Log in

Previous Entry | Next Entry

Title: Waiting for the world to change
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: Rory, Amy, Eleven
Spoilers: Set after 'The Big Bang'
Rating: None
Word count: 10 drabbles with 100 words each. I win.
Notes: Too darn hot to think, so I hope this is vaguely interesting. Unbetaed. Concrit is love.
Fic Masterlist: Here. Archived at alien_sands.

And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.

- T.S. Eliot


The druids ask him if he's a god when they come and see the petrified monsters amidst the pillars of Stonehenge.
"I'm just plastic," he replies and shrugs, instantly regretting it. A god would've been easier to explain.
"Then we trust The Plastic," the druids say, watching his posture carefully. "You guard this place, and we'll guard you, Lone Centurion."
They'll be gone soon, if he remembers his history, but he could use some allies to keep Amy safe. He sits under a starless sky and waits, watching human lives roll by. His legend lingers. He learns to adapt, learns to wait.


He talks in his sleep nowadays, weird languages Amy can only guess are ancient. He's speaking Latin sometimes, but she doesn't recognise any of the words. When she writes some down and shows them to the Doctor, he smiles sadly before bounding back to the console, babbling about Space Vegas and roulette.
But Amy knows what that smile means. Rory was broken, just like time was, and now he isn't. She doesn't like to dwell on her second set of memories, or the dreams those bring. He spent 2000 years guarding a box. What does he even dream about?


He watches as Britain slowly changes through the years. If he'd only listened to his teachers a little more - his history knowledge is sketchy at best, and it's hard to keep the Pandorica safe with just the news the druids bring.
At night, when he's reminded that he's artificial by the absence of sleep, he stares up at the sky, missing the stars. Amy always liked starry nights, he remembers, and is reminded that, his heart (although probably made of plastic, too) can still break.

The druids watch, spinning tales of a box containing great things: Hope. And love.


He's developed a thing for plants, she discovers one night when she follows him to the TARDIS' greenhouse, his newfound insomnia troubling her as much as him. The ceiling's alight with overly bright stars, bathing Rory in soft light as he wanders through the artificial forest. The ship understands and Amy is grateful.
His hands are gentle, almost loving as they trace over an oak's trunk that is probably as old as he feels. He hums to himself, some tune she knows from the black-and-white movies of she watches with her mother.

She cries silently, leaving him to his wanderings.

The Other Then

Rory is a silent child, his teachers say. Clever, yes, but he could do much better if only he wasn't so infatuated with Amy Pond. More often than not, that girl gets him into trouble he didn't start. He always takes the blame, of course. Just yesterday, he got himself a black eye because three larger boys were threatening Amy. Scrawny, little Rory fought them off like a soldier guarding a treasure. Rory doesn't mind, as long as Amy smiles for him.

But sooner or later, he'll have to live for himself. He can't keep guarding Amy all his life.


It's in the British Museum that she finally realises what's wrong with Rory. It was supposed to be a relaxing day, but she can feel that he's tense. He's bantering with the Doctor over some plinth, the two of them agreeing that the archaeologists' interpretation of it is completely off.
They both seem to have a story about every piece in the Museum.
He's so much like the Doctor now. She isn't sure she likes it. She wants him to be Rory.

"Help him," she pleads as they watch Rory guiltily slink off into the Ancient Britain section, looking sad.


He learns so much on his way through history, and wishes he could share it with Amy. Sometimes he does, because talking to the Pandorica it is better than going mad. History moves on, some parts he recognises, some don't seem to belong. It's an endless progression of war and despair, intertwined with faint stretches of hope and peace, everything repeating ad infinitum.
He leaves a place whenever pilgrims come to him ask for guidance. It's oddly unsettling. Like the stars, he's a remnant of a shrinking universe. It's only fair that he removes himself into the realm of fairytales.


"I met a man in 1941," Rory begins when his insomnia outweighs the possibility of making a fool out of himself in front of the Doctor (again). "He knew you... and he said he couldn't die." If Rory hadn't expected it, he would've missed the Doctor's flinch. "He said you helped when the dreams got too bad." Relief crosses the Doctor's face, and Rory wonders if he was prepared for hatred instead of his plea for help. Rory feels too old for hatred.

The Doctor grasps his face and Roranicus closes his eyes, willing the universe to make sense again.


"Did I tell you I love you?" Amy laughs and grasps Rory's hand, pulling him down the street and through the bemused passers-by. Rory doesn't mind, lost in his personal bubble of happiness. He tries to capture this moment, memorise every aspect of this perfect place in time. Soon it will be gone again, and he wants a picture of this in his mind, to keep it close to his heart to gaze at it when times get dark again. He stumbles and nearly loses his balance, but Amy's hand keeps him upright, her laughter the centre of his universe.

Then. Now. Always.

When he wakes, he feels oddly refreshed, cherishing his dreamless sleep that is both new and well-known to him. The Doctor kept his promise; the memories of the centurion are still there, but life in Leadworth feels so much clearer now. He counts to ten in Latin to calm down. He can be just Rory again now.
"Where do you want to go today?" Amy asks, petting his face, her eyes still adorably misty with sleep.
"To the beach?" He asks. He could use some normality. "Well, only if you want to," he adds, cursing inwardly for being so insecure.


Time moves slowly, Rory knows, but it does.


( 1 comment — Leave a comment )
Aug. 17th, 2010 12:42 am (UTC)
awww! very nice!
( 1 comment — Leave a comment )


Dreaming of alien sands

Page Summary

Latest Month

November 2011
Powered by LiveJournal.com
Designed by Teresa Jones