A/N: The Chibi's Are Stalking Me, Cordelia-Lear, GSRgirlforever, Isis the Sphinx, Jessa L'Rynn, Kathryn Shadow, NewDrWhoFan, Olfactory-Ventriloquism, Rynne, SilverWolf7 andTardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel are proud to present the Second Annual Doctor Who October Project.

Each author has one character assigned, in the mode of the Canterbury Tales. Jessa L'Rynn edits.

Disclaimer: If we owned Doctor Who, we would tell cool stories about characters who make you wonder. Oh, wait, we're doing that anyway. But we'd do it without disclaimers if we owned Doctor Who.

The Companionable Tales

Chapter 4: Special

Today's Author: The Chibi's Are Stalking Me

"It's not easy to be a companion, is it?" Isleen said comfortingly to the very weary looking Martha Jones.

"No, not really," said Martha. "How long have you been with the Doctor?"

"I..." Isleen's brow crinkled. "I don't know," she admitted. "I used to think it was a very long time, but now that I get to thinking about it... all those adventures happen so very fast, some times and when they're over, you're living a whole new life."

"I once nearly died at least three times in forty-two minutes," Martha said. "Where has Mickey gone, anyway?"

"He muttered something about a noise," Isleen said. "Went off that way." She gestured vaguely to their right, then smiled back at Martha. "Did he try to keep all his secrets from you, too? I just want to know what's going on in his head..."

"No you don't," said a soft, vague, and very sweet voice. "Don't ask and he won't tell and then you won't have to know and you won't know for better or worse, either."

Martha jumped up from her seat. "Mickey Smith, where are you?" she demanded. "Answer me."

"Right here," Mickey said, charging out of the infinity and shadows of the vast and strangely cozy room. "Another blonde?" he added, seeing the newest arrival. "What is it with the Doctor and blondes, then?"

"Not just the Doctor," said Martha with a heavy sigh. "Time Lords in general, I guess." She gestured to the blonde woman hovering at the edge of the light cast by the fire place, pointing at a chair. "Isleen, Mickey, this is Lucy Saxon."

"The late PM's wife?" asked Isleen.

"Don't ask," said Martha. She rounded on Lucy. "Don't say anything about that. It's like I speak of the devil, and I get the bride of Satan. What are you doing here?"

"I don't know, Martha," Lucy answered vaguely. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, I sorta thought I might be dreaming until you turned up," Martha said. "But you'd never be in one of my dreams without a straight-jacket - I know better."

Lucy smiled her broken, little girl smile. "You always assume the worst of me, Martha, and I don't know why."

"You married a sociopath of your own free will?" Martha suggested.

"She did?!" exclaimed Mickey and Isleen at the same time.

"Martha just doesn't understand," Lucy said. "I was meant to do that. I didn't have a choice."

Martha shook her head. "I don't know what you could possibly mean."

Lucy could remember how, many years ago now, she had always known she was meant for something…grand. Despite her father and oldest brother always saying she was being foolish and that she'd read too many books – the two always had agreed, it seemed, that it was still at some point in the Victorian age when it came to women – and that she should just sit down and smile and be a good little girl, the idea remained nestled in the back of her mind, whispering to her.

She'd never been sure where she'd gotten the idea.

It certainly wasn't her mother, Tacey, who would forever be held in Lucy's mind as a pale, quiet woman. Shockingly blonde hair pulled back by one beautiful ribbon or another, pale grey eyes dull and turned towards the floor of the mansion, dressed in clothes that, while lovely, seemed to make her look even smaller. There was nothing conspicuous about her, nothing that would draw someone's attention.

Her father…oh, that was nonsense. Her father, Eric, while bold and gruff, had held his two sons far above Lucy, no matter the situation. Not only that, he had often lowered her; women, as he had often said, much like children, were to be seen and not heard, and seen as little as possible. His dark eyes, so warm for her brothers, turned shallow and cold as he looked at her. She had almost been happy when…

That doesn't matter anymore.

Neither of her brothers could talk credit either. David, the eldest, had been too much like their father, too proud of being at his father's side, of being his favourite. Kevin had been quite different, nowhere near as harsh as their brother and father. She could honestly hardly remember anything about him; he had always been in the background, a silence inherited from their mother. Lucy knew he had been kind to her, but…he was just so bland!

Perhaps it had come from the books, after all.

Not that the rest of the world were to know just how many issues her family had. Much like the broken shards of many broken dishes, the problems were simply….swept away, hidden. In public, their father had always had a hand on their mother's arm or around her waist, both smiling fondly at each other and the world. Kevin and David had similar smiles, chatting away as if they weren't always glaring at each other from across the hallways. And Lucy….learning to smile – correctly – had been part of growing up. Thinking of them now, as a collective, it reminded her of dolls; bright smiles and wide eyes, but the eyes were blank and the smile pasted on.

Lucy had hated it.

Hated them.

Her mother, distant and spineless. Her father, cruel and hulking. David, who strove to be just like him. Kevin, sweet and forgettable.

She had never wanted to be like them. Had fought against the maids putting the ribbons in her hair, had wondered if there was a way to be rid of the brown eyes staring back at her as easily as to change the blonde hair. Had dreamed of being swept away on a flying carpet into the stars, of walking into the yard and falling into a new world.

Maybe…that was it. What brought the voice to life and kept it whispering, echoing around in her head, never stopping. Wanting – no, needing – to be different, to be something better.

To be special.