Work Text:
There’s nothing Amy adores more than April.
April encapsulates... everything. From the dying of the winter to the breaking of spring, there are ever-blooming daffodils and endless rain showers, blossom sprouting out from amongst the trees. April means getting drenched every time she sets foot outside, watching for the grey clouds swirling just before a thunderstorm. It means coming home to warm clothes and cups of caramel tea, sunlight drifting through wet window panes. But more than anything, April means the Doctor.
She’d met him back then. On an Easter night when the moon was high, he’d dropped out of the sky and given her everything. Of course, he was gone again by the time the morning grass dripped with dew, but in the scheme of things, it doesn’t matter. It’s not the point. She's not thinking about it now. Now, she’s thinking about how there’s a storm raging outside their time machine, and she can feel it. Sitting up on cushions, she can feel the water thundering down so hard that it might as well be raining in the middle of her bedroom, pouring from the ceiling, sliding down the walls, splashing into invisible buckets. Miles deep in a spaceship surrounded by steel, she can smell the dust and the earth and the copper of it all, hanging in the lamplight like grains of starlight. Amy pulls a cardigan around her shoulders, shaking her hair out from under the collar. Petrichor. She loves it. She’ll never stop loving it.
In the maze of orange TARDIS corridors, it’s evening, and the lights are dim. Tracing her way along the walls, her fingertips might as well be brushing against trails of ivy, or Russian vine, flowering gently, damp to the touch. Echoing along the hallway, it’s the stillness that really gets to her. The best thing about the whole month is the places he takes her. It’s quiet. And calm. Casual. It’s not like December, where the Doctor gets so hyper about Christmas that Amy has to reign him in, and it’s not the middle of summer where their clothes stick to them. It’s just… April. It’s the best of both worlds. It always has been. For these four weeks, the two of them are perfectly content to just stay on Earth, have a mosey around lots of different things. She hopes this time will be filled with quiet cobbled streets and the smell of old bookshops, wandering through rugged cities until they run out of cafes to sit in.
The Doctor doesn’t disappoint her. By the time she makes it to the control room, he’s already waiting for her, flashing her a cheerful smile, tucking his thumbs underneath his braces. Amy doesn’t want to tell him that she’s always adored that stupid outfit of his. Not just because he unceremoniously stole it from her local hospital, but because he genuinely looks at home in it. it’s all madcap and science-y, but still good for a hug, and she can’t count the amount of times she’s put her arms around him in the heat of the moment, even if the tweed does feel a bit scratchy against her cheek. She likes feeling his shirt collar when her hand comes to rest on the back of his neck, fingers nestled in the ends of his hair. But maybe she’s letting her thoughts run away from her. The Doctor’s still looking at her, twisting his lip into another smile.
“Anything I can do for you this evening, Pond?”
She only has one request of him.
Less than a minute later, they’re landing out in Edinburgh on 1st April, 1922. Stepping out of the TARDIS into the dusk, the street lights glisten on the cobblestones, lighting the way around the city. Caught up in moonlight, it’s almost like a dream, so familiar yet so brand-new at the time that Amy can’t help but smile, catching the Doctor’s eye. She’s never been here before, but it feels like she could have been. In another life, in another time, in a childhood memory she’s long since forgotten. She likes the nostalgia of it. The odd tinged sadness of it. She supposes April is a lot like that.
Together they walk around for a while, making their way along passageways and out into winding streets. Dim lights shine from windows above shuttered shops, old motor cars parked along deserted streets. She doesn’t know what time it is, but if she had to guess, she’d put her money on at least ten at night. She can’t remember what her clock had said back when it was raining in her bedroom. She pulls her cardigan around her shoulders, and keeps walking.
Eventually, the two of them make it to the public gardens below the castle on the hill. She can only see a little way ahead, but it’s enough to make out a large turquoise fountain, gushing water into the night. Amy’s perfectly happy just to stand and watch it happen, but the Doctor leads her closer, stopping by the basin at the edge of the cobblestones.
He hands her a copper penny.
“Here. Make a wish.”
Breaking out into a massive smile, Amy skims the coin over the surface of the water, watching it plop into the depths with a splash. She doesn’t tell him what she’s thinking about.
After that, the days seem to pass in a haze. A week later, the Doctor’s making her eggs on toast, faffing about in the TARDIS kitchen with a tea towel slung over his shoulder. After he leaves the plates to soak, they end up in New York, watching grey clouds swirl above the skyscrapers. For the whole morning, they while away the time wandering along avenues, swinging their arms together on top of the High Line. Amy brushes her hand against the plants on the walkway, taking a long drink from her cup of takeaway tea. The Empire State Building rises a little way off, the sound of the traffic inescapable. She loves it here. She hopes, whatever happens, that she somehow gets to stay.
Half an hour later, back on street level, she feels the first spot of rain. It spatters onto the sidewalk, leaving a murky spot, followed by countless others as the clouds unlock. A little way off, the Doctor’s consulting a subway map, his arms folded over his chest. Smiling slightly at his determination, Amy makes a point of zipping up her own jacket, tucking red hair under the collar. Loitering by a block junction, they won’t get much protection from the downpour. Turning to a nearby wall of flyers, her smile only grows wider at the sight of the Manhattan Tartan Parade, the sheer mental image reminding her of Scotland and Edinburgh, the first night of April spent tossing pennies into the pool. Rain splashing the side of her cheek, she can still hear the sound it made, copper on stone, sinking into the fountain. The Doctor wanders over to join her, his damp hair already sticking to his forehead. She might lean into him, if he'll let her. She’s still not telling him what she wished for.
By the time they make it back to their little blue box, their clothes are soaked through. Weighed down and waterlogged, their first port of call is to change into dry sweatshirts, settling down into old books and yet more cups of tea. With the April weather mostly miserable, Amy can’t count the amount of time they’ve spent in the TARDIS library recently, blowing steam off mugs, sharing glances under the chandelier. She’s got a craving for green tea at the moment, not that the Doctor seems to be pleased. She doesn’t care. She loves it. She can’t get enough of it. It makes her smile every time he shakes his head disparagingly at it. Looking over at him from across the room, he’s discarded his sopping wet jacket and shirt, and is instead sitting by the fireplace, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. She’s never seen him in a knitted jumper before. It’s nice. It suits him.
A little while later, when there’s a fire crackling in the grate, Amy picks up an old copy of Peter Pan. Leafing through the yellowed pages, she smiles at the chapter titles as they pass her by. It’s a story she knows all too well. The Boy Who Wouldn’t Grow Up. Appearing at the window, showing wonders to a girl in the middle of the night. With its glistening lagoons and pirate ships, Neverland sounds exactly like the kind of place she’d expect to find here, caught up in a time machine with every world at reach outside the doorway. It’s funny. She thinks the Doctor’s shown her everything she could ever ask for already. Even little things like sitting in cafés are earmarked as adventures these days, and she supposes they are, in a way.
Glancing across the room at her jacket hanging up to dry, it reminds her of the Monday just gone, when he’d taken her to Paris in the middle of a rainstorm. Three days ago, they’d been standing on the avenues, looking in vain for somewhere to shelter from the deluge. Eventually, they settled on a little café, sharing a slice of coffee cake, and watching the rain slide down the window. She’d caught the Doctor’s eye, his skin damp from outside. He’d just smiled at her.
She’s come to know him well enough by now to recognise his smiles.
He’s got his madcap magician one, the one he brings out when he’s about to thwart monsters into oblivion, but he’s also got his content smile, the one he offers her quietly in secret places where there’s no one else around to see. That one is the softest one, coupled with crinkled eyes, sometimes with his fingertips brushing the back of her hand. All of those little gestures can usually be added up and translated to: I'm really enjoying being here with you. Amy adores it. The quiet affirmation is worth more than anything.
Come to think of it, she’s seen it happen twice recently, once in the Parisian coffee shop, and then again in Castle Combe, when they’d stopped over for a while in the Cotswolds. A few days after Edinburgh, they were eating lunch in a little village pub, sitting on wooden pews with cushions and a toasted sandwich on a plate in front of her. Across the table, the Doctor had smiled from over the top of their scrabble game, first mischievously, as he put down a word to counteract her go, but then softly, as if to apologise for it, to mark out the moment. He’d reached out briefly to touch her forearm, and Amy doesn’t think she’ll ever forget it. She can still feel the warmth of the jumper she’d been wearing, sleeves resting over her hands, and when they’d stepped back outside into the green leaves, she remembers looking up at the greying clouds, almost expecting it to snow. Sometimes it does in April. Not often, and not for long, but it’s there. It blends in with the white blossom.
Breaking free of her nostalgia trip, Amy comes back to reality in the TARDIS library, still sitting with the copy of Peter Pan resting gently on her knee. She doesn’t know how long she’s been daydreaming of April and snowstorms and smiles, but what she does know is that it’s April now, and she better not waste it. For these four weeks, the world is never brighter. It might be full of swirling rain storms and drenched oak trees, but there’s something in the air, in the sound of the blackbirds, the smell of the petrichor making up for it all. The sound of copper pennies dropping into the pool. It feels like the right time to spend in the company of old friends, and that’s exactly what Amy is doing. Her childhood hero is showing her around everywhere that takes his fancy. She smiles at the first line of the book her gaze focuses on.
Peter, asking Wendy:
Would you like an adventure now, or would you like to have your tea first?
But Amy looks down into her mug, and it’s empty. She’ll have to walk back to the kitchen if she wants any more chamomile. The fire’s still burning across the room, and she doesn’t know how much she wants to move. She’s perfectly content just to sit here, thinking. The tea can wait. She supposes it leaves only one option. Right on cue, the Doctor stands from his armchair, toying with the sleeves of his knitted jumper. They’ve both dried out enough by now, and it’s not usual for them to be sitting here in the middle of the day. This downtime in the library was, at best, a little stopover. It’s time to go now. He walks over to her with a gleaming look in his eyes, and Amy knows he’s about to ask her somewhere. It’s his smile that gives it away.
Fifteen minutes later, he takes her to a little town on the outskirts of Winchester, where there are winding streets and half-hidden lanes, old stone archways curving over the roads. In the shadow of the cathedral, Amy watches as the Doctor strolls along, entirely content to be out of his jacket and shirt for once. He’s stuck the sonic screwdriver in the pocket of his trousers, pushing up the sleeves of his jumper with an air of good-natured delight. It isn’t raining here. At least, not yet.
Ducking into one of the many second-hand bookshops, they’re met with the smell of old paper and leather bindings, shelves towering and stretching back into different rooms. There’s a creaking staircase leading up to the first floor, and, taking the steps two at a time, the Doctor immediately amuses himself with the row of Penguin Classics, running a hand over peeling orange spines. He tells her he saw her reading Peter Pan. And there’s that gentle, hopeful, smile again.
Amy’s flicking through the history section and a pile of LPs when the Doctor suggests they get a move on. If they want to see the ruins of the abbey while they’re here today, they better get going before the light fades. The clocks might have gone forward, but the light’s still fading, and he doesn’t want another thunderstorm on their hands. After all, getting waterlogged twice today might be pushing it. But Amy can’t help but notice the book in a small paper bag he’s got with him now, receipt sticking out of the top. He won’t tell her what it is. Not until they’re back in the TARDIS, at least.
Standing by the door of the library, Amy’s about to sit down by the fire when the Doctor stops her.
“...I got this for you.”
It’s a little brown clothbound book of poetry. Ella Wheeler Wilcox stamped across the front in gold. The Doctor shrugs slightly, although Amy can tell he’s hopeful, hanging on every word she might say. “She was a friend of mine. A brilliant writer. I thought you might like it.”
Carefully, Amy turns it over in her fingers. It must be about a hundred years old, judging by the wear of it, the dappled smell, the list of dedications on the inside cover. The first one, dated Christmas 1912, is written to a girl named Isa. The second one, to a Dorothy in March 1954. It was a birthday present for Jean in November 1998, but then, at the very end, in the Doctor’s handwriting -
Dear Amelia.
With all my love.
April 2010.
If Amy wasn’t going to hug him before, she’s certainly thinking about it now. He might not be wearing his usual braces and tweed, but it’s almost better that way, her arms coming over his shoulders, the side of her cheek meeting soft wool instead of scratchy lapels. Her hand gravitates to its usual place at the back of his neck, fingertips in the ends of his hair, finding it curlier than normal. That’ll be the rain in New York earlier this morning. Flushing slightly pink at Amy’s affections, the Doctor hums quietly, leaning down, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet and holds her until she lets him go.
“...Please don’t mention it. I just wanted to get you something. I keep getting you caught in the rain.” He’s looking at her with all the makings of an embarrassed smile, and if he’s about to tell her that it doesn’t mean much, then she’s not going to listen. If he’s about to let it slip that he does this for everyone, then she’s not going to care. But instead, he just looks at her. “...I may have made some annotations.”
And of course, he has. Of course, he has.
Under the arches of the TARDIS library, Amy curls up on the sofa and opens her new prized possession at the very first page. A part of her is intending to read through every single line with dedication, but the other part is longing to skim through and find the Doctor’s notes, the little arrows and the bunched-up letters vaulting sideways in the margin. She reads through one poem about a manor house sinking into the sand, and another about two planets meeting. Turning the page, she’s met with the first of his annotations. It’s delicate in the top corner.
One of my favourites.
Amy glances at the poem’s title. Optimism. Of course it is. If there was ever a man to see more light than darkness in the world. If there was ever a man to gaze longingly at the dawn, even in a rainstorm, remarking on the colours of the sunrise and the passing clouds over the trees. He sees more good than evil in humanity, and he always has done. He always will do. He’s always saying so. He’s always looking at the people he meets with a gleam in his eyes, calling them magnificent, or extraordinary, believing they can do anything to change anything if they really put their mind to it. Amy can’t help but be amazed at it.
Skimming on a little further, his next notation is a group of little stars next to a poem called Sunlight and Shadow. Whether they’re stars or asterisks, Amy isn’t sure, but she reads it anyway, smiling at the mental images of happiness filling the skies, of gardens and storehouses in spring bloom.
Tucking her legs up underneath her, she reads one poem of her own volition, At An Old Drawer, before turning to the Doctor’s next suggestion. The Room Below the Rafters. He’s drawn a little blue box here, squeezing in the roof lamp between the last line and the end of the page. Next to it is a little ink picture of a cup of tea. Amy spends a second trying to gauge what it means, but her eyes catch the rafters in this room, and she knows. If there ever was a place to drink endless cups of tea, then this would be it. The roof of the TARDIS library is suspended above her like a giant archway, supporting the ceiling and thousands upon thousands of shelves. Upstairs is the swimming pool, should she care to take a dip. Talk about Neverland. Her mind wanders back to the tales of Peter Pan, and truthfully, this is it. Forget the worlds outside the door, all she has to do is look around right here. She’s sitting in an ancient, gleaming temple that goes on forever. Growing up is optional and adventures are a must, even on bad days. She doesn’t think she’ll ever get bored of it.
Twelve years in Amy’s future, in 2022, the rain’s drying off over Edinburgh, Scotland. Or at least that’s what the Doctor says, slinging his newly-dry tweed jacket on over his shoulders. It’s the third week of April, and he’s stepping out of the TARDIS door, claiming to have a good feeling. Amy looks around her at the cobblestones and the little alleyways shining in the mid-morning, and she supposes, it’s nice to see it in the light. No street lamps, no dark nights, just, Scotland. All blustery and breezy and swirling with grey clouds like it always is. By her calculation, it’s been a hundred years since they were last here, at the beginning of the roaring twenties, tossing pennies into the pool. And yet, things don’t seem to have changed much. There’s still the manicured public garden by the shopping parades, still the castle on the hill, still the gushing turquoise fountain with the copper pennies in it.
Amy’s breath catches as they wander towards it. She wonders if her coin is still in there, tinted green with age now.
Passing groups of friends and couples out for spring walks, the Doctor takes her by the hand and swings their arms back and forth absentmindedly. Walking up the gravel path, the moisture’s gone from the air but the petrichor hasn’t, it’s hanging all around them in the dust, making the grass smell like pollen and the stones smell like the sea. Amy’s longing to capture it forever, have the smell of April locked in a glass jar just so she can set it free on command; every time she wants it to rain in her bedroom, or blossom over the skyscrapers in New York.
Together, they stop by the base of the fountain, staring into the depths. The spare change glistens in the dull light, protected from the air that’s turning colder with every passing second. If the sun comes out now, there might just be a rainbow, although Amy’s doubting it. She’s in one mind to pull her jacket closer around her, but she doesn’t want to let go of the Doctor’s hand. It’s a rare occurrence, him making a public show of anything. He much prefers private moments, like offering gentle smiles, and presenting her with poetry books.
Amy squeezes his palm as they watch the water rush over the pennies, momentarily taken by the first flakes of snow slipping from grey clouds.
“What did you wish for?” The Doctor asks, turning to her through the forming sleet.
She thinks it’s time to admit it.
“April.”
It won’t last long.