One of Rory's hands comes to cup her cheek, thumb swiping along those dried tear tracks. The thing is, Rory always notices things about Amy, the sort of things not one would really see if they weren't looking. The Doctor isn't his best friend, not a friend in the way he is to Amy, where he holds some sort of ideal that she's held onto since childhood, and while he thinks it's been broken and destroyed since their time in the motel of hope, Rory's best friend is standing right before him.
He looks at her, maybe not really seeing her, despite her always being in his vision, whether his mind's eye or not. "No," he says, shaking his head. "All I saw was my gravestone …" And even as he says it, he's still not sure of what he saw.
In Loving Memory Rory Arthur Williams Aged 82
"Where's the Doctor?" he glances around, not removing his hands from Amy's waist nor her cheek. "We can't have gone back," he says. Not to the Manhattan where he lived a life of loneliness and died with her by his side. "That Manhattan doesn't exist," he says, yet, his tone is full of disbelief.
That Manhattan can't exist, yet, how does one find themselves in a park? How does one find themselves in the broad light of day to only blink and be in the darkest of night?
He knows, deep down, of what she's done, and the panic begins to rise in Rory's voice. He's never been as poised as her, never been as cool, calm and collected, and he's not going to begin now. Amelia Pond, sometimes Williams, has done something awfully stupid, and he knows, he knows, just what she's done. "Amy, what did you do?"
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He looks at her, maybe not really seeing her, despite her always being in his vision, whether his mind's eye or not. "No," he says, shaking his head. "All I saw was my gravestone …" And even as he says it, he's still not sure of what he saw.
In Loving Memory
Rory Arthur Williams
Aged 82
"Where's the Doctor?" he glances around, not removing his hands from Amy's waist nor her cheek. "We can't have gone back," he says. Not to the Manhattan where he lived a life of loneliness and died with her by his side. "That Manhattan doesn't exist," he says, yet, his tone is full of disbelief.
That Manhattan can't exist, yet, how does one find themselves in a park? How does one find themselves in the broad light of day to only blink and be in the darkest of night?
He knows, deep down, of what she's done, and the panic begins to rise in Rory's voice. He's never been as poised as her, never been as cool, calm and collected, and he's not going to begin now. Amelia Pond, sometimes Williams, has done something awfully stupid, and he knows, he knows, just what she's done. "Amy, what did you do?"