Ghosts of Fics Past
Oct. 31st, 2011 12:32 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
netgirl_y2kHave spent most of the day nursing a hangover. I realised how long it'd actually been since I'd seen most of my mates - seriously, there's a hermit inside me trying to get out, she's just not trying very hard - and went to a halloween party I'd been planning to give a miss. Because I only decided to go at the last minute, and because I am in many ways a very childish woman I went as the worst witch.
*
Before that I was plugging away at the timestamp meme answers.
Six months after Those Who Favour Fire (Game of Thrones; Sansa/Dany)
The Northern lords had been amongst the first to rise up against the mad king, and amongst the last to support his daughter when she returned from exile to claim her throne. But support her they did, following Ned Stark's daughter as they had followed her father and her father's father.
(The she-wolf of Winterfell they call Sansa now. Once upon a time she would have been terribly insulted by that, now she clings to it; she is not a lion, was never a lion.)
The red and black standard of Daenerys Targaryen, the dragon queen, flies above Winterfell alongside Sansa's own grey direwolf. From where she stands on the outer wall Sansa can see the royal party snaking for miles down the Kingsroad.
(Daenerys will be at the head of it, the dragon queen always is.)
Sansa has assembled her household in the yard when the queen rides in - bloodriders, Queensguard, courtiers, advisors, and hangers on, the whole part and parcel of a royal visit at her heels - she sits a horse beautifully; better, Sansa thinks, than even the Knight of Flowers in his prime.
The queen slips gracefully from her saddle and Sansa falls to her knees --
(a little melted snow and slush is nothing to the she-wolf of Winterfell, not anymore)
-- the rest of the household follows her example.
Daenerys extends her hands to Sansa, assisting her to her feet. "My dear Lady Stark," she says for all to hear. Then, when she leans in to brush her lips against Sansa's cheek she whispers, "We really must do something about this compulsion you feel to fall to your knees whenever you see me coming."
"Winterfell is yours, Your Grace."
(As am I)
There is a feast in the queen's honour, the best Winterfell can provide after the long, long winter. Under the table Daenerys touches Sansa's knee and says, "We must speak privately, my lady."
*
Sansa has food sent up to her solar, wine; instructs her guards that she is not to be disturbed.
The queen says, "I must inform you that you are a widow, Lady Stark."
Sansa lets out a breath that she's been holding for nigh on ten years. "Joffrey?"
"Tried to escape across the Narrow Sea with his mother and grandfather, my dragons fired their ship."
"They were all lost?"
(The kindest thing you could say about Cersei was the she had not been as cruel as her son. But, for Sansa, for a time, Cersei being less cruel than Joffrey had been everything.)
"All lost." Daenerys looks out the windows, over Winterfell and the North. "You seem happy here, Sansa."
"I am. I'm home."
"Then I regret that I must ask you to leave it again so soon."
"Your Grace, I don't--?"
"I fear I have been a conqueror too long and a Queen too little. King's Landing is a nest of vipers. I find myself embroiled in a game where I don't know the players and the rules change hourly. I need a Hand to guide me through."
(Eddard Stark, the Hand of King Robert; Sansa Stark, the Hand of Queen Daenerys.)
"My Queen, I'm flattered, but I fear I would make a very poor Hand for you."
Daenerys speaks as though Sansa hadn't. "I spared the younger Lannisters, you know, Tommen and Myrcella. My council advised against it, what do you think?"
"That you have the right of it, Your Grace. They are not responsible for the crimes of their family, and they were amongst the first to your banners. Killing them would only inflame the Westerlands against you."
"But can I trust them?"
"Tommen is a sweet man, and kindly. Above all, he's a very poor liar, if he is playing you false you'll know soon enough. Myrcella--" Sansa gathered her thoughts "--Myrcella is the Kingslayer's daughter. If I might suggest, Your Grace, inviting her and her husband to join your court where you might offer them positions of honour and keep a closer watch on them?"
Daenerys smiles, and Sansa can see the bones of kingdoms in the shadows of her smile. "Send the letter, my Lady Hand, tell Lady Myrcella and her Dornishman that we'll expect to find them at King's Landing upon our return."
"Your Grace - Daenerys, Dany! - I haven't said yes as yet."
"I noticed that," says the queen with a smile. And when she sweeps back to the feast she leaves the wrought bronze pin that would identify Sansa as the hand of the dragon queen lying on the table.
(Was this how Father felt, when he left his home to answer the call of a king whom he loved?)
Sansa stays in her seat for some while, and when she rises it is as Sansa Stark, she-wolf of Winterfell and Hand of the Queen.
Three months after First Up Against the Wall (the grease and diesel oil remix) (Merlin; Gwen/Morgana)
7.
"Are we planning to give our friends alcohol poisoning?" Gwen asks when Morgana returns from the supermarket with enough alcohol to float a battleship.
"Only if the situation gets desperate," says Morgana, unpacking two bottles of that extremely expensive vodka she favours, which Gwen has never understood because all vodka, no matter how expensive, tastes of nothing more than vague burning sensation to her.
"We're only going to have another flat warming when we get our new place."
For the moment Gwen is moving in with Morgana; there's more space, it's not a much longer journey to the garage in the mornings, and it's postponing the inevitable squabble about where they're going to live, how much it should cost, and who's paying for what.
"Yes," Morgana flashes Gwen one of her trademark diabolical smiles. "But it'll be a much smaller party because some of them may have died. By the way, there's a crate of beer in the car."
Of course there is, thinks Gwen.
*
Gwen's friends and Morgana's having bonded over the shared trauma of moving boxes of Gwen's stuff clear across London through Saturday morning rush hour, the party goes much better than expected.
Arthur is thinking of getting a new car and actually seeks Gwen out to ask her opinion, and Leon attaches himself to their conversation and tells Gwen that he finds her opinions on semi-automatic transmission "quite sensible."
Crouched on the floor by their feet Freya is examining Morgana's bookcases, which contain all the volumes to be expected of someone who read English at Cambridge. But Gwen happens to know that the books Morgana actually reads are in a box under her bed, tragic lesbian romances and the Game of Thrones books, mostly.
Gwen excuses herself and heads to the kitchen to get another glass of wine, she shares an amused look with Freya as she goes; both of them have spent enough time with Merlin and Will to recognise the sound of boys pretending to know about cars.
She spares a sideways glance for Merlin and Owain, doing shots with what Gwen is fairly sure is Morgana's 25 year old single malt, and brushes her fingers over Morgana's wrist when she passes her girlfriend arguing about Margaret Thatcher with Will. Gwen smiles at that, because she knows that Morgana hates Thatcher as much as anyone with two brain cells to rub together, she just pretends to be a fan to wind Will up.
*
In the kitchen Morgause is mixing herself a white russian, of all things. "I should apologise," she tells Gwen.
"Um."
Until now Gwen could have counted every word Morgause had addressed to her and still had fingers left over.
"I had assumed this relationship was Morgana's idea of a joke, but no, she says it's serious."
"You thought that Morgana was going out with me for a joke?"
"Admittedly, I wasn't sure what the punch line was going to be."
Finishing her drink Morgause leaves Gwen alone, obviously considering the subject closed.
*
Gwen has retreated to Morgana's bedroom - her bedroom too, now - to catch her breath and clear her head. There are boxes everywhere in here. Mostly, Morgana's been surprisingly considerate in making space for Gwen, but fitting Gwen, Morgana and all of Morgana's clothes into one bedroom is proving a challenge.
Gwen smiles when the door creaks open and Morgana slips inside.
"I thought you were arguing politics with Will?"
Morgana sets her glass on the dresser, steps gracefully over a box and joins Gwen on the edge of the bed.
"I thought we'd best stop when we found ourselves acting out a scene from Monty Python and the Holy Grail."
"Which scene?"
"Watery tarts distributing swords is no basis for a system of government," Morgana quotes in a truly dreadful English accent, and Gwen bumps her shoulder affectionately against Morgana's.
"Won't we be missed out there?"
"I doubt it. Morgause has joined in the drinking game. It will be sad for Freya when Merlin dies, and of course I shall miss Owain, but it should keep everyone entertained."
Morgana tips her head forward and kisses Gwen's neck, dragging her teeth across her collarbone.
"Oh. Oh. Morgana, if someone comes in--"
"They won't."
"But if they do--"
"We return to Plan A, alcohol poisoning."
"Well," Gwen falls back onto the bed, pulling Morgana on top of her, "as long as there's a plan."
Two years after Protect Me From What I Want (Merlin; Morgana/Morgause)
Morgana had finally discovered a cure for chronic insomnia, and that was a seven-hour flight from the States to the UK (not counting delays) followed by horrific amounts of jetlag. She rolled over and burrowed against Morgause, mumbling, "What time is it?" and getting a mouthful of blonde hair for her trouble.
Morgause fumbled for her mobile, which she must have dropped on the floor when they'd fallen exhausted into bed. "Six in the morning. We must have slept right though." She curled back into Morgana. "I'll have to get up soon."
"How soon?" asked Morgana with sleepy playfulness, crawling on top of Morgause and nuzzling at her neck. The bed was warm and the rest of the flat was cold, the omnipresent London drizzle managing to make everything feel damp, even indoors.
"Are you okay?" Morgause asked when Morgana froze mid-seduction.
"Fine. I just -" She rolled away from Morgause and stared up at the ceiling "- the time difference is still playing tricks with me, I think."
"I have to get up anyway or I'll be late." Morgause gave her a quick kiss and padded away in the direction of the bathroom.
"The last tenants complained that the hot water took ages to heat up," Morgana called after her.
"I told you we should have stayed in a hotel."
It had been Morgana's idea to come along this time, her first visit back to London in two years. Morgause had to come for a series of meetings that she hadn't been able to pawn off on Cenred, and Morgana needed to sell her flat which had been sitting unoccupied since the last lot of tenants had left three months ago. Anyway, at this time of year New York was bloody freezing while London was merely unpleasantly damp. And Morgause had suggested they might make a holiday of it afterward. Paris, or Rome if Morgana preferred, to celebrate their two-year anniversary.
Really, they'd been together for longer than that, but it was two years ago that they'd been sitting in the Heathrow airport departure lounge and Morgana had looked at Morgause, really properly looked at her. At his woman who she loved as much as she'd tried not to, who she wanted desperately and constantly, and who loved Morgana enough to want to take her away and start a whole new life together. It was then and there that Morgana had decided to take the knowledge of their shared parent and put it into a box in the deepest, darkest corner of her mind and not think of it again.
And in New York it had worked; when asked how she and Morgause had met Morgana spun an elaborate tale of an office romance and almost started to believe it herself. Once, at a Christmas party she'd overheard Morgause parroting the same story to someone else. Later, when Morgana asked her about it Morgause had kissed the back of Morgana's hand and said, "History, my love, is written by the victors."
But now they were back in London, and in London people knew.
Morgana tried to concentrate on whether the bedroom ceiling needed painted and if she should get the flat surveyed before or after she got a plumber in to see to the complaining pipes. She didn't actually notice that the water had stopped running until Morgause sat down on the edge of the bed, fully dressed and offered her a cup of tea.
"Black, I'm afraid. There wasn't any milk."
"I know, I know," said Morgana, propping herself up on her elbow, "we should have stayed in a hotel."
Morgana drank her tea and Morgause perched on the edge of the bed applying eyeliner using a handheld mirror. It would have been oddly nostalgic except that the first time they'd been together in London they hadn't exactly been the tea and toast in bed sort of couple. They still weren't, really, but occasionally it was pleasant.
"Are you going to see anyone while we're in London?" Morgause asked.
Fuck, no. Uther was a nonstarter. The last she'd heard from Arthur was when he'd reported her missing and Morgana had needed to make an awkward long distance phone call to a bemused young man from the metropolitan police and explain that she hadn't, in fact, gone missing, it was just that she'd suddenly emigrated, so suddenly, in fact, that she'd neglected to pack anything or tell anyone. She sent Gwen a postcard of famous New York landmarks every six months or so as a sort of proof of life, but the idea of actually talking to her was beyond the pale. And Merlin, Leon and Lancelot had always been more Arthur and Gwen's friends than hers.
She shrugged. "Estate agents, mostly."
Morgause smirked at her. Morgana recognised that smirk, it meant: be like that, then.
"Do you ever regret leaving London?" Morgause asked, overly casually.
The thing was, sometimes Morgana wished that Uther hadn't told the entire family about her sibling relationship with Morgause and fucked everything up the first time, more often she wished that he'd been lying or flat out wrong, but she didn't regret being with Morgause. And if she had to go to New York, which was too cold half the time and too hot the rest, and full of bloody Americans to boot, to be with her then that was fine.
If she'd had to go to the moon to be with Morgause then that would have been fine too.
She didn't say that though, it sounded terribly pathetic, the sort of thing Arthur might once have said of Gwen when he'd had too much single malt and was half asleep on Morgana's shoulder.
Instead she dragged Morgause back into bed and did her best to ensure that she was late for her first meeting.
Three years after The Future is Full of Possibilities (and chocolate biscuits) (Doctor Who/Merlin; Ten, Donna, Morgana)
Using some sixth sense available only to Time Lords, the Doctor knew that it was Christmas Day. This despite the fact that the three of them were half a galaxy away from Earth and it was, local time, the middle of July.
He and Donna rounded up Morgana, who had either been attempting to foment a small local revolution or trying to impress a pretty girl - and one day Donna was going to sit her down and have a chat about how the two things should really be easier to distinguish between - and they all trooped back to the TARDIS.
And landed on Sylvia Noble's begonias on, miracle of miracles, Christmas morning.
*
"You could have called and said you were coming," said Sylvia, "I don't know if I've made enough food."
"Mum, you always make enough to feed five hundred."
"And there's no presents."
"I don't need anything, and the Doctor and Morgana only need something shiny to look at."
Donna, Sylvia and Wilf paused, waiting for an indignant response that never came; the Doctor and Morgana having found a family sized box of chocolates to investigate.
*
They watched the Queen's Speech. Well, it was tradition, and Wilf liked it.
The Doctor told scandalous stories about Queen Elizabeth, but as he kept getting which Liz he was talking about muddled up, no one was sure if he meant the current Queen Elizabeth.
Morgana, who as a rule was not a fan of monarchies, seemed broadly in favour of a ruling queen.
*
They let Morgana carve the turkey, because it was probably cruel to show her the carving knife and not let her use it.
Donna passed her sprouts to Wilf when Sylvia wasn't looking, just like she had when she was six. The Doctor spied her doing it, and started passing his sprouts to Wilf too.
*
Morgana had seen in three Christmases in the TARDIS and still didn't fully understand the tradition. Mostly they seemed to involve larger than usual alien invasions; her favourite had been the one where she'd got to cleave off a Dalek eyestalk with her sword.
Still, she pulled a cracker with Wilf cheerfully enough, and anyone trying to take the purple paper crown away from her was going to have a fight on their hands.
*
The Doctor and Morgana sat in front of the television, casting glances over their shoulders at Donna who was in the kitchen with her mother and grandfather.
"Nice, isn't it?" said the Doctor. "Family, I mean."
"Yes," agreed Morgana. "I mean, to visit, you couldn't do it every day."
"No, well, certainly not with your family, and certainly not if you still had that carving knife hidden up your sleeve."
"I was going to put it back before we went," said Morgana, defensively.
*
Before that I was plugging away at the timestamp meme answers.
Six months after Those Who Favour Fire (Game of Thrones; Sansa/Dany)
The Northern lords had been amongst the first to rise up against the mad king, and amongst the last to support his daughter when she returned from exile to claim her throne. But support her they did, following Ned Stark's daughter as they had followed her father and her father's father.
(The she-wolf of Winterfell they call Sansa now. Once upon a time she would have been terribly insulted by that, now she clings to it; she is not a lion, was never a lion.)
The red and black standard of Daenerys Targaryen, the dragon queen, flies above Winterfell alongside Sansa's own grey direwolf. From where she stands on the outer wall Sansa can see the royal party snaking for miles down the Kingsroad.
(Daenerys will be at the head of it, the dragon queen always is.)
Sansa has assembled her household in the yard when the queen rides in - bloodriders, Queensguard, courtiers, advisors, and hangers on, the whole part and parcel of a royal visit at her heels - she sits a horse beautifully; better, Sansa thinks, than even the Knight of Flowers in his prime.
The queen slips gracefully from her saddle and Sansa falls to her knees --
(a little melted snow and slush is nothing to the she-wolf of Winterfell, not anymore)
-- the rest of the household follows her example.
Daenerys extends her hands to Sansa, assisting her to her feet. "My dear Lady Stark," she says for all to hear. Then, when she leans in to brush her lips against Sansa's cheek she whispers, "We really must do something about this compulsion you feel to fall to your knees whenever you see me coming."
"Winterfell is yours, Your Grace."
(As am I)
There is a feast in the queen's honour, the best Winterfell can provide after the long, long winter. Under the table Daenerys touches Sansa's knee and says, "We must speak privately, my lady."
*
Sansa has food sent up to her solar, wine; instructs her guards that she is not to be disturbed.
The queen says, "I must inform you that you are a widow, Lady Stark."
Sansa lets out a breath that she's been holding for nigh on ten years. "Joffrey?"
"Tried to escape across the Narrow Sea with his mother and grandfather, my dragons fired their ship."
"They were all lost?"
(The kindest thing you could say about Cersei was the she had not been as cruel as her son. But, for Sansa, for a time, Cersei being less cruel than Joffrey had been everything.)
"All lost." Daenerys looks out the windows, over Winterfell and the North. "You seem happy here, Sansa."
"I am. I'm home."
"Then I regret that I must ask you to leave it again so soon."
"Your Grace, I don't--?"
"I fear I have been a conqueror too long and a Queen too little. King's Landing is a nest of vipers. I find myself embroiled in a game where I don't know the players and the rules change hourly. I need a Hand to guide me through."
(Eddard Stark, the Hand of King Robert; Sansa Stark, the Hand of Queen Daenerys.)
"My Queen, I'm flattered, but I fear I would make a very poor Hand for you."
Daenerys speaks as though Sansa hadn't. "I spared the younger Lannisters, you know, Tommen and Myrcella. My council advised against it, what do you think?"
"That you have the right of it, Your Grace. They are not responsible for the crimes of their family, and they were amongst the first to your banners. Killing them would only inflame the Westerlands against you."
"But can I trust them?"
"Tommen is a sweet man, and kindly. Above all, he's a very poor liar, if he is playing you false you'll know soon enough. Myrcella--" Sansa gathered her thoughts "--Myrcella is the Kingslayer's daughter. If I might suggest, Your Grace, inviting her and her husband to join your court where you might offer them positions of honour and keep a closer watch on them?"
Daenerys smiles, and Sansa can see the bones of kingdoms in the shadows of her smile. "Send the letter, my Lady Hand, tell Lady Myrcella and her Dornishman that we'll expect to find them at King's Landing upon our return."
"Your Grace - Daenerys, Dany! - I haven't said yes as yet."
"I noticed that," says the queen with a smile. And when she sweeps back to the feast she leaves the wrought bronze pin that would identify Sansa as the hand of the dragon queen lying on the table.
(Was this how Father felt, when he left his home to answer the call of a king whom he loved?)
Sansa stays in her seat for some while, and when she rises it is as Sansa Stark, she-wolf of Winterfell and Hand of the Queen.
Three months after First Up Against the Wall (the grease and diesel oil remix) (Merlin; Gwen/Morgana)
7.
"Are we planning to give our friends alcohol poisoning?" Gwen asks when Morgana returns from the supermarket with enough alcohol to float a battleship.
"Only if the situation gets desperate," says Morgana, unpacking two bottles of that extremely expensive vodka she favours, which Gwen has never understood because all vodka, no matter how expensive, tastes of nothing more than vague burning sensation to her.
"We're only going to have another flat warming when we get our new place."
For the moment Gwen is moving in with Morgana; there's more space, it's not a much longer journey to the garage in the mornings, and it's postponing the inevitable squabble about where they're going to live, how much it should cost, and who's paying for what.
"Yes," Morgana flashes Gwen one of her trademark diabolical smiles. "But it'll be a much smaller party because some of them may have died. By the way, there's a crate of beer in the car."
Of course there is, thinks Gwen.
*
Gwen's friends and Morgana's having bonded over the shared trauma of moving boxes of Gwen's stuff clear across London through Saturday morning rush hour, the party goes much better than expected.
Arthur is thinking of getting a new car and actually seeks Gwen out to ask her opinion, and Leon attaches himself to their conversation and tells Gwen that he finds her opinions on semi-automatic transmission "quite sensible."
Crouched on the floor by their feet Freya is examining Morgana's bookcases, which contain all the volumes to be expected of someone who read English at Cambridge. But Gwen happens to know that the books Morgana actually reads are in a box under her bed, tragic lesbian romances and the Game of Thrones books, mostly.
Gwen excuses herself and heads to the kitchen to get another glass of wine, she shares an amused look with Freya as she goes; both of them have spent enough time with Merlin and Will to recognise the sound of boys pretending to know about cars.
She spares a sideways glance for Merlin and Owain, doing shots with what Gwen is fairly sure is Morgana's 25 year old single malt, and brushes her fingers over Morgana's wrist when she passes her girlfriend arguing about Margaret Thatcher with Will. Gwen smiles at that, because she knows that Morgana hates Thatcher as much as anyone with two brain cells to rub together, she just pretends to be a fan to wind Will up.
*
In the kitchen Morgause is mixing herself a white russian, of all things. "I should apologise," she tells Gwen.
"Um."
Until now Gwen could have counted every word Morgause had addressed to her and still had fingers left over.
"I had assumed this relationship was Morgana's idea of a joke, but no, she says it's serious."
"You thought that Morgana was going out with me for a joke?"
"Admittedly, I wasn't sure what the punch line was going to be."
Finishing her drink Morgause leaves Gwen alone, obviously considering the subject closed.
*
Gwen has retreated to Morgana's bedroom - her bedroom too, now - to catch her breath and clear her head. There are boxes everywhere in here. Mostly, Morgana's been surprisingly considerate in making space for Gwen, but fitting Gwen, Morgana and all of Morgana's clothes into one bedroom is proving a challenge.
Gwen smiles when the door creaks open and Morgana slips inside.
"I thought you were arguing politics with Will?"
Morgana sets her glass on the dresser, steps gracefully over a box and joins Gwen on the edge of the bed.
"I thought we'd best stop when we found ourselves acting out a scene from Monty Python and the Holy Grail."
"Which scene?"
"Watery tarts distributing swords is no basis for a system of government," Morgana quotes in a truly dreadful English accent, and Gwen bumps her shoulder affectionately against Morgana's.
"Won't we be missed out there?"
"I doubt it. Morgause has joined in the drinking game. It will be sad for Freya when Merlin dies, and of course I shall miss Owain, but it should keep everyone entertained."
Morgana tips her head forward and kisses Gwen's neck, dragging her teeth across her collarbone.
"Oh. Oh. Morgana, if someone comes in--"
"They won't."
"But if they do--"
"We return to Plan A, alcohol poisoning."
"Well," Gwen falls back onto the bed, pulling Morgana on top of her, "as long as there's a plan."
Two years after Protect Me From What I Want (Merlin; Morgana/Morgause)
Morgana had finally discovered a cure for chronic insomnia, and that was a seven-hour flight from the States to the UK (not counting delays) followed by horrific amounts of jetlag. She rolled over and burrowed against Morgause, mumbling, "What time is it?" and getting a mouthful of blonde hair for her trouble.
Morgause fumbled for her mobile, which she must have dropped on the floor when they'd fallen exhausted into bed. "Six in the morning. We must have slept right though." She curled back into Morgana. "I'll have to get up soon."
"How soon?" asked Morgana with sleepy playfulness, crawling on top of Morgause and nuzzling at her neck. The bed was warm and the rest of the flat was cold, the omnipresent London drizzle managing to make everything feel damp, even indoors.
"Are you okay?" Morgause asked when Morgana froze mid-seduction.
"Fine. I just -" She rolled away from Morgause and stared up at the ceiling "- the time difference is still playing tricks with me, I think."
"I have to get up anyway or I'll be late." Morgause gave her a quick kiss and padded away in the direction of the bathroom.
"The last tenants complained that the hot water took ages to heat up," Morgana called after her.
"I told you we should have stayed in a hotel."
It had been Morgana's idea to come along this time, her first visit back to London in two years. Morgause had to come for a series of meetings that she hadn't been able to pawn off on Cenred, and Morgana needed to sell her flat which had been sitting unoccupied since the last lot of tenants had left three months ago. Anyway, at this time of year New York was bloody freezing while London was merely unpleasantly damp. And Morgause had suggested they might make a holiday of it afterward. Paris, or Rome if Morgana preferred, to celebrate their two-year anniversary.
Really, they'd been together for longer than that, but it was two years ago that they'd been sitting in the Heathrow airport departure lounge and Morgana had looked at Morgause, really properly looked at her. At his woman who she loved as much as she'd tried not to, who she wanted desperately and constantly, and who loved Morgana enough to want to take her away and start a whole new life together. It was then and there that Morgana had decided to take the knowledge of their shared parent and put it into a box in the deepest, darkest corner of her mind and not think of it again.
And in New York it had worked; when asked how she and Morgause had met Morgana spun an elaborate tale of an office romance and almost started to believe it herself. Once, at a Christmas party she'd overheard Morgause parroting the same story to someone else. Later, when Morgana asked her about it Morgause had kissed the back of Morgana's hand and said, "History, my love, is written by the victors."
But now they were back in London, and in London people knew.
Morgana tried to concentrate on whether the bedroom ceiling needed painted and if she should get the flat surveyed before or after she got a plumber in to see to the complaining pipes. She didn't actually notice that the water had stopped running until Morgause sat down on the edge of the bed, fully dressed and offered her a cup of tea.
"Black, I'm afraid. There wasn't any milk."
"I know, I know," said Morgana, propping herself up on her elbow, "we should have stayed in a hotel."
Morgana drank her tea and Morgause perched on the edge of the bed applying eyeliner using a handheld mirror. It would have been oddly nostalgic except that the first time they'd been together in London they hadn't exactly been the tea and toast in bed sort of couple. They still weren't, really, but occasionally it was pleasant.
"Are you going to see anyone while we're in London?" Morgause asked.
Fuck, no. Uther was a nonstarter. The last she'd heard from Arthur was when he'd reported her missing and Morgana had needed to make an awkward long distance phone call to a bemused young man from the metropolitan police and explain that she hadn't, in fact, gone missing, it was just that she'd suddenly emigrated, so suddenly, in fact, that she'd neglected to pack anything or tell anyone. She sent Gwen a postcard of famous New York landmarks every six months or so as a sort of proof of life, but the idea of actually talking to her was beyond the pale. And Merlin, Leon and Lancelot had always been more Arthur and Gwen's friends than hers.
She shrugged. "Estate agents, mostly."
Morgause smirked at her. Morgana recognised that smirk, it meant: be like that, then.
"Do you ever regret leaving London?" Morgause asked, overly casually.
The thing was, sometimes Morgana wished that Uther hadn't told the entire family about her sibling relationship with Morgause and fucked everything up the first time, more often she wished that he'd been lying or flat out wrong, but she didn't regret being with Morgause. And if she had to go to New York, which was too cold half the time and too hot the rest, and full of bloody Americans to boot, to be with her then that was fine.
If she'd had to go to the moon to be with Morgause then that would have been fine too.
She didn't say that though, it sounded terribly pathetic, the sort of thing Arthur might once have said of Gwen when he'd had too much single malt and was half asleep on Morgana's shoulder.
Instead she dragged Morgause back into bed and did her best to ensure that she was late for her first meeting.
Three years after The Future is Full of Possibilities (and chocolate biscuits) (Doctor Who/Merlin; Ten, Donna, Morgana)
Using some sixth sense available only to Time Lords, the Doctor knew that it was Christmas Day. This despite the fact that the three of them were half a galaxy away from Earth and it was, local time, the middle of July.
He and Donna rounded up Morgana, who had either been attempting to foment a small local revolution or trying to impress a pretty girl - and one day Donna was going to sit her down and have a chat about how the two things should really be easier to distinguish between - and they all trooped back to the TARDIS.
And landed on Sylvia Noble's begonias on, miracle of miracles, Christmas morning.
*
"You could have called and said you were coming," said Sylvia, "I don't know if I've made enough food."
"Mum, you always make enough to feed five hundred."
"And there's no presents."
"I don't need anything, and the Doctor and Morgana only need something shiny to look at."
Donna, Sylvia and Wilf paused, waiting for an indignant response that never came; the Doctor and Morgana having found a family sized box of chocolates to investigate.
*
They watched the Queen's Speech. Well, it was tradition, and Wilf liked it.
The Doctor told scandalous stories about Queen Elizabeth, but as he kept getting which Liz he was talking about muddled up, no one was sure if he meant the current Queen Elizabeth.
Morgana, who as a rule was not a fan of monarchies, seemed broadly in favour of a ruling queen.
*
They let Morgana carve the turkey, because it was probably cruel to show her the carving knife and not let her use it.
Donna passed her sprouts to Wilf when Sylvia wasn't looking, just like she had when she was six. The Doctor spied her doing it, and started passing his sprouts to Wilf too.
*
Morgana had seen in three Christmases in the TARDIS and still didn't fully understand the tradition. Mostly they seemed to involve larger than usual alien invasions; her favourite had been the one where she'd got to cleave off a Dalek eyestalk with her sword.
Still, she pulled a cracker with Wilf cheerfully enough, and anyone trying to take the purple paper crown away from her was going to have a fight on their hands.
*
The Doctor and Morgana sat in front of the television, casting glances over their shoulders at Donna who was in the kitchen with her mother and grandfather.
"Nice, isn't it?" said the Doctor. "Family, I mean."
"Yes," agreed Morgana. "I mean, to visit, you couldn't do it every day."
"No, well, certainly not with your family, and certainly not if you still had that carving knife hidden up your sleeve."
"I was going to put it back before we went," said Morgana, defensively.