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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Oh god--

[he's sliding off the bed after her almost before she hits the floor, ignoring how the sudden movement makes his head throb. Then he's gripping her arms and tugging her toward him as he checks her over]

Amy, Amy, are you okay? I'm sorry!

[he's missed. AGAIN. And it's stupid to equate failing to catch Amy falling out of a chair to failing to notice she was a Flesh copy, or failing to rescue Melody, but he does. He's already beating himself up for it in his mind and struggling not to cry again as his hands flutter nervously at her. Grief and guilt and anger have twisted his perception and turned a simple accident he had no control over into a monumental screw-up]

[now the pain's starting to register: a sort of creeping, hard numbness, more blunt where Rory's fingers press into her wrenched arm. And then she remembers that she's supposed to be taking care of him, he was in pain, and she reaches to hold his arms in turn]

Don't--your headache--

[--is the most inconsequential thing in the world right now, but it's something she has control over]

[he shakes his head and scoots closer, brushing off her concern even as his cheek twitches from the throbbing]

But you--that was a hard fall--

[this might turn into a battle of wills, or who wants to forget more by distraction]

[she sees that twitch, and lifts a hand to smooth her fingertips over it--and oh god, it's his real human skin, he's human again, and the barest ghost of a smile flickers across her face]

You've got a twitch.

[his face has a flush too, his cheeks and nose red and blotchy from being upset. As an Auton even when he'd cried or gotten embarrassed or angry, his skin had stayed pale. He flinches slightly at the unexpected gentleness and murmurs]

Do I?

[what does it matter if he's got a twitch? They've lost their baby girl and he's just let her take a bad tumble. She should be angry at him, or upset, not touching him like he's important. (Nevermind that at Demon's Run she'd clung to him like he was the last solid thing in the universe.) He pushes up to his knees and makes as if to scoop her up in his arms]

Come on--up you get ...

[she squeezes his arm to stay him for a moment, shifting her fingertips to let her palm rest on his cheek]

And you're all blotchy and--your eyes are red...

[it goes straight over his head because it's such a non-issue right now: his joy over realizing he was human again had been very short-lived in the face of everything else. He blinks at her and sinks back on his haunches a little, frowning]

I ... sorry about that. For, um ... for crying.

[sniffs awkwardly and looks askance. Thinking about how he was just crying is making is chin tremble again. Dammit]

Shut up.

[she replies, not unkindly. She doesn't doesn't think he has to, or NEEDS to, apologize. Not for this. Never for this. She keeps her hand on his cheek]

Is the--the light still hurting you?

[blinks again, and unconsciously tilts his face into her hand just a fraction]

Uh--no, not ... not--I'll be fine, it's not that bad.

[man translation: it hurts like a bitch]

[Amy can read you, Rory. And so, it seems, can the TARDIS--he's the pretty one now, after all. As if on cue, the lights in the medbay dim to a more tolerable level. Amy glances up at the ceiling for a moment and breathes a quiet sigh of relief, then turns back to Rory]

Let's get you back on the bed, yeah?

[he doesn't say anything about it, but the relief on his face is palpable, and he stops squinting as badly]

You're the one who fell ...

[but it's a feeble protest, and he's rising back up on his knees and reaching out for her again]

[she lets the hand on his cheek go back to hold his arm again, and moves to get her good leg under her]

You're the one who's not used to being human.

[he flinches and does a double-take in the midst of getting his hands under her armpits. He'd completely forgotten about that for a little while]

Ah ... right.

[gives him a very weak smile as he pulls her up]

[standing back up, and pulling her with him, makes him dizzy and he sways on the spot for a second before maneuvering Amy to lean against the bed before planting a hand on the mattress to recenter his equilibrium]

Sorry--just--[gestures at his head]]--need a moment.

[not used to being human, indeed. It feels like all his senses are thrown wide open and he can HEAR the blood rushing through his veins, feel the air circulating in his lungs. It's a little overwhelming and his agitated state isn't helping him to readjust any faster. After a few seconds he blows out a large breath and moves to help Amy up to sit on the edge of the bed before sitting beside her]

[once they're both settled--looks like he won't be lying down, not if he's put her up on the bed with him--Amy turns to touch his face again]

I'd forgotten what you looked like, all... red-faced.

[oh, he would love to. Wrap himself around her like a pretzel and bury his face in her neck and never let her go ever again. They've managed it before, after all, sleeping together on a bed here. This time he consciously leans into her touch, even if he looks awkward doing it]

Yeah ... well. It's been a while, hasn't it.

[hesitant, strained smile]

I'd almost forgotten what you looked like.

[it's a weak, terrible joke and also a lie, because one month is nothing compared to two thousand years--where he really HAD forgotten the specifics of what she looked like--but they were still an incredibly painful number of weeks]

[Amy, not knowing the details of how he and the Doctor discovered she was a copy and then set out to find her, thinks he's referring to those two thousand years. She knows he remembers them, or parts of them, anyway]

I think I can forgive you. Two thousand years is a--really long time.

[Rory's eyes flicker sadly for a second, but he lets it pass without correcting her. The less he thinks about the demise of Amy's copy and Demon's Run the better, but how can he NOT think about it? He hadn't even had time to adjust and accept that he had her back for good before he woke back up here. It results in him looking at her intently like he's afraid she'll disappear any second]

Just a bit.

[and then he makes a small noise in his throat before leaning forward with a faintly desperate air to rest his forehead on hers, his hands moving to cup and trace her cheeks and the lines of her face]

[she understands. She knows. She'd felt the same, after she had come back from the Dream Lord; she'd been afraid to let Rory out of her sight for days, in case she was wrong, the Doctor was wrong, and reality was where Rory was dead. And she feels wholly inadequate right now--she isn't his Amy who birthed their daughter, who can grieve with him for losing her--but she doesn't push him away. She even reaches out to hold his shoulders in return]

We'll get her back, right? We'll find her and--and bring her home.

[his hands are threading into her hair, holding her firm to him, and he has to swallow a sob bubbling up in his throat. If he's honest with himself he has very little hope of finding Melody, especially now that he knows who she is. But he can't tell Amy that, so instead he slides his nose alongside hers and murmurs]

I'm not stopping until I do.

[because even a loss of hope won't stop him from tearing apart the universe to find their baby]

I know you won't.

[his girls. The lone part of Amy that isn't numb with disbelief and horror actually warms slightly at the memory of him saying that, and for a brief moment she wishes for nothing more than to see him holding their baby. She's always figured Rory would make an amazing dad--when he loves someone, he loves them with everything he has, would do anything for them. As she very well knows. There's no doubt in her mind that he would tear the universe apart to find their daughter.

It makes her feel even less adequate, that her stomach is still flat as ever]

[he's thinking about Melody too, and those brief moments when he'd held her. When he'd first set eyes on her, HIS baby--it had taken his breath away and before that moment he hadn't believed it possible to love someone so completely and instantly with every fiber of his being. It hadn't even been that fast with Amy. But seeing Melody, and holding her and bringing her back to Amy, and seeing Amy go all maternal ... he was too small to contain all his emotions. Obviously. Because he'd cried. But they were happy (bittersweet) tears, and Amy's had been too, so it was like she had said: definitely cool.

He has to remind himself that not ALL is lost: he still has Amy. She's forever his silver lining now, because while he lost both his girls, he still got one back. It doesn't ease the sharpness or size of his grief, but having Amy back beside him (even if she can't fully understand yet, and he's almost GLAD that she can't) makes it easier to bear.

He stays that way for some minutes, holding her close to him and quietly drinking in the feel of her hair slipping through his fingers and the warmth of her skin and just--just taking comfort in HER. All that she is. Finally, he shifts a bit, smoothing his thumb across her cheek]

Do I need to stay here? Or can we go back to our room?

[it's home for him now, here; he needs the comfort and familiarity of it]

You're the nurse, medicine man... do you feel up to walking?

[despite using her nickname for him, she's serious about her question; she doesn't want him to get overloaded by sensory bombardment, especially since she won't be able to catch him if he goes down]

[he tries to give her a reassuring smile]

I'll make it. I'd just--rather be there.

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