[muse_shuffle] - The games we play
She sits at the window and looks out on the stars, lost in thought as each speck of distant light blinks lazily in the darkness. It's a sight she should find beautiful -- breathtaking, even -- but she barely sees it. To her, it's all just background noise, all just distractions, as she looks back on the past, recounting her own traitorous memories.
They are locked safely behind gates of thought, hidden beneath mundanity and her most precious memories, the moments in her life that mean something to her. They are tucked away behind the memory of her first kiss,
//his lips are still on hers, on her neck, and she aches with the feel of them//
of when Harry proposed to her,
//'I want you. Lucy.'//
of her wedding,
//his hands are on her hips, drawing her to his own, and she can feel the tingle down her spine when they meet for the first time//
of her elation at standing with her husband atop the world as it burned.
//he links his mind with hers and the world screams white with feeling//
It's all a game, she tells herself as her arms snake tightly around her stomach, fending off the chill that shudders up her spine. A twisted game the likes of which Harry plays, stringing along another's heart to scrape it cruelly across the pavement when she bores of her new toy. It's entertainment, a momentary allowance before her head clears and she returns to where she belongs. That's all this is. It's a challenge.
Still, she lets herself remember, playing fondly with the experience as she checks the barriers she's erected, just the way the Doctor taught her. It's a game, but it's hers, and she'd rather not have it spoiled by prying eyes. She tells herself it isn't because she's afraid, or because she doesn't want Harry to know. She would never hide anything from her husband. But she has so few things that are truly hers, it would be a shame to lose this one, wouldn't it?
It's not that she's afraid.
She'll tire of this eventually. The chaos and newness and whirlwind emotions of this will end, leaving her with a barren, dusty husk of memory, and she'll return to her place at Harry's side, as he does hers when his games with the Doctor end. She's doing nothing wrong, she tells herself. If anything, she's becoming more like her husband, emulating him through her liaison, playing the same game he has played for centuries. She's always wanted to know more about him, to be closer to him, to twine herself around his hearts as inextricably as his own veins. What better way than to be as he is, to feel as he's felt?
It isn't really love, then, that she shared with the Doctor,
//his hearts beat in time with hers and each caress of her hand, each smile on her lips brings him joy//
because she cannot love him. She loves Harry,
//she cries his name and knows it's more than lust, more than just a quick fuck to ease the ache they've both felt for months now//
she's always loved Harry, and the Doctor can't take that away from her.
//his arms are secure and soft and she finds solace in the comfort they bring//
There are stars outside her window, the one in the room the Doctor has given her. They dance in the darkness, almost close enough to reach, but she does not see them, lost in the tangled web she's woven.
It's all just a game. That's the only thing it can be.
Muse: Lucy Saxon
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 593
Prompt: Oh I know everything that I do tonight // Means nothing if I don't succeed
Based on RP with rude_not_ginger at realityshifted. The Doctor is used with permission.
They are locked safely behind gates of thought, hidden beneath mundanity and her most precious memories, the moments in her life that mean something to her. They are tucked away behind the memory of her first kiss,
//his lips are still on hers, on her neck, and she aches with the feel of them//
of when Harry proposed to her,
//'I want you. Lucy.'//
of her wedding,
//his hands are on her hips, drawing her to his own, and she can feel the tingle down her spine when they meet for the first time//
of her elation at standing with her husband atop the world as it burned.
//he links his mind with hers and the world screams white with feeling//
It's all a game, she tells herself as her arms snake tightly around her stomach, fending off the chill that shudders up her spine. A twisted game the likes of which Harry plays, stringing along another's heart to scrape it cruelly across the pavement when she bores of her new toy. It's entertainment, a momentary allowance before her head clears and she returns to where she belongs. That's all this is. It's a challenge.
Still, she lets herself remember, playing fondly with the experience as she checks the barriers she's erected, just the way the Doctor taught her. It's a game, but it's hers, and she'd rather not have it spoiled by prying eyes. She tells herself it isn't because she's afraid, or because she doesn't want Harry to know. She would never hide anything from her husband. But she has so few things that are truly hers, it would be a shame to lose this one, wouldn't it?
It's not that she's afraid.
She'll tire of this eventually. The chaos and newness and whirlwind emotions of this will end, leaving her with a barren, dusty husk of memory, and she'll return to her place at Harry's side, as he does hers when his games with the Doctor end. She's doing nothing wrong, she tells herself. If anything, she's becoming more like her husband, emulating him through her liaison, playing the same game he has played for centuries. She's always wanted to know more about him, to be closer to him, to twine herself around his hearts as inextricably as his own veins. What better way than to be as he is, to feel as he's felt?
It isn't really love, then, that she shared with the Doctor,
//his hearts beat in time with hers and each caress of her hand, each smile on her lips brings him joy//
because she cannot love him. She loves Harry,
//she cries his name and knows it's more than lust, more than just a quick fuck to ease the ache they've both felt for months now//
she's always loved Harry, and the Doctor can't take that away from her.
//his arms are secure and soft and she finds solace in the comfort they bring//
There are stars outside her window, the one in the room the Doctor has given her. They dance in the darkness, almost close enough to reach, but she does not see them, lost in the tangled web she's woven.
It's all just a game. That's the only thing it can be.
Muse: Lucy Saxon
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 593
Prompt: Oh I know everything that I do tonight // Means nothing if I don't succeed
Based on RP with rude_not_ginger at realityshifted. The Doctor is used with permission.