![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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:
For that matter, who hasn’t wondered what Ten keeps in his room? And good on you, Martha, for doing the right thing.
The Doctor knocks on the door behind him. It opens obediently. “Here we are,” he says with a wink. He waves the tray in front of Martha as he disappears inside. “Chez Docteur.”
She wavers at the door. No telling what he has in there. Some sort of mad lab? Half-finished stuff everywhere?
Well, the first glance tells her she was right about the half-finished stuff everywhere. A long table against one wall sports various and sundry weird projects. (Really does look like the mechanical musings of a bona fide mad scientist. Quietly reeks like it too: traces of hot wiring and... um... not sure. Smells like a science lab.) Stray wires litter the surface. Metal bits that must be parts. Tools she can only half identify.
The Doctor shoves a few projects aside. Something gives a mechanical growl. He picks up a mallet. Thwacks it. It yelps. He thwacks it again. It grinds into obedient silence. He sets the tray down. Pours the milk.
(The man is completely mad.) Smiling in spite of herself, Martha steps inside. And then she spots the wall of... things. A few tools she recognizes, but the rest of them defy description. Odd angles. Weird buttons. Long, slender stalks. Knobs. Ridges. Materials she can’t quite categorize.
What the hell kind of man has tools like that in his bedroom?
“I do a lot of work in here.” She starts. The Doctor is standing right next to her. “Private projects. Sciency stuff.” He holds out a glass of milk.
“Thanks.” She takes it. Sips. It tastes wonderful after the mad jog here. Cool. Clean. Fresh. She indicates the tools. “So these are...?”
He looks amused. Sips his own glass. “Not for the kind of recreation you’re thinking of.” He feigns a disapproving frown. “Dirty mind, Martha. For shame.”
“I was not thinking they were...” Oh, but she was. She’s long suspected he has a kinky streak. (The quiet ones always do.) No telling what naughty business he and Rose were up to. (Not to mention the kind of dirty weekends one could have with all of time and space at his disposal.) “I’m sure they’re...”
“Perfectly innocent?” He prizes a cookie from the top of the pile. Yelps. Drops it with a curse. Sucks his fingers. “Hot.”
She counts it a virtue that she doesn’t laugh... much.
He carefully pilfers a cookie from the edge of the pile. Takes a cautious nibble. Hums with pleasure. His eyes roll closed.
And she’s not wishing he’d make that kind of noise when he kissed her. (Not thinking about the snog! Not! Not! Not!) Instead, she gets her own cookie. Tastes. Just about falls over. Sweet. Creamy. Smooth. Rich, full flavour that fills her mouth. Melting goodness. Just the right texture. Oh God, this is heaven!
“Wherever the TARDIS gets chocolate,” she manages around a sloppy mouthful, “we’re going there next.”
He nods agreement, eyes still closed. “Therinian. Fifth century. Second Reconstruction. Private stock. Better than chocolate.”
Martha pauses before the next bite. (Alien cookies?) “Do I want to know what’s in this?”
He shakes his head no. Takes another bite. Looks like he might swoon with pleasure. “Ignorance is bliss.”
He does have a point. She hangs the pyjamas on the hook on the back of the door. Takes the plate to the bed. (A surprisingly simple affair: mattress, pillows, smooth wood headboard, plain navy blue duvet.) She sits. He joins her. They share the cookies between the like a pair of guilty kids stealing from Father Christmas.
“I think,” she says, licking her fingers, “I’m going to like being your teddy bear.”
“Glad to hear it.” He refills her glass. “Be right back.” He retrieves his pyjamas. Vanishes through a door to what she hopes is a bathroom.
The cookies only get better after she eats them. The taste lingers in her mouth as vividly as ever. The warmth in her stomach burns nicely, the sensation like being in front of a roaring fire. Just warm enough to make one sleepy, not hot enough to hurt.
Psychic ship, huh? She thinks pointedly about having a second helping.
The plate remains empty. Probably just as well; if she could eat her fill, she might not stop until she was sick.
She glances up at the sound of a door closing. The Doctor looks fabulous in red silk. (Her heart does NOT beat faster just watching him move.) The red compliments the brown of his eyes. Sets off his skin. Contrasts his hair. The silk flows with him as he moves. (Drool!) He’s so thin, though. Needs to eat more. He smiles. “Your turn.”
Her turn indeed. (Her turn to strip him bare and throw him on the bed...) She’s not having that thought. Bad thought. Go away. Everything’s lovely right now. No sense screwing it up with pointless lusting.
She grabs her jim-jams and heads for the bathroom. It never fails to amaze her how simply he lives. Sure, he’s got the wall of scary-scary tools, but the bathroom is just that: a bathroom. Shower/bath. Toilet. Sink. Mirror. Nothing weird or unusual. Nothing that’d even be out of place in a non-alien house. Sometimes, it’s these bits of normal amidst so much weirdness that really remind her how strange her life has become since she met him. (A&E seems positively dull by comparison.)
The pyjamas fit perfectly. Hug her figure. Make her look a little more curvy than she actually is. Either the TARDIS has a mean sense of humour or Martha’s getting a little help and encouragement from an alien spaceship. (She holds out hope for the latter.)
The Doctor smiles when he sees her, but it’s the wrong kind of smile. She smiles that way at her best friend when they’ve found the perfect outfit at half the price. (Martha’s not much for shopping, but she’s not completely immune from the feminine obsession with a good buy.) It’s a friendly smile. An approving smile. Even an enthusiastic smile. But it’s not THE smile.
And she’s not disappointed. She’s glad he’s her friend. Glad he trusts her enough to let her into his life. (And his bedroom. Cuddling with him will be lovely, won’t it?)
She sits beside him on the bed, suddenly nervous. Her palms have gone all clammy. It’s stupid. They’ve shared a bed before, back in the sixteenth century when Shakespeare thought she was well hot and the Doctor... well... didn’t. He lay beside her in the bed. Talked to her. Was immune to suggestion. Remained as cool as...
And she is NOT thinking about the damn kiss! She was such an idiot to ask for it in the first place, and an even bigger idiot to goad him into doing it. Why couldn’t she just have been happy with things the way they were? A genuinely nice (and mad) guy wanted her to travel with him. No charge. No strings. No funny business.
It would be so much easier if she weren’t in love with him.
The Doctor’s hand enfolds hers in a cool but sympathetic hold. “Deep thoughts?”
She shakes her head no. “I think too much.”
He nods agreement. “Part of your charm.”
She wrinkles her nose at him.
“No. Really. It is.” He actually looks sincere. “I seldom meet someone else who thinks too much. Kind of refreshing actually.” He squeezes her hand.
She smiles and wishes she didn’t love him. It’s a bittersweet feeling, but not entirely unpleasant. “What happened to Rose?”
He goes very still. Looks at her, politely calculating.
“If you don’t mind my asking?” She squeezes his hand. “I just... I’m...”
“Curious.” He nods. “You’re afraid whatever happened to her might happen to you too. Fair enough.” He swallows hard. “Parallel universe.”
Her heart pounds for a very different reason. “Is she...?”
“Dead?” He shakes his head no. “Sometimes I think it’d be easier if she were.” He laces his fingers with hers. “No. Rose is very much alive. Sometimes... Sometimes...I...”
She squeezes his hand. “It’s okay if you don’t want to--”
“I can still feel her,” he says. He touches his chest, right in the middle. “Here. Between my hearts. Every day. Every minute. She’s with me, here but not here. Sometimes it’s the best thing in the universe because I know I’m not alone. But when I lay down... Alone...”
“You aren’t sleeping.” God, how may months has he been like this? Suffering? Untreated? (And all she could think was how much she wants to lay him; what the hell kind of doctor is she?)
“Nope.” He looks at her, every emotion bare on his face. Grief. Longing. Desperation. Love. Pain. Traces of madness. (God the man’s close to the edge!) Near-painful vulnerability. “I could really use a teddy bear.”
She hugs him without a second thought. A good, solid, platonic hug. He clings to her like she’s the only sane thing left in his life.
And that’s when she realizes she IS the only sane thing left in his life.
He presses his face into her shoulder. Hugs her so hard it hurts in a good way. She combs her fingers through his hair. Hugs him back. And in that moment, she swears she’d fight for him. Protect him with everything she has. Kill for him if she had to. (Please don’t let her have to.) Do whatever he needed. Even if he never loved her. Never kissed her again. Never touched her again.
“Thank you,” he says, very very quietly.
“You’re welcome.” Her throat is tight and scratchy in a good way. (She loves him.)
She will never know anyone like the Doctor again. Probably safer that way. Certainly saner. But this time with him is precious, and only an idiot would... She kisses his temple.
He pulls away. Kisses her forehead firmly. Breaks into his signature grin. “Time for bed.”
She lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Nods agreement.
“Back or side?” he says. “Right or left?”
“Doctor?” He slips from mad to sane and back again so quickly.
“Actually,” he says, “just... I’ll figure it out.” He stands. Indicates the bed with a gesture.
Self-conscious, she lays down. Turns on her side. Faces away.
Her heart beats annoyingly quickly as the mattress shifts. He’s laying behind her. “May I?” he asks softly.
She smiles over her shoulder. “Sure. Teddy bear, right?”
He slides across the mattress. Pulls her into his arms. She rests her head on his arm. Wraps his other arm around her waist. He pulls the duvet over them. She snuggles into his embrace. Savours the cool length of his body curled around her.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he says.
The scent of him fills her senses. Nothing she can quite put into words, just... him. “So am I.”
“Goodnight, Miss Jones.”
“Goodnight, Mr. Smith.”
And for a few long minutes, she waits for the first brush of breath on the back of her neck. The first gentle kiss on her shoulder. The first less than innocent touch of his hand...
And eventually, a light breath does tickle the back of her neck. She holds her breath. His body relaxes behind her. His breathing settles into a steady rhythm. Sleeping. He’s sleeping. The arm around her waist grows heavy, a pleasant weight.
He’s not going to seduce her. He’s going to sleep deeply with her in his arms like a human teddy bear. Calm. Quiet. Safe. Masculine.
Innocent.
Bloody hell.
She strokes the fingers of the hand at her waist. The Doctor murmurs in his sleep. The arm around her tightens a little, protective. He needs her.
Martha snuggles closer, closes her eyes, and wishes it were enough.
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:
For that matter, who hasn’t wondered what Ten keeps in his room? And good on you, Martha, for doing the right thing.
The Doctor knocks on the door behind him. It opens obediently. “Here we are,” he says with a wink. He waves the tray in front of Martha as he disappears inside. “Chez Docteur.”
She wavers at the door. No telling what he has in there. Some sort of mad lab? Half-finished stuff everywhere?
Well, the first glance tells her she was right about the half-finished stuff everywhere. A long table against one wall sports various and sundry weird projects. (Really does look like the mechanical musings of a bona fide mad scientist. Quietly reeks like it too: traces of hot wiring and... um... not sure. Smells like a science lab.) Stray wires litter the surface. Metal bits that must be parts. Tools she can only half identify.
The Doctor shoves a few projects aside. Something gives a mechanical growl. He picks up a mallet. Thwacks it. It yelps. He thwacks it again. It grinds into obedient silence. He sets the tray down. Pours the milk.
(The man is completely mad.) Smiling in spite of herself, Martha steps inside. And then she spots the wall of... things. A few tools she recognizes, but the rest of them defy description. Odd angles. Weird buttons. Long, slender stalks. Knobs. Ridges. Materials she can’t quite categorize.
What the hell kind of man has tools like that in his bedroom?
“I do a lot of work in here.” She starts. The Doctor is standing right next to her. “Private projects. Sciency stuff.” He holds out a glass of milk.
“Thanks.” She takes it. Sips. It tastes wonderful after the mad jog here. Cool. Clean. Fresh. She indicates the tools. “So these are...?”
He looks amused. Sips his own glass. “Not for the kind of recreation you’re thinking of.” He feigns a disapproving frown. “Dirty mind, Martha. For shame.”
“I was not thinking they were...” Oh, but she was. She’s long suspected he has a kinky streak. (The quiet ones always do.) No telling what naughty business he and Rose were up to. (Not to mention the kind of dirty weekends one could have with all of time and space at his disposal.) “I’m sure they’re...”
“Perfectly innocent?” He prizes a cookie from the top of the pile. Yelps. Drops it with a curse. Sucks his fingers. “Hot.”
She counts it a virtue that she doesn’t laugh... much.
He carefully pilfers a cookie from the edge of the pile. Takes a cautious nibble. Hums with pleasure. His eyes roll closed.
And she’s not wishing he’d make that kind of noise when he kissed her. (Not thinking about the snog! Not! Not! Not!) Instead, she gets her own cookie. Tastes. Just about falls over. Sweet. Creamy. Smooth. Rich, full flavour that fills her mouth. Melting goodness. Just the right texture. Oh God, this is heaven!
“Wherever the TARDIS gets chocolate,” she manages around a sloppy mouthful, “we’re going there next.”
He nods agreement, eyes still closed. “Therinian. Fifth century. Second Reconstruction. Private stock. Better than chocolate.”
Martha pauses before the next bite. (Alien cookies?) “Do I want to know what’s in this?”
He shakes his head no. Takes another bite. Looks like he might swoon with pleasure. “Ignorance is bliss.”
He does have a point. She hangs the pyjamas on the hook on the back of the door. Takes the plate to the bed. (A surprisingly simple affair: mattress, pillows, smooth wood headboard, plain navy blue duvet.) She sits. He joins her. They share the cookies between the like a pair of guilty kids stealing from Father Christmas.
“I think,” she says, licking her fingers, “I’m going to like being your teddy bear.”
“Glad to hear it.” He refills her glass. “Be right back.” He retrieves his pyjamas. Vanishes through a door to what she hopes is a bathroom.
The cookies only get better after she eats them. The taste lingers in her mouth as vividly as ever. The warmth in her stomach burns nicely, the sensation like being in front of a roaring fire. Just warm enough to make one sleepy, not hot enough to hurt.
Psychic ship, huh? She thinks pointedly about having a second helping.
The plate remains empty. Probably just as well; if she could eat her fill, she might not stop until she was sick.
She glances up at the sound of a door closing. The Doctor looks fabulous in red silk. (Her heart does NOT beat faster just watching him move.) The red compliments the brown of his eyes. Sets off his skin. Contrasts his hair. The silk flows with him as he moves. (Drool!) He’s so thin, though. Needs to eat more. He smiles. “Your turn.”
Her turn indeed. (Her turn to strip him bare and throw him on the bed...) She’s not having that thought. Bad thought. Go away. Everything’s lovely right now. No sense screwing it up with pointless lusting.
She grabs her jim-jams and heads for the bathroom. It never fails to amaze her how simply he lives. Sure, he’s got the wall of scary-scary tools, but the bathroom is just that: a bathroom. Shower/bath. Toilet. Sink. Mirror. Nothing weird or unusual. Nothing that’d even be out of place in a non-alien house. Sometimes, it’s these bits of normal amidst so much weirdness that really remind her how strange her life has become since she met him. (A&E seems positively dull by comparison.)
The pyjamas fit perfectly. Hug her figure. Make her look a little more curvy than she actually is. Either the TARDIS has a mean sense of humour or Martha’s getting a little help and encouragement from an alien spaceship. (She holds out hope for the latter.)
The Doctor smiles when he sees her, but it’s the wrong kind of smile. She smiles that way at her best friend when they’ve found the perfect outfit at half the price. (Martha’s not much for shopping, but she’s not completely immune from the feminine obsession with a good buy.) It’s a friendly smile. An approving smile. Even an enthusiastic smile. But it’s not THE smile.
And she’s not disappointed. She’s glad he’s her friend. Glad he trusts her enough to let her into his life. (And his bedroom. Cuddling with him will be lovely, won’t it?)
She sits beside him on the bed, suddenly nervous. Her palms have gone all clammy. It’s stupid. They’ve shared a bed before, back in the sixteenth century when Shakespeare thought she was well hot and the Doctor... well... didn’t. He lay beside her in the bed. Talked to her. Was immune to suggestion. Remained as cool as...
And she is NOT thinking about the damn kiss! She was such an idiot to ask for it in the first place, and an even bigger idiot to goad him into doing it. Why couldn’t she just have been happy with things the way they were? A genuinely nice (and mad) guy wanted her to travel with him. No charge. No strings. No funny business.
It would be so much easier if she weren’t in love with him.
The Doctor’s hand enfolds hers in a cool but sympathetic hold. “Deep thoughts?”
She shakes her head no. “I think too much.”
He nods agreement. “Part of your charm.”
She wrinkles her nose at him.
“No. Really. It is.” He actually looks sincere. “I seldom meet someone else who thinks too much. Kind of refreshing actually.” He squeezes her hand.
She smiles and wishes she didn’t love him. It’s a bittersweet feeling, but not entirely unpleasant. “What happened to Rose?”
He goes very still. Looks at her, politely calculating.
“If you don’t mind my asking?” She squeezes his hand. “I just... I’m...”
“Curious.” He nods. “You’re afraid whatever happened to her might happen to you too. Fair enough.” He swallows hard. “Parallel universe.”
Her heart pounds for a very different reason. “Is she...?”
“Dead?” He shakes his head no. “Sometimes I think it’d be easier if she were.” He laces his fingers with hers. “No. Rose is very much alive. Sometimes... Sometimes...I...”
She squeezes his hand. “It’s okay if you don’t want to--”
“I can still feel her,” he says. He touches his chest, right in the middle. “Here. Between my hearts. Every day. Every minute. She’s with me, here but not here. Sometimes it’s the best thing in the universe because I know I’m not alone. But when I lay down... Alone...”
“You aren’t sleeping.” God, how may months has he been like this? Suffering? Untreated? (And all she could think was how much she wants to lay him; what the hell kind of doctor is she?)
“Nope.” He looks at her, every emotion bare on his face. Grief. Longing. Desperation. Love. Pain. Traces of madness. (God the man’s close to the edge!) Near-painful vulnerability. “I could really use a teddy bear.”
She hugs him without a second thought. A good, solid, platonic hug. He clings to her like she’s the only sane thing left in his life.
And that’s when she realizes she IS the only sane thing left in his life.
He presses his face into her shoulder. Hugs her so hard it hurts in a good way. She combs her fingers through his hair. Hugs him back. And in that moment, she swears she’d fight for him. Protect him with everything she has. Kill for him if she had to. (Please don’t let her have to.) Do whatever he needed. Even if he never loved her. Never kissed her again. Never touched her again.
“Thank you,” he says, very very quietly.
“You’re welcome.” Her throat is tight and scratchy in a good way. (She loves him.)
She will never know anyone like the Doctor again. Probably safer that way. Certainly saner. But this time with him is precious, and only an idiot would... She kisses his temple.
He pulls away. Kisses her forehead firmly. Breaks into his signature grin. “Time for bed.”
She lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Nods agreement.
“Back or side?” he says. “Right or left?”
“Doctor?” He slips from mad to sane and back again so quickly.
“Actually,” he says, “just... I’ll figure it out.” He stands. Indicates the bed with a gesture.
Self-conscious, she lays down. Turns on her side. Faces away.
Her heart beats annoyingly quickly as the mattress shifts. He’s laying behind her. “May I?” he asks softly.
She smiles over her shoulder. “Sure. Teddy bear, right?”
He slides across the mattress. Pulls her into his arms. She rests her head on his arm. Wraps his other arm around her waist. He pulls the duvet over them. She snuggles into his embrace. Savours the cool length of his body curled around her.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he says.
The scent of him fills her senses. Nothing she can quite put into words, just... him. “So am I.”
“Goodnight, Miss Jones.”
“Goodnight, Mr. Smith.”
And for a few long minutes, she waits for the first brush of breath on the back of her neck. The first gentle kiss on her shoulder. The first less than innocent touch of his hand...
And eventually, a light breath does tickle the back of her neck. She holds her breath. His body relaxes behind her. His breathing settles into a steady rhythm. Sleeping. He’s sleeping. The arm around her waist grows heavy, a pleasant weight.
He’s not going to seduce her. He’s going to sleep deeply with her in his arms like a human teddy bear. Calm. Quiet. Safe. Masculine.
Innocent.
Bloody hell.
She strokes the fingers of the hand at her waist. The Doctor murmurs in his sleep. The arm around her tightens a little, protective. He needs her.
Martha snuggles closer, closes her eyes, and wishes it were enough.
Link to All Previous Chapters
Tags: