Two Scots in New York

Amy Williams blinks.

A hand, as hard and cold as stone, shoves her roughly between her shoulder blades.

She feels the ground beneath her feet shift, like she's sinking into her own grave.

She falls.

It's like she's falling in a dream, except when she lands she doesn't wake up.

She tries to open her eyes, but she can't.

Darkness is all there is.

She's outside. A chilly wind cuts deep into her bones. The grass she's lying on is slightly damp. She cautiously opens her eyes, squints up at the dull grey clouds. In her peripheral vision she can make out the arch of a gravestone.

She aches.

"Rory," she breathes.

When's there's no answer, she gets to her feet. She wobbles, leans on a gravestone to orient herself. Her right foot crushes a bunch of roses left on the grave. "Rory," she says again, like a mantra. Her certainty that she's right—that the Angel will have sent Amy back to where Rory is, that he is here somewhere—gives her a surge of energy. She takes a few steps, stumbles over a pot of flowers. "Sorry," she mutters to the ground beneath her feet.

"Rory!"

She surprises herself with her volume this time. A couple nearby, faces pale and sad, their arms linked together, stop and stare at her before dismissing her. That's fine. She doesn't need any help to find Rory. The universe knows that they are supposed to be together. She weaves around gravestones until she trips on another pot of bloody flowers, but instead of being sent sprawling, someone catches her arm.

"You alright?" the stranger asks her, all over-familiar concern. And no, that can't be right, because he sounded Scottish just there and this is supposed to be New York—oh, God, what if she's wrong?

She spins on him, pulls out of his grip (which wasn't all that strong to begin with). He's tall, with silver hair and a face that looks like it's always ready for an argument. He wears a suit, no tie. Timeless. "Tell me this is New York," she orders, urgent, low and dangerous. She resists the urge to grab his lapels and shake the answer out of him. "Tell me!"

To his credit, he doesn't blink at her tone or the unusual question. He nods. "This is New York." He watches her as if to gauge her reaction, to the point where Amy just wants to look away.

Instead she asks, "Are you just telling me that because I asked you to or because it's true?"

"The first one," he replies with a shrug, "and the second. Both, really. Pick whichever one makes you feel better."

"Okay. Weird question number two: what year is it?" She feels the need to point out how unusual her questions are because this man's lack of curiosity—or fear—is a little unnerving.

"1938."

"I was right, then. Good. That's good." She tries to think like the Doctor, gathering facts. Anything can be useful, he always says. "Who's the president?" As soon as she has asked she decides she doesn't care and it's not important. He opens his mouth to reply but before he can: "You're Scottish."

"So are you, even more than me."

She does a three-sixty turn on the spot and locates the gate. She heads for it. When he follows, she asks, "But why are you here, then? In New York?"

"I'm visiting a couple of old friends," is all he says. She glances at him as they walk. His eyes are sad. Bright yellow petals catch her eye, poking out of the pocket of his dark coat. He's got flowers, he's in a graveyard. It isn't hard to work out. She almost feels bad for asking at all.

On the busy street, people are bundled up warm against the cold. The men wear simple suits, some with ties and some without. She feels a pang in her heart when she spots someone wearing a bow tie and braces. Concentrate, Pond, she thinks to herself, and it's the Doctor's voice in her head, find Rory. The women wear dresses of bright colours and patterns, and hats decorated with ribbons and bows. The cars are smoky, with sweeping mudguards and an abundance of chrome that would dazzle if the sun wasn't hidden behind grey clouds. The bare trees that line the pavement loom overhead, with little wire fences around the trunks.

Amy looks for Rory. She sees flashes of colour; a woman in a lime green dress, a blue car, the red lining of the Scottish man's dark coat as he walks and eventually overtakes her. She doesn't know how long she's been walking; she's been so busy concentrating on looking for Rory. She doesn't remember when she decided to follow him. She doesn't even know his name.

She stops moving without warning. The man behind her bumps into her shoulder and his briefcase brushes her calf. He takes a moment to glare at her before he continues on his way.

He doesn't notice she has stopped until he reaches a junction that will have to be crossed and realises she isn't waiting beside him. He walks back to her. "What?"

"Why am I following you?" She doesn't expect an answer from him, the question was for her. It was like an instinct. It scares her. "I have to find Rory," she declares out loud. "My husband, Rory." She thinks of him, of his stupid face, and starts to back away. "Rory."

"Scottish magnetism, to answer your question. I have theory." He taps his temple, gives her a look like he's just divulged a huge secret. "'Two Scots in New York'—now that would be a book."

She turns away from him and marches purposefully back the way they'd come. He follows her this time, and while it's certainly not ideal, she does feel a bit better now that she's deciding where they're going. And since when was it 'they'?

He comes up beside her, effortlessly matching her determined stride. "Where are you going now?"

"To find Rory," she says. There is no question.

"And where's Rory?"

"I—" She stops suddenly again. He bumps into her back. She flinches away, sucks in a hiss of air between her teeth. Between her shoulder blades, a hand-shaped bruise—it feels real. "I don't know," she admits. She squares her shoulders, hides the wince. "But I'll find him, whatever it takes. Together or not at all."

He nods at her like he understands what that means. She doesn't stop to think about that. She has to find Rory, has to keep moving or she isn't sure if she could stay sane.

She can sense someone walking beside her but she's not going to check. She peers through every window she can see, checks every alley as she passes. After another few blocks she stops. It's darker. Street lights are flickering on, the one nearest to them diffused by fumes from a car running nearby.

"You're still here," she states, neutral.

He has his hands clamped together in front of him. She notices the ring.

"You need help. I'm the... person who's going to help you, if you'll allow me."

"You're very clingy."

"I've been told that before."

"I'm Amy Williams." She holds out her hand for him to shake. "Got a name to go with the face?"

"John—"

But she's not listening. "Rory!" she cries, and surges forward.

She hears the man—John... something—saying, "...No."

"You okay, lady?" the man, Not Rory, asks, dipping to retrieve his hat from where it had landed on the ground. He eyes her as he straightens, wary, in case Amy might make another grab for his shoulder. It was his hair colour and his height that made her hope...

"Sorry," she says, chest-fallen.

It's not a question of if she'll find Rory, but a question of when, and New York is a big city. It hits her like a punch to the stomach. It could take years. She doesn't think she can wait that long. "Sorry," she mumbles, but Not Rory is already gone.

The stranger, John, comes to stand beside her. Talking to himself, "'Two Aliens Lost in New York'..."

"What?" she snaps, not in the mood.

"—would be a better book," he finishes. He stares at her intensely, seems to make a decision. "We need coffee. Or you do. Clara has banned me from coffee. I'll take tea." He turns to leave, looks back over his shoulder at her. "Well?"

She swallows, realises that along with everything else, her throat is dry. Being shoved back in time by an angry Angel is no walk in the park. Hey, maybe she should look for Rory in the park...

But she follows him to wherever he's going now, because she's thirsty and Rory might be too. John's steps are sure, he knows the way. She hopes in vain that Rory will appear around the next corner, or the next. John leads her in a zig-zag and they wind up outside a little café on a corner. There are tables and chairs outside as well as in. He stops and waits for her to catch up the last few steps. He pulls out a chair for her and she sits down. It's the table with the best view of the corner, and the street that continues on straight ahead.

She keeps watching for any sign of Rory. John sits down opposite her and watches the other direction, though since he doesn't even know what Rory looks like he probably won't be any help at all. She considers showing him a picture on her phone, but hesitates in case her phone freaks him out. Sure, he's a bit weird, but at least she's not alone. He begins to tap out a rhythm on the table top, but Amy's glare puts a stop to that. A waitress eventually comes over to them.

"Coffee," he says when Amy makes no move to acknowledge her existence, "and tea. Twelve sugars."

She rests her elbow on the table, cups her chin in her hand and stares as the citizens of New York pass her by. Despite her best efforts, her mind wanders. She imagines herself as an old woman, sitting in this exact same spot, still watching these same people, still waiting for Rory. The thought makes her heart beat faster, because what if she was wrong, and what if Rory isn't here at all?

Then Rory comes around the corner, lit up by the street light he comes to a stop under. Amy lifts her chin from her palm. John notices the change in her body language, raises one of his mighty eyebrows, but says nothing. He doesn't turn to look over his shoulder at Rory, but a corner of his mouth twitches up in a half-smile that is so fleeting she may have imagined it. She doesn't stop to think about it, getting to her feet just as John's tea and her coffee arrives.

She walks towards Rory, feels John's eyes on her back as she goes.

Rory had his nose—his beautiful, prominent nose—buried in a crumpled piece of paper as he walked. Now he looks up at the sign above the café's door, double checks it against whatever is on his page, and proceeds to try and peer through the window. It's so fogged up; he can't see anything inside the café at all.

He does see Amy, standing behind him, reflected in the glass.

He turns around so fast his legs threaten to tangle up under him. "Amy," he says, like he can't quite believe his own eyes.

She throws herself forward with a relieved sob, his piece of paper crushed between them both, forgotten in the moment. He wraps his arms around her waist so tight it hurts, and she responds in kind. His shoulder is soon damp, and Amy pretends not to notice that her shoulder feels a bit damp too. When her nose starts to itch, she notices the thick winter jacket Rory is wearing, pulls away while still staying within arm's reach.

"You've gone native," she observes lightly. He's wearing a hat too, stubble covers his chin. The only thing that gives him away is his twenty-first century shoes.

"I looked for you," he says. "I hoped that—" He stops, attempts to compose himself as he blinks moisture from his eyes.

"How long have you been here?" she asks him, serious now. He has bags under his eyes that he didn't have a few hours ago.

He shakes his head. "It doesn't matter."

"It does."

"A... a week," he admits softly, and with that he pulls her into another hug. She lets him.

A minute of doubt that he was even here was torture—Amy can't imagine what a week felt like.

They stand for a while, just holding each other. It's enough. Eventually they shift and the piece of paper rustles. "What is this?" she asks, even as she takes it from Rory's hand.

"It's, uh..."

Amy looks at the page.

Come along, Mr Pond in blue ink. This is followed by the address of the café they are now standing outside.

The handwriting is different, but there is no question who wrote it.

"Is he with you?" Rory asks, hand on her arm—unwilling to let go just yet.

"No," she says. "But there was this man, and he—" She stills with the realisation.

"Amy?" Rory sounds concerned.

"Oh, my God," Amy breathes, turns to find that John is gone.

On the table sits a tray with two delicate, gold-rimmed cups, one empty and the other full. Beside the cups rests a single sunflower, slightly crushed from time spent in a pocket. And note, written in TARDIS blue. The end, it says, and signed underneath: John Smith.

THE END

Author's Note: I've had this idea in my head for a while now, but then I re-watched "The Angels Take Manhattan" last week, and I finally plucked up the courage to write it. Thanks for reading! :)