Work Text:
November, New York, 2006
It was storming outside, and it had caught the Doctor on the middle of the busy New York streets. He ran inside the first establishment he saw, it was well lit and small, covered by the scent of old paper and hand sanitizer, with a slight buzzing sound loud enough for you to notice but not to bother you. It was obvious, he was inside a book store.
—A little shop! —He exclaimed, as he looked around the cramped place. His eyes met those of the young cashier, who couldn't help but to stare at his charming smile. —Oh, sorry. Silence of course. —He said, as he put his pointer finger on his lips, and hanged his coat on the conveniently placed hanger next to the door.
He wasn't completely wet, thankfully, and after staring for a few seconds, the cashier went back to her work. The Doctor decided to take a look while he was there, as the rain wasn't stopping soon. He strolled around the filled bookshelves, covered bottom to top with books of all genres and time periods. He didn't pay attention to most of them though, he had read a good quantity of them, or at least intended to. After a couple of minutes walking around the place, his eyes caught a book smaller than the others, peaking trough, letting him catch a glimpse of the author. It was written by someone he used to know very, very well.
He stopped dead on his tracks and stared at it for a couple of seconds before completely drying his hands at the side of his dark blue pants and pulling the book out it's place. He hadn't read this one yet, in fact, he didn't know it was even written at all. It seemed so familiar and yet so strange at the same time. He re-read the title in his mind a hundred times.
"Memories of a traveling girl (First draft)" by Amelia Williams. That was all. Black letters on a bone colored cover, that was obviously not meant for sale. This couldn't be her, could it? She didn't write this, or if she had, never with the intent of anyone reading it. He turned the book around, no synopsis, no description. The cover was bland and soft, at least it had been taken care of. Who could have found this? Who could have put this here?
The Doctor walked towards the cashier quite fast, and asked her with a soft tone:
—Excuse me um…—he leaned closer to read her name plate—. … Linda, do you know where did the store get this book?
—Oh, um, it looks like one of the donated pile, we usually don't sell those. —Linda grabbed the book and turned it around, flipped quickly but gently trough the pages and finally, read the title out loud—. 'Memories of a traveling girl' uh, never heard of this one before actually, and we have sold books from this author. It looks like a journal, maybe a relative donated it.
—Checks out. Thank you Linda, and sorry about storming in. —He gave her a slight smile, which she returned while giving the tall man a slight nod, so he would notice she understood his joke.
The Doctor walked to the back of the store, book in hand and a puzzled expression on his face. There was a lonely bean bag laying in the corner. Ruby wanted to put one in the Tardis, but they kept falling trough the railing. He chose to sit in one of the stools on the other corner of the room, and put his mind on analyzing this strange book. He opened it.
First page, blank. Second page, blank too. Text finally started to appear in the fourth page, with the title and author's name neatly centered in cursive handwriting. Next page didn't have a dedicatory, which was odd. —She always writes dedications— He thought. —Even in her drafts.— After passing to the next page, it was when he realized how truly short this journal was, having no more than 1 unfinished chapter at most. It read as follows.
"Chapter 1: Sweet dreams and happy memories ← working title… is it too cheesy?
»My first memory of you, was when i clasped my hands together, praying to anyone who would hear me. My second memory of you, was when you crashed in my backyard only seconds after. My third memory of you, was when you climbed trough your blue box and met my eyes, with a warm smile and wet hair. I made you an attempt at food, i showed you my bedroom, with the hope you would be able to help me with my wall. You spoke using words my seven year old brain didn't quite grasp yet. You left as quickly as you arrived, and promised to come back. You did, eventually, and i was all grown up by then. I looked 12 years older and you hadn't changed one bit. Could it really be you? Where you real? Or had I finally gone mad? As a child, everyone saw you as an imaginary friend. As a teen, they called you a delusion. So I grew up, and I acted like i forgot you, but I couldn't throw away the drawings or the crafts, the comics and the stories i wrote before going to bed and dreaming about traveling with you and my friends, and seeing all of space and time, helping those in need and discovering the undiscovered. You were my escapism, of my lonely and boring life, and you reappeared and saved the world exactly like i thought you would. But, i couldn't help to be angry, as you weren't there when i needed you the most, but could i blame you?
»Now, you have showed me things i could never believe to be possible. You took my husband with us and we became more connected than ever before. You saved my life more times than i could ever count, and he saved yours and so did i. You were family, and you will always be family, but now i can't see you anymore, and i have accepted the fact that i probably never will again.
»I made my choice to be with the love of my life, and i love him more than i could ever love the stars. Still, the memory of you is hard to forget, so i will keep it close to my heart until the clock stops ticking and my time comes, and then, i will meet you again, and you will tell me all about the adventures you had after our last meeting, and how you have kept loving and helping and saving the universe. My daughter visits from time to time, and she has already told me so many wonderful stories, and i dream of the day were all four of us will be together again and i have the chance of telling you about our not so boring human lives. You made me a better woman, and my husband a better man (well, better than he was already), so i wonder if i made you a better person too, and if you find a way, don't be shy to knock the door and say hello. I still leave a plate for you at Christmas, i hope that you keep a space for us on that mind of yours.
»(The next part has two different hand-writings, in two different colored pens) ← Okay, definitely cheesy, and terrible, and boring. Reminder to start over.
Hey i like it! But i saved his life wayyy more times than you :p
STOP WRITING IN MY DRAFTS!!!!"
That was all, the rest was blank, and the Doctor stared at the final page in silence. He couldn't help but smile and before he realized, a couple of tears were crossing his cheeks. He used his sonic on the paper, it was written almost 60 years ago, in 1945, and he could hear her voice as he read her words on the yellowish paper, and picture Rory writing that note at the end of the page after snooping on his wife's work. And he realized how long had it been, not only for them but for him too. How old was he know? How old was he then? His time at the confession dial… how long had it truly been? He sat there lost in his thoughts. Over four billion years since that day. And now he was back in New York, and he was alone again and they were 6ft underground and he decided to stop that thought there and not think about it for long. He wiped the traces left by the tears with his wrist and decided to flip to the final page, expecting more blank pages. Instead, a more recent message was written in cursive and black pen.
"Thought you would like it sweetie xoxo"
—Of course —he said quietly. If someone would have had this book, it was River. Why she had donated it to a book store was beyond him, but she always worked in mysterious ways and he wasn't going to complain. He stood up and with a slight smile on his face, gently picked up the journal from the table and went over to grab his coat. He walked towards the cashier and thankfully, he had sonic'd an atm earlier that day.
—I know you don't really sell this, but i would like to buy this journal. Price is not a problem. — He handed her three bills of a hundred dollars, much to the cashiers surprise. He left before she could get a word out.
It had stopped raining a while ago, and the characteristic smell of New York was stronger than ever. The Doctor hid the small journal inside one of his never-ending inner coat pockets, and walked away getting lost in the new surge of people continuing with their daily commute. Everyday, all the time, he remembered those who traveled with him, and those he lost and would never see again, but not everyday in a rainy day would he get to in a way, hear their voices again just like he remembered.