You are ahead by a century
Who; Rory Williams, Dr. McCoy
What; The logical reaction to the shade of someone you feel guilty for killing becoming solid and trying to kill you is clearly to try to save them.
Where; The Clinic
When; Wednesday afternoon, after the shades have become solid.
Rating; PG-13, probably?
Status; Ongoing
There were enough mad sights to be seen in the Underworld just then that a young man carrying an unconscious young woman stood out only in how relatively normal it actually was. Amy's copper hair hung loose, trailing like a banner, and her face was pale against the black of her jacket, but for the slowly-darkening bruise at her left temple. Rory's skin matched hers for pallor, which could probably be equally attributed to the strain writ clear in every line of his expression, and the bulk of a hastily-tied bandage around his left bicep, visible in flashes through the bloody slash in his sleeve.
He shoved open the door to the clinic, wincing at the sharp movement in a manner that was almost absent-minded; of all the things taking up his current focus, his own well-being was nearly the last.
"Doctor McCoy!" The edge of near-panic to Rory's voice only sharpened it, stripping away the illusion of good-natured youth and leaving the Lone Centurion too near the surface for comfort.
What; The logical reaction to the shade of someone you feel guilty for killing becoming solid and trying to kill you is clearly to try to save them.
Where; The Clinic
When; Wednesday afternoon, after the shades have become solid.
Rating; PG-13, probably?
Status; Ongoing
There were enough mad sights to be seen in the Underworld just then that a young man carrying an unconscious young woman stood out only in how relatively normal it actually was. Amy's copper hair hung loose, trailing like a banner, and her face was pale against the black of her jacket, but for the slowly-darkening bruise at her left temple. Rory's skin matched hers for pallor, which could probably be equally attributed to the strain writ clear in every line of his expression, and the bulk of a hastily-tied bandage around his left bicep, visible in flashes through the bloody slash in his sleeve.
He shoved open the door to the clinic, wincing at the sharp movement in a manner that was almost absent-minded; of all the things taking up his current focus, his own well-being was nearly the last.
"Doctor McCoy!" The edge of near-panic to Rory's voice only sharpened it, stripping away the illusion of good-natured youth and leaving the Lone Centurion too near the surface for comfort.