The Doctor's Room
Disclaimer: The Moff does a great job on his own (most of the time, that is).
*A/N* I read a bit of sad fanfic and I'm tired and tomorrow I have to go back to school and take an exam and I don't know how else to excuse the depressing words that I'm about to share with you. Hope you'll enjoy them anyway.
"Do you have a room, Doctor?" -Rory, The Doctor's Wife
Of course he had a room. Hello, this was his ship, it was bound to have a place for him to sleep.
It was always near the console room, no matter how often he changed the desktop and no matter how the rooms shifted elsewise. The door was so narrow and so plain he doubted any of his companions had ever even noticed it, leave alone entered. And why would they, if there were doors that only opened if you stuck out your tongue in the right angle, or imitated a cat or danced the Macarena. The TARDIS was full of exciting things and human beings had a natural curiosity that led them away from doors like his bedroom door and towards doors like the one to the kitchen that you could only open if you were hungry. Especially the human beings that embarked on his journeys.
Of course he had a room.
It was very small, and if he had to guess he'd say the walls were white. They could be cream-coloured, or egg-shell-coloured. Maybe they had the exact tone of a pebble on the beaches of Koshna, or the colour of a cloud. He had never cared to find out.
The floor was of some dark-blue-almost-black and the only things in it were Sexy's humming and a mattress with stark white sheets that were always freshly washed, not meaning they were smelling of detergent. They didn't smell of anything, they were just clean.
It didn't have a light, because it was a bedroom and the dark was not what he was scared of.
Of course he had a room.
And it lacked all sorts of adornment, personality or cosiness. Because, no matter what he'd put in there, it would always be a painful reminder of something. Even if he painted the walls in a different colour, they would be bursting with memories of long-lost friends and burning planets. And his dreams were bad enough without anything to remind him of his tormentors before he fell asleep.
Of course he had a room.
But he never took anyone there. Not ever. He didn't want them to see it, didn't want them to see the emptiness that echoed the one in his hearts no matter who was currently trying to fill them. He was scared the sterility would repel them. Nobody could know how broken he really was.
So when his friends asked about his room, he changed the topic or didn't answer and he took his wife to colourful, friendly rooms stuffed to the rim with warmth and thick, plushy carpets.
It was Sexy's and his well-kept secret: of course he had a room.
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