A/N: This is so heavily influenced by Bloodstream by Stateless, it's shameful. Feedback would be awesome by the way.
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(you've gotten into my bloodstream, i could feel you floating in me)
—
i.
"Then what is the point of you?"
Her eyes are accusing, her words stinging and he sees a mirror of the same expression but in the irises of different (familiar) faces, of all the people from his past, all the people he's ever let down, all the people he's ever had to leave behind, all the people he's had to watch realize about the fallibility of fate, of consequence, of time, of him.
He wants to comfort her, make it all go away, bring back time, rewrite time, but he just can't even if he wishes he could, and his hearts seem to break over and over again - hearts that are already far too old and worn out. The tears and patches rip along the skin of the two that drum just beneath the flesh of his chest, the weight of her words tessellating shapes into them that are far deeper than the ones that have been made before, and history repeats itself.
He can't fix this and the truth mocks him. What really is the point of him anyway if he can't even save the things that matter the most to the people he cares for?
He can feel her drifting away from him, can already feel the impact of her coming, unconscious decision, and he closes his eyes for a brief second and swallows down reality (because he's never been closer to what is real than he is in these moments, in these dreams, in these nightmares).
Here, now, he can feel it happening completely.
ii.
"Doctor."
He stiffens up slightly, squeezing one of the knobs of the central console a little tighter than necessary. He considers the paleness of his fingers, the knuckles jutting out of the skin of them more than usual.
"Yes, Amy?" he asks, in a neutral, controlled voice. He keeps his eyes on the screens of the TARDIS the entire time.
"I…" she falters, seemingly unsure of how to say whatever she wants to, and it's ridiculous – Amy Pond hesitating in saying whatever she is thinking.
It makes him long all the more for better days and better nights, for the power to turn back time again and again till they're back to a time where all there is is him and her and nothing in between. Just the Doctor and Amy, nothing more, nothing less.
She inhales, as if gathering up courage for something, "I didn't mean—I mean what I said back there to you in the dream or whatever that was, I didn't mean it—well I did, at the time at least, but I was upset and— but I shouldn't have said it. That's what I guess I'm trying to get at, is all."
He turns around slowly, eyes curious and waiting.
She looks uncomfortable and slightly confused at her own thoughts, as she brushes some hair out of her eyes
"Because well it isn't true, Doctor." She looks at him, her eyes incredulous and expectant and he can't help being reminded of seven year old Amelia Pond when she looks at him like that, "You're," she pauses and then, "well you're everything. Everything that keeps this universe from combusting into itself at least."
He forces a smile but it comes out a little more chipped away at, a little more disillusioned than he would have liked to reveal, "For now, at least."
She quiets down at this, studying him for a second instead and he hates the way she can read things about him even he doesn't notice sometimes, "Is that what you really think?"
"Hm?" He wants to draw miles and miles between them, wants to detach himself from the present and wander off somewhere in the past, or maybe the future, anywhere but here. Because at the end of the day, that's what he does best: the running away part.
"All those things the dream lord said, do you really…" she doesn't finish, taking a step closer to him instead, "Doctor?"
He turns around, feels himself tensing up immediately, "You should get Rory. We're almost there."
He refuses to meet her gaze, busying himself with the knobs and buttons and levers again.
"But Doctor—"
"Get Rory, Amy. How many times do I have to ask?" His voice is harder this time, a little more of an order in it than a request, "Humans sometimes…"
He doesn't have to look back at her to know she's probably pursed her lips together in anger.
"Fine." She replies finally, her tone cold and strung with anger. "I'll just go and get him since that's all I'm good for, aren't I?"
She doesn't wait for his response.
When the stomps of her footsteps have finally faded, he slumps against the TARDIS and thinks about how it's probably better this way. One day she'll look back and—
It's her choice, will always be her choice, because that's all he can really give her: a choice.
That's just how it works when you become a time traveler and it always has to be learned the hard way it seems. Amy Pond is no exception to that rule.
iii.
"—something kind and old and the last of its kind."
Her words had echoed inside his head, like thunder and rain and salvation and maybe, he had thought, he might have finally found someone that would truly understand, someone he could trust a universe of secrets with, someone to see him at his worst and at his best, someone he wouldn't have to lose somewhere between time and space.
She had wrapped her arms tight around his neck and pulled him closer and he had dug his nose into the crook of her neck, inhaled the warm scent of everything that made her a fairytale, a transience, that made her his Amelia Pond, always.
iv.
"Are you in love with me, Amy?" Rory asks and he's shaking terribly and it's raining and this just isn't the right time for his insecurities and doubts he wants to shout but he keeps his mouth shut and just watches helplessly instead, looking worriedly towards the horizon every other second.
Amy looks at him in disbelief, "Really Rory? Now? We're about to have gigantic coach roaches take over this entire planet—
"Well, actually, they're—" the doctor tries to point out but she snaps her head towards him and directs her blazing gaze at him, indicating that this isn't the time and he shuts up immediately, clearing his throat and nodding his head.
"Right, not the time, got it—"
She turns back towards her fiancé, "And I already told you! I made my choice. I can't live without you! Of course I love you, you idiot—
He shakes his head, standing his ground, eerily calm and solid, "That wasn't my question, Amy. I asked if you're in love with me."
She stops for a second, slightly taken aback, "Is there a difference?" she asks in an unsure murmur.
He looks at her softly, "A huge one."
She looks at him, her eyes rounder than before, as if she's at a loss of words, "I—you're my best friend, Rory. I could spend my whole life with you—"
"But never be in love with me," he finishes off for her, nodding his head slowly and the doctor can't help wondering where the (ugly) epiphany came from, but he's never felt more out of place than he does here.
"Rory—" she tries, her voice cracking slightly, "That's not what I—"
"But that's what it is, plain and simple."
There is an uneasy but conclusive silence and he can't help looking down at his boots, dipping his toes deeper into the dirt, and trying to keep himself out of all of this and it's all a bit ironic. Just because it hasn't been spoken doesn't mean it's not actually there.
When he finally looks up, he meets Rory's eyes, and the anguish is so strong it almost blows him away with the coming winds.
"Yeah." Rory forces a smile, nods his head a bit too mechanically, "Well I guess I got my answer then. We'll figure all this out in the TARDIS later. We should get back to saving the world again, shouldn't we? Time's running out, isn't it Doctor?"
He starts walking ahead abruptly and Doctor looks towards Amy. She seems frozen in place, transfixed with what's just happened.
"Amy—" He cautiously tries to put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
"No," she flinches from his touch and he watches her break in front of him, "Don't."
Her shoulders don't shake and she stands straight, back rigid as she starts walking slowly ahead as well.
This isn't how he wanted it to be. He's only ever wanted happiness for her, only ever wanted all the things he could never give her himself. Nothing is going the way he should and he has no idea how to fix it. He's been getting worse and worse at it with each regeneration it seems.
v.
Having more than one heart never makes any of it easier to live down. If anything, it only makes the unconditional love he grows, all in different shapes and forms, for the companions he meets along the way harder to let go of. It only makes the pain a thousand times worse.
Every guilt, every disappointment, every regret, every sorrow is magnified and dissected inside of him till they're soaked into each and every piece (remnant) of who he is, and it courses through his body every second of every day until it's finally evolved into a form that can make a place for itself somewhere inside his internal clock, where time is always lost.
It remains there, like a ghost floating through his bloodstream, and promises till the end of time.
But time is always running out (away) it seems.
vi.
She sits against the wall, her long legs splayed out onto the floor of the hallway. He slides down warily next to her, careful to not be the first to speak.
"He really left then." She finally says and he joins her in looking at the opposite wall.
"You can go back. If you really do care for him then we can go back and you can convince him. And Amy," he stops himself, breathing in deeply and trying to ignore the slight pang of his hearts, "I've been thinking, maybe it's time for you to go back home anyway. You can't run away forever—"
She turns towards him sharply, "You do it all the time."
He gives her a pointed look, "That's…different. I'm a time lord, the only time lord left. I don't exactly have any other home other than the TARDIS now. And besides, what exactly would you even say I'm really running away from?"
"You tell me." She challenges in that characteristic fashion of hers, not letting her eyes leave his and he loosens his bow tie a bit.
"Look Amy," he starts slowly, his gaze steady and intent, "there are some things you don't understand at the moment and might possibly never. For now, I'd like to keep it that way so if you could just—"
"I want to get away." she cuts in and he looks at her strangely.
"Amy, I don't think now is the time to—"
"Doctor," she repeats, something about her tone catching his attention and prickling at his chest, "I want to get away."
There is a pause and then he succumbs, "Okay."
vii.
He takes her to the Jazz Age of the roaring 1920s, right smack in the middle of the life and buzz of the era: New York City.
She gazes around at the passing people and streets in wonder and a thrill of pride runs through his body at the knowledge that, at the very least, he can bring her a handful of fleeting pieces of happiness.
She pulls him towards her, her eyes a brilliant bright olive green, "Is this really…" she remarks in a hushed, excited tone.
"Yes, yes it is," he replies, just as excited as her, and it's almost like old times, he thinks as his eyes crinkle and his mouth curves into a laughing smile.
"Can I be a flapper?" she asks, mouth playful and indicating her delight at the idea. "I could get one of those flashy dresses and one of those outrageous bobs, or maybe not an actual bob, maybe just a wig…"
"Pond," he teases, "a bit bold, aren't we? You sure you'd be able to catch onto the dance moves. Not as easy as it looks, I'll tell you that much."
"I'd finally fit in somewhere in time." She continues, eyes sparkling against the glint of the city lights.
"You would make some flapper, I must say." He admits, grinning wider. It's contagious he thinks, her innate desire for adventure and motion, fun and spontaneity.
She grabs hold of his shoulders and he leans into her touch without thinking, "So it's set then. I could be a flapper for a day or night, however long you let us actually stay here, and you could be my…"
She stops, her eyes glazing over slightly.
"Yes?" he prods and she suddenly seems to realize what she's doing or what she's about to say.
"Forgot," she quickly replies, moving away from him in the process. "Could we visit Sinatra? Or maybe Fitzgerald? I had to read one of his books for class, actually one of the few from school I liked…" the words spill out of her mouth, a desperate attempt to ignore the obvious.
They go back to pretending in a matter of seconds. He thinks it gets easier each time.
He brings his arm out for her to loop hers through. "Let's go pay him a visit then. But I'll warn you beforehand, he's always in a horrible mood after he gets into one of his daily afternoon rows with Zelda so be prepared for that—"
viii.
It's after a couple of adventures, a couple of escapades, that it happens.
He takes her to Iceland to see the northern lights a hundred or so years after her time, just to still keep it interesting. It's a treat for all the "saving the world" missions they seem to have been involved in the past few times and they're bantering back and forth over something indisputable during dinner when it happens.
"Just take the bloody thing off for one trip!" she hisses, over a cup of steaming hot tea, eyes determined but jubilant.
"Absolutely not," he rebukes indignantly, looking slightly insulted at the mere mention of the idea. "Bow ties are cool. Very cool."
"Doctor, for the last time they are not—"
"Well aren't you two lovely," an elderly woman stops in front of their table, smiling warmly down towards them. "Remind me of Alex and me, you two do. But that was a long time ago, a long and wonderful time ago…"
"Uh," his mind goes blank, "No, sorry."
"Sorry?"
"No." he repeats, shakes his head a little too hard, exchanging a quick awkward glance with the redhead, before gesturing between the two of them, "Definitely not. I mean, we're not like that, not even close—"
He suddenly feels the burn of a resentful glare against the side of his face.
"What—"
She sighs exasperatedly before getting up with a, "You're impossible!" and leaving in a huff.
He stares after her, slightly confused.
"Oh dear," the woman murmurs gently, "I think you've upset her."
He looks at her tiredly. "It's becoming a habit really."
ix.
He finds her standing in front of the ocean, arms crossed across her chest so tight, it's like she's trying to hold herself up from falling down. He notices the dampness of her cheeks but says nothing.
"That was the fifteenth person we've come across who thought we were… you know." She says finally.
"You keep count?"
She shakes her head as if to indicate that's not what matters, before inhaling the scent of the sea and salt deeply, "You know before he left us for good, he told me not to make my choices out of fear of losing things. He said if there's anything he's learned from all this time traveling, it's that."
He's not sure what to say in return. "Good man, Rory." He coughs because he doesn't want to have this conversation. They always end up right where they started.
She turns towards him, "What's wrong with me, Doctor? Why can't I keep one good thing that ever comes to me?"
"But you didn't lose him," he tries to assure her but she shakes her head stubbornly.
"Even if I go back now or in ten years, it won't be the same ever again."
"If you really do love him," and he can't look at her as he offers her the choice yet again, "then all you have to do is tell me and I'll drop you off—"
"It's not about that," she blurts out, closing her eyes for a brief second, "it's the fact that he's right. In the end, no matter what I say, it always comes back to you. Why couldn't I just be in love with him instead of you?"
"Amy," he sighs, rubbing the sides of his temple, and she's always been one to get straight to the point, but this is just taking it to a new level. Because they've always just danced around the subject, ever so briefly, if at all.
"Seriously, why can't I just let go of this and go back to being normal?"
"Because you're Amy Pond." he replies bluntly, "You were never normal. Don't you see that by now? The crack in the wall of your room, my blue box just happening to land in your backyard out of all the backyards it could have landed in. You're not like any other companion I've ever had."
She looks at him in sad amusement, a half-hearted smile on her face, "But at the end of the day, I'm still as human as I was yesterday."
He stays quiet for a while, gazing out towards the seagulls flying between the gray skies and the murky blue water.
She closes her eyes, knowingness in her voice, "and that makes all the difference, doesn't it Doctor?"
x.
"He really loves his wife, doesn't he?"
"Which one?"
She swats at him, "The one he made the Taj Mahal for of course. Mumtaz, wasn't it? It's really quite a love story, isn't it?"
"I suppose so." He replies, distracted by the search for his sonic screwdriver in the pockets of his jacket.
She stops in step, "You suppose?" she questions disbelievingly, "do you have an ounce of romance in your body, Doctor?"
"Well, to be fair, I never knew you had any either," he tosses back smartly, "Hah, found it!" he grins in triumph as he holds up the sonic screwdriver to the sky, not looking the slightest bit insulted by her previous jab.
She rolls her eyes, sarcasm at the tip of her tongue. "Well I'm a human girl after all. What did you expect?"
"Ah, quite true. A valid point, Pond." He smiles.
She smiles back, sighing in defeat, "So clearly, judging from your behavior, we're not here to admire the beautiful architecture or the reason behind its creation, are we Doctor?"
"Nope." He replies back cheerfully.
She taps her foot impatiently against the cement, before starting to walk ahead. "Don't tell me there's another type of alien here that wants to make the Taj Mahal a breeding ground for its species or something because that's getting a bit overdone—"
He grabs her arm mid-rant, stopping her in place again.
"It's just I've seen better love stories."
She looks lost, waits for him to clarify.
"Building monuments and statues to immortalize love," he elaborates, "It's all grand. But the best love stories are the ones that unravel before your eyes, seemingly inconsequential and bound to be forgotten with time. Those are the ones that truly touch the heart."
A shadow of a smile makes its way across her lips. "But if they're bound to be forgotten, how do you know that they were the best?"
"That's one of the perks of being a time traveler." He draws his forehead closer to hers, as if to share a secret with her, "You get to go back, remember, keep them with you in ways no one could possibly imagine."
"So," she responds with bated breath, "will we?"
He looks into her eyes for a moment, jarring her in place, before moving away from her abruptly, patting some dust off his sonic screwdriver and narrowing his eyes at the brown specks in casual concentration, "Don't really know yet. If you're good, maybe."
She blinks a couple of times before putting her hands on either side of her hips, "And what's that supposed to mean?" she demands.
He looks back up at her, his mouth curving into an mysterious half-smile, "Do I really have to spell it out for you? Remember the rules from when you were a little girl? You've hardly followed them since you go into the TARDIS. Is it really so hard for you to just do as I say and stop wandering off all the time…" he stops short, muttering to himself instead as he shifts his attention back towards the reading on the screwdriver, "…look away for one second and the next thing you know someone's chatting it up with some Persian prince and trying to ride his Arabian horse—"
"That was one time and I said I was sorry," she intercedes, voice loud and complaining, "You still haven't got over that—"
"Well one time too many, wasn't it?" he retorts, wagging a reprimanding finger at her. "Still got that nasty cut on the left side of your temple I see."
She brushes strands of hair closer to her face to hide the mark before staring at him for a few seconds. She exhales in resignation finally, "You really are something, Doctor."
He shrugs, still smiling, "Yeah, I get that a lot."
xi.
He almost loses her (again and again and again).
It's always feels the same, the adrenaline of fear never lessening with another time, another place to add onto the list. He thinks if anything it only gets worse. It's becoming his worst fear, his worst nightmare, losing her forever to the utter darkness that is the universe, to a world where there is no him and her.
It's like a rush of blood to the head, a reign of terror overwhelming and clutching at his hearts, and when it's over, he can never fully express the feeling of despair that had spread through his entire body in that very moment. He hates that it's always a reminder of how he makes everyone the most dangerous to themselves when they are around him because it shouldn't be that way.
He hates himself for it.
"Amy!"
He grasps for straws, desperate as he grabs hold of her hand before she falls off the edge of the universe, and she clings on to his hand for dear life.
"It's okay," she gasps into a whisper when it's all over, when he's finally pulled her up with all the strength he can possibly muster, and she's never sounded more terrified or trusting than she does now as she collapses into his arms. He's not sure if she's trying to assure him or herself of what she's saying but either way, it doesn't matter. Everything else seems too fleeting suddenly.
He wraps his arms around her clumsily, relief flooding through his entire body as he burrows his face in her hair, shuts his eyes tight for a brief second and lets her into his arms completely. She murmurs more, soft and purposeful, "You've got me, Doctor. I'm here, with you. "
And that's the thing, she's here, now, with him, and he's never been more at ease with the present than he is now. It's not really living, if it's not with her by his side after all.
xii.
"Just be, Doctor. Just be." She whispers against him, her nose touching his, their lips centimeters apart.
And he thinks about the specifics of just being, if there even are any real specifics for something so absolute but abstract at the same time as this, thinks about the endless what-ifs and possibilities that could weave their way between them in such a state.
He feels slightly dizzy at the thought, but more so because she's all over, in the air around him, through the pores of his skin, in the blood pumping into his hearts, everywhere.
They could be greater than time lords and humans. They could be bigger than time travelers and companions. They could be more than just heroes and cowards. They could be so much more, he thinks to himself, in awe.
He reaches for her, his mouth finding hers this time instead of the other way around, and he takes her hovering lips between his, and let's himself feel the creases of her lips against his own, lets her melt into him. Her tongue slips in and he can taste every year she's ever lived and twenty-one years is so terribly young.
Somewhere in the middle, all she's ever dreamed becomes a part of his dreams as well and suddenly it's much too hard to decipher what's hers and what's his, what is their reality and what are their illusions.
His fingers grasp for her back and find fabric and the ends of red locks of hair, the bone of her back juts out into a curve against the expanse of his stretched apart fingers. He wants to live, for himself, for her, wants to not feel the consequence or protest of the universe drumming into his ears for once.
This could be their start, time rewritten, no worry about the distinction between mortality and regeneration or the complexities between the extinction of Gallifrey and the preservation of Earth.
And maybe they aren't so different after all.
xiii.
"You'll have to leave and go back one day, I know you will." He breathes into her ear as he pulls her closer.
She shakes her head against his and he can feel her heart fall in sync to the beats of his own and he considers how every time he promises himself to never fall into another unconditional, he always somehow breaks his promise. "I think it's time you start trusting someone else for a change, Doctor."
"Why's that?"
She smiles quintessentially, mapping her fingers against the bone of his cheeks, and all this is becoming far too familiar, "Because I'm never leaving you, Doctor. Not if I can help it."
—
Sort of took the first line from xii from Skins because I'm even more shameful than I originally thought.