Fic: Pondering Continuity (Doctor Who/BtVS, FRT)
Title: Pondering Continuity
Author: Emony
Rating: FRT
Disclaimer: Moffat, the Beeb and Whedon... not me.
Fandom: Doctor Who/BtVS
Characters: Eleven, Amelia Pond
Spoilers: Set immediately post "Victory of the Daleks" aka 5.3. Post BtVS
Summary: Is Amelia Pond more than she knows?
Words: 1,500.
Notes: All 1500 words written before breakfast... this is probably what's known as a warning.
***
She gets the feeling they’re just floating, not how they were over the Starship UK - actually at their destination - they’re not anywhere yet. He’s been pacing and fidgety ever since they left London. Which was hours ago.
“What is your problem?” she asks, finally reaching the end of her tether.
He stops his pacing suddenly and turns to her with frightening accuracy for someone who’s been going in circles that could make anyone dizzy, “you,” he answers, “Amelia Pond. You are my problem.”
“Excuse me?” she winces at the pitch of her voice, he steps closer to her.
“You don’t remember,” closer again.
“What?” she asks.
“The Daleks,” he standing right in front of her, so close she could kiss him. If she wanted to. Which she doesn’t.
“Aliens with the eye stalks and weird bobbles? Would be hard to forget, especially meeting Winston Churchill at the same time!” Through this mini rant of hers he’s reached up and grabbed her shoulders, pushing her towards the central console of the TARDIS.
“Yes,” he answers, hands moving to her face, “Kind of hard to forget; only you did, Amelia Pond.”
“Stop calling me that,” he’s peering into her eyes now, right up close, the way he does when he’s found something interesting to look at.
“But it’s your name isn’t it, Amelia?” he asks, as though he’s talking to one of those crying children of his. Which she supposes that from his point of view maybe he is.
“Well, yes, but you were perfectly fine with Amy a few hours ago,” she answers.
“I was,” he shrugs, “but a few hours ago you hadn’t forgotten one of the major events of your own planet.”
“What event? You keep saying I should have known about the Daleks before, but really? No.”
“Are you sure?” he asks, peering closer into her eyes.
“Yes.”
“But why?”
“Maybe you’re the one that’s remembering wrong,” she snaps as she shifts to move away from the random lever poking her in the back.
He lets go of her suddenly, but doesn’t move back, “you don’t happen to have an old pocket watch do you?”
“What? No.” Bit random.
“You’re sure?” he asks, “Not anywhere in that big old house of yours?”
She nods, “I’m sure. I spent entire summers searching that house for something interesting.”
“Playing Doctor?”
She just looks at him, refusing to dignify that with an answer. She was a kid, for God’s sake - a kid who’d had deal with one too many traumas.
“Tell me about your parents, about Scotland,” he says, changing tracks again.
“That sounds a little too much like the question you asked Bracewell,” she tells him, then,
“I’m not a bloody robot!”
“Well, how do you know that?” he counters with an ‘a ha!’ sort of tone.
“Well, wouldn’t one of these doohickeys, “she points at the console, “have told you by now if I was?”
“I suppose it would,” he answers in a slow sort of tone as if she’s just given him an idea. For the first time in minutes he turns away from her and she relaxes back against an un-bumpy part of the console. He’s pulling at random levers and pushing buttons and twirling knobs and then suddenly looking at the view screen.
“Ah... huh”, he splutters as he looks back up.
“Human?” she asks.
He nods, “as far as I can tell.”
“Oh, give it a rest,” she almost shouts, “You were wrong, I just forgot. Maybe I slept through it.”
“No, only one person did that,” he says, looking hurt, “and only then because she would have died otherwise.”
He stands there in front of her again, completely still for a few seconds and the suddenly he’s off and moving again, heading somewhere out of the console room, “stay right there.”
“Well, no, I figured I might pop out for a spot of shopping,” she mutters.
Moments later and he’s back again with some weird thing in his hands, looks a bit like that headgear Bracewell had. She raises her eyebrow at him.
He pulls out a stool from under the console, “well, sit.”
She sits, “woof.”
“Funny,” he tells her and he’s attaching the thing to her head.
“I’m pretty sure that won’t tell you I’m a robot either, Doctor,” she tells him, smirking a bit.
“Maybe so,” he says, patting her head, “Right. Think of home.”
“Ok...,” she looks at him, “home it is.”
A picture appears on the view screen, it looks like the aftermath of some sort of natural disaster, a large crater, at the edge a sign is just falling in.
“Uh...,” she turns to look at him, “Is that thing broken?”
The Doctor isn’t looking at her anymore; he’s staring at the screen, “no that’s your mind’s eye. Try thinking of work.”
She squints at him, “you just want to see me kissing someone.”
Up on the screen is a library with a big window - through that window are maybe ten or fifteen teenage girls doing some sort of self-defence class on a large walled lawn.
“Uh, that’s not my work. Is this thing broken?” she reaches up towards her head.
“Don’t touch that!” she puts her hands in her lap.
“Well?”
“I tried this on myself once,” he says, “got all sort of pictures from several different me's.”
“Different you's?”
“You remember? Still cooking...” he wiggles his hands around.
“You mean you’re not always you?” she asks, puzzled.
“No, I’m always me, it’s just me, I change, regenerate.”
“So, what? Now you think I’m like you?” she scoffs. She almost adds on ‘Mr last of your kind’, only that’s a bit harsh.
“No, not quite,” he answers, “which is a good thing, didn’t go so well last time. Right, one last one. Think about what you look like.”
They both look up at the screen. At first it’s just her, although the Doctor laughs and shakes his head and mutters something about humans always putting themselves down and if the image hadn’t changed she would have said something about how he thought she was hot. But it did, change; it flickered through several faces until it stuck with one. This one started out as a brunette at maybe early teens and then it did that thing you get in the movies sometimes, the quick aging thing and she got older until she hit maybe forty and then stopped.
“Uh, who’s that?” she asks, not quite wanting to know.
“You,” he answers, only now he’s looking at her with almost awe in his eyes, “the first you that was you.”
“But, but why don’t I remember that? I mean, you obviously remember the you’s before you,” she questions, not able to take her eyes of the image.
“Yes, but we’re different,” he murmurs, “Ok, this one really is the last one. Think about what you are.”
The image flicks between her and the other woman but this time there’s a tinge of green over the whole screen.
“Oh, wow!” the Doctor turns to look at her, “really?”
“Uh, really.”
As he starts taking the headgear off her head he asks her a question, “you, Amy Pond, you’ve always had a fascination with the supernatural, the alien, yes?”
“Well, when an alien crash lands in your garden when you’re twelve it’s kind of hard not to,” she laughs.
He rolls his eyes, “but,” he holds up a finger, “you’ve also always had a fascination with locks and keys?”
She looks at him, puzzled, “how did you know that?”
“Because I know who you are: Amelia Pond who was Dawn Summers who is the Key,” she’s certain he carries on only she can’t hear him anymore.
”Is this blood?” she asks, knife in her hand, arm dripping with blood.
“What am I? Am I real? Am I anything?” she’s crying.
“Look it’s blood. It’s Summers blood,” this time it’s a blonde girl.
“Dawn, the hardest thing in this world ... is to live in it,” the blonde again.
“I got your back,” sword in hand this time.
“The stake is not the power,” she knows now, that the blonde is her sister.
“If you get killed, I’m telling,” her sister, again.
“-elia!” the Doctor is shaking her.
“Well,” she looks at him, “a bit easier this time, a lot less blood.”
“Sorry?” he asks.
“No need to be,” she deliberately takes it the wrong way, “I’m still me, same as you’re still you, only different. Just got a few more memories is all.”
“About those memories,” the Doctor says.
“Yes, well, I think I couldn’t remember the Daleks because if I did there was a chance I might remember who I am, and that didn’t go so well the only other time I did, so,” she shrugs.
“Are you saying that this is the first time, since the first time, that you’ve known who you are?” he asks.
“Yep,” she answers.
“Weird,” he counters.
“I know, right?” she laughs.
Author: Emony
Rating: FRT
Disclaimer: Moffat, the Beeb and Whedon... not me.
Fandom: Doctor Who/BtVS
Characters: Eleven, Amelia Pond
Spoilers: Set immediately post "Victory of the Daleks" aka 5.3. Post BtVS
Summary: Is Amelia Pond more than she knows?
Words: 1,500.
Notes: All 1500 words written before breakfast... this is probably what's known as a warning.
***
She gets the feeling they’re just floating, not how they were over the Starship UK - actually at their destination - they’re not anywhere yet. He’s been pacing and fidgety ever since they left London. Which was hours ago.
“What is your problem?” she asks, finally reaching the end of her tether.
He stops his pacing suddenly and turns to her with frightening accuracy for someone who’s been going in circles that could make anyone dizzy, “you,” he answers, “Amelia Pond. You are my problem.”
“Excuse me?” she winces at the pitch of her voice, he steps closer to her.
“You don’t remember,” closer again.
“What?” she asks.
“The Daleks,” he standing right in front of her, so close she could kiss him. If she wanted to. Which she doesn’t.
“Aliens with the eye stalks and weird bobbles? Would be hard to forget, especially meeting Winston Churchill at the same time!” Through this mini rant of hers he’s reached up and grabbed her shoulders, pushing her towards the central console of the TARDIS.
“Yes,” he answers, hands moving to her face, “Kind of hard to forget; only you did, Amelia Pond.”
“Stop calling me that,” he’s peering into her eyes now, right up close, the way he does when he’s found something interesting to look at.
“But it’s your name isn’t it, Amelia?” he asks, as though he’s talking to one of those crying children of his. Which she supposes that from his point of view maybe he is.
“Well, yes, but you were perfectly fine with Amy a few hours ago,” she answers.
“I was,” he shrugs, “but a few hours ago you hadn’t forgotten one of the major events of your own planet.”
“What event? You keep saying I should have known about the Daleks before, but really? No.”
“Are you sure?” he asks, peering closer into her eyes.
“Yes.”
“But why?”
“Maybe you’re the one that’s remembering wrong,” she snaps as she shifts to move away from the random lever poking her in the back.
He lets go of her suddenly, but doesn’t move back, “you don’t happen to have an old pocket watch do you?”
“What? No.” Bit random.
“You’re sure?” he asks, “Not anywhere in that big old house of yours?”
She nods, “I’m sure. I spent entire summers searching that house for something interesting.”
“Playing Doctor?”
She just looks at him, refusing to dignify that with an answer. She was a kid, for God’s sake - a kid who’d had deal with one too many traumas.
“Tell me about your parents, about Scotland,” he says, changing tracks again.
“That sounds a little too much like the question you asked Bracewell,” she tells him, then,
“I’m not a bloody robot!”
“Well, how do you know that?” he counters with an ‘a ha!’ sort of tone.
“Well, wouldn’t one of these doohickeys, “she points at the console, “have told you by now if I was?”
“I suppose it would,” he answers in a slow sort of tone as if she’s just given him an idea. For the first time in minutes he turns away from her and she relaxes back against an un-bumpy part of the console. He’s pulling at random levers and pushing buttons and twirling knobs and then suddenly looking at the view screen.
“Ah... huh”, he splutters as he looks back up.
“Human?” she asks.
He nods, “as far as I can tell.”
“Oh, give it a rest,” she almost shouts, “You were wrong, I just forgot. Maybe I slept through it.”
“No, only one person did that,” he says, looking hurt, “and only then because she would have died otherwise.”
He stands there in front of her again, completely still for a few seconds and the suddenly he’s off and moving again, heading somewhere out of the console room, “stay right there.”
“Well, no, I figured I might pop out for a spot of shopping,” she mutters.
Moments later and he’s back again with some weird thing in his hands, looks a bit like that headgear Bracewell had. She raises her eyebrow at him.
He pulls out a stool from under the console, “well, sit.”
She sits, “woof.”
“Funny,” he tells her and he’s attaching the thing to her head.
“I’m pretty sure that won’t tell you I’m a robot either, Doctor,” she tells him, smirking a bit.
“Maybe so,” he says, patting her head, “Right. Think of home.”
“Ok...,” she looks at him, “home it is.”
A picture appears on the view screen, it looks like the aftermath of some sort of natural disaster, a large crater, at the edge a sign is just falling in.
“Uh...,” she turns to look at him, “Is that thing broken?”
The Doctor isn’t looking at her anymore; he’s staring at the screen, “no that’s your mind’s eye. Try thinking of work.”
She squints at him, “you just want to see me kissing someone.”
Up on the screen is a library with a big window - through that window are maybe ten or fifteen teenage girls doing some sort of self-defence class on a large walled lawn.
“Uh, that’s not my work. Is this thing broken?” she reaches up towards her head.
“Don’t touch that!” she puts her hands in her lap.
“Well?”
“I tried this on myself once,” he says, “got all sort of pictures from several different me's.”
“Different you's?”
“You remember? Still cooking...” he wiggles his hands around.
“You mean you’re not always you?” she asks, puzzled.
“No, I’m always me, it’s just me, I change, regenerate.”
“So, what? Now you think I’m like you?” she scoffs. She almost adds on ‘Mr last of your kind’, only that’s a bit harsh.
“No, not quite,” he answers, “which is a good thing, didn’t go so well last time. Right, one last one. Think about what you look like.”
They both look up at the screen. At first it’s just her, although the Doctor laughs and shakes his head and mutters something about humans always putting themselves down and if the image hadn’t changed she would have said something about how he thought she was hot. But it did, change; it flickered through several faces until it stuck with one. This one started out as a brunette at maybe early teens and then it did that thing you get in the movies sometimes, the quick aging thing and she got older until she hit maybe forty and then stopped.
“Uh, who’s that?” she asks, not quite wanting to know.
“You,” he answers, only now he’s looking at her with almost awe in his eyes, “the first you that was you.”
“But, but why don’t I remember that? I mean, you obviously remember the you’s before you,” she questions, not able to take her eyes of the image.
“Yes, but we’re different,” he murmurs, “Ok, this one really is the last one. Think about what you are.”
The image flicks between her and the other woman but this time there’s a tinge of green over the whole screen.
“Oh, wow!” the Doctor turns to look at her, “really?”
“Uh, really.”
As he starts taking the headgear off her head he asks her a question, “you, Amy Pond, you’ve always had a fascination with the supernatural, the alien, yes?”
“Well, when an alien crash lands in your garden when you’re twelve it’s kind of hard not to,” she laughs.
He rolls his eyes, “but,” he holds up a finger, “you’ve also always had a fascination with locks and keys?”
She looks at him, puzzled, “how did you know that?”
“Because I know who you are: Amelia Pond who was Dawn Summers who is the Key,” she’s certain he carries on only she can’t hear him anymore.
”Is this blood?” she asks, knife in her hand, arm dripping with blood.
“What am I? Am I real? Am I anything?” she’s crying.
“Look it’s blood. It’s Summers blood,” this time it’s a blonde girl.
“Dawn, the hardest thing in this world ... is to live in it,” the blonde again.
“I got your back,” sword in hand this time.
“The stake is not the power,” she knows now, that the blonde is her sister.
“If you get killed, I’m telling,” her sister, again.
“-elia!” the Doctor is shaking her.
“Well,” she looks at him, “a bit easier this time, a lot less blood.”
“Sorry?” he asks.
“No need to be,” she deliberately takes it the wrong way, “I’m still me, same as you’re still you, only different. Just got a few more memories is all.”
“About those memories,” the Doctor says.
“Yes, well, I think I couldn’t remember the Daleks because if I did there was a chance I might remember who I am, and that didn’t go so well the only other time I did, so,” she shrugs.
“Are you saying that this is the first time, since the first time, that you’ve known who you are?” he asks.
“Yep,” she answers.
“Weird,” he counters.
“I know, right?” she laughs.