Walking Dead
It was an accident when she saw inside the Tardis. Those kinds of accidents were impossible, he knew that but here she was staring up at him with sickeningly large doe eyes holding a look he knew so well. He had seen that look on so many of their faces and he wanted to die for the little jolts of electricity that made his fingertips itch every time he saw it. Somewhere in the watery expanses past the shock and fear he saw that spark of excitement and wonder. That little flame that he could cultivate and grow till she would never want to leave him. So she would waltz with him on distant stars and asteroids hurtling on unstoppable courses.
But this girl would never be one of them, the companions. When he is physically alone (like a stain on his soul the loneliness could never be erased) he never refers to them by name, as individuals. Hundreds of them, hundreds of him, hundreds of worlds and hundreds of adventures, past the wonder the details make both of his hearts hurt. They had all been here with him, yet they had not. It scared him the first time he realised he could not remember ones laugh once she left or the smoothness of another's cheek. It was not that they were slipping away but that they were too close.
This girl was a little too short, a little too stocky. She was not destined for the stars. She was not going to have an epic tale told in the brilliant glow of supernovas. She was not touched with a second of greatness; he could see it in the primary colours that danced around her aura. He would never have to take her with him. He would never have to learn her smell, to protect her from all the monsters and the aliens. She would never fit so well to him he can't see how they will ever be apart. She would never cause a deep pulsating wound when she finally leaves (as they all do). It is the pain that reminds him that he still lives and for that he will always hate it and them for causing it.
He should not have been tired as tears filled his eyes, this would be a betrayal of all their memories. Maybe he did need this, a chance to break the eternal steps of a dance he is too worn to carry out to perfection anymore. It would be selfish, the chance to use and discard someone before they try to fix his soul. Maybe it the great scheme of things (if there was one) this wouldn't matter; there is great simplicity in the act itself, the fierce hunger.
He takes her hand finding it unsurprisingly damp and tugs her slightly towards him. Her shoes are loud against the smooth surface of the floor and he is painfully aware of how wrong her presence is. He gently kisses her forehead, she tastes of earths air in painful bursts of detail that he knows its far from pure. She is willing and warm as he seeks out her mouth (star struck and lustful). Her eyes never close even as their tongues slide together warm rough and painfully real.
He takes her outside to fuck her. Words were not needed in explanation (he has so many words). There is no way he could touch her any further inside the only piece of home he has left. He finds himself weeping as he pushes into her. Her legs wrapped around him and her back against the brick wall of the ally. He can't remember why he cries or even how they came to this place. He is losing time (like he loses everything else) and yet time is everything. The very seconds ache as he holds himself deadly still deep inside her as if to punish himself.
This is not right, he controls time itself, the very fabric of the universe. He has seen worlds end and begin, the diversity of millions of different life forms, travelled back to moments of greatness. Nonetheless time had always defeated him. It was his one constant companion travelling besides him wherever he ventured. Constantly reminding him that they all grow old, wither and die while he dances on.
His release comes quickly but it will never be enough. Her panting breath is like a metronome close to his ear. The wind howls wet through the narrow gab between the two buildings (he idly wonders if they are still on earth) causing goosebumps on bear flesh. Bodies pull closer as the wind moaning through the cracks in the walls. He thinks, maybe, it could blow right through them, whistling through the hollow places, carrying away everything but frail skin, muscle and bone. It is a beautifully fragile illusion but time will always tell.