Characters: Amy, Rory, Melody Pond 1 and 2, Amy/Rory
Summary — A collection of mini stories set after The Angels Take Manhattan.
AN — 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.
Parts 1 to 4 (previously posted)
Try to See it my Way
Rory heard the door unlock earlier than he had expected and got up from his paperwork to greet his wife. “You’re home early,” he said as Amy slipped her satchel from her shoulder and placed it down before working the buttons of her wool coat open.
“I was asked to leave.” She looked up, vaguely sheepish, vaguely defiant.
“What happened?” Rory said, and realised too late that he had failed to hide his disappointment.
“It wasn’t my fault.” She tossed her coat on the hook, picked her satchel up again and strode into the kitchen followed by Rory. Undoing the clasps on her bag, she glanced up at him again. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like I just ran over your puppy.”
“You are.” Amy pulled out her notebook and looked down at the sparse few words she had noted as she sat down in front of the typewriter.
“I thought they asked you to leave?” Rory said, surprised that she had anything to type up.
“They did.” She slipped her reading glasses on and loaded the paper. “But we need a new fridge, and it’s not going to pay for itself.”
“You’re going to make something up?”
He stood for a long moment as he watched her begin to type her article. “Your record’s in my bag,” she said without pausing her fingers at the keys.
He pulled the record out and was about to put it back with the rest when he noticed the handwritten scrawls on the front cover. His chest swelled and he looked back at his wife who was busy inventing a new fridge for them. “You got it signed.”
“’Course I did, stupid. It was the first thing I did.”
“Thank you,” he said and Amy turned in her seat to face him, beaming.
“Any time.” She paused and adjusted her reading glasses. “But just so you know, squeezing a journalist’s bottom—especially when she’s old enough to be your…” She blinked away the realisation. “He should have expected to get a slap.” She tossed her hair back over her shoulder and turned back to the typewriter. Rory stared at the side of her face as she concentrated, not quite sure what to say. Her fingers began to hit the keys again, harder than before. “John Lennon is a very naughty boy.”
An explorer’s life was not an easy one, even when resources were seemingly plentiful. Interacting with the local wildlife was by far the biggest challenge of the expedition; the rats didn’t take kindly to her setting up base in the middle of their well-worn path. They’d rather spend time nibbling holes to get through than go around; that was until she caught one in the act and skewered it with the metal rod she kept for protection. They got the message after that.
Finding food was never a problem when people called all sorts of perfectly edible things trash, but fluids were a different story. New York was big, and it was thirsty work searching for your mum when all you had was a memory of her face. Rainwater would be the obvious solution, if it only would actually rain. But the atmosphere stayed stubbornly dry.
Then one afternoon she hit the mother-load—a crate of soda casually sitting in the alleyway with no one around to claim it. She squirrelled it away amongst the cardboard layers of her expedition headquarters. Twenty-four bottles—she could get at least a couple of more months out of that. Hopefully it wouldn’t take that long.
Then the coughing started. She knew she was better equipped to fight of infection than ‘regular’ people, so at first she didn’t worry. But not worrying didn’t stop it getting worse; it made her sore and shivery, and so thirsty that she carried a soda bottle with her most days.
“Hey kid!” It was Rita Warts and her armfuls of bags. “Where’d you get that soda?” Melody clutched it to her chest. “Hope it wasn’t in the alleyway, ‘cause that wheezin’ you’re doin’—could be serious.”
Melody blinked at her. “What?”
“There’s vermin in the alleyway. Rats.”
She didn’t need to be told about the rats, she knew all about them. “So?”
“They carry disease.” Rita rubbed her chest with a fist. “Killed my cousin, Joe. Best take yourself to the hospital.”
Melody’s blood ran cold as she realised that Rita was most likely right. The rats had their slow cold revenge. There was no need to jeopardise her expedition by going to a hospital though, because she might be dying, but it was all right—she could fix that. It was easy really.