A/N: Inspired by the Dr. Horrible song 'Slipping' (hence the title). I don't know how it fits into the story, I just know that it was on repeat almost the whole time I was writing this. Well, that and 'Everything You Ever'. I still don't know how it relates. (PS if you haven't seen Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog yet DO IT NOW). I own nothing!

Slipping

Ten years was a long time to wait. Amelia Pond jammed her sword's blade into the back of the white-washed robot's head, feeling something inside her turn to stone. She whipped out her makeshift sonic screwdriver, hoping against all hope that it would work as she pressed it to the thing's chest. The Handbot twitched a bit, its circuits sparking, completely fried. She'd once felt minutely guilty about dispatching these robots, but now she felt nothing at all; they were just machines. You don't cry over a broken toaster; you just chuck it in the bin and buy a new one.

A grin spread across her face as the sonic did its work. She sent a silent thank you to whoever would listen and tucked the object into her belt. She studied the bot for a moment, salvage in mind. She kept a nice little collection of parts back in her 'safety zone', stripped one by one from the machines she destroyed. One part at a time, keep the Handbots from getting suspicious; if a robot was capable of suspicion. But she could leave nothing to chance. Never leave anything to chance. That only worked when the Doctor was around.

She knelt down next to the bot, studying it intently. She ran the sonic screwdriver down its chest plate, then along the barely-noticeable hinges on the side. She smiled as it popped upwards, disconnecting itself from the rest of the bot. Good; a little extra armor was always useful. The sword-makeshift like everything else in her life these days- had been an added bonus a few years back, and she had no idea how she'd ever survived without it.

She took the plate and ran off, back home, back to where she belonged. Back to her waiting.

Amy strapped on her armor, pulling on the protective gear that she'd acquired over the past thirteen years. The Doctor was really taking his sweet time, wasn't he?

The worst part was not having anyone to talk to. It got lonely in this place, with no one but the computer interface to have intelligent conversation with. And that was a machine; she was surrounded on all sides by these damn machines. She wanted to talk to a human for once.

Amy pulled her hair back into a ponytail, then let it fall loose down her shoulders again. Why not? It was only a slight nuisance when she was forced to fight, and the face-mask/helmet she'd made a month back was keeping it away for the most part. She glanced at herself in the metal surface of the mirror as she went. Yep, she was definitely changing. If the wrinkles that were slowly appearing around her eyes weren't enough, they were beginning to show around her mouth; laugh lines. And then there was that age in her eyes, that ancient look that she'd seen on the Doctor so many times…

She shook it off. Age was a problem, but worrying about it wasn't going to help her survive this place. And who knew; maybe the Doctor would swoop in today, come and rescue her. With Rory by his side, of course. Because… well, he was Rory. Her stupid-faced husband who had waited for her for two thousands years. Really, thirteen wasn't much of a problem…

Still… she looked at herself in the shining metal again. Rory hadn't changed this much. The battle-armored woman that stood before her now was nothing like the one they'd dropped off here all those years ago. Amy shook it off; she didn't have time to waste on that. She had to go off scouting again. She pulled the face-mask down tighter over her head, making sure she could see through it, and pushed out of the door.

She got through a majority of the complex with ease. The only reason she was doing this was because she was getting stir-crazy; and recently, she found, if she didn't hack the heads off of a few Handbots every few days, she would find herself going insane. Especially on those days after she'd been dealing with the Interface; that stupid machine had been hacked easily enough-in fact, it was almost compliant- but it still wouldn't give her what she really wanted; a way out of here.

As she walked, she made careful note of where she was placing her feet; keeping quiet, though she suspected she didn't need to do that. It was just natural instinct; and it had been sharpened over the years. Even if she hated being silent. There was just… no noise in this place.

She went to the museum today. She thought it would be relatively safe; she sometimes went full days and weeks without seeing the Handbots, and she always kept her sword within easy reach, just in case. Besides, museums reminded her of someone who used them to keep score…

And, of course, there was the tale of the Last Centurion, painted into pictures and described in movies; Earth legends may have been rather petty in comparison to the rest of the universe, but there was a section for almost every planet in this place; and even if the Earth section was a little small, it made her chest swell with pride to think that her husband's legend had made it here, all the way across the universe.

She spent half the day there, then headed back to base. Or, at least, she tried to head back.

But then the Handbot appeared.

Amy cried out, throwing herself back a few steps as the creature stepped out from behind one of the statues. "Do not be alarmed," It said in that cool, monotone voice that they all shared. "This is a kindness."

Amy snorted and unsheathed her sword, throwing it into a downwards strike. "How this for kindness?" She spat out, more to hear a human's voice then anything else; that mechanical sound was really beginning to grate on her ears. The blow was fierce, even for her; it cut straight through the monster's hands, cutting them off in one stroke. They landed on the floor, twitching about with metal, whirring sounds. Amy kicked the Handbot in the chest, sending it to the ground, then placed a foot back on its chest to keep it down. The thing twitched and struggled; Amy let out a battle cry and raised her sword high over her head.

She drove it downwards, but was stopped by a sudden thought. The thing looked… pathetic. Rolling around beneath her foot, like a turtle who'd been turned onto its back. Its blank, emotionless face stared back at her, and she was mildly surprised by how… stupid it looked.

She stared at it for a long moment, then, unsure why she was doing so, she pulled her sonic screwdriver out of her pocket, pointing it at her mechanical victim. The crude device made its little buzzing sound, and the Handbot's head slumped, its body going slack as its systems shut down.

She stepped off it, then gripped its feet and started dragging. She told herself that she was going to dissect the thing, figure out how these robots ticked, but she knew she wouldn't. Amelia Pond had been alone for too long; time to-quite literally- make some new friends.

It took her almost two years to get 'Rory' to function the way she wanted it to, but when it did, it worked like a charm. Amy pulled her lipstick out of her pocket and ran it along the letters on her door, the little robot's pen-drawn face watching her with dumb curiosity. She did this every once in a while; she had to. The Doctor had to know where she was when he came…

If he ever came…

"Whatcha think, Rory?" She asked of the 'disarmed' Handbot. Its head tilted to the side, as though it was actually paying attention to what she was saying. She still didn't trust it completely yet; the thing had a lot of programming jammed inside it, ordering it to find and eliminate any unknown bacterial threat. And it was alien technology, while she was just a girl from earth. She couldn't know everything.

But oh, she was learning. There was a library here, after all, the biggest library ever, modeled after an entire planet. There was some history to that planet, something about Shadows, but she didn't pay much attention to that. There were things to learn, about robotics, about the weird little screwdriver she carried around. By all rights and means, the object fit the definition of a sonic probe, not a screwdriver, and she found herself unconsciously referring to it as such from time to time.

She eyed her handiwork; the note on the door that she'd inscribed there so long ago now standing out a bit bolder. She put the lipstick away and beckoned Rory inside; the little Handbot followed her quietly, watching her every movement as though she were the most interesting object in the world. It was like a puppy.

She flopped down on her bed, staring up at the ceiling. Fifteen years. Fifteen years of waiting. Amelia Pond looked away, closing her eyes. No. It would do her no good to think. She had way too much time to think in this place. And thinking about the Doctor and Rory just hurt way too much…

It was inevitable, when she started thinking, that she would start wondering. Wondering if Rory and the Doctor really were coming for her. If there was a malfunction in the TARDIS, and they were blown off to the other side of the universe, never to be seen again. If the Doctor had missed his mark again.

Whenever she started wondering, Amy started imagining. She imagined Rory pleading to the Doctor to keep trying to find her, only to realize later that it was a lost cause. She imagined the Doctor and Rory arriving one day, seeing her as an old woman… or worse, a corpse. She could just see Rory- young, healthy, beautiful Rory- dropping down next to the body of his wife, who had been fine and young and alive with him just moments ago. She wasn't that far off; she was getting so much older with each passing day, and of course, death was never far from her in this place.

When Amy started imagining, she started to get afraid. Afraid of what would happen. Afraid of what Rory would see when he came here. Afraid of what she was now. It was getting so much easier to kill the Handbots now- heck, it was almost sport- and she couldn't help but wonder if Rory would still love someone with so much stone in her heart. It wasn't her fault; she'd only placed that stone in there to help fill up the hole…

When Amy started to get afraid, Amy would soon find herself lost. Lost in her fears and imaginings, her wonderings and thinking. She would almost see that outcome before her, as though it were inevitable, as though it had already happened. And she would start sobbing, because she couldn't pull herself back to reality quick enough, because what if it wasn't reality, what if this was the fairytale? What if those stories she fed herself everyday about how Rory would be back any minute, arms open and ready to accept her as she was, were all lies?

And then she would start with the questions; what if everything was a lie? What if Rory would never love her? What if… what if she wasn't even herself anymore? What if there was nothing left of Amelia Pond? What if she was only… the Girl Who Waited?

The Girl Who Waited Forever?

Amy stared at the writing on the wall. It seemed to be fading faster these days; or maybe she was just getting used to being her. Far too used to it. Amy pushed through the door, not bothering to re-write it. It had been twenty-six years. The Doctor could find her the old fashioned way if he had to; he was late, and she was furious.

She dropped her recent prize to the ground; a Handbot's head. Rory-the-Robot looked at it for a moment, then to her. It never seemed to mind when she brought back dismantled pieces of its kind; in fact, it occasionally tried to put them away for her, though it found that difficult without hands.

Amy went to the shiniest piece of metal in the room and stared at her reflection for a good, long, ten minutes. Her eyes burned. The wrinkles on her face were getting far clearer, more pronounced. Her hands were withering slightly. Amy was getting old. As evidenced by the small cut on her hand, the blood on her shoulder. She couldn't believe what a stupid, rookie mistake she'd made. She'd almost gotten herself killed; not looking where she was going. She'd run right into a Handbot; thankfully, its hand never touched her, and none of the needles had gotten her… but that wasn't' the worst part.

The worst part was the fact that Amy had almost died today. She had almost died and she should have been scared, should have been terrified. But she wasn't.

She was overjoyed.

An end to the waiting. That had been the thought that went through her mind at the time. Of course, she had fought against it, and now she felt just… sick. She wanted to throw up. Was she really willing to just… give up? Just to end the waiting?

Maybe. But then she'd never have her answers, would she? That was the most painful part of waiting; the fact that she didn't know. She didn't know what had happened to the Doctor, she didn't know what had happened to Rory. She didn't know if they'd ever find her. She didn't know when this waiting would end. It could be tomorrow. It could be in another twenty-six years. It could never happen at all. And Amy had no way to know, no way of finding out, and it was driving her to madness.

Where were they?

An end to the waiting.

Amy looked at her face in the mirror. There was such sadness behind her eyes. When had that showed up? When had that become a permanent feature on her face? She couldn't remember. Perhaps the same time that scowl-the one she was wearing now- did. Perhaps the same time she realized that she was talking to a Handbot with a stupid face drawn on it. Perhaps the same time she realized that she wanted to believe that they would never come; because then she could move on. Then she could have a life here, without the waiting. Without the constant dreams. Without having to listen to the sound of the TARDIS at every second…

Her reflection smiled sadly, and quietly, Amy began to sing. "Happy Birthday… to me… Happy birthday… to me… happy birthday, dear Amelia… Happy birthday…"

A single tears streaked down the side of her face, catching in every single wrinkle as it fell. "To… me…"

Amy ran.

She ran as fast as her legs could carry her, feeling sluggish and slow. She felt as though she was moving in glue; the air was thick, hard to breathe in, and everything around her was moving about in circles. Colors were meshing and blending together, dissolving into one another, clashing with the sounds of her footsteps. She shouldn't be able to run. The Handbots anesthetic normally would knock out a person in seconds; but Amy ran anyway. Because she had to. She had to survive.

Blood dripped down her shoulders; it seemed to be everywhere, sticky and red, dripping down all over her. She was slipping in blood, breathing in glue. She shouldn't have been so stupid, falling onto her own sword like that, how could she have been so careless…?

No, she hadn't been able to stop it… the Handbots had ambushed her; maybe twenty at once… it was amazing she'd made it out alive, with only one of their poisonous touches… but now she had to flee, to get home, to get to safety… and she'd tripped with the sword in hand and was now covered in blood…

Amy scrambled onwards. She'd taken them all out, they were following her, but she couldn't pass out, not until she made it to her safe place…

She slammed into the door, the door with those words written in faded lipstick… they looked like dried blood, still drizzling downwards, in her drugged mind. She pushed inside and collapsed to the floor. The darkness came for her, swooping over her head and cackling… coming to claim the Girl Who Waited, to give her dreams, to show her that she really wasn't Amelia Pond anymore, that Amelia Pond had, perhaps, never existed, and that she was just a fairy tale…

Thirty-four years.

It was the first thought the came into her head as she opened her eyes again. The foul taste in her mouth suggested that she'd been asleep for a few hours; she looked around. Rory the Robot was standing next to her, watching her with his stupid face and puppy dog gestures. She was lying on the bed, a bandage on her shoulders; it was fairly impressive, and she wondered how many attempts it took the handless robot to bandage her up that well.

Thirty-four years.

The thought kept echoing in her head, like the remnants of a bad dream. It sent stabs of pain through her stone heart, and she glanced to the mirror. She was so old… and her eyes so ancient. There was so much hate in those eyes, so much sour age and bitterness.

Thirty four years.

The words lingered like a night predator, with the Girl Who Waited as their unfortunate victim. Because she knew; she knew she would wait forever and ever, she would always have that hope, always think that they would come back…

But they never would. They never would. Why couldn't she just accept it? They would never come for her. It had been thirty four years and they hadn't come back, because they couldn't, but time meant nothing to them, time meant nothing to those who thought themselves great enough to own it. But time meant everything to her, because she was waiting, she'd been waiting her whole life… She'd grown up waiting, she'd grown old waiting, and she was going to die waiting and it was all his fault, it was all the Doctor's fault…

Amy started moving in a sudden panic, pulling off her armor piece by wretched piece, trying to strip away who she'd become. She didn't want this, didn't want to be this. She didn't want to be the Girl Who Waited anymore, she didn't want to be Amelia Pond, the girl in the fairytale, she just wanted to be Amy, because Amy didn't hurt, Amy didn't care, Amy had shortened her name and grown up and thrown away her childish dreams of a Raggedy Man coming to save her…

She yanked the sonic probe out of her belt; she stared at it long and hard. She wanted to believe it was a sonic screwdriver, wanted to call it as such, but it wasn't. Amelia Pond would believe it was a screwdriver, because that's what the Doctor called it, and she believed everything the Doctor said. The Girl Who Waited would have called it a screwdriver, because she still clung to hope that the Doctor would return and be proud of her for building it, for basing it after his own…

But Amy was all grown up, and had given up the childish notion of 'hope'. She threw the object to the ground; probe, probe, it was a sonic probe!

Amy screamed at the top of her lungs, ripping off the armor in desperation, throwing it to the ground. Even when it was all gone, all stripped away and she was left with nothing but her old clothes, she looked in the mirror and saw that she still wasn't herself, that she could never be herself again. The person in the mirror had no protective outer shell, but so many inner ones. A heart of stone and eyes of steel; she hated the person that stared back at her, hated her reflection, and yet she wanted to embrace it. Because it was Amy. And Amy wouldn't wait. She wouldn't live in an endless fairytale.

And Amy was so dead tired of the Doctor's games. She tore out of the room, stalking past Rory the Robot, whose face-which never changed- somehow managed to express concern. She pushed her way out of the doors and stared at the lipstick sign there, the words she had written for the Doctor.

Thirty. Four. Years.

Amy screamed; screamed at the top of her lungs, a low, guttural sound. She slammed her palms into the door, sliding them across the note, smearing the lipstick until it was nothing but a few red streaks on the door. She kept wiping at it, trying to wash it away, to get it out of her life forever. She screamed again; and again and again, unable to stop herself, because she hated it so much, she hated the endless waiting, she hated the Doctor…

"Damn you, Raggedy Man!" She screeched to the ceiling, wishing that she could set sight on the sky once again, on her sky once again. She slammed her hands into the door one final time, her shoulder screaming in protesting agony as she did, the wound ripping open again and bleeding out of the bandages. She slowly sank to the ground, sank to her knees, her hands sliding down the door. She pressed her face to the cold metal of the door and sobbed.

"I hate you," She whispered quietly. "I hate you so much… I hate everything about you, Raggedy Man, and I hope you're dead. I hope you died. And I hope it was painful. Because if it wasn't…" her eyes burned as she looked up at Rory the Robot, who seemed oblivious to her eternal rage. "Then it will be," she growled, shaking violently. "Believe me, Doctor. It will be."

Thirty-Five Years.

"Happy birthday… to me… Happy birthday… to me… happy birthday… Dear Amy…"

I have become a monster.

The shadows creep in on me at night. They know that I want to kill the Doctor. They know that I'm so tired of waiting. But I could never kill the Doctor. Because I love him. He's always been there, my imaginary friend, the Raggedy Man who saves the day, who travels in time and space and rights all wrongs…

And Rory…

I love you Rory… I love you so much… Why can't you come back…? Why can't you come back for me?

Oh. That's right.

Because I'm not the person you love anymore.

I have become a monster and a nightmare.

I hate me.

I hate you too, Doctor.

But I love you, Rory. Why can't I hate you? Why can't I hate you until it hurts, like I hate the Doctor, like I hate myself?

Why can't you save me? Why can't you rescue me?

Keep me from waiting any longer… Keep me from being…

Amy's eyes lifted upwards, old and in pain, bitter and almost cruel. Her sword slashed through the chest of a Handbot, cutting it to pieces again and again. They were dispatched so easily these days.

A monster.

Thirty-Six years had passed before she heard the sound she'd been waiting for her whole life.

Amy stopped sharpening her sword, listening to the sound. Her icy, stony heart thudded out of sync. Rory.

He'd come for her. He'd come for her at last. A part of her wished to sing, to dance, to laugh. Rory, Rory, Rory! Her Rory, her husband, the man she loved with all of her heart! The waiting was over, he was here for her at last!

But the other part of her quelled this. Because it was hope. And it was a fairytale. She stood and sheathed the sword. Yes. Maybe the waiting was over.

But he hadn't come soon enough to save her.

For Amelia Pond, the Girl Who Waited, was already long gone.

Already Dead and Buried.