He thinks about Angel Bob sometimes. Sacred Bob, Scared Bob, who spent the last moments of his life in terror. The same terror that had kept him not-quite-fast-enough. Sacred Bob that had family somewhere. And Angel Bob, who was a leader of sorts, or at least a spokesperson. The voice of a collective mind, maybe.
Angel Bob who crawled into Amy’s mind and nested in the visual centre of her brain. That which holds the image of an angel becomes itself an angel. He kept the book, the one the madman wrote. The insane always write the most interesting things. The Doctor still hasn’t read all of it, though. It isn’t especially readable. It was old, but not old enough to predate punctuation. The grammar was really quite inexcusable.
It sat on an empty space of console for a while. Then one day he looked there and it was gone. A week later Amy found it in the library. They had left it there. Amy because she was more than happy to forget about the angel in her eye, and the Doctor because he didn’t expect to meet anymore armies.
That they would form an army at all came as a surprise. It was dangerous for the angels to congregate into large groups. It was near impossible for them to move without seeing each other. And it was probably impossible for stone statues to close their eyes.Besides, the crack in time on the Byzantium had erased a good chunk of their population. There was a reason the angels were called the Lonely Assassins. Any other Weeping Angels would be scavengers.
But such scavengers were still dangerous, and easily capable of causing trouble. Sally Sparrow could attest to that.
So the book stayed on its shelf, in the library, stuck between a Judoon dictionary and a collection of books by H.G. Wells.
He knew Amy had nightmares about it sometimes. About dying in the middle of a robotic forest, of counting down, about angels crawling out of her eyes. About the blind, stumbling trip through the forest. She rubbed at her eyes every few minutes for days afterward.
Little was known about the Weeping Angels. At least the history of them. If they’d had a planet, it was long gone by the time the Doctor had left Gallifrey. They’d had angels outside the Citadel, once. Not for very long though, once the city officials caught scent of them. Other planets had had them. Scavengers.
One quiet evening, when there were no disasters or catastrophes or planets in need of help, he settled down into a battered wing-back chair with the book, and opened to page one.
The only definitive work on the angels, River had said. Written by a madman. Most books like these, even ones from other planets and other species, began with a brief introduction before starting. This had no introduction, or a table of contents. Nothing seemed to be in any order, and paragraphs strayed from topic to topic. Like reading half of a conversation.
He couldn’t help but remember Sally Sparrow, at that last thought. His last regeneration had met her in the street, confused. She’s said something about time lines and laughed, almost, and handed him a packet of papers.
Later, when he was trapped in 1969, he’d used the packet to get the TARDIS back. Left messages on DVDs, reading from a script. And Sally Sparrow and that other one–Larry?–had helped her. He’d written on the wall. He’d done everything, and outwitted the Weeping Angels.
This time, the goal hadn’t been to outwit. It was the first time he’d met one of the angels face-to-face. The only time he’d ever talked to one, through Angel Bob’s animated cerebral cortex and stolen vocal cords.
The book was a sparse, difficult read. He didn’t have the patience he used to, and got tired of it quickly.
The Doctor remembered the cracks in the fabric of reality, the ones that meant the end of all things. The one in the Byzantium. It had required a complicated space-time event, and he’d fed the angels to it. Not himself. Definitely not River.
Rosanna Calvierri’s words came back to him. Can you bear the weight of another dead species? But the angel in Amy’s mind was gone. She could open her eyes again.
The book rambled for several pages about the appearance of the angels. Not so much eloquence as the mindless, repetitive babble of the truly insane. There was still nothing about history of the angels.
They could have evolved, he knew. Or not. Maybe their were nomads. So little was known for sure that his hypotheses couldn’t even be considered educated guesses.
Sacred Bob had died that day. So had the rest of the clerics, and Father Octavian. Only Amy, River and he had survived. The angels, the crew of the ship. Only three survivors.
The TARDIS hummed at him reassuringly. She didn’t like it when her Doctor got quite this angsty and introspective. He rubbed his hand along the chair’s arm, as if petting a favorite cat.
He closed the book and stood up, finding the right spot for the book, not between the Judoon dictionary and H.G. Wells, but at the end of a different shelf, next to a book of Gallifreyan childrens’ tales.