Doctor Who Fic: Spark
Jun. 16th, 2007 11:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lexiomniaTitle: Spark
Author: Midvacent\Lexi
Rating: G
Fandom: Doctor Who
Summary: In her bed, when she sleeps, I hear her. The Tardis about Martha.
Word Count: 320
She is made of questions, this new one.
Yet another child. Yet another young, young life.
She commands something. Like some others before, but not like them.
They are all new, and all gone, and all ever present.
He mourns for the last, the scented flower, the red petals and the dark, dark thorns. She burns in me, and I in her. It tortures him.
New one, Martha, smells of life, new and untainted. Small spark not dimmed. Always burning, recklessly, in the dark.
He can smell her. They never do realise just how much scent they carry with them. I can sense, always, what he is/feels/wants/needs, my one, my Doctor.
She smells of coffee, and latex, disinfectant, Indian curry that isn’t Indian, blood. Text books, chai tea, stale croissants, microwaved dinners.
It’s all trivial, and so important. She smells of her world, her time. Her place and sense of purpose.
In her bed, when she sleeps, I hear her.
She dreams of darkness; in his eyes, in her hair, in space and time and all things. She dreams of people and places that suffer, that die, because of him, because he’s not supposed to trust her, because she fails him.
She dreams of light. Of stars, of suns, of galaxies. Collapsing, expanding, singing and crying; in beauty, in death.
Of her sister’s laugh, and her mother’s smiles, her father’s manic grin and her brother’s triumphant cry as he wins the game, yet again.
She dreams of safety, of arms that hold her, of double-heartbeats. Conversations that mean something, mean anything, mean honesty, mean hope.
She glows like a candle, a light bulb, a gas lamp, like nuclear bomb that pulses through the atmosphere.
Like a rising sun over a desolate horizon, gentle and warm, lighting up the dark, offering something small, something simple, something crucial.
She burns like me, but not in me. The spark: Martha. Somehow, it heals him.
End
Comment away. Any form of feedback (except flames) appreciated.
Author: Midvacent\Lexi
Rating: G
Fandom: Doctor Who
Summary: In her bed, when she sleeps, I hear her. The Tardis about Martha.
Word Count: 320
She is made of questions, this new one.
Yet another child. Yet another young, young life.
She commands something. Like some others before, but not like them.
They are all new, and all gone, and all ever present.
He mourns for the last, the scented flower, the red petals and the dark, dark thorns. She burns in me, and I in her. It tortures him.
New one, Martha, smells of life, new and untainted. Small spark not dimmed. Always burning, recklessly, in the dark.
He can smell her. They never do realise just how much scent they carry with them. I can sense, always, what he is/feels/wants/needs, my one, my Doctor.
She smells of coffee, and latex, disinfectant, Indian curry that isn’t Indian, blood. Text books, chai tea, stale croissants, microwaved dinners.
It’s all trivial, and so important. She smells of her world, her time. Her place and sense of purpose.
In her bed, when she sleeps, I hear her.
She dreams of darkness; in his eyes, in her hair, in space and time and all things. She dreams of people and places that suffer, that die, because of him, because he’s not supposed to trust her, because she fails him.
She dreams of light. Of stars, of suns, of galaxies. Collapsing, expanding, singing and crying; in beauty, in death.
Of her sister’s laugh, and her mother’s smiles, her father’s manic grin and her brother’s triumphant cry as he wins the game, yet again.
She dreams of safety, of arms that hold her, of double-heartbeats. Conversations that mean something, mean anything, mean honesty, mean hope.
She glows like a candle, a light bulb, a gas lamp, like nuclear bomb that pulses through the atmosphere.
Like a rising sun over a desolate horizon, gentle and warm, lighting up the dark, offering something small, something simple, something crucial.
She burns like me, but not in me. The spark: Martha. Somehow, it heals him.
End
Comment away. Any form of feedback (except flames) appreciated.
