Gift for apple_pathways
To: apple_pathways
From: wojelah
Title: Don’t Panic, Or The Ponds’ Guide to Surviving the Galaxies
Characters & Pairing: Amy Pond/Rory Williams
Rating: soft R
Warnings: none
Summary: - Set during 6.11, The God Complex, 6.12 Closing Time, and 6.13, The Wedding of River Song.
Author’s Note: With tremendous apologies to Douglas Adams. Riffing off of the prompts, “The Doctor’s Guide to Blending In On An Alien Planet” and “Amy Pond grows up, but does it in her own, very ‘Amy’ way.”
Word Count: 1,441
_____
One: DON’T PANIC.
_____
“Real Earth, real house, real door keys.”
She can still hear him say it. She tells herself for long minutes that she hasn’t heard the last wheeze of the rotors, hasn’t seen the last flash of the beacon, last flicker of blue. Rory stands behind her, far enough away that she can’t feel him there. The wine and glasses sit forgotten on the table. They won't remember them for days.
They stay there, together and apart, not touching, all through the long, dark teatime of the soul, until it's too dark to see anything outside the circles of lamplight- until all she can see is the pool of light cast over the spot where the TARDIS once stood, and the red, red roadster just across the street. Until it's clear there's no beacon, no flicker, no wheeze.
She watches the window; in the window, Rory watches her.
She turns around eventually and tries on a smile in the dark of the room. "It's your favorite car," she says, reaching for his hand. He jerks away like she's slapped him. "Oh, Rory," she says, and lets her face crumple, lets her grin turn false and jagged. "Rory," she whispers, as he gathers her in, hand warm on the back of her neck, where the Doctor's had been just hours ago.
"I know," he says, and holds her close till she can breathe again.
"C'mon," she says at last. "Let's go explore."
_____
Two: The History of every major Galactic Civilization tends to pass through three distinct and recognizable phases, those of Survival, Inquiry and Sophistication. . . .
_____
“What happened? What’s he doing?” “He’s saving us.”
He isn't so sure. He watches, the first few weeks, as Amy walks through the house, bumping into chairs and tables when she forgets they're there. They rearrange the furniture, rearrange it again, but it's still never quite in the right place.
He watches, pretending not to notice the way she lingers by the window, pretending not to notice that he does just the same, that she's watching him too.
The refrigerator and larder are stocked, at least at first, but it's not an infinite pocket of space-time, and after three weeks, it's either go to the store or start eating the towels. Going to the store means going to the cash point, and the money feels strange in his hand, light and soft and slightly oily. The change he gets in turn is heavy and dull, jangling unmusically when he takes it out of his pocket and drops it on the kitchen island.
"Do you remember," Amy says, a smile on her face as she unpacks a bag, "the money on Hydigeal Betans?"
"It chimed," he says, smiling back, and then their eyes meet and it's too hard, too much. He stows the cheese in the refrigerator and goes to hang the carry bag by the door.
Saving us, Rory thinks, and it's just a little bitter, until she brushes past him and her hand squeezes his.
Maybe,, he thinks. Maybe.
_____
Three: The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy has a few things to say on the subject of towels. A towel, it says, is about the most massively useful thing an interstellar hitchhiker can have. Partly it has great practical value . . . . More importantly, a towel has immense psychological value. . . . any man that can hitch the length and breadth of the Galaxy, ruff it, slum it, struggle against terrible odds, win through and still know where his towel is, is clearly a man to be reckoned with.
_____
“Look after him.”
She tries. She does. But really, mostly, they look after each other.
He remembers the milk. She remembers the right day for the rubbish collector. Little by little, they find a routine. It's surreal, like they're playing house again, like the first time they moved in together. Only they're older and wiser and sadder, and somehow that makes the little kindnesses easier.
He brings her flowers, now - they used to be an extravagance, but their bank cards are tied to accounts far better endowed than the ones they'd left behind. He brings her flowers, and tea when she's curled on the couch, and she rides with him in that beautiful car, her head on his shoulder and the countryside streaming gently past. It's never fast enough, and time passes far, far too slowly, but they try, and it helps on the days when the ache is sharp.
One day she realizes that it's been a year, a whole year, that they've been waiting for him. Rory finds her at the window and curls his arm around her waist, and for once, they wait together.
And when she gets tired of waiting, when she refuses to stop by the window any more out of sheer stubbornness, when she starts moving forward and dreaming big, Rory is right beside her.
Rory Williams. Rory Pond. The Lone Centurion. Always there.
She wakes at night sometimes, just to check.
_____
Four: There is an art, it says, or rather, a knack to flying. The knack lies in learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss. … Clearly, it is this second part, the missing, which presents the difficulties.
_____
“Maybe there’s a bigger, scarier adventure waiting for you in there.”
Amy tells him about that conversation late one night, whispering in the dark. Her body curves into his, her shoulder’s a pale gleam against the coverlet. He traces her collarbone and says nothing.
They're living a dream, he thinks, and tries not to feel unsettled. He remembers his own conversations with the Doctor, after all. "After all the time I'd spent with you in the TARDIS," he'd said, "what was left to be scared of?” And then, “I’d forgotten that not all victories are about saving the universe.” Amy next to him, in this house, a world of opportunity before them - it's a victory. But he also knows his daughter's out there, in the universe, her trajectory nothing like his own, and he doesn't know if he'll ever see her again. Linear time has never felt so hard, and he has two thousand years' experience.
He thinks all this, listening to Amy, holding her close. When she falls silent, he sees the tears, glints in the dim bedroom. He kisses her eyes, kisses her face - sets his fingers to touch and his lips to follow. She moves under him, a quick surge and a quiet moan when he tastes her. Later, she quivers and clings and he holds her tight as he comes apart.
When he wakes, he is alone. It is 5:02 pm and always has been.
_____
Five: There is a theory which states that if ever anyone discovers exactly what the Universe is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something even more bizarre and inexplicable. There is another theory which states that this has already happened.”
_____
“Amy. You’ll find your Rory. You always do.”
Her name is Amelia Pond. She has an office in a train and a plan and a head full of memories and images that she clings to like talismans, desperate to remember. They're true, they have to be true, because Rory's among them. If there's one thing she knows, it's that wherever she's been, he's there too.
She will find him. Always. Wherever he is.
She's barely promised it when she realizes the truth.
She looks at Captain Williams, before she goes. His fist is clenched and his gun is steady. "I'm of no use to you if I can't remember," he says, and she has to leave - there's no room for can't or won't or shouldn't. She must: River's on the roof with the Doctor - River, her baby - and Amy should be there with her.
So she goes, and then it hits her. Rory. Her Rory. Her feet turn before the thought’s even complete. “Best of the best,” she’d said, and never known it.
"Know she will never come back for you," the Silence hiss. Rory's on his knees, and River's on the roof, and after the knowledge comes the rage, sure and deep.
Rory's hers. He'll wait, and she'll come, and they'll do anything to help their daughter. That's the way it is - will always be. If the universe hasn't learned that yet, Amy will damn well teach it.
Because when the Doctor's not here, it's time for different rules. Amy's rules.
And Amelia Pond plays for keeps.
From: wojelah
Title: Don’t Panic, Or The Ponds’ Guide to Surviving the Galaxies
Characters & Pairing: Amy Pond/Rory Williams
Rating: soft R
Warnings: none
Summary: - Set during 6.11, The God Complex, 6.12 Closing Time, and 6.13, The Wedding of River Song.
Author’s Note: With tremendous apologies to Douglas Adams. Riffing off of the prompts, “The Doctor’s Guide to Blending In On An Alien Planet” and “Amy Pond grows up, but does it in her own, very ‘Amy’ way.”
Word Count: 1,441
_____
One: DON’T PANIC.
_____
“Real Earth, real house, real door keys.”
She can still hear him say it. She tells herself for long minutes that she hasn’t heard the last wheeze of the rotors, hasn’t seen the last flash of the beacon, last flicker of blue. Rory stands behind her, far enough away that she can’t feel him there. The wine and glasses sit forgotten on the table. They won't remember them for days.
They stay there, together and apart, not touching, all through the long, dark teatime of the soul, until it's too dark to see anything outside the circles of lamplight- until all she can see is the pool of light cast over the spot where the TARDIS once stood, and the red, red roadster just across the street. Until it's clear there's no beacon, no flicker, no wheeze.
She watches the window; in the window, Rory watches her.
She turns around eventually and tries on a smile in the dark of the room. "It's your favorite car," she says, reaching for his hand. He jerks away like she's slapped him. "Oh, Rory," she says, and lets her face crumple, lets her grin turn false and jagged. "Rory," she whispers, as he gathers her in, hand warm on the back of her neck, where the Doctor's had been just hours ago.
"I know," he says, and holds her close till she can breathe again.
"C'mon," she says at last. "Let's go explore."
_____
Two: The History of every major Galactic Civilization tends to pass through three distinct and recognizable phases, those of Survival, Inquiry and Sophistication. . . .
_____
“What happened? What’s he doing?” “He’s saving us.”
He isn't so sure. He watches, the first few weeks, as Amy walks through the house, bumping into chairs and tables when she forgets they're there. They rearrange the furniture, rearrange it again, but it's still never quite in the right place.
He watches, pretending not to notice the way she lingers by the window, pretending not to notice that he does just the same, that she's watching him too.
The refrigerator and larder are stocked, at least at first, but it's not an infinite pocket of space-time, and after three weeks, it's either go to the store or start eating the towels. Going to the store means going to the cash point, and the money feels strange in his hand, light and soft and slightly oily. The change he gets in turn is heavy and dull, jangling unmusically when he takes it out of his pocket and drops it on the kitchen island.
"Do you remember," Amy says, a smile on her face as she unpacks a bag, "the money on Hydigeal Betans?"
"It chimed," he says, smiling back, and then their eyes meet and it's too hard, too much. He stows the cheese in the refrigerator and goes to hang the carry bag by the door.
Saving us, Rory thinks, and it's just a little bitter, until she brushes past him and her hand squeezes his.
Maybe,, he thinks. Maybe.
_____
Three: The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy has a few things to say on the subject of towels. A towel, it says, is about the most massively useful thing an interstellar hitchhiker can have. Partly it has great practical value . . . . More importantly, a towel has immense psychological value. . . . any man that can hitch the length and breadth of the Galaxy, ruff it, slum it, struggle against terrible odds, win through and still know where his towel is, is clearly a man to be reckoned with.
_____
“Look after him.”
She tries. She does. But really, mostly, they look after each other.
He remembers the milk. She remembers the right day for the rubbish collector. Little by little, they find a routine. It's surreal, like they're playing house again, like the first time they moved in together. Only they're older and wiser and sadder, and somehow that makes the little kindnesses easier.
He brings her flowers, now - they used to be an extravagance, but their bank cards are tied to accounts far better endowed than the ones they'd left behind. He brings her flowers, and tea when she's curled on the couch, and she rides with him in that beautiful car, her head on his shoulder and the countryside streaming gently past. It's never fast enough, and time passes far, far too slowly, but they try, and it helps on the days when the ache is sharp.
One day she realizes that it's been a year, a whole year, that they've been waiting for him. Rory finds her at the window and curls his arm around her waist, and for once, they wait together.
And when she gets tired of waiting, when she refuses to stop by the window any more out of sheer stubbornness, when she starts moving forward and dreaming big, Rory is right beside her.
Rory Williams. Rory Pond. The Lone Centurion. Always there.
She wakes at night sometimes, just to check.
_____
Four: There is an art, it says, or rather, a knack to flying. The knack lies in learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss. … Clearly, it is this second part, the missing, which presents the difficulties.
_____
“Maybe there’s a bigger, scarier adventure waiting for you in there.”
Amy tells him about that conversation late one night, whispering in the dark. Her body curves into his, her shoulder’s a pale gleam against the coverlet. He traces her collarbone and says nothing.
They're living a dream, he thinks, and tries not to feel unsettled. He remembers his own conversations with the Doctor, after all. "After all the time I'd spent with you in the TARDIS," he'd said, "what was left to be scared of?” And then, “I’d forgotten that not all victories are about saving the universe.” Amy next to him, in this house, a world of opportunity before them - it's a victory. But he also knows his daughter's out there, in the universe, her trajectory nothing like his own, and he doesn't know if he'll ever see her again. Linear time has never felt so hard, and he has two thousand years' experience.
He thinks all this, listening to Amy, holding her close. When she falls silent, he sees the tears, glints in the dim bedroom. He kisses her eyes, kisses her face - sets his fingers to touch and his lips to follow. She moves under him, a quick surge and a quiet moan when he tastes her. Later, she quivers and clings and he holds her tight as he comes apart.
When he wakes, he is alone. It is 5:02 pm and always has been.
_____
Five: There is a theory which states that if ever anyone discovers exactly what the Universe is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something even more bizarre and inexplicable. There is another theory which states that this has already happened.”
_____
“Amy. You’ll find your Rory. You always do.”
Her name is Amelia Pond. She has an office in a train and a plan and a head full of memories and images that she clings to like talismans, desperate to remember. They're true, they have to be true, because Rory's among them. If there's one thing she knows, it's that wherever she's been, he's there too.
She will find him. Always. Wherever he is.
She's barely promised it when she realizes the truth.
She looks at Captain Williams, before she goes. His fist is clenched and his gun is steady. "I'm of no use to you if I can't remember," he says, and she has to leave - there's no room for can't or won't or shouldn't. She must: River's on the roof with the Doctor - River, her baby - and Amy should be there with her.
So she goes, and then it hits her. Rory. Her Rory. Her feet turn before the thought’s even complete. “Best of the best,” she’d said, and never known it.
"Know she will never come back for you," the Silence hiss. Rory's on his knees, and River's on the roof, and after the knowledge comes the rage, sure and deep.
Rory's hers. He'll wait, and she'll come, and they'll do anything to help their daughter. That's the way it is - will always be. If the universe hasn't learned that yet, Amy will damn well teach it.
Because when the Doctor's not here, it's time for different rules. Amy's rules.
And Amelia Pond plays for keeps.