Disclaimer: If I owned either of these two, I would NOT waste time on lj...
Summary: Conclusion to the set of 3. End of and immediately after LOTTL, earlier parts linked here:
Warnings : It's these two. It's not going to be fluff, come on :)
Part One: When You Burn You Bleach
Part Two: The Shining of You
Silencesilencesilece click bang oh my god. Funny how this is her moment, but nobody looks at her. Everybody's eyes on Harry, the Master, the falling body in the Doctor's arms. How like him to command attention even as his hearts are failing and he's slipping slipping away from him. Away from her and that's what none of them are going to remember. Lucy remembers doing Latin at school and learning all the different verb forms – she is active he is passive for once in their fucking lives and nobody can even see her. She was a catalyst, a second in space and time and now she stands back and watches the pity party whirl around her.
His fingers inside her one/two/three and curling there, like he's calling her home. It's not like anything is a first for them, not like anything would even be a second or third for them now, the Saxons and their barely concealed talent for copulation being something of a legend even before the whole world domination thing was really in swing. But certainly a different tone, not tame or tender still, never that from Harry, and thank goodness because if he seemed human she might just break. But. Less an overt fight for recognition, less a battle to write you are nothing on every inch of her skin; yet still the unmistakeable sense of being owned. The sense of I Am Doing This To You and then he asks, although there's no suggestion it's a question, “Will you do something for me?”.
Something in her feels years of tradition compel her to take the place of honour as weeping widow, to salute one more aristocracy husband lost in the line of duty, but something holds her here, in the corner of the room, somehow managing to be invisible in pillar box red, managing to go unnoticed as if she hadn't just shot her fucking husband. The Doctor's presumption would rile her a little if the past year hadn't taught her above all things iron self control and a healthy degree of detachment; instead she simply observes, dispassionately, that it's never occurred to the selfish man that she might love the Master too. That maybe some people find his grief distasteful – and they do, his handsome immortal friend and the hero of the hour, Martha Jones, look sickened and uncomfortable by the implication of all this pain, and later on this will be remembered as the Doctor's loss, rather than Lucy's sacrifice.
She's too close to coming to really think through whatever impossible scientific reasons Harry's given her for the plan to work. But she doesn't question, doesn't argue, although the possibility that she could lose him forever, or that he'll come back, when he does, if he does, as something not totally himself terrifies her. Still, nobody else would believe it, but for her, for them, the last year has been something of a paradise, a quiet, cold dream the colour of a bruise. It could never have lasted and so she nods, like he'd have any doubt she'd obey, and he twists his fingers and Lucy Saxon screams inside her head, too much of a lady even now to make much of a noise.
When she pulls the trigger, when Harry lays dying, she wonders when she's meant to feel it. She wondered, in the back of her mind, before the plan was a reality, whether she'd understand when she'd done it a part of what Harry feels, when he looks down on all those burning cities and when he plays with the immortal man and when he hurts her, whether she'd get that same look in her eyes, that same fire in her stomach, but she just feels empty. The destroyed and never the destroyer, Lucy Saxon, murderess and means to an end. And she'd had doubts, really, about doing it, never sure until that final moment, until You're just going to keep me? And then she knew that this was really going to happen and for a second was purely selfish in her desire for this man not to have Harry, with his pitying eyes and compassion she can't understand. So bang, the noise louder than she expected, too loud but somehow remote and she hates as she does this how he won't hate her for it.
The funeral pyre burns; good of the Doctor to bring her here, always merciful. She understands it must be hard for him not to hate her, but that he's too much of a hypocrite to treat her badly now, too self-righteous to see that ignoring a feeling doesn't mean you haven't had it. The impulse is the action, if he wants to kill her he already has and that is something she learned from Harry and will learn againagainagain when this is over, from a man that embraced his own nature rather than running from it, embraced death even and returned, a god, truly, resurrected and vengeful and real. He offers her a lift and she accepts, but asks for a moment alone. Dewy-eyed fool that he is he nods, the eternal coward, and goes to wait inside the blue box. Lucy picks up the ring, glowing hot from the fire and smiles. Blood. Death. Trial by fire. The oldest kind of magic, which is really just another word for science and the idiot's underestimated her again. Putting on her best grieving widow's face, she turns to the skinny man and says “Oxford, please”.
Hips twitching with aftershocks, the realest she ever is, here, at Harry's hands, at Harry's mercy and she's terrified of what she has to do. Harry is heavy and close and reassuringly authoritative and now she understands that this was different, wasn't Harry telling her you are nothing, no, was, and is, and always will be Harry telling her over and over again you are mine you are mine you are mine.