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Amy Pond
22 June 2010 @ 12:58 pm
[the second morning after the Doctor's surprise return--and departure--to Leadworth dawns in fairly similar fashion to the first, with a few subtle differences in detail. Amy drifts back towards wakefulness and becomes aware that she's been sleeping naked, albeit in her own bed this time, and that the warm body pressed against her back belongs to Rory. She's much more sanguine about finding herself in such a situation this time, though. They've already plowed through the inevitable post-first time awkwardness, and in fact done a rather thorough job of plowing through each other, and her body definitely feels it. She's sore in places she's never been sore in before, and sore in ways she's never been before, but she's far from grumbling about it--it just makes her sigh, long and low, and lean minutely back into Rory's chest.

He keeps on sleeping. He'd probably literally meant it when he'd said he was worn out. Her nightstand is on the other side of the bed, so she can't tell exactly what time it is, but judging from the light coming in the window, Amy guesses it to still be before noon.

She really doesn't want to get up; ideally, she'd stay here, warm and cocooned in bed, Rory's arms securely wrapped around her, until the sun goes down again. Maybe forever. That way, she can keep pushing reality aside. But she knows she can't do that forever, and she knows Rory would tell her so if she tried--awkwardly, and hesitantly, afraid of being burned, but he'd still do it. He's always done his best to take care of her, even when she didn't want him to.

Unlike a certain someone, who isn't people, who fixed the crack in her wall and got rid of the monster in her house but still left her more broken than how he'd found her.

Amy sighs again. Sleep's over and done with.

Gently, she extricates herself from Rory's embrace and slips out of bed, settling the blankets back over him before tiptoeing out of the room and down the stairs. There's unsorted laundry still in a basket downstairs, so she digs a pair of pajama pants and an overlarge sweatshirt out and puts them on, pulling her hair back into an untidy knot with a band sitting discarded on top of the dryer. She doesn't want to wake Rory up while making tea, so she pours herself a glass of orange juice and quietly lets herself out the back door to sit on the edge of the patio, bare feet curling in the grass. She'd been right; it's still a little before noon.

She stares though the garden arch at where the TARDIS had sat, two days ago, and tries to feel indignant at the fact that there's no marks on the ground to indicate it had ever been there at all. Instead, she just feels--curiously half-full. Or half-empty. Maybe three-quarters empty. She thinks maybe it's the knowledge that Rory is in the house just behind her, knowing and believing and sharing, that keeps her from feeling completely empty]
 
 
Amy Pond
On the whole, Amy thinks this particular adventure could definitely be going better.

The Doctor had landed them on a planet he'd said was renowned for its peaceful inhabitants and really good food, only the TARDIS had screwed up with the date--again--and they'd found themselves in the middle of the planet's last great civil war before peace reigned supreme. The natives hadn't taken kindly to their appearance, either. They had immediately been branded spies for an opposing faction, the Doctor's attempt to talk their way out of imprisonment had been a dismal failure, and Amy's particular brand of sass had earned her a sonic rifle butt to the head. Apparently, the idea of women as "the weaker sex" had never occurred to them.

Now the three of them--her, the Doctor, and Rory--are chained up in a thoroughly stereotypical dungeon, Amy across from the other two because segregation of the sexes had occurred to the natives, and she feels like her skull is about to split open from the raging headache she's suffering. She's lolling her head on her raised arm (their wrists are chained above their heads) and only half paying attention to her boys, because trying to focus on them makes her feel queasy.

Definitely could be going better, she thinks.
 
 
Amy Pond
[light is trying to filter through Amy's eyelids, and she rolls over to get away from it. In doing so, she encounters a warm, largely soft mass that emits a quiet snort and throws an arm over her side. Amy accepts this as a matter of course, settling against the warm mass with a sigh, and has nearly fallen all the way back asleep when a dart of *something* needles through her chest and she's jarred to almost full wakefulness with a start.

She's in a bed that isn't hers, snuggled against a very naked body, her mouth tastes like old socks, the side of her neck feels distinctly tender--and so do certain *other* suspect areas of her body, now that she thinks about it...

Very carefully, she peels her eyelids open, and about an inch away from her nose, Rory Williams is still sleeping with a positively beatific smile on his face.

Oh. Right.

Amy decides to try and postpone the inevitable morning-after awkwardness by squeezing her eyes shut and attempting to go back to sleep]