Chapter Text
You wouldn’t have any reason to know about Bad Wolf Falls.
It is a small town. Nestled in the middle of nowhere, beneath a range of hills and mountains. The buildings are old, built on mahogany beams, out of rust-crimson brickwork, marked out with sun-baked stone walls. They line the cobblestone high-street. Those houses have slept there for a thousand years, and they will sleep for a thousand more.
Where the High Street and the Mondas’ Way intersect, there is a quaint town square. In that square, there stands a monument – an old police box, blue with flaking paint. A black sign on the door says ‘pull to open’ – except nobody even knows if they open. They have been shut for as long as living memory can recollect, the monument has faded to become a symbol for all that the town holds dear – for all the memories dormant in the streets and the walls, for its values, for all the life running through its people.
The town itself is surrounded by meadows lush with wildflowers and farmland. When one stands at the northern perimeter they can lean upon a fence and watch the watermill, its wheel turning in the river. Its wheel turning with the years, as it has done for centuries. Meanwhile, to the south, a road, craggy, full of loose stones and earth, forms the way out.
It becomes enveloped by Darillium forest. By willows and birches and oaks, entangled for miles and miles. Delicate cobwebs are woven between the branches, vines hang, aged trunks stand wrapped with ivy. There are hollows and clearings, tranquil and serene. It is, to a stranger, baffling, nonsensical. To someone who knows the town, it is magical and beautiful.
Bill Potts stands in the town square. Looking at the blue-box monument, at the heart of the town. A delineator of home, everything and everyone in that strange, confusing town has grown up around it. Her eyes drift over it, and then over the shops on the other side. Jo’s Antiques is crammed full of old tables and chairs, and faded paintings, and unusual ornaments, from all across the globe, many picked up by the proprietor herself upon her journey. Beside it stands Angel Bookstores, a shabby, charming second-hand booksellers, its shelves creaking with the weight of the words and the years of stories it contains. Then, Bill glances over her shoulder. Nardole’s – a small tearoom, its painted tin sign above the door squeaking, melancholy, in the evening breeze.
This is where Bill Potts has grown up. She knows this town like she knows her face. She knows the houses, the shops, the main roads, the backstreets, the alleys. She knows the forest, she played there as a child, she took solace there as an adult.
This is where Bill Potts has fallen in love. As she stands, leaning against that Victorian lamppost, metal wrought and elaborate, she sees her.
The girl with a star in her eye.
She sits, on a bench, beneath the comfort of the blue-box monument. She doesn’t seem to feel the comfort, though – by the looks of it, she doesn’t want to feel it. She doesn’t want to be there. She is determined to hate it. She’s been sat there all day, with her books, with her music. That’s how Bill knows she has a star in her eye – she’s walked past her, three times. Once because she had to, on her way to Nardole’s to meet her grandfather. Then back the other way, to get a closer look at the star. Then back towards Nardole’s again.
“Coffee, please, Nardole,” her grandfather had said, when Bill arrived at Nardole’s, after examining the girl’s eye.
He’s called the Doctor. She’s lived with him since she was four years-old and she still doesn’t know what he’s a Doctor of. Nardole didn’t respond immediately, instead looking over the thick rims of his glasses to make sure he had balanced the plate of French toast perfectly. The Doctor had sighed. Bill had smirked.
“Come on!” the Doctor urged. “You run a greasy spoon, not The Ritz.”
“All in good time, sir,” Nardole murmured, adjusting one piece of French toast exactly.
The Doctor scowled. “I’m docking your pay for this.”
“You don’t even employ me,” Nardole said, unfazed.
“You’re lucky we’re loyal customers.”
After a time, Nardole brought over the coffee, the cocoa, and the food they ordered. They ate. However, Bill couldn’t stop glancing out the window, at the girl. As such, it was a relief when Sarah Jane arrived, giving Bill an excuse. She doesn’t know how Sarah Jane and the Doctor know each other, apart from that they had known each other for years on end, and that she is perhaps his closest friend of all. With that, Bill decided to leave them to it, allowing her to leave.
Allowing her to talk to the girl with the star in her eye.
It is here that we reconvene with Bill, who is still stood, against that lamppost, trying to pluck up the courage to say something. Normally, Bill doesn’t need the courage to talk to anyone, but this is different. There’s pressure – she doesn’t want to mess up.
Bracing herself, she walks over. Feels very self-conscious about her perfectly normal walk. Takes deep breaths, trying to stop her hands shaking.
The girl is there. Looking up at her, like Bill is a massive inconvenience.
“You okay?” Bill asks.
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
They stare at each other for a moment. Bill doesn’t know what to say. The girl, who we will find out is called Heather, wants her to go away. She has a book to finish.
This is going really well, Bill’s conscience mocks her.
“Can I ask? What’s that in your eye?”
Heather wants to hit her. Heather wants to hit anyone who asks her that stupid question. Do people seriously think nobody has asked her about it in the past?
“It’s a defect. In the iris.”
Bill nods. She wishes she hadn’t asked the question, because it’s clear that Heather hates her for it. Typical, Bill thinks. Her big mouth, saying things without thinking. Sometimes she wishes she could keep her gob under control, but it has a life of its own.
“It looks like a star,” Bill smiles. Trying to be nice.
“It’s a defect,” Heather says.
“At least it’s a defect that looks like a star.”
“I’m getting it fixed.”
Walk away, part of her is saying. She’s made enough of a mess so far and can’t bear to watch this slow-motion car crash any longer.
“Can I sit?” Bill asks, gesturing to the bench.
“If you want,” Heather shrugs. She has a grumpy, grouchy disposition, and is surprised that Bill still wants to speak to her. In truth, for all that she might want to return to her book and her music, Heather is secretly glad for Bill’s company, even if she hasn’t realised it yet. She hasn’t spoken to another human all day and it’s going to her head.
“I’m Bill,” Bill says, as she sits.
“Heather.”
“Nice to meet you. Are you new here?”
“Moved here with my parents,” Heather says. Her response is even more misanthropic than her previous interactions with Bill – this is, it seems, the reason Heather is so fed up.
She hates this weird Bad Wolf Falls place. She hates the terrible phone signal. She hates the people – that batty old lady who tried to sell her a tea set from South America, the irritating mayor who insisted on introducing herself multiple times (Harriet something), the fat bald idiot in the teashop. She hates the cobbles, because she keeps tripping over. She hates the fact it’s in the middle of nowhere, so she’s stuck with all the things she hates.
Heather wants to leave, as soon as she can.
“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Bill says, sitting back on the bench and gazing at the town around her.
Heather doesn’t agree, and she’s about to make that clear. She’s about to tell Bill she hates her stupid town.
But something stops her.
She sees how happy Bill is, and for some reason, she doesn’t want to destroy that happiness.
“I don’t know it, really,” Heather shrugs. She feels she knows it well enough. She’s walked around, enough to have various townspeople introduce themselves. She’s formed her first impressions.
“Come on, then,” Bill stands up. Holding out a hand. “I’ll show you round.”
Heather doesn’t move. She holds her book and her iPod close. Her own little bubble. That’s all she needs, because Heather knows that she is alright on her own. She doesn’t need to get to know the people in this town. She’ll be gone soon, anyway. Moved away. With this in mind, Heather is going to decline.
But she hesitates.
She doesn’t care about the town, but she does care about taking Bill’s hand.
Heather stands up, and she leaves with Bill.
***
“Jo’s Antiques!” Bill says, gesturing towards the shopfront. Jo Jones, nee. Grant, is lovely and hilarious and insane, and she is approaching them from the inside of her store. Bill knows that Heather will love her, because everyone loves Jo. She is another old friend of her grandfather’s and has watched Bill grow up – in between her travels, of course. It is known that Jo has travelled the world, has set foot upon all seven continents, has walked deserts and climbed mountains and sailed oceans.
“Bill!” Jo exclaims. “How are you, darling?”
“Very good, thank you,” Bill smiles. “Jo, this is Heather. Heather, this is Jo.”
“You!” Jo says. “I remember you. You walked past earlier, didn’t you? I tried to sell you a vase? Or was it that tea set?”
“It was the tea set,” Heather says.
“A beautiful tea set,” Jo sighs, wistful. “Anyway, look at me – I’m terribly sorry, I can be full on when there’s new people.”
“You’re full on with anyone,” Bill smirks, much to Jo’s amusement.
“I do get carried away,” Jo admits. “Babbling on and on. Anyway! Look, I’m doing it now, taking up all your time! I’ll leave you to it.”
“No problem, Jo.”
“Nice to meet you,” Heather says. Maybe Bill was right. Everyone loves Jo for a reason.
“Delighted to meet you as well,” Jo grins. “Oh, and, Bill? Tell your grandfather, I’ve found some old photographs of the two of us and the Brig.”
“Will do!” Bill waves. Jo departs, heading back inside to close up for the evening, and make herself a herbal tea. She is happy, and she is content.
“Who’s the Brig?” Heather asks, intrigued.
“An old friend of Jo’s and my grandfather’s. The three of them were in a punk band together, back in the ‘70s.”
“Seriously?”
“Mmhm. UNIT, they were called.”
Heather racks her brains. “I’ve never heard of them.”
“Yeah. They weren’t that successful.”
They continue on their way, past Angel Bookstores. It is the late summer, and autumn is on its way. The air is getting chillier, and the green enthusing nature is starting to fade, and the nights are creeping inwards – still unnoticeable, but soon, it will be time. However, that evening, the sun shines on, and Bad Wolf Falls glows, radiant in the dying light of the summer.
“Angel Bookstores,” Bill points at the shop. It is then that Amy Pond, proprietor of the establishment, leans around the door.
“Bill,” she says. She wears a baggy jumper, the sleeves reaching up to her fingertips, and a pair of circular glasses perch on her nose. Her hair is ginger and magnificent, and catches, billowing, in the evening breeze.
“Amy,” Bill acknowledges.
“Tell your grandfather, his books are ready to collect.”
“I will.”
“And tell him to do it soon, not in two months-time.”
“Yes, Amy.”
“And tell him to stay out of trouble.”
“Easier said than done.”
“True,” Amelia admitted, retreating back into her shop.
Bill and Heather continued on their way, down Mondas’ Way. As they go, Bill points at various buildings, on the street and on the roads branching off it. She is in her element. She knows this town. She loves this town. It is, to her, the best thing in the world, to be able to show someone else how amazing it is.
“That is The Dalek’s Arms,” she says, pointing to the pub on the corner. “The landlady, Mrs Tyler, watch out for her. She is formidable. And over there, that’s Torchwood – Jack and Ianto Harkness, they sell furniture. That’s Bannerman Road, and that house on the corner, that’s where Sarah Jane lives, she’s a retired author. Her daughter, Clara Oswald, lives the other side of town, with her wife, Me.”
“You?”
“I wish. Nah, ‘Me’ is her name.”
They reach the end of the road, turning onto an adjacent street.
“That’s the town hall. Have you met the mayor?”
“About five times,” Heather confirms.
“Harriet Jones,” Bill says, and she pulls Heather low so that they can dart past the town hall without being spotted by her. “She’s loopy, I’m telling you. Always got some crazy scheme for the town. Now – over there, that’s the high school. My granddad, he teaches there. Oh, and…”
Heather doesn’t need to say a word. She is hanging off everything that Bill says. She is enraptured, and she follows her, all around the town. She sees all the sights; she meets its people. For a time, Heather forgets that she ever hated this place. She forgets she wants to leave. Because none of it matters – Bill is so happy. Bill’s love is infectious, and there is part of Heather that can’t help but appreciate the town, if only because of Bill.
Because, on that beautiful evening, Bill is so alive. She smiles and she dances, from place to place.
Their eyes meet, but only briefly.
Bill glances at her, every so often, while they are together – that’s Bill for you. She is kind and she hardly ever looks badly upon people. Heather doesn’t reciprocate eye contact, however. She never looks people in the eye, because she always feels that people are only looking at the defect.
There is one instant where Heather dares to look Bill in the eye. And when she does? It’s one of the few times in her life when she isn’t defined by a star in her eye.
***
The road out of town leads through to Darillium forest. Bill says to Heather, you have to see the forest. It’s magical.
Together, they walk along that road – the traffic going through town is sparse enough that they can walk down the middle, side by side. Soon, the town gives way, and the forest starts arching above their heads.
The road continues, straight, flat, coming out the other side, to a world beyond the town. A world that Bill believes to be a little less special. A boring world, a crueller world. With that in mind, she leads Heather off, down a roughly beaten track, into the woods beyond.
Though autumn is on its way, the forest is still touched with the warmth of summer. The greenery is abundant, the canopy of leaves dense above their heads, glowing in the light. That golden sun manages to creep to the forest floor through tiny gaps. The grass and ferns and thickets beyond the paths are thick, trees emerging from the undergrowth and reaching, tall and majestic and ancient, into the sky.
If one doesn’t know that forest well, the horizons begin to look the same, a landscape of tree trunks and vines and broken light.
There’s no worry of that with Bill. She knows the forest well. It has watched her grow up. She knows how the paths wind and turn and intersect, how they end and how they start. She knows it, like a surgeon knows the arteries and veins in a human body. Safe in that knowledge, Bill leads Heather along a rough, stony track. It scuffs and dirties their boots, with its rocks and potholes and the roots. The roots so large they creep beneath the floor, weaving in and out of the ground, the lifeblood of the trees around them.
Before long, Heather is lost, and she places all trust in Bill, who leads her from path to path, from tree to tree, like a child tracing lines on a drawing. They become part of the forest, traipsing through, in and out of the scene.
Then, they enter a clearing.
It is circular, and wide. There is an eeriness to it – as if something was once so important about that clearing, that the trees and the undergrowth stopped, refusing to grow within it. Through that, it is a pocket of seclusion within the wood’s walls, while still firmly a part of it – above their heads, branches and twigs intertwine, lacing together, a roof to protect whatever is below.
Heather stops, an unusual feeling running through her bones. She sees the thing on the far side of the clearing. The box.
Bill stands, in awe. No matter how many times she sees it, it takes her breath away. It has that effect on everyone, apparently. Supposedly, something to do with how old it is. To do with how much it’s seen.
The box is a cube and crafted from stone. No matter how old it might be, it is perfectly smooth, barring the engraved pattern on the sides, which still stands in perfect definition – the surfaces have never weathered. The only signs of age are the patches of moss which bloom along the base and top, and the ivy which creeps up its side. The engraving itself is a work of great artisanship – an intricate pattern, labyrinthine and circular, so detailed that one can only understand it close up. And, even then, no matter how many times one follows its precise indentations and peaks, it is impossible to make sense of it.
“It’s called the Pandorica,” Bill says. “According to myth, at least.”
“What is it?” Heather asks.”
“Nobody really knows,” Bill leans back against a tree. It is sturdy, and reassuring. “Some say it was a prison, for an evil being. Some say it was a place of healing, for angels. And some say that this was where it all began.”
“Where… what began?”
“Everything. Legend has it that the Pandorica contained everything that ever was, and is, and ever will be. Then, a wizard unlocked it. That’s when time began. That’s when everything began.”
Bill likes to believe that story, because the Pandorica feels important. When one puts their hand up against it, it feels like the universe is running through their fingers. They realise how tiny they are, in the magnitude of history and the stars.
The box has seen everything. The forest has seen everything. They have stood for thousands of years, watching the universe turn. They have seen Bad Wolf Falls from the day of its inception, the people settling, the first few houses being constructed. Tiny shacks at first, but then growing, closer to the river, where the watermill is built. They have seen the building of the blue-box monument in the centre of town, supposedly in memoriam to a good and kind hero – some stories say, that it is the same hero who dared to open the Pandorica. Who took that leap of faith. Who dared to dream.
The box and the forest, they go hand in hand. They know the universe. They know its victories, its joys. They know its secrets, its lies. They know its tears. They have seen it live.
“It’s a story,” Heather says. She thinks Bill, and that whole, silly town, is living a fairytale. It is magical and captivating, but it is a tale nonetheless.
“Maybe,” Bill admits. She doesn’t think it’s always about the story. It’s about what the story creates. The way it inspires, the way it brings hope. The lives built upon it, the people who are brought together because of it.
“And you’re… happy here?” Heather asks. She hesitates before actually saying it. She doesn’t want to upset Bill. She can see how much this place means to her. But she can’t help but ask – because this is one small town in one big world, and she can’t understand, how Bill is so content.
Bill doesn’t understand the question. Of course she is. It doesn’t need an answer.
“Don’t you want to leave, at some point?” Heather continues. “Because then – you might find something more.”
“But… don’t you see? This is more,” Bill emphasises. She steps away from her tree, and now, she and Heather are opposite each other, each wary of the other’s intentions, each confused as to what the other is trying to say.
“But… it’s insane,” Heather exclaims. “Only a few hours ago, some old guy in a kilt gave me his bagpipes to look after, for god’s sake.”
“Yeah. That’s Jamie.”
“He just left me with his bagpipes! And then – then there was this woman wearing a lab coat and a long scarf and I’m not joking, she picked up a crow or a raven or something and – the bird had batteries!”
“That’s Osgood. The birds have batteries, it’s so they can –”
“I don’t care why the birds have batteries. This place – it’s too weird.”
“But it’s where I belong,” Bill shrugs. With this, Heather stops. Wonders if it’s because she’s never found anywhere like this – because she doesn’t know what it’s like to care for one place or one group of people so much. What with her dad’s job, what with the star in her eye, she’s never connected to anyone else. She’s never let herself. Perhaps out of fear that, if she does, it’ll hurt too much. Heather has always been journeying. She thinks she always will.
Heather can’t imagine finding a place like this.
“And you’re just going to… be here forever?” Heather doesn’t ask this out of malice. She asks it because she’s interested as to what it’s like. “Because people don’t just stay put.”
Forests didn’t sit tight forever.
This isn’t something Bill needs to be told. She sees time pass, she sees the seasons change. Countless times, the leaves turning orange and red and auburn, the rooks crowing and flying away. The winter taking over, leaving nothing in its wake. And then the arrival of spring, the resurrection and the hope it brought with it.
“Look,” Bill says. “I found the place where I belong, and words can’t cover how important that is, or what that means.”
“It’s crazy,” Heather says.
“Yeah.”
“It’s… really, really mad.”
“That’s why I love it.”
That, along with countless other things.
However, Bill understands what Heather means. She knows that the world doesn’t stay the same forever. She thinks of the Pandorica, and the forest, and the town, and of all the change they’ve seen. Like people, they stand, the one constant in their own lives, as everything moves around them.
“One day, I’ll want to move on,” Bill admits. “I’ll outgrow this place. Because everyone outgrows everything, in the end.”
But that day wasn’t yet.
She is happy, living with her grandfather, working at Nardole’s, having drinks with Rose and Lucie every Friday night. She is happy, with all the weird things that Bad Wolf Falls brought to her doorstep. She is happy with who she is. Whenever she looks in the mirror, she smiles, and she is content.
“Okay,” Heather accepts. She can’t avoid smiling. Even if, in that moment, she doesn’t understand what it means to be Bill Potts, she doesn’t want to. She’s happy that Bill knows where she belongs. She’s happy that Bill is so confident in who she is.
“Okay,” Bill nods. Smiling too.
“I hope I didn’t upset you.”
“Not at all,” Bill says. “You want to head to Nardole’s? He makes the best cocoa.”
“That sounds nice,” Heather agrees.
They turn, and they leave the clearing. Just as they are about to step into the trees, Heather turns to Bill.
“Thank you, by the way.”
“… what for?”
“You stopped looking at the star. Started looking at me.”
Bill understands. She really, really understands.
“Thank you for exactly the same,” she says. “For looking at me.”
Both Bill and Heather have said what they needed to. With that, they can leave. The Pandorica watches over them, as they depart, just as it has watched over the forest, and the town beyond. One would expect that, to something like the forest, that moment with Bill and Heather is only a second. It is nothing. It is inconsequential.
But, as any town or forest or ancient magic box knows, it is small moments that lives are built on.
***
By the time Bill returns from drinking cocoa with Heather, night has fallen over Bad Wolf Falls.
She enters home.
It is a place so familiar she doesn’t think about it anymore. But that evening, for some reason, she stops on the threshold as the hall enters into the living room, and she smiles. Taking stock of everything she has, and of everything the house has given her.
Bill walks, slowly, into the room. The floorboards creak, as she steps onto the Persian rug, over its frayed, scuffed edges. It is spacious, but you wouldn’t know it, because it’s so cluttered – because of this, traversing it can be challenging. So, Bill works her way, around the armchairs and the settee and the poufs – they aren’t part of a set, they are eclectic, picked up one by one over the years. Around the wide coffee table, crowded with books, coasters, mugs (not on the coasters), papers, and the sleeves of records.
Tall, creaking bookshelves lean up against the walls, books shoved chaotically and haphazardly inside. Beside them, wicker baskets full of vinyl. Though, with both the books and the records, the Doctor and Bill have so many that they pile up along the skirting board. There is a lamp, illuminating the place in a warm, orange glow, propped up on a stack of old tomes. Then, against another wall, sits a rack of old guitars, and an amplifier.
The ceilings are high, the walls are lined with pictures. Some are artworks that Jo has passed onto them over the years. Many are photographs – some from back in the 70s, of the Doctor with his bandmates, when they went on ‘tour’ (in reality, it was a few dates booked at a few clubs, but it meant the world to them at the time). Many are of the family – of Bill, and of Bill’s mother, charting their lives, their years.
At the far end of the room, sliding doors lead out onto the patio and a garden. It is by those windows that her grandfather sits, in his wingback chair, caught somewhere between the light indoors and the glow of the moon outside. He sits up against their dark, bottle green curtains, and beyond that, there is an antique end table, upon which Starman crackles from a vinyl player.
This room is two lifetimes, summed up. Two lifetimes, entwined.
Bill’s, and her grandfather’s.
“Hey, Gramps,” she says, flopping on the sofa.
He peers over at her, putting his papers down on the floor. He is looking enormously fed up and runs a hand through his mane of grey hair. Glasses perch on his nose, and he wears plaid trousers and a hoodie over his tee-shirt. The Doctor has always been one of life’s eccentrics, and that is something that has maintained over the years – he is mercurial. Grumpy and depressed and overjoyed with the world, sometimes all in one day. He is kind. Always kind.
“What’s the damage?” Bill asks.
“Seven reports, three staff meetings.” The Doctor has spent the day, catching up on all the things he should’ve attended to over the summer holidays.
“You’re lucky they don’t fire you.”
“It’s because I’ve worked there so long. I taught half the teachers!”
Bill laughs to herself, then sits back in her chair. Lost in thought.
“Are you alright?” her grandfather says to her. He may seem distant, he may seem to busy in his own little world. But he always notices.
“Yeah,” Bill lies. “Why?”
“You seem… different,” he says, leaving the window seat behind and moving over to an armchair opposite Bill. He’s cast aside his papers – he can’t be bothered. He’ll catch up in time.
“Different?” she repeats
He hesitates. “Yes. Different.”
Bill doesn’t know what to say. She isn’t going to tell him about Heather. Not yet. It’s not because Heather’s a girl or anything. They had that chat years ago – though, ‘chat is a loose turn of phrase. A while ago, Bill announced she was bringing a girl home – just dropping the revelation into conversation. Her grandfather never questioned it. Never even batted an eyelid.
However, this is something else. A question bothering her, ever since they had that conversation down by the Pandorica.
“We’re good, aren’t we?” she says, at last.
“Hmm?”
“Me and you? Here? Bad Wolf Falls?”
“Yeah,” he shrugs. “Always. Why?”
“No reason,” Bill smiles. That’s good enough for her.
“Are you able to do lunch tomorrow?” he asks. “It’s my last day before I go back?”
“Sure! Sounds great.”
“Honestly,” he says, taking his mug of cocoa from the coffee table. “Before I came home, I got chatting to Nardole – and let me tell you, that man’s middle name is ‘annoying’…”
Bill pulls the blanket from the back of the sofa and wraps herself in it, grinning as her grandfather embarks on what will certainly be a long, long story. It often is, with him, given the escapades and antics he often gets up to. But Bill doesn’t mind. She loves it. And then, when he’s done, she’ll tell him all about her day (barring her little adventure with Heather), about how Amy wanted him to pick up his books, and how Ohila (chairwoman of the WI) came into Nardole’s when Bill was on shift, and asked for seven cups of coffee.
Because, this is their life.
The Doctor and Bill Potts.
And they are happy.
***
The following morning comes around.
It is the last day of the summer.
The next day, the Doctor returns to school, teaching music to the next generation. With that, the sign that September is truly underway. To commemorate that occasion, he and Bill head out for lunch. They walk, side by side, through the town square, deciding where they will eat.
“All I’m saying is, don’t teach the school choir the whole of Bohemian Rhapsody.”
“It’s a work of musical art!” the Doctor defends himself.
“Yeah. You taught them it in Italian.”
“Some of it is in Italian!”
“Not all of it,” Bill shakes her head, smiling to herself.
Before they can get much further, however, they are stopped by a sudden shout.
“OI! BILL BLEEDIN’ POTTS!”
Only Lucie Miller can shout like that.
“We want a word with you,” Rose Tyler smirks.
They are there, waiting for Bill. Her partners in crime.
She turns to the Doctor. “Meet up with you in a minute?”
“Good luck with Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee over there…”
Bill dashes off, leaving the Doctor, stood alone. He pulls the lapels of his velvet jacket just a little closer, surprised that, despite the sunshine, it is as chilly as it is. It’s only the beginning of September, but the month is making its mark clear.
He smiles and walks across the town square, gazing wistfully at the place he calls home. Past the blue box monument, that has stood, faithfully, for so long. Gently he places a hand against the wood, finding it reassuring, and sturdy. Then, he moves along, over to the far corner, where the road meets Mondas’ Way. There is an old oak on the corner, and he leans up against it. Breathing in deeply, feeling the air enter his lungs.
The summer is ending. He knows it. He can feel it in his bones. He’s always been able to sense things.
There is a sense of the wistful and the bittersweet in the air. Things drawing to a close, and new beginnings, all at the same time. Feelings of melancholy, and of happiness, held in simultaneity.
He is distracted, as down the road he can see a van, parked up beside one of the houses. It has been vacant and on the market for a while, but it seems, finally, someone is moving in. There are boxes, piled up outside the front walls. Signs of a life already lived but relocating. Ready for a new adventure.
A woman leans up against them, looking out at the town she is set to call home. Her blonde, curly hair, billows in the September breeze – except that’s not why the Doctor notices her. He isn’t sure, in truth, why he notices her. But just for a second, he sees the woman, and wonders who she is.
And in that fleeting moment, it feels more like autumn than ever.
The Doctor glances up, and notices a leaf, drifting off the old oak. Auburn in colour, it floats gently to the floor.
The first leaves falling.
He is content, with his life. In Bad Wolf Falls he has seen the seasons change and the years turn, time and time again. He knows how it works.
So, he smiles. Looking back on what has been and looking forward to what the future will bring.