I - Letters from the Past

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Days. Weeks. Months. Years.

The concept of time was completely lost to the stowaway. The food supply was drying up ever faster, and they knew pretending it wasn't was just a coping mechanism. Delaying the inevitable.

Survivor's guilt still plagued them. It hadn't been fair, they thought, that so many people could be so brutally massacred and they could live to tell the tale, but they didn't have a choice now. What's done was done, and their own survival was what counted.

Weary, waning, and generally worse for wear, the stowaway stood boldly from the corner of the room. Clasping a hand onto a nearby railing for support, they staggered across to the only place they knew could help.

Treading carefully over the remaining bodies, the stowaway winced as they reached the control room. This was their final hope. Their last chance at life, and it all lay in a myth. Desperate times called for desperate measures, they figured. One precarious step after another, their legs finally gave way, and the stowaway fell forwards, only preventing a full drop by throwing their hands out in front of them, and steadying themselves on the navigation panel.

They couldn't tell if the distress signal looked better because they'd found it, or because it was still as pristine as the day it was made. The rest of the navigation panel had to be more than twenty years old, but this button hadn't been used before. Letting out a sigh of relief, they lunged forward, both hands pressing down on the button. It was a dark blue colour with a faint glow, but it was the block white writing on the top that installed the stowaway with the most hope.

Press for
THE DOCTOR

[-]

The TARDIS had grown cold. The Doctor's usual spritely mannerisms has been replaced with mopey depression, and you had only moved twice since New York. To the cliff face, and then back home to Amy's garden.

The home comfort she had so desperately tried to escape was the only place where you could find sanctuary. The Doctor couldn't even bring himself to leave the TARDIS- you had been forced out and into the house a few times to grab basic supplies, and a few trinkets of sentimental value. It was a tough conundrum you found yourself in. You had lost your brother and your best friend in a matter of minutes, and no amount of time could make that any easier to cope with. But you knew how much they meant to the Doctor, Amy especially. There was almost no one he loved as much as her, and you knew he was taking this even harder than you were.

You found yourself stealing secret moments in the house to mourn. It was hard to show your true emotions in front of the Doctor, because you were so used to him suppressing his own grief in order to fill his authoritative stereotype. This has changed him. In the time you had known him, the only time you had seen him this broken was at a mention of Rose.

You'd had a brief catch-up with your dad- he'd come back to Amy's house at almost the same time as you arrived. From his breathless appearance, you correctly predicted that he had run all the way there from your childhood home in central Leadworth. He was delirious- a small, evidentially aged sheet of paper screwed up in his fist. You remembered having to guide him through a course of deep breaths, and seating him down in the kitchen as you boiled the kettle.

'He's gone, [Y/N].' he had finally mustered the energy to say. 'Rory, I mean. And Amy. Both of them. They've gone.'

That was the point where you truly broke down. The roles reversed quickly as your dad stroked the back of your head and calmed you down from your own hysterics. You had to explain everything to him- how you had watched the two most important people in your life be sent back in time- further back than they already were- how you could have done nothing to prevent it, and how you could never see them again. That was when he read you the letter.

Dear Dad, [Y/N] and the Doctor- if it finds the two of you,

This is the difficult bit. If I've got this right, you're reading this letter a week after we left in the TARDIS. Er, the thing is, we're not coming back.

We're alive and well, and stuck in New York, fifty years before I was born. We can't come home again. I won't ever see either of you again, and that breaks my heart. I'm so sorry, Dad. I thought about this for years, and I realised there was one thing I could do. I could write to you. Tell you everything about how we lived. How despite it all, we were happy.

But before I do, I need you to know, you are the best dad any child could've had (I'm sure [Y/N] can attest for that), and for all the times I've driven you mad, and you drove me mad, all the times I snapped at you, I'm sorry. I miss everything about you. Especially our awkward hugs.

I bought a trowel! We have a small yard. I garden. But one more important bit of business. The man who delivered the letter... Anthony. Be nice to him, because he's your grandson.

We finally adopted in 1946. Anthony Brian Williams. He can tell you everything. He'll have the family albums. And I realise having a grandson who's older than you is so far beyond weird, but I'm sorry. I love you, Dad. I miss you. Now pass the letter to [Y/N], Amy wants a turn.

[Y/N]! It's Amy. Rory finally gave in and let me have a turn. Mind you, he didn't leave me much paper to write on.

I need you to take care of the Doctor for me. He's a fragile one, and I know you know that better than anyone, but he won't take this lightly. I don't know how long after we left you you'll get this, but don't let him get lonely. He'll just shatter, [Y/N], I know he will.

We're okay, tell him that. I don't want him to be all mopey and floppy and sad to be around. I found Rory, and we've had the best of times in NYC. The war wasn't fab, I'll give you that, but we managed. My little centurion finally got to fight in a proper war again!

We adopted Tony in '46, I'm sure Rory mentioned that. He's an absolute picture, [Y/N], you would've loved him when he was all cute and gurgle-y. He'll be about 66 I reckon by the time you get this. Which is proper weird, actually. Your nephew is three times your age. Spooky. But then again I'll have been born like twenty years after I die so that's spookier. Time travel is spooky in general.

I'm running out of paper. Make sure the Doctor knows this isn't his fault, and we're happy. He has this awful habit of blaming himself. Don't let him.

I love you. We love you. And we miss you every day.

- Amy, Rory and Anthony (currently aged 12).

You showed the Doctor the letter after your dad had gone home. He had spent the last few weeks in two oxymoronic states- one was the hyperactive Doctor you knew, ceasing to stop for even a second. And the other was the Doctor you had grown used to, who did nothing but sit on the TARDIS steps in silence, tears falling into the palms of his hands that cupped his face. You sat with him as he read, tentatively rubbing your hand over his arm as you held him close. He spent a while staring at the grainy photo of Amy and Rory with Anthony curled up in their lap, and eventually stood up to pin it to the TARDIS' monitor. You took this opportunity to hug him properly while he was upright, and you ended up staying that way for upwards of an hour, finding comfort in each other's presence.

'I just- I just miss them. So much it physically hurts.' he had confessed to you later that evening.

'I know you do. I do too. But they're happy, Doctor. You have to remember that.'

'But they could've been happy here, too. With us. The four of us together. Like it should be.'

'They couldn't, darling.' you smile softly, perching on the chair behind where he tinkered with the control panel. 'Amy couldn't have been happy without Rory, and he was already gone before we were any wiser.'

He didn't answer you, but he put down his spanner in defeat. The Doctor spun slowly on his heel to face you, and sat back against the panel.

'Now. You go back into the wardrobe of yours and you pick out a nice bow tie. We've got an adventure to have, Doctor. You, me and the endless possibility of time and space.'

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