oncoming_storms Prompt 86
David would say, later, that it hadn’t been much of a wedding. They had a home then - a farm and a life and two beautiful children who loved to hear the story of how their adopted parents had met - and it was easier to joke about the past than dwell on it.
Susan would always say that that really depended on what you wanted a wedding to be.
It was true that they hadn’t had much money - or much material, for that matter - for her dress. The other woman gathered together scraps of silk and crisp linen bed sheets that they’d been saving (“just in case”, they'd murmured). They stitched them together with a depth of devotion that Susan had never seen before, swept up by their admiration for the woman from the stars and the man who’d spent years fighting for their freedom. They had looked almost guilty when they handed the finished garment over, excuses and apologies spilling from their lips before Susan could silence them. She'd treasured each clumsy stitch and frayed hem as if it was the finest embroidery. It meant more to her than lace and silk ever could.
The celebration hadn’t been the most opulent either, actually. They’d wanted to celebrate - after so much time under the thumb of the Daleks, it was the least they'd deserved - but you needed food and resources for that. It would be many harvests and many hard winters before things were comfortable enough for such free behaviour. The end of the Daleks had only been the beginning. They had to look to the future and it stretched on well past the wedding.
(Susan had rather liked that, actually. It was so linear. So simple.)
They'd made the best of it, though. People raided their larders to gather the ingredients for a cake and Susan cut it into tiny pieces so everybody could have a bite. It was coarse - and she was fairly certain that she found a bit of eggshell in her piece - but, after so long surviving on scraps and rations, it had tasted like manna to the survivors.
So many of them had forgotten how to celebrate. That was the hardest thing. They didn’t know how to enjoy themselves. Music played, yes, but they didn’t know what to do with it and it took a great deal of effort on Susan’s part to coax people up to dance. When the first child laughed at her antics he looked around in confusion, as if he couldn’t quite understand what he’d done. A moment later, however, the others joined in and spilled on to the dance floor, and Susan had found heart swelling with affection for this fierce, indomitable little race. She’d never been prouder of them.
There had been no honeymoon for her and David. There was nowhere to go. The leaders of the resistance had managed to make contact with survivors around the globe, but what was the point of visiting another ashen wasteland?
“One day,” David had assured her, without realising that she wasn’t actually upset. She didn’t want to travel. She’d done enough of that. She’d jumped from time to time and place to place. It was nice to stop. To make the most of being in one location, however dismal that location currently was.
She’d curled up next to him on the cold bunk, resting her forehead against his and savouring his warmth. They didn’t have a house. He didn’t even have a ring to slip on to her finger. But, as she’d listened to the voices and giggles drifting in through the window, her palm against her husband’s single heartbeat, Susan knew that she’d come home.
Prompt: Home
Word Count: 614
Susan would always say that that really depended on what you wanted a wedding to be.
It was true that they hadn’t had much money - or much material, for that matter - for her dress. The other woman gathered together scraps of silk and crisp linen bed sheets that they’d been saving (“just in case”, they'd murmured). They stitched them together with a depth of devotion that Susan had never seen before, swept up by their admiration for the woman from the stars and the man who’d spent years fighting for their freedom. They had looked almost guilty when they handed the finished garment over, excuses and apologies spilling from their lips before Susan could silence them. She'd treasured each clumsy stitch and frayed hem as if it was the finest embroidery. It meant more to her than lace and silk ever could.
The celebration hadn’t been the most opulent either, actually. They’d wanted to celebrate - after so much time under the thumb of the Daleks, it was the least they'd deserved - but you needed food and resources for that. It would be many harvests and many hard winters before things were comfortable enough for such free behaviour. The end of the Daleks had only been the beginning. They had to look to the future and it stretched on well past the wedding.
(Susan had rather liked that, actually. It was so linear. So simple.)
They'd made the best of it, though. People raided their larders to gather the ingredients for a cake and Susan cut it into tiny pieces so everybody could have a bite. It was coarse - and she was fairly certain that she found a bit of eggshell in her piece - but, after so long surviving on scraps and rations, it had tasted like manna to the survivors.
So many of them had forgotten how to celebrate. That was the hardest thing. They didn’t know how to enjoy themselves. Music played, yes, but they didn’t know what to do with it and it took a great deal of effort on Susan’s part to coax people up to dance. When the first child laughed at her antics he looked around in confusion, as if he couldn’t quite understand what he’d done. A moment later, however, the others joined in and spilled on to the dance floor, and Susan had found heart swelling with affection for this fierce, indomitable little race. She’d never been prouder of them.
There had been no honeymoon for her and David. There was nowhere to go. The leaders of the resistance had managed to make contact with survivors around the globe, but what was the point of visiting another ashen wasteland?
“One day,” David had assured her, without realising that she wasn’t actually upset. She didn’t want to travel. She’d done enough of that. She’d jumped from time to time and place to place. It was nice to stop. To make the most of being in one location, however dismal that location currently was.
She’d curled up next to him on the cold bunk, resting her forehead against his and savouring his warmth. They didn’t have a house. He didn’t even have a ring to slip on to her finger. But, as she’d listened to the voices and giggles drifting in through the window, her palm against her husband’s single heartbeat, Susan knew that she’d come home.
Prompt: Home
Word Count: 614