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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[Rory pauses with his hands on her shoulders once she's sat down, still looking awkward; probably it's because he still feels uncomfortable having bared his soul in front of her the way he just did, a bit ashamed at having shown so much painful emotion.

Then he leans forward and brushes his lips against her forehead. He might never say it, but he's grateful beyond words for her today. She's put up with a lot from him--and it *means* a lot, to him. He's not so sure the old Amy would have been so gentle and patient and understanding]

I'll be right back.

[he gently squeezes her shoulders before disappearing back into the bathroom. There's the brief sound of running water, and then a space of silence too long for Rory to bring a glass of water back, or even drink a small glass on the spot and leave the cup behind. But then he's back, bringing a half-full small glass with him, setting it on his bedside table and sighing before sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to her, shoulders slumped]

[Amy watches him until he disappears through the bathroom door, the touch of his lips tingling faintly on her skin. After a moment, she shifts around to get the covers pulled down and pat their pillows back into place; it barely takes her a minute, and when she's finished and Rory hasn't come back out yet, she frowns minutely at the open door. Then she silently hems and haws over getting undressed before deciding not to just yet.

When Rory does finally return, she doesn't needle him about what he was doing--she can make a decently educated guess, something along the lines of trying to gather the shredded remains of his manly dignity. Instead, she swings her legs up onto the bed and drags herself over to his side, sliding her arms around him from behind again and propping her chin on his shoulder. A beat later, she starts plucking at the buttons on his shirt]

[he doesn't protest or bat her hands away; just lets her undo the buttons one by one, tilting his head to rest it against hers as she gets the third one open. Closing his eyes, he concentrates on breathing (breathing! Actual air going into real lungs that need it!) and the warmth seeping into him from Amy's body, the way his own is lightly jostled as she moves nimble fingers down his shirt. He wonders for a moment if his grief would be any less if he also weren't dealing with the details of being returned to a flesh-and-blood human body, but then; no. No, it wouldn't be any better. Not at all. His Auton body would have recreated the tears and the snot and the crushing sensation of his heart breaking all the same.

When Amy reaches the bottom of his shirt and is getting the last buttons undone he sighs, long and slow, and mumbles]

I love you.

[she's a little surprised that he didn't react to her undoing his shirt, but again, makes no comment. She'll just be glad that he's letting her. It's something she's always enjoyed doing, with or without ulterior motives. Pushing the last button through, she turns her head to press a kiss to his neck and then straightens up to pull his shirt away and down his arms]

I know you do.

[Rory obediently holds his arms out a bit so Amy can easily get his shirt off; as she does away with it, his hands go to the hem of his t-shirt, but he pauses to look back in her direction before he starts to pull it off as well. His skin where she kissed his neck is tingling]

Glad I'm back?

[her answering smile is very small, but very genuine]

Yeah.

[and, having tossed his shirt across the bed onto the floor, she reaches to pluck at the hem of his T-shirt herself, gently sliding her hands beneath it]

[and he can't help it--he's still suffering from some sensory overload, and the touch of her hands on the skin of his back, so gentle and light and soft, makes him arch, sucking in a breath through his nostrils as his eyes fall shut. It's as if every tiny hair on his upper body is suddenly standing on end and shocks of sensation are rippling out across his muscles, spreading gooseflesh in their wake. His mouth falls open in a silent, slightly comical 'oh!' of surprise]

[and that stops her short, her mouth quirking in its own expression of surprise. She hadn't mean to--shock him, or tickle him, or turn him on, or whatever it was she just did. All her ulterior motives might as well be in another dimension, for how much she *isn't* thinking about them right now. Carefully, she makes her touch a little more firm before angling her hands to get her thumbs hooked over the hem of his T-shirt, then slides them up his back]

[that--is much better. He thinks. Her touch is more clinical now without being too cold, serving a clear purpose, and not firing off every nerve ending in his body with a scream of 'OH MY'. The arch of his back relaxes, and it isn't until Amy gets his shirt up to his armpits that Rory realizes he's sitting like a useless lump while she undresses him like he's an invalid, and he feels a rush of shame. Hastily, he moves to grab at his shirt from the front and, together, they get it off over his head.

Then he's turning and looking guiltily at her]

Sorry. I, um ... I'll get the rest. Right--

[he turns back to face the bedside table and reaching to take a sip of his water before standing and undoing the button and zipper on his jeans. What with way he's adjusting, he's almost afraid to see how he'd react to Amy doing this part]

I didn't mind, silly.

[she gives him another small but genuine smile and, when he stands up, decides now is probably a good moment to get undressed herself. She's been wearing long, loose skirts since her foot's been in a cast, so it isn't a difficult task. It and her knickers get pulled off first, followed by her top and then her bra; all four items of clothing get tossed in the same direction as Rory's shirt]

Right----

[he almost said 'I know you didn't', except--he doesn't. He's so unsure of everything right now: how to go on living, how to deal, even--yes--where he stands with Amy. Because this, the knowledge he brought back with him, has changed everything. Yes, she's being uncommonly gentle and attentive and she said it's not his fault, but maybe--she's just saying that. After all, she hadn't believed him at first when he tried to reassure her he loved her just the same as a Flesh copy. Maybe she really is angry and resentful of him now, and just successfully hiding it.

His trainers and socks get kicked off, followed by his jeans and boxers being limply dropped to the ground at the side of the bed. Then he's turning to climb into bed, slipping between the sheets and stretching out flat on his back, looking sightlessly up at the ceiling above him]

[Amy gets beneath the covers somewhat less elegantly and, since Rory's already stretched out, moves to curl up against him]

[Rory automatically shifts to wriggle an arm beneath her, curling it around her shoulders once they're both resettled comfortably, and pulling her close. It's a habit borne of countless nights spent together and Rory is suddenly extremely grateful for the familiarity of it, the normalcy.

Even if, at the same time, feeling Amy naked and flush warm against him after what he just went through makes him want to break down again. They'd been apart for so long--longer, really, than they'd both thought. He's seized with the sudden urge to roll toward her, wrap himself around her like a pretzel, and never let go. Never leave the bed; never leave her.

But since the deep depression he's teetering on the brink of has the strongest hold out of them all right now, he simply turns his face toward hers--not caring so much anymore that he looks a wreck, if only because he doesn't even have the strength to care]

[it's a relief to Amy, too, being snuggled up against him; it's a tenet of normalcy that she's never resented (although she *has* taken it for granted) and one that she's missed this past week. When Rory turns his face towards hers, she lifts a hand to caress his cheek--the thought that he'll have to start shaving again flits briefly through her head--and then leans in to kiss him as gently as she knows how]

[oh god--he doesn't mean to, he really, really doesn't--but the tenderness of her kiss succeeds in choking him up again. He doesn't cry like he did before, but tears spring unshed to his eyes and a massive knot lodges itself in his throat, making his face pinch unhappily as he kisses back.

He's remembering the last kiss they'd shared, scared and worried but hopeful, hidden out of sight from the Monks. Amy had looked at him like she couldn't bear to lose him, and he'd kissed her hand in reassurance, and then Melody, and he'd left. His last sight of his wife and daughter together--his *family*. The family he'd thrown open that door inside his head for, in order to protect them.

And he'd failed.

He breathes out a stuttered breath against her lips before pressing closer, desperately. The kiss remains gentle but he *needs* her, closer, touching him (forgiving him), reminding him that she's real and still with him. She's all he has left, now]

[his response isn't exactly what Amy had expected, or thought he would do; she'd only hoped to maybe soothe him a little, reassure him that she still loves him and doesn't blame him for anything... but it's like he needs more reassurance than this. And she isn't entirely sure how to give it. Oh, she knows a few things she *could* do, but she also feels they would be *so* beyond inappropriate right now, and coming from her, that probably says something. This may be the first instance ever in which Amy *doesn't* think a good shag could go a long way towards fixing things.

So she keeps kissing him, but tries to keep it a thing of reassurance and love rather than desire, her hand still light over his cheek, gently sliding her good foot over one of his]

[Rory is content to let the kiss remain exactly what it is--a comfort and a reassurance--and it does do both of those things. Even if it doesn't cheer him up (because there isn't a magic fix-it here), it goes a long way toward soothing his shattered nerves for the moment, putting him more at ease and chipping away at some of the irrational insecurities that have been trying to resurface ever since he woke up.

Besides, Rory can't remember the last time they simply just *kissed* for awhile.

He flexes his foot beneath hers; then shifts and rolls so he's on his side facing her--much more comfortable--and rests his hand on the curve of her waist. Amy's hand on his cheek is soft and warm and comforting, and he's more than glad to let the insistent yet gentle press of her lips on his lull him into a state of quiet hollowness that's just a little bit less numb than it was when she began]

[once Amy cottons on to just what Rory seems to need from her, she relaxes a little--this, she can do, she *wants* to do--and mentally drifts off into sensation for a while: just kissing him, taking what little pleasure she's able to feel at the moment from it, hoping it's not her imagination that he's relaxing a little too.

A tiny part of her is surprised that he hasn't gone hard, considering his extreme reactions to other stimuli since waking up. Another tiny part is marveling at how his skin is managing to feel so different now, despite his plastic skin not having been too terribly distant from the real thing. Yet another is thinking she could probably do this for hours and not get tired of it (slow, unhurried kissing is really not her style, but it's still quite nice every once in a while).

But mostly, she feels just about as shattered as he does, even if it's in slightly different ways, and it's a comfort to her that he's letting her do this. Hopefully, it means he won't push her away. Much.

She's got absolutely no idea how much time has passed before she pulls back just enough to be able to speak, and murmurs]

Any better?

[Rory sort of--sighs quietly in something approaching disappointment when Amy pulls away, but he doesn't chase after her. Instead he keeps his eyes closed and lightly bumps the tip of his nose against hers]

... A little. Yeah.

[and it's the truth. He no longer feels like he's a threat to completely fall apart any second, he's not crying, and the awful aching pain in his chest has receded a fair bit. He attempts another smile for her; this time his mouth quirks at one corner]

Thanks.

[she decides a little stab at lightness might not go amiss, and makes a small 'pfft' noise]

Like you have to thank me for snogging you.

[it works too. Rory's eyes shut and his mouth twists in something that wants very much to be a smile, but can't quite make it there. After a pause he opens his eyes back up and moves the hand at her waist up to brush his fingertips over her cheek, mirroring hers]

I might.

[it's equal parts a pitiful attempt at return cheek, and the misguided belief that he really might, because of those damn insecurities. Because, back when they were young and new to this kind of closeness, he sort of felt like he really did]

[Amy at least picks up on the semi-successful attempt at cheek, and gives him a very small smile in return, sliding her hand along his cheekbone to sift her fingertips into his hair]

I'm... here, okay? We can do this.

[and he shuts his eyes again on instinct, soaking up that touch like it's the only thing holding him together. He crooks the arm beneath her to bend up behind her head in an awkward sort of embrace, and shifts closer to her until their knees are bumping and her breasts are just whispering against his chest.

(Amy might think he hasn't gone hard, but he *has*, a little; it's an undeniable effect of being close to a beautiful, naked woman; one that he loves, who loves him in return. But he's not actively choosing to focus on it and chase it. Like Amy, it feels grossly inappropriate to him at the moment and anyway, beginning might be awkward]

I--know you are. Amy ...

[he's thinking of that last kiss again, the last sight of his family]

Amy ...

[she tilts her head very slightly in a silent question]

[he doesn't really know what he's getting at, or what he wants to say; he can't begin to articulate everything churning in his heart. He just knows that he needs Amy close like she is, reminding him that she's alive and he still has her, and at least here in Paradisa he's not living the nightmare he is back home.

A small noise, almost a whimper, sounds in his throat, and Rory's hand slides around to the back of her neck, pulling her forward as he presses in, and pushes his face up against hers as he tangles their legs together.

It's needy and weak and so unmanly and he'll hate himself for it later and worry that Amy finds it unattractive to the extreme, but Rory is so tired and worn emotionally that he *needs* this. And it's not even necessarily a sexual thing either. He just needs *her*]

- thirty-seventh year waiting -

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