paradisalost | - thirty-seventh year waiting -

Entry tags:

rory williams

- thirty-seventh year waiting -

[dictated]

[alone on a bed in the medbay on Eleven's TARDIS, Rory Williams wakes up from a week-long sleep. He feels extremely disoriented and doesn't really remember collapsing in the castle lobby--there's so many new memories to process this time around, two thousand years' worth and then some--and he's got a pounding headache. But both of these are minor concerns when, upon regaining consciousness, the first thing he realizes is that he has a heartbeat. A pulse. And he's breathing. Not because he can, but because he has to. Which can only mean one thing:

He's gone home. And he's come back human again.

The realization hits him like a sucker punch to the chest and he makes to bolt upright into a sit, grabbing frantically at his right hand to check for the hinge--except his head throbs like it's been hit with a sledgehammer and a wave of nausea crashes over him. He sinks back onto his bed with a groan, squeezing his eyes shut and grimacing in pain. Okay, maybe the headache's not such a minor concern after all.

Swallowing to wet his dry throat, he croaks out:]

Amy? ... Doctor? Wha ...?

((open like an open thing! Rory's back from a trip home and has been canon-bumped up through Series 6, Episode 7: A Good Man Goes To War. He's no longer an Auton (buh-bye plasticness and handy gun in his hand!) and brings with him a metric fuckton of new emotional baggage courtesy of the Doctor and River Song))

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[he replies without opening his eyes or moving his hand]

Yeah ... I will be. I think. [a long sigh; his nose scrunches] So many memories ...

[that makes her frown. Somehow, she doesn't think he's only talking about all the new memories he gained as a human--but back home, he had never given her the slightest indication that he remembered any of his two thousand years spent guarding her in the Pandorica. She slides her hand further up his shoulder]

They'll sort themselves out.

[he still doesn't open his eyes or move his hand--he's still rubbing at the bridge of his nose--but he leans very, very slightly into her touch]

Hope so. [a pause before he amends] ... They will.

[because they are already--all those memories of being a Roman, and his time spent guarding the Pandorica, had already slammed themselves behind doors back home. It's just the suddenness of gaining all those memories *here* that's got him suffering from a minor migraine. After a long moment he drops his hand away from his face, but *still* doesn't pick his head up, or open his eyes]

What about you?

[the frown doesn't ease up]

What about me?

[now he's frowning back--finally rolling his head to squint at her in confusion, his forehead still faintly creased with pain. He thought it should've been obvious]

Are you--okay?

[she glances down, her hand still on his shoulder, and it's a long moment before she finally replies]

No.

[it was a stupid question. Obviously. But he'd asked anyway, because she'd asked him, and it felt like the done thing to do--ask in return. He stays still through her silence, and a bit longer afterward, quietly looking at her--watching her. His painfully real heart is withering inside his chest.

Then he reaches up to carefully take her hand on his shoulder between his own, and hold it to his chest]

I'm sorry.

[Amy looks up at him then, uncharacteristically subdued; she can feel his heart beating somewhere beneath her hand, and it feels *real*. Which is sort of ridiculous, because his heartbeat hadn't felt fake before, but... she'd known it was a process. Something he could turn on and off]

What for?

[he just ... LOOKS at her. She really has to ask?!]

For--for telling you ... what I did. I shouldn't have, it just--just made it worse for you.

[excuse you, she was thinking more along the lines of him apologizing for whatever imagined failures of his led to her being kidnapped and their baby taken away. She shakes her head slightly]

I don't want you to keep secrets from me.

[he looks stricken, unconsciously clutching her hand tighter; his face is beginning to turn blotchy again]

But ... some things ...some things, they--they're better left alone. [a little guiltily, he reminds himself that he didn't tell her everything] And you have enough to be getting on with, you--you didn't need the rest of it--

[she tries to squeeze her fingers around what she can grasp of his hands surrounding hers, hoping to reassure]

And nothing, stupid. We're in this together. Remember?

But--

[he sounds and feels like a stuck, broken record]

Still ... I didn't want to make you hurt worse. [his eyes close briefly; he's squeezing her fingers back] It's just--

[she doesn't let up on the pressure of her fingers on his, and waits for him to continue]

[he looks away. His hands holding hers droop. Talking about this is making him *think* about it, and he feels monumentally stupid but it's making him a threat to cry again, and he doesn't want Amy to see (even though trying to hide it from her is stupid in and of itself). His vision is blurring with tears and his chin is trembling again; it feels like a gorilla is sitting on his chest and making it hard to breathe. So many *sensations* ... readjusting to being human isn't helping things either. It's a long moment before Rory can manage to speak without completely blubbering]

... I held her.

[and then his cheeks flush with shame and despair, because he's bringing it up *again*]

[a sour sort of sensation drops through Amy's stomach at that; it seems to be made up of equal parts unreality, grief, sadness, and even jealousy. She actually envies Rory having had the chance to hold their baby. That feeling of inadequacy she's managed to quash down since learning what she is suddenly comes back in full force.

And, since she doesn't have the slightest clue of how to reply to that statement, she tugs their joined hands towards her in a wordless invitation for him to scoot closer]

[he doesn't take the invitation. He's still looking away, struggling to get his emotions back under control for Amy's sake. She doesn't deserve to have to deal with this: grief over a child she hasn't had yet, isn't even actually pregnant with. But all Rory wants to do is cry, and cry and cry, and scream and punch the wall and tear down the stones of the castle with his bare hands because he's so devastated and helpless and *angry*. But he feels alone, isolated. Talking to River about this is much too awkward, and right now the Doctor would be doubly awkward. He doesn't want to burden Amy any more.

So he's already determined to deal with his pain privately, alone--aware on some level that doing this will probably push them dangerously close to another estrangement. But he doesn't know what else to do.

--Except resist Amy's pull, and take deep breaths to try and keep the tears burning in his eyes at bay, and stubbornly push at the pain hollowing out his insides. He's sort of doing a rubbish job of it]

[that hurts, him resisting. For all that it's hilariously hypocritical of her to wish it, she doesn't want him to pull away from her, not on the level it seems he's threatening to now. She'd thought, maybe hoped, that they had both grown past that sort of thing--what with finally getting married, here and back home, and starting to explore what it really means to call themselves husband and wife. She meant it when she said she didn't want him to keep secrets from her. And this isn't even a secret--she knows why he's upset. But he doesn't want to share it, and it hurts her. The irony isn't lost on her, either.

So, she tugs at his hands again]

Rory... don't be like this.

[he shakes his head, still refusing to look at her or move closer, but his hands grip hers even tighter--as if he doesn't want to share his burdens, but still needs her presence and comfort. It's an extremely unfair response but he's so torn and conflicted]

I--I can't put all this on you. No more than I already have.

[he just barely keeps himself from saying 'you wouldn't understand'. He slumps even more, and sniffs]

Shouldn't have told you to begin with. It's ... it's not fair to you. It's ... I ... you don't have anything to hope for anymore ...

[and even if he weren't already choking on thick, painful emotion he'd have a hard time articulating this]

[it IS unfair, and Amy has to quash down her old, instinctive first reaction, which is to stomp off in a huff until he feels like being reasonable or she stops being irritated, whichever comes first. She likes to think she's outgrown that, too (even if she hasn't, not completely). Instead, she keeps doing her best to be encouraging]

You wouldn't be putting it all on me, you'd be--sharing it. And...

[she has to take a moment to breathe, because that last is sort of true]

...and--I can hope that--we find her. Bring her home.

[just like Amy has to fight against those old instinctive reactions, Rory is likewise falling right back into his, and he's only just now starting to realize it. With a certain sense of shame, he reminds himself that they don't have to treat pain and hurt the way they used to. They're married now; they can lean on each other. That doesn't mean they didn't before, but ... it's hard for Rory to articulate to himself. Marrying Amy has changed his attitude to her and their relationship more than he thought it would, even if he doesn't show it much. And apparently it's changed Amy's, too, if she's actually saying he can--*share* his burdens.

It takes him a very long moment to humble himself enough to shift on the bed to face her, to allow her to see the wretchedness etched on his face. His instincts are still shouting for him to keep his emotions to himself lest she brush them off or deride him for it]

I'm sorry, Amy.

[he looks down at her hand in his, and brushes his thumb across the back of her knuckles]

It's ... [a sigh] I keep forgetting I don't have to, um ... keep things to myself. Anymore. [his eyes flick briefly up to hers] Old habit I guess. Bad one.

Edited 2011-08-03 16:54 (UTC)

[it hurts, seeing that wretchedness on his face, and part of her wants to shy away from it. But this is something they're going to share, in her future, at home. It's... THEIR daughter. Not just his, not just hers, but theirs. There's no way she's letting him shoulder this grief by himself]

Stupid face...

[she says gently, and squeezes his hand]

C'mere, you.

[still looking at her with pale, sad eyes, it's another few seconds before Rory licks his lips and shifts to scoot toward her until he's as close as he can be, leg, arm, and shoulders pressed up against hers. Something about the way she'd called him 'stupid face' had tugged at his heart--his real, beating heart--and makes him think of that one suspended moment below Cape Kennedy when he'd realized it was him she'd meant all along.

And that she'd already been taken from him.

Suddenly he wants to grab onto her and never let go again]

[unaware of what's going through Rory's head, Amy slips an arm around his waist and rests her head against his, lacing the fingers of the hand she's still holding with hers]

[Rory all but burrows into her side, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to focus all of his senses on Amy--her fingers threaded through his, the weight of her leaning on him, the smell of the soap and shampoo she uses. Anything to keep from thinking about Melody. Except that's impossible, because being so close to Amy makes him remember how she'd looked when he'd come through that door at Demon's Run, the first time he'd set eyes on her in weeks (months). Only the fact that he was carrying Melody kept him from running to her and tackling her in the fiercest of embraces. And he'd tried so hard to stay in control of his emotions for her sake, but he couldn't. His family--his *family*--was reunited together, and Amy was teary-eyed and reaching out for the both of them, and relief and elation and bittersweetness and *love*--love so strong it choked--were all swirling together to make a mess of him. So he cried too, but Amy didn't mind. Neither did Melody. His beautiful baby girl ...

In the present, Rory's face threatens to crumple again and he takes a deep breath, struggling to push the tears back down. He might be willing to physically lean on Amy at the moment, but he still feels incredibly isolated and alone. It doesn't help that he's already spent a lifetime keeping silent and internalizing his sorrows]

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