T, 976 words. I wrote a version of Amy’s goodbye based off my theory about the spoilers from filming over the past few days. (Warning: This is the first time I’ve ever cried while writing a fic.)
She has long wrists and delicate hands, and the white of the little paper she’s holding is a mere few shades paler than her ivory, iridescent skin.
“Take it,” she encourages, a feigned strength to her voice, extending her arm so the letter inches towards him.
“Is there a particular reason why?” he asks suddenly, his head snapping up to meet her eye. A crease has formed, a stitch between his brows. “Is it just time, or—”
“Shut up and read it,” she snaps. He doesn’t blame her—it’s to be expected.
She uses anger to disguise sadness. It’s okay. He wishes she wouldn’t, but it’s okay.
He takes it gingerly from her, and begins to unfold. Amy catches his hands immediately, shaking her head.
“If you read it in front of me, it’d kind of defeat the purpose.”
He nods once. Just enough to show her he understands.
“Okay,” she says, and gets to her feet. “I’m going to go. Rory’s waiting.”
He stands, too quickly, losing her balance. “I’ll walk you.”
She’s shaking her head again, and it’s a spiraling, devastating feeling that accompanies the motion, because he realizes: he’ll have to watch her walk away from him. Which he’s seen before, which he knew was coming, which is better than every alternative—especially the ones where she’s carried away limply instead, with the irrepressible ginger just an echo of what was once inside. But still. Parting, sorrow, sweetness.
The people who travel with him have in their entirety only two things in common: they’re always brave, and he always hates to see them go.
They hug for a while, both of them entering the embrace so simultaneously it’s like there’s no initiation—just compulsion. An understanding that they’ll fit. Except they won’t, much longer. It’s a good hug. One of their best. He sniffs her discreetly. She’s the one who finally pulls them apart.
He’s wondering what this body will do without Amy Pond. Will it speak differently? Move differently? Will he think less about alien tea fusions and more about sunsets? When he turns around, will anyone be laughing at him?
She presses a too-brief kiss to his forehead and forces a smile.
He doesn’t say anything. He’s got that wibbly feeling in his lip again. She looks at him with an expression combating sadness, but also expectant. He obliges, shoving a chirp from his mouth, and grinning so broadly that it hurts. “G’bye.”
The smile she gives him is the last look of her real face he’ll ever get, but he doubts he’ll have trouble remembering it.
He stands there and watches until she disappears around a corner and gets swallowed up in the swell of Central Park traffic. Then he traipses, feeling light (too light), to a bench, and settles down.
It is handwritten on a page torn from a book, something he might consider heinous were the content of this letter not more important than anything he’d ever find in the actual pages of that volume.
It is addressed to no one. It begins:
Sorry about doing it this way. It’s easier, and anyhow, I can say it better like this. I suppose it’s not surprising, what I’m going to tell you, but don’t skim it.
We both knew it’d have to happen, you know. Me choosing the whole life with Rory. That was so long ago now. Time flies when you’re flying through time. (I saved that one just for you.)
Thanks. I mean, no thanks too, but thanks. Because you ruined my life and then you saved me, so it evens out. And that’s why I’m going. Everything’s right, now. I’m all right. I’ve got Rory, which means there’s at least one person who will believe all my stories.
So go save somebody else. That’s the order, Raggedy Man. You’ve got one duty in the universe and it’s saving people, and I don’t want to get in the way of that just because you like me best and don’t want me to leave yet. You’re so clingy.
And if she (yeah, she! You’re fooling no one) asks you to shag her, help a girl out and do it. Unless she’s engaged. Or don’t, actually. I keep forgetting you’re married to my daughter (bloody weird).
I know you told me to stop waiting, but the truth is that it’s not really about waiting. Not always. It’s about believing. I’m not waiting anymore and I haven’t been for a long time. But believing, that faith you told me to get rid of? It’s still there. The waiting was always part of that, and now I think the leaving is too, because I believe you’re going to keep on being brilliant. And everyday I’m still alive, it’ll be because I wasn’t killed by Daleks, or the Silence, or couches that eat people, and I’ll always believe that was you. I don’t think we need each other anymore, unless it’s out of indulgence, and I know there are people with real needs out there. I know you can help them. I believe it, so I’m leaving.
I was thinking maybe if I made this out like a selfless act, it would be easier. Reports from the field seem to be telling me it’s not working. Bugger.
I hope you’ll think about me sometimes, because I’ll be thinking of you everyday. Maybe when you see sunflowers.
Please take care of yourself. I wasn’t kidding.
Your friend, always,
PS: Never call me Amy Williams again or I’ll find you, you stupid bloody idiot.
He chokes out a laugh and a few nearby pigeons scatter, confused. Presumably because there’s a man in a bowtie laughing and crying at the same time. She’s right about everything, as he would never admit out loud, but especially she seems to understand that nothing makes it easier.