Anything but Ordinary
Summary - Self-explainatory I think. Directly post-fade during Doomsday.
She was ordinary.
Her hair was ordinary. Dyed, never staying where she painstakingly styled it every morning.
She wore her makeup ordinary. Blush, lipstick, foundation. Not enough, too much, depending on which culture you asked.
She smelled ordinary. Perfume, the cheap, generic kind you find in a Tescos aisle, always seemed to follow her.
She dressed ordinary. Anywhere you went in her century, you found others dressed the same. There was nothing to set her apart.
She acted ordinary. She laughed and cried and wrinkled her nose at oddities, just as anyone would do.
Her room was ordinary. The door was just another door in the hall, the furnishings all the same. The table held photos, a journal, souveniers from places she'd visited.
She was ordinary. Just another human, another friend, another companion. There had been others before her, and there would be others beyond her.
As a single, shining tear drifted it's way down his cheek, he pulled in a ragged breath, and bowed his head.
She was anything but ordinary.