Adventures in Solitude

The first time Rory sees the man in the tweed jacket and bowtie, it’s a Monday. He hates Mondays. More people die on Mondays than any other day of the week. (Amy says he should be used to it, given that he’s been working in a hospital for years now, but he isn’t sure how you’re supposed to get used to something like death.)

Rory steps out of his house and shuts the door, stifling a yawn because it’s early and he had a horrible on-call at the weekend, and that’s when he sees him. There’s a man on the other side of the road, leaning up against a big blue box with the words ‘POLICE PUBLIC CALL BOX’ emblazoned across the top. Rory frowns – didn’t they get rid of those years ago? – and steps a little closer, trying to get a better glimpse of the man and his box.

A car rushes past him, far too fast for a residential area, and Rory hastily steps back out of the way. When he looks up, the man and his box have disappeared.

Rory stares for a minute then shakes his head, trudges over to his car. He needs to get more sleep.

***

He watches someone die that day. It’s a little girl, barely more than seven years old, who cracked her head open when she fell down the stairs. She bleeds out on the operating table and there’s nothing anyone can do to save her.

Rory is the one to tell her parents that they’re never going to see their little girl again, offering his condolences when they start to cry and leaving before his own tears start to fall. (It doesn’t matter how many people he saves; it’s always the ones he doesn’t that haunt him when he shuts his eyes.)

***

He might’ve forgotten all about the man and his box if it weren’t for the fact that he saw him again the very next day.

There’s no blue box, not today, just the man perched on the wall opposite Rory’s house, swinging his legs back and forth, kicking back against the brick. His bowtie is blue today, fastened neatly around his neck.

He looks up when Rory shuts the front door, the soft click too loud in the sudden silence, and smiles. The smile makes something stir in Rory’s chest, gives him just enough courage to lift a hand in greeting. The man waves back, his eyes following Rory as he crosses the road, glancing around himself, and sits down next to him.

“Hi,” Rory says.

“Hello,” the man replies.

He sounds amused and Rory isn’t sure why, isn’t sure what he’s said or done that could be construed as funny. He nods, awkwardly, says, “I’m Rory,” because he doesn’t know what else to say.

The man smiles again. (He looks the same age as Rory, maybe even younger with his soft, childlike features, but when he smiles like that he could be nine hundred years old.) “Rory Williams,” he says, and Rory jolts in surprise. “The boy who’d wait forever for something he’ll never have.”

“How do you know my name?” Rory demands, eyes narrowed so the man can’t see his fear.

The man shrugs. “I know a lot more than that.”

Rory opens his mouth, shutting it abruptly when he realises he doesn’t know what to say. They sit in silence for what feels like an eternity, just watching the empty road.

“I should go,” Rory says, eventually. “I’m going to be late for work.”

He doesn’t move. The man smiles again, but it’s softer this time. He gets to his feet and sticks out a hand, waiting patiently until Rory takes it and lets himself be pulled up too.

“Goodbye, Rory Williams,” the man says, and then he’s gone, striding down the road and vanishing down the corner.

Rory blinks a few times, hard, and heads for his car.

***

The man’s outside his house again the next day. Rory walks straight to his car and doesn’t turn his head to look.

***

“I’ve been seeing someone,” Rory says. He’s in a café in town, away from the insane quiet of Leadworth. He didn’t see the man this morning; he slept in late because it was his day off. “This guy.”

Amy looks up from her coffee, eyes narrowed in confusion. “That’s a good thing, right?” she says slowly. “You haven’t been with anyone since we broke up.”

“No, not like that,” Rory mutters, feeling his cheeks flush. “I keep seeing a man outside my house. It’s weird.”

“Oh yeah?” Amy asks, eyebrow arched. “What’s his name?”

Rory looks away. “I don’t know.”

“You didn’t ask?”

“He didn’t tell.”

Amy hmms and takes a thoughtful sip of her coffee. “Is he hot?”

“Amy.”

“Well,” she says, eyes dancing with mischief, “is he?”

Rory bites his lip. “I suppose? He’s weird, though. He knew my name,” he says, carefully not mentioning the other thing the man said.

“Leadworth’s tiny,” Amy reminds him, with more than a hint of disdain. (Rory knows how much she hates this place, how much she wishes every day for something more. He used to tell himself she’d get used to it, find a way to be happy in Leadworth, with him. She gave up before he did.) “Everyone knows everyone else here.”

“But I don’t know him,” Rory says, frustrated. “He’s a complete stranger and he knows who I am, Amy. It’s- it’s weird, that’s all.”

“I’ll tell you what’s weird,” Amy says, leaning forward to tell him about the last party she was hired for. (They seem to get stranger every time and Rory knows that’s the appeal, that Amy would go mad if she had to do the same thing, day in, day out. He thought she’d grow out of that too, one day, but she never has and Rory doesn’t think she ever will. It’s one of the things he loved about her, as much as he wished it would change.)

***

When he gets home, Rory googles the man with the blue box. Most of what he finds is spectacularly unhelpful, but he stumbles across something that makes him pause before clicking the back button.

The lonely god, he reads, the wanderer without a home. He keeps reading, even when it starts talking about creatures called Time Lords and something called a Time War, but he has to stop and take a few deep breaths when it comes to time travel.

This is- it’s too much, it’s too much for Rory to handle, aliens and spaceships and galaxies stained with blood. He’s just a nurse from Leadworth, this is too much.

He closes the browser window and leans back in his chair, eyes closed, breaths coming sharp and heavy.

***

“You’re the Doctor,” Rory says, the next time he sees the man and his box. “You’re the Doctor and that’s the TARDIS.”

For a moment, the Doctor says nothing, just looks at Rory with this odd expression on his face. Then, “The age of the internet,” he says with a soft little laugh. “All information is free information these days.”

“Is the world about to end?” Rory demands, and he knows he sounds a little hysterical but he thinks he has a right to be, given what he knows. “Are we about to be invaded by aliens who want to sell us into slavery or use the Earth for scrap?

“You’re perfectly safe, don’t worry,” the Doctor assures him. “Well. For the time being, anyway. There is an outside chance that there’ll be an alien invasion next week. Look out for a woman and a dog that bears a striking resemblance to Marilyn Monroe.”

“The woman?”

“The dog.”

“Will do,” Rory says dutifully, as he slumps back against the TARDIS. He looks over at the Doctor, frowning. “Why are you here, then? You only ever come when there’s trouble.”

“Oh, trouble’s just the bits in between,” the Doctor says, a twist to his mouth like he’s said the words before. “Sometimes I just like to visit, keep tabs on you all. God knows you need someone to.”

“Is that what you do, then?” Rory’s eyes are narrowed. “You travel round the universe looking for people to save?”

“Isn’t that what you do?”

Rory looks away. “That’s different. I’m a nurse, it’s my job.”

“And I’m the Doctor,” he says, a smile curling at the edges of his words.

“That’s just a title,” Rory says dismissively. “You’re not actually a doctor.”

The Doctor shrugs. “Perhaps not. But I have many titles, and no doubt you know them all.”

It’s Rory’s turn to shrug. “Some of them are kind of pretentious,” he says. “The Oncoming Storm?”

“In my defence,” the Doctor chuckles, “I didn’t come up with that one. That was-”

“The Daleks,” Rory finishes. “I know.”

The Doctor stares at him for a few moments. “Is there anything you don’t know?” he asks, but he sounds more curious than annoyed.

Rory stares back, gaze hard and unflinching. “Why me? Why have you been waiting for me outside my house every day?”

“I would’ve thought that was obvious,” the Doctor replies, thin eyebrows raised on his forehead.

“I’m just a nurse,” Rory says. He glances down at his lap, where his fingers are laced tightly together. “I’m nothing special.”

“Ah,” the Doctor says, leaning back against the TARDIS. “that’s what they all say. Until they know better, of course.”

Rory narrows his eyes. “Is that why you take people with you?”

The Doctor shrugs. “I like company. It’s always more interesting when there’s other people there to see the universe with fresh, unspoilt eyes.”

Rory shakes his head. “You’re lonely.”

“So are you,” the Doctor points out, mildly.

“Not as lonely as you,” Rory says, and something about his voice makes the Doctor look away.

“Yes,” he says, with that terrible smile that belies his true age. Rory reaches out to touch his arm, drawing back when he remembers they haven’t known each other long enough for that, even if they know each other well.

“I have a friend, Amy,” he says, slowly, because he isn’t sure if this is a good idea, yet. “She’d love all this. This is the kind of thing she dreams about.”

“She sounds wonderful,” the Doctor comments, giving Rory a sidelong glance.

“She is,” Rory says. “She lives in the house at the end of the road with her aunt. She won’t be at work – she’s a kiss-o-gram, she mostly works nights – so you’ll find her there. She’ll go with you,” he says, nodding to himself. “This... it’s everything she ever wanted.”

“What about you?” the Doctor asks shrewdly, and Rory shrugs.

“I just wanted to be happy.”

“And are you?”

Rory just smiles. It stretches his lips and curves on his cheeks but it doesn’t touch his eyes, not even a little bit. The Doctor studies him for a few moments, but Rory isn’t sure what it is he’s looking for.

Apparently he finds it, though, because he says, “Come with me.”

“I’m just a nurse,” Rory repeats, helpless.

“And I’m just a doctor,” the Doctor says, taking him by the hand. “What a wonderful pair we make.”

He lets go when Rory’s standing, though, and Rory knows that if he said no, if he meant it, the Doctor would let him go.

He thinks about what he’d be leaving behind, this tiny town with its tiny people with their tiny dreams. He thinks about his family and his friends and how everyone he cares about, really, honestly cares about, lives in the house at the end of the road. He thinks about his job, about watching people live and watching people die and he thinks that he’s fed up of that, of being stuck in an endless cycle of life and death.

Rory looks at the Doctor, who’s smiling at him now, tentatively. He reaches out and takes his hand and says, “Geronimo?”

The Doctor’s grin threatens to split his face when he pulls Rory close and plants a kiss on his forehead and yells, “Geronimo!”