I seem to have developed a plot that wasn't planned on in the least when this started. Which means that the original oneshot is looking to be a seven or eight chapter story. Possibly longer. This particular chapter is dedicated to my friend Amanda, who is graduating from college today. Wish I could be there. The title of the chapter comes from another Elliott Smith song with the same name. Thanks to all who have read and reviewed and alerted, it makes my day to see it. Enjoy! Also, does anyone know of a good beta? Read and review, or don't. ~ Linara
She Won't Ever Look At Me
It was late at night. Amy was sleeping, and the Doctor was hiding deep in the TARDIS. As far away as possible from the console room. He was, in fact, in the wardrobe, surrounded by hundreds of outfits that he had worn in previous regenerations, and would wear in future ones. Curled up next to a box of fezzes and red Converse, crying.
Yes, the Doctor was crying. He hated fighting with the TARDIS, with the ship that had been his only companion for many lonely years, and had helped him through so many scrapes that they couldn't be counted on both hands, not even the hands of the Draxil on Ferith-7, where every Draxil had two hundred digits on each of their sixty-four appendages.
Sobs slipped silently from him, because he didn't want Amy hearing. She had a tendency to tell when he was angry or sad, and be able to find him.
Thinking of Amy sent him into a fresh round of tears that soaked his jacket and pooled in one of the fezzes that was strangely waterproof. After several minutes, or possibly hours, the Doctor wiped away the moisture covering his face, and sat up, propping himself against a massive, green wool sweater with a large W on the front. He hadn't the faintest idea why it was there, but it was hideous.
He couldn't keep fixated on the sweater for long, though. Soon he was thinking about the day, and what had brought on the recent bout of fighting with his ship.
It had been a nice morning, and Amy had persuaded him to take her to a spa. She was, she insisted, letting herself go. The Doctor had no idea what she was talking about, his wife looked just as beautiful as usual, but he'd gone and set the coordinates anyway, to a 48th century Nardonian retreat. It had the double advantage of being the best spa in the Sharkalish Galaxy, as well as hosting lectures on space/time continuums.
After getting Amy a full day relaxation course, he'd headed off for what promised to be a fascinating lecture on fixed points in space and time, given by Professor Xanaxaarius, a system-renowned researcher in his field. It had all gone brilliantly, until the professor began to discuss the effects of 'breaking' the points, or ignoring them, erasing them. The result was almost always a paradox that could devour whole planets, systems, galaxies, even...universes.
"It depends on the importance of the point," the professor had said. "Of course all points are important, else they wouldn't be fixed, but some are of a smaller magnitude then others, in their timeline and residence."
It was then that the Doctor began to think about the glimpses he'd had of his own timeline. The Time Lord had gulped as he recalled just how large a role Rory had played in some of those future events. Events that he had disrupted by marrying Amy. Would his present happiness cause the universe to be swallowed by a paradox?
He'd tried futilely to calm himself, reminding his mind that what he had seen was only a possibility, not the set in stone future. Which was when the TARDIS had jumped into the fight.
She'd insisted that she had seen parts of his timeline as well, and that Rory had to be in it for it to progress past a certain point.
Meaning, the Doctor had said to her in annoyance, that he keeps me from being killed. Ridiculous. He's just a human.
Then they'd really started laying into each other. The TARDIS had responded by saying that he'd been saved plenty of times by humans - Rose being a perfect example.
Don't bring her into this, the Doctor had said angrily.
I'll bring in whoever I please, until you realize that you've done something, are doing something wrong, the TARDIS had replied airily.
And then...
The Doctor shuddered, now, to think of what he'd said after that, luckily psychically, or the good people of Nardonia might've locked him up in an institution. Or shot him, that was the usual way they dealt with such things.
In the end, the only thing keeping the TARDIS and the Doctor from fighting for the rest of the day was the question and answer part of the lecture. The Doctor couldn't help but debate with Professor Xanaxaarius about some of his (incorrect) theories. But he'd still been angry with his ship, and she knew it.
Which was why, after bringing Amy back to the TARDIS, and to bed, he'd crawled away to the room farthest from where her main consciousness was. The console. Because he couldn't stand the waves of disapproval/anger/sadness/disappointment/determination that were emanating from her. Even now, hours later, they were still strong.
The Doctor knew, in his hearts, that things would come to a head soon. The quiet acts of rebellion had ceased, and a larger defiance was looming. He wanted so desperately to cuddle up with Amy, and lose himself with her, but that would mean having to explain why his eyes were embarrassingly red, and why he tasted of tears and sadness (Amy insisted that she could taste his emotions, when they were strong. He had no idea why, maybe it was a Scottish thing).
So he stayed, curled up in the wardrobe. The past, the present and the future, crowded together. Little did hapless present know that the three would soon meet again, although it would happen on a much bigger, more destructive scale. In the console room, the TARDIS mourned and brooded and planned. She knew what had to be done, for her Doctor to make it in the long run. Even if it broke his hearts.
And in a large, soft bed, with dark blue sheets, Amy Pond slept, unknowing, and innocently unsuspecting of the storm brewing on the horizon.
