A / N : This is what happens when you rewatch Vampires of Venice and get carried away on a tide of Rory / Amy fluff. Enjoy, and please review if you liked it!
They are fifteen, the first time someone mistakes Rory for her boyfriend.
Amy, of course, laughs it off.
She laughs and laughs, in fact, until Rory's cheeks start to burn, until he starts to realize what she does not – that the rest of the room isn't laughing with her, they're laughing at him. At Rory Williams, who never knows the right thing to say, who isn't remotely dashing or handsome, or even confident enough to feign the first two. Rory Williams, who follows mad Amelia Pond about like a lost puppy, fully aware she won't look twice at him.
He's used to it by now, but it still hurts.
He's in the back garden, staring at the ground with his mouth screwed up tight, trying to pretend it doesn't hurt, when Amy finds him.
She stares at him for a long moment in confusion, but when she realizes he won't meet her eye, she gives up and goes for the direct approach.
"Oi." She jabs him, sharply, in the ribs. "What's up with you?"
"It doesn't matter."
"Looks like it does."
Rory feels his neck prickle under his collar, hot with embarrassment. What if it isn't just everyone else who laughs? What if – what if it's Amy too?
"I don't have to tell you everything, do I?" he retorts, more hotly than he means to. He regrets it at once – he can almost feel Amy flinch, taken aback by this uncharacteristic role-reversal.
She crosses her arms, instantly defensive. "Oh, what .. . so we've got secrets now?" she spits. "I tell you everything and you get to have secrets?"
I tell you everything.
Rory sighs. He knows what she means, and there's no coming back from that. There's a reason everyone thinks of her as mad Amy Pond.
"You said I couldn't be your boyfriend," he mutters, giving in with bad grace.
"What?" Amy laughs.
"Well, sor-ree! What, is this serious?"
"Right, right!" Amy bites her lip, and does a very bad impression of someone trying to take the situation seriously.
Rory groans. "You said I couldn't be your boyfriend," he persists. "You said, 'what, him?' like . . . like there was something wrong with me! What's wrong with me? Why couldn't I be your boyfriend?"
Amy is biting her lip again, but she's not laughing now. "It's not like that."
"Then what is it like?"
Amy shifts her weight from one foot to the other, avoiding his gaze. "You're Rory. You're Rory."
"What, and that settles it?"
She prods him in the ribs again, trying to jerk him out of his reverie. "Yeah," she says slowly. "Yeah, it does."
Rory grudgingly moves up to make space for her on the window-ledge, but he can't contain a snort of derision.
"I don't see what's so great about being Rory," he mutters, and then, to his surprise, Amy elbows him in the ribs again - but hard enough to make him yelp, this time.
"Shut up," she snaps. "It's the best thing ever."
They sit there for a while longer, in companionable (if confused) silence, and then decide it's probably a good idea to go in again.
Amy is the first to rise. She is almost at the door before she turns back to regard him with plain, honest bewilderment.
"I dunno why you'd want to be just some bloke anyway," she murmurs, almost to herself.
And Rory freezes. His mouth suddenly feels very dry.
"Because . . . because I'm Rory?" he manages at last. "Because I'm more than that?"
From the look Amy gives him, he might as well be Mad Rory Williams. "Well, you'd hardly be less, would you?" she laughs.
She grabs his hand and tugs him back into the house, still laughing and shaking her head.
"So insecure!" she sings, and Rory squeezes her fingers tight in his own, his heart swelling with sudden, ridiculous relief.