Author's Notes: Oh, it's been so long since I wrote about my lifelong Doctor Who OTP, Rory and Amy. They make me sad and happy in so many ways, their deep and unbreakable love, so steeped in sorrow and suffering and so beautiful because of it. This little bit takes place after the Angels Take Manhattan, that episode that completely murdered me and from which I don't think I shall ever recover. Anyway, please enjoy if you can, comment if you like! It feeds my muse. Also, Merry Christmas to all my readers! Sorry this little piece has nothing to do with Christmas. :)

A Boy and His Box

Amy ripped a sheet of paper out of the typewriter, crumpling it fiercely in her hand with a certain relish before chucking it into the mad looking wastebasket by her desk. It was one of those old-fashioned, wooden things with a large cover you could pull over it, the kind you saw in the World War exhibits. She could still remember the title looming over her little head in the museum, "Life Back Home".

For the first few months, even years, she'd felt like she was actually living in one of those museums, waiting for a mad man with a fez to swoop in on her with a mop and a soda before flying a magic box into the sun and rewinding the history of the entire universe. That never happened, though. Maybe it was all for the best. Once in her life was enough. Once in her long, beautiful, impossible life.

As impossible as this chapter she was working on. Irritated, she took a deep, thick swallow from her coffee before picking up her pen. The outline needed to change. Again. So did that character's attitude, the man who was trying to kidnap the little girl and sell out to the Germans. One of her more grounded plots…her fans said Amelia William's books were ahead of their time.

She smiled. Then, with a sigh, she tried to focus on the plot again, tried to make the spinning words in her head stand still. It didn't work. She frowned.

"What's wrong, Amy?" Rory asks her, his voice holding just a hint of stress as he wrestles little Anthony into his jacket. Their adopted son has hair the color of sun-touched copper. Poor Rory and his wild redheads. "Writer's block again?"

Amy pulls her head up from where she's just slammed it on the desk. "I just…it's all in here, you know? I just can't get it out!" Biting her lip, she taps her forehead, hard. "Maybe I can just break a hole in my skull and free it."

Rory smiles, his long arms hauling Anthony up onto a table so he can't run away while his father's attention is elsewhere. "You'll get it. You always do. Just keep writing…write about that Frenchman and his pet snake, what they do on holiday, I dunno."

Despite herself, Amy laughs. "You've told me this how many times, moron?"

Rory shrugs, allowing Anthony to climb onto his shoulders. Amy wishes she could just drop everything and go with them to the park, but Rory would make her stay and finish. He always makes her stay and finish. "Just don't stop. If you wait long enough…it'll come."

The words tumbled through her brain, bringing another idea to the front of her mind. How many days were 2000 years?

According to legend, wherever the Pandorica was taken throughout its long history, the Centurion would be there, guarding it.

Her pen scraped quietly over the paper, leaving black streaks as she multiplied 365 by 2000 and, after a few painful minutes, got 730,000. Seven hundred and thirty thousand days and nights. Alone. Without her.

He appears as an iconic image in the artwork of many cultures, and there are several documented accounts of his appearances and his warnings to the many who attempted to open the box before its time.

Sometimes, late at night, she would watch the back of his head and gingerly run her fingers through his hair and think about how he'd slept for seven hundred and thirty thousand nights without her, seven hundred and thirty thousand cold, lonely nights. Nights when she wasn't there with him…when no one was.

His last recorded appearance was during the London Blitz in 1941. The warehouse where the Pandorica was stored was destroyed by incendiary bombs. But the box itself was found the next morning a safe distance from the blaze. There are eyewitness accounts from the night of the fire of a figure in Roman dress carrying the box from the flames.

With rough, sharp jabs, she sketched the Pandorica with its cold, stone surfaces and razor edges, square and hard. Her pen bit aggressively into the paper until she finally abandoned the image. Her hand traveled down the paper a bit and began again.

Since then, there have been no sightings of the Lone Centurion.

This time, with tender, careful strokes, she drew a small Roman soldier, his sword drawn, resting across his knees as he stared watchfully out into the nothingness beyond the page, so protective of the big, ugly box that loomed menacingly over him.

And many have speculated that if he ever existed, he perished in the fires of that night.

Soft, short hair under a golden helmet. Bright blue eyes and a ridiculously large nose. A small, tight mouth waiting to stretch into the warmest, kindest smile Amy had ever seen, the most beautiful grin in the world that made little laughter lines spring up around those bright blue eyes.

Performing one last act of devotion to the box he had pledged to protect for nearly two thousand years.

"What's this?" Rory was suddenly there, leaning over her, his warm, lithe body curving perfectly over her back and shoulders as he reached forward and touched her drawing, turning it more towards the light. There was a moment of silence. "Amy," he said meaningfully, gently scolding her as he crumpled the doodle into his hand. But he didn't throw it away.

Amy dropped the pen and turned her chair around. The thing squeaked and Rory drew back slightly to give her legs room. "But you never talk about it!" He could see the look in her eyes, the one she usually wore before taking an alien down with an oar. "Just that one time when you thought I didn't love you anymore, in the Dalek Asylum."

He didn't answer her at first. And if he had his way, Amy knew, he never would. Instead, he dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her and the chair into his embrace. Amy leaned her cheek on his head, hugging him back as they wrestled with the memories, both good and bad, that came with that particular part of their lives. "You know," she said, after a moment, "You shouldn't have ever thought that, idiot."

"I know," Rory pulled away from her to meet her gaze, resting his hands on her knees. "And I knew something was off…maybe that's why I was so angry, so stupid." A guilty look, the kind he always wore when something went wrong and he would dutifully take on the blame, whether it was his fault or not. "I knew you loved me but you acted like you didn't and I just didn't understand why."

Amy pulled on a weak, sad smile, "and I don't understand why you won't talk about this." She fingered the crumpled paper, still crushed in his tight, strong fist.

Actually, she did understand…why someone wouldn't talk about it. She'd had her share of horrific experiences, after all. But she always found a secret-sharer in Rory. He was her confidant, the one who had never judged her, always forgiven her. What Amy didn't understand, really, was why Rory couldn't share his pain with her. Why he always had to be the strong one, the righteous, protective one.

He pulled his fist out of her grip before letting it rest lightly on her knee again, a simple gesture that simply asked her not to pry at it anymore. "Because…because that wasn't me," he watched her hand as, true to form, she began fingering the crumpled paper again. "It was another life, one I am trying…so hard to forget."

Something inside her seemed to break at the thick, sobbing tone of voice. She grabbed both his shoulders, squeezing them. "But you never will. You know you won't. Common…" she gently pushed her forehead against his. His labored breathing was warm and spicy with mint. "Just this once, let me be strong for you…talk to me about it. Tell me why you didn't go mad, waiting for me all those years."

Even as he pulled away, Rory smiled at her insistence, at her enthusiastic urge to help. "Because I was plastic. No, seriously, Amy," he rubbed his knuckles into her knees, soothing himself as much as her, "it's just…too much. Too much to talk about."

Undeterred, Amy shifted forward in her seat. "Then just tell me one thing. Let's start with one thing at a time," she took his hands and held them under her chin, turning her mouth down in that slightly adorable pout-face he had never yet been able to resist, even at his sternest. "Please?"

Rory stared at her a moment, his blue eyes flickering with buried pain and doubt. Then, reluctantly, he sighed. "Okay. What do you want to know?"

Amy bit her lip, slightly unprepared now that she actually had the opportunity she'd been longing for. Her thoughts flew back to Stonehenge, to the pain of losing Rory to his alien madness, the agony that overshadowed even her dying, the cold, smooth walls of the Pandorica that had so terrified the Doctor…

"What did you think of the box?"

The tips of Rory's mouth pulled up in a faint smile as he stared beyond her, somewhere at the drawer of her desk. "I forgot all about the box. I only thought about you. I tried to remember you; hard as I could…drew pictures on the walls, stuff like that. Said your name out loud," sometimes for hours on end, "Told you how the weather was…"

"Oh gods, you didn't talk to me?" Amy laughed suddenly, unable to stop herself.

Rory nodded. He was used to her laughing at him. In fact sometimes he cherished it.

"My poor husband, talking to a big box for two thousand years."

Rory chuckled softly. "It was pretty good because you weren't saying anything back." He ignored the small shove in the chest that comment earned him, although his grin widened. "I told you things I'd wanted to tell you forever."

Amy huffed comically. "Well I'm here now. Tell me."

"Honestly?" Rory rolled his eyes as she giggled and bobbed forward, wisps of her red hair whipping at his cheeks. "I wanted to tell you…"

"And you can't make it up or change a single word. I want to hear," she lifted an imperious finger at him, "exactly the same things that you said all that time ago, under Stonehenge."

"You really need to shut up," Rory said, trying to look severe.

Amy wasn't fooled. Nevertheless, she tried to put a lid on her giddiness and sat back in the chair. "Sorry."

"I wanted…to tell you…" the air in the room seemed to halt and grow still before focusing on them both, concentrating all its fierce energy on their beating hearts and their restless minds. Rory hesitated, and then quickly launched into his first few words. "That I loved you, that you're the only woman I've ever loved. That you're funny and brilliant and fantastically brave…probably too brave for your own good. And you have…the greatest faith of anyone I've ever known. Once you believe in anything…the Raggedy Doctor, stars in the sky, even me…you never let go. And that's why I love you so, so much, Amy Pond."

"Williams," Amy said, through the stinging wetness in her eyes, "today, we can both be Williams."

"Oh, great," Rory whispered sarcastically, "thanks."

Amy burst into laughter again. Then, just as suddenly, a shadow darkened her forehead. She became serious. Alert, Rory gazed questioningly at her.

"But that can't be all," Amy said slowly, "That can't be it. No one, not even you, can say sweet things for two thousand years. Not to anyone, and certainly not to me." She gently pushed her fingers against Rory's lips, silencing his protests. "No, Rory…you're doing it again. You're not sharing…you're making me feel better."

He swallow, watching her carefully. Her hands flew from his shoulders to his face, cupping his chin in her hands. "Rory," she said meaningfully, "I'm a grown woman now, I have a baby…two babies. I don't have psychiatrists anymore, I don't stay out late at night and I'm not pining away for a magical blue box. I'm not a delicate, fragile little girl. I'm your wife. You can tell me…anything."

She surprised him by sliding off the chair and pushing it under the desk behind them. Her knees pushed against his as she landed on them. She took his hands once more, working at the clenched fist until it finally opened and released the crumpled paper to her. She flicked it into the wastebasket without a glance. Now that both his hands were free, she entwined them in hers. "Rory, what were things you really felt...things you have really, always wanted to tell me."

She felt his fingers tighten around hers. She saw the fragile walls hiding behind his eyes like rain-washed panes of stained glass, ready to shatter. "I…Amy. Oh, Amy. I don't want to…"

"I want you to," she insisted, "not everything, not right now. But eventually."

He looked down, hiding his face a moment. "It hurt. I was in pain. And sometimes, I was angry."

"At me?"

His fingers turned white. "At you."

She knew why. He knew why.

She tried to kiss me.

I ran away on my wedding night.

I know you think it's him…that it ought to be him. But it's not.

It's you.

Amy's eyes closed. "I'm sorry…so much."

He was ready to forgive her. He already had, every day and ever after. "Amy…I was never good enough, never mad, like the Doctor, or brilliant and fierce. I was too small."

Amy didn't laugh, but she did smile through her tears. "Short stuff."

Amy stamped her foot in the grass. "Why are you so small, Rory?! Smaller than anyone in the whole class!"

Rory leaned against the fence Amy had been trying to stare over while standing on his shoulders. His head hung down in shame, framed by his uncut hair. "Sorry."

Amy rolled her eyes, sighing. "If Mels were here, I could stand on her. Then I'd see what they're up to over there."

Rory straightened urgently. "I'll get much bigger, Amy! I promise!"

Amy had to smile at that. "Short stuff," she said graciously, fondly ruffling his hair in the way he hated before racing him back up the hill. And winning, of course.

Rory broke into a breathless chuckle. "I kept my promise, you know."

Amy grimaced, brushing the top of his head with her hand. "Don't remind me, beanpole."

They were quiet again. Rory brushed his thumbs across her knuckles. "Anyone else with an ounce of sense would've taken a hint, tried to find their own life. But I had fallen in love with you, Amy. I think I fell in love with you the day I fell out of that tree and you nearly tore my hair out for crushing your paper dolls before you saw that I'd twisted my ankle."

"Well, to be fair, those were nice paper dolls," Amy smiled, "but a real person, a real, normal friend was much, much nicer. I just didn't want to tell you out loud."

Rory sighed. He shifted forward, subconsciously trying to close the distance between them. "Yeah, you were a tough act to follow, Amy Pond, with your hair on fire and your legs…everywhere." He swallowed awkwardly. "And, funny thing is, I never felt like I was in any sort of competition with all those other blokes. I was different from them, you know? Separate and distinct. I was your friend, I was there for you, but I never dreamed in a million years that I'd ever have you."

Suddenly, he pressed his forehead to hers and smiled warmly at her. Amy held her breath. "It was that dream, while you were inside the Pandorica…that dream that, someday, you might forgive me, that we'd have a chance again…that dream kept me going. And now, you're a part of me, we have a house and children and you're still impossibly mad…and I love you with all my heart. To me, that's worth it. I'd wait twenty thousand, two hundred thousand years, if I could spend the last day with you."

Something burst out of Amy that was halfway between a sob and a huff of laughter. There was a wet, shiny track down her cheek and a joyful sparkle in her eye. "Well, I already knew all that." She gently, quickly pulled him into a kiss, savoring the feel as his strong arms wrapped around her shoulders, making her feel safe and loved as they had for all the worst and best moments of her life.

After a long, long kiss that would have broken the record the Doctor always boasted of keeping, she broke away and looked Rory carefully in the eyes. "And," she sniffed quickly, "and I'm sorry about saying it was nothing, in the Asylum."

Rory interrupted her quickly, although Amy suspected that part of him wanted to be done with all this painful discussion and just get back to kissing, "Amy, it's okay, you already…"

"Shut up," she said easily, "I'm trying to say that I didn't mean it. I just…it hurt so bad. Giving you up. Giving up the man who talked to my box for two thousand years." She playfully walked her fingers up his shoulder, smiling as she stared at them with sad eyes.

Rory gazed up at the roof a moment, as if considering what she said. Then, he smiled brightly and shrugged it off. "Yeah, I am pretty amazing."

It was the perfect thing to say. Amy laughed again, throwing her head back. "Oh, come here, you!" She pulled him back into a kiss again, much to his delight.

FINIS