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Because I dearly adore torturing the Tenth Doctor with Martha Jones.
He's too late, but then again, he's always too late. Isn't that the way of things?
The Doctor sits in the console room, very still, very silent, with something strange curling about under his skin. It feels like - like sickness, like he's going to throw up, but it also feels like burning. It feels like there's fire under his skin, in the pit of his stomach, like there's electricity racing through his veins instead of blood, and he marvels when he gnashes his teeth and sparks don't fly from the friction.
He notices that he's grinding his teeth and bites his cheek in order to stop. His hands, clenched into fists on his knees, flex until they hurt. The sick feeling rises in his throat again and he coughs to clear it. His eyes feel hot and his throat is tight.
He never thought - that is, he didn't think - well, he always assumed -
Engaged, a nasty voice whispers. What, did you think she'd pine forever?
Anger burns in his chest now because yes, he did think she'd pine forever, or something along those lines, and maybe it had been arrogant of him but he doesn't think it's too much to ask for Martha sodding Jones to bloody slow down and stop being so - so -
Brilliant. Without him. In spite of him. To spite him. He doesn't know. He knows the anger is unjustified and it's really, truly cruel of him to be angry because he has no right, none at all - she'd been there for two whole years, there perfectly within his reach and he had never even lifted a finger - always running, always pushing her away - and now that she's out of his reach it figures that he's - that he's -
He curses and grinds the heels of his palms into his eyes, leaning over so his elbows rest on his knees. Stop it, you stop this right now, he tells himself, and the noise he makes is too soggy and distressed for his liking. You have absolutely no right and it's disgusting, frankly, for you to think that you ever had any right at all so you stop this. Now.
Martha Jones doesn't belong to him. She never has, in all actuality, and he recognizes now that her feelings for him when they'd been traveling together had been a kindness, when all he'd seen them as were things to dance around and disregard. Martha Jones isn't a woman who loves easily. He suspects he can count the number of men Martha Jones has ever truly loved on one hand, and two of them are her family. One of them, if he flatters himself, is him.
The Doctor supposes he always thought of her as a book he'd put away in the middle of a chapter, a book he could pick up at any time it suited him to do so. Never mind the fact that she'd walked out herself, of her own volition; he knew (or thought he knew) that he could pop back any time and pick up right where they left off. Because Martha Jones loved him, and she loved the TARDIS, and she loved their adventures, and he knew (or thought he knew) that it wouldn't take much coaxing for her to come back. If he wished it.
He assumed, although not consciously (none of this consciously), that her life would pause without him. He had been so sure, so certain of her feelings that he had overestimated his own gravity.
Because he'd been her entire world inside the TARDIS, he forgot that he wasn't her entire world outside of it.
And now this rude reminder - this - this slap to the face -
No right, he tells himself firmly. No right to feel indignant or hurt. It's hardly a slap to the face - stop being so dramatic, Doctor.
It had been a surprise. That's an understatement, but it had been a surprise. It had felt like a bucket of ice had been dumped over his head. Engaged.
At first, he'd been feeling vaguely smug. No, smug isn't the word - he'd been satisfied, happy even, that finally Martha was calling him, finally that book could be opened again - and now, now that he'd had time, he supposes he hoped in the back of his mind that nothing would have changed, that she'd still be waiting for him with happy eyes and wide, lovesick smiles - although in retrospect the way Martha smiled at him had never been lovesick at all, she had only ever looked at him soundly, softly, perhaps with a small, secretive half-smile that made him curious and terrified at the same time - but not so.
No, she'd been waiting with a brusque gait and hardened eyes and a straight smile, and she'd been waiting with a ring on her finger. She'd been happy, yes, but only as happy as she allowed herself to be. As she allowed him to make her.
He could see the scar tissue, see it in the way she glanced at him carefully, guardedly, and for the first time the way she looked at him stung him. Perhaps to spite her, perhaps in an attempt to shake her, he had thought well, two can play at that game, Martha Jones, and he had been guarded as well. Muted.
Of course, the matter of her engagement helped.
Engaged.
The word is venomous. He feels the urge to be sick rise drastically and swallows to fight it. Martha Jones has moved on - Martha Jones does not need the Doctor. (Martha Jones never has.) Martha Jones will not be Martha Jones for much longer. Martha Mulligan. It sounds wrong. He can't even bring himself to form the name in his mouth.
The Doctor clenches his teeth, baring them and leaning down to press his eyes into his hands once more, like if he presses hard enough he can forget. He makes a low, sad noise in the back of his throat and stays like that for a few minutes. When he lifts his face again his hands are wet, but his expression is cool and composed. He rises fluidly out of the seat by the console and begins to pilot the TARDIS, his face so smooth as to be nearly stony.
Donna doesn't say anything when she enters the console room, and he's thankful for it. When the TARDIS lands they move to the doors wordlessly and stand in front of them. If Donna notices the residual shine to his eyes or the redness of his nose, she doesn't say. She takes his hand and he sighs almost inaudibly.
"It's only fair," she says, and his nod is jerky and robotic.
The Doctor squares his shoulders and opens the doors.
The reception is small and quaint, but the Doctor doesn't remember most of it. It's a blur of faces and smiles and Donna's hand in his own is the only thing that keeps him from bolting. He doesn't remember most of it, except for certain bits which he remembers with crystal clarity. One can imagine what those particular crystal bits consist of. He knows he'll keep them close, no matter how they hurt, because in them she is the happiest he's ever seen her. Without him, she shines.
It's the worst when she looks at him. It's the worst when she smiles at him. It's the worst because it's the best feeling he's ever experienced - like he's standing in the sun - and then she looks away and it's gone.
When he congratulates her, his words are wooden at best. Donna picks up for his slack enthusiastically, and the Doctor finds himself simply staring at her, incapable of doing anything but. She's a star, bright and beautiful and happy, and when they hug to say goodbye he lingers a little too long, hugs a little too tightly. Martha isn't used to it - he hates that she's not used to it - and she laughs a little anxiously when he withdraws, but her eyes are worried.
"Something you'd like to tell me?" she teases. He lets himself smile, and for the first time it feels real, even as feeble as it is.
"So much," is all he says, and the most he lets himself do is lean forward to kiss her cheek, and it's somehow the most intimate he's ever been with her or likely ever will be. He tries not to let the emotion shine in his eyes when he pulls away, but he thinks she's got an inkling because she's looking at him sadly, her hands gripping his. The Doctor takes a breath that shudders and closes his eyes.
"Goodbye, Martha Jones."
He closes the book.