The Ten years, set to hilariously perfect music and just so much damned fun.
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There weren't enough women in the profession to begin with, and fewer still that Cuddy could actually talk to, but something in the way this woman held her shoulders made Cuddy feel that Scully knew about loneliness and the value of conversation. It had been long enough that Cuddy wasn't even aching for sex, just words and the way mouths shaped them and the flutter of gesturing hands in low light.
There is no salutation. It begins like this:
I want you to know that I am not of sound mind, and that if I were, I would never have written this, and having written (or rather, being in the process of writing it) I already fully regret the impulse. However, having started, I can’t turn back.
Which is just so typically Lex that Clark chokes on his coffee as he sits in front of his computer, reading his morning email before class. In the background, Clark’s roommate Devon whispers sweet nothings to whoever he’s sharing a bed with today, and it sounds like the pair of them are getting ready for another round of theatrically loud sex on the top bunk.
Clark prints the email out, and reads the rest of it outside, twice. Then he folds it in two very, very carefully, fits it into his wallet, and goes to class.
He doesn't have the time to feel guilty; the memories are already fading. He grasps at them desperately. “The song,” he repeats. “What's it called?”
“I don't know,” she says. He can smell her defeat, shares it. “I hear it sometimes. At Christmas. And singing,” she adds, “Beautiful singing.” She looks away.
His memories, Logan thinks, and spends thirty seconds consumed by self-pity and jealousy. Then Marie says, “I'm an intruder in my own head,” and he hates himself a little bit for making her feel that way.
Rose wakes with her Doctor.
She is old and she has always been in love. Her fingers trace the lines of his palm. She draws constellations.
Some spark in his eyes stays the same no matter which body he wears.