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who_contestTitle: Bittersweet
Rating: G
Genre: Introspection, a touch of angst
Word Count: 309
Pairings or Characters: Martha-centric. Hints of Martha/Mickey and past Ten/Martha
Warnings: None
Summary: It's slow going but she's always trying.
Where were you?
Here’s the answer she’s looking for whenever the uglier question arises: why him and not me?
And it’s not resignation Martha feels less than she does acceptance. Accepting.
It’s only been during her most low moments that she had imagined the scene playing out as it should, according to her. She would feel the backlit warmth of a certain blue police-box gliding to a stop behind her, he would step out, extending a hand, asking if it was all right for him to stay awhile?
Yes.
Would she like to tag along on an adventure? Just one more?
No. Thank you.
Come now, why not?
Logic almost trumps levity as she settles down to the most obvious clues: she has a job, she’s engaged, she quite likes it. She doesn’t need adventure to round off the tally to her happiness. And Martha has known so many types of happiness, from the buzz of a London train carrying her to work to the clasp of a pair of strong, spindly, sprightly arms drenched with a warmth only wisdom brings.
That was the old life she’d understood (tried to, with every chance she’d gotten). A new life she leads takes less out of her to get used to.
But of course, this is Martha as she knows herself now. She knows better than to accept that too-sensible retort from herself, the one she had planned all along. Let him nudge a little and find what she really wants.
She loves Mickey. She loved a man loved by Time.
Present. Past.
It’s easy to seperate the two the better she gets at compartmentizing. Martha knows when to seperate vindictiveness from vindication, truth from fact.
She’s going to get a better at a lot of things in time.
No. Thank you.
Thank you.
Thanks.
It’s the least she owes him.
Rating: G
Genre: Introspection, a touch of angst
Word Count: 309
Pairings or Characters: Martha-centric. Hints of Martha/Mickey and past Ten/Martha
Warnings: None
Summary: It's slow going but she's always trying.
Where were you?
Here’s the answer she’s looking for whenever the uglier question arises: why him and not me?
And it’s not resignation Martha feels less than she does acceptance. Accepting.
It’s only been during her most low moments that she had imagined the scene playing out as it should, according to her. She would feel the backlit warmth of a certain blue police-box gliding to a stop behind her, he would step out, extending a hand, asking if it was all right for him to stay awhile?
Yes.
Would she like to tag along on an adventure? Just one more?
No. Thank you.
Come now, why not?
Logic almost trumps levity as she settles down to the most obvious clues: she has a job, she’s engaged, she quite likes it. She doesn’t need adventure to round off the tally to her happiness. And Martha has known so many types of happiness, from the buzz of a London train carrying her to work to the clasp of a pair of strong, spindly, sprightly arms drenched with a warmth only wisdom brings.
That was the old life she’d understood (tried to, with every chance she’d gotten). A new life she leads takes less out of her to get used to.
But of course, this is Martha as she knows herself now. She knows better than to accept that too-sensible retort from herself, the one she had planned all along. Let him nudge a little and find what she really wants.
She loves Mickey. She loved a man loved by Time.
Present. Past.
It’s easy to seperate the two the better she gets at compartmentizing. Martha knows when to seperate vindictiveness from vindication, truth from fact.
She’s going to get a better at a lot of things in time.
No. Thank you.
Thank you.
Thanks.
It’s the least she owes him.
