Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who or any related titles; that would be the BBC.

A/N: A very Merry Christmas to all, especially the lovely kkann, for whom this was written. I hope you enjoy it!

Daleks, Double-takes and Delusions

He was made of plastic, his fiancée was trapped in an impenetrable box, the universe didn't exist, and the only person who might have the slightest idea what to do about any of it was a lunatic alien with a bowtie and a fez waiting for him two thousand years in the future.

Rory Williams was, to put it delicately, screwed.

But that didn't really matter, he reminded himself. He was doing this for Amy. His fiancée, his best friend, the love of his life. And it was a great plan, really. Amy would be safe this way; he wasn't going to let anyone touch this box. Plus, there would be loads of things to see, people to meet, events to witness. The Doctor thought he got around—ha! Rory found himself smiling, despite the fact that his fiancée was nearly dead and stuck in a large box for the next two thousand years. Maybe once she got out she would finally see how much he really loved her.

The heroic, romantic view of the situation lasted all of one hour before reality began to set in.

Two thousand years. Hmm. He tapped his fingers rhythmically against the helmet that he now held in his hands. That was a long time. That was . . . Hmm. Well, it was a lot of days. He reckoned he'd have plenty of time to do the math, at least. No calculators, though. Back to sticks and stones.

Rory then experienced something he could only call a mental double-take. Two thousand years. Two thousand. And he would be here for all of them. Standing here, protecting the Pandorica, and practising wielding a gladius. But mostly just thinking.

The muscles in his neck decided to stop working for a moment, leaving his head to drop back and bash against the Pandorica. He could almost hear Amy laughing at him from inside her prison. Well then. That was helpful.

Thinking. Two thousand years of just thinking. What was there to think about for that long? He remembered Amy once pointing out that for all his comprehension of a hospital's inner workings and reasons for the delays, he was still rubbish at waiting for his appointments. But then, it hardly qualified as an 'appointment' when Amy had driven him to the emergency room after having kicked a football into his hand at just the wrong angle, fracturing two of his fingers. Yeah, that car ride had been fun. Amy had alternated between apologizing and telling him to man up and learn to keep his fingers out of the way next time. Rory had alternated between gasping in pain and shooting her patronizing looks when she wasn't looking.

Well, there was something. He could think about Amy and their time with each other. All the things they'd every done since they were kids. That would give him lots to thinks about, right? But then, that would ultimately lead to thoughts about the raggedy Doctor and wondering about Amy's true affections and loads of other complicated things. He was depressed enough as it was; the universe had just ended after all. He was just the last light to go out, as the Doctor had put it.

The last light to go out. His mind began to panic again. That meant there was no one else. No one to see, to speak with, to share his thoughts with. No one but those skeletons of Daleks and Sontarans and Cybermen over there. But speaking with them would be the exact opposite of productive or, more accurately, sane, so Rory decided against it. He was not going to start talking to inanimate objects, even if they had been animated at some point. No speaking to anything but other people . . . if anyone ever found him.

Another hour of those unpleasant thoughts had him extremely riled up, starting to muse about inconsequential things that suddenly seemed extremely important. If he was plastic, would his hair still grow? Would he need to eat anything? Could he control the gun in his hang? How long until someone invented a proper gun, anyway? Or something else useful, like an astrolabe? Or a telephone? Then again, he didn't have anyone to call, so that was a bit useless.

His head dropped against the Pandorica again. At least he had put the helmet back on.

Two thousand years. The funny thing was, Rory wasn't exactly concerned about some things about which he probably ought to be concerned. He wasn't worried about what would happen if he got hungry over these two thousand years, nor how long it would take for some to invent a telephone. No; Rory Williams, the Last Centurion, was worried about how long it would take him to go completely mental.

"Right brilliant situation you've gotten yourself into, Rory," he muttered under his breath. He opened his mouth to continue that thought when something struck him. Talking to himself. Probably worse than talking to petrified Daleks. Probably a quicker way to go insane.

A few more minutes of inwardly listing all the things he must avoid doing so as to not go mad over these two thousand years, a he swore he could head the Dalek snickering at him.

"Kindly shut it, would you?" Rory quipped, realizing too late what he'd just violated the whole 'no talking to the used-to-be-real-but-are-now-just-echoes-of-life-according-to-the-other-alien-with-a-fez aliens over there'.

He was made of plastic, Amy was trapped in the Pandorica, the Doctor was waiting for him in two thousand years with a fez and a mop, and he was already well on the path to madness.

Rory beamed in spite of himself, surrendering to the insanity. Oh, yeah. This was going to be fun.

FIN

Thanks for reading, and Happy Holidays! Please review if you find the time or the joy in returning a bit of a Christmas gift.

~Fishyicon