(no subject)
Characters: AU!Bad ass!Martha Jones, mentions of Shephard and Sark. AND Des and the Doctor make cameos. AGH. I need to stop cameoing people in my fics. I fear failing so hard. -_- This is why they have like a few words of duologue. XD
Word Count: 800.................... FAIL. drabble fail.
Notes: Oh, Badass!Martha, it's been so long. It's been too long. I was so happy to get this prompt from Ella. :) Yeah, and that's... all.
"When I'm good, I'm very, very good, but when I'm bad, I'm better."
Martha Jones doesn't blink when she pulls the trigger that forces a bullet into Shephard's skull. At this point, she's already killed a man. It doesn't bother her. It doesn't hurt in the slightest to kill what took pleasure in participating in the three part harmony of an attempt at her destruction.
She puts the sniper rifle away collecting it methodically into its pieces and meets Sark in the car.
The trip back to the hotel is had in silence. Silence reminds her of dying. She likes the reminder more than she could ever articulate.
*
"Martha, I-"
She cuts him off.
Any time Des tries to have a conversation with her that she refuses to have, and she can tell when it's coming because she can hear it in his voice, she kisses him with intensity, hard, unforgiving.
And eventually when the topic comes up again and kisses aren't going to work or she doesn't have the energy to pretend like she still has the capacity for love when she presses her lips to someone else's, she smiles with sadness and sincerity. And hasn't she become the perfect, little actress?
There's a look in his eyes that says he doesn't quite believe her, but she ignores it and ignores the sting in her eyes that's not actually there because she doesn't care. She doesn't care that she can remember loving him so much, can remember sobbing against his chest when he was dead, that thinking she'd lost him forever tore her apart. She can remember the electricity of kissing him the first time afterward and how real and true that love felt. She can remember feeling that way, vaguely, distantly... as if through a fog... but she doesn't anymore, doesn't feel a thing.
*
She steps out of the elevator at 4 in the morning. There's blood on her hands but she slips them against her, folds her arms tight against her body in case anyone's awake. There's movement. A noise. Of course, someone's awake. Of course, it's him.
"Martha," the Doctor says to her in that way that she's come to hate, that is so much of what he is. Time Lord. And knowing. And intense. And ancient. And always thinks he knows best but he didn't. All his fire and ice and rage, and where has it gotten them?
She locks her jaw and faces him though she'd much rather pretend she didn't hear him. She won't back down. Not even from him.
There's so much unsaid between them. Martha doesn't want or have the energy or care enough to say the first word, and he can't. He was never good at dealing with situations like this. The running and the facing of bad guys and the saving? Yes, of course. Not the aftermath. Not the cleanup and attempt to heal portion neither for himself or for others. It's always about going somewhere else. Sooner rather than later.
The fact that he's noticed enough to say her name like that and stop her in her tracks. It means something. It means that things are bad, but she already knew there was no coming back. If she wanted to be saved, she'd have been more obvious that she wasn't the same, and she doesn't blame him for looking at her the way that he is now. She does blame him for bringing her back to life, and she'll never forgive him for that because in the end it was selfish of him.
She would have been better off dead.
"There's a lot I could say right now," she says, twisting her hands closer to her elbows. She's trembling. Why is she trembling? "But I don't think it will make any difference. Do you?"
She turns away from him ignoring the ache and like every pang in her heart she shoots it down before she can properly feel it.
There are questions of course. She can hear him uttering them helplessly behind her but she's shut the door in his face before he can reach her. Questions always come too late. She shoves her dresser in front of the door and tells him to leave her alone. He doesn't leave. Not all night. She can tell because occasionally he still tries to get in, occasionally he still tries to talk to her but she only answers enough to let him know she's still alive.
She slides down on the other side of the wall next to the door suddenly weak and some part of her think that she deserved what was done to her. Punishment for future sins.
*
She doesn't stay in Chicago long. Three months after she died in a tub of her own blood and brain matter, she leaves again with five deaths on her hands.
The cops are starting to get suspicious about the deaths. They all have the same MO and all take place around the same area of the city.
There's nothing keeping her in Chicago. When she leaves, she packs nothing but her gun and wallet, leaves no note, says no goodbye. She's just gone.
Word Count: 800.................... FAIL. drabble fail.
Notes: Oh, Badass!Martha, it's been so long. It's been too long. I was so happy to get this prompt from Ella. :) Yeah, and that's... all.
"When I'm good, I'm very, very good, but when I'm bad, I'm better."
Martha Jones doesn't blink when she pulls the trigger that forces a bullet into Shephard's skull. At this point, she's already killed a man. It doesn't bother her. It doesn't hurt in the slightest to kill what took pleasure in participating in the three part harmony of an attempt at her destruction.
She puts the sniper rifle away collecting it methodically into its pieces and meets Sark in the car.
The trip back to the hotel is had in silence. Silence reminds her of dying. She likes the reminder more than she could ever articulate.
*
"Martha, I-"
She cuts him off.
Any time Des tries to have a conversation with her that she refuses to have, and she can tell when it's coming because she can hear it in his voice, she kisses him with intensity, hard, unforgiving.
And eventually when the topic comes up again and kisses aren't going to work or she doesn't have the energy to pretend like she still has the capacity for love when she presses her lips to someone else's, she smiles with sadness and sincerity. And hasn't she become the perfect, little actress?
There's a look in his eyes that says he doesn't quite believe her, but she ignores it and ignores the sting in her eyes that's not actually there because she doesn't care. She doesn't care that she can remember loving him so much, can remember sobbing against his chest when he was dead, that thinking she'd lost him forever tore her apart. She can remember the electricity of kissing him the first time afterward and how real and true that love felt. She can remember feeling that way, vaguely, distantly... as if through a fog... but she doesn't anymore, doesn't feel a thing.
*
She steps out of the elevator at 4 in the morning. There's blood on her hands but she slips them against her, folds her arms tight against her body in case anyone's awake. There's movement. A noise. Of course, someone's awake. Of course, it's him.
"Martha," the Doctor says to her in that way that she's come to hate, that is so much of what he is. Time Lord. And knowing. And intense. And ancient. And always thinks he knows best but he didn't. All his fire and ice and rage, and where has it gotten them?
She locks her jaw and faces him though she'd much rather pretend she didn't hear him. She won't back down. Not even from him.
There's so much unsaid between them. Martha doesn't want or have the energy or care enough to say the first word, and he can't. He was never good at dealing with situations like this. The running and the facing of bad guys and the saving? Yes, of course. Not the aftermath. Not the cleanup and attempt to heal portion neither for himself or for others. It's always about going somewhere else. Sooner rather than later.
The fact that he's noticed enough to say her name like that and stop her in her tracks. It means something. It means that things are bad, but she already knew there was no coming back. If she wanted to be saved, she'd have been more obvious that she wasn't the same, and she doesn't blame him for looking at her the way that he is now. She does blame him for bringing her back to life, and she'll never forgive him for that because in the end it was selfish of him.
She would have been better off dead.
"There's a lot I could say right now," she says, twisting her hands closer to her elbows. She's trembling. Why is she trembling? "But I don't think it will make any difference. Do you?"
She turns away from him ignoring the ache and like every pang in her heart she shoots it down before she can properly feel it.
There are questions of course. She can hear him uttering them helplessly behind her but she's shut the door in his face before he can reach her. Questions always come too late. She shoves her dresser in front of the door and tells him to leave her alone. He doesn't leave. Not all night. She can tell because occasionally he still tries to get in, occasionally he still tries to talk to her but she only answers enough to let him know she's still alive.
She slides down on the other side of the wall next to the door suddenly weak and some part of her think that she deserved what was done to her. Punishment for future sins.
*
She doesn't stay in Chicago long. Three months after she died in a tub of her own blood and brain matter, she leaves again with five deaths on her hands.
The cops are starting to get suspicious about the deaths. They all have the same MO and all take place around the same area of the city.
There's nothing keeping her in Chicago. When she leaves, she packs nothing but her gun and wallet, leaves no note, says no goodbye. She's just gone.