Hello to whoever happens to drop by and read this story! This is my first Doctor Who story ever, so I apologize for OOC or mistakes or general inaccuracy. Constructive criticism is always welcome, and thanks for taking your time to read.
Disclaimer: All rights belong to their respective owners. Doctor Who and all the characters are propierty of the BBC, I'm just borrowing them.
It was a cold night outside. The wind was blowing with such force that the door to the bathroom hadn't stopped rattling for at least half an hour. The sound of the wind howling through the streets drowned out any other sound from the outside of their home.
Amy was lying on the bed with Rory by her side, her head resting on his bare chest, her hand caressing absent-mindedly his arm, while his was stroking lazily that spot just between her shoulder blades, his eyes closed.
Her eyes were half-lidded, gazing almost unseeingly at the wall opposite her, her mind lost in memories and half forgotten places, memories she didn't know were real or fake, and moments she remembered from a life that never was but that had apparently always been. More than one actually, if she strained her brain and forced herself to remember. She remembered being a scared little girl, alone in a house much too big for her praying to Santa in Easter because the crack in her wall was no ordinary crack. Then she remembered a man in a raggedy suit crashing into her aunt's shed, and at the same time she remembered nothing happening at all, the black sky only lit by the moonlight.
She remembered living with her aunt, the death of her parents hanging like a cloak over her, and at the same time she remembered all those birthdays he spent with her mom and dad, growing up with them and without them at the same time. She remembered a Doctor life and a Doctorless life, the memories so intertwined together that she feared if she pulled at one of them to look at it more closely, the rest would disassemble and collapse in a heap of could-have-beens and never-weres.
She remembered the weight of her baby girl on her arms, the little sound of contentment she had made when a Centurion-clad Rory had taken her into his arms, the feel of her soft skin on hers, the happy, gurgling sound she had made after settling on her lap. She also remembered the feel of her daughter slipping through her fingers, the feeling of utter despair when she had realized she was never going to see her baby girl again, the horror at realizing Rory had never even held her real daughter in his arms, but a copy that had disintegrated along with their hope and happiness.
And then she remembered the rage, the despair, the hatred and the feeling of decision, her demand to the Doctor that he brings their daughter back home. 'Then what is the point of you?' had echoed back in her mind at that moment, and she remembered her willingness to spit it out again if her Raggedy Doctor did so much as mumble an 'it's impossible' in response to her pleas (demands).
Finally Rory's breathing evened out and deepened, his hand stopping midway through his caress and falling slowly to thump softly on the sheet-covered mattress. She spent a few more moments lying awake, thinking about hers and Rory's impossible life, about all the amazing and wonderful things she had experienced, like stepping on a place long forgotten or unknown, or one that no living human had ever seen, or feeling the warmness of an alien sun on her face. But she also thought of the not-so-great things, the danger, the uncertainty, the fear. She thought of Rory, waiting for two thousand years outside of a box. Her box. And she thought about the Doctor. His childish personality masking his despair and weariness, his suffering and willingness to sacrifice himself and reticence to let anyone try to do so themselves, his belief that everything that ever happened was his fault. She knew he was far from perfect. He had made mistakes and still made them, he lied and he had killed. He had admitted he had destroyed his planet and killed his people (the fact that he had done so in order to save the whole Universe gave him no comfort). And he hated himself for it. She knew it. She knew he would have killed himself the moment he realized he had survived if he hadn't thought he was unworthy of the reprieve death would have given him. And then he had found a glimmer of hope that had kept him going. But those feelings had never disappeared, they had just been buried under happy memories and amazing people. He knew he still struggled and hated himself ('there's only one person in the universe who hates me as much as you do'). They - Amy, Rory and him - knew the lengths he'd go to in order to do something he believed was right. And they also knew what he'd think of himself afterwards, that he'd only add things to his pile of regrets, that he might even sink to that pit of self-hatred, despair, insanity and blurred lines of right and wrong he had fought so hard to climb out of.
All those thoughts were reverberating through her head, her eyelids growing heavy as her eyes started to close on their own accord when she heard it, a wheezing, groaning sound as familiar to her ears as a child's (her child's) weeping would be to their (her) parents. However, being as she was halfway between those two realms of the conscious and the unconscious, she wrote it off as one of those hallucinations that happened right before one succumbed to Morpheus, like the jerking sensation you feel when you think you are falling, or the little twitch your pinkie finger does spasmodically, responses to stimulus that weren't there, brought to the surface by her musings.
However, the insistent knocking that came afterwards aroused her from her drowsy state. The wind that had been howling moments ago had calmed slightly, making the sound of knuckles on wood distinguishable enough. She got up, carefully trying not to disturb her sleeping husband, considering whether she should wake him up or not. She decided against it, presuming that she could deal with whoever it was who had knocked on the door.
The knocking came again, louder and more frantic sounding than before and Amy, not wanting to waste more time, headed downstairs, wondering who it could be. By the time she had reached the front door, the wind had picked up again and she had already made up her mind and concluded it was probably a neighbour asking for help or a passerby in dire need of a phone because theirs had been knocked out of their hands by a wild gust of wind.
She opened the door, and took a sharp intake of breath, because there stood the man she had not expected (not dared to expect for fear of having her hopes crushed) - at least not a week after Demon's Run, and most definitely not at one in the morning on a windy night that reflected her and Rory's mood – the Doctor. She had not expected him, but she had wished for him to come. She had wanted her baby girl back, but she was no fool, she knew Kovarian wouldn't give her up easily, she knew that, if it hadn't been possible to defeat her the first time, then the second time wouldn't be any better.
And yet there he was.
Time seemed to freeze around her and she stopped registering the ever present wind, the rushing in her ears drowning out any other sound.
The first thing she noticed was how extremely tired he looked. In all her adventures with the Doctor she had seen plenty of him and his personality quirks and mannerisms, his childish outbursts, his joyous smiles, his big sad eyes, the glittering in his eyes when he saw something beautiful, the darkness hiding in the black recesses of his centuries' old mind. She had seen him dying and in pain, gasping for breath while condemning himself to permanent oblivion from the universe just so it could begin anew.
But she had never, not once, seen him like this. He was leaning on the door for support; his normally pale skin would have looked tanned in comparison to the translucent hue that it now sported.
The dark circles around his eyes were so pronounced that she would have been tempted to compare him to a panda bear, had she not been so darkly fascinated by the spectacle before her.
He was thinner, so, so thin that it was immediately evident that, although it had only been a week for the Ponds, it had been far longer for him. His battered (raggedy) and dirty tweed jacket no longer fitted his too thin frame, but hung almost comically from his shoulders. A blood stained bowtie, fastened but askew, around his neck, the edges threaded and weary.
A dripping sound drove her eyes to the ground, where slowly-but-steadily a small pool of blood was forming; the crimson liquid slipping from the Doctor's left fingers from a ragged-edged gash she could see on the back of his hand and smaller, shallow cuts on his fingers. A dark stain had seeped through the thick fabric of his jacket in his left upper arm and armpit, partially invading his left upper chest. Looking back at his face, her brain now registered the deep, scarred over gash on his forehead above his barely-there eyebrow, dried blood on his face, neck and bowtie and matting his wild, longer-than-usual hair, probably because it had smeared when he had run his hand through it.
All those observations took no longer than five seconds, because then she looked at his right arm, an arm that was protectively wound around a little bundle of white and she knew, she just knew, her chest bubbling up and swelling with something akin to wonder and happiness and relief, all mixed up together with something far darker tugging at the edge of her mind, something she didn't want to admit or acknowledge although it was staring her right in the face.
She squealed a little, and didn't even care, as she looked at the baby wrapped in a blanket in her Raggedy Doctor's arm. She looked up and found his face again, and he gave her a tired and weary smile as he stretched his arm slowly and handed her daughter to her. A smile that was meant to be reassuring, to convey the feeling that everything was alright, to calm her and support her and make her happy again.
And that's when the bubble bursts, and Amy is left there, with her sleeping baby girl cradled in her arms (and her weight is so familiar and yet so alien to her), staring at the heartbreaking truth she had not dared consider, the suspicions and hints taking form, rearing their ugly heads and head butting her in the chest.
Because she can see it, right there reflected in his eyes when he tries to smile, to fake and pretend he's okay, she can see the darkness, the bottom of the seemingly endless pit he had fallen down while on his quest. There is nothing left of the warmness and joy that used to bathe his eyes, they're cold, desperate, shallow, empty and still have an air of calculating to them. And she's afraid. Not of him, not now, not when she's so grateful for what he's done, but for him. Because she's afraid he's stepped over the final line, the line his companions have fought to keep him from. She's afraid he's gone way too far; that he'll wake up one day, realize what he's done, and do something to himself that they and the Universe would forever regret.
She doesn't know how to feel. She knows she should feel guilty, or be scared of the endless darkness that inches closer and closer to devouring what's left of his best friend, because she knows the man in front of her isn't the same man that took her to Starship UK, or to England during World War II. That man is gone, buried and drowning under all the blood his hands are stained of.
But she can't. She can't bring herself to consider him something less than her hero right now. Amy knows he's always been a hero (whether he's believed it or not), but right now he's not a hero, he's her hero. And normally there wouldn't be a difference between those two terms, but now there is, because she is aware that whatever he's done, it isn't right, that he'd be considered ruthless, cruel, and even evil (and he'd be the first to call himself that), she knows that if someone else had done the same, hero isn't the term she'd use to describe them.
If you fight fire with fire, you are bound to get burnt. And the Doctor had burnt so much he was halfway to becoming ash. She knew that, once the darkness and rage dulled (and they would, with a little time), all the things he'd done would weigh him down, like all the other things he'd done. After the Time War, he'd found Rose. After losing Rose, he'd found first Donna and then Martha. And after separating from Martha, he'd found Donna again. After losing everything and everyone once again, he had found her and Rory. And they weren't about to let him go. She knew he wouldn't open up; he wouldn't dare burden them with the weight of his mistakes and deeds. It had taken a lot of time for him to tell her about his life before he met her, and she knew he had left most of the details out.
He would try his hardest to preserve the little innocence they had left, even if it meant not seeing them again. Both Ponds knew he blamed himself for everything that went wrong, for every little mishap that happened. But neither of them would change a single moment of it, because they knew that every thing that happened to them, either good or bad, little or big, had made them who they were today. And one thing they both were and had always been, even before meeting the Doctor, was stubborn. They wouldn't give up, neither Rory nor her would let him go, knowing that the moment he steps back on the TARDIS he'll disappear forever, because he's ashamed of what he's done, of what he's become, of what happened in the first time that forced him to break his rules and do what he so firmly believes is wrong.
And he doesn't want them to be near the shame and regret that threatens to consume him from the inside out.
Their eyes lock, and they hold their gazes steadily, he's looking for some kind of reaction from her, approval or disgust, happiness or repulsion, something, anything, that told him he had done something right, something to help him ease some of the pain that was haunting his mind and hearts. She isn't sure whether he finds it or not, but then he makes his mind, he gives a little nod, more to himself than to her, and starts to turn around. But Amy's having none of that.
"Oi, where do you think you're going?"
He looks back to her, then his gaze wanders down towards Melody and drops to the floor and back to her face.
"Rory! Come here, now!" she shouts as hard as she can.
She tries to grab the Doctor's hand to keep him from fleeing, but he flinches back and takes a step back, and Amy takes her hand back as if she's just been burnt. He must see the hurt that flashes in her eyes before she can rein her emotions, because his gaze drops again, and he lets out a mumbled "I'm sorry", and Amy realizes those are the first words he's spoken since he arrived. His voice is hoarse, as if he's not used it in days, or has used it too much (screams and yells and threats) and she knows his throat must be raw, but that is the least of their worries, especially if they can't keep him from fleeing like a scared animal.
She hears Rory rush down the stairs, and she can almost see him, tugging his shirt on and skipping the last couple of steps to end up right next to her. He lets out an articulate "Oh" when he sees the Doctor, and she doesn't need to see the way his brow creases with worry when he notices the state the Doctor is in to know he's starting to notice everything (if not more) that she has realized mere moments before, but then he registers Amy, and his eyes widen and a laugh escapes from his mouth when he sees Melody on her arms. She looks up at his face, and finds him looking down at his sleeping daughter, tears welling up in his eyes, his hand ghosting over her sleeping face, not daring to touch her for fear of waking her from her slumber, and she can't help but smile at the sight.
He tears his gaze from Melody to look up towards the Doctor, and the "thank you" dies in his lips when he realizes the Doctor has started to walk away taking advantage of their distraction, his retreating form a dark blur in the windy night.
"Doctor, wait, please!" he shouts, the sound half drown out by the wind, but the Doctor keeps walking stubbornly, paying no heed to Rory, his tweed jacket flapping behind him.
"Oh no, you don't" he mutters, and takes after him, the wind tousling his already sleep-dishevelled hair , leaving Amy standing on her doorstep with her sleeping baby cradled in her arms.