For my new Tumblr friend Hipster-Rawry who needed some 11/Rory angst.

I may make this part of a series, I'm not sure.

Oh and it's 3:25 in the morning and I totally didn't proof this so sorry about any stupid errors.

Pasodoble

It happened as these things often do. In a sort of rushed frenzy. A strange meshing of limbs and fingers, all tangles and tugs and kisses that almost miss their mark, hands that land just above or below their aim. Awkward partners engaged in a very old dance.

It was late. Rory didn't always rest well on the TARDIS. Amy was a wild sleeper, she always found her way into a free fall position, on her stomach, arms akimbo with one inevitably landing across his face or sometimes his windpipe. But that wasn't so bad. He was well accustomed to that. What actually did distress him were the sounds of the ship. Not the normal sounds, but the small, short, imperceptible disruptions in the rhythmic pulses to which he'd grown accustomed. At first he thought he was only flattering himself. Acting as though he were picking up on something in this ancient ship that was really far beyond his comprehension. It was ridiculous. But then, one night he'd decided to go on a walkabout. He'd arrived in the console room and found the Doctor hard at work rushing about pulling levers and pressing buttons.

That was how things had started. Well it was how they'd started in a way. It may have been the first time they'd had a conversation. A real conversation. Not one born out of peril or grief or their strange dancing around the subject of his wife. But a conversation just between the two of them. The next time Rory heard the strange aberration of the sound he first stopped in the kitchen just on instinct. He made some hot chocolate, grabbed some biscuits and headed towards the console room. The look the Doctor gave him upon arrival was one of welcome. The look he bestowed when he saw the drink and treats was altogether different. His features softened. And somehow it was a glance that Rory understood. He was used to people coming to him...wanting something. When he was younger it was someone usually wanting him to do their homework. When he was a teenager he often served as a convenient excuse for girls, the eunuch best friend. There were times, in the past, when he'd even felt that from Amy. She too before they became truly close wanted something from him, even if it was just compliant companionship. He dealt with it, greeted them with a smile, a friendly nod, an acceptance of his place. And in the here and now he had started to realize that perhaps this was the role the Doctor often played too. Madcap best friend, carefree mate. Never wanting anything. Never needing anything. At least on the surface. But if Rory dared to compare himself to this timeless, ageless god he knew that a few scratches to that surface might reveal a loneliness, a sadness and need for a companionship of equality. Or whatever might come closest to that.

He got all that just from the look he received as he handed him the hot chocolate and biscuits.

"I made this for us."

A beat.

"Thank you, Rory."

Perhaps that was how it started.

He never knew if the Doctor knew why he would show up at these times. At just the right time. It didn't seem to matter to either of them. But each time he arrived it was the middle of the night. Each time the Doctor was hard at work on some vital system. Each time Rory would bring some sort of offering of friendship, camaraderie...intimacy. Something that could be shared just between the two of them. They would sit quietly, talking in soft tones, sharing a communion of sorts. Rory would tell the Doctor more about him not simply he and Amy, but his own dream, needs, fears. His friend would sit quietly and listen, offering dizzying introspective wisdom now and again and clever, brilliant jokes at other time. And on certain occasions, rare and beautiful nights he would offer stories of his own. Revelations, tales, lessons and occasionally just silly messes he'd gotten himself wrapped up in. And they grew closer in both body and spirit.

They'd share their snack and slowly Rory became a part of the Doctor's TARDIS mechanics team. At first he just held things, too afraid of making the wrong move, committing some dangerous offense. He needed instruction, tutelage. After a few evenings the Doctor was more than happy to do just that and though they were small assignments at first Rory felt proud to be working. It felt good to get his hand moving again. To mold the unfamiliar into familiar. He knew he'd never understand the intricacies of the ship as his mate did. But that didn't matter. He was a part of something bigger. Something larger than himself. He was also somehow now a part of the Doctor.

Maybe that was how it started.

The evening was like any other. He was aware that this time when he heard the stuttered irregularity of the ships hum he practically leapt out of bed. They went about their regular routine, work, snack, chatting the whole time. This night their duties brought them to rather close quarters beneath the console. Rory was holding thermal couplings while the Doctor did work just over his shoulder, his screwdriver buzzing and circuitry popping a bit closer to Rory's ear than he cared to think about.

"But why do I have to stand here?"

"Because, Rory this is delicate work. Specifically timed. When I finish calibrating the instruments the couplings have to be replaced within five seconds which means I need you as near as possible. It's all about timing. Like a dance."

The other man was close to him. So close that occasionally his forearm brushed Rory's cheek. They were standing nearly chest to chest and Rory shifted the couplings in his arms his eyes drifting to the column of the Doctor's neck, up and across his face to his lips, tracing the line of his arms towards his wrists and his hands. He couldn't see his hands, they were just out of view over his shoulder, working quickly and feverishly. But he knew what they looked like. Large, masculine, skilled and nimble. He had sent a great deal of time studying those hands.

"Now." The Doctor said quietly and with none of the urgency Rory had expected. Perhaps that was the point because instead of panicking he handed his friend the couplings, first one then the other and smoothly put them into place.

"Is that it? Is it done?" He asked.

The Doctor grinned.

"That's it. Well done, mate." He said and clapped a hand on Rory's shoulder.

They shared a laugh, one of relief and...perhaps nervousness? No. That was silly. He was the only one who was nervous. Certainly not the Doctor. He was Mr. Cool.

Rory didn't question why neither of them had moved away. There was no reason to be so close but as he felt the moment stretching almost to the breaking point he spoke. Anything so that this wouldn't end.

"Doctor? have you ever heard of the Giving Tree?"

For a moment he thought his friend didn't hear him. His brow furrowed but even that was as if on delay. He appeared lost in his own thoughts before finally saying.

"I'm sorry?"

"The Giving Tree. It's a book my dad read to me when I was a kid. It's about a tree and a little boy. The tree loves the little boy and wants to give him anything in the world he desires. he asks for money and she suggest that he take her apples and sell them. He wants a house as an adult and she says build one from my branches. When he's older still he says he wants a boat and she says cut me down and carve one from my trunk. And when they're both old, he wants a quiet place to sit and rest and she's just a stump by now but she provides that. And the final line of that goddamn story is and the tree was happy. I cried when my father read that to me. I hated that book and I hated that stupid, selfish, greedy little boy. And I hated the tree a little too. How could she be so short sided, so foolish, so masochistic. You have to keep something for yourself. You have to ask for something. You have to..."

Rory trailed off, no longer sure of what he was saying or what he meant. The Doctor had been listening intently, mutely, his eyes scanning Rory's face as he went silent.

The kiss was soft, so soft in fact had Rory's eyes been closed he wondered if he'd have even felt it. But he did feel it now, even as his lids slowly closed in acceptance.

At first he just held held him as close as he could. Rory was too afraid of making the wrong move, committing some clumsy blunder. He wanted instruction, direction and after a moment or so the Doctor seemed happy to provide just that. As Rory responded to the kiss the Doctor moved in closer, pressing their bodies to one another until Rory could swear he felt their three hearts thumping in a beautiful unison. His hands started to caress the others mans body as their kisses became more feverish more passionate. It felt good to have his palms on him, to have them moving and skating across his body. The untested, untried, unfamiliar was slowly becoming a landscape marked and traveled. He realized he might never understand the intricacies of his friends body and mind and soul but for this moment they had lost all separation between them. The borders between human and Gallifreyan, old and young, Doctor and Rory had been rushed. They were one. One purpose. One focus. One need. He was part of the Doctor and the Doctor was part of him. A soft moan tore from his throat at the same time the Doctor broke his silence and uttered a single, trembling "Rory..." .

It continued on...until it stopped. He knew he hadn't pulled away. He knew it had been the Doctor he just wasn't sure when. Their moment was shrouded in confusion because as they'd kissed he'd felt sure the Doctor had entered his mind, a sort of intimate telepathy that further shredded the veil between them. A gentle teasing and nudging of his brain that made the link all the more intimate. A link that persisted even as the Doctor stepped away from him. His cheeks were flushed, burning in fact, his lips plump from their efforts, his hair disheveled wildly. Rory wasn't even sure when he'd mussed it. His braces were down and it looked to Rory as though he had been trying to relieve his mate of his shirt. He felt he must have looked similarly undone.

He took a step towards the Doctor and saw a look there, brief though it may have been of naked want and need. Not lust or rather not just lust but a clawing desire for intimacy, for a touching of hands, a pressing of flesh. A give. A take. A give.

"We can't." The Doctor said simply.

"I want to. Amy would..."

"Amy thinks she would but she wouldn't. She's far more possessive of you than she knows. I can't say that I blame her." He ran a hand through his hair trying and failing to settle the errant strands. "I'm sorry, Rory."

"Don't you dare apologize. Please. Don't apologize for this."

He offered him a small smile which Rory gratefully returned.

"Alright. I won't apologize. I'm sorry for saying I'm sorry." He chuckled but Rory could tell it was a struggle for him to find mirth. "You should go back to your wife. I'll finish up here."

The words formed in his head seconds before he was about to say them. The Doctor cut him off before he had the chance. Whether it was because whispers of him still remained in his mind or rather just a wise older mans intuition, Rory didn't know.

"It can't...it can't happen again." He said quietly. "Goodnight Rory."

With that he turned his back on the younger man and quicky made his way to the main level. Rory followed him but it was almost as if the last few minutes had never happened. The Doctor was hunched over the console intently peering at some sort of reading. The moment was apparently gone.

"I'll see you tomorrow." Rory said quietly. He was hurt. A bit for himself but more so for the Doctor. The wall they'd crashed through together was being rebuilt again brick by brick.

As he made to leave the console room the Doctor's voice called after him.

"Rory...don't worry about me, alright? Rest against me, talk to me, tell me stories, come on adventures with me...and I'm happy. That really is all I need."

Rory wondered if his friend knew how much his eyes betrayed his words.

He nodded, unable to find a way to answer him and again began to head towards his room. He climbed in bed with Amy and pulled the covers over them both.

He didn't sleep, not for a good long while.

The TARDIS sounded even and steady for the rest of that night.

And the night that followed.

And the night that followed that night as well and on and on and on.

Slow and steady and rhythmic.

Perfect.

Like a recording. As if someone were playing a tape and piping it into the bedroom just for him on one endless, monotonous, unbroken loop.

Continued in Pas de deux