The Doctor
The Doctor had been on the lookout ever since the Library. Professor River Song, archaeologist. She had known him in his future, she had called him young. Him, young! She had known his name. Professor River Song, archaeologist. Who was she?
But he hadn't seen her for the rest of his regeneration.
So when he crash-landed in Amelia Pond's backyard, he was on his guard. One portion of his considerable brainpower was permanently relegated to Professor River Song, archaeologist: who she was, how she knew him, where he would see her again. He was caught in a time loop, the likes of which he had never seen before. She was important. He had to be ready.
Except she didn't appear to fend off the Atraxi. She didn't arrive to save the Star Whale. She didn't come to witness the rebirth of the Daleks. So he let his guard down. And then his Old Girl touched down in a museum. Oh, he played it up for Amelia's benefit, pretending that it had been all his plan, flitting about the exhibits as if he knew what he was looking for.
And then he saw it. The sight of those letters made his hearts ache for a home he had forsaken. And then he saw what they said.
"There were days," he was saying to Amelia, but he wasn't really thinking about it, because she was here, she was here, "there were many days, these words could burn stars and raise up empires, and topple Gods."
"What does it say?"
He thought of a brave woman in a library, who had given herself up for a stranger she had known almost her entire life. "…Hello, sweetie."
Stealing the home box was pathetically easy, as was hooking it up to the TARDIS. What was less easy was seeing her on the screen. She was younger. Not quite the woman he had met, and a little more innocent. It hurt more than he had anticipated. Because every time he looked at her, he saw someone older, chased by shadows through a silent maze, consumed by light as she gave herself to the central computer. He remembered his fear and his anger at his own helplessness, strung up just out of reach.
His last regeneration had been so emotional, so human. He was determined to be different this time. And that meant not letting himself become involved in the enigma that was Professor River Song, archaeologist.
But she knew his name. He'd thought about that for years, and he had come to only one conclusion, only one occasion where he would tell her his name. He wasn't ready for that, not yet. He didn't think he'd ever be ready for that.
River
River had heard of an old earth disease, way back in her second year Earth history class, a disease common among the elderly that sapped the body and drained the mind of motor skills and memories. It was an extinct disease that hadn't been diagnosed for at least two millennia. River had tried to imagine losing someone you loved like that, agonizingly slowly, still physically present but far beyond reach. She couldn't imagine what it felt like.
And then she met the Doctor.
The hardest part was seeing him so young. It was a heavy wake up call when she realized that he didn't already have three attack plans and two escape ones at any given moment. The Angels were approaching, he was backed into a corner, and he was fumbling. He was barely able to keep up. Her Doctor had been miles ahead of everyone else at all times. Now, she could see his thought process written all over his face, his mind working faster than anyone else's in the room. She didn't know if she was getting better at reading him, or if he simply wasn't as skilled at hiding his emotions, but she could see the moment he came up with a brilliant idea. A familiar thrill of anticipation, and no small amount of fear, shot through her.
"Speaking of traps, this trap has got a great big mistake in it. A great big, whopping mistake!" Oh, and he was off, dancing around his enemies and spinning his words into weapons with a hidden grace. River smiled, feeling oddly relieved. He might have been rough around the edges, but he was still the Doctor.
He had been so old, when she met him. His eyes were younger now, and she only wished that he didn't have to face the events in her past, his future. But he had to, because she remembered him being there.
It hurt, far more than she had expected it to.
Every time she saw him, she told herself that this would be the hardest one, that things would get easier, that afterwards, the pain would dull. It never did. All of River's life, all of their adventures and shared moments meant absolutely nothing to him now, and she was finding that that was the hardest part. 'You can't let me know anything about my future,' he'd said. It was a mantra he had drilled into her, until it had become less of a rule and more of a law, a sacrament. And then he'd gone and broken his own rules; he'd called her "Professor River Song."
She'd listened to him and watched her words, and once upon a time, he had trusted her implicitly. She was growing very frustrated with the new rift between them.
And, if she was being honest… she was afraid. She was hurtling to the moment where the Doctor would not know who she was, would have no idea of their story. Her time was running out, and she wasn't ready.
"Trust me?" He asked, eyes searching and smile large.
"Always." And forever.
Amy
Amy had watched enough American police procedural dramas on dreary Sunday afternoons to know that the blanket was for shock. She didn't feel like she was in shock. Then again, she couldn't really feel anything. She thought maybe some fear or terror would suit her nicely right now, or some sort of adrenaline rush, like after Daleks with Churchill, or the giant eyeball two years ago, the slow crash from that amazing exhilaration. But nope. She could only feel a vague dread, churning weakly in her stomach and spreading out thinly through her limbs.
She was beginning to think that she was in way over her head. Running away with the Doctor the night before her wedding may not have been the best idea.
Oh God - the wedding - Rory - Rory. She could have died, and Rory was at his stupid bachelor party with Jeff and Michael and the other guys, and he never would have known. He would have called the house and no one would have answered, would have gone over to the house and used the spare key under the doormat and find an empty kitchen, empty living room, empty bedroom, no Amy anywhere and only her wedding dress to remember her by. What the hell was she thinking, running off with the Doctor like that?
She knew exactly what she had been thinking. The Doctor was her fairytale hero, the torch she had been carrying for fourteen years. Alien activity jumped to the forefront in the early twenty-first century, in every corner and borough of England - except for sleepy Leadworth. No airport, no military base, nowhere near a major metropolis, just a stifling, little town that time had left in the dust.
Amy had waited for him for years. The Doctor was her childhood and - God - she was getting married tomorrow. She hadn't been ready to give up her childhood just yet. She wanted one more fairytale, one last gasp of the Doctor's adventures before returning to Leadworth, to home, to Rory.
Well, she had gotten her adventure. She'd almost died for it, too. And it had been one of the most exciting moments of her life. She wanted more. She wanted more of everything - the new planets, the danger… and him.
"Octavian said you killed a man," she heard the Doctor say. Ooh, a murder? Now they had her attention.
River's serene face dropped a bit. "Yes. I did. A good man. A very good man. The best man I've ever known."
"Who?"
River laughed like an old fortune teller with a juicy secret. "It's a long story, Doctor, can't be told. It has to be lived. No sneak previews." Well, that was disappointing. Amy had never been good with spoilers; she used to always flip to the last page of the book and try to figure out the end, just to make sure that all the characters got their happy endings. River looked at the Doctor oddly, then said, "Well, except for this one: you'll see me again quite soon, when the Pandorica closes."
Goodbyes were exchanged, and then River disappeared in a column of smoke. Amy looked to the Doctor. He wasn't bursting with energy like usual, spinning in circles and flopping his arms around in that gangly, endearing way. He was quiet now, calm. Contained. Or containing something.
"What are you thinking?" she asked him.
"Time can be rewritten," he said, softly, like he hadn't heard her - like a prayer, or a wish.
The rocky beach was quiet, holding its breath.