Remix #2
Here's the second Remix story I did, this one as a pinch hit. As soon as I saw Doctor Who was one of the requested fandoms, I went over to check out the remixee's stories, and this one caught my attention instantly as being something I could happily work with. I think the fact that both this and the one I wrote for my original assignment involve River Song is entirely a coincidence, but a nice one. I haven't written nearly enough River, really.
I think this one feels like it sticks closer to the original than most of the remixes I've done. The POV, structure, tone, and a lot of the character details are the same, but I enjoyed inventing some details of my own, and adding a little bit of Rory and a brief glimpse of the Doctor into the mix.
Title: A Word That Means the World to Me (The Terra Firma Remix)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters/Pairings: Amy, River, Rory
Summary: The cards arrive twice a year, like clockwork.
Rating/Warnings: G, none.
Length: ~1000 words
Author's Notes: Remix of "Pond and River" by El Staplador.
A Word That Means the World to Me (The Terra Firma Remix)
The cards arrive twice a year, like clockwork. One on Mother's Day, one on Father's Day.
The variety of them is amazing. There are cheesy Hallmark cards with sickeningly cute pictures of puppies and kittens, and ones with bad jokes inside that make Amy laugh despite herself. There are beautiful vintage cards that she'd be willing to bet weren't vintage when they were purchased. (Or possibly, knowing River, stolen.) One features hand-painted ancient Egyptian figures that, River confirmed for her later, were in fact hand-painted by an ancient Egyptian. The hieroglyphs, apparently, spell out, "Hello, Mum."
Possibly Amy's favorite is a weird Victorian Christmas card with a picture of a dead bird on the front, and a note inside saying that they didn't have Father's Day yet where River was at the moment, so she was re-purposing this one instead.
"You don't suppose she's trying to tell me something?" Rory said, worried, when they opened that one.
"Probably just a comment on how often you keep dying," Amy responded, and he gave her an adorably offended look, until her laughter made him laugh, too.
Some of them are futuristic, featuring pictures, or holograms, of spired cities, or colorful aliens smiling or waving streamers or sitting on colorful alien eggs. One of them has nothing but the words "A most felicitous Progenitors' Day to this individual's gestational parent!" in an almost unreadable font. Amy has never entirely been able to decide whether that one was meant to be a joke or not.
Others are personalized, with animated pictures of River waving at them from the ruins of an alien temple, or a beautiful snowscape, or a raucous-looking 1960s party. One features her standing in a museum, beaming, in front of a display case holding an ancient clay vase painted with the likeness of a familiar frizzy-haired figure. In another, she and the Doctor are standing in front of the TARDIS, their arms around each other, River smiling happily and the Doctor looking awkward and fond.
Sometimes he signs the cards, too. Once, he added a note: Hello, Amy. River says I should say dear mum-in-law, but I think she's joking. Probably. I think that would be a bit weird. Would that be a bit weird? Ooh! I wanted to tell you, we... Here the Doctor ran out of room inside the card and had to continue on the back, his sprawling handwriting getting more and more cramped as it went along. ...just got back from the most interesting planet. Everyone has sixteen different names and it's illegal not to wear a hat, but the food is incredible, and once they finish cleaning up from the revolution I'm sure it will-- Oh. I'm running out of space, and River says I can tell you all about it in person later. All right then. Love to you and Rory! The Dr. He had, in fact, told her about that planet, only he'd done it years before she ever got that particular card. Time travel. Go figure.
"All right, fess up," she said to River once, over the remains of a Christmas dinner. "You don't really send them once a year, do you? I bet you just did them all at once and hopped from year to year to mail them. Or maybe you haven't even done it yet."
"Oh, no," River said. "I really do do them once a year, by my own subjective time. Of course, usually I have to wait until I'm in the right century to mail them. But I remember them, every year. It's tradition, isn't it?"
And Amy was so struck by the unexpected tenderness on her face, so stupidly moved by the thought of River thinking of them that often, that she had to stand up and make a fuss about the dishes so no one could see the way her eyes got wet. Although judging from the way Rory came up behind her and hugged her afterward, and the way River offered her a glass of wine and a quietly understanding look, she figures they probably knew, anyway.
She keeps all the cards on display in the kitchen. Probably that's a dumb thing to do. People are always asking about them. And it's not usually the weirdness of them, or even the futuristic technology in the hologram ones, that they always seem confused by. It's the "Happy Mother's Day"s and "Happy Father's Day"s on the front.
"Yeah, we collect them," she usually says, and changes the subject.
Really, what else is she going to say? Explaining that their daughter is a time-traveling archaeologist who is married to Amy's imaginary childhood friend and maybe isn't entirely human would be the easy part.
She can't say, I had a daughter and I lost her, they ripped her away from me and I never got to raise her.
She can't say, I met her as an adult and I didn't even know who she was.
She can't say, But I saw her grow up, I grew up with her, I got to see her as a girl, as a young woman. I got to be her friend, and it was amazing, she was amazing, but it wasn't the same. It wasn't ever the same as being her mum.
She can't say, These cards are what I have, to know it was all real. That I am a mother. I was, and I am. Even if I can't explain it to anyone else, my daughter knows who I am. She remembers. And she doesn't hate me for not being able to hold onto her the way I wanted.
Yeah, it would probably be easier if she put them away in a drawer somewhere, to avoid the stupid questions. But screw that. She needs them out here, where she can see them. She needs, sometimes, to stand in front of them and think about all the things she can't say, until the only other person who understands sees her standing there, and takes her hand, and quietly says, "I know."
And until the next card, until the next visit, somehow it's enough.
This entry was originally posted at https://astrogirl.dreamwidth.org/989947.html. Comment here or there, whichever you like.
I think this one feels like it sticks closer to the original than most of the remixes I've done. The POV, structure, tone, and a lot of the character details are the same, but I enjoyed inventing some details of my own, and adding a little bit of Rory and a brief glimpse of the Doctor into the mix.
Title: A Word That Means the World to Me (The Terra Firma Remix)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters/Pairings: Amy, River, Rory
Summary: The cards arrive twice a year, like clockwork.
Rating/Warnings: G, none.
Length: ~1000 words
Author's Notes: Remix of "Pond and River" by El Staplador.
A Word That Means the World to Me (The Terra Firma Remix)
The cards arrive twice a year, like clockwork. One on Mother's Day, one on Father's Day.
The variety of them is amazing. There are cheesy Hallmark cards with sickeningly cute pictures of puppies and kittens, and ones with bad jokes inside that make Amy laugh despite herself. There are beautiful vintage cards that she'd be willing to bet weren't vintage when they were purchased. (Or possibly, knowing River, stolen.) One features hand-painted ancient Egyptian figures that, River confirmed for her later, were in fact hand-painted by an ancient Egyptian. The hieroglyphs, apparently, spell out, "Hello, Mum."
Possibly Amy's favorite is a weird Victorian Christmas card with a picture of a dead bird on the front, and a note inside saying that they didn't have Father's Day yet where River was at the moment, so she was re-purposing this one instead.
"You don't suppose she's trying to tell me something?" Rory said, worried, when they opened that one.
"Probably just a comment on how often you keep dying," Amy responded, and he gave her an adorably offended look, until her laughter made him laugh, too.
Some of them are futuristic, featuring pictures, or holograms, of spired cities, or colorful aliens smiling or waving streamers or sitting on colorful alien eggs. One of them has nothing but the words "A most felicitous Progenitors' Day to this individual's gestational parent!" in an almost unreadable font. Amy has never entirely been able to decide whether that one was meant to be a joke or not.
Others are personalized, with animated pictures of River waving at them from the ruins of an alien temple, or a beautiful snowscape, or a raucous-looking 1960s party. One features her standing in a museum, beaming, in front of a display case holding an ancient clay vase painted with the likeness of a familiar frizzy-haired figure. In another, she and the Doctor are standing in front of the TARDIS, their arms around each other, River smiling happily and the Doctor looking awkward and fond.
Sometimes he signs the cards, too. Once, he added a note: Hello, Amy. River says I should say dear mum-in-law, but I think she's joking. Probably. I think that would be a bit weird. Would that be a bit weird? Ooh! I wanted to tell you, we... Here the Doctor ran out of room inside the card and had to continue on the back, his sprawling handwriting getting more and more cramped as it went along. ...just got back from the most interesting planet. Everyone has sixteen different names and it's illegal not to wear a hat, but the food is incredible, and once they finish cleaning up from the revolution I'm sure it will-- Oh. I'm running out of space, and River says I can tell you all about it in person later. All right then. Love to you and Rory! The Dr. He had, in fact, told her about that planet, only he'd done it years before she ever got that particular card. Time travel. Go figure.
"All right, fess up," she said to River once, over the remains of a Christmas dinner. "You don't really send them once a year, do you? I bet you just did them all at once and hopped from year to year to mail them. Or maybe you haven't even done it yet."
"Oh, no," River said. "I really do do them once a year, by my own subjective time. Of course, usually I have to wait until I'm in the right century to mail them. But I remember them, every year. It's tradition, isn't it?"
And Amy was so struck by the unexpected tenderness on her face, so stupidly moved by the thought of River thinking of them that often, that she had to stand up and make a fuss about the dishes so no one could see the way her eyes got wet. Although judging from the way Rory came up behind her and hugged her afterward, and the way River offered her a glass of wine and a quietly understanding look, she figures they probably knew, anyway.
She keeps all the cards on display in the kitchen. Probably that's a dumb thing to do. People are always asking about them. And it's not usually the weirdness of them, or even the futuristic technology in the hologram ones, that they always seem confused by. It's the "Happy Mother's Day"s and "Happy Father's Day"s on the front.
"Yeah, we collect them," she usually says, and changes the subject.
Really, what else is she going to say? Explaining that their daughter is a time-traveling archaeologist who is married to Amy's imaginary childhood friend and maybe isn't entirely human would be the easy part.
She can't say, I had a daughter and I lost her, they ripped her away from me and I never got to raise her.
She can't say, I met her as an adult and I didn't even know who she was.
She can't say, But I saw her grow up, I grew up with her, I got to see her as a girl, as a young woman. I got to be her friend, and it was amazing, she was amazing, but it wasn't the same. It wasn't ever the same as being her mum.
She can't say, These cards are what I have, to know it was all real. That I am a mother. I was, and I am. Even if I can't explain it to anyone else, my daughter knows who I am. She remembers. And she doesn't hate me for not being able to hold onto her the way I wanted.
Yeah, it would probably be easier if she put them away in a drawer somewhere, to avoid the stupid questions. But screw that. She needs them out here, where she can see them. She needs, sometimes, to stand in front of them and think about all the things she can't say, until the only other person who understands sees her standing there, and takes her hand, and quietly says, "I know."
And until the next card, until the next visit, somehow it's enough.
This entry was originally posted at https://astrogirl.dreamwidth.org/989947.html. Comment here or there, whichever you like.