what stays and what fades away (Fic: Doctor Who, A/R, Ficlet)
Title: what stays and what fades away
Fandom(s): Doctor Who
Pairing: Amy/Rory
Word Count: 400
Rating: K (allusions to sex; nothing explicit)
Warnings: Spoilers through "The Wedding of River Song".
Disclaimer: I don't own them! I just borrow them. The title is from a Florence + The Machine lyric; I owe so many debts to Ms. Welch and the rest.
Summary: Those thirty-six years belonged to a whole other Amy, one who’s gone now. But it echoes back, sometimes. She’ll wake up feeling like she hasn’t been touched by another soul in so very many years.
Notes: Written for who_contest Drabble Challenge #8 (theme: cold). Post-Series 6.
She remembers so many things.
A world with stars-and one without. A world with her parents-and one without. A world with Rory-and one without. A world where she’d been a soldier, where she’d left a woman to die.
Thirty-six years of loneliness and running, running, running to escape kindnesses.
She’s not supposed to remember. She knows that. Those thirty-six years belonged to a whole other Amy, one who’s gone now. But it echoes back, sometimes. She’ll wake up feeling like she hasn’t been touched by another soul in so very many years. She’ll wake up reaching for Rory. Sometimes he’s gone to work already and she lies there, crying for a lonely life that never was.
This night is one where she wakes up reaching. This night is one where he’s there.
Her hands find and grasp Rory’s arm and he bolts awake-such a light sleeper still, so used to sleeping in on-call rooms and waiting for the buzz of his pager. “Amy?” he asks, his eyes searching her face and seeing her tears, and before she knows it she’s in his arms. “God, your hands are freezing… Amy, what’s wrong?”
She shakes her head. Won’t say it. Doesn’t want to. Rory’s hands, so much warmer than hers, find her chin and tilt her face to his. “Tell me,” he murmurs, and she breaks, like always.
“You remember,” she says hoarsely. “Rome. Being the Lone Centurion. Don’t you?”
“Amy, I’ve told you, I don’t…”
“You do.” She grabs his warm hands and wraps them in her cold ones. “Because sometimes you phone the machine just to hear my voice, like you’re remembering when it was all quiet. Because… because in that hotel, you could’ve gotten out. Your faith was gone. You… you have to remember.”
“Because you do,” Rory whispers, after a pained nod. He swallows tears. “You remember being alone on Apalapucia. You remember so… so you want me to.”
“It’s the last thing I want.”
“And it’s the last thing I wanted for you. Oh, Amy… Amy…”
In minutes, they’re making love because it’s the only way to get warm, to be close. They make love to not feel so alone.
Afterwards they lie in the stillness, close but, in their minds, far away. Far away in the cold and the dark and the lonely, remembering what was and what should not have been.
Fandom(s): Doctor Who
Pairing: Amy/Rory
Word Count: 400
Rating: K (allusions to sex; nothing explicit)
Warnings: Spoilers through "The Wedding of River Song".
Disclaimer: I don't own them! I just borrow them. The title is from a Florence + The Machine lyric; I owe so many debts to Ms. Welch and the rest.
Summary: Those thirty-six years belonged to a whole other Amy, one who’s gone now. But it echoes back, sometimes. She’ll wake up feeling like she hasn’t been touched by another soul in so very many years.
Notes: Written for who_contest Drabble Challenge #8 (theme: cold). Post-Series 6.
She remembers so many things.
A world with stars-and one without. A world with her parents-and one without. A world with Rory-and one without. A world where she’d been a soldier, where she’d left a woman to die.
Thirty-six years of loneliness and running, running, running to escape kindnesses.
She’s not supposed to remember. She knows that. Those thirty-six years belonged to a whole other Amy, one who’s gone now. But it echoes back, sometimes. She’ll wake up feeling like she hasn’t been touched by another soul in so very many years. She’ll wake up reaching for Rory. Sometimes he’s gone to work already and she lies there, crying for a lonely life that never was.
This night is one where she wakes up reaching. This night is one where he’s there.
Her hands find and grasp Rory’s arm and he bolts awake-such a light sleeper still, so used to sleeping in on-call rooms and waiting for the buzz of his pager. “Amy?” he asks, his eyes searching her face and seeing her tears, and before she knows it she’s in his arms. “God, your hands are freezing… Amy, what’s wrong?”
She shakes her head. Won’t say it. Doesn’t want to. Rory’s hands, so much warmer than hers, find her chin and tilt her face to his. “Tell me,” he murmurs, and she breaks, like always.
“You remember,” she says hoarsely. “Rome. Being the Lone Centurion. Don’t you?”
“Amy, I’ve told you, I don’t…”
“You do.” She grabs his warm hands and wraps them in her cold ones. “Because sometimes you phone the machine just to hear my voice, like you’re remembering when it was all quiet. Because… because in that hotel, you could’ve gotten out. Your faith was gone. You… you have to remember.”
“Because you do,” Rory whispers, after a pained nod. He swallows tears. “You remember being alone on Apalapucia. You remember so… so you want me to.”
“It’s the last thing I want.”
“And it’s the last thing I wanted for you. Oh, Amy… Amy…”
In minutes, they’re making love because it’s the only way to get warm, to be close. They make love to not feel so alone.
Afterwards they lie in the stillness, close but, in their minds, far away. Far away in the cold and the dark and the lonely, remembering what was and what should not have been.