fic: just like i need you
Title: Just Like I Need You
Author: Catey/beingfacetious
Pairing: Amy/Rory (with a few Eleven references)
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Just borrowing from the Moff and the Beeb.
Summary: Amy Pond prides herself on not needing anyone. Sometimes Rory would like to be needed.
Author's Notes: Set during s5; no spoilers past the Eleventh Hour. Written for challenge 1 at she_is_to_me. No beta this time.
Amy Pond is independent. She is strong, stubborn, spirited. Rory knows that from the first day he meets her, but she makes sure to remind him when she agrees to be his girlfriend; she may want him, but she absolutely does not need him.
That's fine with Rory, mostly. He knows that part of that attitude stems from a childhood fear of being left behind--she has never told him that, and she would probably slap him if he ever asked, but still he knows. So he contents himself to be there when she wants him, and to hover in the background when she doesn't, just in case. She doesn't want to need anyone, so he tried not to want to be needed. After all, she is Amy Pond: bold, gorgeous, everything. He is lucky to have her - or rather, to be had by her - at all.
So one day when she doesn't show up at his house when she said she would, he isn't surprised and he doesn't call. She would only sigh her exasperation, hang up on him, and show up hours later if at all.
Fifteen minutes go by, then another fifteen. He doesn't worry.
Another thirty and she's an hour late, but that's not even close to her record, so he still doesn't worry (much).
Two hours. He starts to worry.
Two and a half hours. He starts to panic.
Three hours. He starts to get angry; when she eventually calls she'll laugh this off as a joke or an accident, and if he lets her know it upset him she'll only make fun.
Three hours and four minutes. His phone vibrates. He shatters a tea mug in his haste to reach it and doesn't quite succeed in keeping his voice level when he says, "Hello? Amy?"
"Rory." Her voice sounds strained, or is he imagining it? "What are you doing?"
He frowns. "I'm...just sitting here. Waiting for you to come over."
"And it didn't occur to you that I would be there already if I could be?"
"No. I mean...it's just, sometimes you--"
"Rory. Just get over here, will you?"
He is out the door before he has time to hang up.
***
"Amy!" The door is unlocked and he takes the stairs to her bedroom two at a time, stopping short when he sees that the room is completely empty. "Amy?"
"Down here, stupid." Her voice carries easily to the second floor, and he can hear the catch in her voice more clearly now.
He finds her in the living room, sprawled on the couch with her right foot propped up on a pillow. She holds a bottle of nail polish in one hand and a bottle of painkillers in the other, but Rory sets them both aside to take her hands in his. "What happened?"
"Nothing!" Rory frowns and turns his attention to her foot. "Oh, that. I think I sprained it. A little. Or twisted it, or something."
He moves closer to the elevated foot and squints at it. "Tell me if this hurts," he says, pushing two fingers lightly against the swollen ankle.
"I don't--ow! Yeah, okay, ow, it hurts, you can stop now!"
Rory leans back to frown at her. "Why didn't you call me?"
"I did call you!"
"Why didn't you call me sooner?"
She shrugs and looks away from him, training her eyes on her hands. "Dunno. I was painting my nails."
"Amy..."
"They look good," she mutters, still avoiding his eyes. "Besides, I don't think it's serious. The foot, I mean. It doesn't even hurt."
"Okay," he replies, picking up the painkillers, "but how many of these did you have to take before that became true?"
She sticks her tongue out at him and he has to fight back a smile. "You need to see a doctor," he says instead. She bits her lip and he rushes on, "no! No, Amy, I didn't mean...I meant for your foot. I'm sorry."
She doesn't respond for a moment. "But I have a nurse," she finally points out, and he does smile at that, but he also shakes his head.
"I'm afraid I can't fix this. It might be broken."
She pouts at him for a moment, and when he doesn't cave in she folds her arms over her chest and draws her eyebrows together. "I can't go."
"And why's that?"
"I can't walk, obviously. Aunt Sharon has the car. And I bet you don't have yours either, since you probably ran here." There's a light mocking tone in her voice then, but he ignores it. "And," she goes on, more quietly, "I know the doctor isn't going to come to me. So that's it, then."
Rory looks at her when she mentions the doctor not coming, and knows that she's not really talking about Dr. Mayford anymore. He wants to touch her face, to smooth back her hair, to kiss her forehead; anything to help. But even if that's what she needs, she would never admit it, and would certainly never allow it. So instead he clears his throat and says, "I could carry you."
She stares at him, eyes wide. "What? All the way into town?"
"I could do it! I'm strong!" he protests defensively. "I want to do it," he adds more quietly, when she's had her giggle. "Let me carry you."
She regards him for a moment with narrowed eyes, before throwing her arms up with a sigh. "All right, fine. Only because you won't stop bothering me about it if we don't go."
"You're right, I won't."
Through some tricky maneuvering and a few yelps of pain from both of them, Amy manages to wrap her legs around Rory's waist and her arms around his neck. "Don't drop me," she threatens as he wobbles to a fully standing position and heads for the door. He tries to laugh, but her arms are threatening his air supply. Worth it, he thinks to himself, and they begin the trek into town.
They are both panting slightly - Rory from exertion, Amy from pain - as the doctor's office comes into view. "Rory?" Amy whispers, bending her head to press her lips to his ear.
"Yes?"
She pauses so long that Rory thinks she has changed her mind. Then, in a much more threatening whisper: "Do not ever tell anyone I had to be carried piggie back all this way."
He would laugh if he didn't think the effort might collapse his lungs. "I won't. Promise."
"Don't promise." As he helps her slide from his back in front of the office, she plants a kiss to the back of his neck. "But thank you for doing it."
Despite the damage to his respiratory system, he was happy to do it. He would do it again. He would do it again a hundred times. He would do anything for her, which he feels is more than her Doctor could say, even if he ever did come back. But he doesn't say any of this. Instead he loops an arm around her waist, pulls the door open, and simply says, "thank you for letting me, Amy."
Author: Catey/beingfacetious
Pairing: Amy/Rory (with a few Eleven references)
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Just borrowing from the Moff and the Beeb.
Summary: Amy Pond prides herself on not needing anyone. Sometimes Rory would like to be needed.
Author's Notes: Set during s5; no spoilers past the Eleventh Hour. Written for challenge 1 at she_is_to_me. No beta this time.
Amy Pond is independent. She is strong, stubborn, spirited. Rory knows that from the first day he meets her, but she makes sure to remind him when she agrees to be his girlfriend; she may want him, but she absolutely does not need him.
That's fine with Rory, mostly. He knows that part of that attitude stems from a childhood fear of being left behind--she has never told him that, and she would probably slap him if he ever asked, but still he knows. So he contents himself to be there when she wants him, and to hover in the background when she doesn't, just in case. She doesn't want to need anyone, so he tried not to want to be needed. After all, she is Amy Pond: bold, gorgeous, everything. He is lucky to have her - or rather, to be had by her - at all.
So one day when she doesn't show up at his house when she said she would, he isn't surprised and he doesn't call. She would only sigh her exasperation, hang up on him, and show up hours later if at all.
Fifteen minutes go by, then another fifteen. He doesn't worry.
Another thirty and she's an hour late, but that's not even close to her record, so he still doesn't worry (much).
Two hours. He starts to worry.
Two and a half hours. He starts to panic.
Three hours. He starts to get angry; when she eventually calls she'll laugh this off as a joke or an accident, and if he lets her know it upset him she'll only make fun.
Three hours and four minutes. His phone vibrates. He shatters a tea mug in his haste to reach it and doesn't quite succeed in keeping his voice level when he says, "Hello? Amy?"
"Rory." Her voice sounds strained, or is he imagining it? "What are you doing?"
He frowns. "I'm...just sitting here. Waiting for you to come over."
"And it didn't occur to you that I would be there already if I could be?"
"No. I mean...it's just, sometimes you--"
"Rory. Just get over here, will you?"
He is out the door before he has time to hang up.
***
"Amy!" The door is unlocked and he takes the stairs to her bedroom two at a time, stopping short when he sees that the room is completely empty. "Amy?"
"Down here, stupid." Her voice carries easily to the second floor, and he can hear the catch in her voice more clearly now.
He finds her in the living room, sprawled on the couch with her right foot propped up on a pillow. She holds a bottle of nail polish in one hand and a bottle of painkillers in the other, but Rory sets them both aside to take her hands in his. "What happened?"
"Nothing!" Rory frowns and turns his attention to her foot. "Oh, that. I think I sprained it. A little. Or twisted it, or something."
He moves closer to the elevated foot and squints at it. "Tell me if this hurts," he says, pushing two fingers lightly against the swollen ankle.
"I don't--ow! Yeah, okay, ow, it hurts, you can stop now!"
Rory leans back to frown at her. "Why didn't you call me?"
"I did call you!"
"Why didn't you call me sooner?"
She shrugs and looks away from him, training her eyes on her hands. "Dunno. I was painting my nails."
"Amy..."
"They look good," she mutters, still avoiding his eyes. "Besides, I don't think it's serious. The foot, I mean. It doesn't even hurt."
"Okay," he replies, picking up the painkillers, "but how many of these did you have to take before that became true?"
She sticks her tongue out at him and he has to fight back a smile. "You need to see a doctor," he says instead. She bits her lip and he rushes on, "no! No, Amy, I didn't mean...I meant for your foot. I'm sorry."
She doesn't respond for a moment. "But I have a nurse," she finally points out, and he does smile at that, but he also shakes his head.
"I'm afraid I can't fix this. It might be broken."
She pouts at him for a moment, and when he doesn't cave in she folds her arms over her chest and draws her eyebrows together. "I can't go."
"And why's that?"
"I can't walk, obviously. Aunt Sharon has the car. And I bet you don't have yours either, since you probably ran here." There's a light mocking tone in her voice then, but he ignores it. "And," she goes on, more quietly, "I know the doctor isn't going to come to me. So that's it, then."
Rory looks at her when she mentions the doctor not coming, and knows that she's not really talking about Dr. Mayford anymore. He wants to touch her face, to smooth back her hair, to kiss her forehead; anything to help. But even if that's what she needs, she would never admit it, and would certainly never allow it. So instead he clears his throat and says, "I could carry you."
She stares at him, eyes wide. "What? All the way into town?"
"I could do it! I'm strong!" he protests defensively. "I want to do it," he adds more quietly, when she's had her giggle. "Let me carry you."
She regards him for a moment with narrowed eyes, before throwing her arms up with a sigh. "All right, fine. Only because you won't stop bothering me about it if we don't go."
"You're right, I won't."
Through some tricky maneuvering and a few yelps of pain from both of them, Amy manages to wrap her legs around Rory's waist and her arms around his neck. "Don't drop me," she threatens as he wobbles to a fully standing position and heads for the door. He tries to laugh, but her arms are threatening his air supply. Worth it, he thinks to himself, and they begin the trek into town.
They are both panting slightly - Rory from exertion, Amy from pain - as the doctor's office comes into view. "Rory?" Amy whispers, bending her head to press her lips to his ear.
"Yes?"
She pauses so long that Rory thinks she has changed her mind. Then, in a much more threatening whisper: "Do not ever tell anyone I had to be carried piggie back all this way."
He would laugh if he didn't think the effort might collapse his lungs. "I won't. Promise."
"Don't promise." As he helps her slide from his back in front of the office, she plants a kiss to the back of his neck. "But thank you for doing it."
Despite the damage to his respiratory system, he was happy to do it. He would do it again. He would do it again a hundred times. He would do anything for her, which he feels is more than her Doctor could say, even if he ever did come back. But he doesn't say any of this. Instead he loops an arm around her waist, pulls the door open, and simply says, "thank you for letting me, Amy."