They were fighting again, and Rory Williams had had enough of fighting.
But then, when they weren't fighting, they were doing nothing.
Rory Williams had had two thousand years worth of nothing. (Except for those moments in between when he'd been in wars; he was always protecting her. But he'd always sat back down.)
"I hate you!"
He flinched. Then he turned to her. "You don't mean that."
Amy said nothing, and he took that to mean that she wasn't sure what it was that she was trying to say. "Okay, Amy. Maybe you do."
He sighed and pushed open the door, his jacket in one hand and an exasperated sigh escaping his mouth. "No!" she exclaimed.
"Amy," Rory was begging, which was new to him; at that precise moment, he wanted no struggle. Rory wanted no fight. He wanted her to let him go. It wasn't as though he wouldn't be back anyway.
"No," her repetition was more sincere, matching the pleading tone that he had used a moment earlier. He continued walking.
She followed, at least. Long enough to yell after him.
"I hate this!"
So do I Amy, he thought to himself. He knew it was probably meant as some sort of an apology, a revision at the very least. She was trying to tell him that it wasn't him that she hated. It was this. It was all of this fighting. It was the past few weeks. It was the lack of adventure, of excitement; it was the thought of settling down.
They couldn't even have a daughter without involving parallel universes and alternate timelines.
And later, when he sat on the bus, holding the brown envelope that contained everything necessary to put an end to their relationship, he wondered if maybe he should have stayed. He wanted to forget, was what he really wanted.
He didn't want to remember those 2000 years. ("Not the sort of thing anyone forgets." "But I don't remember it all the time. It's like this door in my head, I can keep it shut.")
He wanted to forget that he died for her. Over and over. ("We were on the hill. I can't die here." "Don't say that." "You're so beautiful. I'm sorry.)
He wanted to forget that she had made a choice, when everything had been lost. ("Either way, this is my only chance of seeing him again. This is the dream." "How do you know?" "Because if this is real I don't want it. I don't want it.")
And then she made some other choices. And she'd called him beautiful. ("You know when sometimes you meet someone so beautiful and then you actually talk to them and five minutes later they're as dull as a brick? Then there's other people, when you meet them you think, 'Not bad. They're okay.' And then you get to know them and, and their face just sort of becomes them. Like their personality's written all over it. And they just turn into something so beautiful. Rory's the most beautiful man I've ever met.")
He wanted to forget about 'stupid face.' ("I love you. I know you think it's him. I know you think it ought to be him. But it's not. It's you. And when I see you again I'm gonna tell you properly, just to see your stupid face. My life was so boring before you just dropped out of the sky. Just get your stupid face where I could see it, okay? Okay.")
He wanted to forget being the loyal soldier waiting to be noticed. ("Always the pattern. Why is that?")
Waiting.
Waiting 2000 years. ("Will she be safer if I stay? Look me in the eye and tell me she wouldn't be safer." "Yes. Obviously." "Then how could I leave her?")
Always waiting.
Always. ("She can always hear me, Doctor. Always, wherever she is and she always knows that I am coming for her. Do you understand me? Always.")
And he didn't want to let it all end now, but he would, if he had to – he could. He just had to keep telling himself that.