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'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]

[Rory doesn't really react at all to Amy's embrace; not at first. He keeps his face buried in his arms and doesn't stop shaking. If anything, it gets worse. But after a very long moment or two, one arm drops to his lap and then his hand is seeking one of hers out, his fingers pushing through hers to thread and grip tightly. He might never say it--he doesn't like to acknowledge his weaknesses much, the same as she--but he's unspeakably grateful for her presence. She's not saying or doing anything, but just her BEING here with him--alive, whole, that fact of her being a copy so inconsequential--means more than he'll ever be able to repay her for.

Sometimes it seems like his quiet sobs are easing, but then they'll return anew, fresh and worse than before, and one or twice Rory feels like he's ripping apart at the seams he's crying so hard inside his head, mouth open in a silent, gut-wrenching scream. And he has no idea how long they both stay there, crumpled and devastated and broken, before his tears finally do subside. And all that's left is a Rory who is hollowed-out and numb, exhausted from venting his emotions in such a raw way, face slick with tears and his shirtsleeves and jeans damp with the ones that fell]

[the back of his shirt is damp, too; Amy has been silently crying, off and on, while Rory's shoulder shakes beneath her cheek and her thoughts aimlessly make an attempt at working through the loss and grief she's feeling. She's decided it would be better if she doesn't say anything more, not while Rory lets out his own grief, so she just holds him and squeezes his hand when he laces their fingers together, and waits. And grieves with him]

[Rory stays still and silent for some time even after he stops crying, simply breathing in and out and trying not to think at all. It's easier than he anticipates, mostly because he's completely exhausted. Just when it's been long enough that Amy couldn't be faulted for thinking that maybe Rory had fallen asleep against the toilet, he sighs heavily and sits up and away from the toilet, wiping his sleeve across his face. Then he slumps back slightly, toward Amy, and swallows to wet his throat]

Sorry.

[oh, her stupid face. She just knew he was going to apologize. Amy sniffles once, as quietly as she possibly can, and readjusts her hold around his waist]

Don't be.

[he slowly, lightly squeezes her hand still entwined in his, and quietly sniffs too. He feels like he is moving, speaking, and thinking through molasses]

You shouldn't have had to see that.

[she makes a very light scoffing noise, half-muffled by his shoulder, which she still has her cheek pressed against]

Why not? I signed up for 'worse' right alongside 'better'.

[he wants to smile at that, little. Maybe he even does, a tiny bit, on the inside. But physically, and emotionally, he's far too numb and tired and drained to show much of anything at all]

Because ... [he swallows again, trying to articulate it] Because ... I dunno.

[she's going to hit him for this, probably, or at least scoff louder]

Because I'm, I dunno, a bloke.

[it's a stammered, badly-done way of saying he doesn't want to cry in front of her because he's a man and he ought to be stronger than that]

[Amy does scoff again, although not louder by much this time, and squeezes his hand back]

You're so stupid.

[he sags a little more, deeper into her arms]

Yeah. I know.

[there's barely a trace of the deadpan cheekiness usually present in a response like that from him; instead he sounds tired, and like he believes he really is]

[instead of scoffing, she lets out a disbelieving snort, and tightens her arms around him]

You're still my stupid.

[she'd like to get him off the floor, maybe back on the bed, but... she's all too well aware that people this upset will sometimes move only when they're good and damn well ready to. Nagging might not be the better part of discretion and all that in this case]

[except Rory really wants to get off the floor: his arse and half his right leg has long since gone numb from staying in one position too long--that's another new-old thing--he's just so *tired*. And hollow. And despite the warmth of Amy's arms around him and the way she just tugged him closer, her disbelieving snort taps into old wounds which ordinarily would be closed and no bother, but Rory's the most vulnerable he's probably ever been. He suddenly feels like he's being admonished for failing to live up to her expectations again; he tangibly clams up, and starts to try and pull away from her, to try and stand]

Yeah. [a sad, bitter laugh] Well.

[Amy straightens up at that, relaxing her arms a little but not releasing him]

Well, what?

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