...What did I just write?
In my defence, this wasn't really my fault - not really. I read Nos' excellent babyfic, and this sort of grew in my head as a result. It's set in the same 'verse, in between The Fine Tradition of Fatherhood and On The Proper Education Of Time Lords.
--
She only hears the grinding whirr of the TARDIS landing because she's listening for it. She always is, these days. She lies in bed with her husband beside her and her son in the next room and stays awake for hours, listening for that sound.
Once, it meant adventure, and excitement, and danger. It still means those things, but she finds that she has lost her taste for them. She thinks back to the cottage in Upper Leadworth and complaining about being pregnant and a bitter smile quirks her lips.
He is waiting for her outside, her Raggedy Doctor in his bowtie and braces, wild hair and alien eyes that glint in the moonlight in a way that is so, so inhuman, like the light of another sun, or of distant, dying stars.
He is leaning against his box and his arms are crossed over his chest and he is waiting, like this is the most natural thing in the world.
"What do you want?" she chokes out bitterly. "Come to take him early?"
"Eight years old," he replies. "I promised."
"And you keep promises, do you, you Time Lords?" she asks. "Known for your honesty and integrity, were you? Known for all the lies you never told, the truths you never hid?"
He doesn't even blink, doesn't even show that her words have hurt him. The bastard. He just stands there with his magic box and waits for her to finish. But his eyes shine darkly in the moonlight and she knows that she has hit home, even if he can't - won't - admit it.
"What do you want?" she asks again. "I've given you everything, more than everything. What do you want?"
He ignores the tears welling your eyes with just as much ease as he once smoothed them off her face. "From you?" he replies. "Nothing. I'm only here as a reminder, Pond - " the old nickname, said with cold sarcasm so that even that is a slap in the face. "Three more years. Then I take my son back."
"How can you do this?" she asks. "How can you just - you can't. I can't. Please." That last word is just a broken syllable, and now the tears are coursing down her cheeks, leaving pearly trails that shine against her skin.
Mad, impossible Amy Pond, the girl out of a fairytale - even her tears are something out of a story, too bright and too beautiful and too fragile to be real. But it doesn't matter, because she could have been bright and beautiful and she chose this life instead - chose reality over the fairytale. The Doctor feels disappointed about that, in his sadder moments. She could have been so much more than this sad woman in her faded nightdress, crying fairytale tears.
"Three more years," he repeats impassively, and Amy finally sees what she never did while she was travelling in the TARDIS - that his eyes are devoid of human warmth, that his expression is so alien, from the infuriating smoothness of his brow to the tiny quirk of his lips like this is all a joke to him, or an experiment, or some sort of right he has over the rest of the universe.
"Is this what all your race were like?" she asks, trying to keep her voice light - not that it matters, given that her tears are now soaking into the collar of her nightdress.
"Like what?"
"Arrogant. Self-obsessed. Cruel."
"Did I ever claim to be nice?" he asks. His tone is light, but his eyes blaze with cold, alien anger, and Amy knows she has crossed some sort of invisible line. "You saw your mad imaginary friend in his magical box, and you thought that was all there is to me, didn't you, because that's how your human minds work. What did you think, that I was some sort of magical tour guide? That I would give you everything you ever wanted and never ask anything in return? Did you forget, in your silly, small-minded, human way, that everything has a price, or did you simply decide to overlook it?" She cannot know that he is thinking of Ace, broken and stripped of her faith; of Jamie and Zoe, allowed at least the mercy of not knowing what they'd lost; of Tegan, who gave her sanity; of Martha, who gave everything she had, and of Donna, who gave even more.
They always forget, humans. They always forget that there is a price to be paid for the universe.
His tirade has silenced her. Perhaps he should leave it there, but something - call it paternal instinct - forces him to twist the knife.
"Three years, Pond," he says. "You will pay your price, and I will have my son." He turns to leave.
"What about Rory?" Amy asks. "What about him? It's not his fault. He never did anything to you. Can't you spare him at least?"
The Doctor turns back and regards Amy with something like cold amusement in his eyes. "If you were so concerned about that," he says, "perhaps the best time to recall it might have been before you got yourself pregnant."
Then he disappears into his TARDIS and is gone, leaving Amy alone in her garden, staring at the space where the TARDIS was, her tears drying in sticky trails on her face.
This is a crosspost from Dreamwidth. You can reply here at LJ or over there.
comment(s) at DW so far.
--
She only hears the grinding whirr of the TARDIS landing because she's listening for it. She always is, these days. She lies in bed with her husband beside her and her son in the next room and stays awake for hours, listening for that sound.
Once, it meant adventure, and excitement, and danger. It still means those things, but she finds that she has lost her taste for them. She thinks back to the cottage in Upper Leadworth and complaining about being pregnant and a bitter smile quirks her lips.
He is waiting for her outside, her Raggedy Doctor in his bowtie and braces, wild hair and alien eyes that glint in the moonlight in a way that is so, so inhuman, like the light of another sun, or of distant, dying stars.
He is leaning against his box and his arms are crossed over his chest and he is waiting, like this is the most natural thing in the world.
"What do you want?" she chokes out bitterly. "Come to take him early?"
"Eight years old," he replies. "I promised."
"And you keep promises, do you, you Time Lords?" she asks. "Known for your honesty and integrity, were you? Known for all the lies you never told, the truths you never hid?"
He doesn't even blink, doesn't even show that her words have hurt him. The bastard. He just stands there with his magic box and waits for her to finish. But his eyes shine darkly in the moonlight and she knows that she has hit home, even if he can't - won't - admit it.
"What do you want?" she asks again. "I've given you everything, more than everything. What do you want?"
He ignores the tears welling your eyes with just as much ease as he once smoothed them off her face. "From you?" he replies. "Nothing. I'm only here as a reminder, Pond - " the old nickname, said with cold sarcasm so that even that is a slap in the face. "Three more years. Then I take my son back."
"How can you do this?" she asks. "How can you just - you can't. I can't. Please." That last word is just a broken syllable, and now the tears are coursing down her cheeks, leaving pearly trails that shine against her skin.
Mad, impossible Amy Pond, the girl out of a fairytale - even her tears are something out of a story, too bright and too beautiful and too fragile to be real. But it doesn't matter, because she could have been bright and beautiful and she chose this life instead - chose reality over the fairytale. The Doctor feels disappointed about that, in his sadder moments. She could have been so much more than this sad woman in her faded nightdress, crying fairytale tears.
"Three more years," he repeats impassively, and Amy finally sees what she never did while she was travelling in the TARDIS - that his eyes are devoid of human warmth, that his expression is so alien, from the infuriating smoothness of his brow to the tiny quirk of his lips like this is all a joke to him, or an experiment, or some sort of right he has over the rest of the universe.
"Is this what all your race were like?" she asks, trying to keep her voice light - not that it matters, given that her tears are now soaking into the collar of her nightdress.
"Like what?"
"Arrogant. Self-obsessed. Cruel."
"Did I ever claim to be nice?" he asks. His tone is light, but his eyes blaze with cold, alien anger, and Amy knows she has crossed some sort of invisible line. "You saw your mad imaginary friend in his magical box, and you thought that was all there is to me, didn't you, because that's how your human minds work. What did you think, that I was some sort of magical tour guide? That I would give you everything you ever wanted and never ask anything in return? Did you forget, in your silly, small-minded, human way, that everything has a price, or did you simply decide to overlook it?" She cannot know that he is thinking of Ace, broken and stripped of her faith; of Jamie and Zoe, allowed at least the mercy of not knowing what they'd lost; of Tegan, who gave her sanity; of Martha, who gave everything she had, and of Donna, who gave even more.
They always forget, humans. They always forget that there is a price to be paid for the universe.
His tirade has silenced her. Perhaps he should leave it there, but something - call it paternal instinct - forces him to twist the knife.
"Three years, Pond," he says. "You will pay your price, and I will have my son." He turns to leave.
"What about Rory?" Amy asks. "What about him? It's not his fault. He never did anything to you. Can't you spare him at least?"
The Doctor turns back and regards Amy with something like cold amusement in his eyes. "If you were so concerned about that," he says, "perhaps the best time to recall it might have been before you got yourself pregnant."
Then he disappears into his TARDIS and is gone, leaving Amy alone in her garden, staring at the space where the TARDIS was, her tears drying in sticky trails on her face.
This is a crosspost from Dreamwidth. You can reply here at LJ or over there.
comment(s) at DW so far.