Drifting hazily into consciousness, a moment of blissfully blank memory, and then he made the mistake of turning to cuddle into the body beside him.
The body no longer there.
And that body will never be there again. Those strong, loving arms would never wrap themselves around him again, he'll never again wake up to the sound of Welsh tones, husky and rough with sleep.
Even the smell of coffee can make him cry.
Travelling without some sort of encasement hurts. In fact, he's grateful that it hurt, to give him a few moments peace, to imagine that those intelligent eyes and sarcastic comments would be there when he awoke.
Cruel, callused fingers hauled him up from where he landed, grunting and snarling in his ear. Perfect. Something to lash out at, something that isn't tinged with the memory of lazy, stolen Sunday afternoons and the smell of home.
He wished he could turn back the clock. For once, he doesn't care about the rest of the world; all the children in the world, and a good proportion of the adults, too, could be taken, so long as he had him back.
Anything to have one last chance to say it.
He doesn't put up a fight when they pull him away. All he can do is close his eyes and slip away again. No more pretending that he's okay. No more waking up in the morning and facing her, knowing he won't be standing behind her, making it easy for him to smile, towards her, but eyes on the quiet, background colour.
The quiet background colour that died to save the Earth.