Okay! Officially my FIRST Doctor Who story. I always found it impossible to write about this show because there's just soooo many details to keep in mind, but, being a huge fan of Amy, I found myself getting all these ideas about her storyline that I just HAD to try to write. This is technically not an AU, it just takes place during a time period that isn't explored on the show. I won't be changing any events that occurred in the actual story.
Basically all you need to know is this: the story is set during The Eleventh Hour, a few hours after the Doctor has taken off in the TARDIS and left Amy alone for the second time.
I'm anticipating this will be written in three parts, so stay tuned.
"Are you sure you're okay, though?"
Amy lets out a sigh of frustration, too exasperated to even turn around. "I said I was fine, Rory."
He doesn't dare open his mouth again, but Amy can tell he's still there. She busies herself with her phone charger, plugging it in next to her bed, and finally she hears the floorboards creak as he retreats.
"I'll call you in the morning, then?"
"If you want. I don't care."
"Amy."
"What?" She whirls around, hair whipping across her face. Rory is standing in the doorway now, holding onto the frame like he's ready to take off at a sprint. His face is calm as ever, but she detects an undercurrent of annoyance. Like he has the right to be annoyed with anyone.
"What did you think was gonna happen, anyway? Did you think he was gonna take you with him or something?"
"Rory, shut up, that's not-"
"Did you think he was gonna save you from having to stay here with me? Cause that's what you really want, isn't it?" His voice breaks a little, but he keeps going. "You're just waiting on something better. You always have been. And everybody knows it."
Amy opens and closes her mouth a couple times, but for once in her life, words fail her. There's no use in denying anything he's saying. It's the icy, biting, horrible truth.
"Maybe you should just call me when you've figured out what you want."
And then he's gone, footsteps echoing down the staircase, fading away until she's alone in that big, empty house again. She sinks down onto the mattress, resting her head on her hands.
When she was seven years old, the Doctor had promised her things beyond her comprehension. "When you're a little older," he'd said, "we're going to travel together. We'll go to places you've never seen, places you never even knew existed, and do things you've never dreamed of." She'd stared at him, wide-eyed. He had promised her entire cities on floating starships, the windblown fields of Provence, battles atop a pirate ship floating on stormy seas. She had always known that she would have to wait, but when he'd shown up in her house this morning she was sure that the waiting was finally over. Instead, she'd stood in the yard and watched that stupid time machine take off again. Without her.
If it even was a time machine. Amy stood up, absentmindedly grabbing a towel from where it was draped over the bedpost and heading down the hallway toward the bathroom. After everything she'd seen today, it was hard to deny that aliens and time travel and all those things were real, but still. What kind of time machine was shaped like a little blue box? Shouldn't it be something cooler? All the psychiatrists she'd seen, her science teachers over the years, Aunt Sharon… they'd told her hundreds of times that time travel wasn't real. She'd finally dropped it when she was about twelve, sick of being teased by the other kids in her class. That was when she started going by Amy instead of Amelia. She had finally informed her relieved aunt that fairy tales were for little kids. She'd even given up on her dream of marrying the Doctor when she was older, and dated Jeff and a couple other guys before ending up with Rory when she was eighteen. She knew everyone in Leadworth assumed they would get married one day. It wasn't like she didn't care about Rory – they'd grown up together, how could she not? But married? Now? She's only nineteen. A part of her still believes in the Raggedy Doctor, the man who'd sat with her in the garden one morning when she was seven years old and promised her the world.
Amy turns the hot water tap as far as it goes and steps into the shower. Maybe she just needs to rest. She could be dreaming, the whole Prisoner Zero thing just a figment of her imagination. It wouldn't be the first time her subconscious had invented some ridiculous scenario about the Doctor. I'll go to sleep right after I get out of the shower, she tells herself, letting the hot water splash over her face and run down her back.
And then she hears the crash.
She freezes, scared to move, listening hard. The only sound is the water hitting the floor. It's probably Rory come back to drive me crazy again, she reasons, but she turns the water off anyway and steps carefully out to wrap herself in the towel. The house is silent now except for the usual creaks and groans it makes while it's settling in, tree branches scraping across the windowpanes in the kitchen. Amy gently eases the bathroom door open, wincing when it squeaks. She's just about to shrug it off and march back to her bedroom when she hears three heavy footsteps coming from downstairs – gasping softly, she draws back behind the door. Okay, that's definitely not Rory. He walks quietly – like a ballerina, she's teased him since they were kids. Her heart is thrumming in her chest as she grabs her clothes and hastily gets dressed. If there is a burglar or a murderer or something in the house, she's not chasing him around in a stupid towel. Amy Pond fights back in style.
Tossing her damp hair over one shoulder, she tiptoes down the staircase. It's dark downstairs. Rory, conscientious as always, must've gone around switching off all the lights. He always locked the door behind him, too – he worried about leaving her alone. Like she wasn't perfectly capable of fending for herself.
Someone's definitely in the kitchen. They're not making any noise, but she can sense some kind of energy, some kind of presence. She has a sudden flashing memory of Prisoner Zero, that horrible lizard-like alien thing staring her down in the spare room upstairs. Could it be back? Just what she needed to top off this fabulous day – another alien attack. And this time, she'd have to face it alone. Completely alone.
She grabs a black umbrella from the stand in the hallway – the closest approximation to a weapon that's readily available – and ducks into the kitchen.
"H-hello?" she calls out, and her voice shakes. So much for fighting back in style.
The answer comes immediately.
"Hello."
Amy yelps, dropping the umbrella and stumbling backward. It's a man's voice.
"Rory?" she asks, even though she knows it can't be him. The figure in the shadows is too tall and he's wearing a long peacoat, nothing like the jeans and flannel shirt Rory had on earlier. He takes a step closer, moonlight falling across his features, and the bottom drops out of her stomach.
"Doctor."
She has to hold on to the back of a kitchen chair to keep herself upright. He's really back?
"I didn't think you were ever coming for me." She shifts awkwardly, raking her fingers through her wet hair.
"How long has it been?"
She blinks. "What?"
"Since you saw me last." His voice is oddly strained. "How long?"
"Oh, uh…" she glances over her shoulder at the clock. "Six hours? Seven? Somethin' like that. You really know how to keep a girl waiting."
He sighs, but it's a weird sound, almost like a sob and a groan of frustration at the same time. And then he's crossing the kitchen floor in a couple wide strides, engulfing her in a hug so tight she feels like her ribcage might crack. His face presses into her hair, breathing her in, and she feels the words before she hears them: "my Amelia."
"Doctor?" She tries to pull back but he's too strong. His arms criss-cross her back, holding her so close that when she blinks, her eyelashes brush against the shoulder of his coat. "Is… something wrong?"
"No, Amelia." His voice is a soft breath into her hair, like an exhale, barely even audible. Amy manages to wriggle out of his grasp and steps back, bumping into the kitchen table. Her eyes are wide.
"Sorry. I-I'm sorry." The Doctor slowly brings his arms back to his sides like he's not sure what to do with them when they're not wrapped around her. "I forgot. It's different for you now, isn't it? What with you being… well, however… I'm not entirely sure that I…"
"Can you talk in complete sentences, please?"
"Yes, yes, right. Amy. Amy." He steps a few inches closer, eyes searching her face. "How old are you?"
"That's a bit personal."
"No it's not," he says brightly. "Not with you and me. See, I'll tell you… I'm thirteen hundred and seven. That's not so bad. And you, you're…"
"Nineteen."
He laughs, a proper laugh, throwing his head back and everything. "Nineteen years old. Twelve years since fish fingers and custard."
Amy cocks her head to the side. It was just a few hours since she'd seen him last, but judging by his face it's been millennia. His eyes are tired and sad, his cheekbones more prominent. And the way he's looking at her… it's like he's trying to remember a long-lost friend.
I don't even know you, she wants to yell. You left me behind. You never gave me the chance to know you.
"Why did you even come back?" She folds her arms across her chest, taking in his clothes. He's changed them since earlier that day at the hospital, traded them in for a crisp button-down shirt, a black bowtie, no suspenders. That stupid black peacoat.
He blinks. "Thought you'd be pleased to see me. You wanted to come when you were a little girl."
Amy opens her mouth, but the Doctor cuts her off.
"I know, I know. You grew up." He says it like a swear word. "I'm just asking for one day, Amelia."
"I don't want any of it." She glares at him.
"C'mon, yeah you do…"
"No," she says forcefully, and he shuts up. "If this is what it's gonna be like, with you leaving me all the time… I don't want it. It's not fair."
He falls silent, a shadow of something horrible passing across his face.
"Tell you what." Amy leans in, closing the gap between them, slightly damp hair falling around her shoulders. "I'll come with you if you can promise you will never leave me behind again."
The wind gently rattles the windowpanes, the faucet drips. The clock on the wall ticks.
"That's what I thought."