Warnings: No Spoilers, Angst
A/N: Written for who_contest's Prompt: Red. Mostly Unbeta'd and written in one go, so please forgive any mistakes and/or vagueness. My usual dark, angsty, thinky horror (sorry!) though this one is more reflective than anything. Also, Eleven was being twitchy...augh.
Disclaimer(s): I do not own the scrumptious Doctor or his lovely companions. That honor goes to the BBC and (for now) the fantastic S. Moffat. The only thing that belongs to me is this fiction - and I am making no profit. Only playing about!
Red nails tapped a rhythm against the railing around the console, not impatient, but thoughtful – cascades of auburn swaying around her face as she daydreamed in the room dreams are made of, cherry-painted lips (matching her nails) pressed together as she contemplated a world far from where even he could take her.
He missed her red scarf.
He never wore that color anymore.
Crimson – the color of delight. But after so many years, faces and names, all that was left was the dank-maroon smell of dust after rain.
He was old.
The TARDIS hummed in slow wheezes and churns, floating to their next destination, the floor reflecting back against the red of her nails and hair and lips, turning them shiny and grim under the press of a large space that was too small.
He wondered where Rory was.
The silence held its own color – the delight of yesterday lost in the trudging forward of today and it always ended like this.
It always ended.
Why did it have to end?
And still Rory did not come.
He pretended to tinker with the TARDIS engines, wondering if maybe his red bowtie (braces to match) would help bring back the magic, then dismissed that idea as too silly (even for him).
Ahh, Rory was sleeping. He had forgotten that.
Definitely old.
She was talking now, saying all the things she never wanted to say - cherry lips forming words like 'home' and 'normal' - the life he could give them relegated to dreams and night-time fancies, even before they had left. He felt that familiar tug that said 'goodbye', even as he resented that (once again), his Sexy was only Home when they were still in love with what they thought he should be.
Not the daft old man with too much blood on his hands and burnt out husks of galaxies at his heels.
He was never more, in the end. He started out as a dream they could never hope to catch and always ended as a nightmare they wished to forget.
'Was it worth it?'
He didn't dare ask that.
Not anymore.
Red scarf, crimson (delight) bowtie days were over.
Before they became another smear of maroon in the creases of his ancient fingers –
Maybe it was best that they go.
She smiled a sad, cherry-stained smile and he found that red was never hello: red was always (always) goodbye.