Yowzah Oneshot Collection (1)

85(G)

He rolls over and blindly gropes the nightstand for the alarm clock to check the time, only to remember a half second later that it won't be there. There is no way to mark a single minute or hour in a place where all of time exists at once. It's one of many habits that linger even though he's been travelling with the Doctor for however long now.

He sighs as he flips on to his back. Jaw clenched, he counts the nights. Eight. Eight nights with little or no sleep. Eight nights since the Doctor forced him to choose which version of Amy would be killed.

Rory turns his head to the left to make sure she is still sleeping soundly, which of course she is. Who wouldn't sleep soundly when they're exactly where they spent their entire childhood dreaming they'd one day be?

He tries to shake the bitterness off of him, but it is growing increasingly difficult. He quietly slips out of bed, throwing on his blue dressing gown, and padding out to the corridor. Without thinking, his feet lead him toward the control room, but before he enters he peeks his head around the corner to see if it's empty, which it is—the Doctor more than likely off reading in the library or attempting to reboot the karaoke bar so they could resume their weekly Tuesday night karaoke parties.

Rory didn't particularly care where the Time Lord was or what he was up to. He stumbles wearily down the steps down to the control console. His gaze falls on the knobs, buttons, cranks, and keys that supposedly navigate the TARDIS. He remembered all the times he's seen the Doctor flitter about the space and wonders if by chance he could remember the steps involved in parking. He gingerly begins to extend his fingers when he hears a rev from the engines below. He quickly draws his hands up in a gesture of surrender, taking a large step away from the console. "Sorry, won't try to fly you. Sorry."

He sighs as he drags his hands over his face, "I feel like I'm in a prison."

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he feels a faint shudder underneath his bare feet and hears the exterior doors unlock and creak open on their own. Rory slowly lowers his hands from his face and peers about the room to see if the Doctor is hiding somewhere playing a prank on him. But still he didn't see or hear anyone. "Right. Okay."

Cinching the waist of his dressing gown, he gingerly inches his way toward the door to see when and where the TARDIS has decided to visit. Steps from the threshold, he catches a familiar scent of dankness and knows where he is before he steps out into the dank, dark, cement corridor. Closing the doors behind him, he quickly gets his bearings before heading down a long stretch and reaching a break in the endless walls. He wonders if he should turn around and fetch his slippers to protect his feet from the frigid floor, but the urge to see who lies around the corner keeps him moving forward.

He hears her rise from her pallet and approach the bars enclosing her cell before she speaks, "Oh, are we actually on time with dinner this evening? Well, I guess there's a first for ever—Rory."

He waves a hello as he walks up to her. "Are they not feeding you on time? Do I need to speak with them? I have a sword you know."

She laughs softly and shakes her head. "It's fine. What are you doing here?"

Rory shrugs slightly and stuffs his hands in the pockets of his dressing gown before answering. "I needed someone to talk to, and the TARDIS deposited me here." He pauses and looks her over. Unable to judge time from her appearance and hearing the Doctor's comment in his mind about her ability to age differently he decides it wasn't worth wasting time with guesses. "Where are you in your time stream?"

She answers easily as if there are few other thoughts that occupy her mind, "Last time I saw you was three weeks ago. We'd just finished up at the White House. Where are you?"