[fic] for Ai's prompt from forever ago
Notes: ER this prompt response is ALL over the effing place. Whateven self. It is helping me to hopefully pinpoint Martha's voice after the event and five days of being gone.
So we live our lives like fugitives and we were born to live like queens.
By now, it's expected.
A video, murder, blood spilling out on the streets of Chicago. Ugly words given by the ugliest people. What humanity they may have had has been wiped out by their hate and violence. She stares at the screen and resists the urge to throw her fist through it.
It's nothing new.
Martha expects it.
Of course.
People are lost, the Conrad falls, Shakespeare dies, a tornado rips through a fair, she makes her guardian pass out, and the CLF make a video.
Of course.
There are a few hours that she doesn't walk around, comforting those that she finds, being a strength for those who are terrified, giving words that she only vaguely believes in but somehow still seem so sincere.
There are a few hours that she spends in her room, not hiding though she wonders how many wanderers are doing that now. Fugitives without having done anything wrong. They all will feel like they have to walk outside with their heads down, darting from one dark alley to the next, never stopping for long, never feeling safe or secure again.
She spends those hours in her room waiting.
She is waiting for the next tragedy to happen.
People need her. She is well aware of how they all look to her.
And Martha Jones waits.
We should probably talk.
Martha sees the words written in the journal, sees Wes' handwriting and it's one that she's familiar with now. She doesn't have to see the name beside the entry to know that it's his. Something in the quiet, emptiness in her chest tightens and her breath hitches and that's that. She stares at the words, presses dry lips together, and then stands, walks away from them.
It takes her a day to respond.
Yeah, suppose we should.
The words are far too difficult to write. They're like fighting against rope tying her hands back. The pen drops several times, hitting the floor with a clack in silence. It sounds like guilt. It shouldn't be this hard to write back four simple words but it is.
Okay. You gonna be around for when everyone gathers up for the army thing?
And she halts again.
It's fighting against rope all over again.
A day later, and she manages it.
Yeah.
It's not what she wants to say. It's not where she wants to be.
But it's the truth.
So we live our lives like fugitives and we were born to live like queens.
By now, it's expected.
A video, murder, blood spilling out on the streets of Chicago. Ugly words given by the ugliest people. What humanity they may have had has been wiped out by their hate and violence. She stares at the screen and resists the urge to throw her fist through it.
It's nothing new.
Martha expects it.
Of course.
People are lost, the Conrad falls, Shakespeare dies, a tornado rips through a fair, she makes her guardian pass out, and the CLF make a video.
Of course.
There are a few hours that she doesn't walk around, comforting those that she finds, being a strength for those who are terrified, giving words that she only vaguely believes in but somehow still seem so sincere.
There are a few hours that she spends in her room, not hiding though she wonders how many wanderers are doing that now. Fugitives without having done anything wrong. They all will feel like they have to walk outside with their heads down, darting from one dark alley to the next, never stopping for long, never feeling safe or secure again.
She spends those hours in her room waiting.
She is waiting for the next tragedy to happen.
People need her. She is well aware of how they all look to her.
And Martha Jones waits.
We should probably talk.
Martha sees the words written in the journal, sees Wes' handwriting and it's one that she's familiar with now. She doesn't have to see the name beside the entry to know that it's his. Something in the quiet, emptiness in her chest tightens and her breath hitches and that's that. She stares at the words, presses dry lips together, and then stands, walks away from them.
It takes her a day to respond.
Yeah, suppose we should.
The words are far too difficult to write. They're like fighting against rope tying her hands back. The pen drops several times, hitting the floor with a clack in silence. It sounds like guilt. It shouldn't be this hard to write back four simple words but it is.
Okay. You gonna be around for when everyone gathers up for the army thing?
And she halts again.
It's fighting against rope all over again.
A day later, and she manages it.
Yeah.
It's not what she wants to say. It's not where she wants to be.
But it's the truth.