"To Have Him Believe It"
"To Have Him Believe It"
11th Doctor/Rory;The Doctor comforts Rory when Amy leaves.
The Doctor finds Rory alone, sitting on his bed, legs crossed and sobbing into his hands. The last thing Rory had expected, which really should have been the first, was for the Doctor to come and find it. He’d hoped for the TARDIS to hide his room from the prying Time Lord. But she had other plans, it seemed.
Of course Rory notices when he heard the inevitable creak of his door opening as slowly as a helping friend would push, and of course he cringes, but he doesn’t move an inch or say a thing. All he wants is to be left alone, and isn’t he allowed a pleasure as simple as that? So, he sits still, pretends he doesn’t notice the Doctor, hopes the Doctor will take the hint and leave.
But he doesn’t leave, because he’s The Doctor, and that simply isn’t something the Doctor does. Instead, he shuts the door behind him, and now Rory’s trapped in a room with the Doctor, and knows completely that he isn’t going to be able to leave. And he has absolutely no choice but to have the conversation that has been begging to be had for days.
Rory gives up when he feels a dip in his mattress, and lowers his hands to be met with the worried moss eyes of the Doctor, sits in front of Rory on the bed with his legs crossed as well. “Rory,” the Doctor says, and he’s holding a tall glass of water, which Rory assumes to be for him. Rory looks up just a tad more, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth and twiddling nervous, restless hands. “We need to talk.”
Rory opens his mouth to speak, but he hasn’t properly used his voice in days, and all the sound that comes out is a strangled moan before he coughs. The Doctor offers Rory the water, and Rory gulps down half the glass, the cool liquid soothing his raw throat. “No, we don’t,” Rory croaks, and his voice still wavers. “I’ll be fine.”
“I’m sure you will be fine, Rory. You’re strong, you know. I don’t have a doubt in my mind that you’ll be fine,” says the Doctor, smiling a sad but adoring full smile that reaches his murky, always searching eyes. “But humor me, will you?”
Rory sighs, rubbing his itching, wet eyes with the heels of his palms, his wrists catching on the sticky wetness of his cheeks. The Doctor is waiting, urging Rory to say something, so Rory just nods, crossing his arms over his stomach.
“Rory, you haven’t left your room in three days,” the Doctor points out, and yes, Rory knows. He clenches his fists and struggles to fight back the tears that threaten to escape his raw, red eyes.
“I know, Doctor,” he says, teeth clenches as well.
“Rory,” the Doctor says again, “You haven’t left your room since Amy left.”
“I know, Doctor,” Rory repeats, much less frustrated than absolutely heartbroken and almost angry at the Doctor for mentioning her name. At the sound of that name, he feels hollow, feels like keeling over to contain whatever mangles, hopeless heart he still has. But Rory can’t possibly be angry at the Doctor, that is, until he realized exactly how angry at the Doctor he has the right to be. “You know, if it weren’t for you and your stupid TARDIS, Amy wouldn’t have gone off like that,” he spat, grimacing.
The Doctor sighs, shaking his head and staring into space for just a moment. “Rory, if it weren’t for me, you and Amy would be dead, along with the rest of the human race. Do don’t even go down that road with me.” Rory huffs and looks down at his legs. No, the Doctor’s right, and Rory hasn’t a choice but to believe it. He isn’t angry, he’s sad. He can’t be angry, even if he’d like to. “As for my TARDIS, she’d quite beg to differ. She’s brilliant, you know that.”
Rory groans and the Doctor squeezes his shoulder soothingly. “You can’t always blame someone,” says the Doctor, and Rory shrugs. “Sometimes things just happen that are no one’s fault. Don’t you think so?”
“Maybe,” Rory shrugs again, and he really wishes his voice wasn’t such a wheezing, cracking mess. “Doctor, I feel like if it’s anyone fault, though, it’s got to be mine.” Rory could have easily lied, he supposes, and maybe the Doctor would have left him alone again. But he’s beginning to think that he would much rather be with the Doctor, even if it means he has to spill his guts to prying eyes and listening ears. When Rory speaks then, he finds that he feels a weight being lifted off his shoulders, and it feels good, so he keeps talking. “I just… I hate that I couldn’t have stopped her. Maybe if I said something different or if I were anyone else.” He looks up sheepishly at the Doctor from his ducked head.
“Oh, Rory,” the Doctor mumbles, hurrying to take the glass of water from Rory’s shaking fingertips and stretching awkwardly to set it on the nightstand. “No, no, Rory, no,” he keeps muttering as he unfolds his legs to kneel on the bed and collect Rory in his arms. At any other time, Rory would protest, but now, Rory just collapses against the Doctor’s chest, basking in the feel of the soft fabric and the warm skin underneath.
And Rory can’t help another broken sob escaping his throat, because the last person who hugged him was Amy, and Amy would most certainly never hug him again. So, he cries into the Doctor’s shirt and jacket, whimpering and shaking and gripping the tweed for dear life.
“Rory,” the Doctor whispers, and Rory’s sure that, had there been anyone else in the room, the Doctor’s voice wouldn’t reach their ears. “Don’t believe a word of that for one second. You are fantastic, Rory.” Rory’s heart swells at the compliment. He’d like to believe it, and he would at any other time, but it’s the most impossible time to, and Rory hates that. “You are so, so very fantastic, okay? You are, by far, one of the most fantastic people I have ever met. Honestly, Rory, if anyone’s going to convince Amy to stay, it’s you. She’s simply moved on. And you should never, absolutely never, Rory, neeeeeee-ver. hold that against yourself.
Rory isn’t happier, but closer to happy, but really just farther from miserable. And he wonders, is he really that fantastic? If anyone were to say it and have him believe it, it would be the Doctor, surely. The Doctor is the single most fantastic man Rory had ever had the pleasure to meet. The Doctor is amazing, a genius, a hero. Sometimes, it seems that the Doctor is completely flawless. And the Doctor thinks Rory is fantastic.
“Rory,” the Doctor mumbles, running slender fingers through Rory’s thin hair. “You know what you need? A warm, relaxing bath.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Rory ponders, and he sits up. The Doctor lets his grip go slack immediately, freeing Rory.
“Yeah,” the Doctor says, clapping Rory on the shoulder and grinning, and Rory can’t help but grin as well. “Oh there’s that smile I love. Beautiful,” and the Doctor’s hand sweeps up to cup Rory’s cheek, thumb sliding over the corner of Rory’s lips. In a second, he’s jumping off the bed and urging Rory, “Let’s go!” So Rory follows.
The TARDIS bathroom is elegant, the size of an entire bedroom in itself. The tiles spread across the floor are pure white, apart from the specks of gold dotted throughout. The bathtub, more of less the width of a small pool and deep enough for someone even seven feet tall to sit up and still be submerged if they please, is white with gold faucets to match.
The Doctor sits on the edge of the tub, crosses his legs, and begins to turn the knobs, nimble fingers slipping between the pegs that stick out from the centers labeled ‘H’ and ‘C’, hot and cold. Rory wonders if they were originally labeled in Gallifreyan. The Doctor slips his fingers under stream of water the water and adjusts the knobs until he’s apparently satisfied with the temperature, before he grabs a bottle that sits on a soap tray and pours it into the bath along the faucet’s spray. Lush, white bubbles fill the tub.
Though he finds it a bit strange that the Doctor is drawing his bath, he’s long learned never to be surprised at the Doctor, given his quirky nature added to the fact that he’s an alien, which makes it nothing but a colossal waste of time.
Rory is just a bit surprised though, when the Doctor turns off the water, stands, strips off his jacket, and shrugs off his braces. “Well?” he says as he undoes his bow-tie and drops it to the ground as well. “Getting in?”
“Uh, Doctor,” Rory stammers, dumbfounded, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not… I mean… I don’t think that’s a good idea…”
“Well Rory, that is quite a shame, don’t you think?” says the Doctor, with Rory wondering what he could possibly be going on about. “I seem to relax you; a bath certainly would relax you. You’d be very relaxed. You’d be… doubly relaxed...” the Doctor draws the sounds out as he tries out the new combination of words on his tongue. “You’re stressed, Rory. Really stressed. That’s not good. Not good at all, Rory. Nope.”
Rory sighs, silently debating his options. He hasn’t anything to lose, has he? No wife anymore, no life apart from the Doctor that he can contently go back to. Nothing wrong with trying something out, is there? Nothing could change, he decides, nothing that matters anyway. He wouldn’t terribly care and clearly neither would the Doctor. “Alright,” he says, and the Doctor gives him a small, reassuring smile, before he begins to unbutton his shirt.
Rory doesn’t like to be watched as he undresses. He’s a bit paranoid, a bit self conscious, so he keeps his eyes on the Doctor, until he can be completely sure that the Doctor is more absorbed in the tiny plastic buttons than Rory. He finds the courage eventually to lift his gray t-shirt over his head and lets it fall to the floor.
Hesitantly, Rory hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his pants, but he looks up at the Doctor before moving another inch. Yes, the Doctor’s doing the exact same thing, so Rory sucks in a breath and slides the fabric over his hips. He doesn’t exhale until he’s gotten himself into the bath, where the bubbles are thick and the top of his chest is barely visible. The Doctor chuckles at Rory’s urgency and climbs in with his own brand of awkward finesse, sitting cross-legged across the tub from Rory, and they’re both chest-deep in warm water and bubbles that tingle on their skin.
The Doctor doesn’t speak, so neither does Rory. Rory stares down instead, at the mess of bubbles, some popping into the air and the rest swaying with the water. He sighs. It’s quiet, and his mind doesn’t give him but a choice before the beautiful redhead fills every inch and crevice of his mind. Amy- the woman the loved, the only woman who’s ever loved him.
He thinks about the baths he and Amy took together. The water would plaster her burnt orange hair to the softness of her cheeks and her lush, pink lips, and the strands of hair would come free when she laughed, bubbly and vibrant and shaking her entire head. Her skin would shine as rivulets of water slipped down her face, her neck, her chest. Her hair, made dark by the water, would bring out her olive eyes impossibly more. Rory can’t shake the image. He doesn’t want to. He wants Amy’s perfect face to live forever behind his eyelids.
“You’re beautiful.”
Rory barely registers the words, doesn’t even register who’s said them, when he chokes and brand new tears spring from his tired eyes. That’s exactly what he said to her, when her skin glistened and her lips were bright, and when she had soap in her hair and not an inch of her face was blocked by those shining locks. It’s what he wanted to say to her every second of every day, because she’s the most beautiful girl he’s even seen, and ever will see, and he still wants to say it to her.
He’s just sitting there- sitting there and crying his eyes out, and he can’t even being himself to be embarrassed. In an instant there are arms around him, and it should be uncomfortable, he knows, but really he’s much too sad for anything to be, so he leans into the touch and his cheek finds the wet skin of the Doctor’s pale chest.
“It’s okay, Rory,” the Doctor mutters, petting Rory’s hair, and Rory nods, though the sounds he can’t stop making and the tears he can’t stop shedding are screaming the opposite. “Shh, you’ll be okay.” The Doctor’s voice is soothing, and Rory feels like he could listen to the smooth tenor nonstop for ages. It’s nice being with the Doctor, he decides.
Rory curls up against the Doctor, listening to the calming double heartbeat through the ear he has pressed up against the Doctor’s chest. The Doctor just keeps running his hands through Rory’s hair, down Rory’s face, muttering small reassurances. Rory realizes soon exactly how intimate it truly is. Of course he’d noticed, but it finally, really hits him now, and he can’t quite bother himself to complain, given how nice it really feels to be so close to another person- a Time Lord rather- in a time of need.
So, he lies there, hugged tight to the Doctor and trying to think about nothing but, though Amy’s face still remains in his head, all smiling lips and perfect everything. And he’s beginning to want it to go away, to be rid of the sadness that has him feeling a hollow in his chest where his heart should be. He’s going to fill that hollow. He’s going to be okay. He has to.
Amy had kissed the Doctor while she was away from Rory. It was spontaneous, the Doctor had said, and that it would have been Rory is he was there. This was no secret, and both Amy and the Doctor had always assumed Rory to be okay with it. But Rory wasn’t okay with it, not one bit. He’s thinking, though, that if Amy kissed the Doctor when she had to one else to kiss, why shouldn’t Rory do the same? Is there anything to stop him? Would there be any repercussions? Nothing of importance, he doesn’t think. Surely, the Doctor wouldn’t mind. The Doctor kisses all kinds of people all the time.
When Rory sits up this time, the Doctor’s hands linger just slightly longer on the back of his neck before falling back to the water, a look of confusion and concern etched across the Doctor’s features. With the skin under his eyes still itching and raw, and feeling weak and hopeless still, he slowly, carefully, extremely nervously, straddles the Doctor’s lips and leans into the warm body under him. Their foreheads are pressed together gently, both breathing slowly and exhaling onto each other’s open lips. The Doctor stares at Rory with wide eyes and his heartbeats quicken, and Rory takes that as good. Slowly, still, he pressed their lips together. Lips locked but not searching or prying, neither man moves, until Rory pulls away with a wet smack.
“Oh,” the Doctor whispers, after a moment of silence and soul-searching gazes. “Oh…Rory…”
But Rory’s lips are on the Doctor’s again, and this time they aren’t still, not even close. Gently, Rory kisses the Doctor with timid lips, licking open the Doctor’s mouth, and the Doctor responds eagerly, slipping his tongue into Rory’s mouth and trying, it seems, to taste every inch.
The Doctor doesn’t kiss like Amy does, Rory realizes. Amy’s possessive. She doesn’t lose her control or let is slack for one second, and she never stops or slows down until she gets exactly what she wants. The Doctor, though, just feels. He feels and just goes with the slow, liquid smooth, and Rory likes it. Rory likes it a lot.
When they finally break apart, the Doctor is breathless, and he snakes a hand up Rory’s rising and falling chest to cup his shoulder. “Feel better now, Rory?” he asks, shaking Rory’s shoulder gently.
“Yeah,” Rory breathes. “Yeah.”
“Good,” the Doctor pants. “I feel better too.”
Rory nods again and swallows, and all he can do is stare at the Doctor. Lips swollen red and slick, and skin flushed rosy, the Doctor looks like anything but himself. He looks unwound, severely lacking the composition he usually holds, and so very exposed, and Rory just can’t stop staring. It’s much too delicious a sight to possibly look away.
“Rory,” says the Doctor, after another moment of silence, apart from their heavy breathing. “You’re beautiful.” And Rory realizes then, it’s the second time the Doctor’s said it. The third time, he then realized. The third time the Doctor’s called him beautiful.
But no, Rory thinks, that can’t possibly be true. Beautiful is Amy. Beautiful is the Doctor even, now, hot and lazy with his hair fantastically messy. Especially the Doctor now. Rory’s never been called beautiful. It’s strange, he feels. He’s been called handsome before, by Amy mostly. Amy, and friends of his mother, and that just makes him feel tremendously pathetic. Amy, though, and that was enough in itself.
And as strange as it is, if anyone were to call Rory beautiful and have him believe it, it would be the Doctor. Rory can’t even begin to imagine everything the Doctor’s seen in his hundreds of years of life. The Doctor’s been across the universe, most universes, probably. He’s seen stars, nebulas, eclipses up close, Rory bets. He’s seen so many planets, so many species, met so many people and aliens. So why call Rory beautiful, when he’s seen so many other absolute marvels? Rory hasn’t a clue. He knows, though, that he can really get used to it.
“Are you tied?” asks the Doctor, cupping Rory’s face once again with a firm but tender hand.
“Yeah, I think so,” Rory breathes, and the Doctor smiles at him.
“Come to bed with me?” That small smile graces the Doctor’s lips still and his eyebrows are raised so adorable innocently, and Rory can’t help but smile back.
“Well, Doctor,” Rory remarks with a cheeky grin. “Trying to get in my pants, are you, when we’ve only just kissed?”
“I’ve already got you out of your pants,” the Doctor says, dropping the hand from Rory’s face to squeeze Rory’s hip, and Rory shudders at the touch, gasping. The Doctor chuckles. “Enough for one night, don’t you think?”
Rory falls asleep wrapped in silk sheets and the Doctor. He’s calm and comfortable, and surely the last thing he dreams about tonight will be Amy. He’s hasn’t forgotten, never will, but she’s moved on and the best he can do is occupy his mind while he can. And he’s got quite the lovely thing to occupy his mind with, he must say.
Before the Doctor falls prey to his weary eyes with their lazy lads, he whispers to his simple human with the simple heartbeat, “Such a precious thing,” and he kisses the sleeping man’s forehead before he, himself, sleeps.
11th Doctor/Rory;The Doctor comforts Rory when Amy leaves.
The Doctor finds Rory alone, sitting on his bed, legs crossed and sobbing into his hands. The last thing Rory had expected, which really should have been the first, was for the Doctor to come and find it. He’d hoped for the TARDIS to hide his room from the prying Time Lord. But she had other plans, it seemed.
Of course Rory notices when he heard the inevitable creak of his door opening as slowly as a helping friend would push, and of course he cringes, but he doesn’t move an inch or say a thing. All he wants is to be left alone, and isn’t he allowed a pleasure as simple as that? So, he sits still, pretends he doesn’t notice the Doctor, hopes the Doctor will take the hint and leave.
But he doesn’t leave, because he’s The Doctor, and that simply isn’t something the Doctor does. Instead, he shuts the door behind him, and now Rory’s trapped in a room with the Doctor, and knows completely that he isn’t going to be able to leave. And he has absolutely no choice but to have the conversation that has been begging to be had for days.
Rory gives up when he feels a dip in his mattress, and lowers his hands to be met with the worried moss eyes of the Doctor, sits in front of Rory on the bed with his legs crossed as well. “Rory,” the Doctor says, and he’s holding a tall glass of water, which Rory assumes to be for him. Rory looks up just a tad more, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth and twiddling nervous, restless hands. “We need to talk.”
Rory opens his mouth to speak, but he hasn’t properly used his voice in days, and all the sound that comes out is a strangled moan before he coughs. The Doctor offers Rory the water, and Rory gulps down half the glass, the cool liquid soothing his raw throat. “No, we don’t,” Rory croaks, and his voice still wavers. “I’ll be fine.”
“I’m sure you will be fine, Rory. You’re strong, you know. I don’t have a doubt in my mind that you’ll be fine,” says the Doctor, smiling a sad but adoring full smile that reaches his murky, always searching eyes. “But humor me, will you?”
Rory sighs, rubbing his itching, wet eyes with the heels of his palms, his wrists catching on the sticky wetness of his cheeks. The Doctor is waiting, urging Rory to say something, so Rory just nods, crossing his arms over his stomach.
“Rory, you haven’t left your room in three days,” the Doctor points out, and yes, Rory knows. He clenches his fists and struggles to fight back the tears that threaten to escape his raw, red eyes.
“I know, Doctor,” he says, teeth clenches as well.
“Rory,” the Doctor says again, “You haven’t left your room since Amy left.”
“I know, Doctor,” Rory repeats, much less frustrated than absolutely heartbroken and almost angry at the Doctor for mentioning her name. At the sound of that name, he feels hollow, feels like keeling over to contain whatever mangles, hopeless heart he still has. But Rory can’t possibly be angry at the Doctor, that is, until he realized exactly how angry at the Doctor he has the right to be. “You know, if it weren’t for you and your stupid TARDIS, Amy wouldn’t have gone off like that,” he spat, grimacing.
The Doctor sighs, shaking his head and staring into space for just a moment. “Rory, if it weren’t for me, you and Amy would be dead, along with the rest of the human race. Do don’t even go down that road with me.” Rory huffs and looks down at his legs. No, the Doctor’s right, and Rory hasn’t a choice but to believe it. He isn’t angry, he’s sad. He can’t be angry, even if he’d like to. “As for my TARDIS, she’d quite beg to differ. She’s brilliant, you know that.”
Rory groans and the Doctor squeezes his shoulder soothingly. “You can’t always blame someone,” says the Doctor, and Rory shrugs. “Sometimes things just happen that are no one’s fault. Don’t you think so?”
“Maybe,” Rory shrugs again, and he really wishes his voice wasn’t such a wheezing, cracking mess. “Doctor, I feel like if it’s anyone fault, though, it’s got to be mine.” Rory could have easily lied, he supposes, and maybe the Doctor would have left him alone again. But he’s beginning to think that he would much rather be with the Doctor, even if it means he has to spill his guts to prying eyes and listening ears. When Rory speaks then, he finds that he feels a weight being lifted off his shoulders, and it feels good, so he keeps talking. “I just… I hate that I couldn’t have stopped her. Maybe if I said something different or if I were anyone else.” He looks up sheepishly at the Doctor from his ducked head.
“Oh, Rory,” the Doctor mumbles, hurrying to take the glass of water from Rory’s shaking fingertips and stretching awkwardly to set it on the nightstand. “No, no, Rory, no,” he keeps muttering as he unfolds his legs to kneel on the bed and collect Rory in his arms. At any other time, Rory would protest, but now, Rory just collapses against the Doctor’s chest, basking in the feel of the soft fabric and the warm skin underneath.
And Rory can’t help another broken sob escaping his throat, because the last person who hugged him was Amy, and Amy would most certainly never hug him again. So, he cries into the Doctor’s shirt and jacket, whimpering and shaking and gripping the tweed for dear life.
“Rory,” the Doctor whispers, and Rory’s sure that, had there been anyone else in the room, the Doctor’s voice wouldn’t reach their ears. “Don’t believe a word of that for one second. You are fantastic, Rory.” Rory’s heart swells at the compliment. He’d like to believe it, and he would at any other time, but it’s the most impossible time to, and Rory hates that. “You are so, so very fantastic, okay? You are, by far, one of the most fantastic people I have ever met. Honestly, Rory, if anyone’s going to convince Amy to stay, it’s you. She’s simply moved on. And you should never, absolutely never, Rory, neeeeeee-ver. hold that against yourself.
Rory isn’t happier, but closer to happy, but really just farther from miserable. And he wonders, is he really that fantastic? If anyone were to say it and have him believe it, it would be the Doctor, surely. The Doctor is the single most fantastic man Rory had ever had the pleasure to meet. The Doctor is amazing, a genius, a hero. Sometimes, it seems that the Doctor is completely flawless. And the Doctor thinks Rory is fantastic.
“Rory,” the Doctor mumbles, running slender fingers through Rory’s thin hair. “You know what you need? A warm, relaxing bath.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Rory ponders, and he sits up. The Doctor lets his grip go slack immediately, freeing Rory.
“Yeah,” the Doctor says, clapping Rory on the shoulder and grinning, and Rory can’t help but grin as well. “Oh there’s that smile I love. Beautiful,” and the Doctor’s hand sweeps up to cup Rory’s cheek, thumb sliding over the corner of Rory’s lips. In a second, he’s jumping off the bed and urging Rory, “Let’s go!” So Rory follows.
The TARDIS bathroom is elegant, the size of an entire bedroom in itself. The tiles spread across the floor are pure white, apart from the specks of gold dotted throughout. The bathtub, more of less the width of a small pool and deep enough for someone even seven feet tall to sit up and still be submerged if they please, is white with gold faucets to match.
The Doctor sits on the edge of the tub, crosses his legs, and begins to turn the knobs, nimble fingers slipping between the pegs that stick out from the centers labeled ‘H’ and ‘C’, hot and cold. Rory wonders if they were originally labeled in Gallifreyan. The Doctor slips his fingers under stream of water the water and adjusts the knobs until he’s apparently satisfied with the temperature, before he grabs a bottle that sits on a soap tray and pours it into the bath along the faucet’s spray. Lush, white bubbles fill the tub.
Though he finds it a bit strange that the Doctor is drawing his bath, he’s long learned never to be surprised at the Doctor, given his quirky nature added to the fact that he’s an alien, which makes it nothing but a colossal waste of time.
Rory is just a bit surprised though, when the Doctor turns off the water, stands, strips off his jacket, and shrugs off his braces. “Well?” he says as he undoes his bow-tie and drops it to the ground as well. “Getting in?”
“Uh, Doctor,” Rory stammers, dumbfounded, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not… I mean… I don’t think that’s a good idea…”
“Well Rory, that is quite a shame, don’t you think?” says the Doctor, with Rory wondering what he could possibly be going on about. “I seem to relax you; a bath certainly would relax you. You’d be very relaxed. You’d be… doubly relaxed...” the Doctor draws the sounds out as he tries out the new combination of words on his tongue. “You’re stressed, Rory. Really stressed. That’s not good. Not good at all, Rory. Nope.”
Rory sighs, silently debating his options. He hasn’t anything to lose, has he? No wife anymore, no life apart from the Doctor that he can contently go back to. Nothing wrong with trying something out, is there? Nothing could change, he decides, nothing that matters anyway. He wouldn’t terribly care and clearly neither would the Doctor. “Alright,” he says, and the Doctor gives him a small, reassuring smile, before he begins to unbutton his shirt.
Rory doesn’t like to be watched as he undresses. He’s a bit paranoid, a bit self conscious, so he keeps his eyes on the Doctor, until he can be completely sure that the Doctor is more absorbed in the tiny plastic buttons than Rory. He finds the courage eventually to lift his gray t-shirt over his head and lets it fall to the floor.
Hesitantly, Rory hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his pants, but he looks up at the Doctor before moving another inch. Yes, the Doctor’s doing the exact same thing, so Rory sucks in a breath and slides the fabric over his hips. He doesn’t exhale until he’s gotten himself into the bath, where the bubbles are thick and the top of his chest is barely visible. The Doctor chuckles at Rory’s urgency and climbs in with his own brand of awkward finesse, sitting cross-legged across the tub from Rory, and they’re both chest-deep in warm water and bubbles that tingle on their skin.
The Doctor doesn’t speak, so neither does Rory. Rory stares down instead, at the mess of bubbles, some popping into the air and the rest swaying with the water. He sighs. It’s quiet, and his mind doesn’t give him but a choice before the beautiful redhead fills every inch and crevice of his mind. Amy- the woman the loved, the only woman who’s ever loved him.
He thinks about the baths he and Amy took together. The water would plaster her burnt orange hair to the softness of her cheeks and her lush, pink lips, and the strands of hair would come free when she laughed, bubbly and vibrant and shaking her entire head. Her skin would shine as rivulets of water slipped down her face, her neck, her chest. Her hair, made dark by the water, would bring out her olive eyes impossibly more. Rory can’t shake the image. He doesn’t want to. He wants Amy’s perfect face to live forever behind his eyelids.
“You’re beautiful.”
Rory barely registers the words, doesn’t even register who’s said them, when he chokes and brand new tears spring from his tired eyes. That’s exactly what he said to her, when her skin glistened and her lips were bright, and when she had soap in her hair and not an inch of her face was blocked by those shining locks. It’s what he wanted to say to her every second of every day, because she’s the most beautiful girl he’s even seen, and ever will see, and he still wants to say it to her.
He’s just sitting there- sitting there and crying his eyes out, and he can’t even being himself to be embarrassed. In an instant there are arms around him, and it should be uncomfortable, he knows, but really he’s much too sad for anything to be, so he leans into the touch and his cheek finds the wet skin of the Doctor’s pale chest.
“It’s okay, Rory,” the Doctor mutters, petting Rory’s hair, and Rory nods, though the sounds he can’t stop making and the tears he can’t stop shedding are screaming the opposite. “Shh, you’ll be okay.” The Doctor’s voice is soothing, and Rory feels like he could listen to the smooth tenor nonstop for ages. It’s nice being with the Doctor, he decides.
Rory curls up against the Doctor, listening to the calming double heartbeat through the ear he has pressed up against the Doctor’s chest. The Doctor just keeps running his hands through Rory’s hair, down Rory’s face, muttering small reassurances. Rory realizes soon exactly how intimate it truly is. Of course he’d noticed, but it finally, really hits him now, and he can’t quite bother himself to complain, given how nice it really feels to be so close to another person- a Time Lord rather- in a time of need.
So, he lies there, hugged tight to the Doctor and trying to think about nothing but, though Amy’s face still remains in his head, all smiling lips and perfect everything. And he’s beginning to want it to go away, to be rid of the sadness that has him feeling a hollow in his chest where his heart should be. He’s going to fill that hollow. He’s going to be okay. He has to.
Amy had kissed the Doctor while she was away from Rory. It was spontaneous, the Doctor had said, and that it would have been Rory is he was there. This was no secret, and both Amy and the Doctor had always assumed Rory to be okay with it. But Rory wasn’t okay with it, not one bit. He’s thinking, though, that if Amy kissed the Doctor when she had to one else to kiss, why shouldn’t Rory do the same? Is there anything to stop him? Would there be any repercussions? Nothing of importance, he doesn’t think. Surely, the Doctor wouldn’t mind. The Doctor kisses all kinds of people all the time.
When Rory sits up this time, the Doctor’s hands linger just slightly longer on the back of his neck before falling back to the water, a look of confusion and concern etched across the Doctor’s features. With the skin under his eyes still itching and raw, and feeling weak and hopeless still, he slowly, carefully, extremely nervously, straddles the Doctor’s lips and leans into the warm body under him. Their foreheads are pressed together gently, both breathing slowly and exhaling onto each other’s open lips. The Doctor stares at Rory with wide eyes and his heartbeats quicken, and Rory takes that as good. Slowly, still, he pressed their lips together. Lips locked but not searching or prying, neither man moves, until Rory pulls away with a wet smack.
“Oh,” the Doctor whispers, after a moment of silence and soul-searching gazes. “Oh…Rory…”
But Rory’s lips are on the Doctor’s again, and this time they aren’t still, not even close. Gently, Rory kisses the Doctor with timid lips, licking open the Doctor’s mouth, and the Doctor responds eagerly, slipping his tongue into Rory’s mouth and trying, it seems, to taste every inch.
The Doctor doesn’t kiss like Amy does, Rory realizes. Amy’s possessive. She doesn’t lose her control or let is slack for one second, and she never stops or slows down until she gets exactly what she wants. The Doctor, though, just feels. He feels and just goes with the slow, liquid smooth, and Rory likes it. Rory likes it a lot.
When they finally break apart, the Doctor is breathless, and he snakes a hand up Rory’s rising and falling chest to cup his shoulder. “Feel better now, Rory?” he asks, shaking Rory’s shoulder gently.
“Yeah,” Rory breathes. “Yeah.”
“Good,” the Doctor pants. “I feel better too.”
Rory nods again and swallows, and all he can do is stare at the Doctor. Lips swollen red and slick, and skin flushed rosy, the Doctor looks like anything but himself. He looks unwound, severely lacking the composition he usually holds, and so very exposed, and Rory just can’t stop staring. It’s much too delicious a sight to possibly look away.
“Rory,” says the Doctor, after another moment of silence, apart from their heavy breathing. “You’re beautiful.” And Rory realizes then, it’s the second time the Doctor’s said it. The third time, he then realized. The third time the Doctor’s called him beautiful.
But no, Rory thinks, that can’t possibly be true. Beautiful is Amy. Beautiful is the Doctor even, now, hot and lazy with his hair fantastically messy. Especially the Doctor now. Rory’s never been called beautiful. It’s strange, he feels. He’s been called handsome before, by Amy mostly. Amy, and friends of his mother, and that just makes him feel tremendously pathetic. Amy, though, and that was enough in itself.
And as strange as it is, if anyone were to call Rory beautiful and have him believe it, it would be the Doctor. Rory can’t even begin to imagine everything the Doctor’s seen in his hundreds of years of life. The Doctor’s been across the universe, most universes, probably. He’s seen stars, nebulas, eclipses up close, Rory bets. He’s seen so many planets, so many species, met so many people and aliens. So why call Rory beautiful, when he’s seen so many other absolute marvels? Rory hasn’t a clue. He knows, though, that he can really get used to it.
“Are you tied?” asks the Doctor, cupping Rory’s face once again with a firm but tender hand.
“Yeah, I think so,” Rory breathes, and the Doctor smiles at him.
“Come to bed with me?” That small smile graces the Doctor’s lips still and his eyebrows are raised so adorable innocently, and Rory can’t help but smile back.
“Well, Doctor,” Rory remarks with a cheeky grin. “Trying to get in my pants, are you, when we’ve only just kissed?”
“I’ve already got you out of your pants,” the Doctor says, dropping the hand from Rory’s face to squeeze Rory’s hip, and Rory shudders at the touch, gasping. The Doctor chuckles. “Enough for one night, don’t you think?”
Rory falls asleep wrapped in silk sheets and the Doctor. He’s calm and comfortable, and surely the last thing he dreams about tonight will be Amy. He’s hasn’t forgotten, never will, but she’s moved on and the best he can do is occupy his mind while he can. And he’s got quite the lovely thing to occupy his mind with, he must say.
Before the Doctor falls prey to his weary eyes with their lazy lads, he whispers to his simple human with the simple heartbeat, “Such a precious thing,” and he kisses the sleeping man’s forehead before he, himself, sleeps.