. “When you grow up, maybe you can.”

“Yeah, but I can’t do it now. Besides, Sharon works at a publishing company and only the men have important jobs. Sharon makes coffee and keeps the books.”

“No one ever said that,” Rory said, frowning. “It’s not like it’s in the law!”

Amy glanced at him, surprised by his outburst. It wasn’t an everyday occasion.

“It’s like me being a nurse. People keep asking why I would even do that.”

Because you’re gay. Amy thought, but kept that to herself. She would coax Rory out of his closet when he was ready. She stood up and grabbed her bike.

“Race you to the bridge?” She asked, hulling herself onto the seat with ease. She expected him to follow her, like usual, but today was not the ‘usual.’

The boy shook his head, his mop of straw hanging down to his brow.

Amy sat in front of her desk, pen in hand, tapping it against her mouth. She sighed when the paper in front of her –the ‘career course plan’ slip– shined more prominently than ever. It had to be handed in by the end of the week. It had to. Amy looked back to the talk she had with Rory earlier.

“You should write it down,”

“Like writing, publishing.”

Many friends left. For London, for Oxford, for Cambridge, for Edinburgh, for Glasgow. Amy heard that Alice Zimmerman had decided to study abroad in America. She’d left a week ago, and all her classmates had had a party for her. Amy asked whether Mels was going to leave, too. She’d laughed and shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not.”

Sharon poked her head in. “Dinner’s ready.”

“Fine,” Amy said.

When she went down the stairs, she felt like she was being followed…just in the corner of her eye…but the smell covered over the thought. “Lasagna?” Amy asked. Sharon was getting better at this.

“And some vegetables.” She said, setting down cups and plates. Amy spotted a mug that said Best Aunt. She’d made it at school years ago. It was for Mother’s Day, but that was what she had made since she didn’t have a Best Mum. Or a mum, in that sense.

“What did you do at school today?” Sharon asked. The question was something she’d seen in an education magazine when Amy first entered secondary. From the first day, it had been their dinner talk ritual.

“Alright,” Amy said. “Learned about Oscar in English –Mr. C is still teaching, by the way– Did some genetics in Biology, with equations in chem. Oh, and I still don’t like my experiment partner.”

“What’s her name again?”

“Molly Jacobson.”

“You loved her! You were at her birthday party when you were young.”

“Well, not anymore. And I’m pretty sure I was mostly there for the cake.”

“What happened today with her?”

“She may have messed up the experiment report.” Amy grimaced. “I’ll find out the truth when I get it back tomorrow.”

“I still think you should have taken physics instead.”

“Physics,” Amy said, brandishing her fork, “is for genius peasants like Mels. Not for a dumb noblewoman like me. Besides, I’d get better grades.”

“Physics counts more.”

“Not if you suck.” Amy ended the conversation by sticking the last of the cheese into her mouth. Sharon went to get more.

“And other subjects?” She asked, microwaving the new plate of dinner.

“Oh, uh, we finished rights and entered politics on socials. Then Mels got into trouble at PE, when the teacher asked her to demonstrate cartwheels.” Amy didn’t mention the fact that Mels said that the TARDIS was run on aliens performing cartwheels in the engine room. Even to her, who brought out many theories privately, that was preposterous.

“I don’t know why you go out with that girl. She’s simply impertinent.”

“Mels’s nice,” Amy decided to change the subject, “and we did Titanic in history. We’re doing Hitler next.” She also neglected another little episode related to Mels and the ship.

“Mels, did you not understand the question? I’m asking you why the Titanic sank!”

“Because the Doctor didn’t save it. Except you don’t know about the Doctor because you’re stupid.”

“Did your friend Melody do something in that class?” Sharon asked.

“No.”

“Apparently.” Sharon rolled her eyes. Amy got the plate when the microwave beeped aloud.

“I need to use your computer for a bit.” She said, setting it down on the dinner table.

“What for?”

“I…” Amy licked her lips. She didn’t want to talk to Sharon about the ‘career plan’ slip. She would hound her to death! Besides, today was Wednesday. The slip was due Friday, and that meant she had lots of time until things got really desperate. “I need to write something on the computer, for the–” Amy thought for a moment– “the school program thing. It’s the government expanding IT-powered education systems, see.”

Sharon frowned but consented.

Journalism.

That was the word that Amy typed. There were some suspicious-looking sites, but scrolling down, she found a news report with the title, Top Three Journalists in the United Kingdom. Then in smaller print, Top 1 will blow your mind!

Amy clicked, and with that, the puzzles of time clicked, clicked, clicked along. She read and read down the article, reading about Andrew Marr and Jeremy Paxman. And then the last…and the Top 1…

Top 1: Sarah Jane Smith.

Miss Sarah Jane Smith, a contemporary journalist, has written the most articles in the United Kingdom in 2000. With her parents killed in a road accident, she was raised by her aunt, Lavinia Smith, a respected virologist. She was educated at the Caterham School for Girls, and later at Liverpool University. She began doorstepping when she was nineteen years old. Miss Smith worked under Lionel Carson when first setting foot in journalism, then moving to work at the Metropolitan. Later she published many UNIT-related documents, some revealing shocking secrets unknown to the public.

To this day, Miss Smith has uncovered frauds, unrest, crimes, and even hauntings.

“I believe that a journalist’s top priority is to discover the truth. One needs a passion for investigation, never giving up once one begins researching for an article. You also need a strong moral compass to reveal classified information, ones that may even harm you. Every time that happens, remind yourself. Remind yourself that your job is to find out the facts, and show them to the public. When I was in university, my favourite professor, Edward Sheppard asked what I would do when I found out something that was a threat to national security. I answered that I would publish it, whatever the consequences. He asked back, what if I put my family and friends in danger? I hesitated, told him to think about it. Now I have the answer. I will. I will, no matter the consequences.” Miss Smith said at our interview.

Amy looked at it for a long time, until Sharon called her to help her with the dishes.

“Mels,” Miss Grey asked. “Mels? How was Hitler able to rise to power?”

Mels looked up from her doodling and smirked. Amy sensed a warning sign.

“A significant factor in Hitler’s rise to power was the fact that the Doctor didn’t stop him!” Mels announced to the classroom. A few laughed, but the teacher frowned. No, actually, it was an internal frown. Mels had so much to say in her class that nowadays she didn’t even think twice about sending Mels to the principal’s office. After that was done, she asked again to Amy: “How was Hitler able to rise to power?”

Amy read straight from the textbook. “Adolf Hitler rose to power in Germany through a combination of factors, including economic turmoil after World War I, widespread discontent with the Treaty of Versailles, effective propaganda and charismatic oratory skills, and the exploitation of nationalist and anti-Semitic sentiments. The Great Depression further fuelled public dissatisfaction, allowing Hitler and the Nazi Party to gain support and eventually seize control in 1933.”

“Very good. Now–”

But Amy wasn’t listening. She was too busy waiting for English. When the bell rang, she rushed to the headmaster’s office to get Mels and then spurted off at a fast pace for English. Sitting down, Amy spotted Rory on the diagonal side of her, engrossed in Oscar. He would usually walk with them –mostly with Amy– from any classroom, but it seemed that today was not the usual. Was there something to do with the conversation they had yesterday? A bitter taste filled the back of her mouth, and she stayed still for a moment until Mels tugged at her sleeve for her to sit down.

“Now, kids, today we’re going to look at Oscar and his background.” Mr. Clemens began. Ever since they had met, he had developed a habit of thrusting problems related to Mels and Amy to someone else. Thus, they did not speak much except in class. What would he think when Amy asked something? She squirmed in her seat. Rory didn’t look at her not even once, she noticed. But whatever, it was not about him. It really, really, wasn’t about him.

“Let us read the first bullet point together. Oscar is greatly known for his wit. His ability to turn a phrase and deliver biting social commentary through humour is a hallmark of his work. Now, who can tell me–”

Click. Click. Click. Was it the sound of the clock on the classroom wall, or was it the puzzle of time?

Amy didn’t even listen to the bell. Mels had to shake her awake instead.

“What are you doing? You’re acting funny today.”

Her classmates began packing up and leaving. This. This was her chance. Amy leapt up from her seat.

“Aren’t you going?” Mels asked. Rory was at the classroom door. Was he waiting? Waiting for her?

“You go first.” Amy began packing her bag but her fingers shook vigorously. A couple of notebooks fell through her grasp onto the floor. Mels tried to pick it up.

“No, Mels,” Amy said, waving a hand. “Really, I’ll catch up later.”

She didn’t see Mels leave with Rory. (She did, she just didn’t want to think about him.) When she looked up again, the classroom was empty, and she was the only one left.

“You’ll be late for class, Miss Pond,” said Derek Clemens.

Amy began working up her courage. In times like these, she wanted to be Mels. Melody Zucker could speak up and say anything at any time. Social rules and obligations were nothing but mist and fog for her. Even when Amy had stopped talking about the Doctor (except with Mels and Rory) long ago, Mels kept up the jig.

“Mr. C–” Amy began, stopping herself just in time. “Mr. Clemens, I have something to ask you.”

He locked eyes with her, his orbs glaring into her soul and then hitting the back of the classroom.

“By all means, ask.” He said after a second of eternity. “The subject we are discussing is nothing easy, and I always appreciate the efforts to learn better.”

Amy opened her mouth. “Well, it’s not about that. I was wondering whether you could send an answer to a question about careers.”

“Well, ask away that too, Miss Pond.”

And so Amy did. She didn’t ask but rather rambled about her worries, her thoughts, her speculations and expectations, about her aunt, and finally, about her conversation with Rory, though she left specific names for reasons unknown even to herself. Mr. Clemens listened to her talking with his mouth in a straight line, neither laughing nor smiling. And when she was done, said: “Thank you, have a seat.”

Amy did, clutching her bag so that the contents wouldn’t spill out. Mr. Clemens stared at her before carrying on. “I still remember the first school day with you, as it was my first as well as yours.”

Amy gulped. What was he talking about?

“I remember that I was an avid believer of rules, while you were otherwise. I remember you disrupting my natural routine. A one I had fallen into while training to be a teacher.”

And then, and then, Mr. Clemens’s lips shifted to show a shadow of a smirk. “I know a relative of mine who runs a publishing company in London.”

“Sir…?” Amy’s eyes widened. Did he mean…what she thought?

“I remember your last essay. Well, more of a short story than an essay. If I were to give it to my relative along with a letter of recommendation, you could be part of a publication this month, along with the teenage writer’s camp he manages. How does that sound?”

Amy let out a strangled noise of ascent. “Very nice.” she managed, mouth agape.

Derek Clemens laughed. “In this world, Amelia, there are many rule-keepers, but too few rule-breakers. I think you could be a voice for them.”

He clasped her hands in his.

“Give them fucking hell, Amy.” He said. “We all need some.”

When Derek returned home, his wife, Mellow Grey –Clemens now– was waiting for him.

“How was today?” She asked, taking his case.

Derek stared at her strangely. “Do you remember the ginger-haired girl?” He asked. “The one that got in a fight on the opening day.”

Mellow laughed. “It’s been two years since I left work. I don’t remember the schoolchildren shadowed over by ours.”

He smiled too, thinking of his sweet son. “Yes, but, surely you remember the day we first met?”

“Oh…!” She said, “Do you mean…Amelia?”

“Yes.” He walked with her to the dining table, where a table full of dinner was waiting for him. “She came to visit me today.”

“What for? And wash your hands before eating!” Mellow began setting the cutlery.

He didn’t move from his chair, leaning against it, watching his wife with love in his eyes. “She wanted to be a journalist.”

The woman smiled. “Smart girl.”

“She is…well…Mellow, love.” He stepped forward to wrap his arms around her from the back. “I just remembered what you said that day.”

“What did I say?”

“That sometimes, it’s chaos that changes the world.”

“I never said something that amazing.”

“You did! I swear you did…and maybe…maybe that was what made me…” Derek looked out onto the window. There. There was his son, playing in the back garden with dirt on his fingers. If it was before meeting Amy, could he have dared to put something as chaotic as a child in his house?

“What? Made you what?” She said, twisting out from his embrace to look at him.

“I don’t know.” Derek shook his head. “Let’s have dinner.”

Give them hell, Amelia . We all need some.

Chapter Text

Summer came and flew away. Amy went to London for the publisher program, and Mels went to who-knew-where. (Amy thought, perhaps, London, but they never met.) Rory didn’t go anywhere. He just started home. The boy’s eyes darkened along with the settling ky, and the girl’s eyes held the changing leaves. They didn’t speak to each other for months. 

And thus, Amy was very surprised when Rory knocked on her door, one boring afternoon on a weekday. She was watching television about NASA’s Mars rover when the bell rang.

“Hull?” She said, opening the door to find the boy with hay-coloured hair. Then Amy was immediately reminded of her hair, which she hadn’t washed in two days. 

“Mels is leaving,” Rory said gloomily. 

“Who?” Amy fingered a spare strand of hair, checking how oily it was. Then her mind caught onto what Rory was saying. “ Who’s leaving?” 

“Mels.” He said. “Er– can I come inside? It’s raining.”

“How did you know?” She snapped.

“She told me.” Rory rocked back and forth on the steps.

Amy was more than aghast. “She what? And she didn’t tell me? ” 

“Well, I suppose there wasn’t time–”

“Time!?”

“Or space. She’s been all over the world, you know?”

“Bugger that. There was world enough and time–”

“Can I come in?”

Amy shut the door in his face.

When she returned an hour late, Rory was still there.

“Alright.” She decided. Only then did she notice that he didn’t have an umbrella.

“Where’s your aunt?” He asked, wiping his shoes on the doormat. 

Amy turned off the telly, picked an empty crisp bag off the couch, and tried to cover up the mess in the sink. “Out.” She explained, picking up a wet rag and scrubbing the counter viciously. It gleamed tenfold.

“Uh– so–” Rory coughed. “Out for the day or just a few hours?” He jumped out of his skin when Amy slammed shut the dishwasher. 

“You choose.” She glowered at the numerous post-its that she and Sharon never managed to read. Or get rid of, for that matter.

“Okay, then–” He began.

“Why would Mels tell you about her going away?” Amy said. “She’s my best friend, not yours.”

He was lost. “...I don’t know.” He squeaked out. “I just– I just thought–” 

“Oh, you just thought what?” She said. “You just thought, since we don’t talk much nowadays, that you could have your way with her?” 

“I never thought anything like that. I just– I thought that we’d– I dunno. Do something for her, that’s all.”

“ For her?”

“Yeah– like a good-bye party–”

“Mels hates things like that.” She eyed a strange stain on the stove but didn’t attempt to wipe it off.

“You can never be sure. She might like it.”

“...what if she doesn’t like it? It will be–” The truth suddenly struck her. “It will be a horrible last moment.” A last moment. Everyone was going away, and so was Mels Zucker, her best friend. The only thing that stayed behind, the only thing that was still, the only thing keeping her in place was– it was–

Amy realized that Rory’s back was still wet. He was shivering a bit. She kicked at the floor, tossing the rag from her right hand to her left. “Do you want something warm?” She asked, finally, putting down the piece of cloth and ending her cleaning spree.

When he left an hour later, he was holding an umbrella.

From then on, Rory prepared for two things.

The first was with Amy.

He went to a little stationary shop and bought colourful tapes and balloons. When he appeared with a shopping basket full of those, Amy –who had been standing at the door– stared at him like he had bought edible shoe polish or something.

“You think Mels would have a party with that? ” She said. He stared at his feet. 

“Well, what else would we need?” He mumbled.

“Things to eat. Lights, maybe. Presents?”

“Letters?” Rory suggested miserably. 

In the end, it was she who bought all the things. Rory paid for them, though, since Amy didn't get allowances. She did smirk and say: “I'll buy everything when we meet next time,” and then he replied, cluelessly, “What do you mean next time? I'll always be here.”

Then Amy’d smiled sadly, so Rory realized that she meant all three, her and him and Mels. That made him feel sad. And stupid.

The second was with Mels. 

Those sessions usually ended with him hyperventilating on the floor, while Mels shook her head at him and sighed.

“You ain't gonna manage that with balls as small as yours, son.” She said with an American accent. Apparently she was in New York that summer and had picked up American. Rory looked up at her.

“...it’s the mind that’s important.” He supplied weakly. She scoffed. “Want a paper bag?”

“No.” Rory stood up from the floor. “I…I can do it. I’m sure I can. I know I can.”

Mels just rolled her eyes, but she let him talk again. 

“It has to be done in my room,” Amy said. “Your parents won’t allow visits like that, right?”

“Er, right,” Rory said. He was looking skeptically at the crude diagram Amy drew on the board. They were in an empty classroom during lunchtime, and most students were outside. “Do you think we’d need to put up the streamers beforehand?”

“Of course. But we can do that only in a few hours.” She flicked through her binder. “Let’s see…food. I think I can prepare for that. I know what she likes.” Amy looked at him pointedly. “Which you don’t.”

“Yeah, sure,” Rory said, fiddling with his pen. “I still think we need letters.”

“ Letters, seriously? I don’t think letters full of teardrops are Mels’s thing, Rory. As I told you more than ten times.”

“It’s three times.”

“Four.”

“Well, if you include this one–”

The classroom door burst open. Amy yelped and pushed a whiteboard into place to cover the diagram. Rory lept up from his seat and then realized he had nothing to hide, except being in a classroom with a girl. A girl that doesn’t really love me. He thought bitterly. Amy’d gotten into Roman soldiers ever since the Mrs . C came back to school, and never ceased rambling about how amazing it would be to date a man with a six-pack and curly black hair, like Superman. Rory was lanky, he had hair as straight as a haystack, which also happened to be blond. 

“What are you two doing here?” Mels asked. “Come on, they’re giving out treats in the gardens!”

“What for?” He asked stupidly.

“Oh, it’s Valentine's Day, isn’t it?” Amy said, winking at him and nodding at the whiteboard before going out. But Rory also saw Mels, who shoved an eyebrow at him before shutting the door. He sighed and began erasing. How could he have forgotten Valentine?

Exams: D-30. 

That was the first thing they saw when they entered their empty classroom. Amy snorted, promptly erased it and rewrote: D-1.

“Oh, yeah. A day.” Rory hid the paper bag Mels had given him just in case he fainted. He’d said he wouldn’t need it then. But he might need it now, with Amy’s eyes staring at him so fiercely. 

“I’m going to do everything I can to lure Mels here. I already invited her to study with me, but I’d have to double-check to see that it’s a sure promise. You know Mels. Anyway–” She coughed a bit. “I– I wrote a letter for her, like you said.”

“Really?”

“Well, no. I mean, it’s not because of you , mind. Aunt Sharon convinced me. She said it would be a good experience.”

“Okay, that’s nice.” He fiddled with the paper bag.

“What’s that noise? Is there somebody in here?”

“What? No, I’m pretty sure there’s nobody–”
“Ooh, maybe it’s a couple squashed in the corner!”

“Amy no–”

“Amy yes!”

Finding no couples, they went back to the planning. Rory asked to see the letter. She sharply declined and went back to the amount of fizzy drinks they would need.

She hadn’t really meant to borrow (or, like they said, steal) a bus. “There was an alien in the way.” She told her guards, who ignored her. Mels sighed and paced the cell she was in. Escape would be easy, but…but…Amelia. And Rory. It always boiled down to the two of them. If she called, Amy would come and get her, and she would scold Mels about a good life, the sort of life that pushed the boundaries a bit but didn’t go over them. The sort she said. Mels missed it. She would miss it. She wanted that sort of parental scolding. Some would call her a troublemaker, a delinquent, a madman. But to Amy, she was always her best friend, Melody Zucker. She paced for the seventh time when she spotted something ginger outside. The guard opened the door for her, and Mels walked out with a confident stride.

“Mels! Wait! Wait–” Amy followed her.

“Well, it seems today’s studying is not an option. See you later!”

“No, Mels, that’s something you have to see.” 

“I’m going home.”

“Just come here.” Amy tugged her outside. “C’mon. I don’t care that you’re late. Let’s go.”

“What, no lectures? No chiding?”
“None of that, I promise. Just– let’s go.”
“...alright.”

D-1.

Rory held his breath when Mels wrote this on the blackboard with big, clumsy hands.

“I don’t think I can do it.”
“You can. You’ll just get a slap in the face.”

“...Will she slap me in the face?”

“Probably.”

“Balls,” Rory mumbled, widening a hole in his trousers. “I…I just don’t think I’ll do it, then.”

“Fine,” Mels said. “Find another girl that you’ve loved since primary and declare your love to her. I don’t care.”

“I didn’t mean that. I just…I’m just nervous, and–”

“Take it from someone who dated numerous times. It’s better to digest the frog than choking on it while trying to stuff a lotus into your mouth.”

“Okay, that’s– that’s not even a real proverb and Amy’s not a frog.”
“Then gobble her up! Why do you find it so hard?”

“Gobble– go– her what?”

“You know what I mean.”

“...I don’t know what you mean.”

Mels stared at him. He stared back, eventually breaking the connection between them. “Just…just promise you won’t tease me or anything. You won’t mess it up, okay?”
“I won’t tease you.” Mels smiled, handing him a paper bag. “Promise.”

“It was late, I took a bus.” Mels fiddled with the blue police box.

“Er, you stole a bus.” Rory corrected, holding a soft drink bottle. A bottle he– they– got for her.

Amy was busy walking around with her arms crossed, letter or party forgotten. “Who steals a bus?”

“I returned it.”

“...You drove it through the botanical garden,” Rory said.

“Shortcut.”

“Why can’t you act like a person? Like a normal legal person?” Amy paced a bit more. Mels was counting.

“I don’t know,” she winked, “maybe I need a doctor.”

“Stop it.”

“Er, I’d better go. Mum would be worried.” Rory stood up.

“Okay.” 

“It’s all right for you,” Mels said, looking at her rebelliously. Usually, Amy loved her for it, but today it was exasperating. “You’ve got Mister Perfect keeping you steady.”

“He’s not even real. Just a stupid dream when I was a kid.”

She laughed. “No, I wasn’t talking about him.”

At that moment, Rory realized what it was like to be telepathic. He pleaded to Mels with all his might, using his eyes. Nonononononononono, Don’t, Mels, please! But she only smiled back. This is your cue, eh, son?

NO, it is NOT my cue and I don’t know how to say it!

Just say it like we practiced!

I can’t!

Do you need a paper bag?

…no.

“Rory?” Amy was saying. “How have I got Rory?”

“Yeah, how– how’s she got me?” He said, glad for the intervention.

Amy’s face was strange, like something was hatching inside her. Something…fluttering. “He’s not mine.” She repeated. 

“No, no, I mean, yeah, I agree. I’m– I’m not hers.”

Mels glared at Rory. “Oh, come on, seriously, it’s got to be you two.”

No, Mels, don’t do this, please!

Well, since you didn’t…

“Cut to the song. It’s getting boring.”

“Nice thought, okay, but completely impossible.”

“Yeah, yeah. Impossible.”

“I mean, I’d love to, he’s gorgeous. He’s my favorite guy–” (Rory took a glance at her) “–but he’s, you know.”

“A friend.” Rory supplied hastily. 

“Gay.” She frowned at him.

“I’m not gay.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“`Course you are. Don’t be stupid. In the whole time I’ve known you, when have you shown any interest in a girl?”

Mels threw the police box up to the ceiling. Penny in the air…

“I mean, I’ve known you for, what, ten years? I’ve seen you practically every day. Name one girl you’ve paid the slightest attention to?”

Rory couldn’t stand it. He took out the paper bag from his pocket and ran down the stairs, almost tripping on a Christmas wreath with sunflowers drawn on it.

And the penny drops…

Maybe someday, one day, butterflies did flutter in Amy’s stomach when Rory looked at her. Maybe someday, one day, Amy drew her arms around Rory’s neck and met his lips with hers. Maybe someday, they were teenagers outside Sharon’s house, outside the shed that was still broken. Maybe one day, they were children in a therapist’s office. 

Perhaps, just perhaps, Amy saw Rory in her eyes and said…

Some day

One day

Every day

Any day.

Chapter Text

Melody Zucker left that day. No talk, no goodbye. And as she didn’t leave any addresses, no letter was delivered. It stayed in Amelia’s desk drawer, safe and sound…and neglected.

Amy spent time with Rory, walking or biking from school, laughing at the horrors newly added to the duck pond. They spent hours, hours, and hours together. Time flowed like a Victorian lady’s green dress, spreading the poison of care everywhere. Amy cared about Sharon, she cared about schoolwork, she cared about her ambitions…and she cared about Rory. She felt –but didn’t know– the poison seeping into her skin, her veins, her thoughts. She felt the flutter in her mind, and Amy knew–

And then it happened. 

It was one morning in May, a morning that all the sixth-formers of Leadworth dreaded. Amy went to the examination site. It was in Grantshire, about an hour’s ride. She complained loudly to Sharon that it was too far away, that it rained too much there, and that the education system was punctured. (In real life, she said something worse but that was how Sharon corrected it.)

Amy wasn’t concerned about the ride, or about the rain. No. She was more concerned that Rory wasn’t there. His site was in Leadworth. 

On the morning of the Big Day (or, for Amy and lots of people, the Day of Death), Amy woke up exceptionally earlier than usual, wore her clothes, and ate her breakfast without complaint. She fetched her school bag she had packed the night before and was at the door five minutes before Sharon did. They arrived at school in time, albeit in the rain, and Amy stepped out of the car before Sharon could blink an eye, waved a quick goodbye, and walked towards the entrance of Grantishire College.

How did the girl grow up? Sharon wondered. She cared for Amy, she cared and cared and cared…and then what? Too much time had passed without memorable events. Some had looked significant…until they hadn’t. Everything faded out in a jumble of memories. Was she a good pa– a guardian to her? Yes? No? She couldn’t believe anything Amy told her, just in case it was a white lie. She wanted somebody to take one look at her and say: hey, it’s okay. You’ve done well. Your girl is happy ‘cause of you. Don’t worry. She can manage quite well on her own, and yeah, it’s all due to you!

She looked at her niece’s ( no, her d– ) back until it disappeared amongst all the people. Amelia’s hair swung with her footsteps as she walked up the steps. Sharon prayed for her, even though she wasn’t devoted to any sort of religion. But if Amy could be happy after this, if she could tell Sharon again that she loved her and all the things that Sharon wanted to hear, and if, if only they could meet again to retake the lifeboat called time…she would walk barefoot to bloody Meccah. 

The students were all inside. There wasn’t anyone out except a couple of latecomers and many parents. Sharon wasn’t a parent. She was an aunt. But she stayed. A man asked Sharon to look after his car while he prayed, so she did. Her heart sucked in breaths. The sun wasn’t out and the rain never seemed to stop. Some of the parents invited her to lunch, but she declined. She wasn’t going to stay with them. She wanted to make something for dinner. But maybe Amy would want ice cream for dinner. She laughed at the thought, that old memory. It was something significant, that. Decrepit and battered, almost a decade ago. But it held meaning. 

The road was slippery with rain. It was ten in the morning, or so the radio announced. She racked her brain trying to think about what Amy would be tested on right now, but she couldn’t think of anything. 

All around me are familiar faces

Worn-out places, worn-out faces

Bright and early for their daily races

Going nowhere, going nowhere

The water beat at her windshield. She didn’t think about Amy’s test. It made her nervous. Amelia was probably more nervous than her, but still. She thought about the dinner menu instead. 

Their tears are filling up their glasses

No expression, no expression

Hide my head, I want to drown my sorrow

No tomorrow, no tomorrow

She hoped that she wouldn’t panic. Amy had told her that her greatest fear was exploding into tears during the Levels. She hoped that she herself wouldn’t panic, either. 

And I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad

The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had

I find it hard to tell you 'cause I find it hard to take

When people run in circles, it's a very, very–

Something banged from behind her.

Mad world

Mad world

Mad world

Mad world

The radio sang.

When Amy came out of Grantshire College, Brian Williams was waiting for her outside. “In the car.” He said gruffly. Amy laughed. 

“Is this some surprise?” She asked, remembering Brian's cooking skills. Maybe Sharon was too tired that she'd accepted a dinner invitation. But he only shook his head. 

“Just…in the car. Now.” 

Frowning, she did as told. “What's happening?” She asked, rifling through her backpack for exam sheets. “Where's Rory?”

“At home,” Brian said. “I mean, uh, in the hospital.”

“What? Is he working today?”

“No”

Amy tried to focus on the questions but she couldn’t see the words clearly. The car shook. Rain batted the front glass. Her hands shook. Or were it her eyes? Amy was dizzy. She looked out of the window. 

“I didn't panic.” She said, more to Sharon than Brian, or herself. “I think I solved everything well. The first day and all. A good sign, I'd say.”

The rain kept splattering down. Raindrop after raindrop. And then– a boom. A loud thunder ripped the air. Amy flinched. 

“Mr. Williams,” Amy asked, “what happened?”

Brian didn't say anything. Instead, he let her see.

She was in the hospital. 

She registered things in words, simple concepts.

Beep. Life. Machine. Fingers. Arm. Other arm. Shoulders. Beep. Neck. Cast? White. Plastic. Face. Head. Bandages. Bandages. Beep. Medicine bags. Needles. Danger. Scrubs. Leg. Beep. Table. Window. Outside. Rain. Inside. Beep. White.  Clean. Too clean. Spotless. Hygiene. Beep. DO NOT ENTER. Beep. Sanitation. Beep. 

Grief. 

Grief broke through that wall of conceptions. Slicing bricks and squeezing in cracks. And Amy was not seeing anymore. She was feeling .

She felt Rory at her side, his breathing, his closeness. She felt Brian and Kat whispering with other people in white gowns– doctors? She felt other patients walking behind her. To them, she was naught but another human. Her grief held no meaning for them. She felt the icy coldness from the window. The window that blocked her from meeting–. She felt her head throb. All that beeping noise was killing her. She felt –’s breath. She felt– she feels– she– sh–

She felt the pillars that meant her family –her whole world– crumbling.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, silence the pianos and with muffled drum bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplances circle moaning overhead scribbling on the sky the message ‘he is dead.’ Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my north, my south, my east and west, my working week and my sunday rest, my noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood; for nothing now can ever come to any good. 

The looks they gave her. The hospitals. Clean. Too clean. So unlike her rickety old house, with smelly clothes and dirty tables. The touching. Strong, forceful with dry encouragements. Her loved cardigan removed, then replaced with patient scrubs. The clinic, with the same white walls, trophies, and manuscripts the size of giant pound cakes. The talking. With the adults,with her aunt, with her cousin. Sometimes included, sometimes excluded. Conversation she could only catch a few bits out of. Talks where they pretended she wasn’t there. Whispers between the adults with white gowns.Words she did not understand.

She was running before she realized where she was.

Rory found her at a bus stop. Her hair draped around her face like curtains. She was crying, or had cried. He couldn’t tell. Maybe it was the rain. He sat next to her. She didn’t look up. Her body shook from the icy fear that surrounded her. It was dark. They were in the outskirts of the town. He had an umbrella. He could ask her to come back to Leadworth with him.

He didn’t.

He waited. 

The kite string, watching the fallen kite shivering on the ground. Waiting, waiting. Because it knew, however battered it may be, it could fly again. It would take time. A year or two, a decade, a century. One little breeze at a time.

The cage, covering the canary cowering in its egg. Knowing that it doesn’t want to be seen. Guarding it from public eye. Not healing the broken bones, because it knew that whatever help it was able to give the little bird would be fruitless. 

The anchor, a lonely creature, waiting in the ship’s hold while it sails in the churning storm. Lost in static, dark to the world, struggling just to stay upright. No star to guide it, not anymore. The anchor would gladly take the place of the burning fusion, but, as its heavy self painfully tumbles at a strong wave, that’s not what it was made for. So it waited. Just waited for the storm to clear. When land nears –and it would near, however long it takes– it would be able to keep the ship from wandering once more. 

From that day on Amelia’s world started its free fall, auburn flames rushing through the hay and forest, the fertile plain. And Rory became the boy who waited. He couldn’t stop the ending. 

He could always wait for her start, instead. 

Chapter Text

When Amy met Rory, he was hilariously…normal.

“Rory!” Amy said, slapping him in the back. “this is supposed to be a dress-up party. what are you supposed to be?”

“Rory Williams.” He grumbled. “What are you ?”

“A highborn lady of Rome.”

Rory could see that. Her dress was olive green, slithering down her body and tied around her waist. another wide cloth covered her arms like an oversized shawl;

“It must be difficult to pick up stuff without slipping,” he suggested. Amy laughed, pulling it up to her neck.

“I can pretend it's a cape instead, then.”

“A superhero from Rome.”

Then they both laughed…again.

“Well, well, well. aren’t you two lovely?” Sharon said, her smile wide as Amy’s shawl. Jeff trailed after her, looking like a lost puppy. “This is even more beautiful than your cheerleader uniform.” She exclaimed, rolling the fabric in her fingers. “At– at–”

“On Halloween.” Amy offered with a pained smile on her lips. Rory grimaced behind her back. They both knew it wasn’t on Halloween. Sharon didn’t know that, to afford her medications and Jeff (who Rory disliked silently), Amy not only wrote for two magazines but also worked as a kissogram. Was Rory jealous? No. Well, well, maybe, a lot. It was inevitable, he knew. A method of survival. To keep the house, those trees, that shed, that grew more and more run down with time. He had to detach himself, he knew, yet it felt impossible. The more he loved Amy, the more green he grew and at one point– he was afraid he might not be able to keep his feelings at bay. Her love was a thousand-floor castle built on sinking sand. Ready to fall anytime, ready to give way any minute…to what, or to whom?

Amy pulling him to the makeshift bar snapped Rory out of misery. 

“I’ll have a…Pina Colada and he…”

“Orange juice,” Rory said. The bartender (one of their fellow graduates, he supposed) stared at him suspiciously, like he was a spy that would infect the non-alcohol virus everywhere. “I’m a nurse,” Rory explained. “I could get calls anytime. Doesn’t hurt to stay sober.” (He was a trainee, but whatever. He was quite proud of what he did.)

He still got a weird look, but also a soft drink that tasted like lemon. 

While Rory searched for a seat, Amy looked around for a familiar face. Not a lot. Some school friends, some work friends, but none like Mels. 

A hand tapped her on the shoulder.

“Hello.” There was a woman beside her.

“Hello,” she said, “and who you may be?”

“Call me Ocean. You?”

“Amy.” Then she had nothing to say. “Nice dress.”

“Thank you!” Ocean smiled, swishing it around her ankles. The gold glitter was a shape of circles and lines, locked together…like a clock. “I had it done just for this occasion.”

“Must have been expensive.”

“Oh, well, special occasions require special things, don’t you think?”

“It’s not that special.”

She smiled. “Believe me, out of everything, today, here, right now in space and time, is the most special.”

“Why?” Amy laughed. “You just sound like a self-help book.”

“Spoilers…”

Then she was gone. A swish of her black-gold dress, a glimmering explosion of golden stars, she disappeared into the crowd, nowhere to be seen. Like a fairy godmother. Or a long-lost thought in the back of one’s mind. A dream, forgotten with consciousness. It was almost as if Amy was living the same life twice.

“Amy?” Rory was there. “Found a seat. Let’s go.”

And Amelia forgot all about the lady in black.

They sat on one of the rickety tables, feeling the chair creak beneath their weight. Some people looked out to the window, eagerly awaiting the meteor strike.

“It’s so strange, isn’t it?” Amy sipped her drink.

“What is?”

“That it’s only been a year since the Prisoner Zero incident, and people are already waiting so eagerly for something alien.”

“Well, extraterrestrial things, fascinating, right?” Rory kicked at her floor, feeling his castle crumbling. A giant eyeball walked past them. And something that may have looked like a pig-human hybrid.

Amy frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“What? I just meant…aliens are…interesting!” He couldn’t see the problem here and regretted his decision to speak instantly. The ruby inside his pocket burned red. 

“Do you mean the Doctor?”

Oh. 

“No, of course not, I–”

“Rory…” Amy bit her lip for a moment, and then, with hesitation, reached to hold his hand in hers. “I– I know things aren’t right.”

Rory couldn’t breathe. The fire in his pocket reached up to squeeze his neck and slide down his intestines. Dizziness hugged him. “Amy–”

“I know that…you’re probably tired of me now. We’ve known each other for, what, decades? We met at primary and now…we’re about to leave school. And, we’re growing up– and– and–” Amy looked down at her drink. It was half empty. She couldn’t even get her hopes up. “I don’t know what to say.”

Rory stared at her. “I don’t, either.”

She looked up, her eyes meeting his. Fall meeting summer, brown meeting green. But it wasn’t fall or summer. His hair was stupidly handsome. Unlike his original jaggedly, hay-like hair, they were combed like flower petals. Flower petals. They still kept a garden on the rooftop. The sunflowers were all dead, though. New blossoms bloomed in their places. 

“What I want to say– What I want to say is–” Oh my God, why can’t people write things like these instead? It was so difficult, having to think at the same time while worrying, talking, drinking, and listening to others talking. But she could do this. She wanted to. She was a cloud in the sky and he…he kept her from blowing away in the wind. She was the ship and he was the anchor. Her, the string, him, the kite. Her, the tree, him, the roots. Sometimes, she was the bird and he was the cage. So suffocating, annoying, that, having something she had to care about. 

It felt good, to have something to care about.

“Look!” Somebody screamed. “It’s starting!”

Amy looked to the garden window to see people gathered around, all staring at the sky. “Come on, don’t want to miss it, right?” She stood up hastily and almost tripped on her shawl. 

“Be careful,” Rory said, holding it up and softly wrapping it around her shoulders, away from the chill. Miss Superhero. He would have added, under different circumstances. They came out to the small garden, a bit away from others, keenly observing the shooting stars. 

“Did you know that they’re not actually stars?” Rory said. “They’re just space stuff, burning as they enter the atmos–”

“Shut up.” Someone in astronaut clothes said loudly. “No one wants your random facts encyclopedia.”

He chuckled stiffly, checking Amy’s face. She just wrapped her clothes tighter around her. The flames engulfed him now, eating up (no, what was the phrase Mels would have used, gobbling up ) every atom. 

They stood there after the people had abated. Even after the shooting starts had faded, one by one. Yellow to her red. red to his yellow. the colors in the sky to mix, mix, mix. Swirls in the darkness. blue, orange, white of the stars, black, purple, gray of the night sky…beautiful. the change. the shifting. like her. (Rory told himself to shut up.) The fire was a comfortable ache now. He thought of Amy’s words. 

“I know things aren't right between us…”

He invited her to dinner or lunch, at least once a day. He liked the way they could spend time with her, even though it wasn't in private. (They were always too busy for that) And, in a way, he could help her, sort of. He liked to listen to her talk. To iron away the creases from her face. (Everything was awkward when he tried to do it directly. They were about-to-be grownups, but also they were hormone-filled emotional disasters that tried (and failed) to love and be loved. The callouses of life hadn't touched them yet. They were soft to the woes of life, regardless of whose.

She had that crease now. Two lines on her face. He slowly moved his hand up, up, up, away from the source of his crackling fire. He touched the crease, expecting her to flinch. But she didn’t; she only looked up (looked straight, really, as they were almost of the same height) and deepened her frown. 

“Do you know what to say now?” He asked with tentative steps. 

“Dunno.” Amy stared at the skies. “Dunno. I think I forgot. Forgot it all.”

A church clock rang.

“Right, goys, clear out!” Andy slurred. “I don’t wanna make you inter– trunk vaga–whatever-’andits.”

“Yer more than drunk, Aaaandy.” Said Renee, a school friend, for almost every single person in the party was classmates with somebody. “Yer crazy! Betcha you’d slink down the whole bucket of– of– boooooze down yer mouth and say that yure ain’t– aren’t– drunk!” 

“I’m less pissed than youu, Tiff–‘ny!”

“ It’s Renee! ”

A loud crash. Bottles breaking. Giggles and shouts.

“Someone’s in trouble.” Sharon materialized next to them, making Rory jump. Amy was a bit more used to this. “I’d like to see the state this house’s in tomorrow.”

“You really don’t,” Amy said. “Jeff? Where are you? Hey. Hey? You left her wandering away on her own again!”

“Sorry– sorry!” Jeff said. “Just– she goes everywhere!”

“Look, I told you about situations you should be careful in. I’m paying you to follow her everywhere, not to leave her in danger!”

“Come on, now.” Rory could now see that Jeff was also slightly inebriated. “She can’t possibly kill herself here–”

“You– dun’t– meass with meh like that!” Renee shouted in the background. “Ha, I think the blonde is winning. Anyone wanna bet?” Someone said above the noise.

“ Here? You thought she’d be alright here? ” Amy said. “Don’t be ridiculous. She’s in danger everywhere– anywhere! Wherever she is. I don’t care if she’s covered in foam for twenty-four hours. I need to look out for her!”

“You do it, then,” Jeff said. “If you want her to be protected so hard.”

Rory could see where this conversation was going. Amy would say that she worked every day, and would remind him who was the employer, and who was the employee. And then Jeff would remind Amy who had the certificates and the necessary skills to take care of Sharon, and then spiral into an endless debate of childish battle of ‘I’m right!’. 

“Stop, all of you,” Rory said. And it was rather true. He wanted Andy and Renee to sober up and go home, he wanted Sharon to get better, and stop trying to eat the rhododendrons in the garden for a start. He wanted Amy and Jeff to stop fighting over whose responsibility Sharon was. He just wanted a bloody date, for heaven’s sake. A bloody date occasion, a special but normal occasion. Don’t call her on purpose. Just make a casual appointment about something they both have in common. Don’t go overboard or too hinting about this, it will ruin everything, letting her notice. So he’d picked this night. A party held by a mutual friend, about falling rocks from the sky. He thought it was really romantic, and that was going to be a perfect night. 

He was also a horrible idiot.

“It’s late.” He said, hearing the jarring commotions from the inside. “I know you two are both hammered– no, Amy.” He said. “I don’t care. You are at least a bit hammered, even if it’s a dwarf hammer. Let’s go home.”

“Home?” Sharon said? “But Amy broke the shed. We can’t sleep in the shed!”

“You won’t sleep in that hut,” Jeff said, pulling her away from the flowers. “Don’t worry.” He added with forceful guilt. “I’ll escort her home. She’ll be fine.”

“Ride a cab.” Amy snapped. “Or sleep in a hotel.”

“I’ll drive you home,” Rory said. “I’ll drive all of you home. None of you are in the state to drive.”

The night was ruined. By everything. By everyone. By the world. In a way, it was so special. Special in a horrible way. 

And special occasions required special things, like the fire in his pocket, which he double-checked when leading them out of the fight scene. His eyes watered slightly.

Idiot.  

Apparently, Amy had walked all the way to the party for some reason. She gathered up her bag like it was a sacred treasure. She sat in the front passenger seat with it, carefully covering it up with her shawl. Jeff and Sharon sat in the back, Jeff desperately holding her back from scratching at the window to bring it down. He watched it all happen through the front mirror. Then he glanced at Amy. Legs gathered underneath her skirt, hair less extravagant, she was the goddess of finished parties and barren golden ages, the one that came when Dionysus left. 

Jeff and Sharon’s house was closer. They went outside with Sharon hollering her goodbye to Amy. After a moment’s hesitation, she shouted goodbye to her as well, even louder than Sharon herself. 

They had a few dozen minutes until the arrival. Rory wondered if he could kick off a last-ditch attempt at a conversation, he could turn this night into something a bit better. 

“Do you remember him?” Amy blasted through his mind.

“Sorry– sorry,” Rory said. “What?”

“You weren’t listening,” Amy said. Rory stole a quick glance at her. Her eyes were more ancient than ever, her creases appearing at the speed of turtles, if they traveled at light speed.

“Uh– uh, yes. I mean, I wasn’t. Eyes on the road when driving, right?” Rory said. “Uh– what was it about?”

“Him. The English teacher in primary.”

“Mr. C?”

Amy chuckled darkly. “He hated that, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, he did.”

“Do you remember the Christmas with him? We…we made wreaths.”

Rory shrugged. “Not really. He was just another teacher.”

“Was he?” Amy said. “Was he, to you?”

“I guess. A bit young, maybe. But all teachers start young.”

“He…” she hesitated, giving him room to wonder what he had done wrong, “it’s just that he was the one who…he suggested that I become a writer. A journalist.”

“Oh.” Rory was mildly surprised. “I didn’t know that.”

“I never told you. But Rory– I– can’t you see? He was the one who made the thought concrete , but you were– you were the one who planted the seed. Rory– you made me start it. You gave me the thought.”

“Did I?”

“Yes. Maybe– maybe I’m asking, I mean, just maybe I’m asking you to remember too much. Just, that one day, that one day when you told me about how I should write all my thoughts down, it was as if someone had flicked on a light, and I had this…this inspiration, should I say? I don’t know. But what I want to say to you now, is that, is that…”

“Slowly,” Rory said, watching her breath pick up speed.

“I just want to say…you were the muse, my muse, that day. And you still are. And I want you to stay that way. Forever. With me. Do you get it?” Amy said, but she didn’t give him time to think, to process what she had just said. “I want you to stay beside me. Keep me still. Keep me going. At the same time. I don’t know. I just– do you get– do you understand what I’m talking about? Look. Look!” She said, wrenching the shawl away from her bag. And then she pulled out a wreath.

Rory momentarily wondered if he had picked up the wrong Amy Pond, or that she was blathering away in some alien language. Until he realized; it wasn’t just any wreath. It was the wreath. The one, on Christmas, in a classroom in Leadworth Primary. The one decorated with sunflowers. That he made, for her.

“I want this to hang in our house, forever. I want this to stay with us. I– I want to watch us grow old together. I want to watch our children grow old, if we happen to have children. Don’t you– Rory, can’t you see what I’m talking about? Please. Say something. Please.”

Silence.

He pulled over. There wasn’t anyone on the road, really, but that was what he thought was appropriate. 

The fire in his pocket would smother his world. And it would build it back up again. It would be a slow process, an aching one. But the ember would become a bonfire, and it would– will– keep his life warm for the rest of his life until Amelia Jessica Pond wasn’t there anymore. But it didn’t matter. By the time she was gone, he would be gone too.

“I have a ring in my pocket.” He said. 

And that was that.

Chapter Text

"Right. Okay, I’ll go first. If anything happens to me, go back.”

“What happened, between you and Amy? You said she kissed you.”

“Now? You want to do this now?”

“I have a right to know. I’m getting married in four hundred and thirty years.”

“The Pandorica Opens.”

“The Pandorica? What is it?”

“A box, a cage, a prison. It was built to contain the most feared thing in all the universe.”

“And it’s a fairy tale, a legend. It can’t be real.”

“People fall out of the world sometimes, but they always leave traces. Little things we can’t quite account for. Faces in photographs, luggage, half-eaten meal, rings. Nothing is ever forgotten, not completely. And if sometime can be remembered, it can come back.”

“So, was she nice, your friend?”

“Remember the night you flew away with me?”

“Of course I do.’

“And you asked me why I was taking you and I told you there wasn’t a reason. I was lying.”

“What, so you did have a reason?”

“Your house.”

“My house.”
“It was too big. Too many empty rooms. Does it ever bother you, Amy, that your life doesn’t make any sense?”

“Go get her.”

“But I don’t understand. Why am I here?”

“Silence will fall.”

“What do you see, Amelia?”

“The moon.”

“And what else?”

“Just the dark.”

“But no start. If there were stars up there, we’d be able to see them, wouldn’t we? Amelia, look at me. You know this is just a story, don’t you? You know there’s no such thing as stars.”

“Can you help her? Is there anything you can do?”

“Yeah, probably, if I had the time.”

“The time?”

“All of creation has just been wiped from the sky. Do you know how many lives never happened? All the people who never lived? Your girlfriend isn’t more important than the whole universe.”

“She is to me.”

“There’s something missing. Someone important. Someone so, so important.”

“Amy, what’s wrong?”

“Sorry, sorry. But when I was a kid, I had an imaginary friend.”

“Oh no, not this again.”

“The raggedy Doctor. My raggedy Doctor. But he wasn’t imaginary, he was real.”

“The psychiatrists we sent her to…”

“I remember you. I remember! I brought the others back, I can bring you home, too. Raggedy ma, I remember you, and you are late for my wedding!”

“Amy, what is it?”

“Something old. Something new. Something borrowed. Something blue.”

“We locked on to a timestream, Rory. This is it.”

“This is so wrong.”

“I got old, Rory. What did you think was going to happen?”

“I don’t care that you got old. I care that we didn't grow old together. Amy, come on, please.”

“Don’t touch me. Don’t do that.”

“Will she be safer if I stay? Then how could I leave her?”

“I know that she’s afraid. And she needs our help.”

“I’d forgotten not all victories are about saving the universe.”

“Putting Hitler in the cupboard. Cupboard!”

“I haven’t told you for seven hours that I love you, which is a scandal!”

“Because you are. The universe is big. It’s vast and complicated and ridiculous, and sometimes, very rarely, impossible things just happen and we call them miracles, and that’s the theory.”

Chapter Text

“Sometimes people ask me, “Why do you even love him?” And I wonder the same thing. But then you’re like this, and I somehow know why.”

No one knew what to do with that giant thing.

“Maybe hang it up your wall.” Simon suggested. “Looks better that way. Festive.”

“Festive.” Rory stared at the young man then back at the monstrous scarf. Wide. Long. Splotched with green and red here and there irregularly. Running down for miles in green than changing course to gray-ginger.“Yeah, festive. Really…Christmas-y.”

“Agreed.” Said a dishevelled student clearly dying from a case of hangover. “Really” —he yawned— “wonderful.”

Rory didn’t know what to make of their comments. But then again, they didn’t know what to make of him, either. He was the only married man training to be a nurse in the dormitory, and everyone he met thought he was doing the Boston marriage in reverse.

“How long do you think this is?” Rory asked.

As it turned out, long enough to run down the corridor, down two staircases and out to the gardens, and be caught by the matron in the woman’s dormitory.

“Where did you even get it?” Rory once asked during Christmas tea.

“I made it. Well, not exactly. The pawn shop was on sale and I just had to get that. Twenty same red-and-green scarves. I sewed it together.”“You know how to wield a needle?”

“I still have the scars— look.”

Small, white pokes in her fingers. He held them examined them.

“Did it bleed?”

“No.”

“You did get a disinfectant?”

“No.”

He got her a thimble.

Dear Mrs. Rory Williams

We regret to tell you that one can not give your payment directly to you, as your balance is unstable. If you please, could you give us your husband’s bank account?

New York Times, Human Resources

Dear Mrs. Amelia Williams

Your payment for your essay on the hardship of young women with departed husbands has been delivered. If you please, could you send us some more? Full payment is guaranteed.

Wives’ Journal, Publishing Department

FROM: HARPER & BROTHERS

SUMMER FALLS CHILDREN’S BOOK DECLINED WITH REGRETS

TO: AMELIA WILLIAMS

Everyone looked up at the sound of the yowling cat. Even the teacher.

“What’s that?”Mrs. Evangel asked.

Karen, a wispy girl from Ireland with to much legs and not enough lips, trembled and began crying. “It’s— it’s Clam. I didn’t feed her today, and—”“Don’t be stupid.” Said Mary Barnes, a widow who was permanently pissed all the time, at everything. Every time Rory looked at her hands, he couldn’t help but think of Typhoid Mary. “It’s a pussy in heat.”

“It’s the school cat.” Rory said. “It’s having her kits, I think.”

“Students!”Mrs. Evangel said. “I feel that it is a very good time to practice midwifery. If you will follow me, please.”

Rory was stopped at the door. Looking as Evangel’s face, he decided not to argue.

“What do you think happened?” Amelia asked later.

“What happened?” Rory said. “I always assumed I’d see them somewhere. Maybe they were shipped off. Clam had some kittens about her, though.”

“She’s sweet.” She said.

The picture remained frozen on the mantelpiece, black-and-white. A memory.

“I’m still worried that she’s suffering from childbed fevers.” He admitted. “Never been sure of Mary’s hands…”

“Who?”

“Never mind.”

From. Reader’s Digest

Thank you for submitting your story to Reader’s Digest. After careful consideration, we regret to inform you that we will not be able to accept it for publication.

No, matter. I can always try again.

From. Viking Press

Thank you for submitting your story to Reader’s Digest. Though this shows the work of a good author, we regret to inform you this piece does not match our company’s values.

Okay. Just write another. Let’s say what you want to hear.

From. Lady’s Home Journal

Thank you for sending your essay to us. While this is beautifully articulated, we feel this is better suited another audience.

I need money.

FROM: WIVES JOURNAL

ESSAY ON KNICKERBOCKER ETIQUETTE ACCEPTED PAYMENT TEN DOLLAR

TO: AMELIA WILLIAMS

FROM: LADY’S HOME JOURNAL

ESSAY ON PATIENCE AND CHARITY ACCEPTED PAYMENT FIVE DOLLAR

TO: AMELIA WILLIAMS

What am I doing here?

FROM: THE TRAVEL MAGAZINE

TRAVELS TO CAIRO ACCEPTED PAYMENT FIVE DOLLAR

TO: AMELIA WILLIAMS

Oh, fuck it.

FROM: THE TRAVEL MAGAZINE

TRAVELS TO RIO ACCEPTED PAYMENT FIFTEEN DOLLAR

TO: RORY POND

FROM: WIVES JOURNAL

MELODY MALONE PRIVATE DETECTIVE IN OLD NEW YORK TOWN ACCEPTED PAYMENT TWENTY DOLLAR

TO: AMELIA WILLIAMS

There you go, future me…

ATTENTION: Students of Brightwood School of Nursing

As to answer the recent train accident crisis, all students are required to aid the regional medical force. If one is not available, please contact the administrative office by Friday. Other projects are suspended.

Train Plunges Off Track in Brightwood

In the early hours of commute, a devastating train derailment occurred on the main line of Brightwood, resulting in several casualties and severe injuries. The incident, which took place at approximately on 6 in the morning, left the local community in disarray and shock. Local medical schools have rushed to aid the wounded. Though the latest news does not confirm additional deaths, further mechanical accidents occurred, raining questions about local infrastructure safety.

Eyewitnesses at the scene described the moment of the crash as complete horror.

“I heard a loud screeching sound, and the train just banged into the forest…” says Mrs. Henry Brown.

“I was in the end of the train, so I wasn’t hurt a lot, but lots of people went over to the side— the part where the track crosses the ridge, you know. What a nightmare! Good thing it didn’t actually cross the road. There would have been more damage.” says Mr. Mikal Pones.

Local forces refused interview. “It’s rest the patient needs.” Says Mrs. E, at the request of interview. “Not any of you nitwits hanging around!”

Officials and local authorities have launched a thorough investigation into the cause of the crash. Early indications suggest that a combination of poor track conditions contributed to the derailment. Preliminary reports indicate that the train was travelling at a speed higher than the recommended limit for that section of track.

An anonymous source mentioned that maintenance on the track had been scheduled for later this week but was postponed due to “unforeseen logistical complications.”

Within minutes, the residents of Brightwood spotted the crash site and began execrating the passengers. Rescue teams from the local fire department arrived on the scene hours later. The emergency workers were able to extricate trapped passengers from the overturned cars using hydraulic cutters and other tools. The Brightwood School of Nursing set up a temporary shelter nearby to assist those affected, providing food, water, and medical care for the injured.

“The quick response from our locals undoubtedly saved lives today,” said the Mayor of Brightwood, on-site overseeing the train recovery. “This town saw some horrific accidents in the past, but the work today was extraordinary.”

The incident once again raised concerns about the safety of train travel in the region. This is not the first derailment involving the Brightwood in recent years, though it is the most severe. Industry experts called for stricter regulations on track maintenance and increased inspections.

As authorities continue to investigate the cause of the accident, trains along the Brightwood line are expected to remain disrupted for the remainder of the month. Commuters are advised to check with Brightwood for updates on service schedules. The recovery and clearing of debris from the scene is expected to take several days.

The incident has shocked the local community, but residents have expressed relief that the outcome was not worse. “We’ve all been on that train route.” says an anonymous local resident,“it’s a miracle more people weren’t killed!”

Authorities have promised a full report in the coming days as they continue their investigation.

ATTENTION

THE PATIENTS ARE NO LONGER DIVIDED BY RACE OR SEX DUE TO A LACK OF BEDS.

FROM: WIVES JOURNAL

THE ANGELS KISS ACCEPTED PAYMENT TWENTY DOLLAR

TO: AMELIA WILLIAMS

FROM: AMELIA WILLIAMS

RORY I HEARD ABOUT THE ACCIDENT IM GOING

TO: RORY WILLIAMS

Rory walked. Snow crunched beneath his feet. The nearby forest, now invaded by people and noise and smoke and smells, might have been something from a fairytale. Back when humans didn’t exist. Back when the lion started singing.

“Taking a break?” Someone asked. Rory turned around to see Mary Barnes, a widow with a plump face and rough arms. Her apron was covered with slop.

“Yeah. Want to join in?”

She huffed. “I need a cigarette.”

“They’ll ruin your lungs.”

“God, I’ll do anything for a whiff out here. Those niggs are pissy. Not to mention the Scots! Barely white, y’know? They keep asking for so much stuff.”

Rory flinched. “I miss Clam.”

Mary chuckled and took off her apron, soaking it in snow. “And I miss my husband. That cat’s gone.”

“I know.” Clam wasn’t seen on campus for months. Gillan had been sad about it.

“That girl needs to perk up. Men everywhere: she could use this chance to get herself someone.”

“Hmm.”

“You too! Did you see the legs on the brown one? You could drown yourself–”

“What?”

“You! Got to give the lil’ fish between your legs some relief–”

He blushed. “No, I’m not–”

“Oh, really? So you’re not a punk pussy–”

The train exploded.

FROM: RORY WILLIAMS

WHAT NO DONT YOU DARE YOU IDIOT STAY

TO: AMELIA WILLIAMS

Amelia arrived in the morning, when Rory was clearing up the scraps of skin.

“Hey.” She said.

Rory looked up, somehow sure he was dreaming.

“Hello.”

“Having a good day?”

Rory looked down at the tuff of red hair in his section of the wall. Was it hers? Was she dead? Was she on this train? But no. She couldn’t be. He had read her story on the magazine just this morning. Melody Malone: Private Detective in Old New York Town. Karen had given it to him. They passed magazines around, like that would heal the scars and mend the holes. He stared at the skin on the wall. Remembered a boy with a mop of platinum gold hair. He kept screaming. They couldn’t find anyone that claimed to be his parents. The boy died in his sleep.

Someone had dug up a woman with a bashed-in head. She hadn’t looked an inch like Amy, but she’d felt like her— like he could touch her, and the woman would turn magically into Amelia. Was this figure her?

“No.” He said.

“I thought so.” She held out her hand. “Want some help?”

He didn’t want to take it. “Go and rest.”

“Rory?” She said. “Are you okay?”

That slight frown. The warmth radiating from her outstretched hand. She was his Amy and he couldn’t argue with his Amy. He cried. Cried just a bit.

“I read your piece.” He said.

“Which one?”

“Everything.”

“Even the one about the teapot?”

“Especially that. I’m a big fan of yours, Amelia Pond.”

“Thank you.” She gave a slight curtsey. “Again, want some help?” She gestured to the wall.

“It’s gruesome.”

“I live in gruesome, honey. It’s my job to write about gruesome.”

In the night, he thought he saw figures emerging from the night. He wondered who it was, then he wondered if they were even human. The TARDIS and the Doctor, and their daughter, River. They had taught him a lot of things. Some things that he didn’t even want to know.

It was right before he went to sleep that he started hearing voices.

some kind of bomb…set off…when the temperature…

Helen…report…New York…back to…

mission failure…patience…Jack…for the sake of…

Torchwood…

He slept very hard through the night.

Dear Amelia Pond

Your children’s book, <Summer Falls and Other Stories> has been accepted and will be paid for on March 21st. Your request that it be released on August 5th was also accepted and will be commenced as such. The payment will be 300 Dollars.

From Brooklyn Fayre

“What is this?” Amelia said, shoving the letter in front of Rory’s nose.

“Your letter.”

“I know it’s my letter. The point is, I never did anything to get this.”

Rory stared.

“Was this you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It was meant to be a surprise for your birthday. You ruined the affect.”

“It was mine. I don’t want it printed for 30—”

She checked the number, that looked at him. Tears began to gather.

“I know.”

Amelia knocked the paper aside, came close, and gave him his warmest bear hug, than smashed her lips against his. She cried. Just a little.

“I know.” He said again. She looked at him and pouted.

“Sometimes people ask me, “Why do you even love him?” And I wonder the same thing. But then you’re like this, and I somehow know why.”

Chapter Text

Major Anjak Linn left her message to her wife when the Things slammed into her head. Not a long one, just short and sweet, I’m sorry, my love. Her helmet would record everything she’d seen and done, but not her thoughts. Not her thoughts about her beloved Binhye. At least her body would be returned in one piece– the Things left them alone once they rendered the troops immobile. Then Binhye would have something to mourn over.

Her brain began to throb at the ruthless assault. The Things knocked her backward then began gnawing at her leg, preventing her escape. Her bodysuit was made of the strongest material E-SIG could offer, but the Things were also the strongest of which E-CIG had met. Or just more cunning. They filled her leg now. Like black goo. Like sentient oil.

I’m sorry, my love.

(I'm sorry, my love, that I'm such a coward.)

She sent out a distress call.

#

The Doctor wasn’t someone to abide by rules, and so is his wife. Time lords, typical of them. So it surprised them how the ponds were still like water. Yes, obviously he had tried everything in his power to bring them back, yet every single time their result remained unchanged. In the end, the only thing keeping him back was the sheer obduracy of the Ponds.

They were in the TARDIS. Sodium dissolved in water. They flowed down his cheeks.

“You know,” she said, “I was born here, it's my home.”

“Hmm.”

Her fingers roamed over the hair on the back of his hand. He registered the smell of her perfume, regenerating. He smelled…fear

“I’m not going to be all rampaging, don’t worry.”

“Really.”

“Hmm.”

“Yes.”

She leaned on him–closes–closed her eyes in a flirtatious flutter.

“We can still talk, you know. They’re not gone.”

But they were. However powerful, however willful he was, they weren’t here, right beside him. 

“Every time I’m near, they’re gone. Some vacation, a friend’s wedding, a family meeting. It’s not like they have family anymore.”

We’re their family. He added in his mind. She caught on to the unsaid sentence. 

“It’s the Universe’s power,” she mumbled, sliding against him even hotter and tighter. “She’s insistent and scared. Just a little child, out they, all alone…so alone…”

Four hearts beat as one.

“They’re idiots.” The Doctor said. “They don’t know what they’re up against, stubborn buggers! They’ll die, and they’ll die alone. ”

“What lives…” She whispered, “dies.”

“I know.” Spoilers.

“They lost their old world. They’re rebuilding it. Give them time. You have to wait.”

“What, a hundred years?”

“Two thousand. Six billion. As long as it takes.”

“They won’t have enough time.”

“What happened to wasting it?”

“I got old.”

“What a miracle,” Said River.

#

Somewhere in the 1940s

The wailing from Anthony’s room woke Amelia up from her slumber. God, she thought, it was a terrible mistake to put his cot in the guest bedroom. She had to get up at night, and walk all the way across the kitchen, pick him up, and then go back. Rory wasn’t much help either. He just snored on as Amy struggled to juggle work, child, money, and in addition, the countless, endless glass ceilings she had to face– so subtle that no one could accuse. And Rory– he was potential income, but hell, who knew what he was doing there– surrounded by all those women. Maybe that was why he slept. Not a tiring day at the hospital, but rather some ‘bedwork.’

“Tony?” She whispered. “Love?”

The room was sheathed in blue-gray moonlight and yellow streetlights, seeping through the window like fog. 

“I’m here, darling, I’m here–” She whispered, cradling him in her arms. What was he so sad about? Not food, not nappy changes, not burps, he just cried on and on.

The moonlight was a sharp backlash to her face in the window, tired eyes and lined face– she had spent the whole day staring at tiny letters and wondering which to omit– Rory didn’t. He didn’t care about Anthony– he just forgot–

Forgot. 

(Let’s say that we lived thousands of years ago– for just a spark. Maybe a second, maybe a century. Doesn’t matter– time is relative. Then you're gone. Time flows, and every evidence– that one family heirloom, your teeth and bones, stories of your life and achievements, all burned to ashes. Did you exist? Do you still exist, even when silence falls?)

“Amy.” 

Rory was at her side. 

“What are you doing?”

“Feeding our baby.”

“Amy…”

She could feel the hair on the back of her neck standing up.

“Yes?”

“We don’t have a baby.”

“What do you mean? I’m feeding my baby.”

“We, don’t have, a child. What are you holding?”

“Our son–”

Then she realized she was alone. She was alone, with her fog. Wordless, worthless tears. Sodium dissolved in water. They flowed down her cheeks. The fog, it must be the fog.

#

Skin against skin, warmth against warmth. Lips and fingers, touching his. 

“You always leave so soon.”

“I have a deadline to keep.”

“You’re a time traveller ,” he whined. 

“The editors don’t care, and unlike you, I’m very diligent.”

“Come here. ”

“Bratty,” she chuckled, as the TARDIS groaned in ascent. “And usually I’d oblige, but really, I have to go.”

“Is this punishment for tuning you to voicemail?”

“Mayhaps. Ta!”

The Doctor sighed at his dishevelled self. The TARDIS creaked a giggle. 

“Stop laughing!” He snapped at the wall. 

#

It was desolate. 

Private Anjak Linn was reminded of her homeland, Semi-New-Five-Earth, with milky seas housing feline fish. She’d lived there since five and left at eighteen. Thirteen years. Some said it was a cursed number. Maybe it was, considering how she was dying now. 

“𝙻𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚜𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍.” Her AI said. “𝙻𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚜𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍.”

“Stoppit.”

“𝙻𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚜𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍.”

She lifted her arm up in a Herculean effort and ripped off her earpiece. The cold wind swirled, carrying the dust with it. It was too slow. Too slow. Enough to regret.

Footsteps. There were footsteps

#

Amy saw bodies. The sky was white as if clouds had covered it all over. It reminded her of her aunt. How old would she be now? Her nightdress fluttered in a breeze. Only then did she know that the room had no door.

She walked down the stairs, careful to minimize the creaking. There was no sign of Rory or annoying neighbors, nor Anthony. 

Anthony. 

Who was he? Why did he sound so strangely important?

The revolving glass doors on the first floor didn’t budge. She kicked at the door with her feet, but it did nothing but hurt it. Throwing a rock instead left cracks and small fragments of rock– sand . They covered the floors and reception desks. Amy coughed . Her empty ring finger ached, and she had difficulty aiming. But she stood up. Threw the rock again. 

The door shattered and cold air whooshed in like screams. She stepped outside on tiptoes.

Yes, bodies.

But not blood.

They looked so peacefully asleep. A young man was actually smiling. Perhaps that was why she stood out, that one. Eyes wide open, and a horrified scream lingering on her lips.

#

There was a woman! Command had sent a rescue squad! Long, bright red hair not unlike hers, the coldly professional eyes of a soldier–

Oh.

It’s her…

Her heart would have sunk if it could. Her mouth screamed and screamed. Don’ttouchmenoplease–

#

Amy knelt down next to her and took off the woman’s helmet. Immediately, the woman ( girl, she thought, it’s a girl ) sighed, closed her eyes, and became a form not unlike any other body. She cradled the helmet in her hands, turning it to find a name. 

𝐀𝐧𝐣𝐚𝐤 𝐋𝐢𝐧𝐧

𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐄𝐱𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐂𝐨𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐆𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐞𝐬

(In hindsight, she should have known…how could she read the name?)

#

The giant dining hall was an extravagance in war but a necessary sacrifice. The cold white walls forced any rookie who entered to submit, and submission was the key to winning this war. 

Looking at the recruits, Colonel Helen Corr was strangely reminded of himself in his first days, back in the day when he had been just a little boy out searching for fame and money. This was the last of their training. Tomorrow, they would be put into actual battles. 

“This is a test.” He said. “Your final test. All of you are elites who have survived numerous test regimes, and now you have the final hurdle in front of you. Succeed, you are one of us. Fail, and leave in disgrace. Get in gear. ”

Armour and weapons clanged together. Helen glanced at Major Binhye Jackson and nodded for her to proceed. 

The cries of newborns began.

One cadet, CYE-1423 –a promising one in his opinion– looked up, one by one, other faces, shaded by masks, began to appear. 

“What are they?” CYE-1423 asked.

“Captives,” said Binhye. “Ready for their sentence that you’ll deliver.”

“They’re children .”

“It will be painless,” Helen added. “Your guns have been modified to kill immediately– they only require your justice.”

“Then, why are–”

“Silence! ” Binhye boomed. “ You will do as the colonel commands you, or leave. ”

“That is enough, Major.” Helen leaned on the barrister on his platform, looking each cadet in the eye. “I used to be confused as all of you back in my youth.” He had to give this speech to every class each new year. And every new year, the war dragged on. “I was horrified at the raw violence I had to dole out. But listen to me when I say– our enemies are not human. They do not deserve the kindness you attempt to give, because they cannot comprehend it. You will only get violence in return.”

Footsteps.

There were footsteps.

A cadet held up her hand.

“Yes?”

“Then, why are– why are they screaming?”

He smiled…

The doors burst open.

“Major Jackson?”

Binhye looked up from her anger. “Who is– General? ”

The horrifyingly thick eyebrows of the Major General stared back. “To my office, please.”

“Sir, we are in the middle of an execution–”

“Don’t make me say it twice.”

“Of course, sir.”

#

I’m sorry, my love.

The Doctor glared at the screen.

“Are you messing with me, River?” He said to no one in particular. The TARDIS only creaked in answer. much louder than before. He’d have to check if a goldfish was stuck in the vents. That happened quite often. 

“You really shouldn’t be messing with me.” He mumbled, entered some coordinates in the TARDIS console, then tugged at a random toggle. 

Immediately the TARDIS shrieked and exploded in flames.

“What’s happening? What’s happening?!??!” He shouted, arms flailing. “Why aren’t you listening to me?!?!” His left (right? It was hard to keep track!) slapped his cheek and he squealed. “Hey– you–”

“Where the hell are you taking me??”

#

It was desolate.

The Doctor walked outside the doors and looked around.

“Where did you take me?”

The TARDIS didn’t answer.

The wind whirled in the sky– it was white, with a teensy bit of yellow.

“It’s the thirtieth century…? No, wait.” He picked some small rock (sand! His mind exploded.) and tasted it. “Semi New New New New New New New Earth! It’s the forties already!”

#

Amy cradled Anjak Linn’s helmet in her arms. Property. Property. Property. Like she was a thing. The Corporation of the Things. The sky was white. She giggled. The helmet rolled off her hands. There was a hole. In her mind. In the sky. In time. And in space. And silence fell all around her–

“Amy!”

Somebody scooped her up and pushed her away before the ship could crush her to bits. 

“Run, no–crawl. Come on!”

The glass scraped her knee, and still she had to crawl–

A bow tie.

#

Private Eden Debarker screamed and slammed into the recovery ship’s hull. “Is it always going to be like this every day ?”

No one answered because they were mostly concentrating on slamming through the atmosphere and picking up the bodies before the Things could catch up to them. Eden was here mostly just to get ‘used to the feeling’ whatever Major Ben-hur– Binhye– Jackson had said.

“Speed drop commencing in 5, 4, 3–”

Eden struggled to get up– the artificial gravity that made ‘down’ be wherever the planet’s center was horrifying, but anyhow, he was able to look out the window–

“Look!” He shouted, like a little schoolboy– “There’s something red!”

“This will make things complicated.” He heard someone shout. “We don’t want any civilian casualties–”

“We don’t have civilians in Seven!”

“Pickup in–” Eden screeched when the drop speed increased, almost sticking him to the ceiling. “5, 4, 3, 2, 1…”

“Pick up successful.” Said the driver. “Rapid Liftup now…”

The engine gained speed, and Eden hit the floor, feeling as if he was KO-ed in a No-Grav MagicSpell wrestling match.

“Private Debarker?” Someone called. “Report the red object you saw.”

“I don’t know, it was–”

He passed out.

“Oh, good. The annoying one’s gone.”

#

E-CIG burned all the bodies in their way. Foe or friend. Binhye was the only one to watch her burn. Her calm, smiling face stared back at her before being thrown into the incineration pile. Some black goo from the Things and recovered bodies.

I’m sorry, my love. 

The Major General approached Binhye. “We recovered some recordings from her bodysuit.”

She said nothing.

“You are allowed to watch it–enter your ID.”

“Why?” She whispered. “Why?”

#

“It’s her.”

#

She appeared over and over on the battlefield, from what video files could be recovered from the bodysuit’s camera. 

The modified weapons from Vilenguard caused no pain in death, yet sometimes they malfunctioned, causing extreme agony instead– that was when she turned up. To the dying. The ones in pain. God, Anjak. How much pain do you have to know?

Did.

It would take a long time before Binhye learned to use the past tense.

#

A bow tie. Red. Completely out of style.

“Doctor!”

“Amy–”

“What the hell was that? You promised to show me a terraformed planet, not a spaceship ready to smash me flat!”

“What?”

Amy sighed. “Don’t you remember?”

“Remember what?”

“Literally five minutes ago. You said it. The best spas in the universe, you know?”

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Oh, so you’re pretending now?”

“No, really, I–” The Doctor stopped. “Why isn’t there a ring on your hand?”

“What ring?”

“Your wedding ring. With Rory–you–”

“Don’t remind me. I threw it down the drain ten years ago, don’t you remember?”

“What?”

“The nasty divorce trial, then our last trip in New York with the angels, and Rory…” Amelia shrugged. “Well, I never needed him, did I?”

“Oh,” The Doctor said. “Oh. Of course, I understand.”

He didn’t understand at all.

“So, do we find the TARDIS back, or look for some people? I mean, there would have been pilots on that ship, right?”

“I suppose.” The Doctor said. “But if this is the forties…” Thoughts surfaced in his mind. He tempted them down. He never tempted them down. “You’re right. Let’s go and find a colony base.”

#

Binhye strapped on her pistol.

“Solo missions are highly unrecommended, ma’am.” A cadet said.

“I don’t fucking care.” Said she. “Gimme the fucking shield generator.”

“But ma’am, that barely has any effect on the Things–”

“What the fuck did I just say?”

The cadet sighed, but handed her the generator.

She would get her wife’s revenge. One way or another.

(She didn’t tell herself that this mission would be her last. She ignored that this semi-legal mission was the only thing holding her sanity together.)

#

The Doctor wondered where the TARDIS was as Amy rambled about his inability to fly the damn thing. She was like her old self again, and a part of it enjoyed the way he was praised to the skies. (No, shut that down. She’s not real. She can’t be real.)

“What’s that?” She said suddenly.

“What’s what?” The Doctor asked. Then he realized that there was someone…no, something. 

“Run!”

“I can’t run, I’m old–”

“I don’t care, run!”

(He should have told her. The forties colonization and the missing humans. The story of a red lady taking everyone’s life. Bringing the Things in her wake and making the planet inhabitable. And he was a coward all over again. He was so afraid that she, this moment, would break. He was a warrior. He should still be one. But he still cowered in front of loss. Just like he did when he held his dearest friend in his arms, offering something no one could. To hurt him. To mangle him. A coward. Any day.)

They ran toward the figure. Two figures, in fact. They were at their small war.

“Hey!” The Doctor shouted, waving his arms. “Hey!”

The figure turned–just as the other lunged.

#

Rory woke up in the morning in an exhaustively big (his Wonder Bed was a real money spinner) yet cramped house. He’d filled it with all sorts of furniture, and still, the void of soundwaves was cacophony to his ears. 

(The void. Time didn’t run out of that void. It trickled in. The void wanted to be filled. A tangled web of magic wants to become untangled. It wants to be filled.)

He learned how not to bang into twenty cabinets in the corridor to the kitchen. He also learned how to arrange eleven chairs around the dining table to fit in and still make coffee in comfort. 

And it was never enough.

The void had to be filled, so he packed the cellar with cans of peach and meat and filled the bookshelf with every book, from Canterbury Tales to the most recent pulp fiction, and the bathroom had its own assortment of soap that he arranged by origin, name, colour, and sometimes in alphabetical order.

He didn’t know why he kept travelling with the Doctor, even after he divorced Amy. For old kicks, mayhaps. He really, really regretted it– he even wished that Amy would be here. He wanted so much, needed so much of company, of…her. 

No.

Everything ended once he signed that piece of paper. He was a fabulous nurse who wrote books of crimes, and Amy was a model-turned-actor with the stage name Gillan. They had their dreams fulfilled, and no service from others was required. 

So they went their way, not knowing they’d look back on it.

(A crack in the wall, a crack in time. Time running out, time running in. Pass the white line, pass infinity.)

#

The woman–Binhye, she told them–tugged her helmet open. “We don’t have much time.” She panted. She was bleeding softly from the neck. Bruises began forming around it.

“I can see that.” Amy acknowledged. “Rory could fix–”

(No, Rory can’t fix it, because he’s not here.)

“I don’t think she means that.” The Doctor said. He pointed beyond the skyline. It was getting dark, but the sun was brightly lit. The Things.

“They were surrounding us,” Binhye said, stupidly. “I–I never saw them do this before. There were always in–in small groups–” Her face turned haggard. Face blazing at Amy. “You.”

“She did nothing.” The Doctor snapped.

(She might have. She might have. You can trust no one.)

“You don’t know.” She snapped back.

“Well, can you two just stop bickering about whatever the hell it is, and concentrate on the fact that we’re probably going to die?!” Amy said.

“Yes, that seems to be right.” The Doctor said quickly, glad of the opinion change. “If you’re a soldier, can’t you call for assistance?”

Binhye frowned. “Can’t. I was…not obeying the rules.”

“Oh, so you’re a chaotic soldier, nice!” The Doctor sneered. “Well, Miss Soldier of Chaos, could you please stop accusing my companion of what she’s never done and get on with the problem?”

She sighed. “Of course.”

“This can be solved easily by the fact that you have a bloody time machine. ” Amy intervened.

“You have a what–”

“I don’t think she’s answering.”

“I’m sorry, sir, did you just say a–”

“Well, make her! ”

“That completely undermines the laws of, well, everything–”

“I can’t, okay? You think she’s some sort of hound to come scampering after me?”

“You can at least just ask,” Amy said.

Then she pulled out the key.

#

It was desolate. 

“Doctor?” Amy called. “Doctor”

There was a ring on her finger. She pulled it out and looked on the inside. 

Amy + Rory 4ever.

Something childish. Something of a young couple who believed time would bow to them.

A video crackled to life on the TARDIS screen. It was him.

“Doctor?” Amy said. “Doctor!”

He turned around.

#

The door was gone.

#

“You said nothing got inside those doors–”

“Nothing did– the doors are gone. They ripped it off, not got through it.”

One, by one, all the TARDIS’s parts began to turn black. Darker, darker and darker. The TARDIS creaked harder and harder. 

“What’s happening–”

The Doctor groaned against the console, keeling over in pain and breaths coming in pants. 

“Doctor?” Amelia said. “What’s going on?”

“Timelord physiology– we can feel the bend in space-time and–” He gasped. “And– it’s bending– so hard– it’s breaking. No– urgh! Amy– Amy– come here–”

Amy helped him up, holding him in her arms like a baby. “Explain to me–”

“I think it’s up to you now– Amelia– listen– please…the universe is not just some place we live in. I tell you. It’s more. It’s more. It’s the Things. This– this wasn’t supposed to happen! Seven was the easiest planet to terraform! When the universe is angry, it becomes defensive. It’s a defense mechanism, and it’s destroying! It eats ! Please, Amelia– please do realize– everything you’ve known will be gone– please–”

He was turning darker. Tears flowed down his cheeks. They sizzled on the floor–

“It’s up to you now, I think.” He whispered.

#

Amy was alone in the TARDIS, and she didn’t know why she was here. Where was the Doctor? She remembered that he promised to show her some new terraformed planets–

She didn’t have a ring.

Ooh, of course, she didn’t have a ring. She was divorced!

(Don’t trust everything you see.)

No, she was not divorced, she was–

A baby started crying.

She had a baby? She didn’t have a baby!

No, she had a baby– his name was– he was–

#

Remember. Don’t trust everything you see. Memory is everything– it can erase existence and make new.

And the baby started crying. Anthony.

He was her son, but not just any son– he was everything she’d have to live through. Birth, death, story, memory. And the baby cried louder than before– like mama, where are you? Why don’t you know me? Why can’t you remember me? And Amelia wants– wanted to reach out and grab him in her arms, tell him it’s okay, his world is here and he’ll never be forgotten– but the TARDIS groaned too, like twins jealous of each other, and Amelia can’t let go, either, when her world is finally here again. She could be –oh, to think of it– young again. no trouble, no responsibility– but she knows deep inside that she is old, she can’t run away from time anymore– can’t waste it. Has to run with it instead of away from it–

“Well, that makes two of us.”

#

“I’ll get him.”

“ I will. You go back to bed, silly–”

Lamps turned on, light padding of slippers out of the room. 

“I’ll get some tea, then.”

Kiss. Because they loved each other, right? Even if Amy worked in a male-dominated industry. Even if Rory was surrounded by women at his nursing school and hospital. They’ve waited for each other for a long time and, if for one another, could wait much, much longer. Maybe, for, oh, two thousand years?

“I telling you, we should have put the cot in our room.”

“It’s stuffy already.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is…”

And watch Anthony as he sucks on the rubber tube. Wait for the kettle to boil…mention the weather, a cool night, and tomorrow’s breakfast, bacon sandwiches with mayonnaise and jam, courtesy of Rory…

#

She was such a coward that day.

#

The universe was not just a big time and space that holds life. Life comes from life. So the world was alive as well. It did not like it when things supposed to be kept apart met. Like an itch in a place you couldn't scratch. So, methods were embarked. It hurt. And in front of hurt, people cower. They create memories. Hallucinations. New memories. And memories are everything.

#

Coward. Any day.

Sometimes being a coward has risks.

#

“Madame Vastra?” Jenny called.

“Hmm?”

“There’s a call.”

“From who? At this time of night?”

“I don’t think time really matters to him, miss!”

Chapter Text

When Rory died, Amy was busy at the Brooklyn Fayre Library construction.

It was Anthony who rushed to his side –a proud shopkeeper now– who held his hand in silence.

Someone cried.

It was not Amelia.

D+3

Anthony hired some workmen and Amy bought the burial site. A nurse said she knew a good pastor so they brought one along, even though they believed in no god. The will was simple, nothing to clobber over. The little flat, the savings…et cetera. Everything was speedy. After all, they had hospital bills to pay. Dying of tuberculosis don’t come cheap.

When the tiny crowd abated, Anthony told her that he had to go back to his shop. Amy nodded.

Then he asked her why half of the grave was empty. She replied that he already knew the answer.

He felt a stab of pain in his chest when he turned his back on the grave. Either his father had given him tuberculosis or someone had forgotten him for the last time.

His days were numbered.

Delete

D-10

Rory’s charge nurse was a plump, blonde woman with beady blue eyes. Many people accused her of being ‘jerry’ back in the ration days, and now she was a suspected ‘commie.’ Rory didn’t mind. At least she didn’t spit in his food; Mary Barnes would have, not out of spite or hate but just out of indifference. She brought along Amelia’s cassette tape and rewound it when he couldn’t. She made jokes about Williams Wonder Beds. It wasn’t hilarious; they made him laugh.

Amelia didn’t come to visit often. She was busy writing away on tours for housewives entranced by detective novels and little children blown away with tales. Away from sight, away from mind? Anyhow– he supposed that he was glad for her fame and trusted her to do well without him.

He couldn’t be more wrong.

Delete

D-22

When Amy left on a national tour, Rory’s health deteriorated. No one could deny it but could not tell why it happened. It wasn’t pneumonia but the White Plague and the hacking coughs sent anyone running for a doctor. ( The right kind of Doctor, Rory mused, feeling oh so cynical.)

He wondered if Amy would come back.

She didn’t.

Well, he wished her luck, anyways.

Delete

D-65

It was resplendent outside, and Rory, for the third time this week, woke up from a nightmare without screaming.

His body said it was night. The vibrant electric light outside said it was morning. He walked – hobbled would be the better word, but he didn’t want to think about that– to the bathroom and looked at the mirror.

He had though he was shaking out of fear. He thought that was why his eyesight was blurred. He was wrong.

Tears silently flowed down his cheeks.

Rory was known for being quiet and calm, the traits necessary for being a nurse. He rarely cried, not even when he held a stillborn baby in his arms. Not even when he kept an old man company in his last moments, because his children were too busy for anything.

And yet.

And yet.

A calm person’s tears are beautiful. Because they remind us that, behind that calmness, there is a storm brewing. Because, in the end, they are all human as well as we are. We humans are codependent. We cannot live without the other. We are born to love and to be loved. After all, there’s a little monster in all of us, and every monster needs a companion.

Every monster needs a companion.

Delete

D-53

“You’re not going to work today.”

Amelia, unlike her usual self, had barricaded the door with her body, leaving her typewriter forlorn.

“I’m fine, I told you. I think it’s a cold—”

“You’ve forgot the hospital regime. You can’t go when your fever is hotter than volcanoes!”

“You’re metaphoric.”

“I know. I’m in the middle of a description.”

Soup. Fire. Water and towel. The merry galloping of typewriter keys. Rory watched as she worked. He couldn’t believe that he’d dreamed of her dying when she was so lively. Here. Right now, in the present tense.

Delete

D-50

“Maybe it’s something worse.”

Rory did not say anything as she walked up and down with the receiver tight in hand.

“You know? Like, influenza, but a nasty one.”

Garbled words.

“I know, but that’s not my point!”

Rory drew the blankets closer to himself. It hurt. Bodily. Emotionally. It hurt his pride, not being useful.

“Maybe you should come and see.”

He stood up from his chair and walked slowly to wear Amy was wearing the carpet out. Her red hair diluted to orange in the sunlight, the gray streaks here and there turning silver with every step. Up and down. Up, then down. Rory wished she wouldn’t do that. Her ankles looked weak.

Delete

D-65, slowly turning into D-64

“What’s wrong?”

The voice was quiet. He did not reply.

“You’re crying.”

It required no answer, so he spoke. “Yes.” Hoarse.

“What happened?”

“You died.”

Amy looked at him in the mirror. Rory looked somehow older. Much older. Maybe the lines in his face, the pale hair, the grumpy grimace did that. He didn’t look like his father at all.

“I wish—” He spoke. A sudden outburst. Impulsive. An overflow of emotions, because physical water was not enough. “I wish you would die before me. I want live just a day more. A day. Amelia. Or hours. Seconds. ”

Irony.

The dam broke.

The universe was cruel.

Delete

D-48

They called it pneumonia. They hospitalized him. It wasn’t where he worked in. Amy waved goodbye when she left. He couldn’t —wouldn’t?— lift a finger.

Delete

D+15,742, or D-14,541

His mother had died of overwork. Or stress. Or, as her doctors called it, TB. He had never once assumed that his frequent visits may have infected him. For years, the virus lay dormant and quiet. Latent Tuberculosis does not spread. IT does not show clear symptoms. It lives off the lives it occupies.

Delete

D-45

His symptoms were not getting better. In the night, blood instead of tears became his excess. The sickness was resistant. A rainbow of pills and liquids filled his body.

“A cocktail.” Amy said, cheerfully. Her book was something now. Her name was known. She held up an old, caramel-stained book to his face and pointed to the little blond boy in the cover. “That’s you.”

He smiled, lifted his hand to point at the girl.

“Is that you?” He asked.

“That’s our River.”

Delete

D-43

They were humans. Humans made mistakes. No pneumonia treatment made him better. It took a full week for them to admit the error.

Delete

D-36

The cocktails disappeared and reappeared a different concoction. They said it was tuberculosis.

“Nice.” He said.

Delete

D-30

She saw him walking.

Delete

D-25

She saw him running. She hated telling him about the trip she’d had to go on.

Delete

D-24

His days were numbered. He would die in less than a month.

The world laughed at his face for reasons unknown. He laughed back for reasons very well known.

It was the last time Amy held her lover’s hand.

Delete

D-17

He dreamed of her not crying. He dreamed he was being lowered onto the ground. He dreamed of her screaming “Good riddance!”

That hurt.

Delete

D-15

He dreamed of her being happy with someone else. Hell, he saw her being happy with Jeff from home.

But they had no home. They had left it like leaving little tiny litters. Like Hensel and Gretel. A memory there. A strength here. A sorrow over there. Children right there. Home in the air. Fill-ing the air.

Delete

D-13

“How nice of your wife to send this!”

His new nurse handed him a music tape. Amelia’s writing.

Lesmisfirstrecording

No space. Hurried look. He wondered if he was the only recipient.

For the record, he wasn’t.

Delete

D-7

She had bought one for herself and he. Wrote the title in the train.

(The faster the train, the slower the time, relative to others. That was time travel in a sense. Perhaps. Perhaps, when one rushed in a speed three times the speed of light —four, five, ten, or a thousand, however it took— one would go back instead of forward. Or would it stop? If it stopped? Could she rush to where he was, go and hold his unmoving hand, tell him to not die. Never die, to always keep close and safe?)

I don’t feel any pain

A little fall of rain

Can hardly hurt me now

That’s all I need to know

And you will keep me safe

And you will keep me close

(Personally, Amy thought that was bullshit.)

“Tickets, please!”

(What if she got back? To the time when they were all small and the world, so big? When things were so simple that every problem was solved by dinnertime?)

“Tickets, Missus!”

She handed him her ticket.

I will stay with you

Till you are sleeping

(People from the bible called death ‘sleeping.’ Stephan got railed by rocks and he slept. As if they could wake up.)

And the rain

will make the flowers

grow

(It was midnight. The Christmas bell had chimed, and she was about to tell them about Christmas present. With soft, bird-like steps, Kat found the children. The girl had sundown perched on top of her head and her eyes were painted with the colours of trees. The boy had sunrise in his hair and his eyes carried the fall skies. They were both closed. They were both asleep. They leaned against one another. Breathing in. Breathing out. Breathing in. Breathing out, on the magic red carpet that would carry them to some other world. Anywhere in time and space. The girl had a doll with a red bow tie in her hand. Good times, that was. Good times.)

Delete

D-1 , quickly turning into D-day

Time didn’t want to stop. It did the world’s bidding and killed the man. Someone had to go inside and get the body.

I don’t feel any pain

A little fall of rain

Can hardly hurt me now

You’re here, that’s all I need to know

And you will keep me safe

And you will keep me close

And rain will make the flowers grow.

But she wasn’t there. She didn’t keep him close. He was never safe in her arms.

Just hold me now, and let it be.

Shelter me, comfort me

The rain can’t hurt me now

This rain will wash away what’s past

And you will keep me safe

And you will keep me close

I’ll sleep in your embrace at last.

The rain that brings you here

Is Heaven-blessed!

The skies begin to clear

And I’m at rest

A breath away from where you are

I’ve come home from so far

So don’t you fret, M’sieur Marius

I don’t feel any pain

A little fall of rain

Can hardly hurt me now

That’s all I need to know

And you will keep me safe

And you will keep me close

And for that she didn’t deserve to cry.

And the rain never made the flowers grow.

Chapter Text

Amy Williams’s life could have fallen from the pages of one of her children’s books: it was every bit as weird and wonderful as her fairytale creations.

A British national, so little is known of her earlier life that some speculate she once worked for a governmental agency— the proof being her personal (although highly critical) relationship with Richard Nixon […]

— —

Amy couldn’t run to the door anymore, so she walked instead. The bell rang once then twice, sounding impatient.

“Just a minute.” She called.

The woman outside was a pretty brunette with the sad sort of eyes, and had an armful of papers, like she wasn’t sure where to put it.

“Hello, er— this is Sarah Jane Smith, of the Metropolitan. We called you—”

“Yes, I know. Come inside.”

Teapots and teacups clinked together.

“Where do you want to start?”

“Um, so—”

She fumbled with her questions. “When— when did you settle in America? You have an accent— Scottish?”

“I was— I am Scottish. I grew up in Leadworth.”

“Leadworth— good. How does one spell—?”

Scribbling.

“But you still have the accent.”

“I never forgot it.”

“So you’re patriotic?”

Amelia cocked her head. “Patriotic? No. I suppose…it’s just to remind me of what home is. I’ve had so many.”

“Does that mean you settled in many places before New York?”

“I briefly lived in London and Florida. A bit of Washington.”

“Could you confirm when? Draw a timeline, perhaps?”

Ringing laughter.

“A timeline? Well but of course, to describe one’s life, you’d need a flowchart ! To answer your question, no, I cannot. You can’t remember where and when you visited and so can’t I.”

“But before you wrote novels, what did you do?”

“I was a journalist. I travelled a lot, see.”

“To Florida and Washington?”

“To Egypt and Rio!”

“Yet why is it that I can’t find any of your reports?”

“I suppose they were lost. It wasn’t a big magazine.”

— —

[…] Her husband, Rory Williams (-1989, of tuberculosis) is famous for improvements of hospital sanitation, as shown by the Williams Wonder Beds. It could be said that he lived in her shadow, but close correspondents say he never complained nor was he ever unfaithful to his wife. It is unclear when he trained as a nurse, or whether he even qualified as one […]

— —

“Let’s talk about your husband. Did you arrange this exhibition for him?”

“You mean the Van Gogh?”

“Yes.”

“…you could say that. To remind me. Of him.”

“Why do you think he never recognized his symptoms?”

Silence.

“Oh— I forgot. Could I record this conversation?”

“Of course. You’re already doing it.”

— —

[…] Their adopted son, Anthony Williams does not live up to his parents’ acclaims. Although leading a small reputation as a chef, he admitted to the Metropolitan that he “wants to live a quiet life full of people, if that’s even possible.” It is also unclear when he was adopted. “As a newborn,” he answered, and refused to say further. Their adopted daughter, however, the beautiful Ashill, is famous in a different way than her predecessors. While the Williams’s maintained a small social life, Miss Ashill Williams is a desirable lady with her debut among the New Yorkers as a model. She was also adopted late in her teens. […]

— —

“How about your children. Are you proud of them?”

“Proud isn’t enough, Miss Smith.”

“Do you always think of them as equals?”

“What is that question supposed to mean?”

“Well, reports say—”

Sharp tap as the cup is put down.

“Please, do not read what the tabloids say. Just because one is social and one is not, doesn’t mean I treat them unequally.”

Then, smile.

“But, then again, when they’re old enough that they begin sneaking out through the window at night, you really don’t care about who you value more. Ashill was so…confident about herself, that she is famous for the nickname ‘Me’ in her circles, I hear.”

“Uh, yes. I suppose.”

— —

[…] Although Anthony Williams is currently alive, Ashley Williams died of drug overdose in the end of 1994. People presume that this was the reason of Amelia Williams’s sudden death in the following month. […]

— —

“Could we talk about your activist works? What made you start it, what egged you on.”

Hesitance. Sip. Small bubbling noise. Breathing.

“I suppose that, at first, it was out of some childish Messiah complex. ‘I can stop this’ or ‘I can do anything’ sort of way. But then again…”

Small sigh.

“I don’t know.”

Pause.

“I’m really not sure.”

Rustle of pen and paper.

“You’ve used various methods?”

“Mostly legal. For some, I got sued.”

— —

Using tactics starting from petition and demonstration, leading to espionage and blackmail, finally ending with plain shouting and insulting, she was as vicious as Melody Malone —her detective narrator— in changing corrupt law. Although many endeavours failed as some succeeded, one cannot lie in saying the society owes a great debt to her.

— —

“Then, you started dealing in novels.”

“First the detectives. Melody was like a daughter to me.”

“Writing a female detective back then couldn’t have been easy.”

“Oh, Hildegarde and Phyllis, Haila and Charity. There were many. The difficulty was getting Mels to make her do what she wants.”

“What she wants?”

“Well, if all girl sleuths helped after their husbands, it wouldn’t have been fun enough. Melody had to be something different— the times required it.”

“Do you think Melody… called you? From the depths of caves?”

“Yes.” Amy said. “I really do think so. It was… time for her to show up.”

“That’s beautiful, Mrs. Williams.”

“Yes. Yes. Isn’t it…”

— —

[…] Her earlier novels, <The Angels’ Kiss>, <The Night Thief of Ill-Harbor> and more, features a hard-boiled female detective Melody Malone. Despite the sexism of the 1940s, her novels became best-sellers across the United States and Great Britain. Amelia Williams states: “[…] if all girl sleuths helped after their husbands, it wouldn’t have been fun enough. Melody had to be something different— the times required it.” However, after their adoption of Anthony Williams, experts saw Melody Malone and her narrative becoming softer, the murders turning into thievery, her sexual jokes changing into simpler puns. Whether this is an act of compliance to old standards is debatable, but seeing as how her last Melody Malone book, <Silence in the Library> contained explicit murders and explicit scenes —unlike <Nelly and Melody>, featuring a missing cow— her resilience remains stoic. After <Silence in the Library>, Amelia Williams started writing children’s stories— her first story being <Down the Earth> and her last book, <Summer Falls> written a few months before her husband’s death. “I don’t think I have the right anymore.” She said in other interviews. “Besides, my children are all too old to read my stories, too,” to which Miss Ashley Williams strongly disagreed. Even with countless fan letters urging her to write, Amelia Williams did not write a single novel since. […]

— —

“What made you write your children’s books?”

“People say it was my son, and in this case, they are right. I wanted to write him things that he’d love to read.”

“What is your proudest children’s story”

“I’m not sure. Perhaps <The Legend of Pandora’s Box>, but again, I can’t answer for sure. Things change.”

Silence. The last dregs of tea being sipped.

“The kettle’s empty. I’ll bring some more.”

Clink. Boiling. Waiting.

“Fancy you being here.”

“Sorry?”

“A British reporter, travelling to New York just to write something about a writer now out of time.”

Blush. A hiss of steam as tea is poured.

“Well, Mrs. Williams, if I dare say—”

“ Amelia, please. And you can always dare to say anything; you’re a reporter! You’re a friend of the people , for god’s sake—” Pause.

“What is it?”

“Well, I think I’ve heard of that before.”

“My Professor used to say something like that. Professor Edward Sheppard.”

“Yes, that must have been it.”

“Well, Amelia, could I say again— just, you said it was interesting, the way I travelled all the way here just to meet you. Well— you’re the reason I started journalism.”

“Really?”

“Yeah— back at— back at school, I saw you, your books and what you did, and I was entrance. I started doorstepping, working on papers, you know.”

Smile. Stop. Smile wider.

“Well, Miss Smith, I do believe that I know your name.”

“Really?” Blush.

“I read many of your reports.”

“There— there aren’t a lot. Just some for school and work.”

“They were good, though. Young, but good.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

— —

[..] To this day, Miss Smith has uncovered frauds, unrest, crimes, and even hauntings.

“I believe that a journalist’s top priority is to discover the truth. One needs a passion for investigation, never giving up once he or she begins researching for an article. You also need a strong, trembling moral compass for things to reveal classified information that may harm you. Every time that happens, remind yourself. Remind yourself that your job is to find out the facts, and show them to the public. When I was in university, my favourite professor, Edward Sheppard asked what would I do when I found out something that was a threat to national security. I answered that I would publish it, whatever the consequences. Looking back, my answer defers. Journalism is the public’s fist. I –we– am the friend of the people.” Miss Smith said at our interview. […]

— —

[…] Amelia Jessica Williams travelled the world, unsettled the powerful, raised children —not just her own—, and inspired millions upon millions of people— an extraordinary life by anyone’s standards. […]

— —

Coats being put on, walking and shuffling to the door.

“You sure you don’t want to stay around for dinner?”

“No, I’ll be alright.”

“Alright.”

Was she feeling the word in her mouth, or agreeing with Sarah Jane? She couldn’t be sure.

“Well, Ms. Smith.”

“Sarah Jane.”

Breathe.

“Sarah Jane.” Amelia said. She tasted the word in her mouth. Rolled it between her tongue and teeth and breathed it back out. “Sarah Jane?”

A question. But for what?

“Yes?”

“You asked me what galvanized me. What egged me on.”

“Yes.”

“At first I wanted to make him proud. I wanted to make him see what I did. But then I knew that we couldn’t. And so I found another reason.

“I was always the girl who waited. I waited for a very long time. And I think I got tired of waiting. I think I got tired, so done with waiting for the world to get better. If you want to become like me, you shouldn’t seek my recognition. You need something of your own.

“I ran with time for so long. I think I’ll get off the race now.”

— —

When asked what drove her, what ‘egged her on,’ she thought about it for a long moment before answering “At first I wanted to make him proud. I wanted to make him see what I did. But then I knew that we couldn’t. And so I found another reason. I was always the girl who waited. I waited for a very long time. And I think I got tired of waiting. I think I got tired, so done with waiting for the world to get better.”

This is her last interview before her death in 1998.

Sarah Jane Smith.

Metropolitan Staff Reporter

— —

Chapter Text

“So…that’s how it happened.”

Anthony said.

They were at Brian’s house. Not a home. It could never be a home without them.

“Were they…happy?” He asked.

The word hung in the air like a balloon about to explode. Happy? They were just…there. Happy was a strange word to describe their life. Happy. One word could never describe their lives. Anthony didn’t answer. Brian didn’t push.

“But I don’t understand.” He said again. “The Doctor has a time machine. How can they just…vanish?”

Anthony took a deep breath. “I once heard them talking. There are fixed moments in time. And–you’re not supposed to fix them. If you…”

“But a time machine. ” Brian interrupted. “A time machine. He could just get them back. He could just get them back! Don’t tell me he never tried to get them back.”

“He did.”

“Then why not–”

“Life only comes from life. Uh–biogenesis. We all come from the world, and the world is alive.”

“That’s fucking–”

“And it didn’t like it when time turned around.”

“So they’re–”

“Gone. Just gone.” Anthony flared up. “Do you think it’s hard for you ? It’s hard for me . I lost my mother. Father.”

“You had years to handle the pain.”

“Doesn’t mean it feels less painful.”

They stared at each other in silence.

“I heard you travel a lot,” Anthony said.

“The Doctor has that effect,” Brian admitted.

“Mother did, too.”

“Do you want to…”

“Two old men going on a world trip?”

"It would be a miracle."

"Ridiculous."

"Impossible."

They smiled at each other lightly.

“The universe is big. It’s vast and complicated and ridiculous. And sometimes, very rarely, impossible things just happen and we call them miracles.”