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FIC: Laundry Basket
Mar. 20th, 2014 02:29 pmSummary: Just a little one-shot vignette. Amy is suddenly overcome by a strange feeling during an everyday moment in her post-Angels '50s life.
It happens while she is holding a laundry basket, which is sort of unexpected. Not that you ever expect this sort of moment, but for it to come while you are holding a laundry basket just seems absurd. Maybe that’s why Amy promptly lets go of the basket, spilling clothes all over the staircase she is halfway down at the moment. Her bathing suit catches her eye as it falls, but she makes no move to pick up any of what she’s dropped, instead sucking in a sharp breath as a memory floods her being.
It was right after she and Rory had gotten married; so many years ago, but going by the calendar currently on their kitchen wall, still fifty-eight years away. The Doctor had finally gotten them to Rio, actual proper Earth Rio, and in the Seventies, no less. The three of them were on the beach, reveling in the sun, sea, and colorful mess of humans and human stuff that surrounded them. Amy was particularly excited that she had used the contraption they’d just picked up on Adonica Nine – a sort of scanner thing that provided flawless, 24-hour UV protection with the push of a button and no greasy lotion. “Finally,” she said, “I can enjoy a beach without worrying that I’ll become a human tomato.” This led to a twenty-minute monologue by the Doctor about a fascinating race of sentient tomatoes he’d met four hundred years before. Rory whispered a joke to her about tragic spaghetti sauce and they’d laughed. Then the Doctor got hit in the face with a thong that, they’d learn a moment later, belonged to someone a few umbrellas down and all three of them laughed, especially when the owner turned out to be a six-foot-five, eighty-year-old man.
Who knows why this was what she thought of now. It was a silly memory, really, paling in comparison to a thousand other more exciting adventures. But oh, how they had laughed. So much that she’d had tears streaming down her face…
“Amy?” Rory’s voice brings her back to the present as he rounds the corner and stops by the staircase. “I heard a noise… are you okay? What happened to the laundry? Why are you crying?”
She touches her cheek and discovers tears, but says nothing and keeps looking straight ahead, in a daze.
“What’s the matter? You’re starting to freak me out. Are you hurt or something?” Rory starts going into nurse mode, gently touching her arms, her face. “Talk to me.”
She still won’t look at him, is too overcome by this sudden and strange sense of loss that she feels with every part of her existence. Finally, words come out of her mouth in a whisper, but they, like her gaze, are not directed at her husband.
“Raggedy Man…goodnight.”
And with that, she snaps out of her sort-of trance, collapsing in a heap on the stairs and sobbing in earnest. Rory understands now, and goes to her. They hold each other and cry. A few minutes later, Rory helps her collect the laundry and put it back into the basket. And life goes on.
LAUNDRY BASKET
It happens while she is holding a laundry basket, which is sort of unexpected. Not that you ever expect this sort of moment, but for it to come while you are holding a laundry basket just seems absurd. Maybe that’s why Amy promptly lets go of the basket, spilling clothes all over the staircase she is halfway down at the moment. Her bathing suit catches her eye as it falls, but she makes no move to pick up any of what she’s dropped, instead sucking in a sharp breath as a memory floods her being.
It was right after she and Rory had gotten married; so many years ago, but going by the calendar currently on their kitchen wall, still fifty-eight years away. The Doctor had finally gotten them to Rio, actual proper Earth Rio, and in the Seventies, no less. The three of them were on the beach, reveling in the sun, sea, and colorful mess of humans and human stuff that surrounded them. Amy was particularly excited that she had used the contraption they’d just picked up on Adonica Nine – a sort of scanner thing that provided flawless, 24-hour UV protection with the push of a button and no greasy lotion. “Finally,” she said, “I can enjoy a beach without worrying that I’ll become a human tomato.” This led to a twenty-minute monologue by the Doctor about a fascinating race of sentient tomatoes he’d met four hundred years before. Rory whispered a joke to her about tragic spaghetti sauce and they’d laughed. Then the Doctor got hit in the face with a thong that, they’d learn a moment later, belonged to someone a few umbrellas down and all three of them laughed, especially when the owner turned out to be a six-foot-five, eighty-year-old man.
Who knows why this was what she thought of now. It was a silly memory, really, paling in comparison to a thousand other more exciting adventures. But oh, how they had laughed. So much that she’d had tears streaming down her face…
“Amy?” Rory’s voice brings her back to the present as he rounds the corner and stops by the staircase. “I heard a noise… are you okay? What happened to the laundry? Why are you crying?”
She touches her cheek and discovers tears, but says nothing and keeps looking straight ahead, in a daze.
“What’s the matter? You’re starting to freak me out. Are you hurt or something?” Rory starts going into nurse mode, gently touching her arms, her face. “Talk to me.”
She still won’t look at him, is too overcome by this sudden and strange sense of loss that she feels with every part of her existence. Finally, words come out of her mouth in a whisper, but they, like her gaze, are not directed at her husband.
“Raggedy Man…goodnight.”
And with that, she snaps out of her sort-of trance, collapsing in a heap on the stairs and sobbing in earnest. Rory understands now, and goes to her. They hold each other and cry. A few minutes later, Rory helps her collect the laundry and put it back into the basket. And life goes on.
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