(no subject)
As Martha hides amidst the barrels of the tanker, watching a culture that's lasted for millennia go up in flames, she realises with a sudden astonishing clarity that today is, technically, her twenty-fourth birthday. She almost starts laughing hysterically, the laughter bubbling up in her throat as the tears spring up in her eyes; it's horribly ironic timing of the sort that only the Master could manage - though it's unintentional on his part, she's sure. But she swallows both down, leaving an unpleasant lump in her throat.
She's not really sure how old she is anymore, anyway - not after travelling with the Doctor, spending months in different time periods. She doesn't know how much her birthday matters, not when everybody she would be celebrating with is dead or imprisoned on the Valiant. She almost wishes she hadn't remembered at all - but if there's one thing Martha's been keeping track of, it's the date. Each day ticks by with a vital importance - only three hundred and sixty-five of them in which to do the impossible.
If she had a cake on which to make a wish, she'd wish for success - though failure, in her mind, isn't an option, it still looms over her, deadly and real. Her mum always bought cakes from a bakery; she'd made them when they were all little, elaborate creations involving whatever they liked best, but these days, it doesn't matter anymore, or so she claims. Martha always asks her to bake a cake, anyway - and she makes a smaller one for the tea they have together, just the two of them, a single candle in the top.
Martha buries her head in her arms and finally allows herself to cry quietly - for her mum and for all the people in Japan who'll never get to celebrate birthdays again, never ask for a homemade cake or have to figure out the best way to deal with their families at dinner. Crying isn't a luxury she permits herself often, otherwise she'd lose herself in a fog of defeat. She has to concentrate on the successes, like living to see another birthday in a world filled with Toclafane and assassins and God knows what else. Even if she misses her family so much that it hurts.
***
On the Valiant, Francine Jones huddles in a corner with a stolen candle and a single match, all she could manage to pilfer. There isn't a cake to put it in - not so much as a biscuit, or even a piece of bread. When she lights it, hot wax drips down onto her fingers, and she clenches her teeth to keep from crying out in pain. She thinks of Martha, too young by far to be doing what she's doing, but always the strongest and most independent of her children. The Master made them watch the bombing of Japan, the islands going up in flame as he laughed and laughed, and she wondered if Martha was there. She doesn't know if she's dead or alive, but she has to believe that she's alive, her Martha, fighting for all of them.
She blows out the candle and wishes with all her heart.
Author's notes: According to the TW Archives book, September 14 is Martha's birthday. So, uh, here, Martha, I got you a horribly depressing fic for your birthday.
...well, it was either that or porn. :/
She's not really sure how old she is anymore, anyway - not after travelling with the Doctor, spending months in different time periods. She doesn't know how much her birthday matters, not when everybody she would be celebrating with is dead or imprisoned on the Valiant. She almost wishes she hadn't remembered at all - but if there's one thing Martha's been keeping track of, it's the date. Each day ticks by with a vital importance - only three hundred and sixty-five of them in which to do the impossible.
If she had a cake on which to make a wish, she'd wish for success - though failure, in her mind, isn't an option, it still looms over her, deadly and real. Her mum always bought cakes from a bakery; she'd made them when they were all little, elaborate creations involving whatever they liked best, but these days, it doesn't matter anymore, or so she claims. Martha always asks her to bake a cake, anyway - and she makes a smaller one for the tea they have together, just the two of them, a single candle in the top.
Martha buries her head in her arms and finally allows herself to cry quietly - for her mum and for all the people in Japan who'll never get to celebrate birthdays again, never ask for a homemade cake or have to figure out the best way to deal with their families at dinner. Crying isn't a luxury she permits herself often, otherwise she'd lose herself in a fog of defeat. She has to concentrate on the successes, like living to see another birthday in a world filled with Toclafane and assassins and God knows what else. Even if she misses her family so much that it hurts.
***
On the Valiant, Francine Jones huddles in a corner with a stolen candle and a single match, all she could manage to pilfer. There isn't a cake to put it in - not so much as a biscuit, or even a piece of bread. When she lights it, hot wax drips down onto her fingers, and she clenches her teeth to keep from crying out in pain. She thinks of Martha, too young by far to be doing what she's doing, but always the strongest and most independent of her children. The Master made them watch the bombing of Japan, the islands going up in flame as he laughed and laughed, and she wondered if Martha was there. She doesn't know if she's dead or alive, but she has to believe that she's alive, her Martha, fighting for all of them.
She blows out the candle and wishes with all her heart.
Author's notes: According to the TW Archives book, September 14 is Martha's birthday. So, uh, here, Martha, I got you a horribly depressing fic for your birthday.
...well, it was either that or porn. :/