[fic] prompt response for yetregressing
Title: (prepare yourself for a lame title) Hands
Characters: Martha Jones, Des, the Doctor, Rachel Dawes. The first two are basically summations of threads that actually happened.
Word Count: 432
So take my hand you're treading water and I feel sand slipping underneath my toes
It was Des' hand that pulled her from the nightmare which had attacked her without warning in her own bathroom.
She stood covered in blood again, trembling and terrified and sure that he wasn't who she thought he was, sure that she'd never left the bathtub in the warehouse, sure that she'd made everything else up in an attempt to escape in the only way she could.
Then he was there, and he spoke but she didn't hear him. He stood in front of her but she couldn't see him.
It was his hand, squeezing hers and pulling her against him and away from the bathroom that showed her he was real and he loved her and nothing could turn that into illusion, could take that away from them.
-
It was their hands that slipped together as easily as they had years ago. Martha took the Doctor's as he stood over the destroyed coffee shop staring into the rubble.
She smiles sadly up at him and cracks a joke about it even if there's really nothing funny about it at all. If they stopped smiling every time a disaster had affected them in Chicago, they'd never smile again.
Martha walks with him on the sidewalk hand in hand, and there's a look in his eyes that's utterly familiar and reminds her of a different time. It hurts and warms her. So much has changed, so much has stayed the same.
She squeezes his hand and he squeezes hers back.
They're still here.
It was their hands squeezing and interlocking together that seemed to say defiantly, victoriously to Chicago that they're still here. And that counts for something.
-
It's Martha's hands that fold over Rachel Dawes' when she learns the truth.
She's not sure how the subject came up still. It's not easy conversation but it did. They've both been kidnapped, taken, locked in a room with no control. Tortured. Used up. Made to question so much, more than they'd ever questioned before.
Martha tells her about Calisto, about the bathtub filled with her blood, about the knife shoved into her, about Shephard, about Lucy and her gun which was shoved inside of her too, about dying and coming back to life. She tells as much as she can, not all of it, not nearly all of it. It's nearly been two years since it happened, and it's still difficult to articulate and she still finds her hands shaking on top of Rachel's.
"You don't have to tell me but not talking about it... it almost killed me," Martha says. "I'm here."
It was her hand on top of hers. You're not alone and neither am I. There's hope still. There really always is hope.
Characters: Martha Jones, Des, the Doctor, Rachel Dawes. The first two are basically summations of threads that actually happened.
Word Count: 432
So take my hand you're treading water and I feel sand slipping underneath my toes
It was Des' hand that pulled her from the nightmare which had attacked her without warning in her own bathroom.
She stood covered in blood again, trembling and terrified and sure that he wasn't who she thought he was, sure that she'd never left the bathtub in the warehouse, sure that she'd made everything else up in an attempt to escape in the only way she could.
Then he was there, and he spoke but she didn't hear him. He stood in front of her but she couldn't see him.
It was his hand, squeezing hers and pulling her against him and away from the bathroom that showed her he was real and he loved her and nothing could turn that into illusion, could take that away from them.
-
It was their hands that slipped together as easily as they had years ago. Martha took the Doctor's as he stood over the destroyed coffee shop staring into the rubble.
She smiles sadly up at him and cracks a joke about it even if there's really nothing funny about it at all. If they stopped smiling every time a disaster had affected them in Chicago, they'd never smile again.
Martha walks with him on the sidewalk hand in hand, and there's a look in his eyes that's utterly familiar and reminds her of a different time. It hurts and warms her. So much has changed, so much has stayed the same.
She squeezes his hand and he squeezes hers back.
They're still here.
It was their hands squeezing and interlocking together that seemed to say defiantly, victoriously to Chicago that they're still here. And that counts for something.
-
It's Martha's hands that fold over Rachel Dawes' when she learns the truth.
She's not sure how the subject came up still. It's not easy conversation but it did. They've both been kidnapped, taken, locked in a room with no control. Tortured. Used up. Made to question so much, more than they'd ever questioned before.
Martha tells her about Calisto, about the bathtub filled with her blood, about the knife shoved into her, about Shephard, about Lucy and her gun which was shoved inside of her too, about dying and coming back to life. She tells as much as she can, not all of it, not nearly all of it. It's nearly been two years since it happened, and it's still difficult to articulate and she still finds her hands shaking on top of Rachel's.
"You don't have to tell me but not talking about it... it almost killed me," Martha says. "I'm here."
It was her hand on top of hers. You're not alone and neither am I. There's hope still. There really always is hope.