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Story: Innocence
Author: Love! Slash! Angst!![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
loveslashangst
Characters: Ten, Martha Jones, Rose Tyler (implied)
Rated: R for some EXTREMELY suggestive banter and at least one scene that's not ready for primetime, though this is not -- strictly speaking -- a Ten/Martha fic
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, because if I did, there might be real science in Dr. Who instead of just the usual pseudo-science. (ophymirage adds: But Stephen Moffatt's welcome to steal the Universal Model Map any time. Because I want to see that on screen, dammit...)
Spoilers: AU, Sequel (kinda) to The Lady in the Fireplace.
Summary: Ten makes a decent proposal. Martha takes him up on it. Hilarity and adult-themed hijinks ensue. Not exactly a Martha/Ten, but more my love letter to her, hoping she finds what she's REALLY looking for.
Author's Note:
"This is not exactly a sequel, but it's also not exactly NOT a sequel. This is not a Martha/Ten story, though it does feature both Martha and Ten. This is not a Reunion!fic, though it definitely implies that said reuinion will occur. (And curses be to the fan of mine who mentioned she'd like to see a fic with AU Jack. Now that WILL NOT get out of my brain, though it'll have to wait until after Encore.)
"I hated Martha when I began this, just as I hated Nine when I began TLitF."
"I certainly don't hate her any more. Instead, I find her loyalty and level-headed support two of her most redeeming traits. And while I couldn't in good conscience give her to Ten -- who's busy being distracted with his missing Rose -- I thought she deserved to be appreciated and loved in more platonic but no less fulfilling ways, because she was exactly what Ten needed."
Martha is not in love with the Doctor. No. Really. She’s not. I mean, for starters, he’s an alien. And not just a shiny happy we-come-in-peace-take-me-to-your-leader kind of Man from Mars. He’s more of an if-I-don’t-like-it-it-will-end kind of alien. There’s a dark side to him that honestly frightens her.
He’s killed people. He’s saved people. He’s left people behind. Only a fool would underestimate him. Only an even bigger fool would fall in love with him.
And she’s no fool. (Well, not most of the time anyway.)
The problem is all that turbulence and confusion and passion come in such an unassuming package. He’s tall and slender and soft-spoken and empathetic and he has such a disarming smile. And hair that doesn’t seem to know which way to point. And beautiful brown eyes...
And she’s not in love with him.
He fidgets with his teacup now. Swirls the dregs of Darjeeling. Tips it one way and then the other to watch the tepid liquid move. For all she knows, he’s calculating the trajectory of its flow just for fun. (Hard to gauge how smart he really is.)
They sit across from each other at the little table that serves as an eating surface in the galley. The room is warm. Lingering traces of dinner drift around them. The Doctor glances at her. Realizes she’s watching him. Gives a somewhat sheepish smile. Sets down his cup. “Sorry.”
Sometimes he’s so perfectly English that she forgets he’s not human. It’s the little things. An almost pathological fondness for chips. Obsession with Christmas. Cultural reference after cultural reference. (Sometimes the man’s like YouTube with a time machine.)
And dammit she’s not in love with him.
Dinner is over. Spartan, just like everything about him. For having all of time and space at his disposal, he actually lives very lightly. She’s taken a peek into that wardrobe to end all wardrobes and knows he could be as flamboyant as an all-gay musical in Soho, but instead he favours those two suits, one brown, one blue. And she’s trying not to find that endearing.
“Thoughts?” he says.
She blinks. Focuses on the here and now. “About what?”
“Where to next?” There’s something in his eyes. She’s seen that look before, a kind of polite calculation, as if he’s weighing the odds.
She shrugs. “Dunno.” She hardens her eyes a little in warning. “Someplace you didn’t go with Her.”
He chuckles. “That does narrow it down, doesn’t it? We went a lot of places.” He pushes the cups aside. “Shall we go forward or back?”
It’s a good question. Sometimes she’s just sure he’ll forget Rose. Sometimes she knows that the only thing that will stop him from loving her is death itself (and maybe not even that.) Forward or back? Only one way she’d rather go. “Forward, I guess. Back’s usually pretty smelly.”
His smile warms his eyes. “Good. Mind if I sleep on it? Figure out the specifics?”
She is not imagining him naked and curled beneath the sheets. No. She’s definitely not doing that. “S-s-sure.” She swallows hard. Composes herself. “I could use a bit of rest myself.”
“Good.” He stands, decisive. Goes to the door. Pauses. She can sense his uncertainty from across the little room. He glances back at her. Somewhere behind those brown eyes is a quiet war. She can almost hear it.
“Doctor?” she says. She’s not hoping. She’s not. This isn’t it. This can’t be it. He’d never... “Was there something else?”
He looks at her for a long time. Long enough that she starts to fidget. He can communicate so much with that look when he wants or be completely inscrutable when he chooses. He’s having an inscrutable moment now and it’s positively nerve-wracking. At last he turns to her, decision made. “Actually, there is.”
“I’m listening.” And her heart is not beating like a jackhammer. She forces her fingers to unclench from the teacup.
“You do that.” He puts his hands in his pockets. “And I don’t think I ever thanked you properly for it.”
That catches her off guard. “For what?”
“Listening.” He leans on the door frame, all lithe grace. She hates how beautiful he is when he moves. “On New Earth. You wouldn’t let me go until I told you about Gallifrey.”
“And you did.” It’s actually become one of her fonder memories. The alley didn’t half reek of piss and garbage and God only knows what else, but they had a weird moment of intimacy. He must’ve talked for the better part of an hour before he ran out of words. And the hug afterwards actually felt sincere. (And a little too heavenly.)
“And you listened,” he says.
She tries to shrug it off, blushing. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.” There’s a sharp edge to his voice. But when she looks at him, his face relaxes into a genuine smile. (And she’s not melting!) “I go a lot of places, Martha Jones. Meet a lot of people. Save lives. Lose lives. Even make a friend or two. But I’m always passing through. I don’t really belong anywhere. Even when Gallifrey... Even then. I didn’t belong there either.”
She nods. “That’s why you left.”
He gives a self-deprecating snort. “Actually, I left because I’d stolen a TARDIS and was firmly committed to breaking just about every rule of Time my people had – young and stupid, you know. But that’s not the point. The point is that you listened and I wanted to say thank you.” He pins her with a look that’s both intense and sincere. “Thank you, Martha Jones.”
She grins like an idiot. “You’re welcome. Doctor.”
“And...” Whatever he was going to say, he stops. Thinks better of it. Shuts his mouth. Turns to go.
She gets up a little too quickly. Nearly upsets the chair. “And what?”
He won’t look at her. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”
This is it. This IS it. This is IT! She goes to him. Sets a hand on his shoulder. “It’s not nothing.”
Another long, searching look. She could swear the man has x-ray vision. All she can do is look up at him, willing him not to be such an idiot. Whatever he’s looking for, he must’ve found it, because he turns around to face her fully. His eyes are veiled, guarded. “I... would you do something for me, Martha?”
“Yes.” She doesn’t even pause. If her heart beats any harder, it’ll break her chest.
He takes a deep breath. Lets it out all in a rush. “Would you sleep with me?”
Link to All Previous Chapters
Author: Love! Slash! Angst!
loveslashangst Characters: Ten, Martha Jones, Rose Tyler (implied)
Rated: R for some EXTREMELY suggestive banter and at least one scene that's not ready for primetime, though this is not -- strictly speaking -- a Ten/Martha fic
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, because if I did, there might be real science in Dr. Who instead of just the usual pseudo-science. (
ophymirage adds: But Stephen Moffatt's welcome to steal the Universal Model Map any time. Because I want to see that on screen, dammit...) Spoilers: AU, Sequel (kinda) to The Lady in the Fireplace.
Summary: Ten makes a decent proposal. Martha takes him up on it. Hilarity and adult-themed hijinks ensue. Not exactly a Martha/Ten, but more my love letter to her, hoping she finds what she's REALLY looking for.
Author's Note:
"This is not exactly a sequel, but it's also not exactly NOT a sequel. This is not a Martha/Ten story, though it does feature both Martha and Ten. This is not a Reunion!fic, though it definitely implies that said reuinion will occur. (And curses be to the fan of mine who mentioned she'd like to see a fic with AU Jack. Now that WILL NOT get out of my brain, though it'll have to wait until after Encore.)
"I hated Martha when I began this, just as I hated Nine when I began TLitF."
"I certainly don't hate her any more. Instead, I find her loyalty and level-headed support two of her most redeeming traits. And while I couldn't in good conscience give her to Ten -- who's busy being distracted with his missing Rose -- I thought she deserved to be appreciated and loved in more platonic but no less fulfilling ways, because she was exactly what Ten needed."
Martha is not in love with the Doctor. No. Really. She’s not. I mean, for starters, he’s an alien. And not just a shiny happy we-come-in-peace-take-me-to-your-leader kind of Man from Mars. He’s more of an if-I-don’t-like-it-it-will-end kind of alien. There’s a dark side to him that honestly frightens her.
He’s killed people. He’s saved people. He’s left people behind. Only a fool would underestimate him. Only an even bigger fool would fall in love with him.
And she’s no fool. (Well, not most of the time anyway.)
The problem is all that turbulence and confusion and passion come in such an unassuming package. He’s tall and slender and soft-spoken and empathetic and he has such a disarming smile. And hair that doesn’t seem to know which way to point. And beautiful brown eyes...
And she’s not in love with him.
He fidgets with his teacup now. Swirls the dregs of Darjeeling. Tips it one way and then the other to watch the tepid liquid move. For all she knows, he’s calculating the trajectory of its flow just for fun. (Hard to gauge how smart he really is.)
They sit across from each other at the little table that serves as an eating surface in the galley. The room is warm. Lingering traces of dinner drift around them. The Doctor glances at her. Realizes she’s watching him. Gives a somewhat sheepish smile. Sets down his cup. “Sorry.”
Sometimes he’s so perfectly English that she forgets he’s not human. It’s the little things. An almost pathological fondness for chips. Obsession with Christmas. Cultural reference after cultural reference. (Sometimes the man’s like YouTube with a time machine.)
And dammit she’s not in love with him.
Dinner is over. Spartan, just like everything about him. For having all of time and space at his disposal, he actually lives very lightly. She’s taken a peek into that wardrobe to end all wardrobes and knows he could be as flamboyant as an all-gay musical in Soho, but instead he favours those two suits, one brown, one blue. And she’s trying not to find that endearing.
“Thoughts?” he says.
She blinks. Focuses on the here and now. “About what?”
“Where to next?” There’s something in his eyes. She’s seen that look before, a kind of polite calculation, as if he’s weighing the odds.
She shrugs. “Dunno.” She hardens her eyes a little in warning. “Someplace you didn’t go with Her.”
He chuckles. “That does narrow it down, doesn’t it? We went a lot of places.” He pushes the cups aside. “Shall we go forward or back?”
It’s a good question. Sometimes she’s just sure he’ll forget Rose. Sometimes she knows that the only thing that will stop him from loving her is death itself (and maybe not even that.) Forward or back? Only one way she’d rather go. “Forward, I guess. Back’s usually pretty smelly.”
His smile warms his eyes. “Good. Mind if I sleep on it? Figure out the specifics?”
She is not imagining him naked and curled beneath the sheets. No. She’s definitely not doing that. “S-s-sure.” She swallows hard. Composes herself. “I could use a bit of rest myself.”
“Good.” He stands, decisive. Goes to the door. Pauses. She can sense his uncertainty from across the little room. He glances back at her. Somewhere behind those brown eyes is a quiet war. She can almost hear it.
“Doctor?” she says. She’s not hoping. She’s not. This isn’t it. This can’t be it. He’d never... “Was there something else?”
He looks at her for a long time. Long enough that she starts to fidget. He can communicate so much with that look when he wants or be completely inscrutable when he chooses. He’s having an inscrutable moment now and it’s positively nerve-wracking. At last he turns to her, decision made. “Actually, there is.”
“I’m listening.” And her heart is not beating like a jackhammer. She forces her fingers to unclench from the teacup.
“You do that.” He puts his hands in his pockets. “And I don’t think I ever thanked you properly for it.”
That catches her off guard. “For what?”
“Listening.” He leans on the door frame, all lithe grace. She hates how beautiful he is when he moves. “On New Earth. You wouldn’t let me go until I told you about Gallifrey.”
“And you did.” It’s actually become one of her fonder memories. The alley didn’t half reek of piss and garbage and God only knows what else, but they had a weird moment of intimacy. He must’ve talked for the better part of an hour before he ran out of words. And the hug afterwards actually felt sincere. (And a little too heavenly.)
“And you listened,” he says.
She tries to shrug it off, blushing. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.” There’s a sharp edge to his voice. But when she looks at him, his face relaxes into a genuine smile. (And she’s not melting!) “I go a lot of places, Martha Jones. Meet a lot of people. Save lives. Lose lives. Even make a friend or two. But I’m always passing through. I don’t really belong anywhere. Even when Gallifrey... Even then. I didn’t belong there either.”
She nods. “That’s why you left.”
He gives a self-deprecating snort. “Actually, I left because I’d stolen a TARDIS and was firmly committed to breaking just about every rule of Time my people had – young and stupid, you know. But that’s not the point. The point is that you listened and I wanted to say thank you.” He pins her with a look that’s both intense and sincere. “Thank you, Martha Jones.”
She grins like an idiot. “You’re welcome. Doctor.”
“And...” Whatever he was going to say, he stops. Thinks better of it. Shuts his mouth. Turns to go.
She gets up a little too quickly. Nearly upsets the chair. “And what?”
He won’t look at her. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”
This is it. This IS it. This is IT! She goes to him. Sets a hand on his shoulder. “It’s not nothing.”
Another long, searching look. She could swear the man has x-ray vision. All she can do is look up at him, willing him not to be such an idiot. Whatever he’s looking for, he must’ve found it, because he turns around to face her fully. His eyes are veiled, guarded. “I... would you do something for me, Martha?”
“Yes.” She doesn’t even pause. If her heart beats any harder, it’ll break her chest.
He takes a deep breath. Lets it out all in a rush. “Would you sleep with me?”
Link to All Previous Chapters
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