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Down a Long Great Western Road

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"It's not a big deal," Amy says.

"Of course it's a big deal," Rory says. "Maybe you should stop drinking now."

"Maybe you should catch up." She grins at him, and Rory tries to stop himself from smiling back and almost-but-not-quite succeeds. It's a familiar version of the most familiar argument of all; Rory who wants to do nothing dangerous, nothing ill-considered or ridiculous or stupid, and Amy who wants to do everything there is to do and then come up with some new ideas.

Floating in an old police box here in the entirety of space and time (everything in the world to choose from, and a madman to suggest some new ideas), Rory, as always, has to silently admit there are merits to Amy's view of the world.

"You're going to fall," he warns anyway, staring up anxiously. They each have their parts to do, after all.

"No, I'm not," Amy says, clear and confident as only Amy can be. "Quick, come up here and pull the ladder, before the Doctor hears us and comes out."

"And that doesn't worry you at all," he says, even as he starts climbing, "that we're doing something the Doctor might consider too dangerous?"

"He won't," Amy says, shuffling aside to make room. "I just don't want him to decide to join the party."

The TARDIS's roof is larger than Rory's ever seen it, the result of a lot of poking at the main console and some affectionate muttering. He'd somehow got roped into doing most of the muttering, actually, which doesn't make him any less surprised at how well the whole thing worked.

He sits down beside Amy, and she reaches out to hold his hand, and they watch the stars for a while.

The stars above seem brighter than the stars below, a strange illusion Rory thinks the TARDIS and her force field might be to blame for. Amy rolls to the edge so she can see both sides at once and compare, and Rory yelps and sprawls over to throw an arm around her, even as she laughs and tells him he's worse than her grandmother. He's been worse than her grandmother the entire time he's known her, except for those two thousand years plus change when she didn't have a grandmother to compare him to.

Rory used to mind, but he has to say, he likes Amy's grandmother. She's a nice lady. Sensible, not at all like a Pond.

It's warm up here. "Maybe it's all the time energy," Amy says, because sometimes they end up talking as if anything about their lives makes logical or scientific sense and she didn't just say, 'maybe it's the magic'.

"Maybe the TARDIS wants us to be comfortable," Rory says, which is sadly the more scientifically sound theory.

They lapse into silence then, Rory's head on Amy's back and Amy's arm trailing off the side and down into space. Rory remembers when they were ten years old, when they'd lay in Amy's back yard and stare at the stars until Amy's mom came to get them (until Amy's aunt came to get them, until Mels showed up suddenly like she always did, until the lack of anything in the sky to stare at got old despite Amy's insistence of how it should have looked).

They used to trade secrets in a whisper, and she would tell him stories about her raggedy doctor. Now they know all each other's secrets -- or nearly all -- and the raggedy doctor is too much a reality to bother telling stories about. But Rory still likes it, just like he liked it then, and he holds on to her other hand, the one that isn't stretching out to catch a star.

They fall asleep like that, the entirety of time and space all around them, the TARDIS humming gently below. Rory hopes the Doctor notices all the notes he left on the console and doesn't decide it's time to make a jump somewhere, and he spends a while before falling asleep worrying about it, though secretly he trusts the TARDIS to make sure they're all right.

"I'm glad you remembered to bring a blanket," Amy murmurs, her eyes already closed, turned a little into him.

Rory smiles and turns a little more firmly into her in return, two bookends holding the truth of themselves safe between them. "I'm glad you got me to climb up here," he says, just barely mouthing the words without a sound. It's all right; he's pretty sure she knows.