A/N: All right, all right, I am rather new to the Who Fandom. I admit, I am completely in love with 11. He is amazing. This little story is yet another "I hate how TATM ended so Imma gonna mess with it" tale. It's in five parts. I hope I don't totally trash the awesomeness of the Doctor, so do please forgive me if I am rather stupid about it. Thanks, and I hope you enjoy!
The Doctor sat on the floor of the TARDIS, leaning against her console. His hands were flat on the glass below him, his eyes closed beneath the goggles he wore. He wore his tweed pants, and long sleeved white shirt. His jacket was laying across the rail beside him.
He no longer wore bow-ties.
There were tear marks on his face – after all, there was no one there to see his misery. In his lap was his most treasured position; a palm sized photo. In that photo, it was Christmas time. He was in front of a small, fake Christmas tree covered in plastic and glass ornaments, strewn with silver garland, topped with a silver star. But the tree wasn't what made the photo special, nor was it his own likeness.
It was the people embracing him. On one side, Rory Williams; Rory the Roman, the Last Centurion, the Man Who Waited Two Thousand Years for...her. He was a lanky man, with messy brown hair and an over-large nose, with the kindest eyes the Doctor had ever seen. His smile was always a bit shy, a bit awkward, but showed the gentleness of his soul. His arm was around the Doctor's neck, the awkward smile on his lips. And on the Doctor's other side...his other side...
The Doctor opened his eyes, looked longingly down at the photo. His reached out with a trembling finger, traced the line of her smiling, innocent face. "Amelia Pond," he whispered quietly, his voice hoarse and metallic from misuse. She was so happy in this photo, her beautiful red hair framing her face. Her wide, chocolate eyes were staring up at him with mirth. She was wearing a green jumper – she always looked lovely in green – and a black skirt. "The Girl Who Waited," he said to himself, feeling the tears burn his eyes.
She had waited for him. Waited twelve long, maddening years for him to return. Then she waited more; waited for more adventures, more time to be his friend.
The Ponds. Rory the Roman and Amelia the Magnificent.
Gone. Gone for a long time now. How many months? Years? The Doctor couldn't remember. He had been alone on the TARDIS for so long now. He had tried to travel with River. Had even managed it for a few weeks before the guilt and anguish just overwhelmed him. Every time he looked at his wife, he saw them in her face. They had gone to Space Florida to try to relax, but memories of Amy; the sun in her hair, the smile on her face; had nearly driven him mad. River had gone off for ice cream and he had run to his TARDIS and had been running ever sense.
Never travel alone, Doctor. Amelia had left him one final message – the Afterword in a silly detective novel River would one day write. Never travel alone, Doctor.
He was alone. He couldn't bare the thought of another companion. Couldn't bare the thought of someone else walking through his TARDIS, couldn't bare the thought of someone else saying his name, couldn't bare the thought of becoming attached, loosing someone else.
He would travel alone. "I'm sorry, Amy," he said, lifting the photo to his face. He looked longingly at the faces of his finals friends, and kissed them both. "I'm so sorry."
He closed his eyes, and not for the first time in his eleven-hundred years, wished he would die.
His eyes stung, the familiar quick-silver flash of light burned right through his lids. He was on his feet in a heart beat, the bright white, horrible light filling the TARDIS completely. He blinked against it, raising his sonic to the center of the light.
Inside the terrible light, he could see two figures. One was moving, shifting in discomfort in the light, shielding his eyes. The other was still, one arm outstretched towards the Doctor. The light flickered slowly, suddenly dying off, leaving the Doctor blind in its wake.
He blinked the tears and after images of the light from his eyes, his sonic trembling in his hands. He could make out their shapes; it was taking far too long to rid his eyes of the light-blindness.
"Doctor?" a familiar, unexpected voice asked. "Doctor is it you?"
The Doctor rubbed his eyes with his free hand, at last banishing the last of the light. Standing there, still blinking in discomfort, looking as red-headed as he remembered was Vincent Van Gogh. But it was the creature beside him that drew the Doctor's attention, the Doctor's fury. His sonic lit up, his lips turned back in a snarl.
Beside Vincent Van Gogh was a Weeping Angel, her arm outstretched, her terrible hand pointing right at the Doctor's chest.
Never Travel Alone
Chapter One
The Doctor's Visitors
1890 May 21
Auvers-sur-Oise, France
Vincent Van Gogh sat at his window, staring at the finished painting before him. He stared at the colors, at the fury and beauty of them. He blinked slowly, watching them swirl and live on the canvas before him. His face was blank, lacking all emotion, save the cold tears drying on his cheeks. There was a gun in his lap, loaded and ready to end the madness that isolated him for so long.
He rose, pausing as he caught sight of it. Amy's Flowers, he called it. He walked to the painting, stared at the bright yellow sunflowers, and remembered the sweetness of her smile. He lifted his paint brush, adding one final touch to her gift. "For Amy," he said aloud, his voice hoarse from misuse.
He smiled a bit, hoping she would notice it in the future where she lived.
He walked out into the sun light, blinking it from his eyes. He let his mind play tricks, let himself imagine Amy and the Doctor at his side. He didn't want to die alone. He walked with his only two friends in the whole of the universe and time. He walked down the garden path, out into the woods. The revolver was heavy his hand, the memory of Amy's sweet voice and the Doctor's mischievous laugh warm in his ears.
He sat down in the field of wheat and sighed. He looked at the gun, imagining Amy and the Doctor running happily through the wheat around him. He lifted the gun and pressed it to his temple.
He heard it then; a soft voice sobbing in the breeze. He froze, his finger on the trigger. The voice spoke; a prayer it seemed. It spoke of loneliness – a pure loneliness Vincent was all too familiar with. It spoke of God; begging for God to send a voice, someone to speak with it. The voice broke his heart. He couldn't tell if it was male or female; it was barely a whisper carried on the wind.
His eyes burned with fresh tears. Someone else was in misery – someone else was as utterly alone as he. He rose, the gun back in his pocket. It was coming from the woods across the way. He stumbled through the wheat field, his heart pounding in his chest. Maybe he could do something good before he died. Maybe he could give someone else a friend, the way Amy and the Doctor had done for him. The voice was becoming louder, the sadness so profound it in, he felt small and stupid against it.
He came to the tree line; the voice was louder now, but still a mere whisper on the wind. He followed it over fallen trees, through glens of flowers and trees. He was in the heart of the woods, and the voice was strong now.
He would have walked right passed her if not for her voice. She was leaning against a small cliff, just below an old tree. She was covered in head to toe with vines and moss, only one beautifully sculpted hand peeking from the foliage. Vincent's breath caught – a statue? Not just a statue though. She was weeping, she was so sad.
"Hello," he said quietly.
The voice stilled. His eyes widened as he waited. The reply was soft, uncertain. "Yes, yes I am real," he replied, smiling a bit. "I can hear you, yes." He reached towards the vines, pulling them from her face.
The statue was the most beautiful, horrible thing he had ever seen. She looked like a Greek Goddess, with her hair in curls tumbling from a high bun on her head. The face was utterly perfect, trapped in an expression of utter despair and resignation. He pulled the rest of the vines away, knocking as much of the moss from her as he could. She wore a toga, wrapped in ornate ropes, with linked squared patterns on the hem of her dress. Her feet were sandalled, and behind her, still covered in moss was...
"Wings? I've never seen a Greek statue with wings," he muttered.
The statue was quiet now; no longer sobbing or speaking. He pulled her free of the mess; she was surprisingly light weight for a statue. He didn't know how a statue could be alive, but after his time with Amy and the Doctor, nothing surprised him. He stepped back, wondering how he could get her back to his house without damaging her.
"Ah! I'll be right back, I promise," he said, running back through the woods, though the wheat field. He reached his home, somewhat out of breath, but filled with excitement. He wasn't alone anymore. He grabbed his wheel barrow, tipping it to the side to knock all the wood out of it. He went off into the field again, back through the woods, back towards his new friend; the Goddess Statue.
He came back to the old tree and cliff, came back to see her waiting there for him. His brow furrowed; had she been reaching out towards him before? He could have sworn both her arms had been at her side. Her expression, too, was a little different. She was still sad, still resigned, but her eyes seemed a little wider, her lips a little more parted.
"Must have been this way before," he dismissed. It took some doing, but he got her into the barrow at last. "I'll clean you up when we get to my house," he told the Goddess. "I heard you calling for help. You sounded so sad. Same as me. Alone. I'm glad I found you."
He spoke to the Goddess the whole way home. It didn't bother him that she didn't reply. She had been alone for a very, very long time. Perhaps she was scared, or shy. He would have to show her he meant no harm.
It took most of the day to get her home. She was lighter than most stone statues, but still heavy none the less. He got her there before sunset – plenty of time to wash the dirt and moss from her. He sat her up in the middle of his garden, where Amy Pond had once sat surrounded by sunflowers. "Amy sent you to me," he told the Goddess as he retrieved his paint cleaning supplies. He hoped they would work on her. He turned around again and froze.
Her arm was down again. Her face...her face wasn't so sad now. She looked...curious. "You're moving!" he announced, moving closer to her. His hands trembled with excitement. "You can move. I didn't imagine it. Oh this is wonderful! Can you move again? Please?"
The statue was quiet and still. Vincent smiled a bit. "I understand. You're shy." He dipped a cloth in the cleaner and began to wipe her down, pulling bits of vines and grasses from her as he went. "I will wait til you wish to speak again, or better still, to move for me. I shall talk to you until you understand I shan't hurt you."
Vincent went to bed happy that night. The gun was in his jacket again, forgotten. He had a friend now; someone to keep company with. He fell asleep with a smile on his face.
Vincent woke early. He pulled his clothes on quickly and ran to his garden. His stomach plummeted; the statue was gone. Was it a dream? His body hurt from moving her, so surely it had been real. Had she left in the night? Vincent's shoulders drooped. He turned back towards his house, utterly heart broken.
He shouted in surprise, turning right around to find her behind him. She was standing not two feet from him, in the doorway of his home. She was looking into the house, through the door he had just come from. Her hand was on the door jamb, her head peeking inside. Vincent licked his lips. She wanted to explore his home, but was too shy to move when he was looking. He squeezed his eyes shut and waited. When he opened them again, she was inside. She was in his kitchen, holding one of his cups, examining it.
Vincent was thrilled. He walked inside, smiling brightly at her. "Do you eat?" he asked, not really expecting a reply. "I'm about to make some breakfast." He went about gathering up some bread and cheese, and poured himself a glass of cool water. When he turned around, he froze.
The statue had set the table for him. There was a plate, with a knife and fork at the ready. She was standing on the other side of the table, looking at the place setting expectantly. Vincent's face split into a grin.
He really wasn't alone anymore. "Do you have a name?" he asked, sitting down across from her. He cut the bread and some cheese and ate it with relish. Even the food tasted better now that he had company. He drank his water, and smiled up at her. "Surely you do."
He heard it then; her gentle, far away sounding voice. "Kindness of God? That is what you are called?" he asked, his brow furrowed. He thought for a moment, his mother's language suddenly filling his ears. His eyes lit up and he smiled at her. "Jantine. It means God is Forgiving. I shall call you Jantine, if you would like." He grinned at her reply. "Jantine. My friend."
In the space of a blink, her expression changed. From mild, gentle curiosity to utter surprise. Her lips were parted, eyes very wide. Her hands, too, had raised a bit. Vincent closed his eyes, and shivered when he felt the cold stone of her touch on his cheek. When he opened them again, she was smiling, her hand over her heart. Vincent smiled back.
They went about like that for months. When he would return from an outing, she would be there, a place set out for him at the table. She would listen to him speak, and shyly reply. He told no one of his statue friend – the townsfolk already thought him mad. It was coming on the end of July now, and Vincent had never been happier. He didn't even have time to keep his diaries. He painted, with Jantine by his side, and spoke to her until his voice would give out. He spoke at length about the Doctor, and of course, Amy. He knew he was wistful and horribly in love with his red-haired friend, and often apologized for waxing poetic about her. Jantine didn't mind.
Every day her voice grew stronger. It was as though his friendship was giving her strength. It was the 27th of July, and Vincent's life was as close to complete as it had ever been.
He woke that day to find it sunny and bright. Jantine was outside, a bouquet of pretty wild flowers in her hand, posed below her nose. He smiled, and sniffed the flowers with her.
He startled. Jantine was speaking to him without his prompting. "A gift? What kind of gift?" he replied, his brow furrowed. He blinked, and the flowers were in his hand. Jantine's hands were on either side of his face. He felt warm all over, his eyes fluttering closed. He took a deep breath, gasping in pure pleasure as a familiar, sweet scent touched him. "Amy..." he sighed, surrounded by her presence; like a warm hug from his dearest friend. He felt Jantine's cold, stone arms slip down around him, embracing him gently. Visions of Amy, her flaming hair, her happy smile, her soft touch, her melodic voice...he was engulfed in all things Amy Pond.
There was a flash of light that burned through his eyelids. He cringed, clutching to Jantine. Her quiet, sweet voice told him it was all right, told him he was safe. He relaxed, still holding her, as the light fazed and grew and sped passed them.
The light snapped and was quite suddenly gone. Jantine moved away from him, her cool fingers tickling his cheek. Vincent blinked his eyes open slowly, unable to see anything but the aftershock of the light. It faded at last, leaving him somewhere other than where he started. They were in a hall, coated in dingy wallpaper, with thread-bare carpet, and dirty windows overlooking the biggest city Vincent had ever seen. He stumbled to the nearest of those dirty windows, his eyes wide as he took in the lights, the sheer size of the outside.
He looked to Jantine, wanting to ask where they had gone, when the question died in his throat. Jantine stood nearby, her stone arm pointing down one of those dingy halls, towards something. Vincent's heart was pounding. He made his way slowly to her, feeling suddenly as if this was all a fantastic dream. He stood beside her, staring a moment longer at her serene, satisfied face. He followed the length of her arm, stared down passed her pointing finger tip. At the end of that dark, flickering hallway, was a door. He walked down that threadbare carpet, breathing deeply, his heart hammering in his ears. There was a paper, with two names on it, beside the old wooden door. R. Williams, A. Williams. Vincent blinked, his hand raising without conscious thought.
He knocked three times, and waited, feeling Jantine's stone stare from her place down the hall. He looked over his shoulder, saw her there. Her arms were at her side again, her face beautiful with a small smile. The door began to open and he turned to face it.
There was a young man there – no more than thirty or so. He was looking curiously at Vincent, a polite smile on his face. "Can I help you?" asked the man, his English accent pleasant.
Vincent opened his mouth, but found he didn't know what to say. The young man's eyes flickered over his shoulder, his face suddenly going pale. The man acted quickly, grabbing Vincent's shoulders, dragging him into the room. Vincent stumbled, falling to his knees at the young man's side. The door was slammed, and Vincent's heart stopped. "AMY!" the young man yelled, pushing a nearby table in front of the door. "Amy! We have trouble!"
And there she was, coming quickly out of another room. She was just as he remembered; just as beautiful, just as vibrant. "Amy," he whispered, rising up to his knees.
"Vincent?" she gasped, her eyes wide.
"You know him?" the young man asked, his voice strained. "Wait, not important. Amy, there's an Angel out there!"
Amy's eyes widened more, her lower lip trembling. "They're supposed to leave us alone. We're here. They're supposed to leave us alone now," she whispered.
"Amy," Vincent said, lifting his hands as he rose. "Please don't be scared. Jantine won't hurt anyone. She's a friend."
"Jantine? That...thing has a name?" the fellow asked, incredulous.
"I found her, covered in vines and dirt. She was in the woods," Vincent said quickly. "I brought her home and cleaned her up. She's been my companion, my friend for months. She wanted to give me a gift. She brought me to you, Amy."
"Oh Vincent," Amy sighed, walking to him. She took his face into her hands, pressed her forehead against his. "You're so innocent. You don't know what they are, what they do."
"Jantine isn't evil, I promise," Vincent whispered, the feeling of her nearness making him dizzy with joy.
"Amy, will you please explain what's happening?" the fellow sighed, leaning against the table. He no longer seemed afraid, but frustrated.
"Rory, this is my friend, Vincent Van Gogh. Vincent, this is Rory Williams...my husband," Amy said, smiling a bit as she looked between them.
Vincent's stomach dropped. Oh he knew she would find someone, but it hurt none the less. Vincent forced a smile, offering his hand to Rory, who took it. The young man had a good grip, and a friendly face. "Pleasure to meet you at last, Vincent," Rory said, smiling a bit more. "Amy's told me so much about you."
There was a timid, slow knock at the door. Rory and Amy both stiffened, both looked terrified. Vincent heard her voice from the other side of the door. "Jantine, they're afraid of you," he said in reply, leaning over the table and against the door. He sighed, looking over at Amy's pale, terrified face. "She understands why you're scared. Some of her kind hurt you both badly. Jantine isn't like that. She wants to prove to you that she isn't dangerous."
Amy and Rory shared a terrified, slow look.
Jantine whispered to him through the door again. Vincent closed his eyes, and relayed her message; "She says she will come back when you are sure she isn't a danger. She says she will do whatever you need to prove she is an innocent."
"An innocent Angel," Rory scoffed, peaking through a small hole in the door. "It's gone."
"She left," Vincent corrected, feeling protective of his stone friend.
"Vincent, you don't understand," Amy said, looking ever so sad and lost. "Rory and I, we're stuck here because of the Angels. We can't leave Manhattan. We can't ever see the Doctor, or our daughter, ever again."
Vincent looked at their sad, solemn faces, and his heart broke.