A/N: All my sweet reviewers. You make me want to write and write and write. This story has its teeth in me. I guess it's an addiction for everybody. Here's another dose.

The storm begins; poor wretch,
That for thy mother's fault art thus exposed
To loss and what may follow! Weep I cannot,
But my heart bleeds; and most accursed am I
To be by oath enjoin'd to this. Farewell!
The day frowns more and more: thou'rt like to have
A lullaby too rough: I never saw
The heavens so dim by day. A savage clamour!
Well may I get aboard! This is the chase:
I am gone for ever.

Exit, pursued by a bear

The Winter's Tale – William Shakespeare

I.

Amy just watched them go. She didn't get up, didn't try to stop them. The happiness she'd felt as she and the Doctor had shared their morning was completely gone, leaving her feeling tired, cold, and uneasy. She had felt something best described as warning growl uncoiling in her mind from the moment Rory had walked in and opened his mouth. She'd known it wasn't coming from her, and that had really only left one other person in the room...

She pushed her plate across the table and put her head in her hands. Why couldn't he just have been civil? Especially since everything is ending now. Why couldn't he just have come in and sit down with us and made polite conversation? For the sake of everything that was past, if nothing else? But no. He was about to say something horrid. The Doctor must have known exactly what, too... she realized. She had come to know, after being in his head as she'd done, that he could know much more about the inner workings of those around him than he let on, particularly if he was choosing to look... A sudden thought made her raise her head and frantically look across the table. To her great relief, the butter knife still lay on the table exactly where his hands had abandoned it as he'd hurried Rory out of the room.

Well, I suppose there's some comfort there, right? I mean, he'd never really hurt Rory, would he? She rose and began to take her dishes to the sink, but she couldn't quite get the image of the Doctor in the burned and tattered shirt leaning against a red marble column with indolent ease out of her mind or the last thing that particular Doctor had said to her, "Run."

II.

The Doctor propelled Rory down the hall of the TARDIS in a grip that brooked no argument. Rory was so caught off his guard by the action that at first, he was simply swept along. A short distance down the corridor, however, he recovered enough to begin to try to shake the Doctor's hands off him. They were still some distance from Rory's room, and when he began to try to pry the Doctor's fingers off his arm in earnest, the Doctor simply let go of him with one hand long enough to push a nearby door open and shove him into the room at hand hard enough to have him stumbling.

It turned out to be a bedroom, one whose contents the Doctor recognized immediately. The colors were stark, bordering on monotone. Only in the clothing still hanging on the door to the wardrobe was there any color. It was clearly feminine with an affinity for classic cuts and styles. A select few venerable books were shelved near an elegant writing desk, and the data terminal she'd truly preferred for research hummed to life in the corner as they entered. The Doctor couldn't quite suppress the twist of pain. She's gone. Gone just like the rest of them. There were more pressing matters at hand, however. He forced himself to look away from from the complex yet austere Gallifreyan art piece on the wall, a work she'd truly loved from because it reminded her of home as she was traveling with him, forced his mind away from that which was lost forever, from this reminder of what his hands had wrought, cursed himself and the TARDIS both for not being more careful in his choice of location for this particular confrontation.

Such momentary but deeply painful distraction probably accounted a great deal, then, for the fact that Rory noticed the old cricket bat leaning in the corner first...

III.

Rory whisked the bat up, brandishing it like a sword, keeping it between him and the Doctor. The Doctor looked at him in mild but profoundly amused astonishment.

"What are you doing with that? Put it down before you injure yourself, please."

Rory was panting slightly. "You think I don't know what you brought me in here for? I'm not scared of you, Doctor. Come on, then!" He waved the bat slightly, wild-eyed.

The Doctor sighed and struggled internally for patience. He had the greatest desire to take the bat from Rory's hands and render him unconscious with it. It would really be the simplest of all the possible solutions. An unconscious Rory could say nothing else hurtful to Amy. An unconscious Rory would be easy to toss out the doors of the TARDIS when she landed soon. An unconscious Rory would not tempt him to acts of punitive retribution...

No, Doctor. Nonviolence. Don't crack open the young idiot's skull. He's full of sour grapes and testosterone. Patience is needed. He's away from Amy now. He can't upset her further. Have your little chat with him, and then bloody get him out of here.

He smiled a little, spread his hands in a non-threatening gesture. "Rory, really. You need to put the bat down. I just wanted to have a bit of a chat with you before you left is all. Thought it might be best if it didn't happen in front of Amy, all things considered." He circled round Rory to pull out the baroque-looking chair that went with the writing desk and turned it around to sit on it backwards. He propped his chin on his hands and tilted his head, staring at Rory.

Rory continued to look at the Doctor for long moments, refusing to relinquish his defensive stance. Except for his eyes, I could almost believe he's harmless. Except for his eyes and for what I've seen him do... He shivered just a little bit. But what choice do I have, really? And by inches, he slowly lowered the bat. He shuffled over to the bed, perched lightly on the edge. He kept a firm grip on the handle of the bat, stared sullenly at the floor.

"Well, let's have it then. What is it you wanted to say?"

The Doctor paused a moment to gather his thoughts before he spoke. "Rory, believe it or not as you like, but you are very important to Amy. What you think of her is very important, even vital to her."

Rory made an angry scoffing sound.

"No. You must listen." The Doctor's tone was hard. Rory looked up in spite of himself, met the Doctor's eyes. What he saw there made him grip the handle of the bat tighter.

"You have been her friend, one of her only friends, for...well...almost a lifetime now. For you to suddenly become angry with her and sever that is painful to her..."

"Painful to her! That's bloody rich! Painful to her..."

The Doctor kept talking as if Rory had said nothing. "...and although she knows that there has been a change in your relationship that may not be something that can be retracted, she so much doesn't want to lose you."

Rory's anger made him bold enough to overlook that...something...he saw hiding behind the Doctor's gaze. "Why the hell are you telling me this? What is this? I've already made it as clear as I can that I'm very sorry, but I don't want to do the whole consolation-prize friend thing. And doesn't it seem at all unnatural or odd to you that she sent you on this little mission for her? Are you her errand boy now? What is this even?"

The Doctor grinned. Or at least he bared his teeth. There was very little in it that one could recognize as an expression of humor or enjoyment and all too much of the threat in it for it to truly be a grin. "Oh, Rory. You've misunderstood. Again. Repeatedly, it seems. Let me enlighten you, won't you?" He leaned forward in the chair, tilted it forward on two legs. Rory understood his choice of words was deliberate. Did Amy tell him about that?

He extended one finger from the hand casually dangling from the chairback. "Point one. Amelia did not send me anywhere. She, right now in fact, is standing in the kitchen wishing fervently both that she knew and that she never has to know what is going on in this room. Silly Pond...She's wondering if she ought to coming looking for you. Right worried she is about you, Rory." He tilted his head slightly, closed his eyes as though he were savoring something sweet. "Hot water is flowing over her left hand...now her right...Ah yes. She's washing up the dishes, I believe." His lips turned up in genuine amusement. "Oh, and she is much relieved that I didn't bring that butter knife with me, by the way. Almost as much as you were."

He opened his eyes looked at Rory again, noted that he was going pale, extended a second finger lazily. "Point two. What this is. This is me trying to make Amelia happy. That's really all. I should have thought it obvious. But perhaps you don't recognize it since you didn't bother to do that much of it yourself... Anyway I hope it is what you'll find me chiefly occupied in doing from now on. It makes me happy, see, to please her. And you can take that in whatever way you like, my dear boy, because I mean it in all ways, most of which, fortunately for everyone involved, I happen to excel in. And I believe..."

He extended a third finger.

"That brings us to point three. What I am to her. Or, more precisely perhaps, what we are to each other. I saw you looking at that mark on her neck."

Rory opened his mouth to comment, and once again, the Doctor cut him off, this time with a curt gesture from his hand.

"No. You listen. You can have nothing to say about things you do not understand. She made a choice. She tried to tell you. Perhaps you did not listen, but that's hardly her fault, is it? You're angry because you think she was unfaithful to you, played games with you. But she was not. She was never fully Mine before she chose not to be yours anymore. It was as she told you. That you believe her capable of that shows how little you know her.

"And, perhaps she did not choose you, but again, this is not a fault. It is a decision. What you chose to do then and choose now to do in reaction to her decision is where fault may lie. Because what she is, is Mine, Rory. Do you understand me?" He said all of this in a perfectly level tone except for that slight inflection on that one word. It was the more menacing for that. His eyes bored into Rory's.

Rory swallowed hard. He heard in that one word more passion that could be encompassed in a thousand flowery sonnets. He heard the promise of dedication lasting to the end of worlds. He heard the howl of something wild and fierce protecting and yearning for its claimed mate. He felt the whisper of a blade brushing across the back of his neck, a scratch only that barely drew blood, a warning that would not be repeated.

"Do. You. Understand." Lower, softer, still more frightening.

Rory moistened his lips, could not make his voice work though his lips shaped the word. He husked out a sound. It was enough. The Doctor understood.

He sat back immediately, relaxed, the predator leaving his gaze or at least bothering to hide itself again behind the green-gold gaze, and the Doctor abruptly rubbed his hands together, rose, headed for the door. Rory, in a daze, dropped the cricket bat on the pristine bed and followed him.

"Good! Fantastic," the Doctor was saying in a bright, cheerful tone, just as if they'd been talking of holiday plans or at last getting a surprise present much-anticipated. "Let's just pop down to your room, then, make sure you really do have everything all together for when we arrive back to Leadsworth, and then you can go say your goodbyes to Amelia."

He had thrown his arm around Rory, clapped him on the shoulder amiably, but Rory did not miss the way the hand tightened on his shoulder ever so subtly at the end.

IV.

Under the Doctor's watchful supervision, Rory finished assembling his luggage, and the Doctor helped him carry it to the TARDIS control room. The Doctor then got out his sonic screwdriver and opened the access panel that led under the main console. He slid underneath, humming a ballad that hadn't been heard on Earth for several centuries. Rory watched him dully. It seemed, then, that he would have some privacy for his last conversation with Amelia Pond.

He turned his steps toward the kitchen, and he found her still there sitting at the table, turning the butter knife over in her own fingers, staring at it thoughtfully. When he appeared in the kitchen doorway, it tumbled from her nerveless fingers to clatter on the wooden tabletop, and she quickly pinned it down, looked up at him with a tiny smile that faded as her eyes searched his.

He came in and sat down across from her. For long moments, they simply looked at each other. So many years, so many plans and dreams, so much that he'd wanted, and now, all there was left of it all was this... He felt something sharp and broken inside him, something turning to dust, blowing away in a hot, dry wind.

"So..." Silence. There was simply nothing left to say. Nowhere left to go. All the roads lead to devastation and endless shifting dunes.

"So..." Tears glittered in her eyes. So this is goodbye.

Suddenly, something welled up inside him. He reached out and grabbed her hand, held it tightly, fervently. "Amy, look. I've no rights to ask it anymore, but, please. Promise me something."

She squeezed back, "No rights? Rory, you're...you've been my best friend since...forever. Anything. Name it." A tear trickled down her cheek, but she didn't seem to notice.

"Be careful with him. Okay? Just promise me that. I know this sounds like old boyfriend and jealousy and a million cliches all rolled into one thing, but it's not. I mean, not only that. I can't say I'm not jealous, 'cause I hate losing you, Amy. It's killing me. I love you, Amy."

She sobbed, put her free hand over her mouth.

"I always will love you. But this is more than that. He's not careful, Amy. He thinks he is, but he's not. And that's the most dangerous thing. He's going to get you into trouble somehow, some way, that he won't be able to get you out of, and I can't stand the thought of that. Oh, he'll weep, and he'll miss you, but you'll be the one who pays. Promise me that you'll protect yourself. Please."

His hand was tight on hers, and she put equal pressure on his. "Rory," she whispered. "It's okay. It's going to be okay..."

He shook his head. "No. Promise me. I can't go until..." He cut himself off short, looked up at the kitchen door.

The Doctor was there leaning against the door frame, the picture of apparent ease. Neither of them knew how long he'd been standing there. As they saw him, he shifted, smiled. "All ready then? She's landed. Rory, you're home at last."

V.

Rory held on to her hand as they walked to the door of the TARDIS. Amy could feel the Doctor's displeasure at that buzzing through her, but she also felt him trying to keep it muted, trying to be patient. When they reached the doors, Amy looked out to see the Doctor had landed them inside Rory's apartment. The Doctor had already put Rory's luggage out, apparently wanting to waste no time getting rid of his worrisome passenger shuffling bags.

At the door, Rory turned to her again, ran his thumb along the side of her face, the curve of her cheek in a gentle, innocent gesture he'd often made when they were together and alone. It was sweet and tender. Amy felt her heart breaking. She also felt the sudden increase of tension from the Doctor who had withdrawn across the control room to give them a moment of privacy.

*Should not touch you that way. Not His, Amy.*

Rory drew her into his arms and hugged her tightly. She held him, her eyes flying to the Doctor's. His hands were gripping the main console tightly, and he was no longer even pretending to adjust the many knobs and levers there.

*Not. His.*

Rory whispered in her ear, the two voices, the one that was audible and the one that echoed in the corridors of her mind, dizzying. "Promise me, Amy. Please?"

She hugged him. "I promise." She hardly even knew what it was she was saying. Who was she promising? What oath was she taking? To whom was she pledging allegiance? Her eyes continued to meet the steady gaze of the Doctor, and she shivered at the sensation coming from him through their connection.

Rory gave her a final squeeze and stepped away from her, turning to walk away. Suddenly, he spun back, pulling her into his arms and pressing his mouth against hers hard, desperately, briefly. Just as suddenly, he released her and glared at the Doctor who was inexplicably standing beside them, his hand lightly, lightly resting on Rory's shoulder. He walked out through the doors of the TARDIS for the last time. He did not look back.

Does the quote at the beginning make sense now? I am a shameless Shakespeare-o-phile, and I couldn't resist using that most famous of stage directions here. It just seemed to fit. The rest of the quote did, too, actually...but, as the hated River Song would say...SPOILERS...