Author's Note: I don't own Doctor Who and am making no money off of this.
Amy's Voice
By Sindie
x
Soon, the present voices, too, become echoes of the past, reverberating through the fabric of time and bouncing off the walls of his memory bank. In his chrono-cavern, he built the history of civilizations, made up of atomic stories, ever in quantum-flux, but all of time has its cruelty, and his hearts beat twice as heavy as that of any human. Love and loss and love and loss, again and again, and again.
Everything must have its end, and he seems to keep running from the final word of his story, but though the song goes on and on, that does not remove fear. He said he was running to them, before it was too late, and now it is too late. Lost, like so many before them, they are gone, there breathing in a cemetery one moment and then lying in the cold, indifferent ground beneath his laced, black-booted feet the next, taken from his clumsy grasp, which never seemed to quite manage the mastery of holding anything or anyone for long.
Oh, those dexterous fingers worked the levers and buttons on the console of his TARDIS like magic and seemingly fumbled with his sonic screwdriver for the right setting in a moment of dire circumstance, but they also extended beyond into hands that held hands, into arms that embraced. Those embraces were starry diamonds in the night sky, so beautiful and lasting forever, if only in the moment of physicality, but every hug, every friend, never, ever was truly lost in the embrace with his thousand-year-old soul.
In this manner, alone, he isn't really alone, and sometimes, when he is falling on the verge of sleep, when there is really no night or day to mark the passing of time when floating among the stars, he remembers all the voices, all the smiles, all the words, all the love passed between him and his friends for so long.
But that did not dull the pain so fresh in losing the one who had been the first to see this face, a face which appeared so young, almost boyish, but with eyes so old. Many times, this face had laughed easily and smiled at his own ridiculous antics (which he knew were over-the-top), and his longish, messy, floppy hair hung into his eyes and over his ears. Those were the days, when there were moments of not a care in the world, when he would be too caught up in one single moment of all of time with Amy, the girl who waited for him. In the beginning, when things were simple, eyes would connect across a short distance, and smiles would slowly spread across faces, and they would share in that moment of wonder and discovery. Showing young Amy the universe had been a wonderful adventure, but times changed, and his carefree attitude, which had come so naturally for this regeneration at first, was dampened with the usual troubles of foes: those who thought he ought to be stopped, who thought him a threat.
He was a traveler, an explorer… He hadn't wanted to complicate his life so much! He just wanted friends to travel with him and share in the journey, but time and time again, his life was met with conflict. Battles drew out into full on wars, and he created a long list of enemies, and he changed. He was damaged, enraged, angry.
His boyish laughter and silliness were a cover for a deep pain, but Amy had been there for so long to always bring him through it. Even she didn't know his secrets, though. He remembers now a time when Rory had fallen asleep in the room he shared with his wife on the TARDIS, and Amy had come into the main control room, saying she couldn't sleep.
The Doctor was working on the underside of the control board when he heard her footsteps.
"Amy, what are you doing out of bed?"
"A lot on my mind, I guess."
The Doctor slid out from under the console and jumped to a standing position, dramatically dusting his hands off and straightening his "cool" bow tie. He gave her one of his prize-worthy half-grins and leaned against the console, tapping on the empty space beside him for her to stand next to him. Amy crossed the short distance and joined him.
"Care to elaborate, Pond, or do I need to start asking more questions?" he teased.
The last adventure they had encountered had been in the faux-hotel with the alien minotaur. Perhaps the Doctor wasn't sleeping because he had a lot on his mind as well. The creature's last words to him about an ancient creature being soaked in the blood on the innocent had been unnerving. The Doctor had looked into his room in that "hotel" and had seen his fear and his faith. He didn't need to voice such things, especially when Amy had asked…
"When I asked you what you believe in, you didn't say, Doctor," Amy implored, gazing fixedly into his hazel eyes. He looked back for a moment and averted his gaze.
"That wasn't the first time you haven't answered my question," she continued, seeming determined and unfazed by his discomfort. She was a bold woman, after all. "When the Dream Lord taunted you, taunted us, I asked you… if you really thought those terrible things about yourself. You have always wanted me to trust you, but you don't tell me so many things. Why, Doctor?"
That was when the Doctor realized he needed to put some distance between them. Had they gotten too close, even though he longed for such intimacy? He did what he always did when another came too close; he withdrew. The next day, he would be giving the Ponds a house and a car. He was too dangerous. Death and destruction and despair followed him like a plague he couldn't fully fight and conquer. He didn't want Amy and Rory to suffer for his reputation.
"You really don't need to know, Amy," the Doctor said quietly, looking at his feet and then meeting her eyes. "What difference would it make, eh? I've done my best to keep you and Rory safe, but I know things are coming to an end soon."
His end, or so he thought. Amy tried to protest, but the Doctor would have none of it. He wrapped his arms around her, and she returned the hug.
"What matters is that you and Rory mean the world to me – world of worlds, and I won't have you worrying over me," he whispered. He drew back enough to kiss her on the forehead, and Amy gave him that same despairing look she had since she was a child. She would still put her faith in him, even after he told her not to. He sent her on her way, and the next "day," he landed in Leadworth and tried to say his goodbyes.
Amy cried over him, even though he told her she would see him again, but she accepted his terms. She held on to him, afraid to let go, and she kissed his forehead so gently and kindly, and all he could do was look into her eyes, so sad himself, not wanting to release her to a life without him, yet knowing it was better.
But he had seen her again, and they had had a few more adventures yet, before the end truly came, but it wasn't his end, at least not physically. Now, the Doctor keeps to himself. He knows he isn't a hero. He knows the things he's done, the people he's hurt, the people who have died because of him.
Was Amy better for knowing him? Now, he doesn't think so. He is better for knowing her, for she was a light in his life. Her last words to him came in the epilogue of a book and of his life, a life after Amy. She told him not to be alone, but alone he is, again.
He holds Amy Williams's book in his young, ancient hands like a precious jewel, but one that would easily break if he isn't careful with it. Her round reading glasses sit perched on his nose, and he sees more clearly because of her, in many ways. He sees himself for the man he really is, and he hates himself for it. He will gladly spill tears for Amy and Rory, but never waste them on himself in his solitude.
He builds his cage and carries it with him, and he cannot escape. What adventure lies beyond the walls in all of time and space, which is nothing but a ludicrously massive backyard for him? His friend is gone and buried, her soul beyond any place he can travel, and her atoms being spread throughout the cosmos as he sits, alone, and reflects.
No, all of time and space holds no thrill like that of the love of his best friend. As a tear slips past the wire of the glasses resting on his nose and strikes the epilogue, he curses himself.
Alone.
That is the word the tear hits.
Don't be alone, Doctor.
And then the Doctor smiles. Even now, Amy's forceful personality remains, telling him what is best for him.
"For you, Amy, I'll try not to be," he whispers.