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Fairy lights and science posters lined the walls of their childhood bedroom, walls of lavender and white that glittered when the sun hit it from the right angle. Endless chatter and noise filled the emptiness, the impossibility of silence between the four walls of their house. The scratchy carpet of the living room, red and uncomfortable beneath their legs, left indents up and down their calves. A trophy cabinet stood in the corner, shelves decorated with the finest achievements. Nova's school awards, Nova's certificates, Nova's. They had never felt at home in the Osgood household.
Handshakes marked introductions, followed by tense smiles and hurried nods, and names they could never quite forget. Other people did most of the talking: "This here is Kate Stewart, head of scientific operations at UNIT," they would say, with a hasty "and this is Osgood," tagged on the end. Sometimes they wondered if they were little more than an after thought, second best to those around them, with their high and mighty titles and their straightened postures. They had never felt at home at UNIT.
Kisses, placed against their lips, their neck, their shoulders. Lingering glances and wandering hands, actions that should have made them blush. His rough caresses were harsh against soft skin and soft lips; his rough words were painful against fragile ears. Complacency, nodding along as he spoke, agreeing when he prompted. An "I love you." Ingenuine and hurtful, no more than a ploy to make them stay. He made them sick to their stomach. They had never felt at home with him.
Forehead kisses and half-shut eyes, waking up in her arms. A finger traced their bare spine, drawing lazy patterns against their skin. Her hands were soft and gentle, loving in a way they had never known. Notes stuck to the mirror, in tiny, familiar letters: "Love, Lunch with me? 1 @ our place? My treat. Love you, see you there, Kx." Openness and light, airy laughter. Softness. Familiarity. Kate felt like home.