Fic: Handlebars. (Doctor Who, Amy/Rory, G, SPOILERS for 5x07)
Handlebars. This is another one of those stories I never expected to write. Amy/Rory, or Amelia/Rory, or both. You'll see what I mean. Also, I'm taking liberties with anything I don't know. MAJOR SPOILERS for DW 5x07, "Amy's Choice."
She walks through the halls mostly undetected, and she pretends it is because the Doctor has made her invisible. "Good plan," she whispers into the washroom mirror. She gives her reflection a cool thumbs-up.
"Awakening must be near."
-Nada Surf
She is twelve years old, almost thirteen, and she is standing on top of the garden shed in an old blanket. It isn't a blanket, and it is. It's a toga. Never mind the flowers. She's about to be sacrificed to the gods of the volcano, represented here by a sandbox dragged underneath the awning. She closes her eyes and imagines the smoke and ash floating in the air around her, the low sound of chanting, the jingle of gold chains. She's tied her own hands together awkwardly with a handkerchief and her wrists are sweaty where they're rubbing together.
"I'm not doing this," says Rory, from behind the hedge. "I quit. My dad's going to murder me for cutting up his tie. I look like an idiot."
"You are an idiot," she says. She's the picture of calm. She's steely in the face of mortal danger, because she's not going to fall. She's got a plan. They always have a plan- her and the Doctor. The Doctor and her. "Now get into position."
"No."
"I'll sit somewhere else at lunch," she says, and the twist of the knife is almost audible. "I'll sit with Colin and Jamie every day." There is a silence from the hedge, punctuated only by the frustrated snapping of the smallest and frailest twigs. He's pouting. Resisting. A sudden well of cruelty bubbles up in her, something embarrassed and small, conscious of standing alone in a stupid outfit, the crazy girl acting out again. She needs him to play along. She thinks of Rory's greasy, half-empty sack lunches, the handful of change his mother sends him out with, only enough to buy a can soda or a bag of crisps. She knows where to needle him, the soft spot under his skin. "Ro-ry," she sing-songs. "I'll split all my sandwiches with them instead."
"FINE," Rory hollers. This is a surprise. He stomps out in his ruined sneakers, clip-on tie hanging gamely together by a few remaining threads. He scowls up at her through sloppy, sideswept bangs. His face is red. She's never seen him this angry, or really angry at all. "I HOPE THEY CHOKE."
He storms out of the gate and down the lane, tie in hand, stumbling over the gravel. She can still see him as he crests the hill, slowing down, looking over his shoulder at her. He's too far away to read. Her wrists are slippery and she slides the handkerchief off, watches it flutter to the ground and land softly on the sandbox. There's no volcano at all.
"Come back," says Amelia Pond.
"Good riddance," says Amy.
It is Amy lately; Amy at school, where the older girls sometimes still love to recount her days in the counselor's office. Amy when they leave half-hearted hate notes on her locker about her mental state, her old-fashioned clothes, her boring teacup-collecting old aunt and absent parents. It could be worse, and it has been. Amy- Amelia- is becoming old news. Some of the girls have moved on to tormenting each other over new breasts and periods and strange looks from boys, and now Amy is no longer a moving target, no longer the funniest thing to hit.
She walks through the halls mostly undetected, and she pretends it is because the Doctor has made her invisible. "Good plan," she whispers into the washroom mirror. She gives her reflection a cool thumbs-up. She imagines the Doctor standing beside her, crouching to be at her height in the mirror, making weird expressions to coax out a giggle. Only it's difficult, sometimes, imagining him with his funny young-man face and old-man eyes and floppy hair. Sometimes it is only Rory she imagines, when they are swinging through Amazonian jungles in her mind or fighting space pirates or digging holes in the moon; Rory in the cut-up suit and stringy tie, Rory's hand safely tucked in hers. She stares into the mirror. She nearly forgot.
Rory.
He isn't there at lunchtime. She sits alone on their bench, the crooked one by the wall, and swings her legs until they go numb. Lunch ends and still no Rory, no sheepish Rory with a mumbled apology, no sullen Rory with his hands in his pockets, no Rory at all. There's a funny feeling in her chest, like she packed a suitcase and stuffed it down her throat, and now it is sitting there at the bottom of her stomach: a weight, dragging as she walks, heavy and unopened and wrong. The bell rings and everyone runs out and she sits for a long minute by herself in the classroom, wondering what she'll do if he isn't waiting at the corner. She gathers her books and heads out the door, down the hall and out into the yard. She doesn't know why she was compelled to be mean to him, except that he was there and he is always there, and now he isn't. "He'll never come back," says an Amy, inside her. "He probably changed schools." Amelia is mostly silent.
She turns out of the yard and Rory is there, leaning grouchily on the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. He is kicking a rock. He stubs his toe and yelps and she laughs and claps her hands over her mouth and he looks up, hurt and surprised and also weirdly happy to see her.
"What's so funny?" he asks.
"Your face," says Amy.
"Nothing," says Amelia Pond, more loudly. Somehow Rory hears it and smiles at her, his genuine gawky Rory-smile that makes the corners of his mouth crinkle like candy wrappers. She holds out her books, and the last half of her sandwich. She saved it, hoping. "Walk me home?" she asks.
He does.
The first time he asks her to marry him, stammering and twisting his hands in his coat pockets, sitting at the dingy old playground behind the library, she says no. Actually, she says,
"Don't be stupid,"
and keeps swinging.
The second time is different. The second time, she's in his bed, still half-asleep, rolled onto her side away from him, feeling the colder air on her bare toes where the duvet's crept up. She's warm everywhere else, almost fading back into a dream, no longer listening to his murmured questions about what she wants to do next weekend, what she'll want for breakfast when she finally gets up, whether she's warm enough or cool enough or if she's listening.
"Sure I am," she mumbles. He's a solid presence behind her, shoring her up, keeping her from drifting away completely. She listens for the rest of his pleasant ramblings but there aren't any. There's just silence and the sound of birds in the distance, the low rumble of tires on the road beyond. "Rory?"
"Can I ask you something?"
"You just did," she grumbles, pressing her face further into the pillow. "Yes to waffles, no to oatmeal, and can I have ten more minutes, please, before we talk about going over to your Nan's on Saturday."
"Do you love me?"
For a moment, she doesn't breathe.
"What kind of question is that?" asks Amy, irritated and not a little embarassed again, though she hardly knows why. "Aren't we- I mean, we're together now, why ask a thing like that?" She rolls onto her back and looks up at him, his plain rumpled face colored gold by the early light. "Is something wrong?" she says, her tone softening. "Did something happen?"
"I love you, Amy," he says. He says it so easily, like he's sure. Like just saying it lifts something up off of him, and he's lighter every second that he's speaking. She doesn't know that feeling at all. "You're it for me, you were always it, you and your schemes and everything. I love you," he says again. "And maybe you love me," he continues, over her awkward, murmured protests, "and maybe- anyway, it's fine. I just want you to know. I want you to know that I think about you all the time, that I want us to be properly together. To be married. If you want. Will you think about it?" He's so still and serious. "Marrying me?"
Yes, Amelia whispers. Her voice is ghostly and rippling under the surface, unsteady as a breeze, and it doesn't go past her lips. Amy can't look away from his eyes, can't seem to find the words.
"I'll think about it," she says at last, and closes her eyes for a kiss.
She is kneeling over the dust that was Rory, and the dust is soft. It's fine and heavy, like sand, and it's still a little warm.
"How do you know?" the Doctor asks her. He is putting the keys in her hand. He is trusting her. She doesn't even really process the reversal. "That this is the dream?" She thinks about Rory and the volcano and the time he busted his ankle sliding down into the creek, saving her from giant imaginary alien centipedes hell-bent on colonizing earth. She thinks about all of time and space and planets and supernovas and beautiful stars; and Rory's battered converse sneakers, with both their names scrawled on the toes in pen. She tries to breathe through her nose and think about turning the ignition, stepping on the gas. "Amy?"
"I don't know," she says. They are going to hit the wall. "I just know." She knows because there is a world with Rory and a world without him; because Amy and Amelia have finally agreed on something.
It doesn't even hurt.
She walks through the halls mostly undetected, and she pretends it is because the Doctor has made her invisible. "Good plan," she whispers into the washroom mirror. She gives her reflection a cool thumbs-up.
"Awakening must be near."
-Nada Surf
She is twelve years old, almost thirteen, and she is standing on top of the garden shed in an old blanket. It isn't a blanket, and it is. It's a toga. Never mind the flowers. She's about to be sacrificed to the gods of the volcano, represented here by a sandbox dragged underneath the awning. She closes her eyes and imagines the smoke and ash floating in the air around her, the low sound of chanting, the jingle of gold chains. She's tied her own hands together awkwardly with a handkerchief and her wrists are sweaty where they're rubbing together.
"I'm not doing this," says Rory, from behind the hedge. "I quit. My dad's going to murder me for cutting up his tie. I look like an idiot."
"You are an idiot," she says. She's the picture of calm. She's steely in the face of mortal danger, because she's not going to fall. She's got a plan. They always have a plan- her and the Doctor. The Doctor and her. "Now get into position."
"No."
"I'll sit somewhere else at lunch," she says, and the twist of the knife is almost audible. "I'll sit with Colin and Jamie every day." There is a silence from the hedge, punctuated only by the frustrated snapping of the smallest and frailest twigs. He's pouting. Resisting. A sudden well of cruelty bubbles up in her, something embarrassed and small, conscious of standing alone in a stupid outfit, the crazy girl acting out again. She needs him to play along. She thinks of Rory's greasy, half-empty sack lunches, the handful of change his mother sends him out with, only enough to buy a can soda or a bag of crisps. She knows where to needle him, the soft spot under his skin. "Ro-ry," she sing-songs. "I'll split all my sandwiches with them instead."
"FINE," Rory hollers. This is a surprise. He stomps out in his ruined sneakers, clip-on tie hanging gamely together by a few remaining threads. He scowls up at her through sloppy, sideswept bangs. His face is red. She's never seen him this angry, or really angry at all. "I HOPE THEY CHOKE."
He storms out of the gate and down the lane, tie in hand, stumbling over the gravel. She can still see him as he crests the hill, slowing down, looking over his shoulder at her. He's too far away to read. Her wrists are slippery and she slides the handkerchief off, watches it flutter to the ground and land softly on the sandbox. There's no volcano at all.
"Come back," says Amelia Pond.
"Good riddance," says Amy.
It is Amy lately; Amy at school, where the older girls sometimes still love to recount her days in the counselor's office. Amy when they leave half-hearted hate notes on her locker about her mental state, her old-fashioned clothes, her boring teacup-collecting old aunt and absent parents. It could be worse, and it has been. Amy- Amelia- is becoming old news. Some of the girls have moved on to tormenting each other over new breasts and periods and strange looks from boys, and now Amy is no longer a moving target, no longer the funniest thing to hit.
She walks through the halls mostly undetected, and she pretends it is because the Doctor has made her invisible. "Good plan," she whispers into the washroom mirror. She gives her reflection a cool thumbs-up. She imagines the Doctor standing beside her, crouching to be at her height in the mirror, making weird expressions to coax out a giggle. Only it's difficult, sometimes, imagining him with his funny young-man face and old-man eyes and floppy hair. Sometimes it is only Rory she imagines, when they are swinging through Amazonian jungles in her mind or fighting space pirates or digging holes in the moon; Rory in the cut-up suit and stringy tie, Rory's hand safely tucked in hers. She stares into the mirror. She nearly forgot.
Rory.
He isn't there at lunchtime. She sits alone on their bench, the crooked one by the wall, and swings her legs until they go numb. Lunch ends and still no Rory, no sheepish Rory with a mumbled apology, no sullen Rory with his hands in his pockets, no Rory at all. There's a funny feeling in her chest, like she packed a suitcase and stuffed it down her throat, and now it is sitting there at the bottom of her stomach: a weight, dragging as she walks, heavy and unopened and wrong. The bell rings and everyone runs out and she sits for a long minute by herself in the classroom, wondering what she'll do if he isn't waiting at the corner. She gathers her books and heads out the door, down the hall and out into the yard. She doesn't know why she was compelled to be mean to him, except that he was there and he is always there, and now he isn't. "He'll never come back," says an Amy, inside her. "He probably changed schools." Amelia is mostly silent.
She turns out of the yard and Rory is there, leaning grouchily on the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. He is kicking a rock. He stubs his toe and yelps and she laughs and claps her hands over her mouth and he looks up, hurt and surprised and also weirdly happy to see her.
"What's so funny?" he asks.
"Your face," says Amy.
"Nothing," says Amelia Pond, more loudly. Somehow Rory hears it and smiles at her, his genuine gawky Rory-smile that makes the corners of his mouth crinkle like candy wrappers. She holds out her books, and the last half of her sandwich. She saved it, hoping. "Walk me home?" she asks.
He does.
The first time he asks her to marry him, stammering and twisting his hands in his coat pockets, sitting at the dingy old playground behind the library, she says no. Actually, she says,
"Don't be stupid,"
and keeps swinging.
The second time is different. The second time, she's in his bed, still half-asleep, rolled onto her side away from him, feeling the colder air on her bare toes where the duvet's crept up. She's warm everywhere else, almost fading back into a dream, no longer listening to his murmured questions about what she wants to do next weekend, what she'll want for breakfast when she finally gets up, whether she's warm enough or cool enough or if she's listening.
"Sure I am," she mumbles. He's a solid presence behind her, shoring her up, keeping her from drifting away completely. She listens for the rest of his pleasant ramblings but there aren't any. There's just silence and the sound of birds in the distance, the low rumble of tires on the road beyond. "Rory?"
"Can I ask you something?"
"You just did," she grumbles, pressing her face further into the pillow. "Yes to waffles, no to oatmeal, and can I have ten more minutes, please, before we talk about going over to your Nan's on Saturday."
"Do you love me?"
For a moment, she doesn't breathe.
"What kind of question is that?" asks Amy, irritated and not a little embarassed again, though she hardly knows why. "Aren't we- I mean, we're together now, why ask a thing like that?" She rolls onto her back and looks up at him, his plain rumpled face colored gold by the early light. "Is something wrong?" she says, her tone softening. "Did something happen?"
"I love you, Amy," he says. He says it so easily, like he's sure. Like just saying it lifts something up off of him, and he's lighter every second that he's speaking. She doesn't know that feeling at all. "You're it for me, you were always it, you and your schemes and everything. I love you," he says again. "And maybe you love me," he continues, over her awkward, murmured protests, "and maybe- anyway, it's fine. I just want you to know. I want you to know that I think about you all the time, that I want us to be properly together. To be married. If you want. Will you think about it?" He's so still and serious. "Marrying me?"
Yes, Amelia whispers. Her voice is ghostly and rippling under the surface, unsteady as a breeze, and it doesn't go past her lips. Amy can't look away from his eyes, can't seem to find the words.
"I'll think about it," she says at last, and closes her eyes for a kiss.
She is kneeling over the dust that was Rory, and the dust is soft. It's fine and heavy, like sand, and it's still a little warm.
"How do you know?" the Doctor asks her. He is putting the keys in her hand. He is trusting her. She doesn't even really process the reversal. "That this is the dream?" She thinks about Rory and the volcano and the time he busted his ankle sliding down into the creek, saving her from giant imaginary alien centipedes hell-bent on colonizing earth. She thinks about all of time and space and planets and supernovas and beautiful stars; and Rory's battered converse sneakers, with both their names scrawled on the toes in pen. She tries to breathe through her nose and think about turning the ignition, stepping on the gas. "Amy?"
"I don't know," she says. They are going to hit the wall. "I just know." She knows because there is a world with Rory and a world without him; because Amy and Amelia have finally agreed on something.
It doesn't even hurt.