She'd received the first letter from Anthony when he was six years old. Passed cleverly through time with the help of her parents, there had been zoo animals with too-many legs doodled in the corners and Rory's neat, small handwriting over the words little Anthony had grossly misspelled.
There had been more letters over the years. She'd kept them all, along with a few pictures and the odd newspaper clipping. The plan had always been to visit him, someday, when losing her parents didn't hurt quite so much. But then she'd gone and died, and she'd regretted it, all those years of waiting, clinging to newspaper scraps and letters when it would have been so easy to just go and find him.
He'd retired in a quiet little suburban neighborhood outside New York. He spent his time volunteering at a small non-profit children's hospital and making regular house calls in the rougher areas of New York City proper. He was an experienced parent too, raising foster children for thirty years with his wife until she had passed away suddenly.
River materializes on Anthony's doorstep a day before she is planning to meet Clara. The 21st century always feels nostalgic, the fresh smell of it and the neatly trimmed patch of grass and rather eccentric flower bed, all clashing colors and funny little gnomes, draws a smile. When she turns around, the door is a familiar shade of blue. She runs her fingers across the brightness of the color, somehow the shade almost exactly what it ought to be. She briefly considers using the doorbell, but, well, the door is blue, so she lets herself in.
Inside, there are framed pictures everywhere, arranged on every horizontal surface and hung on every vertical, interspersed occasionally with children's drawings proudly showcased in frames, names and dates written in the corners.
On the table next to the front door, right next to Anthony's wedding photo, is a family photo of Amy and Rory and Anthony between them in his early twenties. Tucked into the corner of the frame over Rory's shoulder is a small picture of her face. She picks it up, noting the worn and faded edges around the modern, colored photo. She wonders which of her parents had been carrying the picture of her when they'd been taken by the angel.
"She has mad, curly hair, doesn't knock, and I find her crying over my family photos," she looks up from the picture in her hands to see Anthony standing at the end of the hall, holding a baseball bat and a smile, "hello significantly older sister Melody Pond."
"Anthony," she says, and her voice is strangely choked.
"Most people just call me Tony. Or Doctor Williams. Or 'Doc Wilz' as I'm known in, you know, the, ah, 'hood'" he says, making quotation marks in the air.
She laughs, and he looks so much like Rory for a moment, smiling awkwardly.
"What did they call you?"
"Mom and dad? Well, they did call me Anthony, actually."
"Well that settles it then."
He closes the distance between them and pulls her into a firm, lingering hug. She hugs him back, and it isn't even strange or awkward. Somehow, he smells like them, and when she closes her eyes and breathes in she can imagine that she is home.
"You ridiculous woman, Do you know how long I've been waiting for you? What took you so long?" he says into her hair.
"I'm sorry, Anthony," she says, "do you want to hear my excuses?"
"Well I don't know," he says, pulling back to grin down at her, "are they any good?"
"A bit, yeah. I did die once, very dramatically too."
"Ah, I was wondering what was with the new look."
"I can imagine, I can't believe you recognized me."
"Like I said, inviting yourself through my locked front door, crying over family photos. And the hair," he flicks at it lightly, "pretty sure that's Dad's nose too."
"Let's not talk about that."
They have tea, and they talk. They have so much to talk about, and talking to Anthony, listening to Anthony, is so very easy. They lose track of time and laugh when they realize it's 10pm, they're starving, their tea is stone cold and neither of them have taken more than a sip. Anthony takes a frozen pizza out of the freezer, and despite the light flavor of freezer burn, it's the best meal River has eaten since leaving the library.
Finally, in the early hours of the morning, Anthony's eyelids are heavy and his head drops blearily at intervals as he fights to stay awake.
"You know," he tells her, "if you'd come before I got so old I'd be able to stay awake longer."
She laughs at him, walks around the table and the remnants of their pizza to help him out of his chair. She pulls his arm over her shoulders and helps him stumble up the stairs to bed.
"Don't worry, I'm used to taking care of silly old men."
With Anthony in bed, and New York still dark and relatively quiet around her, River tries to focus on her planning. She finds she's far too happy to focus though, lying on Anthony's coach and staring at a crack in his ceiling. She knows she's grinning like mad, and the happiness feels like a glow hovering over the surface of her skin. She pulls her T-shirt up and writes about family and home across her stomach to the sleeping baby.
"I wish I could keep all of this feeling in a bottle," she whispers to him, "and take it out for you when you're scared."
She's crying; silly, happy, human crying.
"Hi Honey, I'm home," he says, standing in the doorway of the kitchen with his crossed arms contrasting the warmth in his eyes.
"And what sort of time do you call this?" she answers, turning to face him and mirroring his stance, and so, so happy that they both know their lines.
"Well, Doctor Song, I hear it's called 'Christmas time'."
"Yes it is. About time you got here. They've been waiting for you. Every year."
"Yes, well, they were supposed to think I was dead. What part of 'tell no one what I said' sounded like, 'please tell your parents so they set a plate for me at Christmas every year and wait'?"
"Oh come now darling, you didn't think I do everything I'm told, did you?"
He walks into the kitchen and wraps her up in his arms and the strangely strong scent of pine.
"No, I'd never think that," he says, hugging her tightly. A moment later, he murmurs into her hair, "Thank you, you mad, troublesome woman."
She tightens her arms around his waist and presses as close as she can so that their matching double heartbeats align. She can tell when he hears It too because he makes a strangled sound into her hair that is a funny mix of relief, joy, and a dash of heartbreak.
The moments tick by, and they count them together between the spaces of their heartbeats. "Hey," he says abruptly, his voice rough, "what did you mean they've been waiting for me every year?"
"Oh Sweetie," she says, pressing a kiss to his neck and feeling him shiver, "I don't wait for you, I come find you."
River only sleeps for a few hours, but wakes up on Anthony's couch feeling more refreshed than she has in months. Possibly even years. There are no echoing gun shots or goodbye's in her ears. She could have slept more, but the neighbor's dog is unfortunately a bit upset about the man delivering the morning newspaper. Still, a barking dog is a much better sound to wake up to than a gunshot from the past.
Anthony is still very much asleep, so she spends a couple of hours cleaning up from the night before, and making a very large and impressive breakfast. She waits for another hour, but when Anthony still hasn't woken up, she helps herself to some blueberry pancakes, cinnamon French toast, (she had spent a while deliberating between the two before deciding to make both) bacon, a small omelet, and a large helping of cantaloupe. Apparently, cooking is something she does now.
She wraps up the rest for Anthony and quietly locks herself in the bathroom. It takes two hours to straighten her hair, even with the fancy equipment she'd brought from the future. She douses it in scientifically advanced spray to keep it that way, and sincerely hopes the promises on the bottle are true.
"They had better be," she mutters, glaring at the price tag, "considering what I paid for it."
Her costume is very simple; loose jeans and a T-shirt and some rather thick glasses. She pulls her newly-straight hair back into a ponytail and studies the effect in the mirror. It helps distract from the way her mouth is shaped like her mum's.
When she's finished, she re-emerges from the bathroom to find Anthony yawning as he walks down the stairs in his dressing gown and house slippers. His thin gray hair sticks up awkwardly in the back and she hides a grin at the picture he makes, stopping on the stairs to blink down at her sleepily.
"Good thing you didn't look like that yesterday, pretty sure I would've smacked you over the head with that bat no matter how many pictures you were crying over," he says, taking in her new look.
"Good morning to you too Anthony," she tells him, grinning and walking into the kitchen.
He follows, watching her throw a few more items into her small backpack.
"I've got to go out, I'll probably be out late."
"Where are you going?" he asks, sitting down at the table.
"It's complicated," she tells him, smiling apologetically.
He sighs, "Somehow I figured it would be."
River opens the fridge and starts pulling out various saran-wrap covered dishes, "Anyway, I made breakfast. And lunch. Actually there's probably enough food here for the next three days, assuming you're alright with eating blueberry pancakes at every meal."
"Melody," he says, taking the wrapped pancakes from her and setting them on the table, "Does this 'complicated' thing you're doing have anything do with why…. you know, he isn't with you?"
She puts the plate of bacon down on the counter, and there must be something showing on her face, because Anthony quickly says, "sorry, I wasn't sure whether I should say something it's just…. I always assumed you'd show up together, you know? Not that I'm in any way…. disappointed or anything, I just…. are you….okay?"
"Just because I'm not with the Doctor, that doesn't mean I'm not okay, Anthony," she tells him, a little surprised by the defensiveness she can hear edging her voice.
He looks at her the way Rory would always look at her when he called her bluff over a friendly hand of poker.
Blasted man.
"Melody, what's going on? You're here for a reason, aren't you?"
"Seeing you isn't enough of a reason?" she asks, feeling guilty because it should have been enough of a reason to bring her here a long time ago.
"Melody…." he says, and the way he says her name is gentle rather than accusing, and it draws her hearts out.
"I'm pregnant." The words slip out, surprising her before she even realizes she's decided to tell him.
Anthony's eyes fly open wide and his gaze flickers down to her stomach.
"You can't see it right now, I'm…hiding it," with a perception filter, embedded under the skin over her left hip bone, across from the bio-dampeners on her right. But he doesn't need to know that.
"Why?"
"Why am I pregnant?" she smirks at him, "Anthony, don't tell me mum and dad forgot to tell you where babies come from…."
"I'm a doctor Melody, I get that part."
She chuckles at him and his blushing, "It's kind a of a long and complicated story, and I'm really sorry, but I have to go. I'll explain later, ok?"
"Promise?" he asks her, his eyes serious and gentle.
"Promise," she agrees.
He looks at her in her tennis shoes and her glasses and her backpack, a worried crease appearing between his eyes.
"Promise you'll be safe?"
"Cross my hearts."
She kisses his cheek and he walks to the door with her. He stands on the front step and waves until she's out of sight.
When she's a block away she realizes he doesn't expect her to come back, and she bites back the guilt. Of course she's going to come back to him, but he has no way of knowing that, not really.
"No," Twelve year old Amelia Pond says, turning away from the window and the stars, "I don't think he's coming back, Mels."
It's either twenty years, or two hundred years later (depending on your perspective) that Amy says to her daughter, "Sometimes I think that one day he just won't come back."
"Maybe, he doesn't like goodbyes."
"I know. And I get it, you know? It's okay."
"Is it?"
Amy sighs, tucking a few strands of red hair behind a pretty ear, "Not really, no. Just…" she pauses, then turns to face River, "promise me you won't ever do that, just up and not come back one day."
"I promise."
There is a tiny little part of her that is just a little glad when Amy does the disappearing first so she can keep that promise.
She takes the train into town. It's strange, being back in the time period she grew up in, nostalgic and familiar, but a bit ill-fitting. She sits down next to a woman holding her very young daughter on her lap, and watches them out of the corner of her eye, her fingers unconsciously tracing the hem of her T-shirt.