Ever since Rory's known her, Amy's always had vivid, strange dreams, and when they're nightmares they make her wake shouting, clutching the sheets in fear.
Rory's used to it. He remembers it when they had sleepovers as kids, and then later, sometimes, when she'd call him up at 3 in the morning because she was too scared to go right back to sleep and there was no one at home to reassure her. Rory answered the phone every time.
And so, when they're together -- really, properly together, with Amy dropping the 'sort ofs' and being willing to stay the night from time to time -- he's braced for it. Happy, even, because it's good if he doesn't have to be all the way at the other end of a phone line. And sure enough, one night he wakes up with a start to hear her talking in her sleep, low and fervent and desperately sad.
He listens for a while, not wanting to wake her. She isn't making sense, though he catches the occasional word like 'doctor' and 'parents'. There's a catch in her voice like there is whenever she's trying not to cry, and it breaks Rory's heart. He sits up a little and leans over to smooth her hair back from her face. She shifts at the touch, and instinctively moves towards it. She clutches at Rory's pyjama top, and as he settles back down she grabs a fistful of fabric and curls up beside him. He wraps his arm around her until her breathing calms and she settles down into deeper sleep.
The next morning, Amy's moved away by the time Rory wakes up, watching him and looking a little embarrassed. He just smiles at her and after a minute she smiles back and slides back into the curve of his side, resting her hand on his chest and her head on his shoulder.
"Hi," she says, unusually shy.
"Hi," he says. He could get used to this.
More or less everything is different on the TARDIS. It doesn't matter if Rory is sitting in a perfectly ordinary armchair with a cup of tea and a native time-period appropriate book, he never forgets that he's sitting in a time machine that is sort of another dimension and that they're either floating in space or hurtling through the time vortex.
Amy's dreams are different, too, she says. More solid, full of visions that last well into daytime, but fewer nightmares. The Doctor told him once that Amy had all of space and time pouring through her head -- which explains an awful lot, really, whenever Rory stops to think about it -- but it seems like maybe the TARDIS can protect her from the worst of it now. She remains a restless sleeper, and sometimes he stirs in the night to find that she's flung an arm across his chest like she's trying to defend him from harm.
Sometimes she's clinging to him like a limpet by the morning; sometimes she's rolled to the far side of the bed and stolen all of the sheets. But when she wakes up in the morning she smiles at him with no hint of shyness or fear. She nestles beside him and tells him stories of the dreams she had, stories of time and space and monsters, and how a girl and a boy from Leadworth outran them all.