mercuries
Title: Ghosts
Author: limesurprise
For: mercuries
Characters/Pairing: Eleven and Amy
Rating: G
Spoilers: None
Genre: Angsty (but funny!), kind-of-sort-of Horror
Prompt: Amy meets a future version of the Doctor from after they travelled together.
Summary: Energy leaves imprints. That's why houses have ghosts. He understands this intimately. Mainly, he understands this because Amy won't stop haunting him.
A/N: I was a bit liberal with the prompt, but I hope you like it nonetheless.
Energy leaves imprints. That's why houses have ghosts. He understands this intimately. Mainly, he understands this because Amy won't stop haunting him.
He lost her years ago on a far-away planet because he wasn't there to say stop, don't touch that. If he would have just kept an eye on her for two seconds, she'd be fine and whole and human. Her death was his fault and her blood was on his hands.
To say he was upset about losing her would be an understatement. To say he was devastated would be one, too. He thought he should invent a new word, just for him, that carried the weight of Amy's death, Rory's, Adric Who Died's, Harriet Jones', Lynda with a Y's, Jenny's, River's, and Poor Eternal Jack's, along with the mountain of others he was responsible for. It would probably sound German.
The Doctor was so distraught that, at first, he thought he imagined her. One day while shaving in the TARDIS bathroom, he saw red hair flicker behind him. He whirled around, but it was gone as suddenly as it appeared. He chalked it up to grief and went about his day. There was a revolution on Axis 193 that needed his help.
There was always the possibility he'd finally lost his mind, he supposed.
It started happening more and more after that. He would see her in the places she frequented on the TARDIS. A flash of red, a deep laugh, a chuckle, the sound of worn cowboy boots on a glass floor. Eventually Amy became fully-formed, if slightly transparent. She would talk with him. She would ask where they were going next. She would voice her distaste for his bowtie. She didn't know anything bad had ever happened to her. This projection (notaghostshe'snotaghost) of Amy was Amy as he knew her at her happiest, long before she'd been hardened by loss. This was Amy before she lost her love; Amy before she learned the consequences of being a little girl in a house that was too big. This Amy shone brightly and crackled with energy.
She was so happy; there was no way he would tell her she was dead. He wouldn't let her down again.
So they didn't talk about it. Except for once.
One night she sat cross-legged at his feet as he read. She leaned her head against his knee while she played with the fibers of an ancient rug. He wondered if she thought she could feel his trousers and the support of his leg, because he couldn't feel the reassuring pressure of her dead little head at all. He wondered if running his fingers through the air that her hair occupied would stir her image and make it swirl like dust mites in a shaft of light. He didn't want to find out.
"Doctor, why are you so sad lately?" She didn't look up from the rug she was picking.
"Sad? Yes, I suppose I have been sad. Everyone's sad sometimes." Talking around a question was always the best option, right?
"But why? It can't be me. I'm a laugh and a half for you. You loooooove me."
"I'm very old, Amy. Do you remember the time we talked about bad days?"
"In the starship? Yeah. You said it was a bad day when the Time Lords went away. Do you want to talk about it?"
She turned her face up to him and placed a hand over his boot. He suppressed a shudder that he was sure was purely in his head.
"No, I really, really don't. I've had a few bad days. It's just that I can't seem to shake a particularly bad day. It follows me wherever I go. Do you understand that?" The Doctor tried to speak carefully and casually so as not to hurt her feelings if she knew she was dead, but allowed himself a pointed look at her face. Her wide, green eyes were full of trust and love and it broke his hearts. Again.
"Kind of. Like, kids used to tease me in school. They'd make fun of how I'd have to go to the counselor's office. They'd leave notes in my locker. It still bothers me when I think about it. I kept all the notes, though. Is that what you mean?" God, he felt like a prat. Were there any ways in which he had not broken her?
"Yes, just like that. That's my smart Amy! Did I ever tell you about the plasma storms in the Xarvos galaxy? Rainbow colored lightning and really loud bangs. The lightning smells like strawberries. Want to see it?" the Doctor said.
Coward, he thought.
A few minutes later they sat in the open doorway of his TARDIS, legs hanging over the side and dangling into space. Pink, blue, green and gold lightning crashed before them. The air smelled like a memory of summer. The Doctor put his arm around where Amy's shoulders would have been. If she'd had a head, she would have put it against his.
They carried on like that for a long time. He quickly learned that others couldn't see or hear his Amy, although River pretended to, bless her. The Doctor decided it was a quirk of energy signatures, nothing more. He stopped taking companions. He would take Amy to quiet places; his favorite places.
It was both an unfortunate blessing and a welcome curse; when you have all the time in the universe, there's always something more to do, always someone more to see, always some new adventure to nearly kill you. Amy was always there. Eventually he stopped talking to many other people; he didn't want Amy to question why no one ever spoke to her. Their trips became less frequent. He could sit for ages in the Time Vortex now, watching Amy drink tea, or playing Scrabble.
It was actually quite nice, until the day he saw a flash of blonde in his shaving mirror.
Author: limesurprise
For: mercuries
Characters/Pairing: Eleven and Amy
Rating: G
Spoilers: None
Genre: Angsty (but funny!), kind-of-sort-of Horror
Prompt: Amy meets a future version of the Doctor from after they travelled together.
Summary: Energy leaves imprints. That's why houses have ghosts. He understands this intimately. Mainly, he understands this because Amy won't stop haunting him.
A/N: I was a bit liberal with the prompt, but I hope you like it nonetheless.
Energy leaves imprints. That's why houses have ghosts. He understands this intimately. Mainly, he understands this because Amy won't stop haunting him.
He lost her years ago on a far-away planet because he wasn't there to say stop, don't touch that. If he would have just kept an eye on her for two seconds, she'd be fine and whole and human. Her death was his fault and her blood was on his hands.
To say he was upset about losing her would be an understatement. To say he was devastated would be one, too. He thought he should invent a new word, just for him, that carried the weight of Amy's death, Rory's, Adric Who Died's, Harriet Jones', Lynda with a Y's, Jenny's, River's, and Poor Eternal Jack's, along with the mountain of others he was responsible for. It would probably sound German.
The Doctor was so distraught that, at first, he thought he imagined her. One day while shaving in the TARDIS bathroom, he saw red hair flicker behind him. He whirled around, but it was gone as suddenly as it appeared. He chalked it up to grief and went about his day. There was a revolution on Axis 193 that needed his help.
There was always the possibility he'd finally lost his mind, he supposed.
It started happening more and more after that. He would see her in the places she frequented on the TARDIS. A flash of red, a deep laugh, a chuckle, the sound of worn cowboy boots on a glass floor. Eventually Amy became fully-formed, if slightly transparent. She would talk with him. She would ask where they were going next. She would voice her distaste for his bowtie. She didn't know anything bad had ever happened to her. This projection (notaghostshe'snotaghost) of Amy was Amy as he knew her at her happiest, long before she'd been hardened by loss. This was Amy before she lost her love; Amy before she learned the consequences of being a little girl in a house that was too big. This Amy shone brightly and crackled with energy.
She was so happy; there was no way he would tell her she was dead. He wouldn't let her down again.
So they didn't talk about it. Except for once.
One night she sat cross-legged at his feet as he read. She leaned her head against his knee while she played with the fibers of an ancient rug. He wondered if she thought she could feel his trousers and the support of his leg, because he couldn't feel the reassuring pressure of her dead little head at all. He wondered if running his fingers through the air that her hair occupied would stir her image and make it swirl like dust mites in a shaft of light. He didn't want to find out.
"Doctor, why are you so sad lately?" She didn't look up from the rug she was picking.
"Sad? Yes, I suppose I have been sad. Everyone's sad sometimes." Talking around a question was always the best option, right?
"But why? It can't be me. I'm a laugh and a half for you. You loooooove me."
"I'm very old, Amy. Do you remember the time we talked about bad days?"
"In the starship? Yeah. You said it was a bad day when the Time Lords went away. Do you want to talk about it?"
She turned her face up to him and placed a hand over his boot. He suppressed a shudder that he was sure was purely in his head.
"No, I really, really don't. I've had a few bad days. It's just that I can't seem to shake a particularly bad day. It follows me wherever I go. Do you understand that?" The Doctor tried to speak carefully and casually so as not to hurt her feelings if she knew she was dead, but allowed himself a pointed look at her face. Her wide, green eyes were full of trust and love and it broke his hearts. Again.
"Kind of. Like, kids used to tease me in school. They'd make fun of how I'd have to go to the counselor's office. They'd leave notes in my locker. It still bothers me when I think about it. I kept all the notes, though. Is that what you mean?" God, he felt like a prat. Were there any ways in which he had not broken her?
"Yes, just like that. That's my smart Amy! Did I ever tell you about the plasma storms in the Xarvos galaxy? Rainbow colored lightning and really loud bangs. The lightning smells like strawberries. Want to see it?" the Doctor said.
Coward, he thought.
A few minutes later they sat in the open doorway of his TARDIS, legs hanging over the side and dangling into space. Pink, blue, green and gold lightning crashed before them. The air smelled like a memory of summer. The Doctor put his arm around where Amy's shoulders would have been. If she'd had a head, she would have put it against his.
They carried on like that for a long time. He quickly learned that others couldn't see or hear his Amy, although River pretended to, bless her. The Doctor decided it was a quirk of energy signatures, nothing more. He stopped taking companions. He would take Amy to quiet places; his favorite places.
It was both an unfortunate blessing and a welcome curse; when you have all the time in the universe, there's always something more to do, always someone more to see, always some new adventure to nearly kill you. Amy was always there. Eventually he stopped talking to many other people; he didn't want Amy to question why no one ever spoke to her. Their trips became less frequent. He could sit for ages in the Time Vortex now, watching Amy drink tea, or playing Scrabble.
It was actually quite nice, until the day he saw a flash of blonde in his shaving mirror.