ironically -and unintentionally- am posting this on my own birthday. LOL.

Thanks and love to Sarah for her beta; and much much love to everyone who reads, reviews, favourites, etc. You can't imagine how happy that makes me, and your comments inspire me to keep writing and finish this story.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Doctor or any of his Ponds.

He wasn't sure how long Amy had been doing it –the theatrical groans, eyelashes fluttering like a medieval lady with the vapours- but it must have been at least half an hour before he noticed.

"Having a problem?" the Doctor asked, turning slightly to survey his ailing companion, draped artistically over the stairs. "You sound…" he faltered, looking closely at her, "miserable."

"I am miserable," she groaned, eyes shut. "And it's your fault."

"It always is; isn't it?" he managed after a moment. "But I did warn you not to eat anything on Rahmoth; never trust a race whose primary nutrients come from eating insects to cook an appetising tea."

"It's not a stomach-ache," Amy grunted. "And… wait, what was in those cakes?"

He waved a hand, shrugging carelessly. It was probably better she didn't know.

"Anyway," Amy continued, "it's not something I ate. It's just… it's River's birthday, soon."

The Doctor raised an eyebrow, forehead creasing into a frown. Honestly, people blamed him for all sorts of things.

"River's birthday is not my fault. If anything; you're her mother, the blame for that should fall on you."

Amy rolled her eyes. "No," she grumbled, "I'm not mad because she has a birthday. I'm mad because I don't even know what to get her as a present."

Sometimes, talking to humans gave him a headache. He was a Timelord, able to see possibility and perspective ranging across time and space itself… but occasionally, ferreting out the whys of human thinking was impossibly confusing.

"Pond," the Doctor said cautiously, feeling as bit as though he was inching along on thin ice, "I still don't see how that could possibly be my fault."

"It is, because you're all: 'oh, River; let me kidnap Stevie Wonder to serenade you before he was even born; and I'm going to take you to this planet that is only in orbit every thousand years because I have a space ship and I can do that sort of thing…'" She pretended to adjust an imaginary bowtie; and the Doctor bristled.

"I do not sound like that!"

"You take her to these amazing places," Amy continued as though he hadn't spoken, "and do all this stuff... So what could Rory and I get for her that would be as impressive as you showing her time and space, or saving her when she jumps off buildings?"

"I suggested something useful," Rory said mildly, walking down the stairs and falling easily into their conversation. "Maybe a book… I'm sure there must be some interesting archaeology books out there?"

"She's River," Amy answered through clenched teeth. "I bet she wrote all the interesting books on archaeology! I suggested a new gun."

"Yeah," Rory muttered. "Because that's a great present for our daughter. It's like telling her: with this weapon, we give you our blessing to be violent. That's not helpful, Amy."

"Well, you're not good at this either. Remind me to never let you pick out my birthday presents."

"You don't let me," he said tersely. "You leave catalogues around the house a month in advance, with big notes printed on them that say: 'Amy wants this.'"

"Works, doesn't it?"

Hiding a grin, the Doctor turned away from his bickering Ponds, fingers flying over the typewriter keys as he hastily punched in coordinates, landing moments later with a bone-rattling jolt that he swore the TARDIS did deliberately.

"I think you'll like this," he announced cheerfully, pretending not to see the dirty look both Ponds gave him as they climbed shakily off the floor. "Biggest marketplace in the galaxy waits just outside those doors! Sells everything you could think of, and probably quite a lot you couldn't."

Amy raised an eyebrow. "You mean that if we wanted to find River a monkey dressed in a tuxedo that can play 'Material Girl' on an accordion…?"

"Someone is bound to sell it here." The Doctor grinned as he opened the doors, politely herding the Ponds out in front of him.

He walked around with them for awhile, oohing and ahhing at the displays, poking in the stalls and suggesting various things… but Amy's grumpiness inside the TARDIS seemed to have gone from bad to worse. His every suggestion was met with dispirited grunts, and nonchalant shrugs; until she finally wandered off by herself without even a backward glance.

"She usually loves shopping," the Doctor said. "Is she feeling…?"

"She's feeling…" Rory began, before he sighed. "She's having a lot of feelings right now. Look, I'd better go find her before she gets lost; and anyway, I think that maybe this is something we should do together, just the two of us. Would you mind…?"

The Doctor nodded, sketching a little bow. "She's all yours when she starts having emotions."

"Yeah, thanks for that."

"I'll be in the TARDIS when you're ready to leave. But… Rory? Amy was joking about the dressed-up monkey, wasn't she?"

Rory stared at him.

"I just don't know what River would do with something like that…"

His voice faded off as Rory gave him a noncommittal shrug, electing not to say a word as he walked away… but the Doctor figured there was no need to worry until Amy turned up bearing a chimp on a lead.

He kicked off his boots, climbing with a sigh onto River's bed and began flipping through page after page. The furore around the Universe was on hiatus, so he'd had more opportunity lately to read… except that most days, it felt unsatisfying. So many of her entries now seemed so short… lines, instead of pages describing what was going on in the life of Mels Zucker. A comment about Augustus teasing that he rarely he saw her these days, and he missed his TV-watching partner; and a brief mention of Tabetha telling her that every lady should know how to darn socks (which led inevitably to Mels' firm avowal -after sewing her fingers- together that she was no lady)…

But, he realised rather abruptly, what bothered him even more than the brevity of her entries was the fact that something was missing. There was very little about Amy and Rory… which, in itself, was curious. He'd read pages and pages about who they were in the days before they travelled with him; minute details of what they liked and what they did… and yet now, they barely figured in what Mels wrote about. He paused on a longer entry, his eyes picking up familiar names as his finger traced over bold black circles.

I've barely seen Amelia and Rory these past few weeks, Mels wrote, and not for lack of trying. They don't answer their phones or reply to my texts; and even on the rare days I bother going to school, it seems like all they're doing is hiding behind Amelia's hair, whispering and giggling and snogging.

But this morning I was woken up from my rather uneasy slumber by my mobile ringing relentlessly for about five minutes straight; and my mother's irate Scottish voice screeching in my ear the second I answered.

"Mels?" Amelia barked down the phone before I'd even managed a greeting, "you've got to come over."

"Hello stranger," I mumbled. "And I'll have you know, please is usually the customary suffix to that sentence. You've got to come over, please."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Please. You've got to come over, and come over now because I need your help, and you're my best friend and you are contractually obligated to be here-"

"Amelia, your voice is hitting pitches that only bats can hear." I blinked, reaching one hand out to grope for my alarm clock. "What time is it, anyway?"

"Seven thirty."

"Amelia Pond. You ring me at seven thirty in the morning, on a Saturday, to tell me I've got to come over?"

"I keep telling you; call me Amy."

"Fine. Amy, are you actually ringing me at seven thirty-"

"Yeah, on a Saturday; you said that bit already. Please, Mels… Come on, best friend privilege? Who else could I ask for help when it's important?"

It's a bit frustrating that Amelia's pleading always seemed to resonant with something deep inside me; that childish impulse to obey a parent's command and not disappoint. I sat up in bed, rubbing my eyes and squinting at my mobile display.

"Today is really important," she continued, voice shrill and wheedling at the same time. "And you should be here early to help… so, five minutes? Please?"

Despite myself, I was grinning at the phone as I quickly pulled on jeans, shoving my feet into trainers and slinging my purse –already stuffed full with dress, high heels and lipstick- over my shoulder. It was an important day, March 28th; and while I didn't think she'd forget exactly, she had been so distracted with Rory lately that I hadn't really been sure…"

"Yeah," I told her, racing down the stairs and breaking into a run the moment I hit the street. "Five minutes."

I made it in four, bursting through the Ponds' kitchen door with a grin.

"See?" I boasted. "I'm even early."

"First time for everything," Amelia said, tossing me a balled-up apron. "Glad you could make it though. Come on, put it on and help me get started? We're meeting at noon, and the biscuits have to be done by then."

"Chocolate biscuits?" I asked slyly, unable to wipe the smile off my face. "My favourites?"

"No, lemon." Amelia gave me a curious look. "Rory's favourite."

"Why would you make me Rory's favourite biscuits?"

"Why would I make them for you?" She shook her head impatiently, red hair falling into her face as she vigorously scrubbed lemons over the zester. "It's our one month anniversary today. Can you believe it, Mels? One month with Rory, already." Amelia's cheeks were flushed pink, eyes shining in excitement and she didn't wait for me to answer.

"The weather is supposed to be so nice today that we're going to have a picnic in the park… but I wanted to do something nice for him. Something unexpected! He thinks I can't cook-"

"You can't," I interrupted.

"Oi, best friends should have more faith in each other! I can't mess up biscuits."

She could; she always burned them. It was usually only my intervention that had saved the Ponds' kitchen from going up in smoke time after time.

"Alright," she amended, "I can't always mess up biscuits; better? But even if I do this time; you're here to help! Make sure that even if I burn a few batches, there'll still be some left for later…"

It was a nasty, sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as I looked at her. Amelia Pond, blissfully cooking –or attempting to cook– for her boyfriend… and completely ignoring my presence in her kitchen except as an extra pair of hands.

"Today is important," I finally said, my voice emerging extra quiet against the early morning hush of outside birdsong. "I thought we'd do something… together? Or that I'd see you for a change."

"What are you talking about?" she scoffed. "I see you all the time."

"Not lately, you don't. The last few weeks you and Rory are always too busy snogging and telling each other your feelings to remember me."

Amelia rolled her eyes, wiping her hands off on her apron. "You're being crazy, Mels. We remember you: best friend, lots of fun, usually in trouble… how could we forget?" She gave a little huff of exasperation.

"What's wrong with you? You're sounding all… jealous."

"I'm not," I protested.

"Well, you sound like it," she snapped impatiently. "Like you're mad we're together, when you're practically the one who forced us into a relationship."

"I'm not," I said sharply, "mad. Or jealous. I'm just saying that I never see you lately. Either of you. And I figured today…"

"Today is my anniversary," Amelia said, her attention fully caught on making sure her sugar measurements were level. "We could do something tomorrow, yeah? Just us. Promise."

I stood there in the Ponds' kitchen, a place where I'd always felt so safe and comfortable and at home and just watched my Mother, wishing I knew what to do, or what to say… but sometimes, there's nothing. Sometimes, you're trapped without options.

I suppose I could have gotten angry at her. She might even have understood that; Amelia Pond is not the sort who likes to be ignored… and whether she knew it or not, that's probably an inherited trait.

I could have thrown a temper tantrum that would have put a toddler to shame; could have screamed and kicked and been insistent that they break their plans to spend the day with me, me, me.

Or I could have been silently, and passively aggressive. Walked back out the kitchen, told her to bake her own biscuits and don't call me again until she was willing to be a good friend. She might be trying to be a good girlfriend; but she was being a lousy best friend to me.

But forty-six is too old for that sort of behaviour, isn't it? I am older than my parents; I have seen the world and understand people and human nature… and I know that she wasn't meaning to be cruel. She was focusing on what she thought was more important. Her boyfriend.

And not me.

"Yeah" I said quietly, putting on the apron without a further complaint, rolling up my sleeves and reaching for the flour. "Fine. Tomorrow. If I'm around."

I left as soon as the biscuits were done. Begged a stomach-ache so that I wouldn't have to help her decide on an appropriately stunning outfit and hairstyle; and returned home to spend the day lying aimlessly in bed and feeling sorry for myself. (Even better: the stomach-ache complaint worked on the Zuckers as well, so I was able to skip the extremely unsatisfying tea Janet had made. Her gluten-free carrot cake is just a chewy orange slab; nothing to celebrate.)

And then, when everyone went to sleep and the Leadworth was under the cover of darkness, I slipped out of the house for a midnight run.

I've forgotten how thrilling it is to let my world narrow down to physical sensation. The thumps of my feet on the grass, cool night-time air on my cheeks, moist humidity tangling my hair and making my clothes stick to my skin… I ran and ran and ran; letting my body grow exhausted, while my mind raced along its own paths, my thoughts tripping over themselves.

I'm not jealous of my parents; really, I'm not. I'm happy. Happy they're together, happy that I think my existence makes a little more sense than it did a month ago. And most days it doesn't bother me that they're so caught up in each other that I feel a bit lonely.

But today reminds me of all the things I have lacked in my life –safety and stability and love- and I wonder if my being in Leadworth the last eleven years was only part of a plan to get Amelia Pond united with her Last Centurion… and perhaps the time for me to be here is done. For the first time in a very long time, I thought about New York. Properly thought about it; remembered riding on subway cars scribbled over with graffiti and the stink of billions of people crammed into tall buildings and too small apartments. Noise and smell and excitement in every corner.

I think I might miss it; how it feels to be surrounded by people and things and events going on all around you. It can take you away from yourself by having outside drama to distract you… because it can be lonely, being by yourself surrounded by people.

But perhaps it is even lonelier, being so close to people you love and being by yourself anyway.

That was all Mels wrote; and the Doctor sighed as he skimmed her next entries. Short, one-lined comments about nightmares, about how she got headaches and stomach-aches all the time that made her cross and continually bad tempered; and how Janet frustrated her, asking what she planned to do when she finished school.

Utterly unsatisfying, the whole lot of it. He closed the book, a frown creeping over his face as he went back into the console room to do some cursory checks of the quantum rotators, double-checking the gravitational direction manipulator.

Usually, he loved reading about Mels' life. Loved knowing about what had turned her into his River, hearing her voice in his mind narrating the childhood she never shared. And, even more than all that, he loved that there was usually something he could do. Not to save her, not exactly… but he could always find a way to slip something into the past. It was like giving her a present; giving her a good memory, something to savour that served the double duty of making her previous lives more bearable and easing his guilt.

But this. Humans, the Doctor thought with a sigh. So much potential, so much ability and knowledge and often even compassion… and yet sometimes so blind. So selfish. Forgetting that there was a world outside of their little lives and what they craved.

He couldn't fix what had made Mels unhappy the day she'd written about, because there was no way for him to remind a very young Amy and Rory in the first flush of their budding relationship not to ignore their daughter. That Mels, no matter how brash and obnoxious she might be on the outside was still Melody Pond inside… a lonely little girl, who only wanted the security of knowing she was loved.

It was nearly three hours later when the Ponds finally came back into the TARDIS; Rory wearing a rather deliberate smile, and Amy a sullen frown. The Doctor squinted at them.

"No monkeys, then?" he asked, trying to sound cheerful. "Just as well; I don't think River is allowed livestock in Stormcage. Not that monkeys are livestock, actually. Still; they'd probably assume she was going to dress it up as her and use it to try to trick the guards…" Amy frowned even harder; and the Doctor went over, slung an arm around her shoulders.

"So it's River's birthday soon? What day, again?"

"March 28th," Amy said miserably. "I know; you'll find her something great; and we're stuck giving her earrings."

"Special earrings," Rory reminded her. She shrugged and made an unhappy grunt.

"Why do you look so upset?" the Doctor asked. "Is something wrong with them? Do they still have ears attached?"

Amy elbowed him in the ribs, ignoring his squeak of surprise. "No," she admitted, fingers tightening around the small velvet box clutched in her hand. "No body parts. They're nice. Diamonds, mined in the 45th century, grown naturally in star clusters. I'm sure River will like them."

The room fell in silence, both Ponds looking away from each other and from him, when Amy sighed again.

"Mels had horrible birthdays," she said softly. "The Zuckers gave her useless things, and Rory and I were too young to get her nice stuff… and this is Melody's first birthday. It would be her first birthday, I mean; so it's the first one we're getting something for River and I wanted it to be something amazing…"

"And Amy thinks earrings just aren't good enough," Rory finished for her.

"They're not," Amy insisted. Her eyes filled with tears and she pulled away from the Doctor's arm around her shoulders, running up the staircase. The sound of muffled sobs floated down the hallway until they heard a distant slam of her bedroom door; and then the TARDIS was quiet again.

"She feels guilty," Rory said finally.

The Doctor looked up at him, uncomfortably pulling out his screwdriver to fiddle with the settings and avoid looking at Mr Pond.

"Guilty?" he squeaked. "Because Mels had horrible birthdays?"

"A bit." Rory gave a self-deprecating shrug, and the room fell into a silence so deep, the Doctor began to babble to fill it.

"You didn't know," he stammered. "Who she was, who she really was… not just generally, but for you. And you were children, Rory; you couldn't have done anything different than you did…"

"Except knowing that doesn't make it easier to think about." He sighed, rubbing his eyes surreptitiously.

"Have you…" Rory began, looking very lost. "Have you ever had someone in your life that you cared about, where you think now that if you'd just been smarter, things would have been different? Have you, Doctor, ever lost anyone special?"

He spun the screwdriver around in his fingers, not even looking at it as it flashed end to end to end in his hands. Had he ever lost anyone special?

Too many to count.

"I'm a thousand years old," the Doctor said simply. "I've lost people, Rory. Everyone has."

"But you always seem alright with it. With being that old, losing people…"

"You're far older," he reminded him. "The Last Centurion… two thousand years old, living through the rise and fall of the Roman Empire, through so many eras of mankind. You've known that sort of loss… and I think you know that if you let it, it'll eat you alive."

"Yeah; I've known guilt. Lived with guilt and obligation and the possibility of loss… but I knew –I hoped– that things would be alright, Amy would be revived…

"It wasn't the same for me," Rory said. "I always had hope to keep me going. But what's it like for you? Living all those years, remembering and knowing that what's lost is lost? That there are some things you can't fix?"

The Doctor paused, not knowing how to answer Rory's question… There was something not being said; and while he was usually a bit of a genius at deciphering subtext, he wasn't sure what to say. Not to mention, he'd never want to tell Mr Pond that occasionally, seeing River made him cringe inside. It was never her by herself that he saw… no, he saw her with a shadowy ghost beside her; a ghost with tears in her eyes and a crown on her head, a computer voice intoning a countdown and helpless feeling in both his hearts.

"Yes," he admitted finally. "I've lost people. Sometimes, you know who they are, how much they mean to you.

"And sometimes," the Doctor said quietly, "you don't know until they're already gone. Who they are, or what they'll mean… It's lonely, living like that. Not everyone gets to have hope. But you keep going. Find hope and inspiration in other things."

Rory nodded, absorbing those words and taking slow, deep breaths. His hands knotted into fists at his sides, and he looked away toward the staircase Amy had run up just moments before.

"What's bothering Amy… it's not just that this would be Melody's first birthday." He spoke slowly, weighing each word with care; and the Doctor felt himself holding his breath with a nervous anticipation of what was coming next.

"We have River… but while she's ours, she's not at the same time. Usually we try hard not to even think about it, but when we were out shopping it was obvious.

"It's not that we miss our daughter. We miss the possibility of the daughter we should have had."

His fault. Amy's words from this morning. The Doctor felt his hearts sink a little, and he studiously didn't glance up from the screwdriver in his hands to see the lost look he knew he'd find on Rory's face. His fault for their daughter being gone from them, his fault that they couldn't get her back intact; even his fault that Amy felt he gave River better presents than her parents could ever hope to offer.

"But it's also…" Rory paused, scrubbing his hand over his face. "I guess we don't talk about her much, because… I don't know, we just never did. Amy didn't want to; and I didn't because she would be upset when I brought her up. But before she was Melody, she was Mels. And I think… I think maybe we could have been better to her. Better friends, or more affectionate, or just…

"We could have been more," Rory finished in an uncharacteristic rush of words. "But Mels could be so annoying. Always doing her own thing, or saying the strangest things and living the extremes, getting into trouble… and she was frustrating because even if she was my friend, I didn't understand her."

"I think," the Doctor said honestly, thinking of Mels' diary, "that sometimes you understood her better than you know."

"Maybe. Or, maybe not. She was always just Mels, my crazy friend Mels. But if we'd known who she was we could have treated her better." He sighed. "Amy reminded me: one year, we actually forgot her birthday.

"I know," he continued, seeing the Doctor gape at him, "what great friends we were, right? But we were eighteen, and her birthday fell on our one-month anniversary… and Amy took those month anniversaries very seriously until we hit yearly ones with better presents—" he faltered as the Doctor turned to stare at him, an understanding smile lighting up his face.

"Her birthday. It was her birthday! March 28th, right; that's what you said, March 28th?" He began to giggle; and Rory frowned at him, staring like he'd lost the plot somewhere.

"Sorry," he apologised, managing –just barely- to get serious again. "You forgot her birthday?"

"Yeah, we forgot. Amy said later –when we remembered- that if we should have thrown her a party. But Mels was always so prickly about the whole thing when we apologised. Said who cared anyway; eighteen was just a number and it's not like being that age made her more mature from one day to the next. I could tell she was lying –I could always tell when she was upset, even if she didn't admit to it- but I chose not to make an issue of it. Anyway, I guess she wasn't really eighteen then, was she?"

"No," the Doctor answered absently, trying to remember what she'd written. "She was forty-six that birthday. Though it's not polite to make too many references to a lady's age."

He gave Rory a sidelong look, brain running and leaping and giggling as he thought about what Mels had written, the sadness at being forgotten that had crept through her words… and while it would have been difficult to do it himself, remind a young Amy and Rory not to forget… Well. If they –the proper they, the grownup they- wanted to try to fix a past mistake, he wasn't averse to a little paradoxical jiggery-pokery.

"What if you could change it?" he asked casually, sauntering over to the console, typing in Leadworth coordinates for March 28th, 2007. "Go back, leave yourself a note to remind yourselves that it was Mels' birthday and you should plan a party. Make your anniversary picnic into a birthday party?"

It took a few seconds, but he could see it. That moment when Rory shook his head, blinking dazedly as new memories began to replace old ones, living side-by-side as possibility replaced what was.

"Forty-seven candles." Rory blinked again, screwing his eyes shut tight. "Forty-seven candles, on this huge chocolate-orange cake. We managed everything else, calling all our mates to meet us in the park, getting food and decorations together, but it was last minute so we'd forgotten to get a cake… and I always thought Tabetha had sent it as a surprise because no one else would admit to doing it.

"You sent it," Rory said flatly. "It was you… you sent the cake… you changed everything."

The Doctor shrugged. "Time travel," he said smugly. "And space. Isn't it lucky that I know River's favourite bakery…?"

"We tried to take off most of the candles off," Rory continued, eyes boring into the Doctor's face, "because Mels was only eighteen… but she wouldn't let us. She cried a little –and Mels never cried! – but she said the candles were for wishes, one wish and just a bit of luck for every year of her life… so Amy just laughed, said it was her birthday, she could have what she wanted…

"It didn't happen," Rory protested. "It didn't – but it did, I can remember it both ways… and you can't–"

"I'm the Doctor. I think you'll find that I can."

"You can," Rory said, laying a heavy emphasis on the last word. "But I thought you couldn't interfere in her past; you never would before… so should you?"

Should he? This wasn't just leaving her a present, finding a small way to slip something into River's past to make things better. This was rewriting, plain and simple.

"I promised," the Doctor said, handing Rory a scrap of paper and a pen, a grin lighting up his face. "I made a promise once about not changing even one line."

Rory narrowed his eyes at him, before quickly scribbling a note to his past self, folding the paper and handing it back to the Doctor.

"But you lie, don't you?"

"Sometimes," the Doctor said cheerfully, "I make exceptions."