Written for iwantthatspacesuitbackinonepiece on tumblr, who requested a "twelve/rose thing"; *shrugs* I tried.
He’s brand new.
He knows that much.
Doesn’t know much else.
Clara’s been lovely, though. Worried, without a doubt, but lovely. Little bit mother hen her, fretting over the fact he doesn’t know what’s going on. Not happy about the crash landing either. Still, they survived.
She’s asleep now. Tired little thing. Tried to put him to bed too. He’s wide awake, though. She did manage to get him to promise not leave the ship. That’s fine; plenty to keep him busy in here.
It’s all so new, even though it really isn’t. At least, not if what Clara has to say is true. It’s his. Been his home for centuries, apparently.
He’s amused himself for hours, walking the long halls that seem to never end. The twists and turns taking him to all manner of rooms. Pools and libraries, squash courts and media centers, kitchens and bathrooms, workshops and boot cupboards, art galleries and gardens — and one strangely dedicated to flavored dental floss — it just keeps going. If he lives for centuries more, he may never find an end to it all.
And none of it is familiar.
Not a thing.
Oh, well. You can’t miss what you can’t remember. Maybe it will come back, maybe it won’t. Clara will try to help him recall it all, no doubt.
Speaking of Clara, she’ll be awake soon — doesn’t know how he knows, but he does — best go back to find her. The hall that seems to house all the bedrooms shouldn’t be too hard to find. Oddly enough, it just sort of appears when he turns a corner that he was sure lead somewhere else. He’ll have to ask about that.
He trails his way down the long hall, glancing around as he goes. It’s rather unremarkable, this corridor; every door the same, save for the lit up threshold of Clara’s at the far end.
There’s a door that wasn’t there a moment ago.
It’s just at the edge of his peripheral vision, but vanishes when he looks directly at it. Fascinating. Nothing dramatic happens when he brushes his hand over the blank stretch of wall and he’s disappointed, until he realizes — he can feel it.
The door is there.
A moment’s excited exploration leads his hands to the knob; who knows what interesting things he will find. Something truly incredible must be hidden behind this invisible door. Perhaps, this is his room!
It’s not what he expects.
Sure, it isn’t generically white like the unused bedrooms; this one looks very much lived in - if the mess is anything to go by. He very much doubts it’s his though, based on the bras and makeup, and other feminine articles lying around. Unless, of course, he has a hobby of dressing as a woman; doubtful, that.
He takes a breath, intending to heave a sigh of disappointment, and stops.
The smell of sunshine and fleece, of makeup and peroxide, of chips and denim. It reminds him of smiles and warm hands, of embraces and laughter, of pink and yellow. And his eyes begin to sting as he remembers one thing, just one thing.