ladymercury_10: (Rory the Roman)
[personal profile] ladymercury_10
Title: a little off
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: Rory/Amy
Word Count: 906
Rating: G
Disclaimer: I own no Who, as usual.
Summary: Isn't sleeping supposed to make you feel better?
A/N: This was originally posted elsewhere in response to a meme request for h/c. Set in Leadworth sometime before Amy & Rory's marriage, I guess?


Rory sits on the edge of his bed, wheezing.  He’s feverish and dizzy, and his chest hurts.  He doesn’t understand how he could have gotten so sick in just a few hours.  When the night shift had ended and he’d driven home from work, he’d been feeling a little under the weather, yeah, but nothing like this.  Isn’t sleeping supposed to make you feel better?  That’s what he tells all his patients.  He slept all morning, and now he feels like he can barely move.  He’s been sitting here for twenty minutes trying to work up the energy to call in sick.  
Sighing, he plucks his phone off the nightstand.  He can hardly keep his eyes open while he dials the number for the hospital.  If there is a reason not to make a phone call while lying down, he can’t think of it.  He curls under the blankets and sets his phone in front of him on the pillow.

He hears the click of someone answering.  “Hi, um, it’s Rory,” he starts.

“I know it’s you, stupid face.  I can see it on my phone.”

“Amy?”  He opens his eyes, confused.  

“Of course it’s me.  Who’d you think it was?  Make it quick, Rory, I’ve got to be in Gloucestershire in two hours and I still have to get ready.”

“Sorry—” he breaks off, coughing.  “I must’ve dialed the wrong number.  I was trying to call in to work.”

“You really ought to,” she replies.  “You sound terrible.”  In the background, he can hear her knocking about in her drawers.

“Thanks.  I love you too.”

“No, I mean—just take care of yourself, all right?  I’ve got to go, I’m supposed to be a sexy librarian and I’ve got runs in all my stockings.  Feel better soon, yes?”  She blows a kiss, and the line goes silent.  

“I’ll try,” he mumbles to no one in particular.

*

By the time he manages to reach the hospital’s number, Rory can’t get through more than a sentence without coughing.  Dr. Agrawal doesn’t wait for him to finish.  “Stay home, Williams,” she orders as soon as she hears him.  “I don’t want the whole ward catching that.”  Rory doesn’t point out that he probably caught it on the ward in the first place.  

Mission accomplished, he pries himself out of bed long enough to drink some juice and find the bottle of paracetamol.  Tomorrow is Saturday, and he has the day off.  Plenty of time to rest up, as long as he takes care of himself.  

*

Rory wakes with a start.  The door to his flat creaks open, and there are footsteps in the hall.  He looks at the clock.  His landlady doesn’t usually pop by at two in the morning.  Did he forget to lock the door?  

He stumbles to his feet, feeling lightheaded and unprepared.  There’s nothing heavy in his room to carry with him, and anyway he’s too sick to do more than clutch the blankets around himself as he creeps down the hall.  His teeth are chattering.  He’s not sure if it’s because he’s chilled or because he’s afraid.  Probably both.

The footsteps turn and come down the hall to meet him.  He jumps when he sees the shadowy form of another person, trips on the rug, and goes down with a yelp.

“Rory?”  The light flicks on, and it’s only Amy towering above him, looking bemused.

He tries to catch his breath, and coughs instead.  “Oh, god, Amy.  Don’t scare me like that!  I thought you were a burglar.”

“Because most burglars dress like this.  For stealth.”  Amy points to herself, and he takes in the short, tight pencil skirt, the reading glasses pushed down on her nose, her ginger hair piled into a messy bun.  

“I couldn’t see you in the dark.  You should’ve called.”

“I did!  I texted, too.  I said, ‘Are you still awake?  Bringing tea and Lemsip.’”

“Oh.  Well, I wasn’t awake, I guess.”  He kicks himself inwardly.  Amy is trying to be nice, and he has to be an idiot about it.

“Obviously.”  She reaches down to muss his hair, then pulls him to his feet.  He coughs again, and this time he can’t seem to stop.  His chest is heaving, and it really hurts.

“You sound even worse than when you phoned me,” Amy says, rubbing briskly between his shoulder blades.  “Here, sit down, I’ll get you something to drink.”  She takes his elbow and leads him to the kitchen table, runs him a glass of water from the tap.  He sips at it cautiously, trying to steady his breathing.  

Amy goes back into the kitchen, and he can hear her rummaging about in his cupboards.  “Kettle’s over the sink, if you’re looking,” he calls, wincing at the sound of his voice.  He’s losing it quickly, and it’s already weak and hoarse.

“Chamomile, green tea, or Lemsip?” she yells back.

“Chamomile,” he wheezes.  “Thanks.”

After a few minutes, the kettle whistles.  Amy comes to stand very close to Rory’s chair and sets the steaming mug in front of him.
Rory leans toward her, pressing his face against her stomach.  She strokes his hair for a moment, then gives him a gentle push.  “Go on, drink up.”

“I love you,” he murmurs.

“You’re delirious,” Amy laughs, bending to kiss him on the temple.

He shakes his head, too exhausted to say anything else.  Tea sounds wonderful.

  
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