A short one shot to promise you I'm still alive and plodding away at my stories.
He'd been alone for too long.
Much too long.
He was going to start talking to himself now.
Clara had left him, which he'd expected all along. Those with a foot in each world never last long – soon he stopped being enough, they didn't like not seeing their families, some even liked their jobs (who would rather work than travel through space and time anyway?) and then there were lose who's inability to make a choice had meant he couldn't save them.
But he certainly wouldn't keep thinking these dark thoughts. No, no, today was going to be a good day, he thought rather determinedly. He parked the TARDIS and took a breath before grabbing his beloved tweed jacket, slipping into it, and quickly exiting the TARDIS.
He wasn't paying attention to his surroundings, quite honestly, but one cannot simply avoid looking at a golden halo.
And of course, by golden halo, he means the golden blonde hair that his companion had had. It was strange, he mused. The companion he'd loved the most (and he loved all of his companions) had been pulled the furthest from any he'd had before, completely unreachable but certainly not forgotten.
But she, too, inevitably led to unpleasant thoughts and he forced himself to push his memories of her beautiful hair, whiskey-gold eyes, and wide, cheerful grin.
Of course, that was hard to do, especially when that certain pair of warm eyes was looking at him, a single eyebrow raised. The corners of her mouth we just barely curved upwards, and she brushed away a not-as-blonde-as-it-used-to-be lock of hair from her face.
She was dressed simply: a pair of black, form fitting pants, the ends tucked into rich brown, yet obviously worn, combat boots. Under a long, stripped scarf (which he greatly approved of) and an unzipped black leather jacket, he could see a dark purple shirt. In her hand, the pages of a well-worn copy Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone danced in the breeze.
He took her in in the blink of an eye, his face hardening. "Who are you?" He asked directly and sternly, his severe expression unwelcoming and angry.
She didn't answer, but continued to look at him. Her smile grew at his too-short trousers and his tweed jacket. At the bowtie, her eyes stopped, and the other eyebrow joined the first raised on her brow. He said nothing else as he watched her slowly rise from her seat, her eyes flicking up to his and then back to his bowtie, a full-fledged, mysterious smile now tugging at her lips. She left the book on the bench and came close to him. So close that he saw time dancing in her eyes. He stood stoically as her hands reach out, taking the edges of his bowtie and straightening it carefully. When she was finished, her hands lowered, and her eyes met his. The tip of her tongue poked out of her smile.
"Bowties are cool." She whispered to him. His hand caught her arm before it reached her side and he stepped closer to her. She smelled like stardust, time, and bananas (a shampoo she often nicked from him on board the TARDIS).
If she was a copy, she was a very good one.
"Rose Tyler."