for charloft: Have you ever had to reevaluate your life?
You're far too comfortable to move.
Not yet.
Sure, your Mum tells you that you should buy a larger flat, or a house, and make it perfect for yourself and Tom. That's what couples do, that's what she and your Dad did, that's what Leo and his girlfriend would do if his girlfriend would just be like any normal girl and marry him.
But your flat is safe. You can stand by the side window and know with absolute certainty that if someone was shooting at you outside, you could duck under the window and hide. And your front door has all the locks you've installed, and your bedroom door sticks just enough that only you and Tom can push it open without too much effort. You know the handle of the door and you know how to shift your arm and throw your weight into it, so you know without doubt that your bedroom is safe.
Your home is safe. Your carpet is plush and soft beneath your feet and the closeness of the walls is a tight, comforting feeling. It's not vast, like the TARDIS, or the world.
And what about Nameless? You ask your mother. You can't just tell him to leave, he's got nowhere to go!
What about him? Your mother demands back. He's not your husband, he's not even really a person. He's certainly not good for you, like Tom is.
He's my friend, you reply. There's a note to your voice that implies, to your ever-so-nosy-mother, that he's just your friend. Sure, in the heat of a very tense moment you and he have shared an idiotic kiss, but it was nothing Tom can't forgive. When you tell him. Which will be soon.
Just not yet.
And no, the bedroom Nameless is in at the moment wouldn't really make a good nursery, but you're not married yet, much less ready for children. What would you do with them, anyway? It's not as if you have time to take care of them. And Tom, well, Tom's a constant but absent presence in your life. He isn't ready to be a steady parent. Tom might tell you he is, but he isn't. He isn't.
The world like you know it isn't the sort you want to bring a child into, either.
Your father tells you that you need to settle down. Which is something, coming from him. You're not entirely sure what happened up on the Valiant with him, but suddenly things like flashy cars and young, leggy blondes aren't interesting at all. He says he knows what's important, now. His family.
You tell him you've always known that. That's why you're here.
He asks why you're not just settling down, then. Why are you waiting?
Your original date for the wedding was last week, but you've postponed it for a few more months. Not enough time to plan everything. And you want to make sure you have the perfect honeymoon, you say. And you'll be ready in a few months for the perfect wedding. You will.
Just not yet.
Tom is disappointed, but he reschedules another trip down to Africa, the one he'd have missed if you both went on honeymoon. You expected this. Always constant and absent, Tom.
Before he boards the plane, Tom tells you that you haven't let the Doctor go yet. You think that yes, yes you have let him go. You didn't call him during your last crisis and you won't call him during the next. You're better than that, now.
And the Doctor? The Doctor doesn't call, either. Oh, once or twice, a quick few words to see how his duplicate is holding up. Not burning down any buildings, is he?
He's fine, you say with a little edge to your voice. And he's not just a duplicate, he's his own person.
Picked out a name yet? The Doctor asks.
No, and he doesn't need one.
No need to be so defensive.
I'm not being defensive.
I think you are.
Go back to Rose. Those of us who stay behind, we're fine. You add in the "we" because the Doctor hasn't even bothered to ask how you are. It's not exactly hard to move on past that. You've even considered blocking his number, not answering when he calls. And you will, one day.
Just not yet.
Something might happen.
Something does.
You haven't got children in UNIT headquarters, you don't realize what's going on until it's already happening.
You don't call the Doctor. Not yet.
They say they're coming. They start saying numbers, politicians start making plans. You sit in on the council meetings and argue on behalf of the Earth. The politicians don't want to hand over control to UNIT. You struggle, they win.
You don't call the Doctor. Not yet.
Millions of children need to be sacrificed. Tom calls. Help him, they're taking the children in the village. Leo calls. Help him, they're taking his son. Nameless calls and asks how you open your bedroom door; he wants to borrow a CD. This flat is a bloody fortress, no, he has no idea what's going on.
You call the Doctor. The phone rings. He doesn't pick up. He's probably disgusted with how the people of Earth are behaving. Riots on the street. The police struggle with the people, and you and UNIT struggle with the aliens.
Something happens, no one is sure what, but the children scream and the aliens are suddenly, impossibly gone. Tom calls, the children are being returned. Leo calls, the family is getting together to celebrate having Boxer back. Torchwood Three calls, have you seen Jack Harkness? The Doctor calls, sorry, he left his mobile on the TARDIS. What's up?
You hang up.
It's been a week since you've had a good night's sleep. You go back to your home, but the door has been knocked in. So much for a fortress. But nothing's been looted, except the food cabinets. You wedge open the door to your bedroom and find twenty children sleeping on the floor and on your bed, safe in the impenetrable room.
Is it over? they ask. The man told them they had to be very quiet while he took care of the police officers outside, but then he never came back.
You pick Nameless up from the police station. It takes four hours; there are so many people who fought back. Nameless is exhausted and bruised and his right eye has swollen up to the size of an apple.
Yeah, but you should see the other guy, he says. He winces as you examine his obviously broken wrist.
Guys, you correct.
Yeah, you should see them. Really...big guys. I think that's them in the uniforms over there.
The hospital is full, so you make him a splint back at your place and sterilize a razor to split his eye and drain the fluid. He sits remarkably still, for him, but you don’t doubt it's because he's exhausted.
Were they safe? he asks, quietly. The kids here.
A little hungry and very scared, you tell him. But yeah, they stayed safe.
Good. He sucks in a breath as the extra fluid drips down the side of his face. You dab it gently with a ball of cotton and bandage up his other wounds.
He apologizes for the front door and promises to fix it.
Don't worry about it, you say. Mum keeps telling me I should move anyway.
Oh, do you have to? he asks. It's nice here. Everything you could want, even a safehold for children.
Yeah, you reply, but what about Tom? What about when you have children of your own?
The thought has apparently never occurred to him, because he doesn't reply. You finish up, then pack everything up into your medical kit, each little object in its correct place. Then, you sit on the couch next to him and sigh.
He leans a little into you. You lean a little into him. He's a constant, too. A constant frustration, a constant worry. But a constant. You sigh, then lay your head gently on his shoulder.
It's been a hell of a week. Hell of a year, really.
And it can't stay like this forever.
But you're far too comfortable to move.
Not yet.
Muse: Martha Jones, MD
Fandom:Doctor Who
Word Count:1,387
based on RP with handysparehand
Not yet.
Sure, your Mum tells you that you should buy a larger flat, or a house, and make it perfect for yourself and Tom. That's what couples do, that's what she and your Dad did, that's what Leo and his girlfriend would do if his girlfriend would just be like any normal girl and marry him.
But your flat is safe. You can stand by the side window and know with absolute certainty that if someone was shooting at you outside, you could duck under the window and hide. And your front door has all the locks you've installed, and your bedroom door sticks just enough that only you and Tom can push it open without too much effort. You know the handle of the door and you know how to shift your arm and throw your weight into it, so you know without doubt that your bedroom is safe.
Your home is safe. Your carpet is plush and soft beneath your feet and the closeness of the walls is a tight, comforting feeling. It's not vast, like the TARDIS, or the world.
And what about Nameless? You ask your mother. You can't just tell him to leave, he's got nowhere to go!
What about him? Your mother demands back. He's not your husband, he's not even really a person. He's certainly not good for you, like Tom is.
He's my friend, you reply. There's a note to your voice that implies, to your ever-so-nosy-mother, that he's just your friend. Sure, in the heat of a very tense moment you and he have shared an idiotic kiss, but it was nothing Tom can't forgive. When you tell him. Which will be soon.
Just not yet.
And no, the bedroom Nameless is in at the moment wouldn't really make a good nursery, but you're not married yet, much less ready for children. What would you do with them, anyway? It's not as if you have time to take care of them. And Tom, well, Tom's a constant but absent presence in your life. He isn't ready to be a steady parent. Tom might tell you he is, but he isn't. He isn't.
The world like you know it isn't the sort you want to bring a child into, either.
Your father tells you that you need to settle down. Which is something, coming from him. You're not entirely sure what happened up on the Valiant with him, but suddenly things like flashy cars and young, leggy blondes aren't interesting at all. He says he knows what's important, now. His family.
You tell him you've always known that. That's why you're here.
He asks why you're not just settling down, then. Why are you waiting?
Your original date for the wedding was last week, but you've postponed it for a few more months. Not enough time to plan everything. And you want to make sure you have the perfect honeymoon, you say. And you'll be ready in a few months for the perfect wedding. You will.
Just not yet.
Tom is disappointed, but he reschedules another trip down to Africa, the one he'd have missed if you both went on honeymoon. You expected this. Always constant and absent, Tom.
Before he boards the plane, Tom tells you that you haven't let the Doctor go yet. You think that yes, yes you have let him go. You didn't call him during your last crisis and you won't call him during the next. You're better than that, now.
And the Doctor? The Doctor doesn't call, either. Oh, once or twice, a quick few words to see how his duplicate is holding up. Not burning down any buildings, is he?
He's fine, you say with a little edge to your voice. And he's not just a duplicate, he's his own person.
Picked out a name yet? The Doctor asks.
No, and he doesn't need one.
No need to be so defensive.
I'm not being defensive.
I think you are.
Go back to Rose. Those of us who stay behind, we're fine. You add in the "we" because the Doctor hasn't even bothered to ask how you are. It's not exactly hard to move on past that. You've even considered blocking his number, not answering when he calls. And you will, one day.
Just not yet.
Something might happen.
Something does.
You haven't got children in UNIT headquarters, you don't realize what's going on until it's already happening.
You don't call the Doctor. Not yet.
They say they're coming. They start saying numbers, politicians start making plans. You sit in on the council meetings and argue on behalf of the Earth. The politicians don't want to hand over control to UNIT. You struggle, they win.
You don't call the Doctor. Not yet.
Millions of children need to be sacrificed. Tom calls. Help him, they're taking the children in the village. Leo calls. Help him, they're taking his son. Nameless calls and asks how you open your bedroom door; he wants to borrow a CD. This flat is a bloody fortress, no, he has no idea what's going on.
You call the Doctor. The phone rings. He doesn't pick up. He's probably disgusted with how the people of Earth are behaving. Riots on the street. The police struggle with the people, and you and UNIT struggle with the aliens.
Something happens, no one is sure what, but the children scream and the aliens are suddenly, impossibly gone. Tom calls, the children are being returned. Leo calls, the family is getting together to celebrate having Boxer back. Torchwood Three calls, have you seen Jack Harkness? The Doctor calls, sorry, he left his mobile on the TARDIS. What's up?
You hang up.
It's been a week since you've had a good night's sleep. You go back to your home, but the door has been knocked in. So much for a fortress. But nothing's been looted, except the food cabinets. You wedge open the door to your bedroom and find twenty children sleeping on the floor and on your bed, safe in the impenetrable room.
Is it over? they ask. The man told them they had to be very quiet while he took care of the police officers outside, but then he never came back.
You pick Nameless up from the police station. It takes four hours; there are so many people who fought back. Nameless is exhausted and bruised and his right eye has swollen up to the size of an apple.
Yeah, but you should see the other guy, he says. He winces as you examine his obviously broken wrist.
Guys, you correct.
Yeah, you should see them. Really...big guys. I think that's them in the uniforms over there.
The hospital is full, so you make him a splint back at your place and sterilize a razor to split his eye and drain the fluid. He sits remarkably still, for him, but you don’t doubt it's because he's exhausted.
Were they safe? he asks, quietly. The kids here.
A little hungry and very scared, you tell him. But yeah, they stayed safe.
Good. He sucks in a breath as the extra fluid drips down the side of his face. You dab it gently with a ball of cotton and bandage up his other wounds.
He apologizes for the front door and promises to fix it.
Don't worry about it, you say. Mum keeps telling me I should move anyway.
Oh, do you have to? he asks. It's nice here. Everything you could want, even a safehold for children.
Yeah, you reply, but what about Tom? What about when you have children of your own?
The thought has apparently never occurred to him, because he doesn't reply. You finish up, then pack everything up into your medical kit, each little object in its correct place. Then, you sit on the couch next to him and sigh.
He leans a little into you. You lean a little into him. He's a constant, too. A constant frustration, a constant worry. But a constant. You sigh, then lay your head gently on his shoulder.
It's been a hell of a week. Hell of a year, really.
And it can't stay like this forever.
But you're far too comfortable to move.
Not yet.
Muse: Martha Jones, MD
Fandom:Doctor Who
Word Count:1,387
based on RP with handysparehand