There it was again. That wonderful, grinding squeal, the best sound in the universe. Amy's eyes opened, and there was that familiar, achingly gorgeous moment of hope, before the silent same-ness of the world came crashing down around her once more. She took a few shaky breaths and rolled over as a few tears slipped down her cheek. Rory shifted in his sleep, moving close to her, as if by instinct, and soon she too was asleep.
She woke again with the yellow-white light of morning streaming in through the curtains of their flat. Rory was already up, putting on his suit jacket and tie. "Morning," she croaked, and dragged herself out of bed.
"Morning, love," he said, smiling and giving her a soft kiss. "You sleep alright?"
"Yeah. You?" she responded, perhaps too shortly.
"Well, I suppose. Ready for your second day?"
Amy rolled her eyes. "Not really. And the worst part is the bloody outfit I have to wear." Amy missed the freedom of her standard mini-skirt and leather jacket attire; the acceptable clothing in 1939 was modest to say the least. But what she hated even more were the stares she got her first few days in New York. Tall, outspoken, red-headed Scottish females wearing clothes from over 60 years into the future and occasionally crying didn't exactly blend in with the locals.
"Cheer up. It's not so bad."
Amy felt the tears of rage building up inside her again. She knew she was acting like a child, but she felt so helpless. Rory was adjusting so well- he had a job as a doctor at one of the city's hospitals now; he'd gotten it easily with his calm, kind attitude and 21st century knowledge. Amy, however, had nearly thrown a fit when she received the only acceptance letter from the many jobs she'd applied for. She was writing an advice column for an inconsequential paper. But it looked as though she wouldn't get anything better, being a woman. It all seemed so unfair. Why couldn't the angel have sent them forward in time? Or even back further…she could have seen Vincent Van Gogh again, maybe actually saved him this time. She could have lived with, well, her other husband- King Henry VII. On second thought, maybe not that option. She did like her head in the position it was in now.
"Amy…please try to be happy?" Rory said, sounding almost as helpless as she felt.
"It's easy for you, everybody bloody loves you," she growled.
He stopped suddenly and took her by the shoulders. "Amy. You think this is easy for me?"
She looked away, shrugging. She knew it wasn't easy for either of them, but he was so much better at…people stuff.
His voice broke. "Amy, we left our families and home. I'll never see Dad again, or our friends, or- or my horrible Great Aunt Enid, or anyone. But crying and moping every day isn't going to change that. I just have to keep my head up, and not think about it too much."
"So you're running away from it," she said.
He gave a shaky little laugh. "You're one to talk! You spent weeks gallivanting around space and time on the night before our wedding! And kissing space aliens!"
Now they were both laughing and crying. "Kissing people was my job for years!" she protested.
"Yeah, but a 900 year old alien?"
"I'm sorry! Now I have to get dressed."
Rory smiled at her. "I'll put some tea on."
