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rumpelsnorcackTitle: A Long Life (But One Worth Living)
Author/Artist:
rumpelsnorcack
Rating: PG-13
Characters & Pairings: Rory, Amy, Rory/Amy
Word Count: 833 this chapter
Summary: The story of Rory's life, from meeting Amy to death.
Notes: Many thanks to the wonderful
a_phoenixdragon and mollywheezy who have been extremely supportive through this whole process. I've been writing this on and off for a while. It's still not finished, but is getting there. Not sure how many chapters there will be, but each one is intended as a short one-shot in its own right so all can be read independently. However, they do all build together to give a picture of Rory's life, complicated timelines and all.
Disclaimer: Sadly none of the characters are mine, I just enjoy hanging around in their sandbox.
Rory was old. That shouldn’t be any great realisation, really, but he was eighty one now, nearly eighty two, and today he felt every one of those years in his bones. Truth be told, he felt every one of the months, days, hours, minutes, seconds … the weight of them all pressed down on him, bowing his shoulders and making his back ache in cold weather. Today a brisk breeze was whisking in under the doorframe and settling around Rory’s ankles so the aches were at their peak. He lifted his arms in a stretch and let out a moan as his vain attempt to appease his muscles had the opposite effect. Groaning, he poured his tea.
With slow, steady steps Rory shuffled over to his favourite chair, his tea cup rattling on the saucer clutched in his frail, shaking hand. He put the cup down on the small table nearby. The tea slopped over the edge, splashing into the saucer as his traitorous hand wobbled a little as he set it in place. Rory gripped the arms of the chair and lowered himself down into his chair, careful to avoid aggravating his back again. He sighed as his body relaxed into the familiar contours. He leaned his head back against the welcoming headrest and took a deep, shuddering breath before gently picking up his tea again.
He was just taking a deep, appreciative sniff of the tea when Amy rustled into the room behind him and laid her hand on his shoulder, her squeeze a soft comfort. He rested his hand on hers for a moment, smiling up at her. She bustled over to the kitchen to make her own cup of tea before settling down into her chair. They sat in companionable silence for a few moments before Amy spoke.
‘Did you think about it yet?’ Her voice still had traces of its soft Scottish burr, but was overlaid with a harsher American twang after so long living in New York.
‘About what?’ Rory stalled. He knew, of course, what she wanted to discuss and in truth he had been thinking about it. He just wasn’t convinced.
She clicked her tongue in irritation. ‘You know what. Quit stalling.’
‘I’m … not sure, Amy. You’re the writer.’
‘Perhaps, but you’re the one with the stories, the experience. I didn’t see two thousand years of history. You did.’
Rory sighed softly. They’d been over this. In a way she was right – he had several lifetimes’ worth of experience just sitting in his head. It couldn’t be too long before he was no longer around to tell his story. Perhaps he should … no. He shook his head. This wasn’t his thing.
‘I’m not good with words, Amy. Not like you are. I couldn’t do it justice.’
Amy smiled. ‘Oh my sweet numpty. Of course you could.’ She rose, kissed him on the forehead and took her empty cup out to the kitchen. She winked at him as she returned and switched the TV on. As always, Rory felt the weird disconnect of living in a world where TV was just starting to be considered a threat to the stability of the known world – or at least its children’s health, as rock and roll music and moving pictures had been in their turns. The ubiquity of the internet was years away yet, and Rory still missed his mobile phone; both things this world had never even imagined.
He realised with a start that he was unlikely to ever see a mobile phone again. It was then that it hit him – he had all these experiences, both the mundane and the incredibly bizarre. But to everyone around him they would all be bizarre. Imagine trying to explain the internet to the bright young teenagers these days, with their fluorescent clothing and brand new walkmans. It would seem like something from the imagination of the Star Trek creators. Star Trek, which had barely even had its resurrection, and was still showing endless repeats of the original series. He chuckled to himself.
Amy looked over and quirked her brow at him. He laughed again.
‘I was just thinking about how hard it would be to explain the Two Thousands to people now. They’d think we were on drugs I think.’
Amy laughed, her deep chuckle as infectious as ever. She reached over and squeezed his hand. ‘You’re thinking about it!’
Rory nodded noncommittally and sank deep into thought. He tried to make sense of his life … his lives. He could barely remember his youth which, he realised with a sudden pang, was about to start again with the year of his birth fast approaching – next year, in fact. What if Amy was right? Even if he didn’t intend to publish the story of his life, it certainly deserved to be preserved somewhere other than in his head. Perhaps he should write it down, and at least get his jumble of memories into some sort of order.
Chapter One
Author/Artist:
rumpelsnorcackRating: PG-13
Characters & Pairings: Rory, Amy, Rory/Amy
Word Count: 833 this chapter
Summary: The story of Rory's life, from meeting Amy to death.
Notes: Many thanks to the wonderful
mollywheezy who have been extremely supportive through this whole process. I've been writing this on and off for a while. It's still not finished, but is getting there. Not sure how many chapters there will be, but each one is intended as a short one-shot in its own right so all can be read independently. However, they do all build together to give a picture of Rory's life, complicated timelines and all.Disclaimer: Sadly none of the characters are mine, I just enjoy hanging around in their sandbox.
Rory was old. That shouldn’t be any great realisation, really, but he was eighty one now, nearly eighty two, and today he felt every one of those years in his bones. Truth be told, he felt every one of the months, days, hours, minutes, seconds … the weight of them all pressed down on him, bowing his shoulders and making his back ache in cold weather. Today a brisk breeze was whisking in under the doorframe and settling around Rory’s ankles so the aches were at their peak. He lifted his arms in a stretch and let out a moan as his vain attempt to appease his muscles had the opposite effect. Groaning, he poured his tea.
With slow, steady steps Rory shuffled over to his favourite chair, his tea cup rattling on the saucer clutched in his frail, shaking hand. He put the cup down on the small table nearby. The tea slopped over the edge, splashing into the saucer as his traitorous hand wobbled a little as he set it in place. Rory gripped the arms of the chair and lowered himself down into his chair, careful to avoid aggravating his back again. He sighed as his body relaxed into the familiar contours. He leaned his head back against the welcoming headrest and took a deep, shuddering breath before gently picking up his tea again.
He was just taking a deep, appreciative sniff of the tea when Amy rustled into the room behind him and laid her hand on his shoulder, her squeeze a soft comfort. He rested his hand on hers for a moment, smiling up at her. She bustled over to the kitchen to make her own cup of tea before settling down into her chair. They sat in companionable silence for a few moments before Amy spoke.
‘Did you think about it yet?’ Her voice still had traces of its soft Scottish burr, but was overlaid with a harsher American twang after so long living in New York.
‘About what?’ Rory stalled. He knew, of course, what she wanted to discuss and in truth he had been thinking about it. He just wasn’t convinced.
She clicked her tongue in irritation. ‘You know what. Quit stalling.’
‘I’m … not sure, Amy. You’re the writer.’
‘Perhaps, but you’re the one with the stories, the experience. I didn’t see two thousand years of history. You did.’
Rory sighed softly. They’d been over this. In a way she was right – he had several lifetimes’ worth of experience just sitting in his head. It couldn’t be too long before he was no longer around to tell his story. Perhaps he should … no. He shook his head. This wasn’t his thing.
‘I’m not good with words, Amy. Not like you are. I couldn’t do it justice.’
Amy smiled. ‘Oh my sweet numpty. Of course you could.’ She rose, kissed him on the forehead and took her empty cup out to the kitchen. She winked at him as she returned and switched the TV on. As always, Rory felt the weird disconnect of living in a world where TV was just starting to be considered a threat to the stability of the known world – or at least its children’s health, as rock and roll music and moving pictures had been in their turns. The ubiquity of the internet was years away yet, and Rory still missed his mobile phone; both things this world had never even imagined.
He realised with a start that he was unlikely to ever see a mobile phone again. It was then that it hit him – he had all these experiences, both the mundane and the incredibly bizarre. But to everyone around him they would all be bizarre. Imagine trying to explain the internet to the bright young teenagers these days, with their fluorescent clothing and brand new walkmans. It would seem like something from the imagination of the Star Trek creators. Star Trek, which had barely even had its resurrection, and was still showing endless repeats of the original series. He chuckled to himself.
Amy looked over and quirked her brow at him. He laughed again.
‘I was just thinking about how hard it would be to explain the Two Thousands to people now. They’d think we were on drugs I think.’
Amy laughed, her deep chuckle as infectious as ever. She reached over and squeezed his hand. ‘You’re thinking about it!’
Rory nodded noncommittally and sank deep into thought. He tried to make sense of his life … his lives. He could barely remember his youth which, he realised with a sudden pang, was about to start again with the year of his birth fast approaching – next year, in fact. What if Amy was right? Even if he didn’t intend to publish the story of his life, it certainly deserved to be preserved somewhere other than in his head. Perhaps he should write it down, and at least get his jumble of memories into some sort of order.
Chapter One
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2014-11-23 04:00 am (UTC)Gorgeous as ever. And a pleasure to read again - where it belongs! *smiles*
*SQUISHES YOU*
(no subject)
Date: 2014-11-23 04:06 am (UTC)*huggles you back*
(no subject)
Date: 2014-11-23 04:26 am (UTC)Ohhh, really?! GIMME!! *DANCES*
(no subject)
Date: 2014-11-23 04:35 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2014-11-23 04:36 am (UTC)*HUGS*