Title: The Psychology of Color
Author: tiflissa
Rating: K+, I suppose. I stink at rating stuff.
Disclaimer: Do I really have to say it? It's so depressing. Fine. They don't belong to me. Happy now?
Spoilers: Tiny one for "No Reason".
Warnings: A small bit of House/Cameron.
A/N: No, it's not a Coma Guy fic. I promise there's more of Thomas O'Connor spinning around in my warped mind, but this one's been sitting on my hard drive for...well, a Very Long Time. I had the sudden urge to share, so this hasn't been beta'd. It has, however, gone through the spelling and grammar check on my computer. Hopefully it's not too hideous. Remember that reviews make me giddy.The Psychology of Color.
They say that with every color you see, there is a feeling attached. The feeling is there even if you don't acknowledge it.
The white of a lab coat he will never wear. White, the color of winter, the season that is her favorite and that causes more pain in his leg than is bearable at times. The color of his favorite sweater of hers – and that, he will never tell her.
Orange is what she is on light days, days that she feels wonderful and it shows. Orange for laughter that he never hears (or chooses not to) echoing in a glass-walled room into which he is not invited. Orange for the prescription bottle that holds all of the desperation and all of the why he can't. (Won't. Doesn't. Whatever.)
Grass is greener they say. It stands for envy, lost opportunity, Wilson's ties and his subsequent infidelities, and a dozen other things that he tries not to think about, including the color of her eyes. He envies the green leaves of the plant sitting on her windowsill, because they need her as much as he does, yet she actively cares for them – touches them in a way that he wishes she would (could) touch him.
It's a rarity when he acknowledges that this is more his fault than hers.
That realization is saved for days when everything is in blue. Blue for the sky, the sea, his eyes, and her pain. When he thinks of the atmosphere in the lab where he learned about her husband, the memory is tainted with a blue hue. He doesn't think about why.
Yellow makes her smile, and he wonders why. The color of sunshine, smiley faces, and Chase's ties on a bad day. All three make him nauseous.
The leaves turn brown as the seasons change. Autumn is nothing more than a state of limbo, while the world says goodbye to summer and avoids the coming of winter. Brown makes him think of the house he grew up in, and the tree fort he built without the help of his father, and of his favorite sport jacket. If he thought about it, he would realize that those three things are inexorably intertwined. (He doesn't.)
He will always associate black with the shirt she wore That Day. The day he told her he was proud of her. The day he wishes she had called in sick or taken a personal day or a vacation. He's always hated the color black, but feels drawn to it. (Especially now.) He doesn't think about that, either.
Violet. Purple. His subconscious dressed her in this color for a reason, but he has no desire to analyze what or why or how. It curses him, however. Now buttons are all he can think about. (He hopes she wears that shirt to work someday.)
Their lives are full of the color Red. Red for blood, red for fire, red for the dress she wore to that fundraiser, red for the coffee mug that he's claimed as his own and that she fixes the perfect cup of coffee in. Everything they do is tinged with red. But only when they are together in any aspect, even if it's as simple as merely existing in the same room.
(Red is quickly becoming his favorite color.)
He doesn't acknowledge that and never will. He is certain of this as he pulls a red coffee mug from the cabinet and sees her standing beside him, wearing a purple shirt.
END
A/N: Let me know what you think! Click the button. Feed me.