SHINE
He stood before it on the rain soaked streets, the newly laid cobbles becoming islands at his feet. The noise of the city was stifled by the steel of the sky, yet he seemed impervious to its storm. He tentatively reached out to touch its surface just to confirm its presence and was surprised to find some of the paint flake onto the tips of his fingers. He rubbed the colour between them but the deluge soon washed the blue flecks to the gutter.
He hesitated as the rain bounced off the grey stones, streaming down the back of his neck to soak his cotton shirt. He took a deep breath and reached for the key, hidden like himself, in his clothes. The attached chain pooled in his hand as he closed his grip around it. He thought a while longer before placing it in the lock and opened the antiquated door.
Martha Jones looked up from the console as the man entered the TARDIS, her hand reaching for the pink handled pistol that lay just within her grasp. She watched him drink in the interior, apparently so overwhelmed that he was oblivious to her being there.
He turned slowly, letting his eyes grow accustom to the glow from the many lights embedded in the curve of the walls. Around him bronze columns, like sculptured trees, bowed and spread to the sepia glow of the domed ceiling, while draped over their Spartan branches looped thick, black cables which showed signs of countless repairs. These fed into the top of a control console, which stood like a gargantuan in the centre of the room. He took a slight step forward and smiled at the chaotic array of cosmic junk that was welded on the circular panel, antique components and alien crystals, yet he knew she was more than the sum of her parts; the TARDIS was sentient. He closed his eyes and let himself drift on the resonate mummer of her core, that part mechanical, almost human sound that made him reflect on life inside the womb.
“There are other rooms just as breath-taking.” The cultured voice broke through his reprieve and he opened his eyes to see a barrel of a gun aimed in his direction.
“Who are you and what are you doing here?” Martha kept her tone firm, even if her grip on the pistol wavered slightly.
He met her challenging stare and for a moment the mix of purpose and anxiety in her soft brown eyes reminded him of someone else; someone still in the scars of his heart. He raised his hands to show his compliance, sprinkling the floor with droplets of rain.
He swallowed, her hand twitched for an answer. He tried a disarming smile as the silk of his accented voice bridged the tension. “My name is Ianto Jones and I’m here to see Captain Jack Harkness.”