Woah! It's been a while. And I supremely and sincerely apologize for my absence. School had been kicking my ass, and honestly I should be doing homework... but FUCK THAT! I needed to update this fic. It's been a long time coming.

xiv

She awoke at 6:23 am, mentally cursing her internal clock. On a severely hung over Saturday morning, she still woke up around sunrise. However, she stayed tucked away in her covers with her eyes closed until almost noon. She could hear him walking about various rooms of her house but she dared not face him. Not quite yet.

Unfortunately, he didn't give her a choice. At 11:45, an unholy racket of pots as pans brought fully and unceremoniously back to the land of the living. Martha sat up a bit too quickly and braced herself on the edge of the bed while she caught her breath before stumbling to the bathroom. Though her mind no longer suffered from the effects of the alcohol she all but inhaled the previous night, her body was a bit slower to recover- coordinating her steps was proving a bit difficult. Once she made it to her personal bathroom, she filled the oversized sink with ice cold water and dunked her head in until she could no longer hold her breath. When she emerged, she could see that the bathroom was spotless. She was positive, even in her hung-over haze, that the room had been a mess the night before: she'd knocked over almost all of the various beauty products from the sink and she couldn't say for sure that she made it to the toilet in time when that nasty wave of nausea hit. She decided not to dwell on the inconsistencies in her memory. After all, to say she'd been intoxicated would be the understatement of the century.

Martha ran her tongue over her teeth and was reminded of the toothpaste commercial that compared dirty teeth to fuzzy slippers; her entire mouth tasted like she'd been feasting on Beanie Babies. After washing her face, cleaning her teeth, and taming her hair into submission with a brunch and hair tie, she made her way slowly down the stairs.

"Good morning, Sunshine!" The Doctor said, jogging over to her and laying a quick kiss on her lips with his usual energy. "Mm... Minty!" He kissed her again. He had changed from the singed brown suit to a crisp blue one and he no longer smelled of smoke. His million-watt smile hadn't changed a bit. Her life had fallen to pieces while he remained untouched by her current drama. When had her life become a soap opera?

All she could do was grant him an uncharacteristically shy smile and let him lead her to the immaculately set table. In fact, the whole house- or what she'd seen of it so far- was immaculate. Apparently he'd been busy while she was in LaLa land.

"I was going to make you breakfast, or lunch, or brunch or whatever silly thing you call mealtime at this hour... But your pots... They were stacked so dangerously. They attacked..." He trailed off as he stared toward the kitchen in dismay, as if it housed the Dalek horde.

She couldn't help but giggle and this seemed to bring him around again. "So I popped in on a friend and had her whip you up something. Homemade American southern breakfast straight from Tennessee."

On the table were bowls of fresh cut fruit, fried fish and grits, mountains of bacon, scrambled eggs, fried potatoes, and the biggest stack of flapjacks she has ever seen. Fresh squeezed orange juice and pure maple syrup sat in the middle of the table along with a single red rose in a skinny vase.

"Uhh... Doctor? How many people did you tell this friend of yours to cook for?"

"Only two, I swear! I stopped by for a quick visit while you were sleeping and she sent me back with all of this. Told me to make sure you feel better. You know, maybe I'll take you to go see her sometime. Mae, she's called. You'd like her."

She nodded and thanked him, trying to ignore the pinching jealousy that rose like bile in her throat over this 'friend'. The bulk of his friends did seem to be female, didn't they? Oh, Mickey had awakened quite a dangerous beast.

He pulled out her chair and sat next to her at the rather large dining room table.
"Are you going to tell me what that was about?" He asked, piling food on their plates.
"What what's about?"

"Last night. You know: head in the toilet, house a mess, hysterical crying… twice your weight in alcohol. And the messages, let's not forget. Any of that ring a bell?"

"Oh, that. Nothing... Really, nothing. Just a rough day. Wasn't feeling well." She brushed him off quickly. Not ready to confront the issue. She dug into the much needed greasy meal. Delicious though it was, she couldn't help loathing the woman who made it- wondering if he'd made the same promises to this Mae woman that he'd made to Martha just a week ago.

"And I suppose you're going to tell me next that you cried yourself to sleep last night because you were happy to see me?"

His question was met with silence, mostly because that was, in fact, what she was planning on telling him if he asked. After a tense moment of silence, he spoke again.

"Don't do that. I may be a lot of things, Miss Jones, but I'm not stupid. And please don't ever mistake me for someone who is." He spoke evenly, quiet and controlled and not once did he look at her. She'd seen the look on his face millions of times; he was working something out without knowing what he missed. Mulling something over without having all of the pieces. Trying to decide the next course of action.

"And besides," he added, finally sparing her a glance, covering her small hand with his larger one. "I know you, Martha. Maybe better than you think. I know your moods, your quirks, everything. Especially when something's bothering you. Please... let me help."

He searched her eyes pleadingly, silently asking what was so bad that she had to lie... What could have happened in a week?

"We're together now. Does it matter?" She said, leaning in to kiss his hand where it laid over hers.

"Doesn't it?"

Martha swallowed thickly, the food dropping like a stone in her stomach. Looking at him now, she could read him. His face was as open as the pages of a book; he was hurting. He was hurt and confused and afraid of what she had to say. And she couldn't deny him. She set the fork down softly on the plate and turned to face him.

She told him everything; the unsigned divorce papers, the flowers from Mickey, and ultimately the mind-fuck. The food had gone cold by the time she finished. He stared at his plate, his hands in his lap.

"Right. Right then." He said, finally unfolding his lanky frame from the chair.

"Where are you going?" She asked through her tears. She had bared the truths of the last week and he'd listened intently- absorbing and processing the information, trying to figure out how all the pieces fit.

He turned to her, as if looking at her for the first time. The Doctor pulled her into his arms, kissing the top of her head. He took her face in his hands and looked into her eyes. What she saw there was turmoil.

"I'm going to go have a talk with our Mr. Smith."

In truth, he was boiling inside. There had been very few times where something as petty as the human emotions compelled him to his own thoughtlessness. However, he honestly didn't know what to do. He didn't know what to say. And he didn't know what he'd do when he saw Mickey, but he would surely make the man that hurt the woman he loved- the man who shook that woman's faith in him- pay.

Oh man, what will happen between Mickey and The Doctor? Who is this Mae lady? Why didn't The Doctor just answer the phone? What will happen to our star-crossed lovers from here?

Hope you liked!

xoxo, LPL