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))

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[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]

Amy--I--

[she isn't feeling frightened or bewildered, just... horribly lost, and helpless, and devastated-in-advance, and isolated in her own way as well. If Rory feels isolated out of fear that properly grieving for their baby will alienate her, then Amy feels isolated out of a faint fear that he won't think she's allowed to grieve too, because she hasn't lived it yet. She knows that she, herself, in this moment, hasn't got anything really comparable to what Rory's gone through. She hadn't remembered him after his death, after all, and therefore never properly mourned him. All she has are moments during their travels with the Doctor when they became separated, for whatever reason--like during their run from the Silence in 1969 America. They had agreed to split up, of course; it was part of the Doctor's long plan. But that had still done nothing to ease the very real fear and uncertainty that dogged them during those three months, or help how lonely she had been after leaving Rory to strike off on her own.

Remembering those times--they can't possibly hold a candle to his.

So she struggles to take in another steady breath and doesn't ease her hold on him, not one inch, because he's her stupid face husband and she loves him and she's going to do her level best to support him, as well as she knows how]

[the breaths he takes continues to press against her arms. His entire body hurts--his arse, his legs, his arms from leaning on them too long, his back from being in an odd position, his muscles from the strain of being tensed while crying. His face is a mess and so is his shirtsleeve--and he CAN feel that damp spot on his back, and for some reason it's oddly comforting rather than something to make him feel worse, knowing that Amy cried too]

Amy, I--

[he's not even really sure what he wants, or is trying to ask of her. He shifts a little, and pins and needles shoot down his leg as feeling returns to it. It's still unfamiliar and jarring, feeling these physical things. Sighing heavily again, he shifts one more time and, again, seems to tangibly withdraw into himself. He changes he subject]

Come on, let's--um--let's get off this floor ...

[there it is, then--he's ready to move. Whether he actually is or not is probably debatable, but that's her cue. Amy almost reluctantly relaxes her embrace and straightens up again, sliding the hand he isn't holding around to rest on his hip]

Do you want some water?

[he starts to automatically say no, but reconsiders. It might help rid his mouth of the taste of bile and salt. But--

Gently squeezing Amy's hand, he lets go and moves to push himself up off the floor]

I'll get it.

[likewise, Amy starts to protest, then remembers she can't just scramble up to her feet and go skipping off to get him a glass of water herself. (Dear god, are her knees smarting.) Maybe she can... hobble back over to the bed and get the covers turned down. (She's pretty sure Rory's going to be headed their for the duration of things.) So instead of protesting, she carefully watches him move away, waiting until she's got room to reach for something to pull herself up with]

[Rory gets to his feet, joints creaking painfully--ow--and sort of slumps against the sink before he remembers Amy. Stupid, stupid Rory. So concerned about himself he forgot that his wife is on the floor *and she has a sprained ankle*. Turning, he reaches out for her a bit haltingly--he's already anticipating his help being rebuffed, because that's the way Amy is]

Hey ... hey. Here.

[he looks like absolute hell. His face is red and blotchy, eyes swollen and bloodshot from all the crying, skin shining with tears where he missed with his sleeve. His entire demeanor screams of exhaustion and hollowed-out numbness, but there's still concern there in his eyes, for her]

[well, normally, that's the way she is. However, she's pretty certain that she wouldn't be able to refuse Rory a damn thing at the moment, not with the things he's told her, and not with the way he looks. So she swallows her pride and her independence and takes his hands to help haul herself to her feet]

[he pulls her up as gently as he can, hands gripping just above her elbows as soon as she's on her one good foot. Then--still hesitantly--he wraps his arms around her with a surprising amount of tenderness for someone who wants to grab and cling and hold on for dear life.

He stays there for a moment, splayed hands pressing lightly into her back and his face nestled in the crook of her neck, before sniffing once and standing back. He keeps one careful arm around her]

Come on ... let's get you out of here.

[Amy hadn't expected that hug, considering how she'd felt him withdrawing into himself just a few moments before--but she leans into it gratefully, hooking her arms under his and resting her cheek on his ear. Her Rory. Her stupid, adorably bumbling, ridiculously heroic, steadfastly loyal Rory. God, she loves him. And she wishes that he knew just how much, because she doesn't think he does, even though she's done her best since their marriage to show it.

When he stands back, she gives him a faint, watery smile]

And get you in bed, yeah?

[he doesn't, not exactly--though he's had a much better idea ever since she took him back after the Godhand. He consciously realizes that they're far closer here in some ways than they are at home, but he hasn't given a lot of thought to how much she actually does; probably because, unconsciously, he's too used to her *not*.

He tries to smile back, but it doesn't work--it's a pitiful shade of what it should be. He nods]

... Yeah.

[Bed would be brilliant. He looks toward the door going back out into the bedroom proper, and starts to help her toward it]

[and she lets him, slinging an arm around his neck and awkwardly hobbling along--this may be the first time she's ever regretted expanding their bathroom, if only because it makes their walk longer. She's much happier (as it were) when she can sit down on the edge of the bed and stop using him as a crutch]

[Rory pauses with his hands on her shoulders once she's sat down, still looking awkward; probably it's because he still feels uncomfortable having bared his soul in front of her the way he just did, a bit ashamed at having shown so much painful emotion.

Then he leans forward and brushes his lips against her forehead. He might never say it, but he's grateful beyond words for her today. She's put up with a lot from him--and it *means* a lot, to him. He's not so sure the old Amy would have been so gentle and patient and understanding]

I'll be right back.

[he gently squeezes her shoulders before disappearing back into the bathroom. There's the brief sound of running water, and then a space of silence too long for Rory to bring a glass of water back, or even drink a small glass on the spot and leave the cup behind. But then he's back, bringing a half-full small glass with him, setting it on his bedside table and sighing before sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to her, shoulders slumped]

[Amy watches him until he disappears through the bathroom door, the touch of his lips tingling faintly on her skin. After a moment, she shifts around to get the covers pulled down and pat their pillows back into place; it barely takes her a minute, and when she's finished and Rory hasn't come back out yet, she frowns minutely at the open door. Then she silently hems and haws over getting undressed before deciding not to just yet.

When Rory does finally return, she doesn't needle him about what he was doing--she can make a decently educated guess, something along the lines of trying to gather the shredded remains of his manly dignity. Instead, she swings her legs up onto the bed and drags herself over to his side, sliding her arms around him from behind again and propping her chin on his shoulder. A beat later, she starts plucking at the buttons on his shirt]

[he doesn't protest or bat her hands away; just lets her undo the buttons one by one, tilting his head to rest it against hers as she gets the third one open. Closing his eyes, he concentrates on breathing (breathing! Actual air going into real lungs that need it!) and the warmth seeping into him from Amy's body, the way his own is lightly jostled as she moves nimble fingers down his shirt. He wonders for a moment if his grief would be any less if he also weren't dealing with the details of being returned to a flesh-and-blood human body, but then; no. No, it wouldn't be any better. Not at all. His Auton body would have recreated the tears and the snot and the crushing sensation of his heart breaking all the same.

When Amy reaches the bottom of his shirt and is getting the last buttons undone he sighs, long and slow, and mumbles]

I love you.

[she's a little surprised that he didn't react to her undoing his shirt, but again, makes no comment. She'll just be glad that he's letting her. It's something she's always enjoyed doing, with or without ulterior motives. Pushing the last button through, she turns her head to press a kiss to his neck and then straightens up to pull his shirt away and down his arms]

I know you do.

[Rory obediently holds his arms out a bit so Amy can easily get his shirt off; as she does away with it, his hands go to the hem of his t-shirt, but he pauses to look back in her direction before he starts to pull it off as well. His skin where she kissed his neck is tingling]

Glad I'm back?

[her answering smile is very small, but very genuine]

Yeah.

[and, having tossed his shirt across the bed onto the floor, she reaches to pluck at the hem of his T-shirt herself, gently sliding her hands beneath it]

[and he can't help it--he's still suffering from some sensory overload, and the touch of her hands on the skin of his back, so gentle and light and soft, makes him arch, sucking in a breath through his nostrils as his eyes fall shut. It's as if every tiny hair on his upper body is suddenly standing on end and shocks of sensation are rippling out across his muscles, spreading gooseflesh in their wake. His mouth falls open in a silent, slightly comical 'oh!' of surprise]

[and that stops her short, her mouth quirking in its own expression of surprise. She hadn't mean to--shock him, or tickle him, or turn him on, or whatever it was she just did. All her ulterior motives might as well be in another dimension, for how much she *isn't* thinking about them right now. Carefully, she makes her touch a little more firm before angling her hands to get her thumbs hooked over the hem of his T-shirt, then slides them up his back]

[that--is much better. He thinks. Her touch is more clinical now without being too cold, serving a clear purpose, and not firing off every nerve ending in his body with a scream of 'OH MY'. The arch of his back relaxes, and it isn't until Amy gets his shirt up to his armpits that Rory realizes he's sitting like a useless lump while she undresses him like he's an invalid, and he feels a rush of shame. Hastily, he moves to grab at his shirt from the front and, together, they get it off over his head.

Then he's turning and looking guiltily at her]

Sorry. I, um ... I'll get the rest. Right--

[he turns back to face the bedside table and reaching to take a sip of his water before standing and undoing the button and zipper on his jeans. What with way he's adjusting, he's almost afraid to see how he'd react to Amy doing this part]

I didn't mind, silly.

[she gives him another small but genuine smile and, when he stands up, decides now is probably a good moment to get undressed herself. She's been wearing long, loose skirts since her foot's been in a cast, so it isn't a difficult task. It and her knickers get pulled off first, followed by her top and then her bra; all four items of clothing get tossed in the same direction as Rory's shirt]

Right----

[he almost said 'I know you didn't', except--he doesn't. He's so unsure of everything right now: how to go on living, how to deal, even--yes--where he stands with Amy. Because this, the knowledge he brought back with him, has changed everything. Yes, she's being uncommonly gentle and attentive and she said it's not his fault, but maybe--she's just saying that. After all, she hadn't believed him at first when he tried to reassure her he loved her just the same as a Flesh copy. Maybe she really is angry and resentful of him now, and just successfully hiding it.

His trainers and socks get kicked off, followed by his jeans and boxers being limply dropped to the ground at the side of the bed. Then he's turning to climb into bed, slipping between the sheets and stretching out flat on his back, looking sightlessly up at the ceiling above him]

[Amy gets beneath the covers somewhat less elegantly and, since Rory's already stretched out, moves to curl up against him]

[Rory automatically shifts to wriggle an arm beneath her, curling it around her shoulders once they're both resettled comfortably, and pulling her close. It's a habit borne of countless nights spent together and Rory is suddenly extremely grateful for the familiarity of it, the normalcy.

Even if, at the same time, feeling Amy naked and flush warm against him after what he just went through makes him want to break down again. They'd been apart for so long--longer, really, than they'd both thought. He's seized with the sudden urge to roll toward her, wrap himself around her like a pretzel, and never let go. Never leave the bed; never leave her.

But since the deep depression he's teetering on the brink of has the strongest hold out of them all right now, he simply turns his face toward hers--not caring so much anymore that he looks a wreck, if only because he doesn't even have the strength to care]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject