Warnings: Crazed/Dark/Manipulative!Doctor and TATM spoilers.
Written for eleventy_kink.
Inspired by this prompt:
You took my heart
Deceived me right from the start
You showed me dreams
I wished they'd turn to real
You broke the promise
And made me realise
It was all just a lie
Sparkling angel
Couldn't see
Your dark intentions
Your feelings for me
Things like ribbons and pinwheels are cluttered in Amy's drawers. He sifts through an occasional drawing or papier-mâché statuette of the 'Raggedy Doctor' that she managed to stow away all of those years ago.
Silly childhood trinkets.
He reaches his hand in and pulls out a bright blue one. Long tie and baby blue shirt, the first time of course. The clothes his former self had died in. Messy untucked shirttails and too long pants with hair that hadn't seen a comb. Ever. Raggedy Doctor indeed. This Raggedy Doctor has a toilet paper roll for a body, all hollow and cylindrical, covered in glue, pretty gift paper, and paint. He once wondered why she'd ever brought those aboard. Probably to measure if her imaginary friend lived up to the real thing, to the stories she made up about him.
He didn't measure up, of course.
More drawers. A bureau covered in jewelry. Out in the open, shining gold and silver. Deep olivine and garnet catch the light like crystallized sugar. Diamonds cut like broken glass. No alien metals here, just very human jeweled pieces. Tarnish-free of course. Tarnish-free forever.
Clothes. Short skirts and long trousers and swimsuits and scarves and shoes and undergarments and stockings. Things he's never even seen Amy wear. Dresses that start at the breast but end at the thigh and sheer one-pieces made of silken fabrics scattered all about, faintly pulling at the Doctor's attention but not really.
A scent fills the air. Something of weak rubbing alcohol and pure cane sugar with an assortment of flowers. It's something floral, he's sure of it. Almost sickly sweet the smell fills his lungs. He also sniffs out maybe a hint of decay. Not like that, not horrific like death, but horrific all the same. It smells like candy melting into itself and fermenting into more sugar, like a syrupy mess of granules and it starts to fill his lungs then it transfers to his tongue leaving the metallic taste of blood.
His memory of that day starts to fold in on itself. Wet hair plastered to their faces. You said we'd come back to life. Bright smile and adrenaline eyes, whiter than before, clearer and brand new. Her heart beating just the same. In free fall. Nail varnish Amelia with a mad fusion of cologne. Fine perfume from the next world over and cheap oils from down the lane mingling together and forming a stinging poison that clouds his mind. Burying his face into her shoulder like maybe he could convince himself that this time it would be just that easy. No fixed points. Not today.
Then an angel, a warrior, a survivor. It's always the survivors. Fueled with rage and fury, no pity at all. He knows that story all too well. Taking Rory. In the blink of an eye.
She turns around. Her red hair is already being made dry and stiff from the rough wind. She's filled with confusion and madness and knowing. And the Doctor begs. He begs. All this and heaven. Anything, Amelia. Anything you want. He lies too.
No Doctor. Not this time. I'll be with him. Like I should be.
No. You'll turn to dust. Please. Please don't. Whimpers and heaves. Clutching hearts because they're running as fast as they can. They're springing up out of him and wrapping themselves around her. Remembering the way that she was, the way that she is, and the way that she will always be.
Maybe that will be enough.
She's gone. Zapped to the past. But that's not the kicker. Oh no, he's standing over her dead body. Six feet under, right? No grand display or golden energy surrounding her. Terribly human of her. He wishes she wasn't.
Trampled flowers and damp footsteps, still mushed into the ground. Soft earth blossoming with life and death. He plants more flowers. Maybe she can lend herself to them. Maybe one day they'll lend themselves back to her. Maybe.
The feelings hit him like falling onto asphalt from one hundred stories. Maybe he'll die this time.
He doesn't. He never dies.
He comes back around. Feelings fresh as the day they happened. If you asked him he'd tell you he's stopped counting. That's a lie. It's been 316 days for him. He remembers every single one too.
They're happening more and more often, these excursions of the mind. He figures it's a side effect of some psychic pollen. It latches onto his deepest and darkest thoughts, and onto his most fateful memories, and it magnifies them. It paints them as a picture around him and he can't get out. Not that he really wants to.
He can't be bothered to clear up the pollen. At least he can see her and be reminded that he's still capable of feeling. Part of him likes the pain he thinks.
Occasionally Amy chooses him. But it's always later. After she jumps, jumps, jumps off of Winter Quay. He wishes she'd stay, wouldn't risk it. The Doctor remembers the way he screamed her name, cold air stripping his throat and pulling at his vocal chords. All choking back sobs and the first face this face saw.
Then the graveyard.
She comes back into the TARDIS. She takes his hand and weeps.
Clear your mind Amelia, we can get Rory back. He cups her ears and his fingers play in her hair. His lips press to her forehead, then whisper lies into her temple, we will.
She nods and smiles. It reaches her eyes. She believes him.
All of time and space; anywhere and everywhere, every star that ever was.
Amy is still out there. Living and breathing and laughing and shouting.
Anywhere and everywhere but here. Never here.