There's a universe -- somewhere, somehow -- in which he hadn't massively screwed this up. Probably. He'd like to think so, anyway.
One where he'd made it back when he said he would? Unlikely. No use in pretending otherwise. The TARDIS was just too unstable then.
But… call it a couple of years. Anything's better than twelve, anyway. Maybe he would have gotten it right, then.
Yeah. Sure. June, 1999. Why not?
So in this version of events, the TARDIS lands in the back garden, her engines finally calmed down, no longer spitting smoke. The console's still a mess, but she'll be alright after she's rested.
He's exhausted, too. Everything's going too fast. Can't keep track of his own thoughts.
"You're still regenerating. You need to sleep." Some voice in the back of his head, not really there. Sounds familiar, but everything's a bit out of reach right now. "You know better, Doctor."
…She'd been there when it had really happened, too. Now that he thinks about it, she sounds a bit like Sarah Jane.
"Don't have time," he mutters. "That thing is still in her house."
Target's still locked on. Every second is another bit of entropy, introducing more room for error in getting back there before that thing gets someone hurt, or --
No. No, we can stop that right there.
Bolts out the door, and realizes very quickly that something's different. It's warmer than it was, for one thing. Gotten it wrong.
Up to the front, and before he can even reach for his screwdriver to open the door, someone's there. A dark-haired woman, looking him up and down with curiosity and… something a little concerned. --Well, I was a bit of a mess, at that point.
"Are you… the Doctor?" she asks.
"Oh! Yes. Hello." Listen to me. There is something very dangerous inside this house. You need to let me in right now, and stay outside until I'm done -- except that's not what comes out of his mouth. Feels himself reach into the wrong pocket, and pull out the psychic paper. Like he's on autopilot, not even thinking. Faster than thought. Why is he doing that? That's odd. New. He doesn't like it. --Wait. "…How did you know?"
"Well, they said you were coming. A little later than I thought, but they never did tell me what time to expect you. --Amelia will be home from school soon, so we won't have much time for the initial stuff, but you'll get to meet her, at least." She holds out a hand. "I'm her aunt. Sharon. You're the second one they've sent."
Oh, that's funny. How many psychiatrists did Amy say? Four? Wouldn't have known it then, but… sure, let's run it anyway. "What happened to the last one?"
"She uh… Well, Amelia bit her."
"Nothing I haven't seen before. But they didn't tell me much about her, y'know. Busy schedule, short notice, on account of the…" The multi-form hiding in the walls of that house. Which she doesn't know about, and you need to get her out of, right now. What the hell are you doing? No more small talk -- I have to get inside. "…Biting."
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Prisoner Zero knows he's there, of course. It had known, when this had really happened. He could feel it then. Poking. Prodding.
And he feels it now, too -- trying to figure out what he is, what he knows, what he wants. Easy enough to block out, to put up a wall and make himself a psychic black box. A more focused version of the thing he already does on reflex. Keeps him invisible, when he wants to be. Makes sure he doesn't scare the locals too much.
But now…?
Nah. Not this time.
A screen, then, rather than a wall. Just enough that it can sense him. Just enough to tell it exactly what he is.
"Right. Sharon! How old is this house?"
"Fifty years or so, I think. I could check the paperwork." Sharon shrugs. "Why?"
"You think? Now, that's interesting. Perception filter, all around this place. Keeps you from seeing that anything's off. Keeps you from noticing the elephant -- sorry, multi-form -- in the room." But perception filters don't work as well on children. They don't have the mental framework of normal just yet, haven't learned that grown-up habit of rationalizing everything away. So maybe… "Amelia, how many rooms are there on this floor?"
"Five," she answers. She points them out, one by one -- her gaze flickering over the hidden door for just a second. "Easy."
"No, see, you've just…"
But maybe that was never the right question.
"...I'm going to ask you to do something that might be a little scary, in a second." No, don't lie to her. "Okay, a lot scary. But you are clever, and very, very brave. It's gonna be hard, but I know you can do it. Promise me you'll try."
She nods.
"Okay. Good." Gets down on her level, holds her steady. This is going to be hard, but maybe if he just nudges her a little, she'll see it. "Close your eyes. Think about what it's like, moving around the house in the dark. From your room, down to the kitchen. All the things you have to avoid bumping into. You do it without thinking, but I need you to think about it now. How many doors are there?"
Amelia's face scrunches up, all those little gears turning. Counting. "No."
"Come on, Pond. You promised." He squeezes her hand gently. You can be scared. But you have to be brave. Just for a second. "How many doors?"
"Six." Opens her eyes, on the verge of tears, glancing back over her shoulder. "Is there something in there? Is it a monster?"
"No. Yeah. Sort of. --Hey. Look at me." Turns her face toward his. It's alright. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. Not this time. Not ever. "I'm not gonna let it hurt you. You know that, right?"
Amelia smiles a little. Shaky, but that's okay.
Ruffles her hair, stands up. Something dares him to do the impossible, as his gaze fixes on that door behind her. Something wild, a different kind of reckless. One he might even get used to.
If I find that you've done anything at all to this little girl, whoever's looking for you will be kind in comparison. Whatever you are… you should understand that.
The whisper that shivers through the screen sounds like it might just be a laugh.
"Right, yeah. Well, I was thinking..." Amy stops, shakes her head. "You said earlier that you're, what, 907? So... I can't be the first person who'd grown up by the time you came back."
"No, you're not. --What's this really about?"
"Tell me I can ask you a stupid question first."
"Amy. You can ask me anything you like. Always." Slow, deliberate, so she knows he means it. "Your questions are never stupid questions."
"Promise?"
The fact that it's even worth asking might just break his hearts.
"Yeah. Course. Promise."
"All this time. Two months. And I went by Amelia for an hour of it. Just an hour, for you." She's giving him that look. A challenge. An expectation of a straight answer -- and the truth. "So why do you keep calling me that?"
"Well, it was the first hour. That's important. --Does it bother you? I'll stop, if it does." In an instant. It's not up to him, after all. Never has been. "I mean it, Amy. I will."
"Yeah. --No! I mean, I know that. It's..." She's thinking it over, working through it. Speed of light. Fast enough to outpace herself, to trip over it. She's brilliant, like the lights the Damaverians put out on their porches. "It's different, if it's you. I guess I just don't really know why you do it."
"Because it was that first hour. And the time it took me to get the TARDIS stabilized. Everything I am now was forming then. It's like..."
"Like a baby duck."
"Like a baby duck!" He can't help but laugh at that. The mental image is ridiculous, but she's not wrong. "Exactly like that. Except... well, not really. But close enough."
"The point of analogy doesn't really click for you, huh?" Amy squints at him, looking him up and down. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were from another planet or something."
"Amy, we've been over this--" But then he catches her smirk. "Oh. Right. Got me again -- I really should keep track of this somewhere. Score one for Pond!"
"So when you look at me, then. I guess it's like you still see her. Little me. Amelia, not Amy."
"Sort of. Sometimes. Both, mostly. Both at once. 'Cause it's still you. It's like... afterimages. What you were, what you are."
"Like those timelapse pictures of the sky. Watching the stars travel."
"Yeah. Just like that. For real, this time."
Except the camera was off for most of it. A big, aching gap in the arc of light. The things he'd missed. What could have been.
little bit of fun with the worldbuilding from this morning's writing session:
They round the corner, and Amy grins at the sight of the brightly-colored banner hanging from the nearest doorway. "Okay, so, been a bit. What are the salamander people called, again?"
"The Shiafra people. They're from Cotania, originally. That's Vega III. Next planet over."
"The one lady's Desma, right? The human one? And her wife, the Shiafra lady, is...?"
"Judith."
I do not have anything ready to share yet but here's the (mostly not in order) playlist for my current WIP
The plot, very loosely, is "Eleven convincing himself that Amy waiting that long was fine, actually -- because things could have gone wrong in a million different ways". (With a little bit of "okay but what if he could have given her the most magical childhood ever and she deserved it. so like, what then.")
(I continue to hit the sad alien man with a big feelings stick.)
once again being so normal about both versions of "Afterimage" by Delta Sleep as an "Eleven and Amy"-coded thing (lying, they start and end the playlist for the fic I'm writing)
the original acoustic recording:
and the rework from a couple of years ago, which I adore:
