So...I've never really done a one shot before (I guess it's not really a one shot anymore, 'cause it got really long). This is based on the scene in Asylum of the Daleks when the Doctor asks Amy about her and Rory, but obviously diverges in both setting and dialogue. It started off as a kind of deeper look into the character's thoughts in certain scenes, but then branched off from there. What do you guys think? Good? Bad? Deserves to go down the chute?
It comes up in conversation as they scale down the ladder. The flexing metal material bends beneath their feet with each step, and their voices echo through the cavern around them. The Doctor, ever curious and ever worrying for his companions, is the first one to breach the subject.
"Amy…?" The way he says her name, trailing off into a question, leaves no doubt as to what he's about to say. "Is there anything you want to tell me?"
She's been expecting the question for a while. She'd seen the calculating way his eyes had darted between herself and her soon to be ex-husband as they stood before the great Dalek Parliament, and knew that it had been a long time coming. Nevertheless, she still flinches when he brings it up and her foot misses the next ladder rung. The Doctor pauses below her, and waits until she regains her balance to keep climbing.
"Are we really going to do this now?" Her voice comes out much harsher than she meant it to, and sounds cruel even to her ears. Much crueler, she thinks, than her best friend ever deserved, but her heart is in too much pain to attempt anything kinder. There's a half-beat pause before he speaks again, and she knows that he's trying in vain to remember what he did to warrant such a tone. When he next speaks he sounds noticeably more cautious as he tests her anger. "What happened?" His voice is gentle, like comforting a wounded wild animal.
Her next response, unlike his, is immediate and harsh. "Oh, stuff. You know. We split up." She knows that she's being unfair to him. To the Doctor. He's just trying to help. If they weren't dangling over a vast hole on a foreign planet, and if he weren't alien, and if they weren't in danger of being turned into Dalek-human cyborgs, the Doctor might as well have been a normal concerned man looking out for the well-being of his friend. And if her current situation was something other than precarious, she might have laughed, really truly found it funny, at how human he could be. But "if" is just longing for something that might have happened that didn't, so instead she's running away from killer alien zombies with her best friend from another planet, so the laugh that came out instead was bitter. "What can you do?"
He stops climbing, forcing her to come to an awkward swinging halt. She turns down to look at him, and prepares some icy reminder of their pursuers and dangerous predicament, but he speaks first. "What can I do?" He sounds so hopeful, so optimistic, that when she responds she can't help but feel like she's kicking a puppy.
He even tries looking at her with big pleading eyes that beg to be told that yes Doctor, all you need to do to fix my broken marriage is pull out your psychic paper with a note saying "this union is officially saved" and voila! everything is better. But he's not a puppy, or even a child that needs to occasionally be shielded from the truth, so she gives him the full, harsh answer. "Nothing." There it is. The bitter truth. There is absolutely nothing that he can fix. He may be called the Doctor, and on some planets he even span is a doctor, but on this planet with this particular woman he's just a man. Just a man in a tweed jacket trying and failing to save something that cannot be saved. Not by him. "It's not one of those things you can fix like you fix your bow-tie." Her words are truthful and foul and burn in her mouth like they're made of acid. Ever since she discovered the horrible results of Demon's Run, she's been tearing down her marriage, brick by brick, until now all that's left is a few divorce papers and an empty house. She's known that her relationship was broken since the day she told Rory to leave her house and never come back.
Indeed at some point she even celebrated that the love of her life would be getting a new life, a life that he deserved, and even a new woman maybe, to give him kisses and hold his hand as they walked in the park. Kisses and hand holding that, she couldn't help but feel, were stolen away from her in a cruel twist of fate. "Don't give me those big wet eyes, Raggedy Man." But that time for celebrating is long gone. Now, she just mourns for the life that she is giving up and curses whatever made her barren and left her lonely and childless (discounting the baby she never saw grow up). Once, when she first found out, she remembers blaming the Doctor. Blaming him for letting her be kidnapped, blaming him for not getting to Demon's Run fast enough, blaming him for losing Melody, blaming him for whatever made her infertile, blaming him, blaming him, blaming the man that took her to the stars and back. But when her fury and sorrow cooled, she found herself forgiving him. He never did anything to hurt her or her baby, and only ever tried to save them.
"It's life. Just life. That thing that goes on when you're not there." It's then, and only in that one sentence, that the last of her pointless rage escapes. And now, now that she's finally telling him that him that she is leaving the man she loves, she can only feel misery on the Doctor's behalf, knowing that he want's so badly to fix that which he can never even touch. But alas, the last of her anger is such an uncharacteristic comment from her, a cruel reminder that traveling in time and space is only part of her life, and that she has another fate that is composed of a normal, nine to five job, domestics, tea times, carpets, and so much more.
It's then, with a statement that is so unlike her usual self, that the Doctor realizes that something is wrong, really very completely wrong. It is wrong that the Daleks need him to save them, it is wrong that they are in danger of being turned into hosts for the most feared species in all the galaxy, but mostly it is wrong that Amy and Rory are getting divorced.
They've reached the bottom of the ladder, and when Amy jumps off the bottom rung she sees the Doctor regarding her with careful eyes. She wearily returns his gaze. She knows that she should tell him to keep moving, to run, but she can't summon the willpower. She can't summon much of anything, actually, save the deep empty feeling that's gnawing at her heart.
For his part, the Doctor looks at his best friend, really looks at her, and sees so much that he didn't have time to notice before. She's looking feisty, definitely. And older too. But most of all, she just looks tired. Tired of running, tired of lying, tired of getting her heart broken. And then, in that very second, with her big hazel eyes staring up at him and her bottom lip almost quivering, it's like a bolt of understanding shoots between them and strikes him in the heart. In a single moment, he understands everything.
"Oh, Amy. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
And in that same moment, she can feel that he knows. He knows that she's actually trying to save Rory, to give him a chance at a normal life with a normal wife who can bring him perfectly normal children who don't grow up to try and kill their friend. He knows its painful for her, and that it's painful for Rory, and that poor Rory has no idea why he was suddenly kicked out of her-no their house. And he knows that she's sorry, so sorry, that any of this every happened.
He wants to hug her, to comfort her, to give her all the reassurance he can. Because this, this horrible ugly situation, is something all too familiar to him. He wants to change what happened, change the fixed events, to do anything to change this deja vu. The Doctor wants to shake her again and again and shout what was she thinking why on earth would she ever do such a horrible, stupid thing. But he can't, So instead, he sticks to asking a simple question. "How can I help?"
And honestly, she doesn't know. Can he help at all? She doesn't think that there is anything in any of the millions of planets and galaxies they've visited that could possibly fix everything. Hell, she doesn't think that there's anything in the entire universe that could do anything at all. But she can't possibly express this, this crushing bleak feeling of despair that's seeping through her bones, so she just stares at her shoes and responds with a question of her own. "What do you know about love and broken hearts, Raggedy Man?"
In the silence that follows, Amy could hear the soft sound of her tears hitting the dusty ground.
When she finally looks up, to see why he's so suddenly dropped off into this quiet state that so uncommon for him, the last thing she expects is to see him looking at her with such a raw, hurting face that's proof of so much love, love, love and so much pain, pain, pain that she can't stand to look. She drops her gaze back to the floor. She never knew. She never realized that he had known so much in his life. She knew, but never knew the depth of it. She never asked. But before she responds, and before she can apologize, she's swept up in such an emotional crushing hug that her words are lost in a short gasp of breath.
"Oh, Amy." He repeats, and then he's there doing everything a friend should do. He's stroking her hair, and whispering softly, and giving her gently squeezes, and it feels like such a balm to her aching soul that she can't help but sob. She's missed this feeling of companionship, romantic or platonic, and now that it's here it's so very wonderful. He gently pulls back and reaches to cup her face, like she remembers her mother doing before kissing her cheek and sending her off to bed. It feels nice to be loved again. It's a beautiful feeling. And when he reaches to brush her wayward bangs out of her eyes, his hand is trembling and the tip of his fingers just barely brush her temples, and in that moment it's her who can feel his rush of emotions.
A brotherly love, a boy who he grew up with. Playing together, laughing, the Academy, then betrayal. Betrayal again and again.
A sisterly love, to a girl he fancied when he was barely in his second decade, but came to love as an older brother. A wayward timeship crash.
A familial love, for a father who was almost always busy and a mother who was far too gentle for Gallifreyan standards. Age.
A fatherly love, for the daughters and a granddaughter that he first found too curious and nosy but came to begrudgingly approve of and eventually love as if she was his very own soul. Time and painful separation.
An entire planet, of people like him that he never truly appreciated. A war, and a big red button, and his very own hand.
Amy gasps. In that half second, she dipped into the surface of the thoughts of a great man, and she saw that which she never knew existed. He pulls away, and the hurt expression is immediately replaced by caution and, deep underneath, fear that she knows what he tries so hard to guard and forget. He draws his hands away from her face, but before he gets very far she's grabbing his wrists and pulling his fingertips back to her temples. She wants to know more, to comfort this pain that turns her loss into a single speck of dust in the face of a planet.
Brothers, sisters, companions. Betrayal, new opportunities, boredom, death.
Women, even some men, he comes to love with something closer to romantic than platonic. There is loss. So much loss.
The Doctor pulls back again. He's visibly shaken. "Amy!" His voice wavers. "What are you doing?" He's openly fearful now, a deer about to bolt. It's always been his secret longing, to tell someone of all his pain and be comforted like a child on the lap, but it was never his intention to fulfill this wish. And certainly not on someone who had enough of their own problems, without adding those of a thousand year old alien. He's turned from the man comforting his best friend to the man being threatened with his greatest hopes and fears coming to light.
But she simply shakes her head. It's her chance to be the comforting woman she would have been for her daughter. "Oh, Doctor." That single sentence, so similar to what he was just comforting her with, brings an odd bubble of humor to his lips. It escapes in a strangled cough that sounded more like a wounded animal, a baby bird, than a human noise. Or rather, alien.
And then it's her who's there, her who's comforting, and it's him who's clinging to her but she clings right back. They have both known far to much loss to pass up a chance for love. Standing there, gripping each other with the desperate grasps of those who are helpless to change their fates, there are no aliens among them. For a moment, they don't need to worry about zombies, Daleks, or death, and instead they just need to know the feel of having someone who understands them. Two best friends, lost together.
A girl. She calls herself Susan. Giggling, running, calling him Grandfather.
It's purposeful, now. He wants her to see. He's found someone to understands his pain, but he wants her to understand everything. He needs a break from building walls. It's all flowing out, and he's taking a brick out of his wall to let her peak through. Maybe she'll understand.
Susan. Barbara. Ian. Vicki. Steven. Katarina. Sara. Dodo. Polly. Ben. Jamie. Victoria. Zoe.
It's all pouring out, and even if he wanted to there's nothing he can do to stop it.
Liz. Joe. Sarah Jane. Harry. Leela. K-9. Roman. Adric. Tegan.
Waterfalls, gushing, everything at once.
NyssaVislorKameleonPeriMelanieAceGraceRose.
There's a feeling like a mental inhale of quick breath like, Amy supposes, she might make after discovering that she'd made a horrible mistake. Then, a single mental syllable so quiet and gentle that she almost misses it. Rose.
She's heard the name before, when she brought a pink poodle skirt out of the TARDIS's vast closet and laughed where on earth did he get such a skirt? why would he ever need this? and expecting a brief glance and a double take and an excited rant about how it was gifted to him by the people of some far off planet and instead, being met with only the soft hums of the timeship. Not until later, after she had replaced the skirt without a single question, does he answer. The Doctor's response is short, but a world of meaning lies in a single sentence.
"It's not mine, it belongs to Rose." And that was all.
Now that he's opening up and he's telling her off all the love in his poor broken heart, she wants to ask. Who is this mysterious woman, who can break the heart of a thousand year old man? Where did she come from? But more importantly, where did she go? Why would she turn away from a door to the stars? And away from the man with the magical box? She wants to ask so much, wants to know. But she dare not take advantage of his openness now with something so direct, only to have him clam up when she asked. /spanSo she wheedles instead, using soft and slick words to ask him, indirectly of course, of his lost love. They're walking, now, along the underground caverns away from the ladder and into the asylum. Amy hasn't forgotten the danger, but if she passes on this chance she may never know.
She talks and coos and gently prods, but it seems that she's lost her opportunity. But just when she's giving up, deciding that it's just another locked door in the mystery known as the Doctor, she announces with a sigh that "If you can't help my broken heart, I thought that I could at least help yours."
And then he's grabbing her shoulders and spinning her to face him. It happens so fast, that for a moment all she can do is blink and try not to fall over. Then his hands are at her temples and she sees. She sees everything he wants her to know
A girl, who's really a woman. A beautiful woman. A woman he loves with all of his old soul. She's young, and she's pink and yellow and fresh to the world and still marvels at everything he shows her. They laugh and joke together, and she grins that smile he so adores, and when she does the world stops spinning and his heart starts racing. They travel the worlds together, and he doesn't care so much about what they see together as he cares about what she looks like when she's happy. She's always beautiful, but when she's happy her radiance rivals the sun. He would die for her in a heartbeat. And he does.
Oh, is all she can think, and that doesn't cover half of it. Oh.
They're in love. It's a love that he's seen before, as he watched humanity roll by from the view of an outsider. Indeed, a few times he even skimmed the surface. But never this. He's never felt this feeling of jumping off into an exploding galaxy, like every particle of each atom of his being is charged with the power of a thousand dying stars. He's never loved someone like this.
Amy realizes she's crying again when the salty water brushes past her lips, because she can feel the end of the story coming and knows it's nothing good.
One minute she's standing by his side, asking if she's shiver or shake, and the next she's locked in another universe.
Pain. She can feel so much pain. The Doctor's, and her own too.
She's back, for a moment, and he thinks he might burst from happiness. They run together again, finally. And he sees her smile too. But then there's a new him, a different him, and all the hope sinks in his stomach like lead.
No, she thinks. Not this. She can feel it in her very soul.
And so he gives her up. He gives her up so that she can have a normal life, a normal family, a husband who will grow old and die with her. The Doctor gives up his soul mate so that she can be happy. Without him.
There it is. She knows, now, why the Doctor found it so horrible that she gave Rory up. Why he found it so unimaginably cruel. The desperate look in his eyes, the late nights she hears him crying as he wanders the corridors, the poodle skirt. All the clues make sense now. For the Doctor, too, has given up his love for her happiness, though she never knew. He also knows the pain of purposefully destroying your most precious relationship. He knows the pains of heartbreak, in and out, just like her. He knows how the fragile heart, or hearts for him, break when it sees the love decay.
It's then, during the pause in conversation, that Amy hears the sounds of the humanoid Daleks echo in the cavern behind them, and then they are off running. It's not until they've stopped to catch their breath that she realizes she dropped her protective bracelet, and from that point on her perception of events is hazy at best. Everything passes in a blur, except for when she is told to focus on love. She's not sure if it's the Doctor who says it, or maybe Rory, or even the strange woman who directs them via the speakers, but she knows she hears it. And when she follows the instructions, she immedietly thinks of her and Rory and the love that used to be. She thinks of the Doctor, and the shopgirl called Rose, and their love that brought the universes back together. Amy thinks of loss and pain and giving up happiness, and she remembers the sad heavy look the Doctor shared with her. She thinks of Amy and Rory, the Doctor and Rose, and how she wishes that everything would somehow get better and maybe they would be love with her beloved again.
Even later, she kisses Rory out of sheer appreciation for him being alive and in this universe. It's a silent apology to the Doctor, saying that she's sorry for not listening, and it's a beacon of hope that maybe, he too will be reunited with his lost love. Maybe he, too, will once more know love and forget the pains of the broken hearted, even if just for a while. Maybe one day his hearts would be whole again.