This fic was written for the prompt "Accent" on the LiveJournal community who-contest. The idea for it sparked from a discussion with my friend radiolaires, who wanted me to write Girl Who Waited!Amy. Well, this is not her POV, but I hope it satisfies ;)

The accent hasn't changed.

It sounds thicker when she growls at him, like a low vibration of long-amassed weariness and anger. The wrath gleams in her clear eyes, hardens her jaw, throws shadows across the pattern of lines upon her face. Her eyes haven't changed, either, he thinks numbly. Green pools, but alive and churning with passion in their depths.

She is Amy. She is fierce, she is harsh—harsher. Older, too, grown so alone and in bitterness.

The guilt crushes him all the more as he can find no real reason for it. One moment of separation sufficed to wrench their paths apart; then a few minutes for him were thirty-six years for her, and she was lost, tossed into the erratic whims of time. The unfairness of it all leaves between them a gulf of staggering depths.

She turns from him, all too readily. Reading the tension in her shoulders, he cannot but wonder if she expects him to walk the other way. Everything hurts, the way she sets off without a second glance, the brisk purposefulness of her pace, alert like that of a woman long used to having no one to watch her back. "Are you coming, Rory?" she asks, her voice dripping with what could easily be read as contempt. She turns her head like a challenge, daring him to meet her gaze. Breathlessly, he does.

"Sure," he says. "Sure. I'm coming." I'm not leaving you again, he wants to add, but she would laugh and he would cut his heart further on the acidic edges of the sound. The words are tripping upon his tongue; he never did leave her. Truly, he did nothing and that is what neither of them can forgive.

I waited for her, and now she waited for me. It is not the same, for he had a choice, the security of a mission to fulfill. He had her stone-hard if slumbering presence at his side; she had the fear of false kindness, and faith that wore away and crumbled, a faith she thought betrayed her.

On some days he thinks that they are made of missing things, time tangled and rewritten into an impossibility of a life. They lose each other so often, and always find each other again. Late, sometimes, with eternities standing between them. Their own days slip away as they dash through future and past.

Thirty-six or two thousand, they amass days spent in yearning. Those cannot be repaid. The pain of them is remembered, each trial leaving its brand.

It lashes in her voice, always the same, Scottish strong and stubbornly brave. He accepts her fury, acknowledges and embraces it. He has rarely loved her so much.