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 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]

[even though she doesn't know *exactly* what's going through Rory's head, she of course has a very good idea, and she can sense him fighting his emotions. It just makes her tighten the arm she's got around his waist, shifting slightly to turn more towards him. Otherwise, she doesn't know what to do. Possibly, there's nothing she *can* do, or say; and she hates that. She hates feeling powerless]

[when Amy moves, Rory automatically does too, bringing his arm around to clutch at her. He knows it's an incredibly weak gesture and he hates himself a little for it--despite that second, happier childhood he's still not comfortable willingly showing vulnerability around Amy. He's gotten much, much better at it here, but as with them both, old habits die hard]

I was so worried about you.

[the words just tumble out, whispered hoarsely over a hardening lump in his throat. He wants to take them back as soon as they're there, but he can't]

[where he can't see it, Amy frowns, and after a moment murmurs]

It's--it's okay... I know.

[Jesus Christ, she feels inadequate as hell]

[he squeezes his eyes shut tighter against a wave of hot, burning despair in his chest. She doesn't understand. It's not her fault. She *can't*. But she still doesn't understand. She isn't sharing his grief. She doesn't know what to do. All *he's* doing is confounding her more, frustrating her and giving her burdens she doesn't need. He swallows thickly--that need to cry and scream and shout and pound the walls is still there, but he *can't* because Amy wouldn't understand. He'd only frighten her and make her feel useless. And he's said too much already. Even saying he was worried about her has put her at a loss. He can tell. And he wants, SO much, for Amy to understand what he's feeling that it's a literal physical ate eating his heart from the inside out, but--no, he doesn't. He doesn't want Amy to know what this feels like, losing a child.

He can't even express relief over getting her back from the Silence.

His inner turmoil outwardly manifests as him turning quiet and withdrawn again but not moving from Amy's side. His face is pinched with the effort of holding everything inside back, and he might be shaking a little. It's so very hard to allow himself to take what tiny comfort he can in Amy's presence--and it's not much, because of the awkwardness thick between them--instead of pushing her away and folding into himself]

[Amy just keeps doing the only thing she knows for certain might help--hold him, and so reassure him that she's here and solid and, well, mostly real. After an indeterminate amount of time has passed, she asks quietly]

How are you feeling? Any better?

[he doesn't want to tell the truth--he's not feeling a bit better--but he doesn't want to lie either. He's a rubbish liar anyway, and Amy can always see right through him when he does, which only ever makes things worse. So after a pause, he lets out a long, slow breath and shakes his head no]

[she'd meant feeling better physically, at least--Amy feels a little responsible for playing nursemaid to him at the moment, now that he's newly restored to humanity and is sort of like a mole blinking in the sunlight, and she isn't certain he caught on to that. Oh, well. They're fairly well in tune with each other, but they're not mind readers. It's okay.

She squeezes her arm about him gently]

Do you want more tea?

[he keeps his eyes closed, and tries to focus on the pressure of Amy's arm around him, the bloom of warmth that came from that tiny squeeze. It's odd, Amy taking care of him--not that she's never done it at all, but it's a rare enough thing that it feels strang--or maybe it's just him, the caregiver, not dealing with being taken care of well--but it doesn't lessen the comfort he gets from her]

Yeah ... yeah.

[and he sits up to reach over to his bedside table and get his mug]

[Amy disentangles herself from him and leans across to take the mug from him; then she scoots herself to the edge of the bed, hooks two fingers in the mug's handle, and gets her crutches settled under her arms]

[Oh. Shit. He didn't know she meant get tea for him. He sits up straighter in dismay, reaching a hand out to her]

Amy, you don't ...

[she gives him a chiding look that, under the circumstances, is much softer than it would normally be]

Yeah, I do.

[it still does the trick of shutting him up, though he continues to look like he wants to protest. After a he sinks back against the pillows and crosses his arms, looking away toward the window, his face pensive and drawn]

[Amy softens the look even further with a quick twitch of a smile before hauling off to the kitchenette. This time, she makes the tea somewhat milder, and almost as an afterthought adds some honey to it. She hopes Rory will find it a little soothing.

When it's finished, she leaves one crutch against the counter, holding the mug in her free hand, and carefully starts levering her way back to the bed]

[Rory hears her coming, and breaks himself from his silent reverie to sit back up and shift over to her side of the bed, reaching out for the mug as she draws close. He wants to make it easier for her, have her walk as short a distance as possible]

[for half a second she'd actually considered asking the castle for one of its ghosts to help her, but instantly decided that would be way too weird and creepy. Hence, the careful shuffling. Finally, she makes it back to Rory's side, and makes sure he's got the mug well in hand before letting go of it and turning to sit on the edge of the bed]

[he's already carefully shuffling back to his side of the bed, mug in hand and trying not to spill it. He attempts a bracing smile as he settles back against his pillows, then turns his attention to his tea--taking a slow, hesitant sip. It will be awhile before he's used to being able--and actually needing--to eat and drink.

But his face actually brightens a shade as he swallows, and looks back over at Amy in surprised]

You put some honey in.

[Amy shoots him a tentative, careful sort of smile as she gets her legs swung up on the bed, doing her best not to jostle him too much]

I thought it might... you know. Help. A little.

[Rory's automatic response would be to say he doesn't have a sore throat, but he knows that's not why Amy added the honey (though it DOES help the tea go down a bit smoother). She added it because it's sweet. He's always had a bit of a sweet tooth, and on the few occasions back home when he'd been upset or had a rough time of it and she'd taken it upon herself to be the nurse, she'd make him tea with honey. It had been a good pick-me-up.

This time his smile has a little more genuine warmth in it]

It did ... I mean, it does.

[and then he scoots back over toward her, until their elbows are just bumping]

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