Jun. 16th, 2009

hell_in_highheels: (looking down)
She doesn't need to turn the lights on to move about the flat in the dark now.  The starlight through the windows is plenty of light, though everything is tinted a shade that is somewhere between gold and green.  She can't quite tell which.

For some reason, she feels the need to check the front door, the kitchen, the office, the long line of windows in the living room, the bathroom, the front door again.  Scenting the air for any disturbances.  No, everything smells right.  Damocles is asleep on his rug, Richard is snoring softly in the other room.  He heard her awaken and mumbled something in canine about letting her patrol.

Is that what she's doing?  Patrolling?

She tried to sit at her desk and write for a bit, but the urge to move overwhelmed this late night ritual.  She thinks she should go and check the bar as well, the hall and the stairs, the Library. 

The realisation dawns slowly. It's her territory.  She's patrolling her territory.

She stands in the door between the living room and the bedroom, and watches him sleep.  He's dreaming again, restless, hunted.  She goes and sits on the bed next to him, resting her hand on his shoulder, trying to comfort him some how.  But the dreams don't give up their hold easily.  She hopes the comfort of her scent can penetrate the fog of the nightmare.  Some nights it works.  Some nights he is the one that ends up pacing the floor in front of the windows.

If it goes on much longer,  she might wake him and suggest a midnight run.   A run sounds good right now.  Something to get the energy of the waning moon out of her blood. 

Damocles joins her eventually, inquiring as to why she's awake.  She doesn't have a good answer for him, so she pets his face and tells him it'll be all right.  He's more comfort than he knows, she thinks.  Always so happy to see her.  And now, chattering away at her all the time, now that she can understand him.  Damocles bumps her and tells her to go back to sleep, that he's here and if those demon rabbits come back, he'll run them off.  And then he promptly falls back asleep at the foot of the bed, sprawling across the warm spot she left behind.

She stands and watches them sleeping.  She loves them both so much it scares her sometimes. 

So she stands watch over them, drawing their scent into her with a deep breath and letting it out again in a low sigh.

And she paces the floor, eyes on the bank of windows and the dark Scottish landscape beyond.

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River Song

November 2009

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