Sick Day
The Doctor falls ill with an alien flu, but stubbornly refuses to acknowledge his sickness. Martha tries not to lose her patience. Post Blink.
Author's Note: Thank you so much to all who read and commented. :)
Chapter One
Martha awoke feeling warm and well-rested, and at once she knew something was wrong.
Every morning spent on the TARDIS invariably began in the same manner. At the (metaphorical) crack of dawn, the Doctor would explode into her bedroom, flicking on lights and shouting her full name at top volume. If by some miracle the gleeful, gale-force bellow of "Rise and shine, Martha Jones!" failed to rouse her, other measures were employed. There would be ample sighing, complaining, pacing, and face-poking until she finally obliged him by waking up. That was when he'd drag her off to breakfast in the galley, and – with a calibre of enthusiasm wholly inappropriate for such an ungodly hour – bombard her with all his eager ideas for their day's adventure.
Ordinarily, she could fend him off long enough to squeeze in a shower and a new set of clothes. But before her hair had fully dried he'd be back in her personal space, loitering outside the bathroom door, grumbling about how much time she wasted getting ready and reminding her that the universe was waiting.
The nature of their lives meant a whirlwind of perpetual motion. There was no such thing as sleeping in on the TARDIS. So when she stirred into consciousness three hours later than usual, and was not greeted with the typical commotion – nor the sight of a tall, ominously Doctor-shaped shadow falling over her bed – it was a cause for immediate concern.
Martha abruptly sat upright in bed, frowning. Her bedroom was dark. Not only was it dark: it was empty and quiet and utterly undisturbed. Mild panic was quick to flare to life, and her gaze swivelled around the room. "Doctor?"
Nothing.
Something was very wrong.
She kicked free of the tangles of her duvet and quickly got to her feet, hurrying out into the corridor in only her sleep shorts and thoroughly wrinkled t-shirt. The wall lights – set to mimic a basic 24-hour Earth day – had almost achieved full brightness, bathing the rounded coral hallway in warm yellow-orange. Figuratively speaking, it must have been around eleven. Thus even if the Doctor had neglected to wake her, she should've still been able to hear him up and about in other parts of the ship. Whether it was muttering to himself, or admonishing the TARDIS for its latest act of insubordination, or belting out a shameless, horrifically off-key rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody under the console – he was physically incapable of lasting five minutes without making noise.
Yet all was silent.
Such stark silence was more than a little unnerving in the incessantly humming time machine. Martha felt the hairs on her arms raise. "Doctor?" she tried again.
When no vague, harried response of "Not now, Martha, working" was shouted back to her, she started down the corridor towards the console room.
It was the most logical place to start looking. The console room was his favourite setting, after all, where he crammed his long limbs into the tiniest and most utterly ridiculous of nooks and crannies to work on his ship at night. She hoped he'd just fallen asleep there, as he was sometimes wont to do; if he hadn't, there were a frightening number of places he could have been. The TARDIS was infinite. And Martha was far from confident in her ability to navigate even the small portion of the spaceship he had given her a tour of, let alone uncharted territory. Just of the few places she'd seen, there was the library, the galley, the observatory, the squash courts, the wardrobe, the swimming pool…
The low and indistinct sound of someone coughing suddenly cut through the silence.
She jumped, startled, and turned to stare in puzzlement at the door closest to her left.
The nondescript metal door looked back at her, the epitome of innocence. Then, from behind it: the strained coughing echoed again.
Martha frowned and moved closer to listen. There was silence for five seconds, ten; then came more coughing. A throat was painstakingly cleared.
She knocked lightly, unwilling to open the door without express permission. "Hello?" she called, hoping she wouldn't startle him. "Doctor?"
In lieu of an answer, the horrible sound of gagging erupted from inside the room.
Her response was instinctive. Discretion forgotten, Martha reached forward and hit the panel beside the door without a second thought. It wasn't locked; and with a muted clicking and clanking of cogs, it smoothly receded into the wall.
The corals of the corridor abruptly dissolved into dim bedroom. The space was Spartan, dark mahogany wood and not much else. It was impersonal, save for a modest wardrobe and an overstuffed bookshelf. And there was a clear focus in the room: a large, unmade four poster bed.
A large unmade four poster bed which, in the centre of its twisted sheets, held one very pale and very miserable-looking Time Lord.
Suddenly, things made a lot more sense.
The Doctor was still in his jimjams, heaving rather violently into a small bin clutched to his chest. A familiar bitter scent tinged the air – and there were several telling noises echoing from the inside of the plastic, all of the unpleasant splattering and retching variety.
The door clicked and clanked itself shut behind Martha as she went in, her own stomach churning in empathy. There was a brief second of awkward uncertainty as she stood at the foot of his bed, unnoticed; but when the heaving intensified, she worked up the mettle to go to his side, circumnavigating a suspicion stain darkening the carpet (it didn't look like he'd reached the bin quite in time) and perching herself up on the edge of the high mattress beside him.
It was a little disorientating to be in such a private space of his. After a moment, though, sympathy overcame hesitation. She risked extending a hand to gingerly rub his back, feeling the feverish warmth of his skin bleed through the thin fabric. There was, of course, no acknowledgement of her presence – just more muffled gagging. And as many times as Martha had dreamt about being in his bed…well, this definitely wasn't what she'd envisioned.
He dragged his face out of the bin with a groan, struggling for breath, face scrunched in utter disgust. She could see his arms trembling as he tried to locate the floor to replace the bin. The fresh contents of the wastebasket sloshed alarmingly. Martha hurried to rescue it from his hands before there was a spill, and sat it on the carpet; inside the halo of balled-up, crumply tissue from where it had clearly been taken.
The mattress let out a protesting squeak as the Doctor fell backwards, flopping flat on his back and weakly pulling a pillow over his head. The pang of sympathy Martha felt grew even more acute. She would've hugged him if he hadn't reeked of sick – but, as he very much did, she settled for giving his bicep a consoling little pat.
Slowly, the pillow slid down to reveal bleary eyes, rimmed with red, squinted and peering out at her.
"Wha…Martha?"
"Hiya," she said lightly. "I thought you said you couldn't catch the Anderian flu, mister."
"Can't." This gruff denial was croaked through a mouthful of pillowcase, just before a groggy yawn overtook him. Evidently he'd only recently woken up. And evidently he was comfortable enough in her presence to have no qualms about stretching like a sleepy cat. One long leg ended up sprawled over her lap in the motion as he rolled onto his side and burrowed his face back into the pillow. "Go away," he mumbled.
The sniffly, grouchy command was barely audible. She pretended not to hear it at all. "If you can't get flu," she pushed his leg off her lap and onto the bed, "how do you explain all this, then?"
A sweep of her hand encompassed his physical condition and the bin and the stain on the floor. A lone brown eye materialised to follow the movement, then narrowed accordingly. "Explain what?"
"You just sicked up in your bin, Doctor. You're still in bed. You look terrible." The last observation was apparently an insult severe enough to motivate him to lift his whole face out of the pillow, even if it was just to scowl up at her. "This isn't exactly normal. Even for you."
"Well, it's nothing to do with the Anderians," was the sharp retort. His leg stubbornly put itself back into her lap. "Don't be stupid. I've got a Time Lord immune system, I don't have…flu."
The last word was spat out as if it were something deeply odious. But without the buffer of the pillow, she could now hear that his voice had been transformed over the course of the night. It was raspy, and flat – and completely, adorably nasal.
It took considerable self-restraint to keep from laughing at him. "Are you sure about that?"
His foot gave a half-hearted kick, nudging her stomach. Whether the faint kick was a reflexive expression of frustration or a failed attempt to shut her up, she wasn't certain. "Of course I'm sure. Besides, Anderia was what, a month ago?"
"Three days ago," she clarified.
"Same difference," he muttered, and tried to settle into his pillow again, jabbing it with his elbow to fluff it back to its original state.
"Three days is a standard incubation period. Maybe your immune system wasn't quite as infallible as you thought."
She could only assume that the pillow had stopped acquiescing to his wishes, as a moment later it went sailing through the air in a surge of aggravation. "We already had this talk," he snapped. "Primitive virus, highly superior cellular composition, Time Lord immune system. I physically cannot get flu. It's simple biology, Martha, I thought you were a medical student."
She ignored this last barb – and she didn't think he'd appreciate it much if she pointed out that it looked like the 'primitive' virus had his Time Lord immune system licked. "I remember what you said," she replied, calm. "But the Anderians told you it was the most virulent strain of flu they'd seen in the last forty-thousand years. Strong enough even to take on your 'superior' immune system, they said."
"The Anderians are thick," he hurled venomously, and struggled to sit up. "I'm fine."
Which perhaps would have been a rather more convincing assertion, had he not followed it by ducking his face into the crook of his elbow and bellowing out a sneeze.
She watched, unimpressed, as he collapsed back on the bed again; the exertion of sneezing depleting his energy and making him abandon his bid to sit upright. He looked utterly pitiful as he curled up (as best as someone that lanky could curl up, anyway) and buried half his face in the sheet. "I think you should have listened to the Anderians," she said.
"Well, you're probably thick too," he retorted with a sullen sniffle.
In another scenario she might have swatted him for the remark, but she could only give another tired sigh as she took in just how pitiful he looked: shivering faintly, pyjamas stained with sweat, the underside of his nose red and irritated, his cheeks flushed with fever. He was only in the early throes of the ten-day flu; but even now he looked awful. In his current state he'd definitely not handle any swatting too well.
"Maybe next time you'll be reasonable and get yourself vaccinated as well, instead of just me."
"I didn't need a vaccination," he rumbled. "You did. Humans are susceptible to everything." He reached back and groped blindly for his pillow; then, with a frustrated sigh, seemed to remember he'd flung it. He had to settle for grabbing a stray blue cushion. "The pollen on Eldredi 9 would kill you in six seconds."
Martha rolled her eyes. "Be that as it may, right now I'm not the sick one. You are."
He glared at her with all the forbidding turbulence of the Oncoming Storm – though the effect was somewhat diminished by the fact that he was curled up in his bed in striped pyjamas, shivering and hugging a cushion. "I'll have you know that Time Lords do not get sick."
In the interest of not causing further injury to his dignity, she refrained from reminding him of the foul-smelling sick currently marring the carpet, and marring the bin, and marring the bottom left portion of his shirt a bit as well. "All right, how about we just go to the infirmary and make sure?"
"I am not going to the infirmary."
"Why not? Because you know you have flu, and don't want it up on a screen so I can say 'I told you so'?"
He sneezed explosively once more – Martha flinched and recoiled – then wilted into the rumpled bedsheets, breath shallow. "No, because I don't need to, that's why. Didn't I tell you to go away?"
"First off, would it be possible for you to cover your mouth when you do that?"
"No," he retorted crossly.
She wiped off her wet arm with a corner of his bedsheet, grimacing. "What makes you think you don't need to go to the infirmary?"
"I've better things to do."
"Like what?" she challenged.
And she'd caught him there. "Well…" He visibly strained to think of something, mind clearly churning a bit slower than normal. "I thought we might go to…Kur-ha. Never took you there, 'cause we got a bit side-tracked," side-tracked, of course, being his new term to encompass three months of her labouring as his maid in 1913, a period she thought he was frankly all too keen to gloss over, "but we could still go ice-skating on the mineral lakes."
"Doctor, I'm sorry, but you don't look like you'd make it to the console room in one piece, let alone a mineral lake." The single-eye scowl re-emerged. "I don't think you're in any state to leave the TARDIS."
"I'll go wherever I like," he said, and aimed another very feeble glare at her. "I don't have flu."
She folded her arms. He was beginning to grate on her nerves. The Doctor was unfathomably difficult at the best of times (in good health), and she'd known him long enough to know that, when reason and common sense failed, there was only one way to handle him.
"Right," she said simply, shrugging. "Well, if there's nothing wrong with you, you certainly don't need me here." Martha scooted away from him and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. "Kur-ha sounds good. I'll see you in the console room?"
He scrambled to sit up, and finally managed it this time, dropping his cushion in his haste. Two overly warm, sweaty hands clutched her forearm. "Wait," he demanded – and looked completely mad as he did so, brown hair sticking wildly up on the left side of his head and flattened on the right. "Wait. Martha. Don't go."
"You're fine. You haven't got flu. Why shouldn't I?"
"Because…" He glanced down and sniffled. "Well, because it's possible that I may have…miscalculated."
"Miscalculated what, exactly?"
"Welllll…" He hesitated on the monosyllable, very studiously staring at a point on her shoulder. "There could be a small, teensy-weensy, really quite spectacularly infinitesimal possibility that I'm…affected."
"Affected by…?"
"Uh…" Again the brain was struggling to produce an answer.
"Not the Anderian flu, I hope?"
"No," he insisted. "Just…I, ah, I might be feeling a bit…under par."
"Oh? You certain it's not flu, then?"
"No, no, no." He shook his head, swiping at his leaking nose with a shirtsleeve. "Can't get flu. I'm a Time Lord. Keep up."
Her eyes rolled yet again. "But you're ill?"
"I think I am."
"You 'think'?"
"It's…possible."
At this point Martha was prepared to tell him off for being ridiculous and drag him feet-first to the infirmary; but then she saw the bourgeoning pout on his face as he slouched back down into the duvet and hugged his cushion again, and took pity on him. The pout had always had an annoying way of getting to her; and the pout in league with the shivering was an unstoppable force.
Mollified a bit, she reached forward and gently laid the back of her hand against his clammy forehead. An almost human heat, much hotter than his usual cool body temperature, warmed her skin. "Aw. You're burning up."
He grumbled a bit and made an unenthusiastic attempt to bat her hand away. "I'm freezing."
"Freezing?"
The Doctor flinched, apparently realising what he'd just allowed to slip. "Not freezing," he amended hastily – as if she couldn't see his shivering for herself. "Just…chilly. A bit. There must be something wrong with the TARDIS." A suspicious glance flicked up at her. "You haven't been mucking with the thermostat, have you?"
"I didn't even know the TARDIS had a thermostat, so no. You definitely aren't cold, I can tell you that. Just feels that way. Probably chills."
"I don't have chills," he declared. "And I do not want you fussing over me."
That was laughable, of course. If he so much as stubbed his toe, she was promptly notified and solicited for maximum sympathy – yet, if he'd broken a finger or sustained any similar serious injury, he'd keep it from her for weeks. It was being ordered about that he hated (sit down, leave that alone, get off the bloody ladder, you're in no condition to be running for your life) not fussing. "Oh, hush. You love it when people fuss over you."
And because he couldn't deny it without the denial sounding blatantly like a fib, he just pulled his new cushion up over his face again. "I'm cold," he complained into it, as if that settled the debate.
Sighing, Martha shuffled across his bed and fetched the bunched-up duvet from where it had obviously been kicked, shaking out the tangles. He was indeed sweating, but she knew he could withstand extreme changes in internal temperature, so she wasn't too concerned about his fever; and there was no sense in him being uncomfortable. She returned to his side, and pulled the straightened-out coverlet up over him, tucking it around his shoulders.
A definite soft noise of content emanated from the pillow, and he settled into the new warmth.
"How's that?" she asked.
"That's nice," he reported from the safety his cushion, in a small, congested voice. "Thank you."
Because his hair was now the only thing exposed, she reached down and ruffled it affectionately – something that would earn her a solid tongue-lashing if he weren't sick, but he now accepted wordlessly. "Do you want me to make you a cup of tea?"
"No."
This muffled reply was quick and resolute. She tilted her head. "You must really be feeling awful. I don't think you've ever turned down tea before."
"It's not that I don't want it. But…" The cushion shifted minutely, revealing that his face had gone ashen, and not insignificantly green. "Something went horribly wrong earlier."
She frowned, worried for a moment. "What went wrong?"
"The gravity," he answered gravely. "When I woke up…it turned on me."
Martha suppressed her snort of amusement, and schooled her features into polite concern. "The gravity turned on you?"
"Yes." The Doctor shivered and curled further into the duvet, as if warding off the grim memory. "It must have malfunctioned, but…everything started coming up."
"Oh, no. Is that what happened?" she asked, pointing to the waste bin and stained carpet, trying very hard to maintain a straight face.
"Yes," he replied miserably.
She gave his shoulder a squeeze. "I'll take care of that for you, all right?"
"Sorry."
"Oh, it's not your fault," she said (even though it was entirely his fault for refusing a vaccination in the first place). She moved off the bed, careful not to disturb his sheets, and put her hands on her hips as she regarded the stain on the floor. "Have you got any cleaning fluid?"
"In the loo," he sniffled. His eyes trailed over to a door on the other side of the room. "Under the sink, maybe. Haven't used it in two-hundred years."
With this direction, Martha went to the door – which was, like everything else in the room, sturdy mahogany wood – and pulled it open. His bathroom was almost an exact replica of hers, clean lines and white tile, and therefore easy to navigate. She checked under the sink, and extracted the blue-labelled white jug she found.
A quick sniff under the unscrewed cap had her wrinkling up her nose and jerking away. It smelled rather like it hadn't been used in two-hundred years. Hopefully that potency was a good thing. She armed herself with a roll of dusty paper towels, then returned to the room.
The Doctor's gaze followed her. "Martha?"
"Yes?" she asked as she knelt down on the floor, assessing the best way to go about scrubbing the carpet. She had cleaned up far too many stains like this in the A&E, but that had always been on tiled floors.
"You're still in your pyjamas."
"So are you, Doctor."
"Oh." A pause. "I am."
"Your powers of observation never cease to amaze me," she muttered as she tipped out a small amount of cleaning fluid onto the floor, and – praying it wasn't going to burn through the carpet, or more importantly, her palm – began to wipe up the stain with one hand, pinching her nose with the other.
Luckily, the cleaning fluid was quite effective, and in only a moment the carpet was damp but stain-free. She lobbed the paper towels into the bin with the other vile contents. Then, between thumb and forefinger, she picked up the small army of sticky, used tissues that had amassed around it. Once the floor was clean, Martha returned the jug to its rightful location and treated her hands to a thorough washing before returning to her spot beside the shivering lump of duvet.
"I've cleaned it," she said, settling on the edge of the bed.
He smothered a rattling cough into his cushion. "T-Thanks."
The word was stuttered, mostly because his shivers had become so pronounced that his teeth clacked every other moment. Despite the fact that he was still sweating, he somehow did a very convincing job of appearing like he was stranded in the middle of the tundra. "Do you need another blanket?"
"No. You just went away," he mumbled – and he didn't sound too pleased about it, either. "But I'm fine now."
It took her a moment to connect the dots, but soon she realised what he was saying. Now she knew why he had clung to her arm the first time she'd threatened to leave: he'd been covertly using her body heat as a radiator.
Martha narrowed her eyes, looking down at him. He was very indiscreetly inching nearer to her. She shook her head at the irony. He wanted to be close to her – and that certainly made a change from the status quo. The bitterer part of her had half a mind to get up and leave him to shiver; but she decided that this was not the time to be resentful over unrequited feelings.
Since she'd left, he had made a frail attempt to prop himself up halfway in his bed, and she scooted close. Her elbow bumped against his bicep, hip brushing hip.
He stopped inching, and gave what was definitely hum of approval as he released his cushion.
She briefly wished he was a bit less endearing, so she could be fully annoyed with him. At least he seemed to be shivering less dramatically now that she was so close (now that he could leech her heat properly, a cynical little voice muttered in the back of her mind).
"Okay," she prompted. "So, we've established that tea's out."
His eyes fluttered up to focus up on her. "Until the gravity stabilises."
"How about some water?" she suggested. "That seems safe enough."
"No."
"Why not water?"
"Wouldn't want to…tempt it."
Martha raised an eyebrow. "I'm not exactly sure how you can tempt gravity, but you're going to have to drink something soon. You need to replenish your fluids."
He frowned up at her. "Don't fuss. I know. I will. Not now."
"What do you plan to do now?"
There was a pause.
"I'm a bit tired," he confessed, voice sheepish, picking at a loose thread on his blanket.
"Well," she gave his arm a pat, "you get your rest, then. I'll go and entertain myself in the library, all right? You can shout if you need me."
But before she could even begin to get up, his hands were clutching at her arm once more.
"Martha, I thought you said you wouldn't go."
She frowned. "I'm sorry, what?"
"You said," he repeated slowly, giving her a look that suggested he thought she was being dense, "that you wouldn't go."
"Are you actually saying that you want me to sit here and," she shook her head in bewilderment, "watch you sleep?"
The Doctor didn't seem very troubled by this notion. "You don't have to watch," he offered. "You can sleep, too. Humans love sleep."
"I'm not tired, and –"
"You look tired."
Anderian flu or no Anderian flu, that earned him a solid swat on his arm.
"Ow," he bleated.
"– and there's no bloody way I'm going to sleep with you."
Heat rushed to her cheeks as she processed the sentence, but he didn't seem to notice her sudden flush or the double entendre. "What's wrong with me?" he squawked instead.
She shifted away from him, putting a nice safe two inches between them as she tried to force away her flush. "You're infected."
"You're vaccinated!" he protested, following her and eradicating her two inches of distance.
She scooted once more. This time it was three inches, and a warning glare. "Vaccinations aren't fool-proof, Doctor. Just because you've got the bubonic plague vaccine doesn't mean you go and cuddle flea-ridden rats."
"I don't have the bubonic plague," he complained. "And I'm not a rat."
"And I'm not going to be cuddling you."
"I didn't say we should cuddle." But then he seemed to consider it. "But if you're…"
"No, I'm not offering," she cut him off, narrowing her eyes, "and don't you dare ask."
"But I don't have fleas!"
"You love reminding me how weak and feeble my immune system is, don't you? I'm not going to lie here and inhale your germs!"
"Martha…"
"No," she said firmly, and emphasised her point with another inch of space. "No way."
"I'm cold." He reached out again and grabbed her wrist this time. "Don't leave."
"If you're that cold, I can go and get you a electric blanket. There is no reason why I have to stay."
Forget looking like someone had kicked his puppy – he looked as if he were the puppy, and she'd just booted him clear across the room. "Martha."
"No."
"Please?"
"No," she repeated – although it had to be said that she was slightly less firm this go round. "You smell like sick."
And of course, now the pout commenced in full force.
"Please?"
She could count the number of times she'd heard him say 'please' to her on one hand, which made the deployment of the plaintive little word – twice, no less – devastatingly effective. She tried to glower at him for another moment.
He pouted.
Martha groaned in frustration.
"Fine," she ground out from clenched teeth. "I'll stay." His eyes started to light up, and she held up a finger, stopping him short. "But I am going to stay here," she jabbed her finger at the mattress, "and you are going to stay there."
The Doctor's gaze fell to the space between them – and his brows instantly furrowed, as if it were an entire canyon instead of ten centimetres. "But…" His nose scrunched in confusion. "How are we going to cuddle?"
She blushed furiously. "We're not cuddling. What's gotten into you?"
"A deep and relentless chill," he whinged.
"Stop being dramatic. I am going to stay here, and you are going to stay there."
"But Martha," arrived the inevitable protest.
"That's it," she interrupted. "Either you agree to that, or I'm headed to the library."
He attempted to pout her into submission for another few seconds – but once he saw that she was not going to be moved on her compromise, he sighed and resignedly pulled the duvet up higher, covering his nose and mouth. "Fine."
"You're going to stay over there?" she checked.
"Yes," he grumbled.
"All right, then."
Silence settled between them as she fell back and folded her arms tightly, staring up at his ceiling. She was still in just her shirt and sleep shorts – shorts which, now that she thought about it, exposed a lot more of her legs than she was actually comfortable with him seeing, especially in his bed. However, he'd kick up another fuss if she tried to go back to her bedroom for a pair of trousers, so she settled for pulling up a bit of the duvet he wasn't using and covering herself from the waist down.
"Are you cold?" he asked, sniffling.
"No," she said, feeling her cheeks warm up. "I'm fine."
A pause. "Here you go." He offered up the excess duvet that he was hoarding on his side. "I don't want you to be cold, too."
And if he'd stop being so infuriatingly sweet, then she could be properly irritated with him for guilting her into staying. "Thank you," she sighed. "But you need it more than I do."
"Okay," he accepted simply, pulling the bedsheets back to his side and huddling into them.
Martha smiled reluctantly, and before she could trouble herself with all of the repercussions her actions might have, she reached out and ran her hand through his hair. By the time she saw him on most days it had been washed and had some sort of product in and was more or less an award-winning masterpiece. Right now, it was dishevelled and haphazard and delightfully fluffy from sleep. It was a good job the Daleks couldn't see him like this – bed head made the Doctor seem infinitely less intimidating.
Her smile twitched as leant into her touch. The treatment was tolerated for nearly a minute before he finally commented.
"Martha?" His voice was drowsy and faraway. "Are you petting me?"
"Yes. Go to sleep."
"Okay," he mumbled again.
It was less than two minutes later that his snuffling breathing evened out, and she finally withdrew her hand from his hair, watching his slack features. He looked younger when he was asleep. Not that she didn't already know that, all the times she'd (literally) stumbled upon him catnapping in their flat in 1969 – but it never ceased to amaze her, how sleep took the weight of nine-hundred years out of his features.
Sighing softly, she turned onto her side, facing away from him. She'd planned to sneak out right after he fell asleep, but…well, his bed really was quite comfortable. It was impossible to be sure whether it was the soft mattress or the pillows or even rhythmic rumble of his breathing lulling her, but something was doing the job and doing it well.
As her eyelids began to feel a bit heavy, she told herself she'd only rest for thirty minutes.
It was some four hours later that Martha came to with a violent start.