Fight or Flight ( Doctor Who Fanfiction )

Death is but a Door

When Amy and Rory rejoined our company aboard the spaceship, it was as if a storm had passed over an ocean, and the water began to fall back in place.

We could all feel the loss of Melody - the baby, that is - profoundly. Knowing who she grew up to be, knowing she grew up with us, didn't change the fact that her parents still wanted her.

Amy wandered the halls at night because she thought she heard crying. Rory met me in the kitchen in the early mornings to drink more coffee than I'd ever seen one man consume in twenty minutes, and started using concealer to hide the bags under his eyes.

The corridors felt quieter, and movie nights no longer rang with their laughter. In the presence of the Doctor and I, Rory and Amy attempted to mask the weight of it, but often ended up just falling asleep halfway into whatever film was on.

One night when the credits rolled, the Doctor removed my ankles from his lap and went to drape soft blankets over each of them, passed out together on a loveseat. Amy was curled up in a nest of pillows, her husband spread out towards the other side of the couch. The Doctor looked down at them both with a grim expression.

"What are you thinking?" I whispered.

He looked over at me like he hadn't fully realized I was awake, and seemed to struggle to find words.

"They're grieving a child," he said softly. "There's no easy way through, from here. It just becomes part of who you are."

I nodded a little bit, lost in thought as I looked on at them.

"Come on, you. I'll take you to bed."

I stood when he offered a hand.

He knew better than to take me to my own room - I hadn't been able to sleep there for a long time, now. I used to think it was haunted by Amelia's absence, but now that she was safe, I had no excuse. Nothing about it felt right, anymore.

Nothing felt right, anymore.

He brought me to the room we shared, with its soft lighting and king-sized bed, but clearly didn't plan on staying. He accepted a kiss under the doorway as a parting.

"Doctor," I called after him, still stuck on the threshold.

He walked back over, hands in his pockets, to lean against the beam opposite me.

"Yes?"

I didn't know what to say. The question I wanted to ask was cruel even to my own ears, and I didn't dare to give it voice. Yet the words had followed me for days.

How do you ask a man who lost his children to describe what it's like?

The answer is, of course, you don't ask.

You content yourself with the never knowing. Make peace with the lives that he's locked away, the people he's been who you'll never meet, because that was always the deal. If you want him, you can't go caring about all that.

I used to be so good at not caring. Something about losing Melody had changed that.

He was still waiting for me to speak, looking on patiently.

"I know the topic of your children is off-limits."

His eyes widened slightly, and he looked away.

"I know. My question isn't about them, exactly."

The Doctor looked like he might like to sprint for his life, but he owed me one and he knew it. He'd come so much further into my life than I'd ever wanted him to when he met my mother. My limits were moved against my will, so now it was only fair for him to repay my hard-won vulnerability with his own.