Guess I'm wishing my life away
With these things I'll never say
Amelia Pond is eight years old the first time she decides to write the Doctor a letter. She isn't sure how he'll get it, but he has a time machine so she's sure he'll find a way. She seals the letter, writes Doctor across the envelope, and puts it in the mail before she leaves for school.
The letter's gone when she comes home.
She checks four times and even searches the ground around to make sure it didn't fall out. It's nowhere in sight. It's gone–gone!–which means he must have found it. And if he found it, he'll come back for her. He's coming back. The Doctor's coming back for her!
Amelia runs into the house as fast as she can. She needs to pack! But she barely makes it into the house before her aunt calls from the kitchen.
"Not now, Aunt Sharon!"
"I mean it Amelia," she snaps. "Come here!"
"But the Doctor–"
"The Doctor is in here."
She freezes. He is? But why would he be in there? Oh no! What if Aunt Sharon found him and wants to come along? No! She can't come–he's her Doctor. Hers, hers, hers!
She runs into the kitchen as fast as she can, only to be met with a very cross Aunt Sharon and an older, chubby man. A man who is very obviously not her Doctor.
"Amelia, this is Dr Smith."
That day, Amelia meets her first psychiatrist.
She's eleven when Aunt Sharon takes her to her third psychiatrist.
Amelia hates her. Okay, yeah, she hated all the other psychiatrists (and she always calls them her psychiatrists; she absolutely refuses to call them her doctors) too, but she really hates this one. She's skinny and tall and wears a lot of make-up and smells like cheap cologne. And she gives Amelia a red leather diary and tells her that she needs to write out her feelings.
She calls her an idiot and refuses.
When she comes home that evening, she tosses her school bag onto the floor and falls onto her bed. She lays there for some time, staring at the stars painted on her ceiling. She wonders if she'll ever see them up close. She wonders if he's up there somewhere.
"Where are you?" she mumbles.
Amelia rolls over and hugs a pillow to her chest. The red journal peeks out from the bag. She's not sure how long she lays there having a staring contest with the stupid book. In the end, she loses. She sighs, rolls off of her bed, and grabs the journal.
Except she has absolutely no idea what to write. She doesn't want to write. Honestly all she wants to do is see him, to talk to him, find out where he is. Amelia frowns before she takes a deep breath and pushes the pen to the paper.
Are you coming back? Because you promised. Please come back soon. I don't want to see these stupid psychiatrists anymore. I don't care where you are or why you're late, but just come back !
Amy's fourteen when she bites her fourth psychiatrist.
It's not her fault. She warned him not to touch her journal (and it is a journal–Amelia Pond does not carry diaries!), but he didn't listen. So it was his fault–completely–and she's sticking with it.
Aunt Sharon doesn't care; she's furious. She runs around the house screaming and telling her that she needs to learn to act her bloody age. It amuses Amy more than anything else; her aunt's always looked stupid and ridiculous with a red face.
"This isn't funny, Amelia!"
"Amy," she corrects her.
"I'm serious! Dr Meyer was the last psychiatrist in Leadworth who would even see you. We've no one left!"
"About bloody time," she mumbles.
"Amelia!" Her Aunt Sharon slams the kettle down. "This isn't funny. You're fourteen years old–"
"–and I need to start acting it." Amy rolls her eyes and takes a bite out of a biscuit. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know." She turns away. "I'll be in my room."
Aunt Sharon grabs her before she can take two steps. "When are you going to accept that he isn't real? Look around you–you aren't a child anymore. It's been seven years!"
"If he were real he would have come back. He isn't coming for you."
"Shut up!" Amy screams, pulls away from her and runs up the stairs. She slams her door shut. "She's wrong," she mumbles to herself, but the words don't even sound convincing to her.
He's real, she knows he is, but that doesn't change him not being here. It doesn't change the years, rather than minutes he promised, that she's spent waiting. And it sure as hell doesn't change all the stupid pain she's felt. It doesn't change a damn thing.
She has no bloody idea how the journal ends up in front of her, but she doesn't care. She flips to the first open page and writes her last message to him.
I don't believe in you anymore, Raggedy Man.
Amy's nineteen and even more heartbroken the next time she sees her journal.
He comes back–the Doctor does. It takes him twelve bloody years, but he does it just like he promised he would. He's as funny, brilliant, and raggedy as she remembered. But more importantly than that, he remembered her. His stupid time machine skipped or something, and he really did only take five minutes. He promises her it's true and makes her bloody trust him again. He makes her believe. He shows her that even though the universe is awful and cruel, it can still give her some good. The Doctor gives her faith again.
Then then he runs off with it.
Amy spends the entire night screaming and swearing and throwing her old toys against the walls. She refuses to let anyone–not Mels, not Aunt Sharon, not even Rory–in. And just when she thinks she can't take it anymore, she finds her old journal at the bottom of her Raggedy Doctor Box. She doesn't remember picking it up, much less writing the words down, but apparently she does back they sit there looking up at her.
I trusted you, Doctor. I trusted you when I knew I shouldn't have, because you stupid well asked me to. You told me to believe in you and I did. And then you left me again.
I hate you.
I hate you!
I HATE YOU.
She has no idea how long she sits there, sharing at the words. She just stares and stares until her stupid vision blurs and something inside of her bloody snaps. And Amy cries. She cries and cries and cries until she can't take it anymore; she cries until she's too numb to do anything else. She cries until there's nothing else left.
Why didn't you take me with you?
Amy is twenty-one when she finally runs away with the Doctor.
It's funny how it's everything she expected but nothing like it at the same time. She expected fun and adventure and silly times with them running through time and being daft. And they do those things, but there's more to it than that. Because, you see, it's dangerous. And she doesn't mean dangerous like the perfect time Jeff discovered the internet–she means really, actually dangerous.
Thing is, she doesn't think she would change it anything. There's just something so, dunno, right about it, ya know? Running around, saving people, protecting the universe. She doesn't know how she imagined it any other way. And you know what? It was worth the wait. The fourteen bloody years, it was worth it.
She doesn't tell him that.
There are a lot of things she doesn't tell him.
There are a lot of things Amy can't tell him.
Because, you see, she's meant to be getting married in the morning (whenever that is) and stupid Rory's sitting at home waiting for her. Except he has no bloody idea that he's waiting for her because he thinks she's asleep in her bed. Which does not mean running through time and space with this arse of an alien who she does not trust.
Except the thing is this arse of an alien isn't just an arse of an alien anymore–he's becoming so much more. He's brilliant and funny and absolutely ridiculous, and everything she imagined as a kid, but so much more. Because he's kind and lonely and wise; daft and mad and the most ridiculous person she's ever met. He shows her the stars, takes her to the future, saves the whole bloody planet, and rambles spacey-wacey nonsense the entire time.
But he's still an arse of an alien and she hates him. She hates him and there are things that she wants to tell him, but doesn't. Won't. Can't. There are things she needs to tell him, but she never will.
So Amy ignores them. She's good at that, after all, ignoring things. (It's one of the things they have in common, she thinks.) Rory eventually comes along and joins them, and she tells herself that those things no longer exist. And most of the time, she convinces herself that it's true, that she has nothing left to say to the Doctor that she won't tell him to his stupid face.
But sometimes, sometimes she can't help it. She can't ignore it and it drives at her until she goes mad. So one day, when Rory's fast asleep in their bed, she grabs a scrap of paper and writes out exactly what she wants to tell him. And then she stuffs it in her coat pocket and never lets it see the light of day again. Because she will never ever admit it, even if it's the truest thing she's ever meant.
I will always run away with you, Raggedy Man.
She wakes up on her wedding day knowing that something is wrong. That there's this great big thing inside of her head and she knows that she should remember it, but she can't. No one else seems to notice though, so she tries to ignore it. She shoves it in the back of her mind, because it's her wedding day and it's meant to be the happiest day of her life. Except, no matter how hard she tries, she knows it isn't.
"You're crying," Rory tells her.
Amy's fingers brush against her cheek. "So I am. Why am I doing that?"
"Because you're…happy probably. Happy Mrs Rory. Happy, happy, happy."
She shakes her head. "No. I'm sad. I'm really, really sad." Rory's face falls and a pit of guilt stirs in her stomach. She hurt him again. She always does that, always makes him feel second best to –
There's only Rory. There's only ever been stupid Rory. No one else, only him. But then why does it feel like she's missing someone. Like there's this thing in her head and she just can't remember it. It's important–so very, very important–and it's missing. So why can't she remember?
Rory gives her the blue book someone left for her. It's blank. She doesn't understand why it's blank. Books, diaries, journals are meant to be filled. They're meant to have letters and notes and all sorts of stupid things like that. But this one doesn't. it's just empty and blue, and she has no idea why someone would leave it to her. Rory says it's because of the old wedding thing–something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.
Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.
Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.
"Amy, you'll dream about that box. It'll never leave you–big and little at the same time. Brand new and ancient, and the bluest of blues. Ever. And the time we had, eh? Woulda had. Never had. In your dreams, they'll still be there. The Doctor and Amy Pond."
"Shut up, dad!" she snaps, jumping to her feet. He tries to say something, but she doesn't let him. No one's going to shut her up, not now. "There's someone missing." Someone who ruined her childhood. "Someone important." Someone who has always been there, even when he wasn't. "Someone so, so important." Someone who means the whole stupid world to her. "Raggedy man, I remember you!"
And that's all it takes, because the next thing she knows, she's climbing over the table because nothing is going to stand in between her and her Doctor now. She bangs on the door and calls out to him, and he comes out. And it's funny how that works, because there are so many things she can never tell the Doctor, but if there's one thing she's always been able to tell him, it's to come back. And he does.
He always comes back to her when she calls.
Sometimes he's late (okay, he's always late), but he always comes. She may be the girl who waits, but he's the boy who always comes. Nothing in the universe will ever stop him–not time, not space, not even existence. The Doctor will always come back for Amy Pond, just so long as she calls.
And she will never stop calling.