It's been three years since The Raggedy Doctor came to pay little Amelia a visit, but she refuses to forget. Unlike most, she's too stubborn to let go or pass it off as a childish dream, and so most of the other kids are told by fond, clucking mothers to stay away from her. Not Rory. Amelia's not sure why, but the scrawny little boy with the scruffy brown hair refuses to be afraid. His big, brown eyes – strangely like doe eyes, Amelia thinks, all … big. And brown. Like does (and even her thoughts retain that Scottish twang)– always meet hers with a great measure of trust, and she knows he'd do anything she could ask of him, and would follow her anywhere.
So, one day, when she finds herself longing particularly much for the Doctor, she says in her bossiest tone, "Go borrow one of your dad's brown suits." They're sitting in the Williams' sitting room, lounging on the plush fuchsia couches with the loose-hanging threads and the annoying buttons on the back. Neither of their feet can reach the carpeted floor.
"Okay," Rory said, scrambling off the couch up the stairs, clinging to the walls and railings in order to sustain his speed. Amelia waits impatiently, flicking ginger locks of hair out of her hazel eyes. He doesn't even question me, the pre-teen girl thinks, wonderingly, then sadly muses – in a way that's far beyond her age of a mere ten years – that she followed the Doctor with equal willingness.
When he returns, he's clutching the suit in his hands, the limbs dragging behind. "No, no, no!" Amelia rolls her eyes. "Go put it on, dummy."
"Oh." Rory goes back upstairs, and when returns this time, he's wearing the suit, and he looks absolutely ridiculous, because the sleeves and the legs are way too long, and the little boy is drowning in this tent of cloth that forms his father's pinstriped suit.
Still. Amelia supposes that this is as good as it's ever going to get.