[muse_shuffle] - Too late
It's too late
Don't you know
It's been too late
For a long time
[‘Late’ - Ben Folds]
She does not care for time. Not for its comings and not for its passing, especially. She does not care to feel it ripple across her flesh, seep into her bones or squeeze against her heart -- her single, human heart. Time is pain. Time is madness.
Time is not hers, but it is his, and so she hates it.
He walks by her room, as youthful as he's ever been, and stops a moment to peek in. They've played this game so long, now, she's forgotten why it started. Some sort of bickering, she's sure. They've always bickered, ever since the beginning. He doesn't say anything now, just as he hasn't for the past several years, but he continues to stop and check in on her.
She hates it. It's a well-worn taunt, a nudge and smile just before the stab in the back. She hates it more, because she knows he doesn't realise it. That boyish face, that cheeky grin, the dark hair that can't seem to do anything but stand up straight -- he hasn't a clue what he does to her and were she younger -- were she vibrant enough, agile enough, able enough -- she would send him skittering down the halls as she had in the past. Would send him running with a clipped word and a dark look.
But time -- wretched, horrible time -- has taken even that from her. Taken everything and left him untouched.
And the worst part -- the aching, lonely, despairing part -- is that time no longer touches him because her husband willed it so. Because he felt this mockery, this shadow of a man, was better suited to eternity than she. Because he shared the face of another, the memories of another, and because he proved a conquest too ripe for her husband to ignore, this eternal youth standing in her doorway was given the gift of forever, while she was left with nothing but the deathly cold chill of time clamping fingers inexorably around her neck.
It never occurs to her to wonder if perhaps he's making sure she's well. After all, why would he? There is no love lost between the two of them and old habits die hard. Easier to think he's just there to rub it in, to twist the knife between her aging bones, than to think he might be concerned for her. Easier to think he's as trapped in his anger as she is.
It never occurs to her to realise that she's always had the key to her own cage, just as he had, and could free herself easily from the choking hatred of decades gone by. Free herself as he did, so long ago she can't remember anymore.
Eventually she raises her eyes to look at him, a thin wisp of grey slipping free of the neat bun she's captured it in, and he looks away, shoving his hands in his pockets. He doesn't say anything and she doesn't expect him to. Doesn't want him to.
It's easier to cling to the hatred when there are no apologies or condolences, no peace offerings or compromise. It's easy and familiar, and when all the faces around her remain the same while only hers changes, familiarity can sometimes be a double-edged sword you swallow in spite of it all.
Muse: Lucy Saxon
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 550
Written for handysparehand. Based on RP at realityshifted in which the human Doctor is offered the chance to become a Time Lord once more.
Don't you know
It's been too late
For a long time
[‘Late’ - Ben Folds]
She does not care for time. Not for its comings and not for its passing, especially. She does not care to feel it ripple across her flesh, seep into her bones or squeeze against her heart -- her single, human heart. Time is pain. Time is madness.
Time is not hers, but it is his, and so she hates it.
He walks by her room, as youthful as he's ever been, and stops a moment to peek in. They've played this game so long, now, she's forgotten why it started. Some sort of bickering, she's sure. They've always bickered, ever since the beginning. He doesn't say anything now, just as he hasn't for the past several years, but he continues to stop and check in on her.
She hates it. It's a well-worn taunt, a nudge and smile just before the stab in the back. She hates it more, because she knows he doesn't realise it. That boyish face, that cheeky grin, the dark hair that can't seem to do anything but stand up straight -- he hasn't a clue what he does to her and were she younger -- were she vibrant enough, agile enough, able enough -- she would send him skittering down the halls as she had in the past. Would send him running with a clipped word and a dark look.
But time -- wretched, horrible time -- has taken even that from her. Taken everything and left him untouched.
And the worst part -- the aching, lonely, despairing part -- is that time no longer touches him because her husband willed it so. Because he felt this mockery, this shadow of a man, was better suited to eternity than she. Because he shared the face of another, the memories of another, and because he proved a conquest too ripe for her husband to ignore, this eternal youth standing in her doorway was given the gift of forever, while she was left with nothing but the deathly cold chill of time clamping fingers inexorably around her neck.
It never occurs to her to wonder if perhaps he's making sure she's well. After all, why would he? There is no love lost between the two of them and old habits die hard. Easier to think he's just there to rub it in, to twist the knife between her aging bones, than to think he might be concerned for her. Easier to think he's as trapped in his anger as she is.
It never occurs to her to realise that she's always had the key to her own cage, just as he had, and could free herself easily from the choking hatred of decades gone by. Free herself as he did, so long ago she can't remember anymore.
Eventually she raises her eyes to look at him, a thin wisp of grey slipping free of the neat bun she's captured it in, and he looks away, shoving his hands in his pockets. He doesn't say anything and she doesn't expect him to. Doesn't want him to.
It's easier to cling to the hatred when there are no apologies or condolences, no peace offerings or compromise. It's easy and familiar, and when all the faces around her remain the same while only hers changes, familiarity can sometimes be a double-edged sword you swallow in spite of it all.
Muse: Lucy Saxon
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 550
Written for handysparehand. Based on RP at realityshifted in which the human Doctor is offered the chance to become a Time Lord once more.