Matters of the Heart Chapter 3: Pink Matter, a doctor who fanfic

O.M.G guys! It's finally here! Chapter 3! Before I go ANY further, I'd like to thank Kamikashifor being a super freaking awesome sounding board, advice-donor, and all around DOLL. YOU, Kamikashi, are a great individual.

This chapter is actually all I had in mind when I started this story: the spark that lit the fuse, so to speak. So to say that I, personally, have been anxious to write this chapter is an understatement. I came up with the idea of this story whilst rediscovering songs in my iTunes library and I came across the song Pink Matter by Frank Ocean. This story has almost nothing to so with the song, but it did spark the concept. This chapter is also about a billion times longer than the previous 2. Once I started writing, I couldn't stop. This has been weeks in the making... well maybe just a few days but.. you know what? On with the show.

Disclaimer: Things I don't own: Doctor Who (neither the show nor any of its affiliated characters), David Tennant (Sweet Manna from Heaven, what I would do to that man), the song Pink Matter, The song Ne Me Quitte Pas (any rendition besides the one I sing in my shower. I own that.)

Pink Matter

Martha was back. Not the real Martha, but the flashes of memories he'd had since she left. They bombarded him in ways even stronger than before. These were vivid fictions; delusions of events that never really occurred crammed between genuine memories. She threw her head back and laughed at his ridiculousness; now, she threw her head back and moaned as she rocked her hips above him. They ran for their lives down a long corridor, hand in hand; no, he was leading her, hand in hand, to a door marked 'private'- locking the door as pushed her against it.

These visions, though they frustrated him, did not come as a surprise. After all, the one-year anniversary of the day she left was right around the corner, wasn't it? His mind, dark and vast as it was, was simply trying to deal with the strain. But why did it have to manifest itself this way? Where was it all coming from? If anything, the visions should be more morbid. The memories, more saddening and interlaced with grief and guilt rather than illusions of erotic provocation.

"She fancied me." He'd told Donna when they met up again, not trusting her enough to tell her the entire truth. Now, he divulged all (except for the visions)- hoping that expressing his feelings out loud would help him figure them out, if not quell those bloody sex scenes.

"You," She said with a long, manicured finger just inches away from his eye. "Are a right bastard. From what you've told me, all she did was give you everything you wanted and you gave her nothing but a pat on the head and an 'A' for effort. A better woman than me, that Martha. That's for bloody sure. And now you want me to feel sorry for you because you feel guilty? And twelve months late, no less. Huh, the nerve of aliens these days…" She trailed off, staring at him incredulously.

"I know, Donna. And I've felt horrible from the beginning. She was a genius, well… for a human, but the smartest thing she ever did was leave me." He had been hurt by Donna's words, but he knew that he didn't need to be pacified: he needed the truth from an unbiased party. His laugh was self-effacing and suddenly, she did feel a bit of pity. But not for how he felt about how he had treated his former companion: he deserved that and then some.

She felt bad for the concept he didn't seem to grasp just yet. An emotion that, given his title, she figured it'd be right up his temporal alley: loving someone at the wrong time. The same illness of the soul that had afflicted this Martha woman was now plaguing the Doctor in kind. She didn't know if she could tell him without crossing one of his invisible lines or without cornering him to the point of pouncing, so she gave him a simple pat on the knee. With a sad smile, she said: "Sometimes, Doctor, people come into our lives to teach us something. To bring something to our lives, but not to stay. I don't know this Martha, but she seems to have done you a lot of good. Maybe you'll figure out how to handle these feelings once you've figured out whether she was meant to be here only for a season or for a lifetime." She stood and walked to the kitchen and he couldn't help thinking if his "super-temp" companion had ever written any self-help books.

The dream that came to him a few nights later wasn't a false vision, but a genuine memory. He remembered her telling him that she used to dance as a child and teenager, but he never delved too deeply into the thought. Just another one of those random facts that he'd store in the back of his mind.

It was around 2 am relative time when he wandered away from the control room. The TARDIS had lead him to the room. Soft light bled from underneath the door and an even softer instrumental tune wafted through the air. He expected her to be sleeping.

It only took a few seconds to place the tune, though no words played, Jacques Brel's Ne Me Quitte Pas lulled him to relaxation. The living sun had burned him from the inside out, pressing everything he was to the outer edges of his being. Martha had saved him and kept her head under the worst possible circumstances and thanking her almost didn't seem enough. He rested his head against the door, listening to the cool, sad music before entering the room.

Her hair was in a messy, haphazard bun and she was clad only in a sports bra, shorts and soft, pink ballet slippers. It was a room the TARDIS created just for her, he realized. The music seemed to simply fall in notes and chords from the ceiling. The floors were wooden and the front and back walls were mirrored. He seemed to have come in on the side. The music reached the chorus and Martha continued her mournful dance.

He watched her movements- so exact and precise, yet so fluid and full of emotion. Her movements looked so natural, as if this was the way she was meant to move and communicate instead of walking and talking. The dance was sort of symbolic for Martha herself, he thought. Her movements soothed him, replacing what the living sun had taken.

She began to twirl in her pointe shoes, her eyes closed. When she opened them mid-turn, she saw him in the doorway and faltered, stumbling before landing on the floor with a thud. He rushed to her side helping her up.

"That was beautiful. Thank you." He said, and he really meant it. She started to protest and he decided to change the subject. "Why are you up anyway?"

"I couldn't sleep." She said softly. "Dancing has always been sort of relaxing for me. Whenever I can't sleep, I find a pair of ballet slippers at the edge of my bed."

"I think she likes to watch you dance as much as I do."

He asked her to finish the dance, and she did. He watched her melancholy elegance and let the music and movement fill him to completeness once more.

He never got to see her dance again.

Ringing. Under the TARDIS console. The little silver thing was ringing. And it wasn't even just in his mind this time; Donna heard it too. "You've got a mobile?! Since when?"

He'd waited a year for it to ring and now it finally was. He wished he could say he was happy, but the emotion lost out to apprehension. "Hello?"

"Hello, Doctor. It's Martha," She said, as if he wouldn't know. "And I'm bringing you back to Earth." When he clicked the phone shut, his palms were sweaty- no small feat for a body that naturally ran cold. Instead of his usual frantic dance, he slowly made his way around the console setting the coordinates. The TARDIS purred with excitement, not quite understanding why he wasn't doing the same.

He stepped out of the TARDIS and she was standing a few yards away. She looked at him tentatively, almost withdrawn; she was nervous, he could tell. When did things between us become so damn awkward? Martha Jones looked almost the same. Her hair was a bit longer and her back a bit straighter- no doubt from her military training. But her face was still so very young and so very beautiful: a strong, youthful shell hiding all of the damage.

She was dressed from head to toe in black military gear, which started a new set of flashes: life through a birdcage. Martha Jones, clad in black, on her knees laughing in the face of the Master and down the barrel of a laser screwdriver. He hardly realized that his feet had been moving until she threw her arms around his neck.

The Doctor hugged her with a year's worth of longing and she seemed to return it with equal force. He put his carefree façade back on before breaking the hug. His hearts swelled with a special kind of pride when he saw Donna and Martha getting along- even if it was at his expense. But in an instant, those swollen hearts dropped like boulders in the pit of his stomach. Her ring caught the light. His initial confusion was replaced by an irrational, simmering anger as she openly bragged about her "strong" doctor of a fiancé travelling to faraway places. Then there was the wash of guilt as he heard his Martha Jones (sod off mate, maybe she used to be yours. But she hasn't been yours in a long time) barking orders into the radio. "Is that what you did to her? You made her a soldier?" Donna asked.

He wanted to deny it, but he said nothing. Of course this is what you did to her. You'd been training her up since the beginning. Taught her that the people who are supposed to protect her are the ones that need the most protecting… that she couldn't count on anyone but herself.

In the end, he'd saved the day as always. He'd saved Martha, set the atmosphere aflame, prepared to die, and sacrificed a brilliant child. It was one of those days that made him question if this was really what his life had become: living to die. And there wasn't a doubt in his mind that within a few hours he'd be doing it all again. Martha was back in the TARDIS, if only for a minute to say goodbye. She ran her fingers along the wall and listened to the hum of her old friend. "I've missed you too, Old Girl".

She made her way around the TARDIS's winding corridors, kissing the doors of her room, the library, and the dance studio before making her way back to the control room. Again with the bloody ring! Even after Donna's offer, she still decided to leave. He'd spent all of this time wishing she were back on the TARDIS and she only stays for two bloody minutes! Blimey, that was a buzzkill.

However, Donna and the Doctor weren't the only ones who wanted Martha to stay. As she approached the doors, they slammed and the TARDIS launched into flight. Hearing her angry pleas to take her home in that accusing tone caused knots to form in his gut. She genuinely wanted to be away from him. However, the TARDIS had other plans. They landed in the mystery destination a few minutes later and the Doctor threw open the doors. He heard the women whispering in the background, but he didn't quite hear them over the guns being pointed at his face. In all of the confusion, the gun-toting natives managed to shove his arm into a rather large vacuum- an accelerating, extrapolating progeneration module, he quickly realized- and grew a full grown adult from the skin on his hand. His daughter. No sooner had the generated anomaly stepped out of the machine had they been caught in the cross-fire of a war and Martha was taken hostage, yet again.

It must have been a running theme in their companionship/friendship/ whatever-ship: He saves her, she saves him, she saves herself, they save the world. She had, apparently, saved herself… yet again. He'd gained and lost a descendant all in one day, ended a week-long- generations-long war and led the population of Messaline into a new age of peace and prosperity- all in a day's work. Donna, thoroughly exhausted went straight to her room while Martha stayed behind.

"You should get some rest, Doctor Jones." He told her. He wasn't sure if he could handle the taste of his own medicine for too much longer. "I'll take you home after you've had a good night's sleep. Can't have you bringing all that nasty radiation home. I'll have the TARDIS absorb it while you sleep."

"You should too. It's been a hell of a day. For all of us, Doctor." When he didn't answer, she continued. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"There's nothing to talk about. She was a generated anomaly. Hardly knew her." He sounded harsher than he actually felt. He'd cared about Jenny, but he really didn't know her. He hadn't gotten the chance. And he'd known from the beginning that the TARDIS wouldn't allow the paradox anyway.

"Doctor, she was your daughter. I've spent enough time to know when something's bothering you." If only she knew that she was the cause of his distress.

"It's not about that…" He began to flip random switches.

"Doctor, I-"

"Just leave it!" He snapped, cutting her off. He hadn't meant it, but her presence brought about feelings that he wasn't quite ready to confront. It was better when he was pining over her absence (well, I wouldn't have called pining, per say…). Now that she was standing right in front of him, he could feel something else stirring. Something that felt suspiciously like love. The longing, the deep ache, the unreasonable, unfathomable jealousy, and the immense joy. He simultaneously wanted her to stay with him forever and never come back; both would, eventually, ease that ache. Instead, he walked up to her and straightened the collar of her jacket.

"Now, Little-Miss Radiation Spike, go get cleaned up and get some sleep. Doctor's orders. I'll see you in the morning... She's glad to have you back, you know. We both are." He gave her his best grin, and she hugged him goodnight. Again, he was alone.

She made her way down the corridor, the white night gown hung off of her body and pink ballet slippers draped from around her neck. At 2 am, relative time, she made her way to her own personal Room of Requirement.

As she got closer, she realized that her music was already playing. However, something was different. The soft piano music was not the normal tune she danced to before, but a more stylized version. The deep, watery voice of Nina Simone pierced the air where there'd once only been instrumental. There was something else: A thick, smoky, masculine voice intercepted the feminine- harmonizing at certain parts, dropping out completely in others. She'd never known this version of the song to be a duet, but of course he would have unreleased mixes.

The male voice picked up again on the chorus, pleading in a language that the TARDIS didn't need to translate:

Ne me quitte pas

She opened the door slowly. A huge piano sat there where there had not been one before. There, the Doctor sat with his back to her, playing the piano and singing softly as Nina Simone's voice dropped from the ceiling.

She could see he wasn't alone. Opening the door a bit wider, she could see a dancer. Martha realized suddenly that the dancer was her: another Martha danced elegantly on the other side of the room. She was adorned in a halo of large, plump feathers. More feathers graced her waist in an airy, delicate tutu. The bodice was beaded and jeweled, glimmering in the solitary spotlight. Her feathered ensemble was a light, hazy pink.

She turned her attention back to the Doctor as she drew herself further into the room. He was drenched in his own spotlight in the otherwise dark room. The emotion in his voice as he begged in French entranced her:

Don't leave me

He seemed to be begging her not to go. She, on sheer impulse, wrapped her arms around his shoulders in a tight embrace and her ballet slippers fell to the floor. The Doctor stopped playing, Nina stopped singing. Ballerina Martha just looked on curiously before flickering out of existence: a hologram.

The pair simply sat in silence wrapped in the awkward, backwards hug before the Doctor grasped her small hand. He stroked a calloused thumb over her knuckles before bringing them to his lips. Not letting go, he gently led her around to the front of the piano bench. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close, pressing his head against her stomach. He could feel her confusion, but more than that, the desire that blossomed inside of her like a supernova.

Her tongue stumbled over meaningless protests about engagements and fiancés, even as she stroked his hair and traced his jawline. He nuzzled against the thin fabric of her night gown and inhaled her scent- that light, clean scent that still clung to her favorite places, mixed with the intoxicating aroma of her arousal. He slowly leaned her forward and kissed her deeply and tenderly. She didn't hesitate to let him in.

She broke the kiss first, her lungs begging for air as he leaned her back against the piano keys, creating chords of fabric, flesh and bone. Her words were lost as he lifted her night gown, revealing her nakedness underneath. He heard her breath catch in her throat as he kissed the protruding bone of her hip before trailing his tongue down the smooth skin of her sex.

He lifted one leg, then the other to rest on the bench as she balanced herself precariously against the piano's edge. He studied her, admiring the beauty of her aroused center- hot, wet, and pink. With a tenderness and sensuality that completely contradicted his spastic nature, he rolled his tongue around the soft flesh of her clit. She let out a low, growling moan of ecstasy. He rolled his tongue again and again, then dove into her. He devoured her in gentle yet hungry strokes, writing his love letter:

I love you

I need you

Ne me quitte pas

Her first orgasm ricocheted through her and shattered her senses, uncoiling violently like an ancient spring. When he rose from his seat, he was greeted by another breathtaking kiss. He smiled at her breathlessness and she wondered about his silence, not knowing that he didn't truly trust himself to speak. He stayed silent for fear that if he opened his mouth, a regurgitated mass of raw emotion would spill out, and he would be vulnerable and naked before her. She didn't deserve his reluctant heart. She deserved to be happy.

When she was able to walk once more, she led him by the hand to her bedroom. The TARDIS (cheeky little devil, she was) considerably shortened the distance from the studio to Martha's room. When they got there, she let him lead her to the bed. He undressed her and laid her down as her nimble fingers worked loose the buttons on his shirt. She'd almost strangled him trying to rid him of his tie, and she could have for all he cared. He had her and everything was right in the universe: everything was bright and happy and cotton candy pink. She wanted him, he needed her, and, for the first time in a year he finally felt some semblance of sanity. Being inside of her, feeling her tighten and release around him, because of him, hearing his name on her lips- that was more therapeutic than any drug.

With one final thrust and a moan of her name, he released into her. The waves of pleasure crashed through him and bounced off of every nerve in his body. She leaned up and kissed him sweetly, riding the wave with him. The Doctor buried his head in the pillows behind her head, still hovering over her. In that moment, being so close to her, inside of her, forming one beautiful beast of lust and love, he lost the control he always held so dear.

"I love you. Iloveyou Iloveyou Iloveyou."

He repeated his mantra into the pillow next to her head. He pulled out of her and settled behind her, as she nestled into his arms, absently stroking the hair there.

"Iloveyou Iloveyou Iloveyou".

He whispered into the skin of her shoulder. She breathed deeply for a while before falling into a deep sleep.

"Iloveyou Iloveyou Iloveyou."

He was acutely aware that she'd never said it back.

Phew! Man, that had to hurt. What's coming next guys? Read it, love it, review it!

xoxo, LPL