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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:
Because who HASN’T wanted to play dress-up in the TARDIS’s wardrobe?
Stomach sinking, Martha has a feeling it’s going to be a very long night.
The wardrobe is overwhelming. Lots of other words might well sum it up (dazzling, unbelievable, mind-boggling, etc.) but “overwhelming” is the one that keeps coming to mind.
She steps inside. Like all rooms in the TARDIS, it’s bigger on the inside than one would think possible. Time Lords have this weird thing about rooms; she has the sneaking suspicion that they very quietly get off on watching people’s jaws drop when they see that much space through that unassuming a door.
Shelves and rods of clothing of every shape, size, fabric, colour, and style cover the place from top to toe. Hang in neat disarray from the ceiling. Completely cover the walls. Exude traces of clean fabrics and spicy perfumes. Small wonder the Doctor favours just the two suits; what a nightmare to try to find anything in here.
(And her stomach sinks further as she suspects the “sleepover” is going to take half the night just to find something to wear.)
“Pyjamas,” the Doctor says calmly.
The three racks nearest them shuffle obediently. The clothes turn themselves inside out. Vanish. Re-emerge as completely new garments.
“Colours,” he says, warning. (Apparently, he’s had this argument with the TARDIS before.)
Obediently, the dazzling catch-all of colours sorts itself into a neat rainbow.
She grins. “His and hers, while you’re at it.”
The Doctor gives her an approving smile. The rack nearest them divides in two. One half sports stylishly conservative men’s pyjamas. The other displays lingerie, each outfit more revealing than the last.
The Doctor glares at the ceiling. “That will be quite enough of that, clever trousers! Behave!”
Martha bites her tongue before she can go and do something stupid, like say she wouldn’t mind something that showed a little skin. (Still not in love with him.)
When the racks have sorted themselves to the Doctor’s satisfaction, he steps forward with a grin. Begins to rummage.
Martha moves to her rack, but can’t seem to focus. She’s not thinking about the snog. She’s not. She’s not. She’s not. She’s not glancing at the Doctor just to watch how his lips purse in thought one moment or part in silent musing the next. She’s not admiring the way the sleeves of his suit ride up a little when he stretches an arm out, showing a white expanse of lithe wrist.
And she’s not thinking about those hands. At the back of her head... At her waist...
Not fair. It’s simply not fair! If only he kissed like geeky loser, all slobber and no style. Then she could forget it. And anyway, it’s not like he was subtle about what he intends. How much more specific does he need to be before she gets it through her stupid head--
“Are you just going to watch me pick mine, Martha?” The Doctor squints through those adorable specs at a lovely red silk set of pyjamas. “Or are you going to choose yours?”
Blushing again, (AGAIN, dammit! What the hell is wrong with her? She’s not some stupid teenager and she IS able to control herself. Proof to the contrary.) she looks through the rack. Cotton. Linen. Silk. Several fabrics she’s not sure of the names, but all textures. She could be swathed like an Eskimo or draped like an Arabian princess. Hard to choose. What screams “I’m trying to behave but I hope you were bluffing when you kissed me senseless and then made like it meant nothing”?
“What d’you think?” He sounds all enthusiasm again. When she looks, he’s holding up two sets of pyjamas, that lovely red silk one and a deep blue set with white pinstripes.
“The red one.” She points. “The blue one reminds me of my dad.”
Silently, the Doctor hangs up the blue pyjamas.
She can’t help smirking. “So, you’re not feeling fatherly either?”
“Should I be?” He flips the hanger over his shoulder so the pyjamas drape down his back. (God, if he knew how casually shaggable he was, he wouldn’t DO things like that.)
“No...” She has no idea what to say to him. Small talk. This is small talk. She HATES small talk. It’s so much easier when they’re tracing clues or fighting bad guys or rescuing people or running for their lives. (No wonder he goes from one adventure to the next; it’s so much more cut-and-dry.)
And it’s not like this is awful or anything; he’s being a perfect gentleman. Foundering, she grabs the next hanger. Holds it up. “What about this?”
He raises an eyebrow. Hides a smirk behind one hand. “No.”
She looks down. There’s barely enough fabric on the hanger to count as lingerie. She glares at the ceiling. “Not funny, you!” Furious, she slams the hanger back onto the rod. (And tries not to pray for the day when he won’t laugh at the thought of her in--)
“May I?” He’s still smirking at her, the bastard. Without waiting for her permission (cheeky!) he scans the rack. Pulls out a set of red silk pyjamas that strongly resemble his, except with a slightly more feminine cut and black closures down the front like on a Chinese dress. (What are the things called? Her sister would know.)
“This better?” he says.
She holds it up to her body to test for size. From what she can tell, it’ll be perfect. The silk slips under her hand, cool and sexy but not too, too. “Excellent. Thanks!” She tosses the hanger over her shoulder in a very conscious imitation of him.
“Not half bad.” He’s almost smiling.
She grins. “By the way, how does she know?”
“The TARDIS?” At her nod, he nods too. “Psychic. Gets inside your head. She has her own quirks, but she can be quite accommodating when she’s in the mood.” He glances up. “And speaking of accommodating...?”
The scent of fresh-baked cookies wafts under Martha’s nose. Real cookies, not the store-bought or pre-packaged ones. The kind made from ingredients you can pronounce. Butter. Sugar. Ooooooooh. Chocolate!
“Fantastic!” The Doctor grins. “Now that’s more like it.” He hands her his pyjamas. Goes to the silver tray that’s appeared on a handy side table. A pitcher of milk so cold condensation beads on the side sits beside two tall glasses. A heaping pile of chocolate chip cookies steams slightly. The Doctor heaves it up. Balances it like an expert waiter over one shoulder. (Graceful AND strong hands? Dextrous fingers? Really not fair.)
She loves that glint in his eyes. “Race ya,” he says.
She grins. “You’re on.” She gets on her mark. “Ready... steady...” She takes off.
She’s through the door before he can shout. “HEY!” He’s faster though, and he cheats, because he knows where his room is and she doesn’t. (Somehow he’s always managed to beat her awake. Must be a Time Lord thing. That, and he doesn’t seem to run on coffee.)
She follows him as he races through the hallways. The pyjamas stream out behind her like banners. He manages to cavort without spilling the milk. Both of them laugh like madmen on holiday. And for a moment the sheer silliness of it all catches her breath. How many times has she really laughed since she turned eighteen? Twenty one? And how many times has she really laughed since she met him?
He slows up. Sobers, seeing her face. “Something wrong?”
She shakes her head no. “And that’s the weird part. This is completely childish and stupid, but...” She meets his eyes. “I like it.”
She loves that kind of smile; the one that warms his eyes and then warms her head to toe.
“So do I,” he says.
They have one of those golden moments of mutual understanding. A happy, warm feeling unfurls in her stomach (fuelled in part by his smile and the heavenly scent of chocolate chip cookies.) She tries to memorise every detail of him in those few precious seconds, knowing that for years to come, the Doctor smiling and relaxed will be a memory she can recall when she wants to be happy.
He knocks on the door behind him. It opens obediently. “Here we are,” he says with a wink. He waves the tray in front of her as he disappears inside. “Chez Docteur.”
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:
Because who HASN’T wanted to play dress-up in the TARDIS’s wardrobe?
Stomach sinking, Martha has a feeling it’s going to be a very long night.
The wardrobe is overwhelming. Lots of other words might well sum it up (dazzling, unbelievable, mind-boggling, etc.) but “overwhelming” is the one that keeps coming to mind.
She steps inside. Like all rooms in the TARDIS, it’s bigger on the inside than one would think possible. Time Lords have this weird thing about rooms; she has the sneaking suspicion that they very quietly get off on watching people’s jaws drop when they see that much space through that unassuming a door.
Shelves and rods of clothing of every shape, size, fabric, colour, and style cover the place from top to toe. Hang in neat disarray from the ceiling. Completely cover the walls. Exude traces of clean fabrics and spicy perfumes. Small wonder the Doctor favours just the two suits; what a nightmare to try to find anything in here.
(And her stomach sinks further as she suspects the “sleepover” is going to take half the night just to find something to wear.)
“Pyjamas,” the Doctor says calmly.
The three racks nearest them shuffle obediently. The clothes turn themselves inside out. Vanish. Re-emerge as completely new garments.
“Colours,” he says, warning. (Apparently, he’s had this argument with the TARDIS before.)
Obediently, the dazzling catch-all of colours sorts itself into a neat rainbow.
She grins. “His and hers, while you’re at it.”
The Doctor gives her an approving smile. The rack nearest them divides in two. One half sports stylishly conservative men’s pyjamas. The other displays lingerie, each outfit more revealing than the last.
The Doctor glares at the ceiling. “That will be quite enough of that, clever trousers! Behave!”
Martha bites her tongue before she can go and do something stupid, like say she wouldn’t mind something that showed a little skin. (Still not in love with him.)
When the racks have sorted themselves to the Doctor’s satisfaction, he steps forward with a grin. Begins to rummage.
Martha moves to her rack, but can’t seem to focus. She’s not thinking about the snog. She’s not. She’s not. She’s not. She’s not glancing at the Doctor just to watch how his lips purse in thought one moment or part in silent musing the next. She’s not admiring the way the sleeves of his suit ride up a little when he stretches an arm out, showing a white expanse of lithe wrist.
And she’s not thinking about those hands. At the back of her head... At her waist...
Not fair. It’s simply not fair! If only he kissed like geeky loser, all slobber and no style. Then she could forget it. And anyway, it’s not like he was subtle about what he intends. How much more specific does he need to be before she gets it through her stupid head--
“Are you just going to watch me pick mine, Martha?” The Doctor squints through those adorable specs at a lovely red silk set of pyjamas. “Or are you going to choose yours?”
Blushing again, (AGAIN, dammit! What the hell is wrong with her? She’s not some stupid teenager and she IS able to control herself. Proof to the contrary.) she looks through the rack. Cotton. Linen. Silk. Several fabrics she’s not sure of the names, but all textures. She could be swathed like an Eskimo or draped like an Arabian princess. Hard to choose. What screams “I’m trying to behave but I hope you were bluffing when you kissed me senseless and then made like it meant nothing”?
“What d’you think?” He sounds all enthusiasm again. When she looks, he’s holding up two sets of pyjamas, that lovely red silk one and a deep blue set with white pinstripes.
“The red one.” She points. “The blue one reminds me of my dad.”
Silently, the Doctor hangs up the blue pyjamas.
She can’t help smirking. “So, you’re not feeling fatherly either?”
“Should I be?” He flips the hanger over his shoulder so the pyjamas drape down his back. (God, if he knew how casually shaggable he was, he wouldn’t DO things like that.)
“No...” She has no idea what to say to him. Small talk. This is small talk. She HATES small talk. It’s so much easier when they’re tracing clues or fighting bad guys or rescuing people or running for their lives. (No wonder he goes from one adventure to the next; it’s so much more cut-and-dry.)
And it’s not like this is awful or anything; he’s being a perfect gentleman. Foundering, she grabs the next hanger. Holds it up. “What about this?”
He raises an eyebrow. Hides a smirk behind one hand. “No.”
She looks down. There’s barely enough fabric on the hanger to count as lingerie. She glares at the ceiling. “Not funny, you!” Furious, she slams the hanger back onto the rod. (And tries not to pray for the day when he won’t laugh at the thought of her in--)
“May I?” He’s still smirking at her, the bastard. Without waiting for her permission (cheeky!) he scans the rack. Pulls out a set of red silk pyjamas that strongly resemble his, except with a slightly more feminine cut and black closures down the front like on a Chinese dress. (What are the things called? Her sister would know.)
“This better?” he says.
She holds it up to her body to test for size. From what she can tell, it’ll be perfect. The silk slips under her hand, cool and sexy but not too, too. “Excellent. Thanks!” She tosses the hanger over her shoulder in a very conscious imitation of him.
“Not half bad.” He’s almost smiling.
She grins. “By the way, how does she know?”
“The TARDIS?” At her nod, he nods too. “Psychic. Gets inside your head. She has her own quirks, but she can be quite accommodating when she’s in the mood.” He glances up. “And speaking of accommodating...?”
The scent of fresh-baked cookies wafts under Martha’s nose. Real cookies, not the store-bought or pre-packaged ones. The kind made from ingredients you can pronounce. Butter. Sugar. Ooooooooh. Chocolate!
“Fantastic!” The Doctor grins. “Now that’s more like it.” He hands her his pyjamas. Goes to the silver tray that’s appeared on a handy side table. A pitcher of milk so cold condensation beads on the side sits beside two tall glasses. A heaping pile of chocolate chip cookies steams slightly. The Doctor heaves it up. Balances it like an expert waiter over one shoulder. (Graceful AND strong hands? Dextrous fingers? Really not fair.)
She loves that glint in his eyes. “Race ya,” he says.
She grins. “You’re on.” She gets on her mark. “Ready... steady...” She takes off.
She’s through the door before he can shout. “HEY!” He’s faster though, and he cheats, because he knows where his room is and she doesn’t. (Somehow he’s always managed to beat her awake. Must be a Time Lord thing. That, and he doesn’t seem to run on coffee.)
She follows him as he races through the hallways. The pyjamas stream out behind her like banners. He manages to cavort without spilling the milk. Both of them laugh like madmen on holiday. And for a moment the sheer silliness of it all catches her breath. How many times has she really laughed since she turned eighteen? Twenty one? And how many times has she really laughed since she met him?
He slows up. Sobers, seeing her face. “Something wrong?”
She shakes her head no. “And that’s the weird part. This is completely childish and stupid, but...” She meets his eyes. “I like it.”
She loves that kind of smile; the one that warms his eyes and then warms her head to toe.
“So do I,” he says.
They have one of those golden moments of mutual understanding. A happy, warm feeling unfurls in her stomach (fuelled in part by his smile and the heavenly scent of chocolate chip cookies.) She tries to memorise every detail of him in those few precious seconds, knowing that for years to come, the Doctor smiling and relaxed will be a memory she can recall when she wants to be happy.
He knocks on the door behind him. It opens obediently. “Here we are,” he says with a wink. He waves the tray in front of her as he disappears inside. “Chez Docteur.”
Link to All Previous Chapters
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