Fic: And a Happy New Year

[yours_truly]

Title: And a Happy New Year
Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating/Warnings: General Audiences/none
Summary: On Christmas night, the lonely god comes to Earth and is born as a human.
Notes: Begins immediately after the 2011 Christmas special. Any inconsistencies with the show are probably due to the fact that I have not seen episodes 6x10, 6x11, or 6x12.

 

 

The mood at the table vacillates subtly between happy contentment and pensive melancholy. Certain topics carry too many complicated feelings to make good dinner conversation, so the talk largely revolves around the feast spread before them. The Doctor loudly praises Rory’s roast parsnips, but he spits out a bite of Yorkshire pudding and gravy. Amy wants to tease, but not even fish fingers and custard can be mentioned without hesitation and uncertainty.

 

When the meal and subsequent cleaning up are over, and Rory is passed out on the couch in front of the tree, Amy walks the Doctor to the front door to say goodbye. The snow is really building up, and Amy thinks she should have grabbed more bread and milk when she was at the shop earlier.

 

“Well, that’s me off then! New species to meet, catastrophes to avert! No rest for the wicked, eh?”

 

“Doctor, couldn’t you stick around a bit? You’re a time traveler--it can’t really matter whether you leave now or in a few days.”

 

The Doctor stands on the steps just outside the door frame and looks up at the sky. The fat flakes of snow make him blink, so he shuts his eyes and exhales, his breath forming a huge cloud that slowly dissipates.

 

“I’m so sorry, Amelia Pond. I wish I knew how to say yes to that.”

 

“I’m sorry, too. You... you told me once that you were running away like I was. You should know that stopping is a lot less scary once you just get it over with.”

 

The Doctor pulls Amy into a fierce embrace and buries his face in her shoulder. She clings to him, digging her fingers into the fabric of his jacket. “Thank you,” he says. “It was a lovely Christmas dinner.”

 

Amy can feel him vibrating as if he’s about to fly apart at the seams, and who knows, maybe Time Lords can actually do that. “You stupid, amazing man.”

 

Finally, she gently eases him away. “Well, you drop in unannounced, eat my food, and you don’t even bring me a present. Off you go, then! Get out!” She tries her very best to smile convincingly as she says it. “Don’t make me get the water pistol again.”

 

The Doctor is not accepting her attempt at a mood switch, though. He stares at her very intently, and then he grabs her hand and pulls her across the road to the TARDIS. His breath comes quickly and shallowly as he says, “Amy, I want to show you something. I’m going to explain it to you, and I need you to listen very carefully, and then...” He finally gets the door unlocked and runs up the steps to the control panel. He turns and looks back at her. “And then I need your help.”

 

~~~

 

Amy stares at the helmet-like contraption in the Doctor’s hands. A Chameleon Arch--no one would argue that hers is an extremely active imagination, but she never would have guessed that the bloody ridiculous thing dangling from the ceiling could re-write a person’s entire biology.

 

A few little transmutation pads over the Doctor’s temples and between his eyes would forge an entire new life for him--while killing his old one.

 

“Absolutely not,” she says. “If you can’t remember anything, if the TARDIS has to create a completely new identity and personality for you... That’s unacceptable.”

 

“But listen, Amy, I think that if you helped, if you used my screwdriver while the Arch was working, I think we could essentially clamp off the memory eraser and simply loop my own life story and memories into the pattern the TARDIS builds. If you concentrate really hard, you should be able to guide her to place me right here in London, to integrate me into your own present society.”

 

Amy cannot bring herself to even dignify his babble with a response, but she thinks he should know by now when she’s trying to convey, You are utterly daft and ridiculous.

 

“Just point and think, Pond. You’ve done it before.”

 

“And what if this doesn't work?”

 

The Doctor smiles gently. “It’ll work. Trust me.”

 

With a quiet moan of resignation and apprehension, she raises her arm and points the screwdriver at the Chameleon Arch. The Doctor places the machine on his head, and Amy would give anything to be able to shut out the ominous buzz that’s building. She starts to take a breath to tell him to wait, stop, this isn’t what she had meant when she asked him to stay, but the Doctor is a step ahead as usual.

 

He quickly flips a switch, and Amy almost forgets to think when he begins screaming; her eyes blur with tears, but her hand never wavers.

 

~~~

 

His chest feels lighter and his head is slightly dizzy, likes he’s been spinning and spinning and spinning and finally stopped dead in his tracks. Standing is difficult, but then balance and coordination were never really his strong points. He’s leaning heavily on the TARDIS’s control panel while Amy waits outside.

 

He strokes one long finger across a lever, but before he even reaches to pull it, the TARDIS lets out a whistle of steam and clanks a bit. The Doctor smiles to himself.

 

“I know, darling. I know.”

 

Perhaps it wasn’t fair to make the choice for her; perhaps he ought to have considered her a bit more. She’s the very, very last remnant of Gallifrey now, and the Doctor knows this is a poor way to thank her for their years together, but she could have stopped the Chameleon Arch if she’d wanted to. Instead, she’s dropped him off for one final journey he needs to take.

 

He taps some coordinates into the key pad, flips a switch, and dings the chrono-bell. After pushing himself off the control panel, he manages to stumble to the railing. As he removes the silver fob watch from his pocket, he would almost swear he can feel a faint heartbeat through the cool metal, but he doesn’t hesitate before tossing it onto the chair to his right.

 

The stairs are tricky, but he manages to make his way across the floor and out the door. He closes it and turns the key in the lock, letting his hands linger on the wood and glass. “Steady on, old girl.”

 

The scraping and whirring sound that is so familiar to him begins to build, and he backs away to stand next to Amy on the pavement. She circles her left arm around his waist and leans her head on his shoulder as they both watch the TARDIS fade into the night.

 

“Where will she go?” Amy asks.

 

“It’s up to her, really. She can time-lock herself just a perpetual instant in the future of the present. She can exit the time-vortex in the center of a sun. Whatever she does, she and the watch containing my Time Lord aspect will be unreachable. Essentially disappeared from the universe.”

 

There is a gap in the snow on the ground from where the TARDIS had been standing.

 

“That’s it, then,” Amy says. “You’re really one of us now.” She sounds a bit stuffy, but whether it’s from emotion or the chilly air, who can say. The Doctor finds it hard to focus at the moment, this single moment, no other moments overlapping or echoing or crying. His collar is damp and cold against his neck.

 

Amy inhales deeply and steers the two of them back towards the house. “Come along, Doctor. You’ll stay here tonight. We can explore what mad human existence the TARDIS has set up for you tomorrow.”

 

~~~

 

Being sleepy is unfamiliar. Being sleepy is weird. At first he fights desperately against the heaviness of his eyes, the fuzzy feeling in his limbs, the inviting beckon of unconsciousness. Dreams are bad, the dreams will be so bad, but maybe he deserves that, and anyway he won’t know until he tries. The feeling isn’t the same, not even close, as the long unwinding of a Time Lord’s energy. When he wakes up, if he wakes up, there’s the promise of a new day.

 

Might as well see what you’ve gotten yourself into.

 

~~~

 

“He’s spending the night?”

 

“We’re going to find his flat tomorrow.”

 

“...His flat?”

 

“He decided to become a human and stay in London. He’ll get a job and grow old and complain about the weather like the rest of us.”

 

“...Okay.”

 

~~~

 

To get to his new flat, the Doctor has to walk for three minutes to find the bus stop nearest the Pond home and then take a twenty-minute bus ride. Upon discovering that the bus is a double-decker, and that (wonder of wonders) the top front seat is vacant, he tells Amy and Rory that they’ve had an auspicious beginning to their morning, indeed.

 

It’s another eight minutes of walking after being dropped off before the Doctor calls over his shoulder, “Not far now! I can feel that we’re close!” The Doctor is practically skipping ahead of the other two, his arms flailing just a little in contained excitement. His hands are constantly fluttering and snapping and tugging at his jacket.

 

Rory leans over to Amy and says, “I don’t understand. How does he know where to go? If he’s human, he can’t do his weird Time Lord intuition-y super-genius just-go-with-it thing any more, can he?”

 

“I dunno, I think the TARDIS, like, imprinted the necessary knowledge in his brain or something?”

 

“OI! All right, you two? Keep up!”

 

The Doctor is on his hands and knees in front of a house with a dark green door, poking around the potted plants. He stands up just as Amy and Rory approach, and he has a key that he is lifting triumphantly. “Knew it was somewhere round here!”

 

When they enter, everything in the flat is very nice, if somehow a bit... generic. There are no pictures on the walls and no food in the fridge. There’s a well-stocked library that the Doctor looks like he wants to spend some time in, but he drags himself away to experiment with the taps in the bathroom.

 

While Amy and Rory are admiring the linen cupboard, full of bright yellow summer sheets and soft flannel duvet covers for winter, they hear the Doctor shout for them from the back garden.

 

The wind is picking up, and the chill air makes them stamp and hugs themselves on their way out to him. For the first time this morning, his keyed-up excitement seems to be replaced by disappointment.

 

“What’s wrong, Doctor?”

 

“I had thought there might be a bouncy castle.”

 

~~~

 

“Good morning, class!”

 

“Good morning, Sir.”

 

In Isaiah’s opinion, the new teacher looks like a total neek in his ugly grandpa jacket, braces, and little red bow tie. Are there really patches on his elbows?

 

Isaiah also thinks that this new bloke is a bit overly enthusiastic for Monday morning. Everyone’s just had an exciting weekend, after all; they can’t be expected to concentrate on lessons again until at least Wednesday. And furthermore, it’s completely unfair that Sir’s mother obviously doesn’t make him brush his hair before he leaves the house in the morning.

 

“It’s wonderful to meet you all, and I look forward to getting to know every single one of you. My name is Mr. Smith. I’m going to be with you for the rest of the year, but I haven’t really been brought up-to-date on what you’ve already covered--your previous teacher seems to have disappeared rather suddenly, something to do with inheriting a house in Tuscany.... Anyway, do let me know if I begin to repeat a lesson. Unlikely, but one never knows!”

 

Mr. Smith is holding his hands in front of his chest, and then he--well, he twirls around, throws his arms in the air, and says, “Lovely, let’s begin!” Isaiah looks over at Alfie, and neither of them manage to stop themselves from laughing aloud, but Mr. Smith doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too busy scribbling notes and diagrams all over the blackboard.

 

“We’ll start off with biology. Caterpillars! Caterpillars are amazing creatures. Can anyone tell me why?”

 

Blessing raises her hand and waits to be called on, but Siobhan beats her to it and asks, “Do you mean ‘cos they turn into butterflies, Sir?”

 

“Precisely.”

 

“But that’s not amazing,” Alfie shouts, “it’s well boring. My sister’s class had a caterpillar in a cocoon for weeks once. And then it died.”

 

The class cracks up, like they always do at everything Alfie says. Emma is yelling something about how caterpillars are gross because they look like worms, George wants to tell everyone about his mum’s butterfly tattoo, and Isaiah is waiting for Mr. Smith to begin scolding them. Excuse me, is this any way for Year 4 children to behave? Boys and girls!

 

To Isaiah’s surprise, the new teacher beams at his students. “Excellent, a dialogue! A debate! I know--let’s all have a wander over to the park. Nothing like making first-hand observations, that’s what we need--”

 

This time Blessing doesn’t bother raising her hand. “Sir, it’s January. There’s nothing but mud in the park.”

 

Mr. Smith stops heading for the door and glances out the window. His shoulders slump. He looks at his watch. What kind of nutter loses track of the time enough to forget that it’s the middle of winter?

 

“Well, no matter. We’ll go to the Natural History Museum, instead. I’ve heard their entomology section is spectacular. Not as good as it will be in the twenty-third century, obviously, but they’re working on it.”

 

All of Isaiah’s classmates start talking at once in a loud babble. “But it’s cold outside.” “We didn’t have any health and safety forms to sign, Sir!” “My mum will be cross if we’re not back before the end of the day.”

 

Mr. Smith holds up his hands, and the class miraculously goes silent. “Listen carefully, everyone. Health and safety is important. Rules can be important. We need to look after ourselves and one another, but sometimes, on rare occasions, and most especially in situations that might teach us something...” Isaiah sits up straighter when Mr. Smith suddenly gazes right into his eyes. “Sometimes it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission.”

 

~~~

 

On the bus ride home, the Doctor rests his head on an arm braced against the chilly window. He thinks something inside him will always feel a bit wrong when the children call him “Sir.”

 

~~~

 

The pitch is muddy, so he has to be steady and decisive as he runs up the left side and spins around the opposing players. Flashes of yellow and red flicker in his peripheral vision, but he tunes out everything except the ball at his feet.

 

The Doctor glances up briefly to look for a clear passage. He dodges to the right of a hulking whosey-whatsit, whatever that player position is called. Driver? Spiker? No matter. The ball shoots through another bloke’s legs, and the Doctor repossesses it on the other side. Only the one man between him and the goal now.

 

His long leg flies forward and the inside of his right foot smacks the ball hard. It flies straight and true into the upper corner of the goal, where no one from the opposing team has any hope of stopping its progress.

 

Teammates clad in scarlet smash into the Doctor, and he’s caught up in a melee of hugs, ruffled heads, and arms pumping victoriously into the air. Usually humans considered it poor manners to shout in other people’s ears, but winning a football match seemed to be an exception to the rule.

 

The clump of players eventually breaks apart to begin packing up and shaking hands with the opposing team. Calls of “Good game!” and “Next week!” ring across the pitch. The Doctor’s progress to the side-line is slow; many people want to shake his hand, and it takes a few minutes to stop and brush off the drying mud on his shins, which was growing very itchy

 

Rory is waiting for him with a huge grin on his face. “All right, Doctor?”

 

“All right, Rory!”

 

“Fantastic game as usual.”

 

“I couldn’t agree more.”

 

The two clap each other on the shoulder and juggle folding chairs and sport bags as they walk across the park to Rory’s car.

 

“Doctor, there’s just one thing you might want to work on for the next game.”

 

“What’s that, Rory?”

 

“You might suggest that everyone run some passing drills with you.”

 

~~~

 

“I don’t understand! Why don’t we do this more often, Pond?”

 

The Doctor is holding a frozen, bright orange drink in a hurricane glass that he hasn’t taken a single sip of, and he’s wriggling around like a five year old while Amy tries to smooth out the sun cream across his face and shoulders.

 

“It’s glorious! Bright sunshine, everyone’s happy, children playing--” He makes like to put his drink down and run into the surf with the other families on holiday, but Amy claps her hands to the side of his face and forces him to look at her.

 

“If you don’t hold still and let me finish, you buffoon, we’re going straight back to the hotel and you will just have to enjoy the beach through the windows of the sixth floor.”

 

He sticks out his tongue at her and puts on his best pout, but he’s no longer trying to escape. Amy continues rubbing the sun cream into his upper arms and adds, “And the reason we don’t do this more often is because when you don’t have a time-travelling spaceship at your disposal, you have to save up your money and make reservations and ask for time off from work. Holidays are treats; they’re not normal. And the only reason we can even afford this is because the TARDIS set us all up with such nice digs and jobs.”

 

“And cars. Don’t forget the cars,” Rory says without taking his eyes of the book he’s reading.

 

Amy rolls her eyes and finally releases the Doctor’s limbs back to him. He pushes his sunglasses to the top of his head, making him squint as he stares out at the bright cerulean ocean. The horizon is a hazy boundary; it’s difficult to tell where water ends and sky begins, causing everything to appear like one vast expanse of unsullied blue. He glances at the camera to his right but doesn’t pick it up.

 

“Come on, boys.” Amy stands up and holds her hands out to the Doctor. “Let’s swim.”

 

~~~

 

The scent of evergreen is perfectly balanced with the aromas wafting from the leftovers on the table: sprouts and ham and fresh Yorkshire puddings. The Doctor likes them now, and it only took twenty-seven times of trying them to get there.

 

Amy, Rory, and he are full and content after enjoying a lovely meal lit by the soft glow of the Christmas tree. A mostly-empty box of Christmas crackers sits in the middle of the table, and all three have tall stacks of paper crowns on their heads. Amy is gasping for air, trying to read her latest joke through the giggles that she simply cannot control.

 

“No, no, no, this one’s perfect, listen! ‘What do you call a row of men waiting for a haircut?’”

 

The Doctor and Rory both try to puzzle it through but have to admit defeat.

 

“‘A barber-queue!”

 

Everyone groans and laughs, though Rory also wants to point out that the joke would have been better had the set-up established a meat theme. “Maybe they were butchers, or--”

 

“Doctor, you do the last one!”

 

The Doctor reaches for the final cracker in the box, and he and Amy pull it apart. After the loud snap! Amy gleefully puts the pink crown on top of the other two on Rory’s head, and the Doctor is delighted by the miniature plastic bowling set he can now call his own. “It’s so tiny and green, what a lovely neon green, how wonderful!”

 

“The joke, Doctor, the joke!” Amy prompts.

 

“Yes, of course, here we are. Ahem. ‘Who hides in a bakery at Christmas?’”

 

Amy and Rory don’t even bother to put much thought into it, but ask, “Who? Who? Tell us!”

 

“A mince spy!”

 

That sets off another round of delight, with everyone declaring it undoubtedly the greatest joke of the evening. Amy reaches to refill her and Rory’s wine glasses, but Rory says, “Speaking of pies, how about grabbing the ones in the kitchen, dear?”

 

“Oh good, I love pies!” says the Doctor. Amy laughs at the both of them and gives Rory an extra glance as she gets up.

 

The Doctor is picking at a loose thread on his sweater when he hears Amy say, “Oi! Gandalf!” from the doorway.

 

He looks up and sees her holding a small chocolate cake. Her face is lit by the glow of one flickering candle, turning it a bright orange that matches her hair, which she’s tied back to keep it out of the way. She’s grinning widely, and once she has the Doctor’s attention, she and Rory start singing.

 

“Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday, dear Doctor! Happy birthday to you!”

 

Amy places the cake in front of the Doctor and drops a quick kiss on his forehead. Rory prompts him, “Go on, make a wish!” so he closes his eyes and blows out the candle.

 

I wish I had done this sooner.

 

~~~

 

Alcohol still doesn’t taste very nice, the Doctor thinks, but something about the atmosphere in a pub is just so appealing. Amy has taught him to at least order something so that he doesn’t look out of place while he sits in the corner and people-watches.

 

Michelle, behind the bar, sees him walk in. “All right, John? Would you like your usual?”

 

“Yes, thank you. How are you today, Michelle?”

 

“Can’t complain, mate. Let me know if you need anything else, yeah?”

 

“As always.” The Doctor smiles and brings his half-pint of lager to his usual corner table where he settles in to grade his class’s English tests. He’s chuckling to himself and considering the virtue of giving Maisy half-credit for writing an obviously incorrect answer in a rhyming couplet when a shadow falls over his papers.

 

He looks up to see a tall woman holding a pint of cider standing in front of his table. Her smile is open and inviting, but she’s shifting her weight from foot to foot and can’t seem to decide what to do with her hand that’s not holding the cider. First she runs her finger up the outside of the glass, then she tugs on her purse strap before letting her arm fall to her side.

 

“Hi! Erm, my name’s Nadine. Do you mind if I join you?”

 

“No, not at all. Please, sit.” The Doctor scrambles to clear his papers and put them back into his bag. In the process, he very nearly knocks over his beer, but Nadine catches his folder while he lunges for the glass. Frozen in a tableau of nearly-averted disaster, the Doctor laughs at himself briefly, then raises his eyes and returns Nadine’s hesitant smile. “I’m John. And I’ll warn you right now, people tend to end up in very messy situations around me.”

 

“Ah, well, what’s life without a bit of mess, eh?”

 

The Doctor’s grin grows wider, and Nadine’s hesitancy disappears.

 

“Exactly,” he says.

 

~~~

 

Nadine Zakarian has fancied John Smith for a while now. When she and her girlfriends go to the pub, she has long kept one eye on the bloke in the corner with the whole absent-minded-professor thing going on. He plays chess, he writes, and sometimes he’s accompanied by a ginger woman and a man in hospital scrubs. These other two appear to be in a relationship, judging by the way the woman has a tendency to loudly declare her love for “Mr. Pond” before enthusiastically snogging him whenever she’s had more than three pints. In any case, Nadine doesn’t think there’s anything more than friendship between the ginger and her bloke in the bow-tie.

 

It takes quite a lot of pushing from her friends (and, she’ll admit, a courage-boosting pint of Strongbow), but her initial approach is, all things considered, a rousing success. She and John talk for several hours about their jobs (he finds her career in computer programming fascinating), their friends (so the woman’s name is Amy), and their families (she is very sorry to hear that both his parents have already passed away).

 

After another two pints (and a very well-received story about St. Patrick’s Day in Portchester in 2007), she is bold enough to ask John if he has been to see the new exhibition at the Tate Modern. He says no, and she invites him to join her there next weekend.

 

On their first date, Nadine and John have a good laugh at the giant web of dental floss in the Turbine Hall, then stroll across Millenium Bridge to enjoy dinner at a pan-Asian fusion restaurant on Fleet Street. They part ways at the Tube station with a warm hug and a promise to meet up again soon.

 

On their second date, John takes Nadine to the Royal Observatory in Greenwich Park. They attend a presentation at the planetarium, and the lights and video are simply dazzling. She looks to John on her right at one point, expecting to see her brilliant smile mirrored on his face. Instead, John looks sad, with his eyes a bit unfocused and his mouth a thin line. Nadine reaches through the dark to hold his hand.

 

When they re-enter the sunlit world of South London, they continue holding hands as they stroll around the park. Neither of them talks much, just looking around at the people enjoying the day.

 

John pauses at the top of the hill and says very seriously, “I just really, really love the stars, Nadine.” He looks at her like he knows he sounds mad, but he needs her to understand something important under what he’s saying. Nadine nods and kisses him for the first time.

 

Her dates with John after that are frequent, entertaining, and meaningful. At long last, a guy who’s creative, loving, sensitive, enthusiastic, easy on the eyes... Nadine knows she’s got something pretty good going on, something that might go somewhere.

 

“Come to Amy’s with me this Sunday, we’re going to have a roast.”

 

Nadine looks up from her computer to glance at John lounging on the sofa, playing with her cat, McGregor. McGregor is batting at John’s fringe while John tries to distract him by gently pulling his tail.

 

“Are you sure it’s all right with Amy? Should I meet her and Rory at the pub first or something?”

 

“Not at all, the more the merrier! They’d love to have you.”

 

“Okay, then. Sounds brilliant.”

 

She picks out a bottle of Yellow Tail shiraz at the shop the next day and spends forty-five minutes choosing an outfit to wear that will be comfortable but smart. She meets John at his place for tea, and then they make their way to the Pond residence.

 

John knocks on the bright blue door, and Nadine can hear Amy call out, “About time, Spaceman! Rory thought you must’ve gotten lost on the--”

 

Amy stops abruptly when she opens the door to see John and Nadine on the steps, John with his arm around Nadine’s waist. Nadine’s smile falters a bit when Amy openly stares at the two of them in shock, but John sweeps in, kisses her on either cheek and says, “Salut, Amelia! This is Nadine, she’ll be joining us. Rory, how goes the day!” Before Nadine can tug suggestively on his sleeve, he bounds down the hall to greet his other friend.

 

Nadine casts about for a way to call him back without making things more awkward, but it doesn’t seem like he’d be much help at the moment, so she’s on her own. She can barely prevent herself from expressing her frustration when she says, “I am so sorry, he made it sound like you would be expecting me. I can go if--”

 

“No, please, I’m sorry, I’m just confused. Who--who exactly are you?”

 

“Nadine Zakarian, John’s girlfriend.”

 

For a split second, Amy’s eyes go even wider than they had been, and she shoots a glance down the hall toward the kitchen where Nadine can hear John and Amy’s husband chatting about corn. When she looks back at Nadine, all trepidation has been wiped from her face.

 

“Of course. Please come in, there’s more than enough for everyone. It’s really lovely to meet you, Nadine.”

 

Nadine sighs inwardly with relief, gives Amy the Shiraz, and thinks that perhaps tonight will be a good night after all.

 

~~~

 

“We’re having tea together. Meet me at the Café Nero on Liverpool Street at half four.”

 

“Now, that’s not a very polite invitation, Amy. I heard no please, no if-you-like, no –“

 

“I’m not inviting, I’m informing. See you at half four.”

 

~~~

 

The Doctor can tell Amy is upset when he arrives at the Café Nero two minutes late and sees her already at a table, staring off into a corner of the room with her arms and legs crossed. Her right foot is jingling a little, bouncing slightly in the air.

 

When he sits across from her with his hot chocolate, his first instinct is to barrel into a story about how much Damilola loved his lesson on Friday about Mayan pyramids, but Amy’s stare is actually quite frightening, so perhaps this is not the moment for prevarication. No, not at all. So instead he timidly asks, “Are you okay?”

 

Her own questions come flying fast, with not a little accusation behind them. Where did you meet her? How old is she? How much time have you spent with her?

 

He answers everything promptly and with, for him, very few digressions, but it’s difficult not to glance over his shoulder once in a while to see that there is still a clear exit path to the door.

 

Amy clenches her jaw for a moment and then teeters as if trying to decide whether she actually wants to hear his response to her next question. “What about River?”

 

The tabletop is suddenly very fascinating to the Doctor, and he runs a hand through his perpetually disheveled hair, tugging at it a bit. “We had a good run, River and me. A great run. You know how I care for her. But it was never meant to go on forever. She had her first and I had my last.”

 

Amy shakes her head. “But you’re married.”

 

“Not really,” he points out.

 

Amy exhales in a humourless huff and gives herself a minute to think by taking a long sip of her coffee. When she puts her cup down, she folds her hands in her lap and squares her shoulders.

 

“I know how you operate, Doctor. If you only want to be with Nadine for a year or two, that’s not necessarily wrong, but you need to be up-front about it. You can’t love her with the intensity that you always do and then drop her when you decide it’s been enough. There’s a hell of a lot you don’t know about human romantic relationships, and you’ve got to be fair to her.”

 

The Doctor nods slowly. “I know,” he says. “I want to try.”

 

Amy still looks skeptical, but she seems convinced that he has accepted the gravity of the situation. “You’re also going to have to lie to her. A lot. She can’t know who you really are.”

 

With an old, old hatred, and the exhaustion of a thousand years, he whispers, “The Doctor always lies.”

 

~~~

 

When the boys take off to go to the loo, Amy and Nadine are left with one another and their ciders.

 

Amy has a sketchbook with her and is tracing the outline of a spaceship. There are two moons in the background of her drawing, overlapping one another slightly.

 

“I’ve always admired people who can draw,” Nadine says at length, just to throw something out into the awkward silence.

 

“Oh I’m not really that good,” Amy says. “I’ve just always done it since I was a little girl.”

 

“It’s too creative for me, I’m afraid, I’m all numbers and facts. I got a C on my A-level in art. Dunno what possessed me to go for one anyway, as I’m hopeless at it.”

 

“Rubbish,” Amy contests. “There are tricks you can learn, a little bit of science to it. Definitely angles and such. I--I teach a watercolor class every other Thursday down at St. Patrick’s. You’d be welcome any time.”

 

Nadine nods vigorously and smiles. “I’d love that.”

 

~~~

 

The Doctor and Nadine are married on a gorgeous day in July. The crowd is not too big, but not too small; Nadine’s got a large extended family, but the Doctor’s kept his side of things limited to close friends and a few beloved colleagues.

 

Amy stands at his side in a long plum dress, his Best Mate. How she has managed to look so perfect after the stag night she threw for him last evening is a complete mystery, but they both look quite dapper, he thinks. He catches her eye and they grin at one another. She gently knocks into his arm so that he will lean over to hear her whisper, “Sure you don’t fancy a quick snog round the back before you say, ‘I do’?”

 

“Amelia,” he warns.

 

“Final offer.”

 

“Somehow I doubt that.”

 

So the only person the Doctor snogs is Nadine, and Amy wolf-whistles at them from the edge of the altar. One of Nadine’s bridesmaids looks a bit scandalized, so Amy blows her a kiss and gives her a wink.

 

The reception is beautiful, and the Doctor feels overwhelmed by the family and friends who all want to congratulate him. Nadine’s nieces, nephews, and cousins keep attaching themselves to his legs and pulling him onto the dance floor where they shriek in glee at his flailing attempts to move to the music.

 

When Rory comes by to give the groom yet another slap on the back, it occurs to the Doctor that he hasn’t seen his Best Mate in quite some time. Rory points to a side door off the entrance hall, and the Doctor quietly slips out to join Amy on a bench in the garden. The evening air is starting to cool, so he drapes his arm around her and rubs his hand up and down her arm.

 

She faces him and says, “I’m really, really glad you decided to stop running, Doctor.”

He gently knocks his forehead against hers and closes his eyes in contentment. “Me too, Pond. Me too.”