Feb 16, 2011 19:25
The sleep that Amy falls into, curled against Rory and the both of them tangled in blankets on her sitting room floor, is possibly the deepest sleep she's ever had. It's deep enough that she doesn't dream, isn't even aware of time passing in that vague way that one usually has while sleeping. She's so exhausted, physically and emotionally, that once Rory relaxes and goes still beneath her cheek and hands, she simply shuts down like a computer sent into sleep mode, gone dormant until jostled to life again.
At some indeterminate hour of the night, well after the worst of the storm has passed and the candles have burned themselves out, the power to the house finally gets restored. It prompts Amy to make a barely-conscious stagger for the sitting room door to slap the lights off; she won't even remember doing so later, when she's properly woken up. Rory doesn't move a millimeter while she's up, or when she stumbles back to their sort-of-nest and fits herself against his body again (dragging the blanket covering them up a few more inches in the process). Once her ear is resting over his heart, Amy instantly depowers--as it were--again, and knows nothing more for the next several hours.
The Monday after the Doctor's return to Leadworth dawns wet and overcast, with birds making a racket in the trees, and both Amy and Rory sleeping through it all like proverbial rocks, silent and absolutely still.
featuring: rory williams,
user: nurse_boy,
verse: shattered