Hello, new chapter! Yah yah! This one is in Amy's POV. :) R&R?

The color blue was different for you than it was for most people. Ordinary people, anyway. To you, blue didn't mean the wisps of blue so carefully painted to the world's skin. Nor did it mean vast waves splashing from the ocean's body, the dark hue kissing the shore ever so slightly.

To you, it meant a change from your mundane life back in that town you don't even refer to as home any longer. It meant breathing air from a place you never even knew existed, and stars tickling your toes, and him glancing at you from across the console. Or the lingering looks in those rare yet quiet moments of your travels when you would unwind. You would be buried in the nose of a book in the library, lost in your daydream, when you would catch his eyes studying you. His face being only a blur behind the leaf of the page. Written words blocking out the critical aspects of his face: the nose, the mouth, even the chin (blimey, that chin.) But never the eyes. Just a look, always that look.

It wasn't what you expected. But nothing he ever did was what you expected, was it? You learned that lesson five minutes after a magic blue box fell from the sky and into your life so many years ago. For some reason, you thought it would be some sort of longing perhaps. You can admit that you're a bit conceited, but come on; it was bound to happen sometime with those luring golden locks of yours. But that isn't what you saw at all.

If you could take what you saw in those eyes and paint the walls in the room with them, it would be blue. And you know that sounds cliché because his time machine is blue, right? And you know it so well. You've memorized that shade of blue since you were a child. The reason you say this, though, is because the look in his eyes is exactly what you beheld when you stared back at your face in the mirror. It wasn't even in your lowest moments when you caught your eyes holding such sadness. Sometimes you would catch this look in the reflection of the console while he was down below, making repairs of some sort. Sometimes he would ask you what's wrong in the middle of one of his notorious rants. He would catch you before you did and you would have to ask yourself, what is wrong?

You are magnificent, mad, impossible Amy Pond. Nothing could be wrong, could it? And if something is wrong with you then something is very wrong with him.

Your blue hero in your blue castle.

You wonder why your castle is so blue. You used to think it was because of him, and indeed, that was usually the case.

But sometimes you would pick up the paintbrush and add a stroke of blue of your own. Silently, guarded, always behind closed doors would an artist do her work.

But one time, just once, he discovered you in the act. Dribbles of paint pouring from your wrists as you smeared it against your bed sheets and night gown. He rushed over, embracing you, his anxious lips meeting your forehead repeatedly. And you cringed as you saw the same blue in his eyes, just like your eyes, your wrists, pouring out the same hue. You detested it, you detested him (but most of all you detested yourself for him seeing you like this.) Because the truth was you couldn't bear losing him again. And so you allowed him to cradle you as you let choked sobs escape your lips. For once, you were defeated. For once, you couldn't give him the happiness he so desperately needed.

So you let three bleeding hearts beat out of rhythm, out of time, because nothing related to you two was ever close to perfect.

Ordinary people would never understand what blue really means.

And even your jovial hero would never fully grasp why his precious time machine was always the same shade.

Because even sometimes you made the TARDIS blue.