They'd decided not to live together before the wedding, for a lot of reasons (namely, the Raggedy Doctor). So moving in, after the wedding, well. That was exhausting. And the Doctor didn't help, with his popping in with presents and breaking a shed again and generally being a nuisance. But he made Amy laugh, and sometimes he'd clap Rory on the shoulder and look him in the eyes and mutter something about waiting. And so it was enough.
And then the Doctor left. Told them to be good, have fun, live within their own time for once. He went off somewhere, the noise of the TARDIS bothering their old maid neighbor and her chickens. And Amy looked at Rory with all those ancient stars in her eyes, and whispered, "He'll be back."
"I know," he whispered in reply, and took her hand and swung her around like they had when they were kids.
And things were beautiful and awful, all the time.
Amy fried everything, and Rory was obsessive about folding socks a certain way, and they argued about television and money and paint colors, and they had sex in every room in the house, and they talked about what Rory had been through when he was plastic and what Amy had seen before Rory had joined them. And they talked and talked and talked.
A few weeks in, Rory got in a fight at the pub. Some idiot had made a joke about Amy, a joke he didn't repeat, and he'd downed his beer and thrown what had in all honesty been a very impressive punch, nearly broken his pinky finger but it was worth it to go home to Amy and tell her. Of course, she punched him and lectured him about it, but for a brief shining moment, Rory Williams Pond was the hero of the universe.
And then Amy woke up screaming, night after night, for a week. She kept seeing the Angels, stone reaching out for her neck. And Rory would hold her, comfort her, tell her nonsense to make her laugh again, that low giggle he'd fallen in love with when he was ten.
Two thousand years he'd waited for her, and she'd seen him die twice. They could do this, they could.