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'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?

[he shakes his head, pausing in his efforts to pull away from her, and his shoulders slump even more. If that were possible. He still hasn't shown his face to her]

Always've been stupid, haven't I.

[she has the very, very distinct feeling that she's placed a foot wrong somewhere, but hasn't got a clue towards what she might have done. Frowning, she tightens her arms around him again and leans forward to rest her forehead against his shoulder]

Most of the time... s'why I love you so much.

[he shakes again--barely--and his head droops forward sharply. His voice is so quiet it's almost inaudible]

But I lost you.

[his eyes are stinging again]

Both of you.

You didn't--you didn't lose us.

[Amy swallows, hard, and hugs him as tightly as she can]

We were... taken away from you.

[Amy's holding him tight enough that she can feel every breath he takes, his chest expanding against her arms with every intake of air--and breathing he is, quick and shallow. Possibly like he's panicking, or trying NOT to panic, or just dealing with an onslaught of extreme emotion.

Her words are echoing and bouncing around his head. Taken away, taken away, taken away ... he'd had nightmares in those weeks following the monastery: frantically searching for Amy, always searching, and never finding her. Searching for the rest of his life without a sign, dying without ever seeing her again, never meeting his child. Or finding her only to see blame and anger in her eyes--'Why did it take you so long?' 'Where have you been?' 'I've been waiting for you, and you never came!' 'You left me. You said you'd never leave me and you did.' 'It's too late, you took too long, I don't love you anymore.' Or finding her, only to REALLY be too late--she was dead, for any number of reasons. The number of nights he'd woken up screaming or crying far outnumbered the nights he slept straight through.

If he slept at all.

Rory wants--so much--to turn to Amy and hold her tight, cry something like happy tears, grateful to have her here with him, alive and whole, but--he can't. He doesn't want to frighten or bewilder her, or make her feel worse than she already does (because he KNOWS she feels helpless).

He doesn't know what to say, or do, or how to react and properly grieve, in a way that won't alienate Amy.

Once again that feeling of isolation washes over him]

Amy--I--

[she isn't feeling frightened or bewildered, just... horribly lost, and helpless, and devastated-in-advance, and isolated in her own way as well. If Rory feels isolated out of fear that properly grieving for their baby will alienate her, then Amy feels isolated out of a faint fear that he won't think she's allowed to grieve too, because she hasn't lived it yet. She knows that she, herself, in this moment, hasn't got anything really comparable to what Rory's gone through. She hadn't remembered him after his death, after all, and therefore never properly mourned him. All she has are moments during their travels with the Doctor when they became separated, for whatever reason--like during their run from the Silence in 1969 America. They had agreed to split up, of course; it was part of the Doctor's long plan. But that had still done nothing to ease the very real fear and uncertainty that dogged them during those three months, or help how lonely she had been after leaving Rory to strike off on her own.

Remembering those times--they can't possibly hold a candle to his.

So she struggles to take in another steady breath and doesn't ease her hold on him, not one inch, because he's her stupid face husband and she loves him and she's going to do her level best to support him, as well as she knows how]

[the breaths he takes continues to press against her arms. His entire body hurts--his arse, his legs, his arms from leaning on them too long, his back from being in an odd position, his muscles from the strain of being tensed while crying. His face is a mess and so is his shirtsleeve--and he CAN feel that damp spot on his back, and for some reason it's oddly comforting rather than something to make him feel worse, knowing that Amy cried too]

Amy, I--

[he's not even really sure what he wants, or is trying to ask of her. He shifts a little, and pins and needles shoot down his leg as feeling returns to it. It's still unfamiliar and jarring, feeling these physical things. Sighing heavily again, he shifts one more time and, again, seems to tangibly withdraw into himself. He changes he subject]

Come on, let's--um--let's get off this floor ...

[there it is, then--he's ready to move. Whether he actually is or not is probably debatable, but that's her cue. Amy almost reluctantly relaxes her embrace and straightens up again, sliding the hand he isn't holding around to rest on his hip]

Do you want some water?

[he starts to automatically say no, but reconsiders. It might help rid his mouth of the taste of bile and salt. But--

Gently squeezing Amy's hand, he lets go and moves to push himself up off the floor]

I'll get it.

[likewise, Amy starts to protest, then remembers she can't just scramble up to her feet and go skipping off to get him a glass of water herself. (Dear god, are her knees smarting.) Maybe she can... hobble back over to the bed and get the covers turned down. (She's pretty sure Rory's going to be headed their for the duration of things.) So instead of protesting, she carefully watches him move away, waiting until she's got room to reach for something to pull herself up with]

[Rory gets to his feet, joints creaking painfully--ow--and sort of slumps against the sink before he remembers Amy. Stupid, stupid Rory. So concerned about himself he forgot that his wife is on the floor *and she has a sprained ankle*. Turning, he reaches out for her a bit haltingly--he's already anticipating his help being rebuffed, because that's the way Amy is]

Hey ... hey. Here.

[he looks like absolute hell. His face is red and blotchy, eyes swollen and bloodshot from all the crying, skin shining with tears where he missed with his sleeve. His entire demeanor screams of exhaustion and hollowed-out numbness, but there's still concern there in his eyes, for her]

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