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

But--it was because of him, right? They took me and Melody because of him--

[Melody. What a pretty name. A little stupidly, she hopes Rory likes it, considering he wasn't there to help choose a name. Her fingers tighten over his shoulders and she tries to slump even further to look at him, silently begging him not to pull away]

I would never blame you...

[this time he lets her forehead butt up against his, but he still doesn't open his eyes or look at her]

Yeah. Yeah ... River said it was because of him ...

[he sniffs, and his voice turns quiet and heartbroken]

But I didn't come get you. I wanted to and I--I couldn't. And you ... you must've known, then. That we knew you were gone. And it was weeks, and I didn't come for you ... I swore I'd always come for you, no matter what ...

[he doesn't know that Amy spent those weeks telling Melody stories about her father, reassuring her that he WAS coming. To him it's another source of guilt, another reason for Amy to resent him]

[and of course, Amy doesn't know that she does that. But she still has her unswerving belief that Rory will always find her if they're separated. And that the Doctor will come back for her. Twelve years or two thousand--if she has to pick only one thing to believe in, it would be that her boys would never desert her]

Rory... you had to find me first, right? I know you would come get me...

[she's sliding her nose against his now that he's let her get that close again, hands curling around the back of his neck--and she can feel his pulse, his actual beating pulse]

[and he's nuzzling back, blindly, instinctively, needing that contact even if he's afraid to reach for it and doesn't feel that he deserves it]

I thought I'd lost you for good ... you and the baby ...

[another hard tremor]

For a while I didn't think we'd ever find you ... I mean--how do you find one person in all of time and space ... [a weak, sad laugh] And everything was still in our room, all your things, your clothes, and--and the bed still smelled like you--

[probably he'll be mortified and disgusted with himself for saying all this later, for being so weak in front of her, but the words are just spilling out now and he can't shut up]

[the thing is, though--she can identify with him on this. After Rory's death in Wales, the TARDIS had removed all his physical effects from their room, but... it hadn't been able to remove the traces of his scent from her--their--bed. And because of that, Amy was never able to get a completely good rest whenever she slept in it; she would always wake up with the strangest ache in her chest, and her face practically smothered in the pillows. She can remember that pain, even if she hadn't realized what it was at the time.

It makes her scoot closer to him, his fears be damned]

Rory, I... I know you would never stop looking... I will know that. I won't blame you for not coming sooner. I promise...

He made me leave you--

[he blurts it out, just like she had earlier, and his hands clench and unclench restlessly over her shoulders. Bit by bit, all the reasons and sources for his guilt and self-loathing are coming out, even though rationally he knows in this instance he had no choice]

What?

[she just asks it, no accusation in her voice, only wanting to know and try to understand]

[he swallows thickly]

He made me stand away from you. When we--found out you were a copy.

[Amy takes the opportunity to slide her arms around his neck, pulling him closer still whether he wants it or not; her faces pinches briefly]

Why? I wasn't a danger, was I?

[he only resists a little, and doesn't seem to notice or care that his face is now all but smashed into hers a little off-center, his mouth brushing at the corner of hers when he speaks]

No ... no, you weren't. [and yet another shake] He ... we didn't know what was happening, you and me. He--he had to--to, um--had to cut the connection ...

[that makes her shiver a little--not his mouth brushing against hers, but the words 'cut the connection']

And I just... I mean, this me, I... wasn't, anymore?

[all Rory can do--bile is churning in his stomach at the memory, that's something new again--is shake his head no]

[she's got no idea if that was a 'yes' no or a 'no' no, but either way--she keeps holding him]

Is that what happened to--to Melody, too?

[there's a long moment where Rory doesn't move or speak. He's seeing Amy dissolve into pale goo on the floor of the TARDIS; he's running around the stack of crates to see Amy splattered with the same pale liquid, clutching an empty blanket and screaming. His stomach heaves and the world spins dizzily for a moment.

And then he nods, clenching her shoulders so hard his knuckles turn white]

[Amy's own stomach turns over, hard, and she buries her face in Rory's neck. It's suddenly hard to breathe; that numbness she'd felt back in the TARDIS medbay is returning, creeping through her limbs. She's going to have a daughter and she's going to lose her. She and Rory are going to lose their baby. There won't be a happily ever after, not this time]

[Rory presses his cheek hard into hers, hands grasping restlessly at her shoulders again]

He told me to stand away ... and you--you looked at me like--like I was--I was--leaving you--

[that had been one of the worst parts of it, for him: that the last look Amy had given him had been one of fear, hurt, and betrayal]

[and she totally would have, too--if she hadn't understood what was happening. She feels like it's important that she say that]

You said we didn't know what was happening--if I thought I was--me...

I didn't want to!

[he blurts that loudly, pulling back to look her desperately in the eyes; his own are red-rimmed and watery again. he feels it's important that she knows this too]

He told me to and I said no, I wouldn't, but then he got--angry--and shouted and I think maybe I started to understand ...

Rory...

[her voice is trembling a little, no matter how she wishes it wouldn't]

...what happened to me?

[he clams up at that, pressing his lips down into a hard line, ducking his head again so she can't see his face, and shakes his head no again. He's not telling her about this--he CAN'T tell her. Especially now that she knows what happened to her, happened to Melody]

[but she tries again, trying to make her voice more firm and not exactly succeeding]

Rory... tell me.

[he tries to shake his head no again, beg her not to make him tell ... but all he can see now is Amy looking at him with hurt and betrayal in her eyes, Amy trembling in fear, Amy dissolving, empty space where Amy used to be, Amy holding that empty blanket and screaming and screaming. All of it, over and over again, and his stomach is lurching and the room is spinning and he can't breathe, he's drowning, he's just destroyed an entire Cyber fleet without even blinking, and suddenly the tea he just drank is turning sour--

Rory makes a--noise--before tearing away from Amy and rolling off the bed, then bolting for the bathroom. He barely makes it. And he didn't have time to shut the door, so he can't hide the fact that he's just retched up the contents of his stomach and now he's on his knees slumping against the toilet with a low moan]

[Amy stares after him in something like shock, her mouth hanging open slightly and the contents of her own stomach curdling like an incoming tsunami, before her motor neurons manage to fire up and she's awkwardly sliding off the bed and hobbling after him. She half-trips onto her knees just inside the bathroom door--oh god she's going to have horrible bruises later--and crawls the rest of the way. Then she reaches out to touch his back with a faintly trembling hand, gently smoothing her fingers and then her palm up towards his shoulders.

That's it, then. She isn't going to ask again. Not if it makes him react like this]

[he'd done much the same thing upon finding Amy with the empty blanket, covered in that awful goo--turned away and been violently sick. Not again. Not again. By the time Amy reaches him he's already reached limply up to pull the handle on the toilet and numbly swiped his sleeve across his mouth; now he's leaning against the toilet again, one arm up on it and his face buried in the crook of his elbow. When he feels Amy's hand light on his back, he starts shaking again--terrible, wracking shudders just like in the TARDIS med bay. He's sobbing again, completely consumed by grief, but is trying desperately to stay quiet. It's bad enough that he's failed at keeping himself together--like he failed Amy and Melody back home--Amy shouldn't have to hear the sounds of his failure either. The only sounds that DO escape are the quiet, stuttered breaths that comes with silent sobbing, and the occasional sniff]

[it breaks Amy's heart, seeing Rory like this--she doesn't know what to do, there *isn't* anything she can do, they've lost their daughter and there will never be anything that will make things okay again short of getting her back--and she will never, ever think any less of him for being unable to hide his grief. Not over this. That little part of her might still want to resent him for showing it, but that's still only because she hates feeling so helpless. The rest of her is grieving with him. It doesn't matter to her that she hasn't lived it yet. She's going to, and just the knowledge is horrible enough as it is.

When he starts shaking, Amy slides her hand down to the small of his back and then very carefully wraps her arms around his waist from behind, leaning her cheek against his shoulder and closing her eyes against the tears burning in them]

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