Status: Time did not progress in a straight line.
82
1/1
She had seen the gravestone, in those precious seconds when she faced the Doctor and told him good-bye. How could she not? Soon that very gravestone would have her name carved onto it as well, plated in gold and dulled with time.
Rory had seen it, too. He was the first to see it, and when they reunited in that same cold and desolate cemetery, Doctor-less and without any worldly possessions, they chose to ignore the fact.
Eighty-two. That number would come to haunt them, as time passed agonizingly slow and painfully fast. They of all people knew that time did not progress in a straight line, but now they were forced to live through one.
They were happy. They had each other, but not forever.
Now, she reaches her frail and lined hands to gently caress the pallid face of her husband, lying nearly still in a hospital bed. Her Last Centurion, a man who had lived two thousand years but would die at eighty-two, could only have but minutes left. His heart monitor beeps in a faltering tone, his own personal death march.
“Amy…” He whispers, trying and failing to bring his hand to touch hers. She gets flashbacks to that night at Winter Quay, where she had been in the same exact position and as equally hopeless.
“I love you, Rory,” She says, a tear rolling down her cheek. “I love you so much, you big idiot.”
A small smile plays on his lips, carving new wrinkles into the ones already present on his face. He lets out a sigh, vaguely sounding like “I…” and this time his chest does not move to take in another. The heart monitor goes flat; a single monotone note that she knows will haunt her for the rest of her days.
Her heart stutters as if someone is personally gripping it in a death hold before suddenly the waves of pain wash over her. Again and again she feels like she’s crashing against rocks in an ocean storm, like she’s being beaten bloody and senseless.
Of all the times she had wished for Rory to come back, this time she is wishing the hardest, but it is this time he won’t.
All these years, knowing when Rory would die, they had never stopped much to think that neither of them knew when she would die. There had been too much in that moment to process; Rory was gone and there had been only one way to get back to him.
Death had become a concept that was not spoken about.
Amy wondered how long it would be before death came to claim her, too. For the final time.
Rory had seen it, too. He was the first to see it, and when they reunited in that same cold and desolate cemetery, Doctor-less and without any worldly possessions, they chose to ignore the fact.
Eighty-two. That number would come to haunt them, as time passed agonizingly slow and painfully fast. They of all people knew that time did not progress in a straight line, but now they were forced to live through one.
They were happy. They had each other, but not forever.
Now, she reaches her frail and lined hands to gently caress the pallid face of her husband, lying nearly still in a hospital bed. Her Last Centurion, a man who had lived two thousand years but would die at eighty-two, could only have but minutes left. His heart monitor beeps in a faltering tone, his own personal death march.
“Amy…” He whispers, trying and failing to bring his hand to touch hers. She gets flashbacks to that night at Winter Quay, where she had been in the same exact position and as equally hopeless.
“I love you, Rory,” She says, a tear rolling down her cheek. “I love you so much, you big idiot.”
A small smile plays on his lips, carving new wrinkles into the ones already present on his face. He lets out a sigh, vaguely sounding like “I…” and this time his chest does not move to take in another. The heart monitor goes flat; a single monotone note that she knows will haunt her for the rest of her days.
Her heart stutters as if someone is personally gripping it in a death hold before suddenly the waves of pain wash over her. Again and again she feels like she’s crashing against rocks in an ocean storm, like she’s being beaten bloody and senseless.
Of all the times she had wished for Rory to come back, this time she is wishing the hardest, but it is this time he won’t.
All these years, knowing when Rory would die, they had never stopped much to think that neither of them knew when she would die. There had been too much in that moment to process; Rory was gone and there had been only one way to get back to him.
Death had become a concept that was not spoken about.
Amy wondered how long it would be before death came to claim her, too. For the final time.
♠ ♠ ♠
another one shot?