If you'll recall, in part 1, the Twelfth Doctor and Martha Jones had a heartfelt and eye-opening reunion!
This is a first for me - two different Doctors, up and running, in the same chapter! Come to think of it, I'm not sure I've ever done that in the same story! Twelve kicks things off, but Ten gets the brunt of the effects, for better or for worse...
And if you were wondering at the exact contents of that letter, wonder no more!
PART 2
Sometimes, reminiscing about former selves could be downright depressing. Though, eye-opening. Here he was in his twelfth body, so jaded and universe-weary that he had almost forgotten how much he liked Martha Jones. All of their old feelings aside, she was funny and smart and kind; basically just a joy to be around. How could he have let those important details fall by the wayside?
Today, he brooded. He did not brood over the fact that Martha Jones wasn't in his life anymore… wasn't his companion or partner or girlfriend or whatever. He was beyond that. He brooded over lost opportunities and wasted potential. He brooded over the scars he had left upon himself, and especially upon her, because he'd been too preoccupied, selfish and afraid to tell her how he felt.
But the part that grated on him the most, was the lack of closure. As a time traveller, and as a man who had changed his face twelve times, he was wont to think of different "versions" of people, almost as different people. Martha Jones in her mid-twenties, in his mind, was a separate entity from Martha Jones in her mid-thirties. And so, though thirtysomething Martha Jones now knew how he'd felt all those years ago, twentysomething Martha Jones never would. There was so much happiness that had gone untapped, and so much uncertainty that had taken its place… the thought of that was almost unbearable to him.
Beneath the surface of all these thoughts was something semi-dangerous. He didn't want to go there, because time and space would frown upon it…
But seeing Martha again had, of course, forced him to recall his younger self. The rule-breaking. The decision that the old, stodgy Time Lords (who were nowhere to be found at the moment) were either wrong or irrelevant, and all those stupid rules he usually followed were just a precaution anyhow. Thinking of those days put him in a rebellious mood.
He went round the library balcony, and pulled a sheet of writing paper from the desk drawer, as well as a pen. As he held the two implements in his hands, he smiled to himself.
He and Martha had talked a lot today about change: appearances, personalities, insides versus outsides. The Doctor underwent almost a total metamorphosis of all superficial qualities every few hundred years (less, if he was careless). And yet, his handwriting always stayed the same.
He reminded himself that his main goal was simple closure, the gift of peace-of-mind to twentysomething Martha and to himself, and not, after all, the fulfillment of all that lost potential. That would be just a bit on the selfish side.
And so, he would have to find the optimum moment to give Martha the most reassurance, while causing the fewest ripples.
That Sunday morning in June of 2008 was the first morning in a long, long while which didn't present Martha Jones with somewhere to be. After the universe had been almost destroyed the day before, UNIT had shut down for a few days, as they all regrouped and tried to work out what the accompanying paperwork might say. She knew that they were stymied (and it wasn't the first time) because the Doctor had stepped in and just handled it in his way, and they basically had no blooming idea of what had happened.
The alarm went off at six a.m. like usual, but unlike usual, she did not get up straight away. She hit "snooze," and hoped to go back to sleep.
But she had no such luck.
When she closed her eyes, all she could see were people she'd known while working in New York, being knocked to the floor in an earthquake. She saw the inside of a bunker in Germany, designed to activate the Osterhagen Key, which would destroy the planet. She saw the black barrel of a gun, as a woman had threatened to shoot her in the face if she tried to breach said bunker. She saw images of her friends in peril; Jack, Mickey, Donna, Sarah Jane, Rose, and of course, the Doctor (twice!), surrounded by Daleks, while they watched the universe unravel.
It was disturbing. And annoying. It would not let her sleep.
So, she sat up, cursing.
Upon her night stand, her mobile phone was blinking with a notification, so she opened it, and realised she'd received two text messages from Jack Harkness.
"Miss you. You could still come," the first one said. It had been sent at half-past ten the night before.
The second one said, "Mickey fancies you."
The time code indicated that the second one was sent an hour and a half, and, Martha reckoned, several pints later. The boys must have got a bit pissed, and wound up saying stuff they normally wouldn't. She chuckled at the idea of Jack and Mickey getting drunk together, discussing their feelings. She wondered if they'd got on the subject because Jack had tried to talk Mickey into a one-time, drunken snog.
They had invited her to the pub the previous evening, after the three of them had walked away from the TARDIS, relieved that the world as they knew it would keep on turning. But she had declined, in favour of getting some quality sleep, for the first time in a couple of weeks. Perhaps they needed to let loose, but she needed to power down. It had been one hell of a week… even before the whole damn planet had got beamed across the cosmos.
"Mickey," she mused, staring at the message.
The idea that he fancied her was unsettling. Not that he wasn't a good guy, or an attractive one, but… it was weird, wasn't it? His history with Rose, her history with the Doctor, the history of Rose and the Doctor…
Was there such a thing as a love-rectangle?
Though, the more she thought about it, the more she thought, maybe it was perfect. The same two people had driven them both mad with unrequited love, jealousy and pig-headedness. They both knew about living life in the TARDIS while feeling, emotionally, like an exposed nerve, and trying (and failing) to keep the Doctor, and all of the personal issues surrounding him, at arm's length. In a manner of speaking, both of them had to "get over" the Doctor – perhaps they would have a lot to offer one another, in that regard.
Not that any two people could base an entire relationship upon commiseration, but it wasn't bad, as far as a jumping-off point. Though, she had no idea if she had anything else in common with him. She knew almost nothing else about him.
"Ugh," she said aloud, shaking off that train of thought, and standing up from the edge of her bed. What was she thinking? She wasn't really ready to contemplate seeing someone new at the moment.
She still had two men in her wake, whom she had to expunge from her system first.
She headed into the bathroom, and as she reached for her toothbrush, she saw it: the diamond solitaire engagement ring that Tom Milligan had given her, just before flitting off to Africa. She had taken it off and put it in the soap dish last night before her shower, and had left it there, because she couldn't think of a reason to put it back on.
She and Tom had broken up two-and-a-half weeks before, after he'd told her that he wanted to do another year-long service tour with Doctors Without Borders in the Congo. His expressionlessness in telling her so, and in answering her follow-up questions, made her ask, point-blank, "Well, do you even want to get married, then?"
"I don't think so," he said. "I'm sorry, Martha."
She'd sighed. "Don't be. I'm a bit relieved."
They acknowledged (strangely calmly) that their decision to get engaged had been hasty, and derived from the fact that their relationship had been new and exciting. They knew they would soon be separated by a continent, and at the time, they were fiery and smitten.
It had been an eye-opening conversation for many reasons, and it had led to the dissolution of their union. It had been all for the best.
But it had happened while she was in New York, working practically round-the-clock on a crisis, and she'd been staying in a sleep room within UNIT's U.S. headquarters, sharing a bunk with a junior officer, a virtual stranger to her. She'd been more or less living out of a rucksack, which had a hole in the bottom. She hadn't taken off her ring because she hadn't had any place to put it, that would keep it safe… so she'd kept it on her finger throughout the New York crisis and the Reality Bomb Dalek attack. She hadn't had a chance to tell anyone she was no longer engaged...
She finished brushing her teeth, then returned to the bedroom and opened the drawer that housed the red velvet box the ring had come in. She put the ring back in the box, and decided that she would return it to Tom's mother today. Otherwise, she'd have to keep it until he returned to Britain, and in her mind, that would leave an awfully big loose-end, for at least the next eighteen months. For the sake of closure, she needed it back in the rightful hands of the Milligans.
Tom's mum worked from home, so Martha resolved not to accept a cup of tea, not to sit down, so as to disturb the busy woman as little as possible. Her plan was simply to hand over the ring, explain that she and Tom were finished more or less by mutual assent, give her a hug, and leave. She would entrust the full-on exposition and damage-control to Tom. After all, she still had to talk to her own family about the breakup, which would be messy, messy, messy. Francine Jones might as well be President of the Tom Milligan Fan Club – it would not be an easy discussion.
She got dressed, and then opened the bottom drawer of the wardrobe, looking for a handbag. She hardly ever carried one, but today, she needed to carry her wallet, her phone and the ring, so she chose a casual black leather one she'd bought last fall. She deposited the ring inside it, noted that her wallet was still in the holy rucksack downstairs beside the front door, and then went to the night stand for her phone.
Which made her think once again of Mickey.
Martha reckoned that perhaps, in a month or two, she would text Jack back, to see if he had Mickey's number, and maybe she would ring him. Probably just to talk, though. It was entirely possible that sober Mickey didn't fancy her at all, and honestly, she just thought he was cute and nice. More than likely, he had some heart and mettle as well, but she wasn't exactly angling to find out any more about that bit.
She made her way down the stairs, and spotted her rucksack, right inside the door, where she had dumped it the evening before, after her friends had walked her home. The light in the foyer was dim, as she hadn't had a chance to open the blinds yet.
She bent over and opened the rucksack, and fished out her wallet.
And as she did, she noticed something on the floor. She hadn't seen it before because of the poor light, and the fact that it was more or less the same off-white as the foyer rug it was lying upon. It was a letter, addressed to her with only her first name, and it had been slipped through the mail slot.
And she would recognise that handwriting anywhere.
The TARDIS didn't really have any windows at which one could stand, gaze out into the rain, and reflect on one's lot in life. But today, he wished it had.
Because this lot was leaving him absolutely hollow. And also angry, if those two emotions could exist simultaneously.
In the past twenty-four hours, everyone he cared about had basically left his life.
Watching Mickey and Jack walk away was a mixed bag for him. He felt absolutely certain he'd cross paths with Jack Harkness again someday, and not just in passing. There was more adventure to be had, and the Captain's tenure with the Doctor would never be truly over. Mickey, however… well, his own feelings about the Doctor were a mixed bag, as the Doctor himself well knew.
Rose's departure had stung a lot less this time. The first go-round, two years ago (or three, depending on the point of view), when he'd been a hologram talking to her on the beach, he had waited too long and had missed the opportunity to reassure her that she was loved. It had left her with an itch she couldn't scratch, a wound that wouldn't heal, which was demonstrated when she took advantage of reality collapsing, in order to rip a hole through the void, so she could see him again. He had been missing her, of course, for a while after she left, but honestly, he'd grown a bit fatigued and annoyed with her shadow constantly cast over his life. Not that that was her fault at all.
But yesterday, again on Bad Wolf Bay, with at least his feelings a bit dulled from their years apart, closure had been had. Unlike last time, he'd left her with something to hold onto, quite literally, and had satisfied his own need to see things through.
Then, there was Martha. For a third time, she'd chosen not to stay with him, though he had very little doubt that she still harboured feelings for him… and he for her. But he'd been an idiot. As with Rose, he had waited too long, and their moment had passed. Except, with her, he had had months upon months to bloody say something, and he hadn't. Because, he was nursing a broken heart. He was waiting for the right time. He was weighing the pros and cons. He did not want to complicate her life any further. Et cetera, et cetera… he had been chock-full of excuses, when the other voice in his head came knocking, insisting that he might as well admit he was in love with her.
Then then the Year That Never Was ruined everything.
Well, not really. It had nearly crushed them both, yes, but it had shown her the level of her own mettle, her own perseverance when the lives of those she loved came under fire. Not to mention the future of the planet.
Her "getting out" after having found her strength, in fighting the Master, had been devastating. It was more than just a simple wake-up call to him, it was like he'd been given a lethal dose of guilt. It was then that he became weary of Rose's ghost, and these sentimental games which no one could win.
He had loved Rose first, yes, but he loved Martha just as well, and she had never known. She might never know, and she might always have just a bit of a dent on her soul because of it. He reckoned he'd have to live with that… and that stung just now. But it was his penance for being an interpersonal imbecile.
At this moment, all he wanted was to take refuge. He needed and wanted a shoulder just now, and he wished it could be hers. Because, of all the day's departures, difficult as Martha's had been, the worst by far had been Donna's.
Sometimes, he really hated being him. He had performed what had amounted to an act of euthanasia, upon a treasured friend. He had essentially killed the person that Donna had become, in order to save the life of… who? What? The physical Donna, yes, but to preserve her in her larval state, when all she cared about was wine and office gossip and celebrity mags…
Really? This was better?
But the alternative would have been so much worse… and Donna had known that. She could see her own intellectual demise mapped out within her mind, when she'd briefly had the prowess of a Time Lord, and that had been the cruelest part. She had begged him not to make her go, but had known that it was inevitable, just as he had.
He wondered if her voice would ever leave his mind, in those moments when she was sobbing and imploring him not to take away her memories, not to steal the past year of her life away, not to remove himself from her psyche and soul, which would mean that she would always be incomplete…
He kicked the base of the console in anger, with the toe of his jaunty Converse trainer. He felt helpless, alone, and cooped-up. He felt as though time, the very thing he was supposed to be able to navigate (and even control), had totally screwed him. It had passed too quickly. It had folded over on itself. It had absorbed him and his companions somehow…
And then the phone on the console rang.
No, it wasn't the phone on the console. It was the mobile phone resting between the Harflux Navigator and the Cible Locator. Martha's razor, which she had left with him, as she'd walked away the first time.
"Hi," he said evenly, answering the call.
"Hi," she answered, just as evenly.
It had only been twenty-four hours, but it was always nice to hear her voice.
"Are you okay?" he wondered. All of his friends had been put through the wringer... it wasn't unreasonable to wonder if something was wrong.
"I'm fine," she answered. "You?"
He swallowed hard. "Coping."
For a long moment after that, all he could hear on the other end was her sighing.
When she didn't say anything for a bit, he asked, "Martha, is there a reason you've rung?"
"Yeah," she said, "Erm… Doctor, are you alone?"
"Yeah," he answered, quietly, with finality.
"I mean… no-one is in the TARDIS with you?"
"Nope."
"And they haven't just popped off home to visit their mothers?"
"No," he told her. "I'm alone again. Everyone's gone. How did you know?"
She didn't answer. Instead, she exclaimed, "Jesus, it's only been a day. What happened?"
He sighed heavily, and slumped into the seat. "Oh, Martha. That's a story for another time."
"Well, maybe you can tell me soon. In any case, we need to talk."
"About what?"
"About the letter."
"The letter?" he asked, genuinely confused.
"Look, can you be at my flat in an hour?"
"You know I can."
"Good. There's an errand I need to run, just to tie up some loose ends before I can even think about... yeah, we should talk."
Having parked the TARDIS at the end of the block, he knocked on her door precisely one hour later. It had been such a short time since he'd seen her, he half-expected her to be dressed in the UNIT-issue jumpsuit she'd been wearing the previous evening.
But when she opened the door, he was pleasantly surprised. She was dressed in a pastel-blue spaghetti-strap top and a pair of loose-fitting khaki cargo capris. On her feet, she wore flip-flops, and her hair was swept back off her shoulders, but some casual strands hung about her ears, like parentheses round her face.
She looked fresh-faced, relaxed… achingly beautiful. Well, actually, that last part was no surprise.
"Hi," she said with a smile. "An hour on-the-dot."
"Well, honestly, if I can't be on-time, then what is the point of me?" he asked.
"Come in," she said, gesturing with one arm, and stepping aside.
He had never been inside this flat before – he had only ever visited the one she'd lived in before the Master blew it up. He stepped past her, looking about, and marvelling at how this was the flat of a grown-up, whereas her previous abode had been one of a student.
She had a foyer of course, featuring an off-white rug on the floor, and a stairway jutting up the centre of the flat. Off to the right was a pristine, stylish kitchen. Off to the left was a small parlour, with deep red carpet, an L-shaped white sofa focused on a flat-screen television. Apart from that, there were bookshelves from floor to ceiling throughout most of the room, a coffee table and a desk. This seemed particularly seductive to him, somehow… the books suggested intelligence (which he already knew) while the colours suggested boldness, surety and audacity.
"Would you like a drink?" she asked.
He inhaled, and exhaled exaggeratedly, then asked, "I don't know. Am I going to need one?"
"That's a loaded question. Tea then?"
"No, but if you want one, I'll… help you."
"Thanks, but I just had one," she said, smiling indulgently.
Growing anxious, standing there in the entryway, he asked, "I'm sorry, but… Martha, what is this about?"
"The letter," she responded.
"Yeah, so you said on the phone but…"
"Oh, for God's sake, Doctor," she said lightly, stepping past him, into the parlour. "How old are you now? And you're still playing these games?"
Feigning annoyance, she picked up from the desk two sheets of paper folded together, and held them out to him.
He took his glasses from his breast pocket and threw them on, sniffing a bit as an affectation. Then he studied her briefly, before doing likewise with the document she'd given him.
He was astonished to see a letter that he had never seen before… written by his own hand!
His first instinct was to wonder who had forged his penmanship so flawlessly, but as he read further, his thinking changed.
"Dear Martha,
"Before I get ahead of myself, and jump headlong, unwisely quickly, into the substance of this little endeavour (which, of course, I would never, ever do… not me, no) I must preface it with an important proviso.
"And that is this: I don't expect anything from you. You owe me nothing. Because, as you may, in passing, have heard, I am a damaged man, with tonnes upon tonnes of baggage to carry about this great old universe. And you, you're engaged to Tom. So, I recognise that the possibilities are not exactly endless and that once again, I have let the proper moment pass. Please don't feel derailed by this in any way; there is nothing in my motivations except to expunge a certain shadow from my soul, and dare I hope, from yours.
"Now to my objective in writing this letter.
"During our time together, I was not ignorant of your feelings toward me. Deaf, dumb and blind though I may have seemed, Dr. Jones, I knew, because I felt the same toward you. I found myself completely taken with you from that first day in the hospital on the moon. Even with adrenaline pumping, life and limb in peril, I was distracted by your eyes, and that flirty twinkle in your gaze. Add to that the fact that you are courageous, brilliant, kind and passionate, and how on Earth could I contain that compulsion to bring you into my mad old life? And once I did, over time, I learned that what I'd seen at Royal Hope was only the tip of the iceberg, that your beauty, your capacity for amazing feats and tremendous love was actually fairly staggering.
"I don't know if I became intimidated by this, or if I was just nursing a broken heart and wasn't ready to give myself to you, but something held me back. Of course, I told myself it was the latter, but the more time that goes on, the more I wonder. Because, when I look back on that time, and I think of you, and I think of what was happening inside my hearts, I see only cowardice. A man who is just 'not ready,' he might find his resolve, and then lose it at the moment of truth – that's normal. But a coward, he never takes the initiative at all, preferring to convince himself that he will act when the time is right. And indeed, Martha, I used to imagine what words I might whisper to you, when that day came, but at no point did I ever make any concrete decision to do so.
"Someday, I said. Soon, I said. When I'm not so raw. When I don't feel so much in turmoil.
"Well, come on. When have I ever not been in turmoil?
"And then, one day, it became too late. We were embroiled with the Master before we even knew it, and all hope was lost. It was save the world, or save our hearts. Perhaps you did both. Since you trekked across the planet at my bidding, I sometimes reassure myself that there was some emotional fulfillment in that for you. But for me, watching you blip off the Valiant… I knew it was over. I was even more helpless than usual; you were gone, and the Martha Jones I knew would never be back. And I was right, wasn't I? At the end of it, I could see it in your eyes: you'd grown up, and had had it with me, and the mad old life. How could I blame you? How could I hold you back? You so clearly needed to be away from me, needed to heal and find yourself again.
"Which you did, and I am immensely proud of you. But I still wonder if, buried beneath all that soul-searching and confidence, somewhere, there lies a vestige of the uncertainty you felt while you travelled with me. Perhaps you're still asking 'why?' or 'what went wrong?' or (I cringe even to write the words), grinding on your own inadequacies. I hope you're not, because that would be daft. Seriously, stop it. You don't have an inadequate cell in your body, I'm sure of it.
"But human nature being what it is, perhaps you are, in fact, grinding a bit. And that's why I'm writing this letter. To give you satisfaction, closure, even vindication, by letting you know, in no uncertain terms:
"I love you. I've been in love with you, on some level, since I met you. I'm haunted every day by it. And I'm haunted every day by my failure.
"If I know you as well as I think I do, then at this point, you've stopped going further in the letter, and have read the last four or five paragraphs over again, multiple times, just to make sure you've got it right. Rest assured, you've got it right.
"You should also rest assured that time is vast, my life is long, and I will be fine, in the end. You have left an indelible print upon my psyche to be sure, but with distance and years, the ache will dull. The knowledge that you have marriage and success and adventures ahead of you, it's enough for me to be able to walk away from you in good conscience. I want nothing but the absolute pinnacle for you, and we should both feel secure in moving forward.
"Your friend, the madman in the box, The Doctor."
The first few seconds after finishing the letter were devastating.
And then he swallowed down the panic, and looked at Martha squarely.
The life of a time-traveller is a strange one, and things don't always happen to him in the right order; this had been illustrated time and again, most recently by Sally Sparrow and River Song. Both women had asked him, in different ways, to take a leap of faith, and trust in time to fill in the blanks, to heal all the ills that his confusion brought on. So, he'd taken the large envelope from Sally and kept it on his person, trusting that he'd need it someday – and he had. He'd run with impunity with River in the library, trusting that someday, her very existence, and all that she knew, would make sense.
At first, he'd thought the letter was a forgery, but he'd changed his mind. The handwriting had been so unmistakably his, and more importantly, the sentiments in the letter were unmistakably his. He recognised the resigned angst, feeling the possibilities disappear, now that she was getting married to someone else. He recognised the precise memory of being struck, sometimes in inappropriate moments, by the "flirty twinkle" in her gaze, and the despair he felt when he knew that Martha would come back changed from her trip around the world. He recognised his own thoughts on being "not ready" to share his feelings for her, versus being a coward. The difference between the two, as described in the letter, were spot-on.
And so, he reckoned that now, it was himself asking him to take a leap of faith. And he did trust in time to fill in the blanks somehow – that much was in his nature. At some point in the future, he must decide that the best course of action, for some reason, is to write this letter and deliver it to Martha, precisely on this day. Something in his personal future must require it, and so, he decided to submit to his future self's decision, and see it through in good faith.
But just now, at this moment, with Martha standing there, hands on her hips, looking perfect, waiting for him to say something, waiting for him to "handle" the situation, he had no chuffing idea what that leap of faith might look like. He'd grown more or less accustomed to the idea that he'd never get to tell her how he felt, that it would be now, in fact, inappropriate of him to do so. He had retreated from those thoughts somewhat, and no longer rehearsed his confessions to her. So, what the hell was he supposed to say now?
"I see," was what he chose, his hearts racing.
"You see?" Then, after a pause, she said, "I mean, didn't you write that letter?"
He chuckled. "Obviously, I did."
"Well, did you mean any of it?"
He took a deep breath. "Yes," he confessed.
"Wow."
"So did you read those four paragraphs multiple times, just to make sure?"
"Of course," she shrugged.
He moved round her, staring at the letter. He made his way to the sofa and sat down.
She did likewise, sitting across the "L" from him.
"Are you sure wouldn't like that drink?" she asked, searching his face.
"I'm sure, thanks," he said, quietly.
"Doctor, I don't get you. I mean, you seem a bit, well, blindsided by this. Didn't you just slip this letter through my mail-slot this morning? Like, three hours ago?"
He thought fast. He didn't want to lie to her. Wherever this was headed, he wanted there to be as much transparency as possible…
Yet, the way he was acting, he could see why she'd be a little confused by it, if he had, in fact, just written the letter and delivered it this morning.
He didn't know exactly how far in the future he would write the letter, but he'd been a Time Lord long enough to know that it was highly improbable that he would write it in order to change his own personal timeline. Unless he goes nutty in the future, and thinks "Screw it. Martha and I live happily ever after, even if it fucks up everything that happens in the interim. Laws of time and space be damned!"
In the letter, he says that his motivation for writing it is closure. Vindication for her, and a lightening of the Martha-shaped shadow on his own soul. It was not unreasonable for him to think that he could repair that one loose-end, as a gift to them both, and that Martha wouldn't call him on it because she'd be engaged, at this point. In that case, nothing would significantly change.
"I guess, the reason I feel blindsided is… I hadn't expected to hear from you about it," he said. "And now I don't know what to say." He leaned back on the sofa and pulled one hand down over his face, in a gesture of exasperation.
"Seriously? Doctor, you really thought I could just let this go?"
"I thought that you would feel, just like it says, vindicated. I thought it would give you some closure, so you could move forward. I thought that out of courtesy to Tom, you would… I don't know, tuck it away, feel comfortable with the knowing, and move on with your life."
She smiled softly. "I see. But I'm not with Tom anymore," she said.
"You're not?" he asked, squinting at her.
"No," she reported. "As of two-and-a-half weeks ago."
"But yesterday, you were wearing your ring."
She nodded. "I'd been staying in a non-secure sleep room at UNIT in New York, living out of a holy, worn-out rucksack. It was safer just to keep it on, rather than risk losing it."
"Ohhhh," he said, his stomach doing a little flip.
The future-Doctor must not have known this bit.
"Just before you got here, I returned the ring to Tom's mum," she said. "I wanted to be completely done with Tom before talking to you."
"I understand that," he conceded, nodding. Nervousness was rising, though… very quickly.
"But while we're on the topic," she said. "How is it that you're alone? Last I saw you, you had Rose back in your life, but then I receive a letter telling me you love me! After everything we've… after everything, you can see how weird that seemed to me."
"Yeah."
"And then, you tell me you're flying solo again! Seriously, Doctor, after all that pining you did, and after all it took for her to get back to you…"
"It's a long story, Martha."
"Clearly."
"Suffice it to say, she's gone. She's not a factor anymore."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be," he said to her softly. "It's really okay."
There was a long moment in which they both contemplated what, if anything, they would like to say next.
Martha knew why she'd called him, but she had no idea how to say it now. She supposed she had expected him to say it, but it would seem that he still wasn't ready.
And the Doctor now knew that his future-self had not intended for him to get involved at all. He hadn't known that Tom was out of the picture by the time the Dalek Reality Bomb crisis had hit, so today, the present-Doctor was flying blind. There was no course, no trusting in time to set things right. Because, he was relatively certain he knew why Martha had called him after receiving the letter, and if things went down that road, he risked changing the natural course of both of their lives.
He felt cornered. He felt like a rabbit caught in headlights. What would be the right thing to do? Tell her now that he couldn't be with her, break her heart, and make things worse? Or even more terrifying to think of, wait until she made a move, and then turn her down? This would absolutely negate the purpose of future-Doctor's having written the letter, and in fact, would exacerbate the self-loathing and insecurities hanging over both of their heads, going forward.
Moreover, he was certain that if Martha took the first step toward him, he would not have the strength to move away. With all feelings out in the open, hearts vulnerable, desire and expectation brimming, what they'd both been longing for, so close to the brink of fruition… how could he reject it?
"Doctor," she sighed, sitting back on the sofa, crossing her legs casually. "I called you here… well, basically just to talk. There's a lot to say."
"Yes, there is."
"I just don't know…"
"What?" he asked, after she trailed off without any follow-up. "What don't you know?"
"I don't know what I want to talk about."
He frowned. "Okay. I'm not sure what you mean."
She looked at him squarely. "I thought I would know what to say when I saw you."
He chuckled. "That never works, does it?"
"I thought I would feel that old… I dunno," she said. "That old feeling. The flutter in my stomach, followed by the knot. The devastating desire to be with you. The ache."
"And you don't feel that anymore?"
"I do," she confessed. "I feel all of those things. It's like a hurricane, inside and outside my body."
He nodded. "I understand that."
She looked at him squarely for several seconds and then, "I love you."
She said these words steadily, with no waver nor hesitation. But also with no joy.
"I love you," he replied, just as heavily.
"But when you first arrived, and when I look at you now, I feel so… I dunno. Torn."
"Torn."
"Yes. I want you, but I also want my life."
"I see," he said.
And tears filled her eyes. "And that makes me feel so guilty," she told him, her voice breaking just a little.
"Guilty? Why?" he asked.
"Because," she explained, now with a few tears falling. "For so long, the only thing I really wanted was you. I would have given up everything to be yours. Everything I had… and I almost did. And now, well… I like my job. I like my flat. I like being my own person, and not identifying as someone's sidekick or companion, or even fiancée. I can come and go as I want, and I can climb the ladder at work, or not, and I'm reluctant to walk away from all of that."
"So? That's all perfectly normal!"
"I know. But not so long ago, I wanted a life of trouble-shooting the universe, doing good works and learning about the cosmos. Now, I'm having second thoughts about all of that because I want to live my cushy little life. It just seems so selfish." As she said this, new tears fell, and she tried to wipe them away.
"It's not selfish. And it's not a cushy little life. You're still doing good works and learning something every day with UNIT," he said. "Except now, at the end of it, you can come home to your home, your things, see your friends and family if you want. Martha, I get why you want all that."
"I'm being childish."
"No, you're not."
"Yes I am. When I think about giving up all of this, I can't bear it. I wonder who I would become. I wonder if my self would disappear. But when I think about you walking away, going off in your TARDIS without me, and you and I never…" she sighed, by way of finishing her sentence. "I can't bear that either. It makes me ache all over again."
"You want both," he said with a smirk. "That's very human."
"I know."
"And also very Time Lord, as it happens."
She smiled at him, understanding what he was saying. And they held each other's eyes a bit sadly for a few moments.
Independently, they were both imagining a scenario in which they got to have both of what they wanted – each other, and their way of life. But, the Doctor quickly realised that he could not consider taking Martha out on the open road now, whatever their relationship was, knowing that she'd be pining for home, and wondering if she'd given up her independence and identity to be with him. And Martha could not fathom asking the Doctor to stay put, on Earth, for any length of time, just to be with her. At one time in his life, she knew, exile on Earth had been meted out to him as a punishment. She knew he'd be bored out of his mind, and she'd see the constant wanderlust in his eyes, and read the itch in his limbs, to fly away and do what he does best.
And yet, when they imagined themselves together, wherever it was – having the domestic life in London, racing the clock on some distant planet, or just tangling sheets… that felt right. It felt painfully perfect. Like an orchid coming to bloom, or the seemingly divergent parts of a symphony coming together.
It stung to think of it because, once again, they had missed their chance. And they both knew it.
And even though he knew that he was only here because of a breach of ethics, and a miscalculation, on the part of his future-self, he loved her, and there was no getting around it. He was here, with her, and desires cannot just be abated with logic. The heart wants what it wants (and so does the body), and when it doesn't get it, it aches.
"Well, this is rubbish," he said, in reaction, in spite of himself.
"It is," she sighed. "I'm sorry I brought you here for this."
"Don't be," he said. "Like you said, some things needed saying."
Tears fell down her face for a few moments silently, then she asked, "Now what?"
He held out his arm to her, and whispered, "Come here." She moved to her left and leaned against him, while he put that arm around her. She laid her head, and one of her hands, on his chest. Not for the first time, she felt the dual heartbeat in a warm reminder of the uniqueness of this man. And, the impossibility of him.
After a few minutes of just closeness, she said, "There's another reason why I'm feeling guilty, Doctor."
"What's that?"
"Two years ago, I thought that if you asked… if you would just ask," she groaned, her voice breaking again. Then she paused to steady her voice, and finished, "I would be yours forever. Until one of us died. I feel like I've grown so much older, just in that time, but there's still a starry-eyed medical student inside of me who looks at you, and can't see anything else."
"And is she screaming at you, from inside, right now?"
"It's so loud, I can hardly stand it." The metaphor seemed a bit tame for how Martha felt, with the pang, the burn of missed opportunity.
"Well, maybe there's a way to quiet her, temporarily, while we both ease into living with what we've done," he said.
"Like what?"
"Do you have any plans today?"
"No," she said. "It's Sunday. It's not like I'm a church-goer."
"Why don't we just take today, and… pretend?"
"Pretend?"
"Yeah," he said. "Do stuff that couples do. Picnic in the park, the cinema, candle-lit dinner… whatever you want. And pretend that we have all the time in the world to be a couple."
"Really?"
"Yeah. I know it would make me feel better, if we didn't have to just shake hands and say goodbye right this minute. If we could just have fun, without the risk of life and limb, without the angst that always hung over our heads. If we just had one day like that…"
"Okay," she agreed. "My inner medical student might just be quelled by that. By a glimpse of you with a bit of the romantic about you. Then she could stop wondering, at least."
"Good. What would you like to do?"
Well, I warned you... it's a ship fic. And after this, it gets shippier!
Don't forget to leave a review! :-D
