Rory Williams was having the worst birthday of his life.
Oh, it had started well enough. Amy never forgot, but always pretended she might, in that awful, obvious fashion that he thought he should hate but instead adored. The sort of not-forgetting-really that led to awkward conversations around the TV and the kettle, to him pretending he didn't see bags and boxes shoved furtively under the sofa, to ignoring cryptic phone conversations and phones hung up when he came in and who knew what.
He was sure he ought to hate it. Any self-respecting man would. But he couldn't, because he loved Amy.
Wonderful Amy Pond, who'd always been there, right from when the two of them were tiny. Bright, beautiful Amy Pond, Amy Williams now, except that the married name never seemed to stick. They were a modern couple, after all, a third-millennium couple, and one who'd seen more than their share of worlds and weirdnesses, who'd been in at the end of everything at least once, who'd seen their share of strange things and everyone else's too. And yet, the hoary old accusation, "she wears the pants", could still eat at Rory's confidence.
And, idiot that he was, he'd really thought that this year might be different. He'd mumbled, "You know, it's my birthday soon," from the bedroom doorway once, as Amy stood inside curling her hair, and when she'd met his eyes in the mirror he'd known her quizzical "So?" meant she'd never forget.
It was true: she hadn't forgotten. There was a table with sushi and canapés, with an ice sculpture of something that was meant to be a bust of a Roman centurion. Rory had hugged Amy, and tactfully forborn to mention that it looked very like a duck. And there was a grapefruit stuck with cheese and pineapple on sticks, and tiny sausage rolls and sandwiches of chopped egg, and damned if in the kitchen, beside the boxes of wine, she didn't have a big bowl of jelly set with fruit cocktail and sponge, ready to be dished up with ice-cream. There was even, somehow, both music piped through from the kitchen and awful karaoke being played on the TV.
"You're a big kid at heart," said Amy's party, in a jangle of mismatched chords and clashing tastes and textures, "and I love that about you."
All their friends were there, too. All but one.
It was just as Amy was carrying in the cake (with candles, of course), just as the small crowd was singing "Happy Birthday" at different tempos and in at least six different keys, that he heard it. An odd, rhythmic whoosh-whoosh from outside. An alien sound that, once heard, you never forgot; a sound that brought the room to a temporary silence and sent Amy to the front door, wide-eyed with her hands against her mouth.
Fragments of quiet conversation filtered in. "Rory's birthday?... Yes, we're just about to..." "Stay. Please." And then, in they came, Amy and the Doctor, with a big grin all over his mashed-potato face.
He'd had no idea at all, of course.
Except that he was wearing a glitter-covered fez.
"Shut up," he said, seeing—and misinterpreting?—Rory's disbelieving stare. And together, the three of them chorused for the hundredth time, "Fezzes are cool."
"Especially," the Doctor added, "with glitter on. Now where's this cake?"
That had been two hours ago. Two hours that had felt like the longest of Rory's life.
They'd cut the cake—yellow sponge and jam, fondant icing and sweet whipped cream—and Rory had handed slices round, only to turn around with his own and see Amy, his Amy, giggling together with the Doctor, sharing a slice.
"It's a birthday cake," she was laughing. "Come on, you must have had a birthday cake. Once in your long life." And the Doctor had launched into a long, conveniently digressive lecture on the celebratory customs of the Slitheen and the difficulty of maintaining a constant calendar in a state of timey-wimey flux, and who knew what else besides. Rory certainly didn't, because that was when he'd taken his cake and slid away upstairs.
Amy hadn't even seen him go.
It wasn't jealousy, he'd insisted to himself. What did he even have to be jealous of? He knew what he and Amy had was special. They'd had a child together—though wherever River was now, she certainly hadn't called her old dad on his birthday. In fact, Rory wondered, does she even know my birthday?.. No. Okay, stopping this train of thought now.
Unfortunately that sent him right back to Amy, who he knew better than anyone else, and who knew him just as well. They were good mates. They were good together. And he did love Amy more than anything, he did.
It was just... he wanted her to look at him the way she so often looked at the Doctor. With joy. With wonder. He wanted her to hang on his every word.
Not all of the time.
Just sometimes.
Once in a while.
Eventually, the party (his party) had finished, and he'd heard the whoosh-whooshof the TARDIS leaving, and he'd wondered miserably if she was still there, if she hadn't taken the opportunity to run off for more adventures with the Doctor. Until he heard the soft shuffle of bare feet on the stairs.
"Happy birthday, Mr Pond," beckoned the voice from the doorway, Amy's voice. Rory turned. She was wearing the same little black dress she had at the party, caped in a brief red jacket. As she leant back against the frame of the door, a finger twisted in the lavaliere at her neck.
Rory got guiltily to his feet, fighting an urge to shove the empty cake plate under the quilt. Talk about things that certainly wouldn't help. "I—I know," he volunteered.
Amy raised a pointed eyebrow. Rory cursed himself for his inarticulacy, and took a step towards her. He tried again.
"I left the party. I know," he added, holding up one hand like a shield, "it was stupid."
"Stupid?" repeated Amy, taking a step forward in turn. "Is that what you call it?" Something was curled behind her back, out of sight. Rory's nervousness leapt into geosynchronous orbit.
"Very stupid!" he insisted hastily, warding her off with both hands now. "It was a very, very stupid thing to do, and I apo—"
Suddenly, she was in his face. In his face on elegant tiptoe, all tumbling red hair and faint perfume and beauty that crackled like a firework. And something else—oh.
It was a forkful of cake, held up to his lips. Her eyes were dark in the lamplight. "I swore, Mr Williams," she said softly, her voice lilting gently into his ear, "that I was going to enjoy this cake with my husband on his birthday. Now, are you going to make a liar of me?"
"No. No," he said, shaking his head.
"Good," she snapped back. Her nearness dazed him, as she pushed the cake into his mouth, and followed it up with a kiss. The plate of cake found its way onto the bed, and Amy slipped her arms round Rory's neck. This, he guessed, was the form forgiveness was taking tonight.
Her voice sounded in his ear again, low and sad. "He doesn't understand birthdays, you know," she said. "I don't think he gets why we'd celebrate a year passing, when we get so few of them.
"And then I think," she carried on, swaying in Rory's arms as if they were dancing, "how lonely he must be. He doesn't have anyone. I mean, even if he did have birthdays, there's nobody to celebrate them with him. Still," she added, a little snippily, "that's what you get when you fake your own death. Stupid man."
She looked up again. Her turn now, to look to Rory for signs of rage or comfort. "He's all the stars and planets. All of time and space. But you—you're the ground I walk on, Rory. You're my home."
Rory rested his hands on her face, kissed her hair. Comfort felt like blankets, he thought, or a warm bath; something they could trade forward and back, and wrap up in. Just for now, she was his, and his alone. Maybe it would be enough.
They turned off the lamp.