tasty_kate (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
tasty_kate) wrote2011-09-18 09:57 pm
tasty_kate) wrote2011-09-18 09:57 pm
Entry tags:
Psychology and Heart Ache
Rating: PG-13 for language
Summary: Disassociation, denial, repression, processing. These are all terms that have no meaning until you live them.
Pairings: It's cannon, so Amy/Rory plus friendship between Amy/Doctor.
Warnings: SPOILERS FOR 6X11. The F Bomb. Angst.
A/N: It's been a while since I've written fic so I defaulted on what I know best: psychology. Also, this was not proof-read, beta'd, Brit-picked, or anything else that should come second-nature to someone who has written as much professional works and fanfic as I have. If there are any glaring grammatical errors, let me know. If it's small, let it slide, this was also a way of processing for me.
Four hours. It had been four hours and twenty-two minutes since the Doctor left Amy and Rory.
Now twenty-three minutes.
It simultaneously felt like moments ago and eons ago. It was disorienting. Maybe this is what the Doctor felt like when he stayed in one location for too long. Almost like jet-lag but more like time-lag. Yes, a lag in time. That was it.
Amy and Rory were spell-bounded by the house, let alone the car. It was a dream come true and a complete distraction. A complete distraction from what had just happened. Her life had just changed forever. Just like her life changed forever when she was a little girl and met that Raggedy Man, he is now more or less out of her life. She left an open invitation for him to come back but honestly, she wasn’t holding her breath.
Except she was. She was holding her breath. She still felt like the girl who was waiting. No, the woman who was waiting. She needed to get away from Rory and from the house and from everything and just be in a quiet place to sort through her thoughts. She knew Rory would, without hesitation, be the best possible support she could ever ask for but for right now, she needed to be by herself. And she knew she couldn’t leave this gorgeous new home. So she slipped into the shower.
Even as she took of each piece of clothing she had on, her eyes started to water. The last outfit she wore when traveling with him. She loved this outfit, too. She wondered if she could wear it again without getting—she shook the thought from her head. Amy Pond will not get sentimental.
The hot and cold water mixed into its perfect combination and the shower head clicked on. It almost felt automatic the way Amy felt so disassociated at that moment, like an out-of-body experience. Was this what the psychiatrists said this was? Dissasociation? She needed to check herself back into reality.
She stood under the shower head and let the water slap on top of her head. She let herself feel every single droplet of water that turned into rivers down her body. She needed to feel this and feel alive.
For him.
And that’s when the tears started to come. She had been holding them back all day. She opened her eyes and stared at the tile in front of her through her blurred vision of tears and tap water. She was silently crying in her beautiful shower, in her beautiful home with all the fixings, with her beautiful husband just meters away, and the (frankly) extravagant car out front.
And for a moment she didn’t care. Which was a lie, because out of that list, she cared about the beautiful husband. But all the things. The things. How the fuck could they replace the Doctor? Her raggedy Doctor? The man who stole her heart when she was seven and then stole her away in the middle of the night before her wedding? The man who gave her so much and the man who took just as much away? The man who did one of the most selfless and kindest act that she had ever witnessed right before her eyes. The man who saved her and her husband from certain death.
She felt it then in that street four hours and however many minutes ago but she didn’t acknowledge it until now. In that moment, when he said what had been bubbling under the surface for so long, said right out loud that he didn’t want to see his best friends dead…
Amy Pond never loved the Doctor more than she did in that moment.
Summary: Disassociation, denial, repression, processing. These are all terms that have no meaning until you live them.
Pairings: It's cannon, so Amy/Rory plus friendship between Amy/Doctor.
Warnings: SPOILERS FOR 6X11. The F Bomb. Angst.
A/N: It's been a while since I've written fic so I defaulted on what I know best: psychology. Also, this was not proof-read, beta'd, Brit-picked, or anything else that should come second-nature to someone who has written as much professional works and fanfic as I have. If there are any glaring grammatical errors, let me know. If it's small, let it slide, this was also a way of processing for me.
Four hours. It had been four hours and twenty-two minutes since the Doctor left Amy and Rory.
Now twenty-three minutes.
It simultaneously felt like moments ago and eons ago. It was disorienting. Maybe this is what the Doctor felt like when he stayed in one location for too long. Almost like jet-lag but more like time-lag. Yes, a lag in time. That was it.
Amy and Rory were spell-bounded by the house, let alone the car. It was a dream come true and a complete distraction. A complete distraction from what had just happened. Her life had just changed forever. Just like her life changed forever when she was a little girl and met that Raggedy Man, he is now more or less out of her life. She left an open invitation for him to come back but honestly, she wasn’t holding her breath.
Except she was. She was holding her breath. She still felt like the girl who was waiting. No, the woman who was waiting. She needed to get away from Rory and from the house and from everything and just be in a quiet place to sort through her thoughts. She knew Rory would, without hesitation, be the best possible support she could ever ask for but for right now, she needed to be by herself. And she knew she couldn’t leave this gorgeous new home. So she slipped into the shower.
Even as she took of each piece of clothing she had on, her eyes started to water. The last outfit she wore when traveling with him. She loved this outfit, too. She wondered if she could wear it again without getting—she shook the thought from her head. Amy Pond will not get sentimental.
The hot and cold water mixed into its perfect combination and the shower head clicked on. It almost felt automatic the way Amy felt so disassociated at that moment, like an out-of-body experience. Was this what the psychiatrists said this was? Dissasociation? She needed to check herself back into reality.
She stood under the shower head and let the water slap on top of her head. She let herself feel every single droplet of water that turned into rivers down her body. She needed to feel this and feel alive.
For him.
And that’s when the tears started to come. She had been holding them back all day. She opened her eyes and stared at the tile in front of her through her blurred vision of tears and tap water. She was silently crying in her beautiful shower, in her beautiful home with all the fixings, with her beautiful husband just meters away, and the (frankly) extravagant car out front.
And for a moment she didn’t care. Which was a lie, because out of that list, she cared about the beautiful husband. But all the things. The things. How the fuck could they replace the Doctor? Her raggedy Doctor? The man who stole her heart when she was seven and then stole her away in the middle of the night before her wedding? The man who gave her so much and the man who took just as much away? The man who did one of the most selfless and kindest act that she had ever witnessed right before her eyes. The man who saved her and her husband from certain death.
She felt it then in that street four hours and however many minutes ago but she didn’t acknowledge it until now. In that moment, when he said what had been bubbling under the surface for so long, said right out loud that he didn’t want to see his best friends dead…
Amy Pond never loved the Doctor more than she did in that moment.