Epistolary: The 50 Years Before We Were BornBy:Maribor
In 1942 Manhattan, Amy contacts Edwin Bracewell & begins a friendship that will last half a century. Through correspondence & journals spanning 50 years she & Rory leave a chronicle of their lives and a legacy for the Doctor to remember them by. Post The Angels Take Manhattan.
Supplemental: Archival Records Marker: Journal Entries From The Diary of Mrs. Amelia Pond-Williams Frequency: Intermittent Entries provided courtesy of Mr. Anthony Brian Williams
25th of January 1944
Currently going on hour 15 in hospital with many more ahead. I got home and found Rory delirious. Half in and out of bed, pale and sweaty and not even remotely coherent. Spartacus was frantic when I walked in the door and now I know why. He lead me right to him.
I helped him back into bed, he was so hot to the touch and he kept grabbing at my arm saying, He'll come for you. It's ok, Amy. It's ok. He'll come for you. He promised.
He was out of his head and I can only assume he was trying to comfort the 7 year old version on me.
I called for an ambulance and I talked to him the whole time until they got there. He lost consciousness as they were putting him on the stretcher and I started screaming at him to wake up. I think they thought I was mad but I didn't care, plus it just made them act a bit nicer and be more reluctant to piss me off. No one upset the crazy lady!
I've seen him like that too many times, Doctor. Did I ever tell you after he almost died because of the Siren I started watching him sleep? I felt crackers in those days, worrying about him, worrying about you, trying to split my panic evenly between you. I just couldn't bear to see him with his eyes closed and so damn still.
They got him to hospital and a chest x-ray showed he had double pneumonia which means he was keeping from me just how sick he was. That doesn't develop overnight. Either that or he's dabbling in self delusion which I think we agreed upon in the marriage vows was strictly my milieu. No matter what, it means I can't exactly trust him to tell me the truth. An ugly habit he picked up from you, Doctor? That whole chicken and the egg thing you're so fond of?
I need you to trust me, Amy. You don't always tell me the truth. If I told you the truth I wouldn't need you to trust me.
And round and round we go...
I'm sorry Doctor. I'm not really cross with you or with him either. My nerves are frayed. I'm upset. His fever was so high and his breathing so compromised that if I hadn't come home when I did maybe...
He was writing in his journal. It had fallen to the floor and I picked it up. I didn't read it, mostly because I was afraid for his life at that moment, too afraid to snoop. But also I respect his privacy. I wouldn't want him to read some of the things I've written in here. The only words I did see were, Dear Doctor. So he writes to you too. I think that's good.
I'm sitting at his bed now, holding his hand with one of my own and writing to you with the other. Is it strange that his wheezing is comforting? It's slow and steady and at least it means he's breathing. He's on serious antibiotics but they said he's going to be ok. That he just needs time to recover and they can attest he's been working really, really hard. He does so much for me, for us...
Doctor, you and I both saw the gravestone. I know, when Rory dies. While I know time can be rewritten, I still know that as it stands now, he lives to be 82. I never saw mine. Maybe I die tomorrow or five years from now. Can you promise me something, Doctor? Can you promise you won't leave him alone, if something were to happen to me. You and Melody are the two most clever people in the universe. You could figure something out. I could be ok if I just knew that no matter what, he'd be ok.
You know how you can watch someone sleep and they look so small and vulnerable and sweet and young. That's how he looks right now. He had the flu once when we were about 10. He had to stay home from school for a whole week. Each day at lunch I'd run to his house to watch cartoons with him. And each day after school I'd come right back and bring his homework. I even offered to do it for him but he said, No, Amy, you'll just do it wrong and then they'll know. So we'd sit there and talk and watch TV. Sometimes we'd still play Raggedy Doctor (I was relentless wasn't I?). My poor Raggedy Man would be sick and I was the only one in the whole wide universe who could cure him. The method usually changed but once, brave boy that he was, Rory suggested that maybe a kiss would cure him. I looked at him pretty skeptically.
That only works in girly stories. I said.
This is a girly story. Plus I'm the Doctor so if I say it'll work, it'll work.
He convinced me. Plus I wasn't going to let something as silly as a little flu make me not kiss him. So I did. He didn't get better, (well he, Rory, didn't but of course the Doctor was magically well again) but he did get a big smile on his face. After that he went to sleep and I sat by his bed and watched him. I just didn't trust anybody to look after him as well as I could. I made sure he drank his water and I reminded him that he should get up and pee, which embarrassed him but I didn't care. I took his temperature time and time again and I think I tucked him into bed so tight he could barely move.
He's still that same, sweet little boy, Doctor. He's my best friend. He needs me to take care of him. Failing that, he needs you.
I'm sorry. I haven't slept. But I mean what I'm saying. Rory's stirring so I'm going to stop writing and just curl up next to him.
Love across the stars, Doctor.
Love Amy and Rory
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