Pink roses had always been her favorite. Not too romantic, like the red ones with connotations for miles, and not too innocent with the pure as driven snow white, just the median. Just the average. Just normal.
So pink roses are what he held in his hand today as he trudged up the hill, his eyes overflowing with sadness, and pain, and fear, and anger and loneliness. With his mind overflowing with thoughts of her twinkly laugh, and her dazzling smile, and her bright eyes and the swish of her long, beautiful hair. Filled with her.
Filled with love. Filled with sorrow. Filled with regret.
He hadn't attended the funeral, of course. He would have stood in the back, staring down at the ground, peppered with questions from family members, 'how did you know her?' 'do you remember this...' 'do you remember that...'
Of course he remembered. He loved her.
So. Damn. Much.
They were best friends, confidants, and maybe, to some, lovers. They had linked arms and laughed and danced around, singing silly songs into the time vortex as she adjusted his crooked shirt and whispered lovely things into his ears, words that had been so full of joy, love, and adoration then and so empty now.
As empty as his hearts.
Then he'd changed of course, the spark of love was not gone, but the physical affection was. Too much like kissing her granddad, she'd said, but she'd still loved him with all she could stand, and he knew that. He knew that as much as she could, she would love him, and would continue loving it until her human time was up.
And it had been.
She hadn't been old and withered, death could not be so kind to her. She'd been young and pretty, and silly and bright with a future dazzling ahead of her like the yellow brick road. And just like that, the car smacked into her. She'd been in a coma for a year. She'd had friends come in in tears, relatives sobbing, exes wishing to hold her close once more. The doctors told them all the same thing: the only thing alive about her was her heart beat.
They asked her father to choose.
And now here he was, standing above the freshly dug dirt, holding flowers as limp as his body once the sobs wracked them hard, the tears landing on the dark grave stone. Loving daughter and friend. Aged 29 as far as the years spread, two weeks after her birthday where she had joking laughed that she was that much closer to the great 3-0.
She'd never hit it.
And when the Doctor looked up and saw the angel, he didn't move. His eyes didn't move from the stone figure, looming above the grave, smiling sickly at him, taunting him, telling him that no matter how much he ran away, he could never escape them. He could never escape the monsters. He could never escape the death.
He could never escape the loneliness.
And those pink flowers tumbled to the ground as he blinked, letting himself tumble through time, leaving the blue box he loved so much behind, because maybe, maybe, maybe he could find the girl he loved even more.
Maybe he could find his Clara.
