Note to self: avenge self on Marie Laveau. Can't believe some of the things I said to the Ponds.
I don't know what they've told you, but I can almost categorically swear that I've never met a llama.
Almost. I say, almost. Because I have no idea where I was before the Ponds' garden. They tell me it was three days. They tell me they found me at Stormcage, having Jessica put away for the murders of eighty-one Time Lords and a couple more, and a few other made-up charges.
She's there until she escapes, until the Silence come for her and River, until they catch her and she goes to the incinerator, because I signed a piece of paper to say so. I spoke at the time about coincidences that couldn't possibly be coincidences. Remember? I remember. I spoke about missing links and wishing everything would be clear, would fall into place. And I wish it hadn't.
Pond is ministering. Apparently hangovers don't fall into the realm of conventional nursing, so Rory's staying away. Me. Hungover. I haven't been hungover since the Pompadour incident, and at least I deserved that. I earned that one. It's embarrassing. That's why Pond is the only coffee-bringer, the only brow-mopper. Pond is allowed to be here, but nobody else. Jack would laugh, Rory would try not to laugh, and it's a bad example for Jessica.
She sits by the bed and listens carefully while I try to figure out what I've done. Who I've been.
"This was The General, wasn't it, Amy?"
"Yes."
Well, that gives me something to work with. I've heard myself referred to as General quite a number of times. I will simply put together all those incidents and revisit them with an awareness of Soul as the context. Simple inductive logic. Simple.
"Sounds like a plan," Amy says. And I nod. And she waits a moment then, "Are you waiting for me to take notes or something?" I shake my head. She just needs to give me a second. I just need a second. In a second my brain will engage again and I'll be able to do all that nice simple thinking. "Listen, no offence, but Marie couldn't have given you anything this strong. You've been up for hours now and-"
"Shut up, just shut up, Pond, please." I didn't mean that. But she thinks I did and she gets up, starts to walk away. I reach out and grab hold of her hand. "I'm sorry."
The hand pulls away. "Yeah, me too. Now, I'm going to leave. And you're going to get up and get dressed and come over to the house and be a person, okay? Because it was just a hangover; there was really no call to tie up the medical room."
She knows that's not the problem anymore. She just doesn't want to deal with it anymore. Wants me to deal with it all by myself. Which hardly seems fair. Fobbing it off to me just because it's my state of mind. How many times have I taken care of her in times of need? I mean, yes, generally, I call Rory, but when Rory was not available, I did my bit. And there she goes charging off, all indignant and wanting me to get myself back on track. Why do I never get to lie about getting my brow mopped?
I'm scared, Amy. Does that do anything? Will you come back if I tell you I'm scared? What if I go looking through all that General stuff and find out I've done things I don't like? Like signing incineration orders. What else did I do, Amy? That's what I'm afraid of. That's why I can't think, that's why I'm not doing anything, because I don't know what I'm going to find when I get there. Are you satisfied? Will you come back? Will you just sit with me and be here, please, Pond, because I'm not ready.
But of course, that was all internal monologue, and we have yet to develop telepathy, so she doesn't respond. It's not her I'm angry at when I throw the water glass, and nothing is better when the pieces hit the floor.
From downstairs, she shouts back, "Grow up!" And then the Tardis door slams.
And I pull back my throwing arm. Marks on it. Ballpoint pen on the underside of the wrist. I've been nicely wrapped up in the sheets until now and didn't notice. Small, neat writing. Mine.
"You are a miracle of physics," it says, "I don't know how the hell you stay upright."
On up, still on the inside of my arm, there's a long white scar. Less said about that the better. Let's just say it carries over the regenerations. Written along this slightly ragged line, "You forget about this sometimes. You should never forget about your scars."
Notes. From Soul.
Soul left taunts in biro on my skin.
Nobody noticed. And that's understandable, because thankfully nobody was looking that closely. I may have been… insensible, but I was still capable of undressing myself thank you very much. Very capable, in fact. And I proved that, most definitely. In the garden.
Note to self: Video Marie's next Annual Mardi-Gras Dance-On-My-Own-Grave-a-thon. Speak to Pond about Youtube.
My point is, I don't think anybody would have noticed this. Or if they did, I was raving mad. I throw off the sheet and look down at myself. Oh dear.
Written on the top of my foot; "Burn. Let her burn. Dare you. D-Feet me. Let her burn."
Along the calf; "My mother said I never should/Toy with the Time Lords, but that's no good."
Until now, the best part of my day had been the fact that Soul was no longer here.
On my left knee, facing up at me; "Get em –"
On the right, "Ready."
Kneel for me. Soul's deepest desire. Itself in River's eyes looking down as it kills me.
Along my left-hand side, in big loopy letters as though Soul was bored, "And it's always you, and me, always, and forever."
One last thing on my chest. I can't read it upside down. It could mean something entirely different upside down. I was in the Academy with a girl whose name meant something really vile upside down, but then she wasn't good stock, you have to wonder what the parents were thinking. It happens in any language, I suppose, one way or another, but to be such a diplomatically powerful hieroglyph set, Gallifreyan was terrible for it.
At the bathroom mirror, all becomes clear.
Upside down, it might have been 'bird of prey' or maybe 'hacksaw' with the outside vowel structure slightly misplaced.
Right way up, there, over my left heart, is a glyph that reads "Mine".
I turn my back on the mirror to check it. Craning I see the simpler, spikier letters that must have been all it could manage; "You have no idea how long this took." But I do, actually. Because as I crooked my arm back to trace along the words, I felt an old twinge in the muscles. It hurt to leave that message on my back.
Of course, all these little notes, these little teases, they're entirely pointless. None of them really means anything to me. I understand the intention, of course. Soul knew it's time with me was short and it wanted to linger. It wanted me to feel haunted, even when I knew it was gone. That's what the strained muscle is for, undoubtedly. Every little tic of pain is supposed to bring Soul back to me, awful little remembrances of the great black hole in my memory.
Putting the You and Me song in my head, where it can just circle over and over on that one single line, that's what that was for.
Cheap tricks. For the weak-minded. The kind of thing that doesn't work on a man of intellect and sense. I'm a bit beyond that kind of silly superstition, I should think.
Still. Trouble with the old shirt cuffs. Shaky hands, don't you know. It's clearly because I was drugged, though. That's all.
A rustle in the trouser pocket as I pull them on. Thinking to myself, 'Please, please let it be a paper napkin. A matchbook. A page from a magazine. A parking ticket.' A piece of hotel notepaper.
"I really, really wanted to let you watch us work-" And here, the pen was forced down and gouged upward through the page.
I remember that. I remember pushing, unable to write anything, but able to at least stop Soul doing the same. I remember the writing desk, and the threadbare carpet. Just a second of it, but I remember it perfectly. I remember how the chair felt, and the desk had a wonky leg, and the light wasn't great. The light was fading. It wasn't night yet, I hadn't turned any lights on and-
And then the note continues on the next line –
"But you're just so naughty when I let you watch. Anyway, that's cheating. Catch me if you can. All my love-"
Beneath that, down the rest of the page, all over the back, Soul practiced its signature. 'The General', over and over again.
First I screw it up, take careful aim at the bin across the room. One nice shot, that'll make me feel better, before I go down to 'be a person'. One nice thing, done nicely, done just right. Then I pull my arm down and put the ball of paper in my pocket. Just in case.
Take a deep breath. Pick my way over the broken glass in the doorway. Down the stairs and one last deep breath, a pause to thank the Tardis for bringing them back here safely, even if they did then proceed to chase after me into mortal danger anyway. Then stop procrastinating and back to Chez Pond to 'be a person'.
It's one step and a world away between the private quiet of the Tardis and their kitchen. Leftover morning bacon smell sends my stomach into a tailspin, and the hot, dry smell of something baking only makes it worse. But I'm not complaining, I'm being a person, and persons pretend they're okay, because apparently that's what Pond thinks will help. I'll give anything a whirl once, me.
Rory is explaining to Jack that The Prisoner was not based on a true story. "That you know of," Jack retorts, convinced. I want Jessica to be in the corner, humming tunelessly along with the radio, copying out portions of the newspaper to improve her English. She's not, though, is she, she's gone again. We keep doing that to her, somehow. I keep doing that.
And there's Pond, by the oven, looking as though what happened on the Tardis was a lifetime ago and she's utterly forgotten it.
"I told you you'd feel better once you shook yourself." I nod, but don't say anything. "Anyway, we're only waiting for Frankie to make it back, and then we're all safe and accounted for."
I can only look at her. The information sinks in, the conclusions are drawn, I'm just not feeling especially articulate. Because here in this room I've got two out of three Ponds and a Harkness, and we all know where Miss Apple is, so if we're only waiting for Frankie then that means-
She's there. For once, I sense her before she announces herself. In the kitchen doorway, shower-fresh, towelling her hair. Thinking she's clean, well she's not, she's anything but, she was in that room with me and she knew.
And it's always you, and me, always…
No 'Hello Sweetie'.
And forever.
None of that normal, arch, everyday stuff. She's waiting for it, so I do the natural thing. Raise a finger to point and the first word I manage to croak out as a person, "You…"