Chapter Text
They were waiting for him on top of a hill that stood at the shore, meeting the oceans. The waves would crash up against the rocks as they tried to reach high above the hill, but barely ever could. On stormy nights, this spot, although one of the closest to the waters, might be the safest to be. Now it definitely was the safest spot. That is where they were standing, waiting, for him. The hero that, so the legend goes, once came before and promised to return if there were any problems. Everyone, from what was left of them, fiddled, wrung their hands together, fiddled with the fabric of their robes, ruffled their wings, anxiously. Whispers of him had washed over the lands like the winds taking small objects with them during a storm. They had never felt the need to call for help, making many think him just to be a myth. A person, almost like a god, who had helped them shape their land towards health and fortune in the past, but one who, like a god, would never show up again. He who may have once saved a child from a burning spaceship and had led them to salvation, may very well have been a figure of everyone’s imagination. And yet, the child, now grown up, although wings still charted, had been able to dig out a calling machine and had send the call for help. The child had started shouting for everyone to leave their village and come wait for him at the end of their land.
A child, the one now standing in front of the group, the one that had hoped the most, started losing his faith. Maybe, maybe they should try to fix this on their own. Try to help their families and friends on their own, travel the oceans again, in search of a cure. He dropped his head, left it hanging and started to weep silently. He felt the tears stream across his cheeks, a silent voice reminded him that; “That’s how they get you!”, and he let his fingers soak up his tears. They turned cold.
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Twelve did not remember ever giving someone his number at that place. He did not even have any recollection of ever visiting the place. It mattered little though, a call for help was still a call for help and he might have left the calling object in his future.
With enthusiasm, the Doctor opened the door. He stepped out of the TARDIS. No one came to greet him, safe for the wind and the sound of the waves crashing upon the rocks. Wind blew his hair into his face, obscuring his vision for a second. The Doctor stood at a graveyard, littered with mourning statues. Both hearts beat as fast as they could, making the Doctor grasp his chest and bend over, although he mustn’t have looked away. Wind smacked him right in the face, making him stand straight again, coming face to face with a statue. It had moved closer to him, without him seeing the movement. He expected the angel to look angry at him, annoyed that he had caught her in the act of movement of sending him to the whenever past, and was now forced to once again stand frozen. But she looked sad. She reached out to him, in a begging motion, with yearning, with sadness. Weathering had streaked her face, making it look as if she had been crying, and maybe she was. His hands shook as they desperately searched for the TARDIS’s doorhandle. The Doctor scrambled back inside, rushed to the control panel and switched on the screen, making the angels once again visible. Had the angels come before he could reach the person that had sent the signal, or, maybe- and this may not be the case as he hadn’t pulled that mistake in ages, he arrived at a wrong time. The distress signal proved the latter hypothesis to be correct. He petted his TARDIS, whispered that it was OK but that he really needed her to land correctly next time because his hearts had not stopped pounding in his chest. She did what he asked of him. Saying goodbye to her future version that had stood next to her, withered and decaying, waiting patiently for the Doctor’s return.
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A warping sound came out of nowhere, emitting excited shouts from the crowd.
“Doctor”, the child whispered and started walking towards a blue box slowly coming into view. As he reached his hand out to the door, an old man peaked his nose out of a little crack he made when opening the door. The nose sniffed a couple of times, as if to smell something dangerous. A couple seconds later eyebrows accompanied the nose before his whole face peaked out from between the blue doors. Once he made eye contact with the boy in front of him, one that moved when looked at, he showed his whole body. He kept hold of the doorhandle as he looked upon the people in front of him, the child in front, a woman right behind him, and some meters away from them, the rest of the group.
“Hello”, he said.
“Hello”, the child answered, “my name is Amia”.
The Doctor’s eyes darted over the boy’s wings and then to those of everyone else’s.
“I’m the Doctor, and I am here to help”. Twelve says, unable to hide his hesitation. Something in him tells him that he has seen these people before, that he has been in this place before, but he can’t recall when and with which face.
“Do you remember me?” The child asks. The Doctor lifts up his finger to silence him.
“Spoilers”, he whispers, “Tell me, if you so please, as to why you have reached out to me?”
“People have been disappearing, Doctor”, the child whispers, “Others… they have not disappeared but they are gone… differently. They have changed, their skin turned cold and they have found themselves often unable to move. It is mostly their loved ones that disappear”.
People shuffle around, revealing a statue of an angel. The wings, although made of stone, hang almost weightless along the angel's back, as if they are about to ruffle their feathers. Its hands are in front of its eyes, as if to cry, or weep.
“And uhm, how have you reached out to me?” the Doctor asks. The child holds up a device. Trying to not take his eye off the angel he takes the device and puts it within his field of vision, just next to the angel. It looks like a phone but also not really. He made it. He knows he did, he signed it and everything, but he doesn’t ever remember giving this child one. Without taking his eye off the angel he takes out his sonic screwdriver and whirs it over the device. It is his, yet, he has no recollection of it. He reaches out, almost taking a fencing position towards the angel, sticking out his screwdriver as close as he dares.
“Keep your eyes on this statue!” he yells out. Everyone keeps looking at him.
“She”, the child begins, “was one of us. She’s grown stiff, this is what I just said. People grow stiff and become unmovable…”
“And yet they seem to move but only when you're not looking”, the Doctor says, “I’ve seen these. They’re dangerous. You should stay away from them and once you get them in your vision, keep looking at them, keep staring and… DON’T BLINK”.
With both the phone device and his sonic still running he starts backing off, back towards his TARDIS again. “Please people, keep your eye on this statue, don’t make her move. The people that you have lost, I can find out where they are”. His back touches the doors and in one swift movement he opens it and runs inside. The child yells for him and runs inside as well.
“Amia, this statue, it is a weeping angel”.
“I know that”, Amia answers, “but you have to help us. They’re our people, and you promised to help, you said so yourself”. He stands close to the Doctor and shows him his hand. It looks like a perfectly fine hand save for the fingertips of his middle and ring finger. The skin has turned grey and stonelike. Yet his eyes still shine brightly like the sun. The twinkle of hope. It makes the Doctor scared and unsure of himself. He is no harbinger of hope or salvation. All he can do is help as much as he can, and honestly his TARDIS does most of the work. Amia is a lot smaller than him, making him appear like a toddler asking his father for approval in the form of a candy bar. Except, that is not the hope the child carries in his eyes. It’s the hope for the safety of his people, the seizing of the destruction of his home, for the people who are lost to come home again. 12 can no longer offer that kind of hope, as he has lost it himself. He lost it in Clara’s eyes.
He bows his head, sighs, tightens his grip on his sonic screwdriver, and asks “can you tell me when this all started to happen?”
The child nods, still having raised his gray turning hands towards the Doctor.
The Doctor stares at the fingers, reaches out to them, and touches them.
(HELLO welcome to this first chapter, thank you very much for reading to the one single person that reads this. So far I have no idea yet where this story is going. I feel like the story is taking a very depressing turn and I guess the Doctor is in mourning and he doesn't quite understand why, so I guess he has to come to terms with doing so. Anyways 12 is my favourite doctor and I feel like he isn't as much represented in fanfic as 10 and 11 are (I am not a spice fanfic connoisseur). My favourite episode of his is his last christmas special and I believe that is the vibe I am going for. I haven't written anything like fanfic in forever and have never posted it either (I used to post original work on wattpad) so this will be an experience. I am curious to see if people will pick this up or don't want to read anything that isn't spice (I am sorry I am not really in the fanfic world but writing fanfic is a great way to practice). Please tell me what you think, and thank you again. I hope I will be able to post at a frequent pase but I can make no such promises. If you see any spelling errors, that is the charm of fanfic, right? OK. I'm going to continue working on the next part bye!)