Hello, folks! Been a long time since I've posted here. The plot bunnies have had other things on their agendas lately... until nowish.
Fair warning: this story is 100% Ten/Martha ship, and headed where all my stories head: toward a bit of smut. So, there won't be any sci-fi intrigue here as there sometimes is, but there will be relationship intrigue, and self-exploration on the parts of both characters.
Although, in order to get to the naughtiness, we have to put in the work, to make it feel organic. I'm hoping that it does, by the time we get there, and that the writing isn't too all-over-the-place with revelations and metaphors and people acting squirrely - we'll see how things shake out.
They get annoyed with each other. They snipe. There's a lot of confession. The Doctor eats cereal. It'll be a laugh! Culminating, in, of course, some naughtiness.
This begins 2 days after the end of The Last of the Time Lords, will be 4 or 5 parts (though I've been known to lie about these things before, unintentionally!). Hope you'll give this a try, and stay with me!
Thanks for diving in - enjoy!
PART ONE
"Hello, Doctor."
"Hi."
Martha Jones waited a few long seconds for more syllables to work with, but none were forthcoming.
"How are you?" she asked, rather pointedly, after he didn't.
He sighed a sigh that she felt she could hear across light years. Not just because he was talking to her through a telephone, possibly literally from light years away. But because it was the sort of sigh that denoted distress. And when he was in distress, she was in distress.
And that's why she had walked away. Because his pain became hers, but the reverse was not true.
"I'm fine," he said, unconvincingly.
"Well, there's a load of rubbish."
"How did you know it was me when you picked up the phone?" he asked, rather ignoring her comment. He had rung her family's house phone, as he now had her old mobile, and didn't have a new mobile number of hers.
"Do you realise it's after midnight?" she asked him.
"Oh. I guess I realise it now, yeah."
"Well, I don't know anyone else anti-social enough to call me at this hour. Or anyone else as oddly unaware of Greenwich Mean Time."
"Sorry – not human. I forget sometimes. Did I wake you?"
"No, I was up. Grabbed the phone before it woke anyone else."
"Oh. Good.
"It's nice to hear your voice," she conceded, wondering if she should.
"How long's it been?"
"Erm, about forty-eight hours. Actually, more like fifty-five now."
"Oh. 'Sbeen longer for me."
"How much longer?"
"Oh, months, I reckon."
"Wow. What have you been up to?"
"Not a lot. Just thinking. Pondering. Brain always going… you know me."
"Mm-hm," she said, flatly, cynically. There was a long silence, during which she heard him sigh again. It cut straight to her heart, and she said, "This isn't fair, you know."
"What isn't?"
"Calling me now. You know I'm not ready."
"I know. Sorry."
"I mean, there's an ache in your voice and it hurts to hear. You know that, and that's not fair either."
"I know."
"So did you call to hurt me?" she asked, knowing that this question wasn't particularly fair, but she felt she held the moral high ground.
"No, of course not. How can you ask me that?"
"Then, what are you doing?" she demanded. "You ring in the middle of the night, you're all mopey, you know I'm in no shape to talk to you…"
"I'm not really in any shape to talk to you either."
"All the more reason for us to end this now, and you can ring me back in five years. Sound good?" Her voice was higher and more desperate than she would have liked.
"I need more information," he said.
She paused, rather nonplussed. "What?"
"I need to know more. About why you left."
She gave an exasperated snort, then asked, "Are you drunk?"
"No!" he replied harshly. "Blimey, Martha."
"Then, what is this?" she cried out, leaping, at last, out of bed. She realised again that she was not alone in the house and should probably keep her voice down, and her steps light.
"You left me, and I just want to know why. You told me this story about your friends Vicky and Sean. I think I gleaned your meaning without any trouble, but… you never said the words."
"No. I didn't," she said, meekly. "I couldn't."
"Did you want to say them? Because I'm no stranger to not being able to say them, and regretting it later."
"Yeah, you told me… hologram, beach, a lot of crying… yet another reason why I left."
"Sorry, sorry," he said, physically slapping his own cheek to wake himself up from whatever meandering reverie he'd been in. "So, okay, back to Vicky and Sean. You told me the story as an allegory."
"Uh-huh," she said, now pacing lightly. "Where are we going with this?
"Bear with me. Was Vicky in love with Sean, or was it just a crush?"
"What?"
"Oi, if you can use them as metaphors, then so can I. Just answer the question."
It was now her turn to sigh, but was in irritation, rather than in pain. She could see what he was asking, and it was a big ask. "I'm not sure I want to answer that."
"Why?"
"What good will it do?"
"I don't know," he confessed. "I suppose I didn't think it through, I just decided to call you before I lost my nerve, because I felt I deserved to know more."
"Deserved, eh?"
"Yes! You ended a perfectly good relationship – okay, poor choice of word, but you know what I mean – for reasons that you left slightly ambiguous. I wanted to continue. I was happy. And I'm alone now, and frankly, I'd rather be travelling with you!"
She almost spat back, Well, whose fault is that? but she did not. His non-returning of her affections was not his fault – it was just an unfortunate cruelty of fate.
"So you think, if I'm in love with you, that's one thing, but if it's just a crush, that's nothing, it will fade, et cetera, et cetera, and we can stay in that box together indefinitely?"
He groaned. "Oh, I don't know what I think, Martha. I just know that I need to know."
She took a long time to respond now. The silence was heavy, and so were her words when they came out.
"I love you," she said. "Desperately, in fact. I've never loved anything or anyone like this, and frankly, right now, I wonder if I ever will again. Happy?"
"No. But thank you for telling me the truth."
"Did it really need telling? Do you really think I'd walk across the planet for someone I just sort of fancy?"
"Never thought about it that way."
"Yeah, I know. That's why I'm in my parents' house, and not in the TARDIS! I'm in love with you, and you never thought about it that way. You were fine as a friend, but love became a third wheel in the adventure with us, and you treated it horribly!"
"You're saying that Love was another player in our little drama?"
"Well, as far as I'm concerned, it took on a life of its own. Tell me you didn't know – I dare you."
"No, no, I'm not going to do that," he muttered. After a pause. "I just wish you'd been a bit more direct with me back when it started."
"Seriously? You'd have run for the hills if I'd told you, back when it started!"
"When did it start?"
"Ugh, it's so late for this conversation," she groaned, sitting back down on her bed, and burying her head in her hands. "It's late at night, and late in our lives."
"Come on."
"Doctor…"
"Martha, when? Please?"
She thought back. In spite of herself, and her intense desire never to live through that kind of heartache again, she felt that she wanted to answer that question. Though, it was more difficult than she thought.
"Well… I suppose it did start out as a crush," she admitted. "Because honestly, it was when I listened to your heartbeats when you were in the hospital bed that day."
"That early?"
"Yeah," she groaned. "Fancied you straight away. Couldn't help myself – you were adorable. And then you winked at me, and all hell broke loose inside of me. I felt horrible, because you were a patient…"
"But the heart wants what it wants."
She smirked. "I wouldn't say that it was the heart that wanted anything at that moment."
"Okay, I see." His voice was dark, contemplative, and she fancied that she could hear the wheels turning in his brain. After a pause, he asked, "So it didn't start out as love, but…"
"Lust. Most love begins as lust. Or, at least, most love has lust as a prime component."
"Lust," he whispered.
"Yes. You can't possibly be surprised about this, either."
"I suppose I shouldn't be…"
"But you are?"
"Maybe it's more just your frankness about it."
"Yeah, well, at this stage, what've I got to lose?"
"Indeed," he said, quite low. Then, his voice piped up, almost to a normal volume, but betraying an irritation that Martha was not to understand for some time. "So… okay, as long as we're being frank about it, tell me something."
"Uh-oh."
"If lust is a component, does that mean…"
When he trailed off, she asked, as she had done several times during this conversation already, "What?"
"Ugh, never mind."
"No, no, Doctor. We're down the rabbit hole now. You can't do that, now that you've started this. Say what you want to say."
"Fine. If lust is a component, does that mean that you have… you know… fantasies? About me?"
More sighing from her. "Yeah," she confessed. "Yeah, that's part of it."
"Blimey. Do you still have them?"
"That's a complicated question," she said, trying to remain calm. "I spent the past year sleeping in cellars and stairwells and holes in the ground, sometimes with dozens of other people. I've been afraid for my life, literally twenty-four hours a day for the past three-hundred-sixty-five days, save for the two days since I've been back home."
"Right. Sorry."
"But if you're asking… do I still feel that way? Then, yes. Will my mind and body begin torturing me again soon, now that I'm here, and safe with people who love me, and not thinking about dodging flying spheres that want to kill me? I'm going to say… most definitely."
"Okay… I see. I'm sorry I asked."
"But you did ask. So there it is. It's all part and parcel of the great saga of being in love with you, and it's going to take a while to dissipate."
"Okay," he said, now sounding not irritated, but agitated. "Martha, I…"
"And it can't fully dissipate as long as I'm with you, and I don't think it can, either, if I'm talking to you at night… like this."
"Then I won't bother you anymore."
"Now, don't be like that," she said. "You're still my friend…"
"But if this is torture to you, then I'm just going to go."
"I didn't say it was torture talking to you. Quite the contrary! I said my body tortures me with ghosts of you. Big difference."
There was a tense pause, then, "Martha, I can't… I can't do this. I'm sorry…"
"Can't do what?"
"Have this conversation. It's too… too…"
"Too scary? For the man who flies through the time vortex and antagonizes Daleks?"
"Whole different kettle of scary. I'm sorry… I have to go. It's too… I'm sorry."
And with that, he ended the call, and Martha was left sitting, jaw agape, on the edge of her bed.
He had told her it had been months from his end, though he really wasn't sure how long it had been since she'd left.
What he had omitted telling her was that he hadn't been able to sleep properly in all of that time. Time Lords don't need as much sleep as humans, but still, some resting of the mind keeps them sane. He was starting to really miss closing his eyes, and shutting out the world.
He also hadn't bothered to get properly dressed throughout most of that time. He had stopped a couple of times in a few of different places for different reasons – food, fresh air, a quick swim in the healing waters of Zervan, but had never managed to get his pinstriped suit all the way back on. Mostly, he'd been knocking about in Howard's pyjama bottoms, and various tee-shirts. Though, the TARDIS had done a wash for him a few times.
It didn't take a genius to realise that all of this was due to her departure. He missed her. But he felt not only the pang of her absence, but the pang of his failure. He had cocked everything up and driven her out…
And now, he had cocked it up again by ringing her, making her confess things she was perhaps not ready to, and then not being able to handle "the heat," as it were. Even though he rather liked the heat. It was so, so honest, and touched him in a way that he hadn't been ready for, so he had run from it.
It was a good model of how his entire relationship with Martha had gone – especially the last few months before she went on the run from the Master. Her feelings had been in his peripheral vision, but he had never stopped to examine, because he knew it would touch him in a way that he wasn't ready for… so he had run from it.
Now he felt like an exposed nerve, and guessed that she did, as well.
He lay down on his bed, hands behind his head, eyes wide open.
A compulsive part of him could not let this alone. It was like trying to turn away from a train wreck.
Why hadn't she said anything about it, except to John Smith? Why had she actively told the Doctor himself that she hadn't meant what she said to John Smith? Why had she skirted around it so much, and given him tacit permission to ignore it? If she could have just been more forthright… if she could have just got over it… if she could have just… if she, she, she…
Well, of course he knew that this way of thinking was unfair, because, well, he could have addressed it himself.
But neither of them had, so here they were.
Well, here he was, anyway. Lonely, and really bloody irritated about it. On some level, blaming her for it, on another, blaming himself…
Why couldn't I have got ready to be touched while she was still here? Why couldn't things be different?
Could they make things different now? It was probably borderline self-destructive to try and find out.
"Well, if anyone in the universe is borderline self-destructive…" he mused, before shifting his mind to counting the moons of Orvengus, and fell asleep. Though, temporarily, and not very deeply.
Okay, perhaps not that exciting yet, but you can see where it's going, yes? I hope so!
If you read it, please leave a review to let me know you're watching and listening and having thoughts. Thanks so much for reading!