Work Text:
Tell her, this is the story of Amelia Pond,
And this is how it ends.
The Doctor pulled off the glasses— Amy’s glasses— with a choked sob. His head fell to his hands, fingers rubbing roughly at his eyes until they were raw with the force of his nails scratching against the delicate skin. His tears trailed rivers down his cheeks with no sign of an end in the future.
He hadn’t felt this lifeless since losing Donna. He remembered that pain, he remembered that gaping hole in his chest where his hearts were meant to be. He had sworn to himself, the day he laid Donna in that bed after whipping her memory, that he would never let himself love another enough for their abandonment to kill him inside.
Yet, here he was.
Grief came pouring out of him, endless cries leaving his lips as he sat on that bench in the middle of Manhatten. He looked down at the paper in his grip; now soaked and splotchy.
His eyes fell on a small paragraph written below Amy’s final sentence. He wasn’t sure how he hadn’t noticed that the writing had continued previously. He quickly pulled the red glasses back over his eyes, willing his gaze to clear itself of tears long enough for him to make out the words.
Doctor,
Hi. Amy told me she was writing an afterword to you, wherever you are now. I thought maybe I’d write one as well.
A second wave of grief hit the Doctor so hard he wanted to collapse. Rory. Rory the Roman, the Last Centurion, the boy who waited, his Rory. The kind, loyal, patient, incredibly human man the Doctor adored.
I never got a chance to say goodbye before. It’s not every day you see your grave moments before getting sent back in time. Although, if you're involved, maybe I should have seen it coming.
The Doctor choked on a noise that was a mixture of a laugh and a sob. Brilliant Rory, still trying to make the Doctor laugh in the worst of situations.
I wanted to let you know we’re okay. It was hard at first, but we adjusted. We found each other, we kept on, we lived. We adopted a child, his name's Anthony. He's incredible, you'd love him. We tell him stories of you every night. We’re still living, and it’s still so hard, but we’re still here. That’s what matters.
I need you to do the same thing.
I’m sure that you’re out there, reading this right now, feeling more alone than you have in a long time.
I know the feeling Doctor, I felt it for 2,000 years.
Listen to me now, you are never alone.
We love you, Amy and I. We may not be with you, may never be with you again, but know that we both love you so much. I’m sorry we left you before we made sure you knew that.
You were the best mate I’ve ever had. I’m sorry if I didn’t tell you that enough.
Don’t mope, Doctor. Don’t sit around, wasting precious time. Live. Just as Amy and I did.
We’ll miss you every day for the rest of our lives.
I’m sorry, I looked back at that grave. I’m sorry, I left without saying goodbye.
You showed me the wonders of the universe, Doctor. You showed them to me, and you showed them to my wife, and we couldn’t possibly be more grateful.
Now go, go show them to someone else. Someone new. Don’t waste your time caught on us.
We’re okay.
— Rory Williams, 1941.
The Doctor carefully folded the letter up, mindful not to rip the soaked paper. He held it up against his lips, pressing two gentle kisses against it before he pulled it in tight against his chest. There he sat, on a street bench in New York with a tiny piece of paper pressed to him, right in the middle, with both beating hearts singing against it.
One heart for each. One for Amy, one for Rory.
He doubled over as another set of tears sprang to his eyes. He clutched the paper against him tightly, cradling it with all the strength he still had. Desperate to hold on to the last connection he had to his best friends. His family.
“I love you,” He whispered, a mere murmur in the busy city. His voice cracked against his will. “Amy, Rory,” He said their names like a prayer, he didn’t know if he’d ever have the willpower to say them again. His beautiful companions.
“I loved you, so much.”
Somewhere, in 1945, Amy and Rory Williams lay in their bed, curled up against each other.
There was a hole in their hearts, a piece of them torn from their very souls. Amy still cried every time she thought about the Doctor. She knew Rory tried to stay strong but she’d seen him shed his own tears for the man.
They both worried about him. They wished there was some way they could see him again, just once. They longed to hold him again, to press their lips against his messy hair and keep him safe.
Amy and Rory knew it was impossible, but the thought that somewhere out there, the Doctor was living, gave them hope.
“We love you, Doctor,” Amy would whisper every night after saying the same words to her husband. She hoped somewhere out there, millions of miles away, maybe thousands of years in the future or past, the Doctor could feel it.
“Always,” Rory agreed, he wrapped his arms tighter around his wife. “He knows, Amy.”
“I know.”