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'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--

[he wants to say that it should have been that way, but what if he really means that he wanted to take them away from the TARDIS? Would Amy ever have been ready for that? Leaving, going back to Leadworth, starting a family? Or would they have traveled for years, only to return home too late to have children? Even though a family was--is--one of his deepest-held dreams, Rory knows he would never ask her to leave the TARDIS for that. Her own happiness has always been more important to him, even at the cost of his own]

I know--I know--

[truth be told, even though she knows Rory wants children, she's never given it much thought beyond the all-too-vague 'someday'. Someday when they're both a little older, and more settled, more secure, and... probably not traveling on the TARDIS. She's not blinded by the stars anymore--she knows it won't last forever. She just definitely never thought that 'someday' would end up being 'right now'. And even though she absolutely does not feel ready to be a mother at all, she also knows beyond a shred of a doubt that she would do everything in her mortal power to love and protect that tiny life.

Which means that, despite not being ready, she's still crushed to learn that they lose their daughter. HER daughter. Amy Pond, a mother. She's still having trouble comprehending that, and now, this...]

And he just--the Doctor--he never said anything? He knew and he never said?

[Rory shakes his head against hers, hands clenching into her shoulders as he swallows and swallows, tries to breath deeply in an effort to stave off another breakdown]

No. He never said a word.

[his voice is choked and thick with despair]

He said he wanted to be absolutely sure before--but he knew, and he let us carry on like that--he said you'd been gone since before we went to America--when we were at home--and I--

[now guilt is slamming into his chest again along with the pain and frustration. It means she'd been taken away from just HIM, not him and the Doctor. He alone is responsible for not noticing she'd been replaced. Just like, in his mind, he alone is responsible for not noticing Melody was a copy too, because he's the one who had rescued her, checked her over before taking her back to Amy. And it is absolutely killing him, crushing him beneath the weight of guilt, that he's made the worst mistakes a husband and father could ever make--he failed to recognize his own wife and daughter. He feels like everything could have been avoided if he'd just *paid attention* more.

His head bows suddenly, his entire body shaking hard on a silent sob, and--he can't--he can't lose it again--]

[that is... she's having trouble parsing it. On the one hand, she can logically understand the Doctor choosing not to say anything, because it more than likely would have created a world of emotional and psychological problems between her and Rory while they searched for the real her.

(Rather like River's argument for not wanting to tell her anything here, then.)

On the other hand--she'd first begun to suspect she was pregnant during the America trip, which would have put her at perhaps... two months gone? Which leaves roughly seven months linear time between then and when Rory (at least) finally discovered what was going on, if she'd already given birth by the time they found her. SEVEN MONTHS. What the hell was the Doctor DOING all that time? They've seen him solve enormous problems in less than ten minutes. How could it have taken him seven months to figure out this?

...and what happened to this her, the Amy decoy that she currently is? It hits her, belatedly, that Rory never said]

It's not your fault, Rory--

[she says earnestly, likewise clinging to his shoulders for dear life]

I didn't know what I was, I never suspected a thing, how could you?

[he shudders again, the top of his head bumping against her chest]

You're my wife--

[it's really the only argument he has to come back to, and it's a perfectly valid one in his mind. She's his wife, they've known each other forever, he should know her well enough by now to notice the slightest hair out of line, but he hadn't. He'd been so focused on trying to live a normal life with Amy while trying to figure out what the Doctor was up to at the same time, that he'd never noticed. He's racked his brain so many times since the monastery, going over every memory, trying to find one instance of Amy acting the slightest bit odd, and--there isn't one.

But he still should have noticed. He keeps telling himself that]

We were supposed to be safe ...

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abusing the fuck out of this icon

well, it's appropriate

I need to make more :/

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