Wow, long absence! I did not mean for chapters 1 and 2 to be posted so far apart! Thanks for your patience, and for sticking with me!
Also, thanks for the reviews (except for one that was kinda mean...). Getting feedback is truly a motivator, and I'm grateful!
In the previous chapter, the Doctor had phoned Martha in the middle of the night, it seemed, hoping for a bit of intimacy, but when it got "too" intimate, he cut off the call and ran for the hills. But he ended the chapter kinda sorta resolving to try again later...
Hopefully, this chapter will shed a bit more light on what he's actually looking for. Or it won't - I don't know!
Enjoy!
PART TWO
"Doctor," she groaned. It was twenty-six hours later, and this time she had been asleep.
"Oh – woke you this time."
"Yeah, my mum, too. What do you want now?"
"Tell her I'm sorry," he said.
"Too late, she's already gone back to bed. And there's no bloody way I'm telling her it's you."
"Probably best."
"And oi, what about me? Aren't you sorry for waking me?"
"Yes, I'm sorry for waking you, Martha."
"Thank you. Now what is it?"
"Was it all the time, or just at night?"
She sat in bed staring at the warm covers in her lap, trying to get her sleep-addled brain around what he had said.
"Sorry, I'm lost," she said, after she gave up trying to make sense of it.
"That thing we talked about last time. The ghosts. Your body torturing you."
"Oh. The fantasies?"
"Yes. All the time, or just at night?"
"Oh my God, are… are you really asking me this?"
"I suppose I am."
"Why?"
"Because…" he said, then squirmed a bit, before he could respond. "I'm trying to understand. I wasn't listening when you were with me, and now… I want to listen."
"You know, what I'm wondering, Doctor? Is there such a thing as a Rush-To-Catch-Up Lord?"
"Pardon?"
"Surely a Time Lord would have better timing."
"Martha, I'm trying. Could I be a Better-Late-Than-Never Lord?"
"Doesn't sound very formidable, but fine, whatever," she said, not sure if she wished she could just go back to sleep, or not. "So, daydreams. You sure?"
"I'm sure."
"Fantasies. Flights of fancying you. Visions. Was it all the time? No, of course not – that would be absurd. But it could be any time."
"Any time?" he asked, reclining back on the sofa in his bedroom, crossing his heels over each other on the floor.
"Well," she said, positioning herself upright, leaning against her headboard. "Yeah."
"Like, even being pulled through an underground tunnel by Daleks?"
"It could happen at inconvenient times, yes," she said. "Not then specifically, though."
"So when you say inconvenient times, what does that mean?
"You want to hear a specific example?"
He was silent for a few moments. He changed positions, feeling decidedly uncool now. He sat up straight and crossed one ankle over the opposite knee, alert. He cleared his throat. "What if I do?"
She smiled. "Are you sure you can handle it?"
"No. I said I want to listen, and I do. I want to be able to handle anything you have to throw at me…"
"Like the fact that you hurt me over and over and over again?"
"Yes, there's that."
"That I love you, and it's bloody murder thinking you don't care?"
"Like that, yes, Martha, but… honestly, I know all that. I've been living with the idea of fucking up people's lives for a long time. What I haven't lived with is…"
"Hearing that every time you gripped the edge of the console and looked at me with that intense oh-shit-what-are-we-headed-for expression, I got all tingly?"
He cleared his throat again, mostly to keep from choking. "As for example." There was a long silence, and then he asked, rather meekly, "Tingly? Is that true?"
"Oh, yes," she said. "Tingly in all of the most uncomfortable places. Well, really just the one uncomfortable place."
"Wow."
"Pulling me into a tight space to hide from something dangerous? Ugh… those moments were so delicious, Doctor."
She heard him swallow. "Go on."
"Go on. What, like, you want details?"
"Yes, if that's what you've got to say next."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes! Stop asking me that! I'm still trying to understand."
"Okay," she said, taking a deep breath. "Do you remember when we were running from the Felghand Army, trying to rescue the ambassador?"
"I do," he said, slowly, cautiously.
"Remember when I almost got nabbed by the General – he was behind me, you were in front of me, running at me…"
"You couldn't see him, and I knew it," he reminisced.
"Remember what you did?"
"Yeah. I had been through those corridors a couple of times looking for the ambassador – and for you – and I knew there was a hidden passageway there," he answered. "Didn't reckon the Felghands had had time to inspect and stumble onto something like that, especially not the General. I mean, if they'd been on their own turf, that would have been a different story, but…"
"So you yanked me down a side hallway, and threw me through a hidden door before I even knew what happened."
"And you tried to protest so I…"
She smiled a bit wickedly on her end of the phone. "Yeah, you did."
"I put my hand over your mouth."
"Mm-hm. And I know it was just to stop me talking, and that if the general had even heard me breathing, he would have shot us both on the spot, but… well."
"You liked that?"
"I know it's a little messed up, but yeah. I was pressed between you and the wall. I could feel both of your hearts beating like mad. I could feel you holding your breath. I could feel your warmth, practically smell the adrenaline."
"I think I see where this is going."
"Twenty seconds we stayed like that – maybe less. But it was enough. I was breathless and when you let go of me. And throbbing. And not just because you'd been limiting my breath and circulation."
"Certainly not."
"And whatever you said next about tiptoeing down the passage…"
"I had to repeat it. I remember."
"Yeah, because all I could concentrate on was your mouth, and your breath on my cheek."
"The closeness… it made you, you know… breathless and throbbing?"
"The closeness itself was bad enough, but see, I'm young, I've got a certain degree of ingenuity, and I'm a woman in love. So it's really my own mind and body, as I've already said, that torments me most. Leaves me breathless and throbbing."
"So what sort of sin was your mind committing?"
"Oh, what an excellent question, Doctor," she sang, as a wave of heat swept over her, almost to her own chagrin. Almost. "Very provocative. And apt."
"Thanks," he said, rather quietly.
"It was giving me phantom sensations of your body against mine, and inside of mine, do you see?"
"Oh – phantom sensations…"
"Of pressing me against that wall over and over, and holding your hand over my mouth to keep me from crying out."
"No noise…" he mused.
"And phantom whispers of your voice in my ear about how fucking fantastic it felt – how fucking fantastic I felt wrapped around you – but also about how if we made a sound, we'd be killed. And that made me…"
"Made you what?"
She was silent for a long few moments, then whispered, noticing her breath quickening a bit, "The pressure and the little murmur of danger from you, I imagined that it would push an orgasm through me like a riptide."
There was another silence, while the Doctor processed this. "But... it didn't. Right?"
"Not for real. Just in the fantasy. But my real body was primed for it."
"Primed, for real."
"Yes, primed for real. And this was just one incident. Perhaps someday I'll tell you about what went through my mind in Hooverville, or when the TARDIS was escaping to the end of the universe."
"I suppose…" he gulped. "There's a bit of that adrenaline junkie in all of us – me, and everyone who chooses to share this life with me. To varying degrees."
She chuckled. "Do you think Jack gets off on it a little bit, every time he dies?"
"I've wondered that myself," the Doctor confessed. "You know that French phrase, la petite mort?"
She laughed. "I do." There was another long pause, then Martha said, "Glad you asked?"
"Yes, mostly. And I have my answer. Not all the time, but any time. Inconvenient though it may sometimes be."
She sighed. "Yes, but mostly, as you may have suspected, it was at night."
"Every night?"
"No, but any night. Any night, and many a night. Many, many. Lying in my bed, thinking about the day's activities, thinking about you, feeling warm and comfortable…"
"Always the same?"
"I had a few favourite, er, variations, if you will."
"And… erm…"
"Yes?"
There was a pause during which she could hear him breathing. A nervous, heavy breathing that was not totally foreign to her.
"Why don't you…" he began.
"Why don't I what? Don't tell me you want to hear more about the night-time variety?" she teased.
"Would you tell me, if I did?"
"We're down the rabbit hole again, so… sure. If you want. Still nothing to lose."
"Nothing to lose from me."
She took a deep breath. "Well, sometimes I would lie there in my bed, and try to sleep, and couldn't because there was an image of you knocking at the door in my brain."
"Sorry."
"Don't be. But sometimes, Doctor, I wouldn't even try to sleep. Sometimes I went to bed knowing what would happen – those were the best."
"How so?"
"Because they involved anticipation. Building a movie in my mind, waiting to feel it, then getting… you know, what I want. To a degree. Of course, what I really wanted was… well, something I couldn't have. Something you weren't willing to give."
"Something I wasn't willing to give," he repeated, practically at a whisper. "Wasn't willing. Hm."
"But the unexpected visits in my mind could be quite delectable as well. It's a question of a slow burn or a fireworks situation. They both have their place."
"I like the idea of a movie in your mind."
"Yeah?"
"I like the phrase. And the… concept."
"I must admit, I built up quite the filmography, Doctor."
"Would you…"
"Would I?"
"Would you let me see one of these movies? Or at least show me the trailer?"
"I might. But you have to take it seriously. Can you do that?"
"I can try."
"You have to do better than try."
He was silent. Then, "I don't know… I want to, but…" He tutted. "See, I started all this because… well, like I said, because I wanted to understand. And now I understand even less. I'm wondering if I can bear to have more confusion."
"What can I say, Doctor? You go down the rabbit hole, sometimes more questions arise than answers."
"Indeed," he said, quickly. "Thank you Martha… I've er…"
"You're brushing me off again, aren't you?"
"No, I…"
"Yes, you are. This is too intense. Too honest. You aren't sure if you can see it through with me, so you're pulling away."
He sighed. "You do know me well. But erm…"
"What I can't figure out is if you're pulling away from the intensity because you aren't ready for it, or because you like it a little too much," she mused. "Or are you afraid I'll ask you for the same honesty?"
"That's a lot of questions, Martha, and I'm going to go with… yes. I'm… er… I've left the kettle on. I have to go."
She laughed out loud. "Kettle. Right. Love you, Doctor. Good night!"
With that, the call ended. She smiled and shook her head, and lay back down.
This is too intense, she had said. Too honest. You aren't sure if you can see it through with me, so you're pulling away.
And she was right. Of course she was.
What I can't figure out is if you're pulling away from the intensity because you aren't ready for it, or because you like it a little too much. Or are you afraid I'll ask you for the same honesty?
These questions were haunting.
And indeed, five hours later, having cereal in the TARDIS kitchen, he mulled them over further. He hadn't slept. He suspected that she had, and that was annoying.
He dropped the spoon, and made a loud, satisfying clang against the bowl, and it made him wonder why. Why was he so very annoyed? Why was Martha's ability to sleep, and his inability, such a bugger?
What I can't figure out is if you're pulling away from the intensity because you aren't ready for it, or because you like it a little too much. Or are you afraid I'll ask you for the same honesty?
"'Course I'm ready for it," he spat at no-one, picking up the spoon, and dropping it again, relishing in the noise it made. "And as for the same honesty, well… well…"
He stood up, and paced round the kitchen.
"Ready for it," he muttered. "What does she know about being ready for it? She never said anything either... though… well, she did say plenty last night."
He pulled his hand down over his face.
"And do I like it a little too much?" he asked the walls, highly irritated now. "What the hell kind of question is that?"
He paced for a few more minutes, and let her words wash over him, dig into him, churn in his thoughts and waited for them to come back out as revelations.
And they churned.
And there were hints at revelations, but then they retreated back into the soup of thoughts.
He paced, and explored… why am I so annoyed because she can sleep? Because she can relax and I can't? Because she can lay in her bed and take her mind away, and I'm up all night eating cereal and pacing in the kitchen…
Because her body isn't torturing her into the night.
Then he stopped, mid-kitchen. He stared at the floor between his bare feet.
"Of course I like hearing it. I've got blood flowing… who wouldn't like it?"
There was silence speaking back at him now.
"But you know what? She's used to it! She's been living with this rubbish for a couple of years, and it's all new to me, this fantasy stuff…"
He paced a bit more, the only sound being the light slap of his bare feet against the floor every second or so.
He stopped again, once more staring at the tile upon which he stood.
Then, "I'm ready," he said, suddenly, surprising even himself. "I'm ready, of course I am! If I can admit I like hearing about the fantasies and that they render me underslept and agitated, then of course I'm ready for it! I've got to be ready for it… whatever it is!"
Although, he reckoned, now having said it aloud, that "it" was something important, and he'd better identify it before he even tried calling her again.
"What is it, what is it, what is it?" he asked, now pulling at his hair.
His partnership with Martha had ended because her presence, her feelings, her heat, and everything else about her had touched him in a way he hadn't been ready for. He'd realised that a day or so back. And now…
I like the words, and the feelings and I don't want to turn away… I'm ready to let them touch me.
I'm ready to be touched.
But I'm still annoyed.
You know what? Going through editing this, I realized I've read it so many times, I've now lost perspective over whether there's any truth in it - in their voices, actions, etc. even given the unusual circumstance. I hope you've found it satisfying in its way, and also aggravating in its way!
Leave a review and let me know! Motivate me, and make my week!
Thanks for reading!