Comment Ficlets - Lost, Doctor Who - Various Pairings
Title: Preparation
Pairing: Desmond/Boone
Rating: R
Word count: 680
It's the day after he heard the knocking from above that the ghost appears: pretty and smirking and so very, very unreal. Desmond doesn't get up when he sees him. He doesn't reach for a gun. He stays sitting on the hatch's exercise bike and stares at the young man leaning in the doorway to the computer room. His full lips are quirked, his eyes a pale blue, while his hands are tucked casually into his jeans' pockets. He watches at Desmond with a challenging arch to his eyebrows - looking for something, asking for something, it's hard to tell.
Desmond stops cycling. "You're not real," he says eventually.
A flicker, a fragment, a figment.
Boone smiles. "Not quite, Hume."
He makes himself at home, lounging in Desmond's favourite chair, before he even tell him his name.
*
He comes back from time to time, flitting in and out of the hatch. He won't tell Desmond why he's here. He won't tell him where he goes. He won't tell him anything - he only smiles cryptically and says - you've got to be ready, Hume. For what's to come, for what you're going to see… It won't be long now.
Desmond doesn't like the sound of that. It makes his throat feel dry and he wants to barricade himself inside. No escape. No replacement. No future - nothing but pressing the damn buttons, over and over and over.
"Do you ever just let it go?" Boone asks, watching the counter. "Ever just let it run down and see what'll happen?"
Desmond doesn't look up from his position at the computer, typing in the numbers he knows so well by now. "I know what'll happen," he answers.
He wishes he didn't.
*
"Tomorrow," Boone tells him when he appears in his bedroom. He sits at the foot of the bed, hair hanging in his eyes. It's grown since the last time Desmond saw him. It's only been a few days but it's really grown. Boone's cheeks are flushed. "They're coming tomorrow."
"What's that mean?" Desmond asks, sitting up. The bed-sheets pool by his waist. "Who's coming?"
Boone smiles, a smirking twinkle in his eyes. He won't answer, Desmond knows he won't. He knows he's talking to a ghost but when he reaches out to grab Boone's wrist it feels real, solid and warm. "Will you just bloody answer me for once?" he asks.
Those pretty blue eyes of Boone's look down at the grip on his wrist - Desmond is holding on so tightly that it must hurt and he can feel his nails digging into Boone's skin. "Careful," Boone warns. "You don't want to piss me off, Hume."
"My name's Desmond," he corrects. He's wanted to correct him ever since Boone turned up. "Not Hume. Desmond."
Boone smirks - he's always smirking, never smiling, like he's laughing at a joke Desmond has no insight on - and the finger tips from his other hand trail over Desmond's jaw, like a brush of wind on the stubble. "I'll call you whatever I want," he says, just because he can.
It's not a surprise when he kisses him. The coldness is. Boone feels - tastes, smells - like death. It's suffocating, choking, but Desmond clings on tightly anyway. Hands, mouth, teeth, an angry, desperate clash. Boone calls him Hume when he comes, a white-hot splatter over Desmond's skin, and Desmond doesn't think to correct him. He gasps, swears, and screws his eyes shut: he didn't think of Penny, he realises with a sick jolt when he lies alone afterwards. Not once.
*
The explosion makes the world shake the following night. Desmond isn't ready - you can't take a hallucination's warning seriously - and his breath comes in short, uncertain pants. "Boone?" he calls. "Boone."
The ghost doesn't come. Desmond looks above him and tries to imagine the 'them' that Boone had been talking about. His mind conjures images of the illness, of QUARANTINE, of what he'd done to Kelvin…
He rushes to the gun room.
Boone wanted him to be ready - and with that warm metal in his hands he will be.
Title: The Library
Pairing: pre-Sawyer/Claire
Rating: PG
Word count: 554
He's arranging his stash when she approaches him - tucking his collection of books into a neat line, spine-up in one of the suitcases. He could waste some time later putting it into alphabetical order, a real little library. Not that it'd be too impressive, just a handful of books by a tiny collection of authors, but it's all they've got on this damn island. He'll be the most powerful librarian in the world.
"Excuse me?" she asks - blonde and Australian and pregnant. If he looks around the bump he can see she's beautiful, but he's been avoiding her since the crash. She looks too fragile, like one wrong move and she'll collapse. He'll leave looking after her to the doc and the desperate rock star: that's not the kind of responsibility he'd go looking for. "You're Sawyer, right?"
He pauses for a second and wonders if it's worth trying to deny it. She'll find out eventually. "Sure am, princess."
"I'm Claire. Hi." She waves, small, sweet and innocent. It's a battle not to wave back, but he manages to keep smirking. "Um. I lost something. In the crash."
"That's a real shame. Think we all did."
"Kate told me that I should ask you about it…"
Kate. Of course. Sawyer's smile becomes a little more genuine when he thinks that she must've been talking about him. Judging by how giddy and nervous Claire seems right now, it's hard to tell if good or bad things have been said. "Go ahead and ask. No promises I'll help."
"My diary? It was in my bag, but now I can't find it. I mean, it's not important. Not really - we're stuck on a desert island, there are way more important things to think about than my diary but… If you find it, can you let me know?"
Sawyer looks down to his collection of books. If he hands them out freely, willingly, then the stash will be depleted and empty by the end of the week. He can a see a diary there, near the end - not necessarily hers, but she could still probably write in it where it left off. It's not in his nature to help. He doesn't want them to start thinking he's a nice guy.
He reaches for the diary anyway, pulls it out of the stack and holds it out for her. "Here. Don't tell anyone you got it from me, understand?"
Her face lights up and her smile is brighter than the island's sun. She takes it from him, flipping through the pages. "Thank you," she says, looking up at him. Her eyes are the colour of birthday balloons.
He tries to tell himself that he's still smirking, but he's pretty sure it's a full-blown, no holds barred smile by now. "No worries," he says. "It's a one-time deal, though. I ain't gonna hand out any more freebies."
She rolls her eyes at him, indulgent and forgiving, and thanks him again before she turns to walk away. Sawyer's eyes trail her path: he gets the feeling he might've just made a friend on this beach, the one thing he's been trying his hardest not to do. Getting attached would be foolish.
It's no way to run a library - but he thinks he'll let Claire, and just Claire, waive the late fees.
Title: Halloween
Pairing: Sawyer/Kevin
Rating: R
Word count: 611
Considering their costumes it seems ridiculous that they end up here, together. Years down the line Sawyer will blame the hat and say it seduced him with its damn tassels. Kevin will blame Sawyer's mask - and will earn a playfully irritated swat to the arm whenever he does - but on the night it's got nothing to do with that. Kevin hardly notices what it is that Sawyer's dressed up as until he's struggling to remove his clothes and while Sawyer steals Kevin's hat afterwards that has nothing to do with why they end up here.
"I don't-" Kevin murmurs, but he can only pause and groan when Sawyer's hand brushes over his groin. "I don't usually do this." His hand scrambles for the door handle to the bedroom behind him. The music from downstairs is loud. He doesn't even know why Kate invited him: he especially doesn't know why he agreed to come and see her in her new domestic bliss. They're supposed to be friends, he supposes - she's apologised a thousand times for what she did to him, for how it ended. A thousand and one wouldn't make it right, but he's been trying to forgive her.
"You don't?" Sawyer whispers. They crash into the bedroom and Kevin finds himself turned around and smashed against the door, pinned there by Sawyer's black-clothed body. He can only see startling blue eyes through the gap in Sawyer's mask. Could be anyone. A soft thrill chases up Kevin's spine at the thought. "Good thing I've got experience. I'd consider myself something of an expert."
Kevin raises an eyebrow, and even through the blind haze of lust he can manage a smile. "Not the kind of 'expert' that's gonna steal my wallet and ask me to pay? I'm not too into that." He wonders if he'd be able to arrest this man if he had to. He wonders if Sawyer would be able to charm him into putting down his handcuffs.
Sawyer laughs - chuckles, a low-down sound that rumbles against Kevin's neck and leaves heat spreading down through his body - and shakes his head. "Not that kind of expert, no."
Kevin wishes for some more light in this room, something other than the moonlight creeping under the curtains. "Can I take your mask off?" he asks.
"Can I keep your hat?" Sawyer counters.
Ridiculous and pointless and Kevin doesn't do this, Kevin isn't this kind of guy. He's had exactly one relationship since 'Monica' left him and that crashed and burned within two months. He's not out for heartbreak and he hasn't had sex in over three years. He feels out of his depth and the sharks are circling. He'd swear his voice shakes when he smiles and tries to sound normal. "That sounds like a mighty fine trade."
His hands fumble with the ninja's mask and the second Sawyer is free from it their mouths clash, hungry and demanding. His pirate's hat falls forgotten to the floor. The door behind his back is hard and painful but he can only cling onto Sawyer tightly: the worries about what they're doing, why they're doing it, why Sawyer's after him fade away. He lets Sawyer lead him over to the bed - he bounces on the mattress for a moment when he throws him down and it's so damn hard not to laugh - and the feel of Sawyer's skin, hot and smooth, is the best sensation he's had in years.
They shed clothes, never breaking contact for more than a few seconds. For the first time in years, they're both really smiling - Kevin closes his eyes when Sawyer kisses him and surrenders to the future.
Title: In The Middle of the Jungle
Pairing: Claire/Juliet
Rating: NC-17
Word count:
Claire cries when you kiss her, but she doesn't ask you to stop. She isn't running any more, and while you can feel hot tears running like train tracks over her cheeks she clings to you like she'd stop breathing if you pulled away. You're taking advantage, or maybe she is. You both are - taking advantage of the raging emptiness.
You need to take her back to the others. She's a grieving woman pretending to be strong: you know what that's like. The longing for Goodwin still wakes you up some nights, like a stab wound in your chest. Her grief is fresh. Stronger.
"Juliet," she whispers against your lips and you know you're not going anywhere. Her hair feels soft under your hands. "Please. Please, Juliet…"
Her voice breaks and chokes. You know you can't fix this, just as no one can fix you. You can't bring him back. You can't even make her feel better - but you can make her forget, for a moment.
"Turn around," you tell her, whispering in the jungle. There are others searching for her too, Sawyer, Miles, Charlotte. They might find you here and it isn't something you'd want her to have to explain to them. You'll be quick.
She turns around and you let her stand and rest against you. Her back rests against your breasts; she doesn't weigh anything at all and you move one arm around her. Your lips find the smooth, pale curve of her neck and brush against it. She tastes of rainwater. "Juliet," she whispers again. You want to respond but you can't find any words.
Your hand finds the button on her jeans and undoes it, pulls down the zip as well. Slipping inside her underwear you find her slick, wet. Your fingers trace her gently, learn every line and dip as she trembles and whispers your name over and over. Her eyes close and you hold onto her tightly.
Her body feels amazingly hot when you push two fingers into her. A soft moan - quiet and gentle - tumbles unbidden from her lips. You hush her and your hand on her stomach strokes over her skin as your fingers inside her mimic similar movements. You find her clit with your thumb and her breath shudders and stalls. Your thumb brushes, rubs, strokes and you feel her tighten around you: she does not come screaming, moaning or yelling obscenities. Instead she is nearly silent, biting at her bottom lip hard enough that you're certain it must hurt. You kiss the back of her neck through her hair and your fingers inside her move even as she clenches and twitches around your digits.
Her hand is shaking. "Do you feel better?" you ask. She looks beautiful, with a red-cheeked tinge and with her breath coming in sweat-soaked gasps.
She nods and you pull away, knowing that you'll need to wash your hands before you return to the barracks. "I'm okay," she whispers. She doesn't sound it and you know she isn't alright, not really - because you're not alright either, but you sleepwalk on.
You want to wake her up from her grief-encased daze, but you know she needs time. "Let's go home, Claire," you say. The beach is a long way from 'home' for either of you, but it's the closest you've got, now. Claire tucks her hair behind her ear and doesn't catch your eye as you both start walking: you can only hope that she knows that you'll always be here.
Title: New Shoes
Characters: Tenth Doctor, Donna
Rating: PG
Word count: 268
He didn't realise that there was blood on his shoes until they'd made it back to the TARDIS. He stared down at the rusty colour illuminated by the bright lights of his ship - Donna was silent behind him, for once. He didn't speak either. Just stared at that spot. It was right over his big toe, a large splotch that had already dried.
A whole species wiped out, an entire planet, and all that was left was a little scrap of blood on his shoe.
There was a redundant rage in his veins, the limitless desire to avenge and destroy. He could see the entire history of his own race reflected in that spot - the Time Lords wiped out just like the aliens he'd failed to save back there. History repeated itself. The same stories repeated over and over. You learnt that well enough once you'd spent even a few weeks travelling.
Donna stepped forward and rested a hand on his shoulder. She didn't tell him it was alright. She didn't tell him it was okay. She didn't say she was sorry - she didn't need to. She stared at that spot and rested against his arm: warm, understanding and there. She didn't need to do anything more than that.
"C'mon," she said eventually, clearing her throat. She jerked him from his broken daze, grabbed his hand, pulled him after her. "I know you've got a closet hidden somewhere in all these rooms."
New shoes, he thought with a shaken smile, though he wouldn't get rid of these ones. Mistakes - huge, impossible, fatal mistakes - couldn't be solved that easily.
Pairing: Desmond/Boone
Rating: R
Word count: 680
It's the day after he heard the knocking from above that the ghost appears: pretty and smirking and so very, very unreal. Desmond doesn't get up when he sees him. He doesn't reach for a gun. He stays sitting on the hatch's exercise bike and stares at the young man leaning in the doorway to the computer room. His full lips are quirked, his eyes a pale blue, while his hands are tucked casually into his jeans' pockets. He watches at Desmond with a challenging arch to his eyebrows - looking for something, asking for something, it's hard to tell.
Desmond stops cycling. "You're not real," he says eventually.
A flicker, a fragment, a figment.
Boone smiles. "Not quite, Hume."
He makes himself at home, lounging in Desmond's favourite chair, before he even tell him his name.
*
He comes back from time to time, flitting in and out of the hatch. He won't tell Desmond why he's here. He won't tell him where he goes. He won't tell him anything - he only smiles cryptically and says - you've got to be ready, Hume. For what's to come, for what you're going to see… It won't be long now.
Desmond doesn't like the sound of that. It makes his throat feel dry and he wants to barricade himself inside. No escape. No replacement. No future - nothing but pressing the damn buttons, over and over and over.
"Do you ever just let it go?" Boone asks, watching the counter. "Ever just let it run down and see what'll happen?"
Desmond doesn't look up from his position at the computer, typing in the numbers he knows so well by now. "I know what'll happen," he answers.
He wishes he didn't.
*
"Tomorrow," Boone tells him when he appears in his bedroom. He sits at the foot of the bed, hair hanging in his eyes. It's grown since the last time Desmond saw him. It's only been a few days but it's really grown. Boone's cheeks are flushed. "They're coming tomorrow."
"What's that mean?" Desmond asks, sitting up. The bed-sheets pool by his waist. "Who's coming?"
Boone smiles, a smirking twinkle in his eyes. He won't answer, Desmond knows he won't. He knows he's talking to a ghost but when he reaches out to grab Boone's wrist it feels real, solid and warm. "Will you just bloody answer me for once?" he asks.
Those pretty blue eyes of Boone's look down at the grip on his wrist - Desmond is holding on so tightly that it must hurt and he can feel his nails digging into Boone's skin. "Careful," Boone warns. "You don't want to piss me off, Hume."
"My name's Desmond," he corrects. He's wanted to correct him ever since Boone turned up. "Not Hume. Desmond."
Boone smirks - he's always smirking, never smiling, like he's laughing at a joke Desmond has no insight on - and the finger tips from his other hand trail over Desmond's jaw, like a brush of wind on the stubble. "I'll call you whatever I want," he says, just because he can.
It's not a surprise when he kisses him. The coldness is. Boone feels - tastes, smells - like death. It's suffocating, choking, but Desmond clings on tightly anyway. Hands, mouth, teeth, an angry, desperate clash. Boone calls him Hume when he comes, a white-hot splatter over Desmond's skin, and Desmond doesn't think to correct him. He gasps, swears, and screws his eyes shut: he didn't think of Penny, he realises with a sick jolt when he lies alone afterwards. Not once.
*
The explosion makes the world shake the following night. Desmond isn't ready - you can't take a hallucination's warning seriously - and his breath comes in short, uncertain pants. "Boone?" he calls. "Boone."
The ghost doesn't come. Desmond looks above him and tries to imagine the 'them' that Boone had been talking about. His mind conjures images of the illness, of QUARANTINE, of what he'd done to Kelvin…
He rushes to the gun room.
Boone wanted him to be ready - and with that warm metal in his hands he will be.
Title: The Library
Pairing: pre-Sawyer/Claire
Rating: PG
Word count: 554
He's arranging his stash when she approaches him - tucking his collection of books into a neat line, spine-up in one of the suitcases. He could waste some time later putting it into alphabetical order, a real little library. Not that it'd be too impressive, just a handful of books by a tiny collection of authors, but it's all they've got on this damn island. He'll be the most powerful librarian in the world.
"Excuse me?" she asks - blonde and Australian and pregnant. If he looks around the bump he can see she's beautiful, but he's been avoiding her since the crash. She looks too fragile, like one wrong move and she'll collapse. He'll leave looking after her to the doc and the desperate rock star: that's not the kind of responsibility he'd go looking for. "You're Sawyer, right?"
He pauses for a second and wonders if it's worth trying to deny it. She'll find out eventually. "Sure am, princess."
"I'm Claire. Hi." She waves, small, sweet and innocent. It's a battle not to wave back, but he manages to keep smirking. "Um. I lost something. In the crash."
"That's a real shame. Think we all did."
"Kate told me that I should ask you about it…"
Kate. Of course. Sawyer's smile becomes a little more genuine when he thinks that she must've been talking about him. Judging by how giddy and nervous Claire seems right now, it's hard to tell if good or bad things have been said. "Go ahead and ask. No promises I'll help."
"My diary? It was in my bag, but now I can't find it. I mean, it's not important. Not really - we're stuck on a desert island, there are way more important things to think about than my diary but… If you find it, can you let me know?"
Sawyer looks down to his collection of books. If he hands them out freely, willingly, then the stash will be depleted and empty by the end of the week. He can a see a diary there, near the end - not necessarily hers, but she could still probably write in it where it left off. It's not in his nature to help. He doesn't want them to start thinking he's a nice guy.
He reaches for the diary anyway, pulls it out of the stack and holds it out for her. "Here. Don't tell anyone you got it from me, understand?"
Her face lights up and her smile is brighter than the island's sun. She takes it from him, flipping through the pages. "Thank you," she says, looking up at him. Her eyes are the colour of birthday balloons.
He tries to tell himself that he's still smirking, but he's pretty sure it's a full-blown, no holds barred smile by now. "No worries," he says. "It's a one-time deal, though. I ain't gonna hand out any more freebies."
She rolls her eyes at him, indulgent and forgiving, and thanks him again before she turns to walk away. Sawyer's eyes trail her path: he gets the feeling he might've just made a friend on this beach, the one thing he's been trying his hardest not to do. Getting attached would be foolish.
It's no way to run a library - but he thinks he'll let Claire, and just Claire, waive the late fees.
Title: Halloween
Pairing: Sawyer/Kevin
Rating: R
Word count: 611
Considering their costumes it seems ridiculous that they end up here, together. Years down the line Sawyer will blame the hat and say it seduced him with its damn tassels. Kevin will blame Sawyer's mask - and will earn a playfully irritated swat to the arm whenever he does - but on the night it's got nothing to do with that. Kevin hardly notices what it is that Sawyer's dressed up as until he's struggling to remove his clothes and while Sawyer steals Kevin's hat afterwards that has nothing to do with why they end up here.
"I don't-" Kevin murmurs, but he can only pause and groan when Sawyer's hand brushes over his groin. "I don't usually do this." His hand scrambles for the door handle to the bedroom behind him. The music from downstairs is loud. He doesn't even know why Kate invited him: he especially doesn't know why he agreed to come and see her in her new domestic bliss. They're supposed to be friends, he supposes - she's apologised a thousand times for what she did to him, for how it ended. A thousand and one wouldn't make it right, but he's been trying to forgive her.
"You don't?" Sawyer whispers. They crash into the bedroom and Kevin finds himself turned around and smashed against the door, pinned there by Sawyer's black-clothed body. He can only see startling blue eyes through the gap in Sawyer's mask. Could be anyone. A soft thrill chases up Kevin's spine at the thought. "Good thing I've got experience. I'd consider myself something of an expert."
Kevin raises an eyebrow, and even through the blind haze of lust he can manage a smile. "Not the kind of 'expert' that's gonna steal my wallet and ask me to pay? I'm not too into that." He wonders if he'd be able to arrest this man if he had to. He wonders if Sawyer would be able to charm him into putting down his handcuffs.
Sawyer laughs - chuckles, a low-down sound that rumbles against Kevin's neck and leaves heat spreading down through his body - and shakes his head. "Not that kind of expert, no."
Kevin wishes for some more light in this room, something other than the moonlight creeping under the curtains. "Can I take your mask off?" he asks.
"Can I keep your hat?" Sawyer counters.
Ridiculous and pointless and Kevin doesn't do this, Kevin isn't this kind of guy. He's had exactly one relationship since 'Monica' left him and that crashed and burned within two months. He's not out for heartbreak and he hasn't had sex in over three years. He feels out of his depth and the sharks are circling. He'd swear his voice shakes when he smiles and tries to sound normal. "That sounds like a mighty fine trade."
His hands fumble with the ninja's mask and the second Sawyer is free from it their mouths clash, hungry and demanding. His pirate's hat falls forgotten to the floor. The door behind his back is hard and painful but he can only cling onto Sawyer tightly: the worries about what they're doing, why they're doing it, why Sawyer's after him fade away. He lets Sawyer lead him over to the bed - he bounces on the mattress for a moment when he throws him down and it's so damn hard not to laugh - and the feel of Sawyer's skin, hot and smooth, is the best sensation he's had in years.
They shed clothes, never breaking contact for more than a few seconds. For the first time in years, they're both really smiling - Kevin closes his eyes when Sawyer kisses him and surrenders to the future.
Title: In The Middle of the Jungle
Pairing: Claire/Juliet
Rating: NC-17
Word count:
Claire cries when you kiss her, but she doesn't ask you to stop. She isn't running any more, and while you can feel hot tears running like train tracks over her cheeks she clings to you like she'd stop breathing if you pulled away. You're taking advantage, or maybe she is. You both are - taking advantage of the raging emptiness.
You need to take her back to the others. She's a grieving woman pretending to be strong: you know what that's like. The longing for Goodwin still wakes you up some nights, like a stab wound in your chest. Her grief is fresh. Stronger.
"Juliet," she whispers against your lips and you know you're not going anywhere. Her hair feels soft under your hands. "Please. Please, Juliet…"
Her voice breaks and chokes. You know you can't fix this, just as no one can fix you. You can't bring him back. You can't even make her feel better - but you can make her forget, for a moment.
"Turn around," you tell her, whispering in the jungle. There are others searching for her too, Sawyer, Miles, Charlotte. They might find you here and it isn't something you'd want her to have to explain to them. You'll be quick.
She turns around and you let her stand and rest against you. Her back rests against your breasts; she doesn't weigh anything at all and you move one arm around her. Your lips find the smooth, pale curve of her neck and brush against it. She tastes of rainwater. "Juliet," she whispers again. You want to respond but you can't find any words.
Your hand finds the button on her jeans and undoes it, pulls down the zip as well. Slipping inside her underwear you find her slick, wet. Your fingers trace her gently, learn every line and dip as she trembles and whispers your name over and over. Her eyes close and you hold onto her tightly.
Her body feels amazingly hot when you push two fingers into her. A soft moan - quiet and gentle - tumbles unbidden from her lips. You hush her and your hand on her stomach strokes over her skin as your fingers inside her mimic similar movements. You find her clit with your thumb and her breath shudders and stalls. Your thumb brushes, rubs, strokes and you feel her tighten around you: she does not come screaming, moaning or yelling obscenities. Instead she is nearly silent, biting at her bottom lip hard enough that you're certain it must hurt. You kiss the back of her neck through her hair and your fingers inside her move even as she clenches and twitches around your digits.
Her hand is shaking. "Do you feel better?" you ask. She looks beautiful, with a red-cheeked tinge and with her breath coming in sweat-soaked gasps.
She nods and you pull away, knowing that you'll need to wash your hands before you return to the barracks. "I'm okay," she whispers. She doesn't sound it and you know she isn't alright, not really - because you're not alright either, but you sleepwalk on.
You want to wake her up from her grief-encased daze, but you know she needs time. "Let's go home, Claire," you say. The beach is a long way from 'home' for either of you, but it's the closest you've got, now. Claire tucks her hair behind her ear and doesn't catch your eye as you both start walking: you can only hope that she knows that you'll always be here.
Title: New Shoes
Characters: Tenth Doctor, Donna
Rating: PG
Word count: 268
He didn't realise that there was blood on his shoes until they'd made it back to the TARDIS. He stared down at the rusty colour illuminated by the bright lights of his ship - Donna was silent behind him, for once. He didn't speak either. Just stared at that spot. It was right over his big toe, a large splotch that had already dried.
A whole species wiped out, an entire planet, and all that was left was a little scrap of blood on his shoe.
There was a redundant rage in his veins, the limitless desire to avenge and destroy. He could see the entire history of his own race reflected in that spot - the Time Lords wiped out just like the aliens he'd failed to save back there. History repeated itself. The same stories repeated over and over. You learnt that well enough once you'd spent even a few weeks travelling.
Donna stepped forward and rested a hand on his shoulder. She didn't tell him it was alright. She didn't tell him it was okay. She didn't say she was sorry - she didn't need to. She stared at that spot and rested against his arm: warm, understanding and there. She didn't need to do anything more than that.
"C'mon," she said eventually, clearing her throat. She jerked him from his broken daze, grabbed his hand, pulled him after her. "I know you've got a closet hidden somewhere in all these rooms."
New shoes, he thought with a shaken smile, though he wouldn't get rid of these ones. Mistakes - huge, impossible, fatal mistakes - couldn't be solved that easily.