[Amy's holding him tight enough that she can feel every breath he takes, his chest expanding against her arms with every intake of air--and breathing he is, quick and shallow. Possibly like he's panicking, or trying NOT to panic, or just dealing with an onslaught of extreme emotion.
Her words are echoing and bouncing around his head. Taken away, taken away, taken away ... he'd had nightmares in those weeks following the monastery: frantically searching for Amy, always searching, and never finding her. Searching for the rest of his life without a sign, dying without ever seeing her again, never meeting his child. Or finding her only to see blame and anger in her eyes--'Why did it take you so long?' 'Where have you been?' 'I've been waiting for you, and you never came!' 'You left me. You said you'd never leave me and you did.' 'It's too late, you took too long, I don't love you anymore.' Or finding her, only to REALLY be too late--she was dead, for any number of reasons. The number of nights he'd woken up screaming or crying far outnumbered the nights he slept straight through.
If he slept at all.
Rory wants--so much--to turn to Amy and hold her tight, cry something like happy tears, grateful to have her here with him, alive and whole, but--he can't. He doesn't want to frighten or bewilder her, or make her feel worse than she already does (because he KNOWS she feels helpless).
He doesn't know what to say, or do, or how to react and properly grieve, in a way that won't alienate Amy.
Once again that feeling of isolation washes over him]
no subject
Her words are echoing and bouncing around his head. Taken away, taken away, taken away ... he'd had nightmares in those weeks following the monastery: frantically searching for Amy, always searching, and never finding her. Searching for the rest of his life without a sign, dying without ever seeing her again, never meeting his child. Or finding her only to see blame and anger in her eyes--'Why did it take you so long?' 'Where have you been?' 'I've been waiting for you, and you never came!' 'You left me. You said you'd never leave me and you did.' 'It's too late, you took too long, I don't love you anymore.' Or finding her, only to REALLY be too late--she was dead, for any number of reasons. The number of nights he'd woken up screaming or crying far outnumbered the nights he slept straight through.
If he slept at all.
Rory wants--so much--to turn to Amy and hold her tight, cry something like happy tears, grateful to have her here with him, alive and whole, but--he can't. He doesn't want to frighten or bewilder her, or make her feel worse than she already does (because he KNOWS she feels helpless).
He doesn't know what to say, or do, or how to react and properly grieve, in a way that won't alienate Amy.
Once again that feeling of isolation washes over him]
Amy--I--