The reruns were on yet again, but Death didn't mind. It was Rory who turned him on to Top Gear in the first place. If Death had found a religion of his own, it was this show, with the explosions and the antics. Mostly, though, it was the only anchor that Death had that reminded him of his visiting friend.

It had been too long since Rory walked through that thick red door, grunted or shouted in disgust, immediately stomped to the refrigerator to grab two sodas, then plopped on the couch that should not have been as comfortable as it was and handed him a soda. After the first few hours without a visit, Death was impressed. After a few days, Death felt something akin to anger, which surprised him. After a few weeks, Death resigned himself, knowing that Rory would come eventually.

It wasn't until a few months later when the loneliness seeped in. When Death started talking to Rory, waiting for an answer that would not come. He was tempted to use his powers simply to check up on his lost friend, but every time he stopped himself. Death said to himself that it would be more interesting to hear Rory talk about his life at the end, but Death refused to admit the truth: he was afraid of Rory finally coming back, and him not being there to greet his old friend once again.

Then, finally, the door opened, more slowly than was usual, creaking in the motion. Death squinted at the television, trying to find where the door was that opened in that particular episode of Supernatural. As he turned his head in confusion, he heard an old, resonating voice, and Death caught the breath that he never needed to breathe.

"Death? Are you in?"

Death saw a man in a cardigan and slacks, trainers that looked out of place and worn in, with a bit of a belly, but familiar spindly arms, a full poofy head of white hair, and that nose that was an introduction of its own. He held hands with a slightly shorter woman, with silver hair, big round glasses, a long orange sweater with black leggings, thigh-high boots, and a satchel.

Death blinked a few times as he took in the sight of the couple. A moment later, his eyes swelled and the biggest grin grew on his face. He glided as quickly as he could to the door, pulling the gentleman into his arms, and slapped his back several times, as if to make sure that he was indeed real.

"Hello, Rory."

Rory pulled back, feeling Death's arms lingering on him, and seeing a glimmer in his old friend's eye. He felt his eye twitch, and smirked as he realized he was fighting back a tear. He looked beside him and squeezed the woman's hand. "I finally brought my wife this time."

Amy furrowed her brow at each of them, unsure on what to make of this unknown friend of her husband's, dress in an all-black suit. "Rory, what are you doing?"

"Oh, is this Amy?" Death turned to her and held out his hand, gingerly taking hers and giving her a warm shake. "I must say, it's a pleasure to finally meet you. I hope you've had a good long life?" He turned back to Rory for a second. "Wait, I thought you died five years before her."

Rory nodded with a smile, keeping a hold of Amy's other hand. "I did. I waited for her."

Death smiled, taking a long inhale again. "Of course, you did." He motioned over to the big red couch as he closed the door behind them. "Please, come, make yourselves at home. I want to hear all about what you've been up to all of these years."

Death then turned to look at Rory, fighting with his bottom lip to keep it from quivering, but losing the battle with his eye in the process, and spoke in his warmest voice possible as the single tear crawled down his cheek.

"You know where the sodas are."