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Explanatory notes: I frickin' adore Amy Pond.

Why is this story (probably) not abandoned? Because I frickin' adore Amy Pond. However, the opening scene of this story has been thoroughly Jossed by the second half of S5, and I want to rewrite it to accommodate the fact that Rory a) doesn't leave Amy, the TARDIS, or the show, and b) has endeared himself to me in his own right. Also, I still really like the central idea behind this fic (not at all apparent in this scene) and want to explore it. Any feedback you have on the characterizations of Amy, Rory, or the Doctor, as well as the prose and dialogue, would be really helpful.


After three weeks -- or two and a half millenia, or most of an era, depending on how you count it -- Rory goes back to Leadworth. The Doctor looks a bit startled when he asks, but agrees. The whole thing catches Amy completely off-guard.

All right, the first week or so was rocky, she concedes silently, glaring at Rory over the central console and feeling more than a touch put out. What with Venice and that ridiculous nightmare of a quiz show and the whole journey-to-the-center-of-the-earth thing. But Maratroya was brilliant, and Port Dusk was even better. He cried after the quest-opera-christening ceremony on that planet she can't pronounce, and granted that he's always been a bit of a weeper, but still. It's been a fucking gorgeous ride, and now he's done? That's it?

If he's getting his pants in a bunch over the Doctor again, she is seriously going to smack him one.

They land without the whoosh-alarm. After Alphalpha Metraxis she caught the Doctor rewiring the landing system so it'd still make the noise even if he remembered to take the brakes off, but he's started switching it over to silent mode if they're trying to be stealthy or considerate about their entrance. Given that it's the middle of the night Leadworth time, it's probably for the best.

"Sure you don't want one last trip?" the Doctor asks, with that tone that means he knows he's not going to get any traction. "The inverted ocean of Khelakur? The 133rd Pan-Galactic Lindy Championship? It was a good year for it."

Rory tugs at the hem of his jumper and smiles lopsidedly. She gets one of those warm feelings that stumbles up into the back of the throat and leaves her charmed and aggravated all at once. "Nah," he says, and gestures at the door like he's turning down that last cup of tea at the end of a very U-rated date. "It's been amazing. Really. Thank you. But I, uh--" and here he glances at her, fast and wide-open. "It's a big day for me tomorrow. Better get my rest."

The Doctor studies him for a moment, then smiles and walks slowly over to where Rory is standing. "It's been an honor and a privilege, Rory Williams." He holds out his hand.

"I feel the same, Doctor," Rory says sincerely. They shake on it.

When they both turn to her, she's got her arms crossed and is glowering again. It's that or get all soggy, and Amy is not about to take over Rory's signature move like that.

Rory clears his throat and nods at the door again. "Can I talk to you out there? Just for a minute?" Amy rolls her eyes at the Doctor, who bobs his head to acknowledge how very put-upon she is, and then she follows Rory out.

It's nippy out in Leadworth, colder than she remembers from the last time they were here. Maybe it's later tonight. Rory rubs his hands together and steps in a little closer as the door shuts behind them.

"I don't see why you had to come home now," Amy blurts out, before he can get started on anything. "It's not tomorrow morning yet. It can be tomorrow morning anytime we want it to be. Tomorrow morning's not going anywhere." She sounds like an idiot, and knows it, and hates it. Gallifreyan must've had much better words for this kind of thing. Elegant.

"I know," Rory says, apologetically. Then he takes her face in his warm hands and kisses her. Her legs go a little wobbly under her, the way they always have when he kisses her, even when she was eleven and dared him, even when she was nineteen and they'd just taken up and she wouldn't call him her boyfriend yet, because he was a pushover and really a bit too gawky to be in her league. God, she'd been a twit back then. Kiss-o-gram: decent pay, not such a beneficial effect on the ego. She fists her hands in his stupid puffy vest and kisses back, leaning into him.

"Listen," he says, pulling away. She pushes forward again -- wanting to avoid the talking, she has always been crap at the talking -- but he knows better and keeps a good grip on her head to hold her at bay. His eyes are big and earnest. "It's been the most incredible -- I mean, you know that, I don't have to tell you that. It's been. Thank you, for letting me come. I love you. I've never seen you this happy."

She sighs, frustrated, and opens her mouth to argue, because he can't tell her he didn't love it too. He kisses her again and says, fast, "I want you to have this. All of it. As long as you want. Okay? I'm going to go home and go to bed, and I want you to spend as much time as you want out there. Then come back to me."

It floors her, fills her to the brim with something way too close to anger. She hooks her arms around his neck and hugs really hard. It's that or start yelling, or maybe get teary after all. He clutches her hard too. "I don't care if you show up at the alter tomorrow, and you're -- fifty, or you've got a peg leg and an intergalactic warrant on you, or whatever," he murmurs into her hair, and she laughs wetly into his collar. "Just come back to me when you're done."

"I will," she whispers back. "I mean it. Wouldn't lie about it. It's rubbish, when time travelers lie."

"I believe you." Rory laughs, shaky around the edges. "Besides, you've always been a shit liar anyway." He buries his face in the fall of her hair and breathes, the way he does after orgasm, when they're both still coming down. Then he takes a deep breath and pushes away from her and he's jogging out over the grass, through the oases of streetlights and out into Corning Street.

"Watch the pothole!" she yells after him, and he half-turns to wave at her, already far off, and nearly falls in the bloody thing anyway. She scrubs her wrist under her nose -- cold out, so the stupid thing is running -- and pushes back into the TARDIS.

"Daft. Completely. I can't believe he didn't get eaten in the Children's Ward on Phoof," she announces, and the Doctor looks up fast and super-casual from the knobs he's fiddling with.

"Nah," he retorts, intent on the console, but the edges of his mouth are curling up just a bit. "He's got a weird sort of luck, Rory has. I think things are going to turn out all right for him."

The warm glow of the TARDIS casts faded shadows over the Doctor's face, under the fringe of his hair. No spot in the control room is ever really bright, or ever really dark. It always makes him look rumpled and soft around the edges. His eyes are bright with the reflections from the central column, irises full of light.

Amy curls her hands around the smooth metal of the railing and thinks, if Rory's lucky, it's pretty weird luck indeed. But she doesn't say it.

Like Rory put it: she's always been a shit liar.



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Date: 2010-12-30 08:15 pm (UTC)
grammarwoman: (Default)
From: [personal profile] grammarwoman
Not really anything in the way of useful feedback, but I think this is marvelous, and true to them all. I would love to see more of this if you ever find yourself back to working on it. *grin*

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