The DOCTOR WHO MUSE LOVE FRIENDING MEME Come here and meet/share love in the Who-niverse

Nicked from secretsmirk , because I found it interesting.  And because I have two decidedly not-right-in-the-head muses.

The following questionnaire is based on research and experiences of socialised psychopaths. For each trait, decide if it applies to the person you suspect may be a socialised psychopath, fully (2 points), partially (1 point) or not at all (0 points).

( the sociopath questionairre )

And Lucy scores a 17 on the sociopath scale

"I never wanted to go away, and the hard part now is the leaving you all. I'm not afraid, but it seems as if I should be homesick for you even in heaven." Louisa May Alcott - Little Women - Spoken by Beth to Jo.

The gun was there on the floor, right there where the Doctor had made Francine Jones drop it.

Right there.

How easy it would be, should be, for Lucy to bend and retrieve it, silent in her red silk. Nobody was watching her; why would they, after all? She'd played her part well, hadn't given them anything to notice. And now, this was the final move.

( 'If worst comes to worst, darling, I want you to kill me.' )

Muse: Lucy Saxon
Word Count: 379

Prompt: Ambiguity

‘Another thing, Mr. Saxon, I would suggest a little less ambiguity on the topic of your time at Cambridge.’

‘Oh?’ Harold Saxon raised a pointedly polite eyebrow, cocking his head at the section of text Lucy was indicating with one red-nailed finger. She smiled, easily playing along.

‘People love a school story, Mr. Saxon. Adolescent cleverness, a spot of buggery behind the library, all the classic nonsense.’

( Saxon looked at her in barely concealed amusement. 'And what happens if I didn't actually engage in any recreational buggery during my time at university?' )

Character: Lucy Saxon
Word Count: 320

Well.  A charming place this is, to be sure.  Econtra, is it?  Well, you've certainly got the Big Brother vibe down pat- constantly monitored, people snatched from their lives as... recruits to some ridiculous fighting force?  Bollocks.  I'd ask you to forgive my language, but at the moment, I don't particularly care.  Right now, in fact, all I'd like to know is how the bloody hell I got here.   Mmm?  I was told that... 'the others' would fill me in on the rest.  Do go on, then; I'm most curious.

Regardless, I shan't be here long.   My husband is not restricted by simple human laws; he took me to the end of the universe and back again, he'll be able to find me here.

In a side room of an abandoned building on the edge of a city Lucy Saxon didn't know the name of, she hunched further into herself, shivering as she wrapped her ratty cloak tight around her body.  It was ragged and dirty, probably one of the nastiest things Lucy had ever worn in her life, but after a day or two on Woman Wept- if that was what this planet was called- she'd realised that she was going to need something to keep her from the cold.

( Because it really was *fucking* cold here )

Grinning hugely, Lucy snapped her laptop shut, letting herself fall back on the pillows of the couch, laughing giddily. There was no-one else in the flat, after all, so why not? A moment passed, and then she pushed herself up, spinning over to where her mp3 player sat sleek and black in its base- highest quality speakers on the market, those. Lucy liked her music, after all. Flicking through her playlists pensively, she finally settled on what she wanted, and a moment later, the guitar of Modest Mouse’s ‘Dashboard’ started up, a steady groove with the blare of brass behind it.

Hips and shoulders moving in time to the beat, she made her way over to the kitchen, sliding across the polished wood floors in her stocking feet. Lemon cakes and tea it was! Getting ingredients out, she sang softly along with the music, smirking at nothing in particular. Harry. Her Harry, and like the oh so perfect wife she was, she’d welcome him home with cake and tea.

Not, of course, that she hadn’t considered what they might do after the tea. A proper shag went without saying, of course, but after that as well. Perhaps they’d go dancing; Harry had always loved dancing, and the sight of the two of them together, young and beautiful, always attracted attention of the best sorts. But mostly, she just itched to feel him cool and solid against her, to hold him, to kiss him and feel the quadruple beat of his drums in the back of her head. Ohhh, yes. Just to know he was there- her husband.

After fifteen minutes or so, the oven pinged politely, announcing that it was finished preheating, and Lucy slid over, still singing to herself. She didn’t know when Harry would be here, after all, but best to have things ready for him when he arrived.

Lucy's mouth aches from holding back her smiles as she leans on the doorjamb to the sitting room, watching Harry fiddle with the back of the television set with something that certainly wouldn't be found in an ordinary toolkit.  He's so absorbed in what he's doing that he doesn't seem to notice her at all, and despite the news she has to impart, Lucy can't bring herself to interrupt him for several long moments.  Finally, though, she does speak, and her voice quivers, just a little bit.

'Harry, darling?'

((OOC: Watch as I conveniently gloss over details of how Lucy actually, you know, managed to knock out the Doctor or get back to her flat))

It hadn't been as difficult as she'd anticipated, frankly.  Even in the body of what looked like a large green cat, he was pathetically easy to predict, and it wasn't long before Lucy had him unconscious, stowed neatly in a box and tucked under her arm.

She took a moment to look around the TARDIS, sighing a little in recollection of her time with Harry, before it had... gone rather sour.  He'd flown her to the end of the universe in this ship, promised her the stars and then given them to her.  And even later, the TARDIS had looked oh so pretty with the paradox machine set up in its heart, pretty red like an open wound.  She grimaced, and her arms tightened faintly around the box that held the Doctor; now was not the time for nostalgia.   She was doing this to spite Harry as much as she was for her own amusement, and oh, wouldn't he just think it a lark if he caught up with her because she was too busy reminiscing about him.

Back to her flat, then, as quick as ever she could, and she opened the box with tender hands, smirking a little down at the Doctor's limp, furry form, and laying it open on its side on the richly carpeted floor.  She filled a bowl with water and set it nearby- he'd probably have a nasty headache when he awoke, poor thing- and sat by to wait, pouring an absent glass of wine for herself.

It wasn't long before the cat-creature in the box began to stir, its tail twitching faintly as it murmured small, cattish noises of sleepy distress into the ground.  Lucy allowed herself one rather mad grin.

'Oh, Doctor...' she sing-songed softly, 'Wake up little Doctor; see where you are.'

Hmm, now that had been interesting.  If perhaps not exactly what she'd expected; the swirling glitter and snow had been a bit Disney-movie, to be frank, but she's here now, and that's what matters.  Or at least she assumes she is.  She is, in fact, in a lavatory- a men's lavatory, to be precise, which gives no clue as to where or when it might be.  She'll take it as given, though, that she's in 1973 Manchester; Frost seemed to know what he was doing.

Never one to waste an opportunity, she turns to check herself in the row of mirrors over the sinks, brushing her hair behind her ears and making sure her makeup's all in order, tugging a little at the hemline of her dress.  She had had great fun picking out an outfit before she left, finding something suitably seventies; she ended up with a little green minidress with flaring sleeves and a pair of knee-high heels in brown leather; a velvet jacket hangs over her arm.  It looks good on her, and she knows it; she smirks a little at her reflection.  In the mirror, the door to one of the cubicles behind her opens, and a young man steps out, in the process of zipping up his flies.  He freezes dead still when he sees her standing there, his mouth actually dropping open.  Lucy has to exert an effort to keep herself from laughing.  

'Er, marm?  Miss?'

He fumbles for words, his fingers still caught at his zip, and she decides to take pity on the poor boy, whoever he is.  She turns and gives him her most saccharine-sweet smile, sending a blush flaming in his cheeks.  Honestly, if he's a police officer, she can hardly imagine he's a particularly good one.   'Terribly sorry,' she demurs, and swans quite calmly out of the loo, leaving the young man standing right where she'd left him. 

There's no doubts as to the fact that she's in 1973 now- everything around her seems to be brown, and the air is rank with the smell of cigarette smoke.  Men pass by here and there, none of them looking particularly busy, and certainly all of them with an eye to spare for the pretty girl.  She turns up her nose and heads down the corridor; either she'll run into Gene somewhere or she'll find the front desk- the result is the same either way.  As it turns out, it's the front desk she finds first, with a no-nonsense sort of woman sitting behind it, middle aged and with her hair twisted back away from her face.   She gives Lucy something which falls just short of a glare when she draws her attention. 

'Something you wanted?'

Working class, Lucy registers in her mind, probably a spinster, and certainly cynical.  She gives the woman a faint, polite smile.  'I'm here to see DCI Gene Hunt.  I don't suppose you could help me?'

The woman snorts under her breath, shuffling a few papers into a file and getting to her feet.  'Well, doesn't he just keep fancy company these days?  Come on, then.'

And she heads off with just a jerk of her head to indicate that Lucy should follow.  It's not long before they reach a pair of double doors and she pushes through.  It's clearly the main office- a mess of bad lighting and disorganised paperwork on desks, smelling even more strongly of cigarettes than the rest of the building.  A few men look up from their desks, lifting eyebrows- one of them, in fact, is the young man from the loo, and he blushes again at the sight of Lucy and hastily returns to whatever it was he was doing.  Lucy's lips twitch. 

'Oi, Guv!'  The woman's got a formidable voice.  'You've got a caller.'