He could still feel her in his arms.
Rory turned over in the bed that he shared with his wife, the tiny lights on the ceiling softly illuminating her face. She had finally fallen asleep, her cheeks streaked with dry tears. He softly stroked her cheek, careful to not wake her, then yawned and turned onto his back.
At least the Doctor had finally given them a bed built for two, horizontally-speaking. Bunk beds weren't exactly built for married couples.
Above him, the ceiling's tiny bulbs were arranged into constellations and galaxies, drifting slowly across the ceiling, propelled by alien technology that he would probably never understand.
There were many things that he would never understand.
Like how he had ever become a Roman centurion.
Like how he had ever let Amy down.
Like how he had let their daughter be taken away from them.
Rory lay on his back, his eyes dry. He had cried enough. There was no more time for that. He laughed a little. No time. In a time machine.
He did know that Melody would grow up. That bit had been spoiled for him. But would they be there to see her turn into smart-mouthed, confident River Song?
Rory turned towards Amy again, studying his beautiful wife's expression as she slept. She must be dreaming, he thought to himself.
Her brow furrowed, and, slowly, a tear snuck its way out from under her eyelid, making a quick escape down her cheek. Rory's eyes widened. "Amy?" he whispered.
Her lip quivered, and she curled up, as if in pain. A nightmare? He didn't know what to do. Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around her, holding her. "Amy, you're crying," he said.
She blinked, looking up at him, her bleary eyes slowly coming into focus. She stared at him, her eyes frightened and terribly sad.
"Amy? Were you dreaming again? About…" he stopped, fighting down that familiar lump in his throat. Hold it together, he ordered himself. "About her?" he finished, his voice cracking.
"I can't stand not knowing where she is, Rory," she said through her tears, her voice stopping with every sob. "I can't stand it!"
He held her closer. Amy had always been the strong one, always in control, always knowing what to do. But she didn't know how to endure like he had learned to. Two thousand years had been enough practice. But now…well, now he'd have to be strong enough for the both of them.
He stroked her hair, which was dark brown in the dimly lit room. "We'll find her," he said, his voice calm and even.
He held her tightly, his shoulder becoming more and more damp from Amy's tears. "We'll find her," he repeated, as much to his love as to himself.
The stars turned overhead.