[muse_shuffle] - Even after all of that, I still love you baby
You look in the mirror and you can't see the bruises anymore, and you let yourself believe they were never there in the first place. Oh, people tell you -- he tells you -- all the time that they were there, that the marks marred your skin, but you don't remember (can't remember, choose not to remember, don't want to remember) and it's easier to live this way. It's easier to pretend sometimes because otherwise, nothing makes sense.
But sometimes, in the quiet moments just before sleep, or when you're alone in the bath, the warm water soaking into your skin, you do remember. You remember the first time he hit you and how you couldn't believe it, how you simply stood and stared, pressing red-enamelled nails to your cheek as the tears stung your eyes. No, no, that's not right, you tell yourself. You didn't cry. You never cried. It was nothing, an accident, and he held you close, soothing you with words and touch and breath, suggested you have a lie down and he'd have the servants bring you a cuppa. You wouldn't let him hold you if he'd hit you on purpose.
Would you?
Other memories come to you, just as unbidden, just as unscheduled, as you while away the day, pretending at a normal life as you pick up the fragments left behind by your fall. The tea burns your hand as you pour it from the pot, remembering another time, another place. You drop the cup and watch it shatter against the floor, scalding tea and glass spreading over your feet in unfathomable patterns he would understand.
He’d been upset about the servants, you remember, upset at how they never got anything right, and you’d made a quip about how maybe his little pet Doctor could make a better cuppa. You never expected him to grab you so tight you could count his fingers on your arm days later, never expected him to hiss that the Doctor was none of your concern, that he was better than that, that he was above these stupid drivelling humans.
Never expected him to tell you to make the tea yourself.
But you did, and he thanked you, drawing you close and silencing your thoughts with a kiss as passionate as the burning world beneath you, and you let yourself sink into that touch because it was what you wanted and far easier to cope with than the bruising on your arm.
There’s a pattern to his madness, you know. With every memory you recall, you realise there’s one connecting thread for each and every time he struck you, grabbed you, screamed at you, threw you down and fucked you so hard it hurt - more so because you knew he wasn’t thinking of you at the time than because of the bite marks he left behind, the ache in your thighs for hours. All the times you argued, all the times you fought, all the times he ignored you, you realise they’re all the fault of one man.
Sitting on the settee, you remember more, and you curl up under your throw blanket as the memory assaults you. He’d found you sitting with the Doctor, sharing a small plate of biscuits you’d made the day before. You weren’t supposed to be there, weren’t supposed to be with him, didn’t you know anything you stupid woman? And you’d argued back, telling him you just wanted to understand, wanted to know what it was about this man that drew his attention.
Why did he matter so much more than you?
That was the angriest you’d ever seen him, you remember. And it wasn’t even that he hit you that time, though you thought he might - though you wished he might, the way his cold silence made you tremble. No, he simply went quiet, tapping his fingers incessantly on the desk behind which he stood, halting his pacing to consider you. You could feel his eyes looking through you and that hurt more than any strike.
He belonged to him, he finally said. He belonged to him, and you weren’t to question that. You took an uncertain step back when he darted around the desk, moving toward you, and the hard wall behind you stopped your retreat, the breath knocked from your lungs as he pushed you harder against it. For a moment you saw stars, but he didn’t seem to notice, fingers pressed so tightly to your temples they bruised.
He belonged to him, he repeated, just as much as you did, and he ripped from you every word and thought and feeling you’d had as you spoke with the Doctor. You needed to understand, needed to realise that he always got what he wanted, what was his, and this was no different.
He would have everything of his, would have everything of yours, and at some point you couldn’t differentiate him in your mind from him in you. Couldn’t separate the pain from the pleasure. But you knew, somehow, it was all his fault.
Eventually, you remembered it all, every broken memory, every suppressed experience. The doctors said you were making progress, that you were healing, that you’d be fixed, but with each remembrance, all you wanted was for him to come and save you from the torment he had put you in.
But now that he has, now that you can feel his arms around you, hear his voice, allow him to walk your mind … why does it feel like it’s all happening again? Only this time, it’s with a different Doctor and you aren’t sure Harry will stop at just bruises.
Muse: Lucy Saxon
Fandom: Doctor Who
Prompt: And the hard part, the bad part, the Jerry Springer show part is that you never stop loving someone. (Tori Amos - ’97 Bonnie and Clyde’ - Eminem cover)
Word Count: 1,006
Verse: realityshifted
Written by request of rude_not_ginger, who wanted to see more about Lucy's thoughts on her abuse aboard the Valiant. Special thanks to savagestime for being an awesome beta.
But sometimes, in the quiet moments just before sleep, or when you're alone in the bath, the warm water soaking into your skin, you do remember. You remember the first time he hit you and how you couldn't believe it, how you simply stood and stared, pressing red-enamelled nails to your cheek as the tears stung your eyes. No, no, that's not right, you tell yourself. You didn't cry. You never cried. It was nothing, an accident, and he held you close, soothing you with words and touch and breath, suggested you have a lie down and he'd have the servants bring you a cuppa. You wouldn't let him hold you if he'd hit you on purpose.
Would you?
Other memories come to you, just as unbidden, just as unscheduled, as you while away the day, pretending at a normal life as you pick up the fragments left behind by your fall. The tea burns your hand as you pour it from the pot, remembering another time, another place. You drop the cup and watch it shatter against the floor, scalding tea and glass spreading over your feet in unfathomable patterns he would understand.
He’d been upset about the servants, you remember, upset at how they never got anything right, and you’d made a quip about how maybe his little pet Doctor could make a better cuppa. You never expected him to grab you so tight you could count his fingers on your arm days later, never expected him to hiss that the Doctor was none of your concern, that he was better than that, that he was above these stupid drivelling humans.
Never expected him to tell you to make the tea yourself.
But you did, and he thanked you, drawing you close and silencing your thoughts with a kiss as passionate as the burning world beneath you, and you let yourself sink into that touch because it was what you wanted and far easier to cope with than the bruising on your arm.
There’s a pattern to his madness, you know. With every memory you recall, you realise there’s one connecting thread for each and every time he struck you, grabbed you, screamed at you, threw you down and fucked you so hard it hurt - more so because you knew he wasn’t thinking of you at the time than because of the bite marks he left behind, the ache in your thighs for hours. All the times you argued, all the times you fought, all the times he ignored you, you realise they’re all the fault of one man.
Sitting on the settee, you remember more, and you curl up under your throw blanket as the memory assaults you. He’d found you sitting with the Doctor, sharing a small plate of biscuits you’d made the day before. You weren’t supposed to be there, weren’t supposed to be with him, didn’t you know anything you stupid woman? And you’d argued back, telling him you just wanted to understand, wanted to know what it was about this man that drew his attention.
Why did he matter so much more than you?
That was the angriest you’d ever seen him, you remember. And it wasn’t even that he hit you that time, though you thought he might - though you wished he might, the way his cold silence made you tremble. No, he simply went quiet, tapping his fingers incessantly on the desk behind which he stood, halting his pacing to consider you. You could feel his eyes looking through you and that hurt more than any strike.
He belonged to him, he finally said. He belonged to him, and you weren’t to question that. You took an uncertain step back when he darted around the desk, moving toward you, and the hard wall behind you stopped your retreat, the breath knocked from your lungs as he pushed you harder against it. For a moment you saw stars, but he didn’t seem to notice, fingers pressed so tightly to your temples they bruised.
He belonged to him, he repeated, just as much as you did, and he ripped from you every word and thought and feeling you’d had as you spoke with the Doctor. You needed to understand, needed to realise that he always got what he wanted, what was his, and this was no different.
He would have everything of his, would have everything of yours, and at some point you couldn’t differentiate him in your mind from him in you. Couldn’t separate the pain from the pleasure. But you knew, somehow, it was all his fault.
Eventually, you remembered it all, every broken memory, every suppressed experience. The doctors said you were making progress, that you were healing, that you’d be fixed, but with each remembrance, all you wanted was for him to come and save you from the torment he had put you in.
But now that he has, now that you can feel his arms around you, hear his voice, allow him to walk your mind … why does it feel like it’s all happening again? Only this time, it’s with a different Doctor and you aren’t sure Harry will stop at just bruises.
Muse: Lucy Saxon
Fandom: Doctor Who
Prompt: And the hard part, the bad part, the Jerry Springer show part is that you never stop loving someone. (Tori Amos - ’97 Bonnie and Clyde’ - Eminem cover)
Word Count: 1,006
Verse: realityshifted
Written by request of rude_not_ginger, who wanted to see more about Lucy's thoughts on her abuse aboard the Valiant. Special thanks to savagestime for being an awesome beta.