keep_counting: (doctordonna)
[personal profile] keep_counting
Title: Ruby, Rosy, Rust
Characters/Pairings: Amy/Rory, secret guest
Rating: PG
Warnings: Spoilers for all the seasons
Genre: Romance/Friendship
Word-count: 459
Disclaimer: I don't own anything in relation to this.
Summary: Rory Williams has always liked red-heads, even before he met Amy. It might have something to do with his babysitter.

Rory Williams has always liked red-heads, even before he met Amy, and it is quite possible that it has something to do with his babysitter.

”I like your hair,” he tells her, the first time they meet and she shoots him something between a weird look and a kind smile, head already half-way buried in her Teen magazine again. Her hair looks like flames, tumbling down her back, her purple shirt only setting it even more off, and he thinks his parents are cool for getting him a babysitter that’s ginger. Or maybe the universe is just awesome like that.

He starts school a month after that, and there she is.

”You have hair like my babysitter,” he tells her and she smacks him on the head, and then helps him up from the ground again, apologizes and – in swirling, Scottish tones – tells him that her name is Amy and she hadn’t really known if he had been insulting her or what, so smacking him had seemed like the better option.

She is absolutely, completely mad, loud, boisterous, violent and almost six months older than him, as she points out several times. Rory Williams is six years old, and in love.

”She sounds nice,” his babysitter – her name, why can’t he remember her name?? – says when he gets home and talks about Amy for at least two hours in a row. ”I wish I could meet her."

He frowns, because the thought of that much red hair in one room never happening is a distressing one.

”Why can’t you?”

”Have to go back to London, kiddo,” she says, fingers tousling up his hair. ”I’ve got my mum and my dad and my granddad back home waiting.”

”Oh,” Rory says and he remembers, red hair and kind eyes and a forgotten name as she walks out the door, waving at him.

”Do you remember her name?” he will ask Amy, many years later, when they come home exhausted after another day of wedding planning and are sprawled awkwardly over the couch, over each other, feet wrestling for space and her hair seemingly everywhere.

”Whose name?”

”My babysitters. I just, you know, I remember… her hair. And that’s it.”

Amy huffs and laughs. ”The one from London? No, I don’t remember her. I never met her.” Her eyes travel up to meet his. ”Is that why you started going out with me, because you had a crush on your babysitter and I reminded you of her? Naughty, Mr Williams.”

”No!” He protests. There’s an odd ringing in his head, like alarm-bells, starting with the words I never met her, and for some reason that’s wrong. Why is it wrong? ”No, I just… nevermind.”

It’s not important anyway. He’s sure it isn’t.  


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