[fic] The Ring
Title: The Ring
Characters: Eleven, Amy (mentions of Amy/Rory)
Word Count: 797
Rating: PG
Summary: She can't put the name she whispers and the face she pictures together; she can't allow them to touch.
Notes: Spoilers up to 'Cold Blood', but set after 'The Lodger'. What I think might occur after Amy finds that ring.
She dropped the red velvet box and the ring clattered to the ground, because it felt like someone was trying to split open her forehead with a crowbar.
"Doctor!" she cried, her voice scorching with pain. She held the two halves of her head together with the brunt of her palms, trying to keep any of the rushing thoughts in her head from leaking out. She doubled over in agony and tried to recognize any one of the thousands of images suddenly flashing through her head. There she is, still Amelia, with a young boy forcibly clothed in a raggedy dress shirt and tie (how does she know that?). There she is, a bit older, Amy now, studying with the same boy, but with a pointier nose (why is he smiling?). There they were, even older, walking on a trail by a small lake (why is she smiling?).
"Doctor!" she shouted again from her position hunched over herself on the floor, and this time she heard his swift, urgent footsteps clamoring through the corridors of the Tardis. He came in expecting everything but to find her screaming blue murder, and almost writhing with pain she couldn't comprehend. She couldn't hear him through the din in her mind, only saw him cry her name and scramble madly down the stairs.
"Amy," he gasped, placing his hands on her back like they could tell him what was causing her pain. They didn't need to; one look at the room and he saw the lone golden ring lying carelessly on the floor.
"No, no, no..." he said thinly, trying to think. But for the first time in nearly a thousand years, he had encountered a situation in which he was completely lost. "Come here," he hissed through his teeth, hitching his jaw together. He tried to steer her to a nearby chair but she wasn't about to comply, all she did was curl over inside herself as if she wanted to disappear, repeating a name which had no meaning to her.
"Why does it hurt, Doctor, Doctor why does it hurt?" Amy gasped for air, trying to put the name she whispered and the face she pictured together and make a person, but couldn't. She couldn't allow them to touch, or space and time might crack.
"It's alright," he murmured, pressing kisses to her hair, "it's all going to be fine Amy just relax... relax your mind, just listen to my voice and concentrate on that, Amy, concentrate,"
But she couldn't hear him; all she could hear was snippets and sound bites of memories she didn't have, of people she didn't know and a life she never thought she wanted. She never wanted what she saw: a silent movie of a tall, gangly, awkward-looking man getting down on one knee with a crowded pub in the background and presenting her with a red velvet box (why did it look so real?), and yet the picture of herself looked so impossibly glad when she mouthed the word 'yes'.
The Doctor was still talking to her, but she didn't want to hear. She didn't want to listen to what he had to say; whether it was that she was hallucinating and what she saw wasn't real, or that it was all true and she had just forgotten.
She wasn't sure which one was worse. At least if it wasn't real, she hadn't lost anything. She still didn't want to know.
The Doctor was struggling against her now, trying to coax her into a less terrifying pose. His hearts were racing his brain to a conclusion, and his brain was quite far behind. He didn't know why, and he didn't care how. He just wanted her to stand upright and laugh it off like only she did so they could sort the whole thing out. Because it was rather hard to sort things out with a girl who was trembling horribly and mumbling nonsense into her ribs and clutching her head as if afraid it would burst. His hands reached for her but she wasn't seeking comfort, only answers.
"Who is he, Doctor?" she ordered, and he was surprised at the sudden steadiness of her voice. She raised her head just enough so that he could see the sharp focus in her hazel eyes through the curtain of hair separating them. She wasn't shaking out of fear or worry, but focus. She wanted to know. She needed to know.
She deserved to know.
"You know who he is," he said quietly, cheating her out of her answer. She trembled against his hands and finally went slack enough to be carried away, narrating past lives and promising yes, she would marry you, whoever you are.
Then Amy Pond fell asleep, and remembered little else.
Characters: Eleven, Amy (mentions of Amy/Rory)
Word Count: 797
Rating: PG
Summary: She can't put the name she whispers and the face she pictures together; she can't allow them to touch.
Notes: Spoilers up to 'Cold Blood', but set after 'The Lodger'. What I think might occur after Amy finds that ring.
She dropped the red velvet box and the ring clattered to the ground, because it felt like someone was trying to split open her forehead with a crowbar.
"Doctor!" she cried, her voice scorching with pain. She held the two halves of her head together with the brunt of her palms, trying to keep any of the rushing thoughts in her head from leaking out. She doubled over in agony and tried to recognize any one of the thousands of images suddenly flashing through her head. There she is, still Amelia, with a young boy forcibly clothed in a raggedy dress shirt and tie (how does she know that?). There she is, a bit older, Amy now, studying with the same boy, but with a pointier nose (why is he smiling?). There they were, even older, walking on a trail by a small lake (why is she smiling?).
"Doctor!" she shouted again from her position hunched over herself on the floor, and this time she heard his swift, urgent footsteps clamoring through the corridors of the Tardis. He came in expecting everything but to find her screaming blue murder, and almost writhing with pain she couldn't comprehend. She couldn't hear him through the din in her mind, only saw him cry her name and scramble madly down the stairs.
"Amy," he gasped, placing his hands on her back like they could tell him what was causing her pain. They didn't need to; one look at the room and he saw the lone golden ring lying carelessly on the floor.
"No, no, no..." he said thinly, trying to think. But for the first time in nearly a thousand years, he had encountered a situation in which he was completely lost. "Come here," he hissed through his teeth, hitching his jaw together. He tried to steer her to a nearby chair but she wasn't about to comply, all she did was curl over inside herself as if she wanted to disappear, repeating a name which had no meaning to her.
"Why does it hurt, Doctor, Doctor why does it hurt?" Amy gasped for air, trying to put the name she whispered and the face she pictured together and make a person, but couldn't. She couldn't allow them to touch, or space and time might crack.
"It's alright," he murmured, pressing kisses to her hair, "it's all going to be fine Amy just relax... relax your mind, just listen to my voice and concentrate on that, Amy, concentrate,"
But she couldn't hear him; all she could hear was snippets and sound bites of memories she didn't have, of people she didn't know and a life she never thought she wanted. She never wanted what she saw: a silent movie of a tall, gangly, awkward-looking man getting down on one knee with a crowded pub in the background and presenting her with a red velvet box (why did it look so real?), and yet the picture of herself looked so impossibly glad when she mouthed the word 'yes'.
The Doctor was still talking to her, but she didn't want to hear. She didn't want to listen to what he had to say; whether it was that she was hallucinating and what she saw wasn't real, or that it was all true and she had just forgotten.
She wasn't sure which one was worse. At least if it wasn't real, she hadn't lost anything. She still didn't want to know.
The Doctor was struggling against her now, trying to coax her into a less terrifying pose. His hearts were racing his brain to a conclusion, and his brain was quite far behind. He didn't know why, and he didn't care how. He just wanted her to stand upright and laugh it off like only she did so they could sort the whole thing out. Because it was rather hard to sort things out with a girl who was trembling horribly and mumbling nonsense into her ribs and clutching her head as if afraid it would burst. His hands reached for her but she wasn't seeking comfort, only answers.
"Who is he, Doctor?" she ordered, and he was surprised at the sudden steadiness of her voice. She raised her head just enough so that he could see the sharp focus in her hazel eyes through the curtain of hair separating them. She wasn't shaking out of fear or worry, but focus. She wanted to know. She needed to know.
She deserved to know.
"You know who he is," he said quietly, cheating her out of her answer. She trembled against his hands and finally went slack enough to be carried away, narrating past lives and promising yes, she would marry you, whoever you are.
Then Amy Pond fell asleep, and remembered little else.