Disclaimer – Not for commercial publication. No copyright infringement is intended. Some dialogue from Doctor Who episodes "The Eleventh Hour", "Let's Kill Hitler", and "Vampires of Venice".
A/N – this is my first attempt at Doctor Who fic, and I'm new to the Who fandom. Be gentle...or rough, if you like! AU account of the episode "The Eleventh Hour." Beta'd by Nicole and pre-read by Mernaamjoker, wordslinger, sfiddy, and Iamnotalizard.
Geronimo!
He is a god.
Some would call him a megalomaniac-some, in fact, have-but they'd be wrong. His grandeur is not a delusion. And though he knows he has no equal, not really, pride does not cloud his judgement.
His Achilles heel, as it were, is curiosity. Curiosity killed the cat...unless said cat found itself imprisoned in Schrodinger's box. A ridiculous thought? No more ridiculous than a girl in a box.
Wait, what?
A girl in a box. Am I sodding mad?
His mind is a mosaic of broken images, crazy-glued chaos. Time bifurcates. He sees double. Red hair, flames, fire everywhere. A boy in love, waiting, waiting, waiting, longer than a human life could possibly last, he stands sentry. The Doctor is very clever, but even he can't decipher these fragments as his hearts beat out a broken Morse code.
But really, it's all just a matter of time. It's a puzzle, yeah? He adores a good puzzle!
Red hair, fire, flames...Oh, bugger! The TARDIS is on fire. No time for that rubbish! His face stretches into a grin even though things have gone topsy-turvy, exploding all about.
His molecules haven't even properly aligned themselves in this new form yet, but already he finds himself perched on the eye of a needle, tearing through the sky in a TARDIS that does not know how to behave herself, poor dear.
Poor dear! What about me? I've no time for this. Ha! No time. Oh, look, I'm about to crash. Excellent!
He can fix this. There's nothing he cannot fix; he's The Doctor for the love of all—Bollocks! The ground is growing at an alarming rate. Judging from the distance of the petrified goat on the ground, The Doctor is certain of two things: he's 17 seconds away from crashing into someone's garden, and the owner of said garden is likely a Scotsman.
Scotsmen and their goats.
"It's fine. Things are fine. I'm in perfect control." The Sonic Screwdriver eeks out a pathetic wail as it meets the business end of a gear shift. "C'mon, then. Work...a little help, old girl?"
The TARDIS would roll her eyes, if she had them to roll. As it is, she can't remain silent, all but broadcasting her thoughts: physician heal thyself…and me, while you're at it. It's been quite a good, long while since you sonic screwdrivered any of my neglected circuits. Wanker.
The Doctor's attention is divided between gaining full command of his new limbs and dragging his arse to his vessel's malfunctioning control panel. He has no time for awkward sexual wordplay with a sentient (and randy) time machine. He's quite certain she's messing with him. She never was good at following orders.
I may not take you where you want to go, but I do, in fact, take you where you need to go.
"Stop it! I've no time for your clever mind games, you magnificent beast. Just don't kill me, yeah? Find me a place to land; I've only just regenerated."
Very well, Doctor. But I'd like you to know that you have stupid hair.
Before he can retort, he finds himself flying through the main control room, past the gift shop, and through the commissary, all the while screaming like a git, legs and arms akimbo. He's a comet, one would think if they saw him fly through sky, with a tail of blue regeneration energy trailing behind him.
The landing is not soft, and he finds himself in the pool...in the library.
What an odd place to keep a pool.
-WHO-
A few short moments later he emerges from the tiny police call box soaking wet and muttering nonsense about apples. He shakes his head, his hair feeling heavier than it had in his previous form. Quite in vain, he rubs his skull, trying to dislodge the vertigo from his mind like vestiges of sleep from one's eyes. Early to bed and early to rise from the grave, that's what I always say! Apparently, this new vessel has a sense of humour.
Or not.
Pat, pat, pat. He really does have stupid hair. Why did his hair regenerate into a bouffant? And he'd hoped he'd be ginger this time. But look, not a freckle to be had!
Through the rambling in his head, he almost misses the little girl standing not but a few metres from the spot he crashed.
"Are you okay?" she hedges, scrunching her eyes.
As he suspected, she's Scottish. He's not sure what happened to the goat, though.
I'm fine! I'm okay! This is all perfectly normal.
The words never quite make it out of his mouth. Humans aren't telepathic. He knows. He's The Doctor. She won't be able to communicate with him properly if he doesn't speak. Why is he not speaking? He can't get the taste of apple off his tongue-crisp, cold, and sweet.
"Oh! Maybe I'm having a craving!" Not the best greeting, perhaps, but the girl doesn't appear offput by The Doctor's unorthodox behaviour. If anything, she's simply curious...like him. Exactly like him! And she's ginger; my God, that has to be a sign.
He'd so wanted to be ginger this time round.
"Are you a policeman?" the girl asks.
"Why? Did you call a policeman?" He approaches her to have a proper look. Something about the child is so bloody familiar. He wants to count the freckles on her nose, but that might be considered rude. The girl might run away, and then he'd never get an apple. He does so want an apple.
Or maybe an onion.
The ten who came before him whisper nonsense about companionship, and he scoffs. I am a god, I am a god, I am a god. The mantra does little to quell the hungry rumble in his tummy.
"Did you come about the crack in my wall?"
"What cra- ah- ah- aargh- ha!" No, he wasn't expecting that. Her statement quite literally knocks him off his feet.
"You all right, mister?"
Is he all right? He would be. He could see it, the possibilities, the ocean of time with each delicate ripple. The shadow of The Others casts its heavy head on his shoulder as he watches her. The girl.
"Yeah, I'm fine, it's okay... this is all perfectly nor-" Energy seeps from his body, tumbling and dancing. He's coughing fireflies.
"Who are you?" the girl asks.
Who, indeed.
"I don't know yet. Still cooking." At the mention of cooking, he imagines bread and marmite. Does he like marmite? His feet somehow tangle into a messy knot, and he finds himself on his arse. The girl with the red hair doesn't laugh. "Does it scare you?"
"No," she replies, staring at him. "It just looks a bit weird."
"No, no, no, the crack in your wall! Does it scare you?"
"Yes," she says, all business.
The Doctor grins and leaps to his feet. "Well then! No time to lose! I'm the Doctor. Do everything I tell you, don't ask stupid questions, and don't wander off."
-WHO-
Amelia wants to get the problem with her wall sorted, but Doctor...The Doctor…is fixated on food. And he's a grown-up, so she feels compelled to yield to his obnoxious requests for beans, rashers, and yoghurt, even though he calls it rubbish, spitting bits of chewed-up food onto her nice clean floor.
The Doctor becomes flustered like a fussy infant with a desperate need for something he doesn't yet possess the vocabulary to name. "I need... I need... I need... Ah-ha! Fish fingers and custard."
Amelia joins him at her aunt's table, plucking a treat from the freezer for herself as well. They sit in silence for several minutes while The Doctor munches on frozen fish fingers and washes them down with a bowl of thick custard.
The yellow moustache it leaves on his face is rather fetching, Amelia decides, tucking in to her ice cream. She's never known a grown-up to drink custard straight from the bowl and spit mushy beans on the floor. It's like everything he tastes and smells and feels, he's experiencing for the first time. His eyes shine. Amelia feels like an adult. He speaks to her as if she is one, and being near him leaves a pleasantly warm feeling in her belly. She considers telling him he smells like cinnamon, but she doesn't want him to think she has a crush on him or anything. Boys are gross. Even magical boys who fall out of the sky in a blue police call box.
Again, Amelia feels something she doesn't understand, a fluttering beneath her chest. Whatever it is, it feels… "Funny."
The Doctor grins. "Am I? Good. Funny's good. What's your name?"
"Amelia Pond."
"Ohh, that's a brilliant name. Amelia Pond. Like a name in a fairytale. Are we in Scotland, Amelia?" He doesn't think so. There aren't enough goats.
She sighs and looks down at the table. "No. Had to move to England. It's rubbish."
"So what about your mum and dad then? Are they upstairs? Thought we'd've woken them by now."
"Don't have a mum and dad. Just an aunt." Her voice is bitter.
The Doctor watches the way her nose scrunches. Now that his hunger is abated, his curiosity flares. "I don't even have an aunt."
"You're lucky."
"I know," he agrees, because he really is the luckiest boy from Gallifrey. "So your aunt. Where's she?"
"She's out."
"And she left you all alone?!" She couldn't be more than eight or nine!
"I'm not scared!"
"'Course you're not! You're not scared of anything. Box falls out of the sky, man falls out of the box, man eats fish custard. And look at you! Just sitting there. So you know what I think?"
"What?"
"Must be a hell of a scary crack in your wall."
Amelia shrugs and pushes her chair away from the table. She learned a long time ago to swallow unpleasant feelings. Her stomach churns as she leads The Doctor to her room, and his smile does little to unravel the knot of fear that settles in her gut. Maybe it's the expression on The Doctor's face that irks her, his eyes too bright, his smile kind of twitchy.
Or maybe she ate her ice cream too quickly.
Buzz, buzz, buzz, The Doctor seems to glow like fireworks, electric, blue sparks sizzling out of his hand as he plucks a screwdriver from his jacket pocket. He speaks of cowboys, the figurative kind. There are figurative cowboys in the wall.
He is kinetic.
This is an adventure, of that Amelia is certain, but magic doesn't exist in her world. For an eight-year-old she is terribly pragmatic. And for some reason, she feels a sudden tinge of melancholy that The Doctor was disappointed by her apples, since they were the first thing he spoke about upon landing in her front garden.
"I used to hate apples," Amelia says in a small voice. "Then my mum put faces on them."
The Doctor is so fixated on the crack in the wall-the fissure in time and space that indeed is too scary to be mundane-that he almost misses the treasure in the girl's tiny hand. She closes the distance between them and passes the fruit, which sports a crudely carved happy face.
"She sounds good, your mum. I'll keep it for later," he says and turns his attention back to the puzzle at hand. He runs his fingers over the cool surface of the wall, feeling an inexplicable draft breeze over his skin. "Wibbly wobbly timey wimey. Do you know what the crack is?"
"What?"
"It's a crack," he starts, pressing his cheek against it. "But I'll tell you something funny. If you knock this wall down, the crack would stay put, cause the crack isn't in the wall."
"Where is it then?"
The Doctor isn't certain if Amelia has enough of a background in physics and intergalactic time travel to understand a rip in the time/space continuum. Nevertheless, he's keen to share his discovery. "Everywhere. In everything. It's a split in the skin of the world. Two parts of space and time that should never have touched... pressed together. Right here in the wall of your bedroom. Sometimes, can you hear-"
"A voice," Amelia interrupts. "Yes."
The Doctor must hear this voice, too!
Like a physician, he wishes he owned a stethoscope, because that would be practical and great fun, but the glass on Amelia's bedside table would have to do. He turns it over, momentarily distracted by the water that pours out and onto his shoes. He presses his ear to the glass and the glass to the wall. The voice in the crack becomes clearer. It says "Prisoner Zero has escaped. Prisoner Zero has escaped."
"Prisoner Zero has escaped," Amelia says with an odd sense of glee, thrilled someone other than her finally hears the voice. She'd tried to tell her aunt, but that led to a stern lecture about making up stories. "That's what I heard. What does it mean?"
The Doctor straightens and pulls his head away from the wall. "It means on the other side of this wall there's a prison. And they've lost a prisoner, and d'you know what that means?"
"What?"
"You need a better wall."
Amelia thinks that's very sensible advice, and watches with open curiosity as The Doctor picks her desk up and moves it away from the wall.
"The only way to close the breach is to open it all the way. Forces will invert, and it will snap itself shut. Or…"
"What?"
The Doctor pauses, uncertain how exactly he should go about reassuring the little girl. She's far too clever to be fooled by platitudes. "You know when grown-ups tell you everything's gonna be fine, and you think they're probably lying to make you feel better?"
"Yes…"
"Everything's gonna be fine."
Amelia prides herself on being rational and unwavering in her bravery. Fear, cold and sharp, crystallizes her blood as the wall begins to crumble along the fault line. First a slight rumble shakes the crack, splintering it just a little... and then, pow! It breaks and crumbles, spider veins shooting out from an invisible, circular point of impact, as if punched by a massive fist. Fissures split the sheetrock, and the chasm opens, the dark black shadowy space now blinding white. Amelia blinks, shielding herself from the light. She's not certain what she expects, but it's definitely not the giant eye that suddenly takes shape, veins criss-crossing over the milky whites. The irises are hypnotic; she can't look away.
"Prisoner Zero-"
"I know, I know, Prisoner Zero has escaped. Sing us another tune, bally. That one's sung out!" The Doctor points his screwdriver at the eye, light shining green. The eye blinks and retaliates by shooting a glowing fireball at The Doctor. It ricochets off his pocket, sending him stumbling backward, his silly hair flying all about as he lands on the bed.
The crack closes.
"There, see! Told you it would close! Good as new."
Amelia nods slowly, wondering if she's peed her knickers. "What's that thing? Was that Prisoner Zero?"
"No. I think that was Prisoner Zero's guard. Whatever it was, it sent me a message." The Doctor holds up a sheet of psychic paper. "Prisoner Zero has escaped."
Amelia is so tired of hearing about bloody Prisoner Zero.
"But why tell us…" The Doctor continues. "Unless…"
"Unless what?"
"Unless Prisoner Zero escaped through here." He looks all around the room, even shines his screwdriver toward the ceiling, pursing his lips like a guppy. "But he couldn't have. We'd know."
Amelia opens her mouth to ask another question, but The Doctor is already running out of her room. She follows-he told her earlier to stay close, and she's very good at following directions-she suspects she might follow him into the tiny box in the yard if he'd let her. She watches his hair bounce on his head as he takes the stairs four at a time and then stops abruptly. Amelia skids on the wood floor and nearly topples over. He grabs her arm, steadying her.
"It's difficult," he apologizes. "Brand new me; nothing works yet, but there's something I'm missing…" He turns his head, slowly, so slowly, until he's glancing at a door he would swear wasn't there a moment ago. "I can only see it in the corner of my eye. There's something...not quite right, Amelia. Stay away from that door."
Amelia is about to ask why, but oh, blimey, The Doctor is off running again. Nervous laughter bubbles out of her lips as she watches him move, his feet too big for the rest of him, but her glee is immediately eclipsed by dark disappointment because he's running away from her. Her throat tightens.
The Doctor is leaving.
Everyone leaves.
"I've gotta get back in there! The engines are phasing! It's gonna burn!"
"But!" Amelia yells, searching for the right words as she shuffles after him through the wet garden, no shoes on her feet. The thick wool of her socks sloshes against the ground. "It's just a box. How can a box have engines?!"
The Doctor fusses with the blue box in Amelia's garden, doing nothing but banging on the door with his screwdriver, as far as she can tell. He snorts and replies, "It's not a box! It's a time machine."
"What? A real one? You've got a real time machine?" Amelia is incredulous but very curious.
"Not for much longer, if I can't get it stabilised! Five minute hop into the future should do it!"
He's leaving! "Can I come?"
"Not safe in here, not yet. Five minutes. Give me five minutes! I'll be right back."
"People always say that." The excitement in Amelia's tummy transforms into a heavy brick of disappointment. She sits, unable to stand under the weight of it. Now her bottom is as wet as her feet. The Doctor turns around and crouches beside her.
"Am I people? Do I even look like people?" He scoffs. People are such crap. "Trust me. I'm the Doctor."
The Doctor. Something about what he says sounds right.
She smiles, reassured.
Five minutes.
He'll be back in five minutes.
Amelia grins. She's ready for an adventure. Her entire life is about to change!
-WHO-
For three months, Amelia waited. It was a bit of an adventure at first. After supper, she'd help her aunt clean up the dishes, climb the narrow, rickety staircase to her bedroom, and fetch her suitcase.
"Thank you, Auntie," she called, dragging her over-stuffed bag to the front porch. "I'm quite sure tonight's the night."
"Get inside, Amelia!" her aunt replied, no time for a little girl's nonsense. "I need to go out and check on the goat. Something spooked the poor thing...her milk's curdled."
"It's The Doctor, Auntie. He nearly crashed his time machine on her head."
"The Doctor," Auntie spat. "That's quite enough, Amelia Pond. Stop it with this nonsense, or you're going straight to bed."
"Yes, Auntie." Amelia sat on her suitcase and checked her watch. Her aunt would see...they all would.
But The Doctor didn't come that night. Nor did he come the night after that, the month after, or the next year. But still, little Amelia Pond waited. As she grew older, she replaced the teddy bear in her suitcase with an embroidered pillow, and then a straightening iron. By the time she was thirteen, she even had a small make-up kit nestled between her jumpers and knickers.
Tonight, her friend Mels is sleeping over at her house, and Amelia makes her wait with her, suitcase still at the ready. Mels will understand if she has to leave. Amelia spent a long time explaining her very unique situation to her friends.
"You're crazy," Mels says. "Completely mental. He's not coming, you know."
"'Course he is," Amy insists. "He said he would."
"You need to stop it, Amelia Pond, or you'll be sent straight away to the funny farm, with your talk of time travel and magic boxes."
"Rory believes me."
"Rory's even crazier than you." Mels' voice takes on a haughty tone. "He'll go along with whatever you say because he's afraid to make you angry."
"That's rubbish. Rory's not afraid of me."
"Not of you, no. He's scared you won't be his friend anymore. You know, 'cause he loves you."
"Ew! Shut up! He does not. That's gross, Mels."
"Why? Because you're in love with The Doctor? That romance is bound to fail on account of him not being real. Poor Rory, in love with a girl who's stark raving mad...and a ginger."
"Shhh! He'll hear you."
"What? Who, The Doctor?"
"No, Rory. He's still hiding."
"Crap." Mels frowns. "I forgot. Why does he always disappear?"
"I don't disappear," a sad voice says from the wardrobe. "You just forget me all the time."
"Oh, Rory." Amelia sighs. "Come out, then."
"I thought we were playing hide and seek. I've been hiding for hours," the boy whines, stepping out of the wardrobe.
"Well, we just haven't found you yet."
Rory sits on the bed beside Amelia. "You're talking about The Doctor again, yeah?"
"Of course," Mels says with an obnoxious snort. "What else? Hey, Amelia, what does he look like? You never said. Is he fit?"
Amelia feels her face flush warm. "No...he's funny. Rory, we're still playing. Go hide!"
Rory stares at Amelia for several uncomfortable seconds before jumping to his feet and running out of the room.
"But how can he travel in time?" Mels presses.
"Because he's got a time machine, stupid." Talk about obvious! Is Mels daft or just teasing her? A sudden pang of sympathy fills Amelia's chest. Poor Mels doesn't live in the same world she does. She has no grand adventure waiting for her, no promise of intergalactic travel. She'll never get to leave this planet, or maybe even this town. "Sorry. You're not stupid."
"'Course I'm not. You're the stupid one, Amelia Pond," she says, the warble in her voice belying her hard tone. "There's no Doctor coming for you except for the one that runs Bedlam."
-WHO-
"Tell me about this Doctor, then," Dr. Radcliffe demands, keeping his eyes fixed on his notepad. Amelia is uncomfortable in the itchy tights her aunt made her wear to the appointment today. She's tired of trying to explain herself to grown-ups who obviously don't understand. And this is the second psychiatrist she's seen in the last month! The first wanted to institutionalize her after barely speaking with her for twenty minutes.
Why does everyone presume she's nuts?
"He's my friend," Amelia says in a small voice. "And I'm not crazy."
The psychiatrist smiles, his teeth chipped and yellow. "Of course not, dear."
"Just because I saw the The Doctor, everyone's always saying I'm mad," she grumbles, picking at a snag in her jumper.
"And no one can see him but you?"
"I only saw him once." Her chin quivers. She holds her jaw so firmly it aches.
"No one saw him but you." It's not a question, but Dr. Radcliffe seems to be pushing for a particular response.
"He only came over once. Suppose more people will see him when he comes back."
"And when is he coming back?"
"In five minutes…" She hesitates. "That's what he said."
"I see." Dr. Radcliffe tents his fingers beneath his chin. "And when did he say that?"
"Um...four years ago."
"And you haven't seen him since?"
"Nah."
"Do you ever hear voices, Amelia?"
Amelia hesitates. "Well, there was a voice in my wall once, but The Doctor fixed it. I didn't much care for the giant eyeball, though."
"I see."
"No voices since. It's all sorted. The problem was the crack in the universe. No more crack, no more voice." This is all perfectly logical to Amelia. Dr. Radcliffe, on the other hand, doesn't think Amelia's problem is sorted at all.
"Well, Amelia Pond, I do believe I'm able to help you."
"I don't need help."
"Sure you do. You want to get better, don't you?"
Amelia sighs, frustrated. She's heard this before. Dr. Radcliffe is no different from that other doctor or her aunt. He thinks she's sick.
"If I do what you want, will everyone leave me alone about The Doctor?"
"Of course, dear." His smile is warm, and Amelia wants to believe him.
"Okay...so long as everyone stops bothering me."
And they did. They left her alone after getting her brain all sorted out, cleared of the wibbly wobbly timey wimey nonsense. Amelia saw blue sparks like the ones that shot out of The Doctor's hand the day Dr. Radcliffe strapped her to an operating table, trussing her up like Jesus on the cross.
She believed The Doctor was electric. Fireflies from his fingers; lightning in his hands. She saw blue fire behind her eyelids after the leads were taped to her temples. Blue is the colour of her nightmares now.
Electroconvulsive Therapy, or ECT as they call it, is not a pleasant matter. Amelia had been scheduled for four sessions, but the first session fixed her up, right as rain, exorcised that pesky Doctor from her grey matter.
Fairy Tales aren't real. It's a lesson children must learn eventually, even pragmatic children like Amelia Pond. And most little girls grow up slowly, bit by bit-the Tooth Fairy is just your mum putting a pound or two under your pillow. Santa Claus is your fat old father. All the magic fades, it does. It fades until you're left with nothing but responsibility and bills and a darkness so deep you could put a coffin in it and crawl inside.
Amelia grew up all at once. All in that one day, that one hour in which she was sedated and electricity was directed into her brain.
She grew up, and she grew old.
On the drive home from the hospital, her tongue felt fuzzy and the smell of burnt coal lingered in her nose. She asked her aunt to call her Amy. Amelia was gone.
And that night Amy unpacked her suitcase.
She stopped waiting.
-WHO-
Mels falls breathlessly onto Amy's bed, beads of sweat coursing down her brow. She pulls her musty shirt away from her wet skin and fans herself. It's hot, so hot, but she shivers glancing from Amy, to Rory, and back again.
There's something they're running from, all of them. Something Mels can't define.
"What happened," Amy pleads.
Mels can't draw enough air in her lungs to tell Amy what she needs to. The deeply cynical, apathetic side of her psyche considers saying nothing. "I'm tired of running," Mels huffs.
"Why-why are you running?" Amy looks at Rory. "Why is she running?"
He shrugs. "Why're you running?"
"I should probably just go back to prison." She's alone in the world.
"Again?" Amy groans. "Mels, you just got out. Couldn't you try, I don't know, being a normal law-abiding person?"
"S'no fun. Lookit you, then-you have the man of your dreams. I've no one. No great love. No fantastic adventure...just this."
"Adventure," Amy mutters. "I've no adventure. No great love."
"'Course you do, you idiot. He's always loved you."
"He's not even real. Just a stupid dream when I was a kid." Amy put away all her trinkets and drawings years ago. She finds it odd that Mels would mention...him.
"No, I wasn't talking about him," Mels snorts, glancing at the boy, nearly a man now, to Amy's left. "I meant him. Hide and seek boy. Your man Rory. You have Rory. I've nothing."
"What, Rory? How have I got Rory?"
"Yeah," he agrees, his voice timid. "How...how's she got me?"
"He's not mine," Amy continues, poking Rory in the ribs so hard he swallows a wince.
"No. No. I'm not hers."
"Oh, come on. Seriously, it's got to be you two." Mels grabs Amy's hand and places it in Rory's. "Oh, cut to the song. It's getting boring."
"Nice thought, okay, but completely impossible."
"Yeah," Rory agrees. "Impossible."
"I mean, I'd love to. He's gorgeous. He's my favourite guy. But he's, you know…" Amy pauses.
"A friend," Rory says at the same time that Amy completes her thought with the word, "Gay."
Rory stumbles, his mouth comical as it hangs open. "I'm not gay!"
"Yes, you are!" Amy insists, her tone downright insulting in its condescension.
"No. No, I'm not!" Poor Rory yells.
"'Course you are. Don't be stupid. In the whole time I've known you, when have you shown any interest in a girl?"
"Penny in the air," Mels all but sings.
"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 bit of attention to?" Amy pokes Rory's chest with each word, watching him blush scarlet. "You never talk to anyone but me, for the love of cheeses!"
Rory is now a tomato. He opens his mouth to speak but instead runs out of the room, out of the house, in pursuit of his dignity.
"Oh, my God! Rory!" Amy screams and runs after him.
And the penny drops.
-WHO-
"Amelia!" The Doctor tears across the little girl's lawn, fear like fire under his skin, urging him forward at a rate his petrified new limbs aren't quite ready for. "Amelia! I worked out what it was! I know what I was missing! You've gotta get out of there!"
The door is locked. Why didn't she leave it open?
"Amelia! Amelia! Are you all right?! Are you there?"
He presses the screwdriver against the lock until the deadbolt slides away and the handle turns.
"Prisoner Zero's here!" he yells, stepping into the front hallway. "Prisoner Zero is here!"
The Doctor turns around at the sound of a creak of a floorboard behind him, just in time to see a cricket bat swing in his periphery. The universe is black silence.
-WHO-
Amy can't get her hands to stop shaking. She remembers him, his voice, the electricity. There's a spark in her mind, and her heart pounds. Nothing but the sound of blood whooshing through her veins as she stares at his unconscious form, slumped over against the radiator.
It's him. The Doctor. Her Doctor.
But he's not real. He can't be.
She can see his eyes moving at a frantic rate below his lids. Wait, her hallucination is dreaming? That's terribly complex and mundane all at once. She's dreaming of a man who is dreaming. Oh, Amy. You're not right.
But wait, maybe it's not him at all! Maybe the man is a serial rapist or taxonomist, or something equally as sinister.
The Doctor (the rapist?) groans, and Amy grabs her fake radio, panicked. "White male, mid-twenties, breaking and entering. Send me some back-up. I've got him restrained."
He opens his eyes and licks his lips several times like a thirsty dog.
"Oi! You, sit still," Amy says.
"Cricket bat. I'm getting... Cricket. Bat."
"You were breaking and entering." She tries to keep her voice calm, but she's chaos. His curious eyes travel up her body, seeming to linger on the bare skin of her long legs. She's dressed as a slutty police woman. Stupid job. But his eyes-they're fire. Whether he means to or not, she's certain he's looking at her like she's something to eat. Her spine sizzles-it's that electric hum when he looks at her. It radiates. Oh, bloody hell, it's him. She knows it.
The Doctor realizes he's handcuffed and mutters, "Oh that's much better. Brand new me. Whack on the head; just what I needed."
"Do you want to shut up now? I've got back-up on the way."
"Hang on, no, wait. You're a police woman."
"And you're breaking and entering. You see how this works?"
"No, what are you doing here? Where's Amelia?"
There's a note of hysteria in his voice. Amy feels it, too.
"Amelia Pond?" she says, wary. "Amelia Pond hasn't lived here in a long time."
"How long?"
Amy considers clocking him with the bat again to give her time to collect herself, to work out how to argue with a figment of her imagination, her dream. She wants to scream and claw at him, to make him real. "Six months," she whispers, not trusting her voice.
"No. No! No. Noo. I can't be six months late; I said five minutes. I promised." His voice breaks. He has the gall to sound heartbroken when it's Amy who suffered a broken heart, a dashed dream, a shattered mind!
Amy wipes her eyes, pretending to speak into her radio.
"What happened to her? What happened to Amelia Pond?"
She died. She's gone.
Amy says nothing.
"I need to speak to whoever lives in this house right now." The Doctor struggles against his restraints.
"I live here."
"But you're the police!"
"Yes, and this is where I live! You got a problem with that?" There's a crack in her voice. A crack in her entire universe. She watches The Doctor's eyes dart to something behind her.
"How many rooms?" he asks.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"On this floor. How many rooms on this floor? Count them for me, now."
"Why?" Amy looks around, frantic, searching for something to keep her eyes on other than him. She doesn't trust herself not to faint.
"Because it will change your life."
Ha! Her life is changed already. Counting doors would have little impact. "Five," she says, pointing out each door. "One, two, three, four, five."
"Six."
Amy giggles. A nervous chuckle. "Six?"
"Look."
"Look where?"
"Exactly where you don't wanna look. Where you never wanna look. The corner of your eye. Look behind you."
So Amy looks. There's nothing in this house she hasn't looked upon a million times, even in the deepest corners of her perception. An unknown room? Preposterous! Only thoughts of The Doctor were exiled to the far reaches of her mind. Nothing else.
...Except for that sixth door.
"That's... that is not possible," Amy says, stumbling away from The Doctor. The heel of her boot catches on the floor, and she almost trips. "How is that possible?"
"There's a perception filter all round the door. Sensed it last time I was here. Should've seen it."
"But that's a whole room. That's a whole room I've never even noticed." Repression is a powerful device. Amy knows; she spent her entire life ignoring what was in front of her nose rather than facing a potentially painful reality. But an entire room? Real estate is far too hot of a commodity to misplace rooms. Her auntie's estate agent would be appalled!
"The filter stops you noticing. Something came here, a while ago, to hide, and it's still hiding, and you need to uncuff me now!"
"Don't have the key. I lost it," Amy says, her eyes wide as she moves toward the door.
"How can you have lost it?!" The Doctor thrashes, the heat from the radiator uncomfortable against his hand. "Do not touch that door!"
Amy ignores him as best she can. She'll deal with her reality in a few minutes. Presently, there's the extra room situation to get sorted.
"Listen to me, do not open that-"
She turns the handle and steps inside. The room smells like dust and mildew from neglect. Her lungs burn and her eyes water, but nothing seems odd or frightening. Well, the fact that she's probably mad as a hatter is a little troubling.
"Why does no one ever listen to me? Do I just have a face that nobody listens to?!" With his free hand, The Doctor grapples in his pocket. "My screwdriver, where is it? Silver thing, blue at the end, where did it go?!"
"There's nothing here." What a waste of a room! She has boxes of junk she'd packed away currently occupying the spare bedroom. Now she could move it down here. Oh, and she could paint! She loves painting.
"Whatever's in there stopped you seeing the whole room. What makes you think you could see it? Now please, just get out!"
Amy refuses to argue with a hallucination. Oi, wait a minute; what that, then? She bends down to examine an object that's rolled into the room. "Silver, blue at the end?"
"My screwdriver, yeah," The Doctor says.
"It's here." She spins, looking about the room. Is there windows? She's having trouble counting them. Things won't stay in one place!
"Must've rolled under the door."
"Yeah. Must've." Amy shakes her head. The screwdriver is now on a desk that materialized randomly. Stupid hallucination. "And then it must've... jumped up on the table."
"Get out of there. Get out of there! Get out! Get out of there!" The Doctor thrashes again, straining to see what what's going on in the room. The police woman with the red hair will be killed if he doesn't get free.
Amy reaches down and picks up the screwdriver, cringing as some sort of sticky substance, viscous as honey, coats her fingers. She wipes her hand on her jumper, leaving a streak of green. The back of her neck tingles on alert, hair follicles stiffening along her spine.
"What is it?" The Doctor says. "What are you doing?"
"There's nothing here, but…" But she can feel it. Watching.
"Corner of your eye," The Doctor groans. "Don't try to see it. If it knows you've seen it, it will kill you! Don't look at it!"
Wind on the back of her neck like breath. She shivers.
"Do not... look." The Doctor's voice is a hiss. It piques Amy's curiosity. In the corner of her eye, there's movement, and her mind screams at her to look away, to run out of that room and nail the door shut.
Amy never was very good at following her instincts.
She spins, her neck craning to reach the very edge of her periphery, to see whatever it is that's blocking her from taking a proper look.
And then she sees the beast-a long serpent-like monster with razors for teeth. It reminds her of an eel from outer space, and it coils as if to attack. She screams, still looking the creature in its yellow eyes, backing away. Oh, God, had she been living with it all these years? How's that possible?
"Get out!" The Doctor yells, but she's already running, skidding along the floor as she stops to slam the door shut.
When she reaches The Doctor on the landing, she surrenders the screwdriver. He aims it at the door and the click of a lock echoes in the hallway, before turning the tool on himself to unfasten the cuffs.
"Will that door hold it?" Amy asks, still shaking.
"Oh, yeah, yeah, course. It's an interdimensional multiform from outer space. They're all terrified of wood."
She glares, and a flash of yellow light radiates from under the door. "What's that? What's it doing?"
"I don't know. Getting dressed? Run. Just go! Your back-up's coming; I'll be fine."
"There is no backup." Amy groans in defeat.
"I heard you on the radio; you called for backup."
"I was pretending. It's a pretend radio." For a magical, time-travelling boy, he is rather daft. Amy throws the radio on the floor.
"But you're a police woman." The Doctor looks at the girl's outfit, frowning. It's rather revealing for a police woman's suit.
"I'm a kissogram!" Amy wails, pulling her hat off. Her hair falls all about her face in loose curls of fire. The Doctor stares for a moment, but his attention is quickly diverted by two figures that suddenly materialize at the other end of the corridor.
Amy gasps and then swallows the lump in her throat, relieved. A man and a very large dog stare at her. It's a bit creepy, the way the dog maintains eye contact.
"Run," The Doctor says.
"But it's just-"
"No it isn't. Look at the faces."
The dog barks and growls...but it's the man's face that moves. They both tilt their heads and glance to the side. At the exact same time! In fact, all their movements mirror one another.
Either the man is barking-mad or Amy is.
"Run!" The Doctor yells, taking Amy's hand and dragging her down the stairs with him.
A voice fills Amy's ears-the voice of her childhood hallucinations. The voice in the wall! It says, "Prisoner Zero will vacate the human residence, or the human residence will be incinerated."
"What's that?"
"The Atraxi. He's keen to capture Prisoner Zero. So keen, in fact, that he's ready to burn the entire bloody place down!" The Doctor's voice is angry and breathless as they reach the front door and dash into the garden.
"What?" Amy says, squirming as The Doctor gapes at her, his pale eyebrows curved like question marks.
"A kissogram?!"
"Yes, a kissogram!" Amy refuses to feel ashamed. Her face is read from the physical exertion of running, not embarrassment. And wait, there are more important matters to address. "Shut up, then! What's going on?!"
"Why'd you pretend to be a police woman?!" The Doctor says, ignoring her.
"You broke into my house! It was this or a French maid! What's going on? Tell me! Tell me!"
"An alien convict is hiding in your spare room, disguised as a man and a dog, and some other aliens are about to incinerate your house. Any questions?"
"Yes!"
Millions of them. Is she crazy? Is her roommate really a shape-shifting serpent with terrible teeth? Is The Doctor finally here to take her away? A curl of pleasant heat tingles in her belly.
The Doctor still smells of cinnamon.
He turns away from her flushed, bewildered face and concentrates on unlocking the TARDIS, giving it a good whack with the screwdriver. "No, no, no, no, no! Don't do that, not now." Defeated, he bangs his forehead against its door. "It's still rebuilding, not letting us in."
Amy squeals at the sound of the Atraxi, louder now. "Prisoner Zero will vacate the human residence, or the human residence…"
"Come on!" Amy says and grabs The Doctor's arm, her fingers hot and sweaty against his crisp muscles stiffen, and he pulls away.
"Wait, wait, hang on! The shed! I destroyed that shed last time I was here-smashed it to pieces!" He pulls himself out of the vice of Amy's hand and runs toward it. She follows close behind, the heels of her boots sticking to the muddy ground.
"So, there's a new one! Let's go!" Her voice is dismissive.
"Yeah, but the new one's got old! It's ten years old at least!" He presses his nose to the shed and inhales. The paint smells like it's over a decade! Just to be sure, he licks it. "Twelve years," he whispers, stumbling backwards. "I'm not six months late, I'm twelve years late."
"He's coming," Amy says. She won't look him in the eye.
"You said six months! Why did you say six months?"
"We've gotta go."
"This matters. This is important! Why did you say six months?"
She snaps, a sob breaking through her throat. "Why did you say five minutes?!"
"What?" he whispers, eyes wide. "What?"
"Come on, then."
-WHO-
Rory isn't accustomed to violent anger, but he also wasn't expecting Amy's imaginary friend to materialize and risk all of their lives. His chest hurts. Can one suffer a literal heart attack from a figurative broken heart? He's not sure, but losing Amy feels like dying.
She almost did die.
Rory wouldn't be able to live with himself if he stood by and did nothing.
"She's not leaving with you," he tells The Doctor, his voice firm.
"Oh, Rory, don't be jealous. She loves you."
"This isn't about that!" Rory yells. "You don't get it, do you? How reckless you make her. She almost died."
"She didn't. Anyway, she's a big girl. Sometimes you have to take risks for a bit of an adventure."
Rory laughs-a bitter sound. "You know what's dangerous about you? It's not that you make people take risks, it's that you make them want to impress you. You make it so they don't want to let you down. You have no idea how dangerous you make people to themselves when you're around."
-WHO-
Amy's suitcase is packed. She's ready to leave, but the look on his face-he doesn't want her. It's happening again.
Her eyes brim with tears, her nose becoming hot. A sad whimper warbles out of the back of her throat.
"Wait!" she screams. "You can't just leave this time."
"Chin up, Amy. It's supposed to happen this way."
"But...I waited! I spent my entire life waiting for something fantastic. And now that I've had a taste, a tease, you're gonna leave, and I'll have nothing."
"You have Rory."
"I want you!" she sobs. The truth she was terrified to confess-more frightening than an army of Daleks because now she couldn't take it back-is released into the universe. Now The Doctor knows how deep her obsession runs. Wild, crazy love. She loves him, and it kills her. Her throat burns, and her chest aches because his eyes tell her he's not going to reciprocate.
"This is a love story, Amelia Pond, but it's not ours."
Amy wants to yell at him that he's wrong. They're supposed to be together! But her tongue feels glued to her teeth. Maybe if she gave him a tiny kiss he'd see reason. With a renewed determination, Amy steels herself against the possibility of The Doctor's rejection and grabs his face, attempting to angle it so that she can access his mouth.
"What're you doing!" he mumbles, backing away.
"I'm going to kiss you."
"No, you're not!"
"Yes, I am," she insists. "And you're going to enjoy it."
"I won't. It'll be gross. Bleh!" He mock-spits, dislodging his face from her hands. "Now get that nonsense out of your head, Amelia Pond. I've business to attend to, but I will be back for you."
Amy blows a frustrated breath, her cheeks puffing in a comical way. The Doctor wishes he could kiss her cheek; he really has grown so fond of her. But kissing Amy would lead to very bad things that he won't let himself think about.
"You'll come back." Amy hiccups and then promptly punches him in his solar plexus. "And in a reasonable amount of time. I swear, if I'm ninety and gnarled this time, there's a chance I won't forgive you."
"I'll come back," he promises. "Five minutes."
Five minutes. Amy wants to scream.
"I'll wait for you."
"I'll be back." He presses his forehead to hers and cautions a kiss on her nose. "Don't wait. You can't wait on time. I am time. Let me find you."
"I'll wait," she insists, stubborn. "It's what I do."
Amy doesn't understand yet, but she will. There's a boy who will wait, too. Until the end of time, if he must.
Rory is more patient than Amy.