Thank you so much to those of you reading and reviewing! I'm so glad you're enjoying the story!
(As a side note: the next few chapters present a deviation from canon… possibly? Only Moffat knows for certain what happened in those years between Melody Pond and Mels Zucker, and the rest of us can merely speculate…)
Thanks again for reading!
Disclaimer: Melody Pond, Doctor Who (plus, of course, the Doctor's friends/companions/associates/enemies) and TARDIS all belong to the BBC
So now he knew what had happened to little Melody Pond. Dying sick and alone, regenerating by herself in an alleyway in New York City. Saved by a homeless man, taken to a police station where she would -hopefully- be cared for.
Oh, the Doctor fought with himself for a few days. He wanted to know what happened; and yet the thought of reading it, of seeing her handwriting in Modern Gallifreyan calmly relating events that he couldn't fix…well, it hurt. He was the Doctor. He should be able to fix anything.
So he fought against the urge to read more, just one more page to see what happened. Took the Ponds on adventures, all in the name of fun. In truth, it was in the name of distraction. Distraction for them, seeing things that were new and fascinating (and frequently dangerous, if -as he tried not to be- he was honest with himself).
But not distracting for him. Not as much as they should be, anyway.
His brain was full of curiosity. He wanted to know about the rest of her life, the things River had filed away in her head that she never talked about.
And in the end, it was that curiosity that drove him back to her room, back to the sketchbook.
Purple ink, now. Purple circles covering the pages, thin and delicate in small loops. He twisted his legs beneath himself, lay half sprawled on her bed as he bent his head down to read.
My name is Melody Lafayette. I was born in a place called Demon's Run, which can not be found on any map. I lived for eight years in Florida, in a large, scary place called Greystark Hall, until I ran away.
And now I live in New York City.
I have come to like New York. There are tall buildings everywhere, and a lot of people that rush from place to place. There are always interesting things going on, and lights everywhere; bright lights that never go out. I like the lights. They keep everything illuminated, and hold back the dark.
People say that this is the city that never sleeps. I am a lot like New York, because I never sleep either.
I have bad dreams, every time I close my eyes. Bad dreams that I don't remember when I wake up, terrified and shaking. Bad dreams that make me cry and cry, and bad dreams that make me angry until I want to run away again.
At the agency, they say that I am ten years old, but in my head I know that I am much older. I remember many things, things that never happened to me. Not the me that I am right now; but to the me that I was, back in Florida. The me that was Melody Pond, the daughter of Amelia Pond and the Last Centurion, who was supposed to kill the Bad Space Man called the Doctor.
But I am not Melody Pond anymore. I am Melody Lafayette, and I choose to forget about Melody Pond.
I have had ten homes, within the last seven years when I was found. At every home, there is a mother who pets my long blond hair, and a father who praises the intelligence in my green eyes. They both speak in gentle, cooing voices about having me take ballet and piano lessons, of my growing up to be a teacher or a doctor.
I do not want to be a doctor. In the back of my mind, in the memories of Melody Pond that I try not to remember, is the Bad Space Man called the Doctor; and I don't ever want to share anything with him, not even a profession.
Slowly, at each home the same thing happens. The gentle voices become more gentle, when I wake up at night, frightened. Then they become worried. And then comes the worst thing of all, when they get angry.
"She isn't normal," my Last Mother said. They had brought me back to the social worker. Returning me, like I was a ripped dress or a broken frying pan. Melody Lafayette, like Melody Pond before her, is still something defective that no one wants.
"Melody is difficult," the social worker said, in a quiet voice. She glanced at me, worried that I was listening. I pretended that I wasn't. But I was. Even if I tried not to, my ears were so sharp that I could always hear conversations, even from across the room.
"She's had a very difficult life. Found abandoned on the street, when she was three. In and out of foster homes, for all the rest of it."
"We know that," my Last Mother said. "You told us that when we took her. But you didn't tell us about her nightmares. Or about when she suddenly starts talking, saying things that don't make any sense, or are far too old for a child of her years.
"No, we can't keep her. I'm sorry."
I was sorry too. I had liked this Last Mother. She had red hair, and a sweet smile. I would never had admitted it, but she reminded me of my real mother, who lived far away in Leadworth. Pretty Amelia Pond who had no love to give to me; who shot her daughter to save her friend, the Bad Space Man; who I still wished could have loved me anyway.
"What are we to do with you, Melody?" asked the social worker, after everyone had gone, and it was just the two of us. "What is inside your head?"
Something bad, something wrong, something that no one wants. I am afraid that this is what is in my head. And the voice of Mean-Miss-One-Eye, who I choose also to forget, rises from the deep to remind me that I have nothing, and will always lack the love and security that I so want.
I end up in another group home, but I hear them murmuring when they think I am out of earshot, that they think this will be permanent. They will look for another family to foster me, but it is probably a waste of time. Far better to search for homes for children who will grow and thrive, rather than wasting time with one damaged little girl.
So I live here, in the Lower East Side Children's Home. I go to a local school, where the teachers shrink back from what they have been told about me and what they see in my eyes, and yet praise me for my intelligence. I am so smart, they say, that they have no problem skipping me from grade to grade, class to class. I skip one grade, and then two, and still take advanced and honors classes in science, history and languages.
This Home is a far different place than the one Melody Pond lived in, with her pink bedspread and the two ballerina pictures, and the four dolls and the three teddy bears. Here, I share a bedroom with three other girls who constantly change as they move away and go to live with families who want them. I have a heavy grey blanket, and two pairs of shoes, and three dresses, and a pile of school books that I keep by my bed, and a flashlight so I can do homework after the lights go out, to keep away the bad dreams.
All I have kept from Melody's life is this diary, and the pictures hidden within it. I have lost the teddy bear, probably at the home with my Last Mother and Father. It might be childish to feel this way, but I still miss him terribly. It feels even lonelier here, without him. Maybe Mean-Miss-One-Eye was right, and it is just the way the world works that I have nothing.
He was back in the kitchen of the TARDIS when Rory stumbled in, barefoot in faded blue pajama bottoms and hair sticking up.
"Are you still up? Don't you ever sleep, Doctor?" Rory yawned, knuckling his eyes.
"Sometimes," the Doctor admitted. "On occasion. Well, rarely. Time Lords; we don't need sleep as much as you humans. Brain just keeps going, keeps working. Hard to sleep when you have so many thoughts, so many things that catch your attention all the time."
"Sounds," Rory said, filling a glass with water and coming to sit at the table, "tiring. Feel like I need a nap, just thinking about that."
"Is Amy asleep?" the Doctor asked, sipping his tea. "Why are you awake?"
"Oh, she had a nightmare and kicked me, pretty hard." Rory winced, rubbing his calf. "Thought I'd get a drink, and then try sleeping again. Maybe away from the range of her feet."
The Doctor grinned. "Good luck with that," he said cheerily. Rory smiled. Amy was fierce, in so many ways… and never more so than when she was sleeping.
"So what have you been doing tonight?" Rory asked, breaking the companionable silence they'd been sitting in.
"Oh," the Doctor said, tipping his chair back to see how far he could go without falling. Quite far, as it turned out. "This and that. Nothing so interesting. Did some reading. Trying to figure out a problem. Solution to a problem, really."
"Some great Time Lord-fixing-the-universe-thing again?"
"Well… not really. A bit. Sort of. Feel up to a little trip?"
Rory blinked. "Now, Doctor?"
"Are you doing something else?"
"Sleeping, actually."
"You aren't right now."
"But I was planning to go back to… oh, never mind." Rory sighed. "Where did you have in mind? Should I wake Amy?"
"No," the Doctor said, dropping the chair legs down with a thump, and jumping to his feet. "No need to wake her. I need you to do something for me. It's just a little errand. I could do it myself, but…" he fixed Rory with a careful glance, "I think it'll be better coming from you. And then you can go back to bed, and I'll do the rest. Five minutes? I've just got a phone call to make before we go. Maybe you should put on a shirt. Oh, and shoes."
He was sure it said something about either his powers of persuasion (or perhaps, Rory's understanding that he would have no defenses against the Doctor's powers of persuasion), that five minutes later saw Rory dressed and stumbling out the TARDIS to knock on a door in New York.
"Are you sure, Doctor?" Rory had come back, holding a small paper bag. "This is what they gave me. This is you wanted picked up?"
"Yes, thanks!" He twitched it from Rory's fingers, placing it gently next to the typewriter. "I hope you didn't open it! Many thanks to you, Mr. Pond. You can go back to bed now. Stay away from Amy's feet."
Rory stared at him in disbelief. "You told me not to open it, so I didn't. But aren't you even going to tell me what's in there?"
"No," the Doctor said. "It's not important for you to know; not now anyway."
"But one day?" Rory persisted.
The Doctor shrugged. "Maybe, one day. But thanks for your help."
Rory stared at him, eyebrows furrowed. Then he shrugged and turned away to go back to bed, not asking another thing. And the Doctor didn't mean to do it, really didn't mean to do it. But he did, anyway. Maybe because it was Rory, and not Amy. Rory, who never really questioned, but followed along with a modicum of faith and large dose of sense.
"It belongs to a friend," he blurted out in a rush. "She left it there by accident, and…well, I'm going to return it now. It's not important for you to know what it is, but please believe me Rory… she'll be very grateful that you picked it up for her."
He was facing away from Rory as he said it, deliberately not turning in his direction. He sensed, rather than heard Rory's silent acceptance of his admission; and he felt his gratitude that the Doctor had given him an answer, for this at least.
And then he waited for Rory to go back to bed, before he charted the TARDIS to a destination. He straightened his bowtie, fixed his cuffs, and smoothed his jacket down before grabbing the paper bag and walking out to meet someone.
"Miss Wallace," he said, giving a small bow and flourishing the psychic paper in front of her face. "I'm the Doctor. I understand you're a social worker?"
She looked at him, blinking in surprise.
"Yes," she answered, slowly. "I am. Just qualified, about to start with Children's Services tomorrow. What can I do for you, Doctor…?"
"Just the Doctor." He gave her a wide smile, assessing her. She was young, very young this one. But competent. He could read the possibilities and capabilities of who she'd be within her eyes, the set of her shoulders, and the faint smile around her lips.
"I need you to do something for me," he said, leaning over to her confidentially. "There's a little girl… I think she will be one of yours, when you start working. Name is Melody. She's had a rough time, so far; but when you first meet her, give her this." And he handed her the paper bag.
She shook it, cautiously. Opened it up to glance inside, and then removed the contents.
"A teddy bear?"
"Trust me," he said, turning to go. "She'll love it."