-REMEMBER ME-

CHAPTER SEVEN

Jelly Babies and Jammie Dodgers

Slowly, I begin to heal. I begin to be able to do more things. I go for walks. I read. I clean. I cook for my father, and try to perfect my mother's soufflé. I never can get it quite right. How I miss my mother's soufflés.

Her death still hurts, even after all this time. Even more, now. Now that I'm older, and wiser, and am able to fully appreciate her loss.

It's at least a year before I can even tell my father what happened.

When I finally am ready to talk about it, he listens. He listens, and he holds me when I cry. I try to be strong, now. Again. I am slowly regaining my strength. With every word spoken, it feels as though something poisonous is being expelled from me. With every word I speak, I feel stronger, and I feel better.

"I should have told you sooner," I say, when I have finished with my story.

"You talked when you were ready to talk," he says. "Don't ever force it."

I fall asleep on his shoulder that night, and he puts me to bed and tucks me in like I'm a little girl again.

Maybe I am.

And as the second sun rises the next morning, it feels like a new day. It feels like the first day of a new life.

And it is.

Because this is the day you come home.

You've changed your face again.

You're burning through those lives of yours, Doctor.

You're quite endearing this time, though, Doctor. With that wonderful, toothy smile and that scarf that's a million miles long and that floppy hat atop dark curls. With your bright eyes that hold such enjoyment of life. You're absolutely charming, and adorable. You're like a big kid, and it's quite possibly your best look yet.

You're the talk of Gallifrey, as per usual. You do like to make an entrance, don't you, Doctor? You're quite the public scandal. You can't go anywhere, it seems, without getting yourself into trouble. You've been blamed for the assassination of the Lord President.

I know you didn't do it. How could you have done it? You're not capable of such a thing. I know you, Doctor. You don't destroy. You fix. Right? I have faith in you, my Doctor.

And you run around and you fix it, and you're cleared of all charges with a profuse apology.

See? I knew you didn't do it.

After you've been cleared of all charges, and you've won. At least, everyone thinks the Master is gone, but you know better. You spend days and days in the Academy library, researching.

For the first time since our very early days at the Academy, I actively seek you out.

I make you tea, and some Jammy Dodgers. It inexplicably feels fitting. I know you like Jammy Dodgers, but how I know that, I'm not sure.

You're surrounded by piles and piles of books. Your floppy hat lies discarded on a chair, used to keep a pile of ancient-looking papers in place. And you yourself, your curly hair is on end from you running your hands through it so much. Your miles-long scarf is thrown over your shoulders, draping over the back of your chair and dusting the ground. A half-eaten bag of Jelly Babies sits on a table near you.

You barely notice me as I set the tea tray precariously on a pile of books.

"Doctor," I say, and you glance up, before doing a double take.

"I'm sorry, I'm rather busy," you say, your voice deep and musical. You sound a bit impatient, and I know you haven't the patience to stand on ceremony. But you try to be polite.

"I know," I explain. "I just thought you might want some tea."

You eye the tea and the Jammy Dodgers with a bit of disdain, your eyebrows come together. Okay, not Jammy Dodgers then. But you look at me, and you smile. And I feel as if I'm forgiven for not giving you the food you like.

"Thank you. From the bottom of my hearts," you say. And you probably think I don't notice the hint of sarcasm, but I do. I frown as you go back to your books.

I hesitate, torn. You've just obviously dismissed me. But I can't leave yet. It's the thought of Rory, and his last words to me, that make up my mind. I sit down in an empty chair next to you.

"Look, I really am rather busy," you say irritably.

I bite my lip, and am silent for a moment.

"You don't remember me, do you?" I say softly.

You look up at me then. You really look at me, bright blue eyes meeting mine across a stack of books. There's a flicker of partial recognition in your eyes. A flicker of something.

Something that has to do with me, but doesn't have to do with me.

"Should I?" you say. I smile sadly which clearly says yes. You frown. You set aside your book, a big, heavy, tattered thing, and finally pay me your full attention.

"You never do remember me, do you?" I ask softly. Your eyes are compassionate, but you don't understand it any more than I do. We're both a puzzle to one another, a conundrum that won't be solved until you're another seven regenerations along. "I wish you did remember me."

Run you clever boy, and remember me.