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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[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]

[that warmth makes her feel a little bit better, both about her nursemaid skills and in general. Maybe he'll--they'll--get through this okay. They have to. They handled Rory being plastic, they survived their estrangement after the Godhand, they're handling her being a Flesh copy. They can get through... all this new stuff. Right?]

I wonder how long it will take for you to remember that you're allowed to feed yourself again.

[he makes a contemplative noise, staring into the depths of his mug before taking another slow sip. This is safer territory, talking about his being human again. Maybe if he focuses on it, the pain of everything else will dull.

... He knows it won't]

A while, probably. Everything else, too, like ... sleeping. Having a shower.

[as if on cue, his stomach gurgles. He looks down at it and smiles slightly before looking back at Amy]

You won't let me starve, will you?

[she glances at his stomach as well, a slight ray of amusement shining a tiny beam of light into her heart, and wonders too if he'll have a hard time keeping food down, after having gone without it for so long. They might have to ease him back into it, try not to overwhelm his taste buds. Then again, that first mug of tea hadn't overloaded him]

Nah. You won't let you starve, either. And sleep won't be so bad. You'll settle down with me for the night and pass out before you know what hit you.

Yeeeeah ... you're probably right.

[another sip of tea quiets his grumbling stomach--to be quite honest, he's not entirely sure he could hold down any food right now, the way he's feeling--and likewise, it's the smallest ray of sunshine peeking through the clouds. Just the thought of being able to lie next to Amy, close his eyes, and fall asleep with her cheers him up (relatively speaking) more than anything else has yet. And suddenly Rory wants nothing more than to do just that: pull Amy back against his chest, bury his face in the back of her neck, and fall asleep while thanking every deity and higher power there is that he's human again, and that he still has his wife healthy and whole beside him. That it's that way back home, too, that not everything is lost.

(He'll need to keep reminding himself of that one truth.)

He wants it so much it makes his (real!) heart physically pang; his entire body is radiating the longing he feels for it. But. Probably, Amy's not tired. So Rory concentrates on his tea, and tries not to let his mind get carried away with visions of being cocooned beneath the covers, warm and entwined with Amy, feeling her heart beat against his chest and her breath on his cheek, and knowing that she's *alive*]

[Amy can at least sense that he wants her to stay close by, which is fine with her since she hadn't planned on going anywhere else. So she sits next to him in companionable (if not exactly comfortable) silence while he drinks his tea, their arms lightly butting up against each other, and does her best to not seem like she's hovering or blatantly staring or otherwise being awkwardly intrusive]

[she probably is, but Rory doesn't mind it because that's how she is when she chooses to be the caretaker, and besides--it means she cares. He wonders how long they'll have to be together before he stops soaking up that feeling like a desperate, starved sponge.

He drinks his tea slowly, and by the time he empties his mug he actually feels a little sluggish again. Maybe the meds Amy gave him was the drowsy sort after all, or perhaps it's from sitting still for awhile in silence and drinking his tea. In any case, he's tired. It's a very strange feeling, after having gone so long not feeling it.

He stretches to set his mug down on the bedside table and then sort of--slumps against his pillows, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing at his temples. He's still got a bit of a headache]

[Amy's face pinches in concern as she shifts to angle her body towards him]

Still got a headache, then?

Little bit.

[he murmurs this without moving, but he's acutely aware of Amy shifting closer to him. After a pause, though, he drops his hands and opens his eyes to look over at her; his eyes, still a little bloodshot, are deeply sad and stressed--and longing]

[that look on his face and in his eyes shoots a little dagger of--something--right through Amy's heart. She's never seen Rory look quite like this before, and it leaves her feeling helpless and *restless*, like she ought to be doing something besides making tea to fix it. More selfishly, she hates seeing him like this because she almost doesn't know how to be soft enough to try and soothe him, and part of her wants to resent him for making her have to do it. (Even though she doesn't *have* to. But he matters to her, he's important. So she does.)

She scoots even closer in silent invitation for him to curl into her again if he wants, or... whatever he wants to do, that might help]

Hey.... it's... it's okay.

[even though it's not]

[and he takes that invitation by half-turning toward her and reaching up to--very carefully, barely even touching her--cup her face in his hands and rest his forehead on hers, closing his eyes again. There's a flood of emotions running through him again and he feels so lost and unsure and uncertain of what he can and can't do, here. It's strange. Back home, in the time between America and Demon's Run, he and Amy had become closer, starting to resemble the closeness of their relationship here. Somehow, that short time they'd had together at Demon's Run and the things that happened there had taken that closeness and strengthened it considerably. Yet, at the same time ... he almost feels like they've taken a step back here. It's unfair to Amy, because she hasn't lived it, but ... he can't sort his feelings out. The one prevailing emotion is that sense of isolation, of being completely alone in his grief and unable to share it. And it's crippling him.

So he's still holding it back, trying not to let it show too much. He's afraid Amy will come to resent him and he doesn't see a way out of it. If he keeps his grief to himself she'll think he's pulling away from her again. If he shares it, she'll just get frustrated and upset because she won't be able to fully understand. He's stuck. He's lost.

But he needs her with him, so much it chokes and hurts, and that's why he can't stop himself from cradling her face like she's the most precious thing in the universe to him, and there's words bubbling up in his throat--'I missed you', 'I was afraid', 'you're safe', 'she's gone, she's gone'--but he doesn't think he should say any of it]

[There *is* a slight sense of frustration creeping into Amy's stomach, but it's not directed at Rory, rather at her own inability to fully share his grief. She knows she's going to spend her entire pregnancy alone and unaware, that her baby will be stolen from her twice, and that knowledge *hurts*--but. She also knows it hurts less than it will when she's actually had it happen to her. She can't fully comprehend his pain until then. Assuming it ever does while still leaving her here....

Carefully, she smooths her hands up onto his shoulders and very gently nuzzles her nose against his, mentally floundering]

I--I wish I could--I'm sorry I can't--

[Rory starts shaking his head almost as soon as she starts apologizing, noses bumping against one another, his hands fully touching her face now]

No, no, it's not--it's not your fault, it's just I--I--

[and that, for whatever amorphous reason--it doesn't bring tears to her eyes, not exactly, but the horror and pain she'd felt when Rory first told her that they lose their daughter suddenly mushrooms up in her chest]

I'm a mum... [she almost chokes on the word] You're a dad...

[tears DO come to Rory's eyes--he can feel the hot sting of them, his nose prickling as he blinks them back--and his hands fall to her shoulders, squeezing them tightly, pressing his forehead harder against hers. The pain in his chest is howling again]

Yeah ... [he breathes a laugh, and it's weak and watery] Who would've thought--you and me ...

I didn't want it to happen like this--

[she blurts, and clamps her mouth down in a hard line]

[the stinging grows sharper, and even though he's squeezing his eyes shut as hard as he can, one small tear still manages to leak out of the corner of one. The tragedy and the unfairness of it all is crashing back up to the surface and he's struggling, so hard, to keep it all in, to remain the stoic support that he's always been for Amy. But he's been holding it in for weeks. He cried briefly in the aftermath of Amy's Ganger being dissolved and he cried when they were reunited--but those at least had been happy tears. Until he found Melody, the only emotions he'd let himself show were anger and determination, single-mindedly focused on finding his wife and child. It was the only way he'd been able to stay sane.

But now all of that is over, and it's all catching up with him: the fear and the pain and the frustration and exhaustion, the anger and the helplessness. And still, he doesn't want to break in front of Amy, not like he did earlier on the TARDIS. He doesn't want the resentment that he fears coming to life]

I know you didn't--I didn't either--I--

[Amy sees the tear, of course, and it punches anguish right through the little hole left behind by the dagger of--something--and she keeps blurting because if she doesn't she might start crying, too]

I wanted it to be when we were back home, and settled, and--ready, and--normal--

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abusing the fuck out of this icon

well, it's appropriate

I need to make more :/

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