Vanilla Twilight
Flipping switchs, pulling levers, hitting the buttons. It's the Doctor and the TARDIS, alone in the Vortex. Alone. He eventually has no more jerky, spastic motions to make, and so collapses heavily onto the couch behind the console.
He goes on, like he always does, but memories of her haunt him day and night.
Her eyes, gleaming like the stars he travels. Her cheeky smile. The way her hand felt in his.
The Doctor sighs, and slumps further, sinking deeper into the plush couch. His head hangs low, his hands holding it up. It's always felt like the weight of the world is - or rather, worlds are - on his shoulders, but at least while she was here, it felt like maybe the Doctor could set it down for a while, leave the burden behind and breathe. But now she's gone, and it feels like it's three times heavier.
It's cold in the TARDIS, like she's sulking, too. Like she misses her, maybe almost as much as the Doctor does. That's fine with him; he'd feel insulted if she got anything less than she deserved. Still, the Doctor, even with his high tolerence, hunches his shoulders in against the cold. And, although he would never admit it, the pain.
After a long time, lost in thoughts and memories, the Doctor looks up, rolling his shoulders, prepared to do something, anything to distract himself from melancholy feelings. But as soon as his gaze is raised, it locks on something across the room. He leaps to his feet, and in seconds has reached the object of attention. Slowly, reverently, with love in his unblinking eyes, the Doctor reaches out and pulls the purple jumper from the railing.
His dark gaze becomes foggy with tears, and now he's forced to blink rapidly to clear it, no matter how much he'd rather just stare at her jumper all day. It's hers, and - what? The Doctor presses the fabric to his face, breathing in her scent. Rose perfume for my Rose, he remembers. Rose. His hearts ache, as fiercely as they did on the beach in Norway that day. That two minute goodbye, the one he burned up a sun for. The one he never finished. "Rose Tyler -"
He breathes. He counts each breath, notes the ragged quality of each. He observes the rapid beating of his hearts. He tries not to notice the way the fabric he's clutching like a drowning man is quickly becoming wet with his tears.
Suddenly, the Doctor feels oh-so-tired. He doesn't need to sleep often, but now it seems as though all his recent have hit him at once, and he feels a strong desire to climb into bed. He stumbles wearily down long corridors, searching for his own room, but the TARDIS has other ideas. He reaches the end of the hallway, with only one door inside. It's cracked open, and dim, golden, and very inviting light is spilling out into the hall to stain the currently-wooden floor. The Doctor follows its beckoning, and as he steps inside, his eyes fill once more with tears he'll never shed.
It's her room.
It's exactly as she left it, with clothes strewn around; with a pink iPod and various vials of makeup strewn on the vanity tables; the nightstand with a pink, fuzzy and locked journal tossed upon it; the bed still unmade, pink sheets and the white coverlet wrinkled and tossed carelessly away from the pillows. In fact, the pillow nearest the wall still shows an imprint of her, where she must have lain. The Doctor sniffles once, before dragging his feet over to it and slowly lying down, doing his best not to disturb anything. He's still clinging to her jumper, and when he realizes that, he brings it to his face and breathes in her scent again. The TARDIS turns out the light with a nearly inaudible click, and the Doctor falls into a dreamless sleep.
When he wakes up, he wanders back into the console room, leaving her jumper on her bed. He almost can't stand to have it near him now, since it all but forces him to think of her. The Doctor denies himself when he thinks that it doesn't matter, since he'll think of her no matter what. And he's proven correct minutes later as he enters the room and realizes that he's staring longingly at his hands, wishing that they were interlaced with hers. He shakes his head, and opens the front door.
The TARDIS has taken him somewhere very familiar - the skies above London. The air all around him is lightening, from midnight blue to a lighter shade of the same color. He sits in the doorway, legs danging into empty space. He and she used come to this very place after adventures, used to sit legs hanging and hands laced together. It's not the same without her here; it's too quiet without her breathy whispers in his ear, her laughter echoing in the silence above the city.
When the sun finally rises over Londen, the Doctor stands and closes the door, before skipping a few hours. Twelve, to be exact. Then he returns to his former position, letting the TARDIS drift through open skies as vanilla twilight falls, and the stars begin to come out again.
By now, the Doctor has given up on not thinking about her. He lets her completely fill his thoughts, as she was always wont to do, and realizes that when he thinks of her, he doesn't feel so alone.
He stays still all night, eyes closed, a faint smile playing about his lips.
Months later, as gold begins to light his veins, as his eyes grow brighter, and as the weight on his shoulders grow lighter, he feels alive again. She is on his mind again, as always, but instead of swirling white snow or gray storm clouds, there is golden light everywhere - pouring from her eyes like molten starlight, glimmering all around them both, swirling on the wind. He smiles, and swears that he'll never forget her.
But, oh, how he wishes she were here.
Post-Doomsday, all the way through the End of Time. Inspired by "Vanilla Twilight" by Owl City.