(no subject)
It had been raining for two days. Buckets of the stuff, propelled sideways by a constantly-gusting wind, the skies so densely clouded that it felt like evening even during the day. It was miserable weather; spooky, unpredictable weather. The sort that made you want to stay in and lock the doors. Martha Jones' current disposition made a strange accompaniment to it, as for the first time in years, she was truly content.
She'd expected to feel at least a twinge of regret over the Master's untimely demise, but the deed was answered with nothing but relief. It felt like being unburdened of a great weight, or finding something very important long ago lost. Martha was herself again, well and truly, and there was no greater liberty than that.
The clothes bin was chock full of rain gear, but still she was debating the dubious task of heading out into the weather. Relieved though she might have felt, she wasn't quite prepared to pull a Gene Kelly. She didn't honestly believe the rain was going to slack off any, but she tucked herself into one of the chairs in the rec room anyway, novel in hand and legs curled neatly beneath her.
She'd expected to feel at least a twinge of regret over the Master's untimely demise, but the deed was answered with nothing but relief. It felt like being unburdened of a great weight, or finding something very important long ago lost. Martha was herself again, well and truly, and there was no greater liberty than that.
The clothes bin was chock full of rain gear, but still she was debating the dubious task of heading out into the weather. Relieved though she might have felt, she wasn't quite prepared to pull a Gene Kelly. She didn't honestly believe the rain was going to slack off any, but she tucked herself into one of the chairs in the rec room anyway, novel in hand and legs curled neatly beneath her.