Characters: Amy, Rory, Melody Pond 1 and 2, Amy/Rory
Summary — A collection of mini stories set after The Angels Take Manhattan.
AN — Basically, this is a way to capture all the tiny ideas I had after seeing the episode. Should be ten or eleven of them in total, but I’ll keep it open-ended. Four so far.
Amy was plunged into darkness, but the image of the Doctor’s face twisted in grief and desperation stayed with her. She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand to clear the image and the tears. He’d be okay; he’d have to be. She turned to take in her surroundings, her eyes slowly adjusting to the dark.
She looked up to see the top of the Chrysler building rise high above the buildings next to her. Still New York. She shivered as a chill wind streaked up the street and penetrated her light clothing.
In her mind there sat a seed of fear that had begun to sprout; it was threatening to grow out of control and paralyse her with terror so she moved faster, turning and searching frantically. Then she saw him, and the fear withered to dust.
He was sitting in on a step, maybe thirty yards further up the street, head in hands. His shoulders were heaving with sobs, but he wasn’t making a sound. All her instincts were screaming at her to run to him, but all her body could muster was a weak stagger.
His head was still sunk when she finally reached him and she tried to say his name, to break the spell of despair about him, but she couldn’t make a sound. She reached a shaky hand out and dropped it on his head; he flinched in momentary shock before looking up. His expression changed from surprise, to wonder, then relief and unrestrained joy. Amy sank to her knees in front of him as his arms reached out to pull her in. She pressed her face to his neck, his familiar warmth making the pain of loss melt from her bones.
“You’re here,” he said, squeezing her tighter.
“Of course I am.” She kissed the curve of his neck. Her Rory. “Of course I am.”
After a while, they sat on the step, huddled together for warmth. “When are we?” she asked.
“It’s New Year’s eve. Any minute now it’s going to be nineteen forty.”
Amy kicked at the pavement in front of her for a bit. “Remember in Berlin, when Mels said the last time she—”
“Yup. And it’ll be thirty years. At least.”
“We might not be able to actually… find her.”
“But we’ll try?”
He squeezed her shoulder. “Of course. But in the meantime, we wait.”
Amy laughed. “Well, we have plenty of practise.”
“That we do.”
There was a swell of sound from somewhere nearby, and firecrackers snapped and popped somewhere in the distance. They looked at each other, smiling. “Happy New Year, Missus.”
Amy stroked his cheek. “Happy New Year, Rory.”
Every time someone came through the revolving doors of the embassy, a frigid breeze came with them. Amy hugged herself and crossed her legs in an attempt to keep what remained of her body heat inside her body as she waited for Rory. It could have been worse, at least the embassy opened on New Year’s day. It wasn’t, Amy thought, very British of them, but she was glad of their lack of patriotic inconvenience in this instance.
Morning had broken, but the lobby was still dark and poorly lit by sconces. One by one, employees filed in to start a new day and a new year. The lift doors opened and Rory stepped out with a man wearing a dapper blue suit with a tie clip. They talked for a minute then the man motioned for him to take a seat, and then disappeared down a hallway.
Rory trotted over to Amy and sat in close next to her putting a warming arm around her. “Okay, so he believes we’re British now. He kept pointing at things getting me to name them. I think he finally gave in with the scone.” He tried to rub some warmth into her arm. “He’s going to sort out new passports for us now.”
“Just like that? No red tape?”
Rory shrugged. “So he says.”
Amy looked at him seriously. “Rory, are you sure this is the British embassy?”
Ben shifted in his wheelchair; damn thing kept making his ass fall asleep. It was supposed to be temporary, but after two infections he was healing slower than Christmas, and by the looks of things it was going to end up being permanent. Seemed like every ounce of luck he had vanished the day he enlisted.
First week in France his company got shelled, and two pounds of red-hot shrapnel had to be dug out of his thigh. It was the only action he saw, and after a month in hospital in merry old England they decided he was a lost cause as a soldier and shipped him home.
His sweetheart, Ellie, hung around for the grand total of two weeks before making some tearful excuse and leaving him, crippled and without prospect. It’d be just his luck if they needed to take his leg off too, like the doc said they probably would. He’d soon find out as it was almost time for rounds, and maybe if he whined enough, the doc would up his morphine dose.
It wasn’t his usual doc. This guy had fifty per cent less gut and ninety per cent more nose. He wasn’t wearing a white coat either, just a regular shirt. He crouched down next to the wheelchair, and before he could say anything, Ben started. “Where’s the other guy?”
“Doctor Spencer? He’s been transferred to St. Monica’s. I’m going to be taking over the rehabilitation clinic. I’m nurse Williams, but you can call me Rory if you like.”
“A nurse. You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Don’t worry, we still have a doctor on hand for prescriptions.”
“It’s not that. I mean… you’re a man.”
Rory stopped and stared him down, all cool and business like. “In the war when you needed a field medic, he was a man and a nurse.”
Ben grumbled. “Yeah. Suppose. What about you? You a vet?”
Rory looked down at the dressing on Ben’s thigh and started to unwind it. “Yes. A long time ago now.”
“Last time the krauts acted up then?”
“Something like that.” He inspected the wound. “You’ve got some necrotic tissue here; what medication have you been taking?”
“Doc has me on morphine for the pain.”
“You’re going to need to be weaned off that; it’s not helping with the healing. And it has other… problems.”
Ben knitted his brow and stared at Rory but didn’t say anything. He’d let the prescribing doc decide about the Morphine.
“How does it feel when you put weight on it?” Rory asked, stretching Ben’s leg out straight.
“No offence, nurse, but you’ve seen my leg, right? Doc said it needs to heal up before I go walking on it.”
“Well he’s wrong about that. You need to be bearing weight on it or else you could end up losing it.”
“I’ve made my peace with that much already.”
“Well, you might have given up on it, but I’m not going to that easily.” He took some gauze from the cart next to him and started to wrap Ben’s wound up again. “You’re going to take a trip on the parallel bars now before I leave.”
Ben sat back in his wheelchair and crossed his arms. “Look. I know you’re just trying to help and all, but the doc said I needed rest to heal. And now you’re telling me I need to go walking around on half a thigh? Without morphine? I think I’ll stick with the doc.”
Rory put his hand on the wheelchair armrest. “The doc also told you that you were going to lose your leg. I’m telling you you’re not. What have you got to lose by trying my way?”
Ben stared at him. Bastard had a point.
Her usual morning headache had all but passed so Melody stood in the centre of her spring bed. She tested the resistance under her feet. “Preparing for take-off,” she said under her breath as she bent her knees. “Three, two, one.” She looked up at the spot of mould on the ceiling. “Take off!”
She took a small bounce, followed by a deeper one and reached for the spot. She missed it again, but she was certain it was the closest she had got to touching it so far. She landed on the mat with cat-like ease.
There was a creak on the staircase and her heart thrummed. “Miss Melody!”
It was just Doctor Renfew. She blew out a breath and stood up, straightening her dress. He knocked on her door. “Come in!”
He stuck his head around and smiled that weary smile of his. “There’s mail for you; how do you like that?”
Melody furrowed her brow. Mail? That was a first. He handed it to her and she looked curiously at it. There was a stamp with a bird that had red markings over it: New York, New York.
“Well aren’t you going to open it?” he asked.
Melody smiled up at him and then tore it open. She slid out what was inside and stared at it. A photo of a red-haired lady with a little baby.
Renfew was thrilled. “Why that’s you, Miss Melody, when you first came to us. But who’s that lady with you?”
Melody shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“How curious,” he laughed his tortured laugh. “It’s a lovely photo anyway. I’ll get you a frame; I think I have one in the office.” He scuttled away to fetch the frame and Melody examined the photo again.
Her lips hitched into a tiny smile that displayed barely a fraction of the soaring joy in her heart. She knew who the lady was because she remembered her. And the man with the funny bow tie had said, “You should call her Mummy.”