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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:
In which Martha learns what kind of games the Doctor likes to play.
Beta's Addendum:
Miss LSA is on vacation this week and next, so she's turned the reins over to me for posting. I thought about putting up the entire chapter backwards as a prank, but it took too long to type out. :D
Martha wakes from steaming hot dreams of the Doctor having his wicked way with her to find herself snuggled up next to the real Doctor.
He sleeps like an overgrown angel. Artfully dishevelled. Slightly rumpled. Snoring ever so slightly. He smells lovely and dammit, she’d like nothing better than to lean over and gently kiss him awake. (And then shag him soundly.)
After a few moments of wantonly lustful staring, she squashes her libido back into its cage so she doesn’t make an even bigger ass of herself than she did last night.
She slips out of bed, careful not to disturb him, and heads for the bathroom. The whole teddy bear thing is a real double-edged deal; as lovely as it is to be in his arms, she can’t convince her subconscious to leave off the lusting.
And is it really worth it to insist she’s not in love with him?
The shower is hot and steaming as her dream. (And, of course, she only uses the detachable, massaging shower head for its intended purpose. A teddy bear like her would never imagine the flow of warm water to be an acceptable substitute for the Doctor’s mouth.) She ignores the mint-scented shampoo -- no sense confusing him worse by smelling like the Missus -- and is grateful when her own brand of shampoo and conditioner appear. She takes an extra long time with both, savouring the flow of water for more innocent purposes.
She steps out of the shower refreshed, clean, and significantly less repressed. To her delight, a hair pick, brush, and just the right brand of hair conditioners lay neatly on the counter, along with a fresh change of clothes. “Thank you, TARDIS,” she says. (You know you’ve been travelling too long with the Doctor when it no longer feels weird to address the TARDIS as if she were a real person.)
A quick change and brush up help her feel much more put together and much less like a stuffed animal.
But her façade begins to crumble as soon as she steps back into the bedroom. His bedroom. The place where she touched him and he kissed her and both of them regretted it. (She DOES regret it. Absolutely. She feels all kinds of guilt and of course she doesn’t smile a bit every time she thinks of the way she had him writhing.)
He’s beautiful when he’s asleep. Sprawled, yet strangely peaceful in his repose. Breathing softly. Younger somehow. Brown hair, white skin, red pyjamas on dark blue bedding. For a moment, she can imagine him as a little boy. (Highly unsettling to want to mother him one minute and shag him the next, but there’s the Doctor for you -- innocent and erotic in one slender, foxy package.)
And maybe this whole travelling with him thing is a bad idea after all. She still doesn’t know his name. (Though anything other than “the Doctor” would not only feel wrong, but inadequate.) She doesn’t know what he’s done with his life. (Though it must’ve been extraordinary. From what little she’s seen he lives his life in broad swathes of primary colours and grandiose actions.) He must have some nasty enemies. (But together they’ve outfoxed, outmanoeuvred, and out-survived every one they’ve encountered thus far, his knack for stepping on powerful and frightening toes notwithstanding.) He’ll never be safe. (Except when he’s protecting her.) He’ll never be reasonable. (Except when he’s solving problems everyone else is too thick or frightened to manage.) He’ll never be sane. (Except when his insanity is exactly what the situation calls for.)
And he’ll never be in love with her.
Ouch. There’s no easy and quick quip for that one. That’s just the truth.
But now that she knows how much he needs someone, and how good it is to be close to him, and how wonderful he can be to the people he cares about, could she really just walk away?
The stabbing pain in her chest at the thought tells her she might as well resign herself to her fate. She’s just as unlikely to change as he is. (Maybe that’s the problem; in some ways, they’re too much alike.)
“Doctor?” She gently shakes him.
He wakes with a start. Sits up, blinking. His grin at her dissolves into a massive yawn and stretch. (Yes, it’s as adorable as it sounds.)
She can’t help smiling affectionately at him. “Sleep well?”
“Yes, thanks,” he says. He leans over and kisses her forehead. “Breakfast?”
“Absolutely.” Food. He means food. Don’t think of anything else.
He strips the duvet off with a flourish and bounces out of bed. (The man must be spring-loaded.) “Back in two ticks,” he says over one shoulder as he heads to the bathroom. The silk flows around him as he moves, just fluid enough to accentuate his natural grace and just clingy enough to leave very little to the imagination.
“And behave yourself in there!” she calls after him. (Pot kettle.)
He throws her a look of patently false innocence. “Why Miss Jones, I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” He winks.
“Prat!” she yells after him. “I see any golden lights and I’ll come in there after you!”
“I’d like to see you try.” He disappears behind the door. After a moment, she hears the familiar buzz of the sonic screwdriver.
And for completely irrational reasons, she loves him almost to the point of pain. (Why are the good ones always taken?)
She straightens up the bed a bit while she waits for him. (Not that she has any plans for becoming his domestic, but a little sprucing never hurt anything.) After a few minutes he emerges washed, brushed, shaved, and as neatly dressed as he gets.
“So what’s on the menu?” She can only hope it features more of that fabulous not-chocolate.
“Pancakes.” He gives his tie a little jerk to straighten it. (And of course it ends up slightly cocked to one side as usual.) “American style -- the good, big fluffy ones. With blueberries.” He says this with the kind of twinkle that makes it sound ever so decadent. “And butter and real maple syrup.”
“You had me at pancakes.” Grinning, she follows him to the galley.
Of course, breakfast is as lovely as everything else she’s eaten on the TARDIS, complete with fresh fruit (the Doctor and his silly banana fetish) and juice and good strong coffee and tea and toast and just about anything a reasonable (or even unreasonable) person could want. She passes him the syrup in a scene that’s at once frighteningly domestic and oddly comfortable. Even when he shows her how to balance a spoon on the tip of her nose, somehow it just seems right. Home. The TARDIS is starting to feel like home.
And as much as she’d love to clear this table, throw him down, and pounce him, she really loves this bizarre second chance he’s given her. He doesn’t want her for her body. He isn’t trying to get into her pants. He isn’t trying to advance his career by allying himself with a weird sort of trophy wife. (It isn’t just women who marry a doctor for the bragging rights.) This Doctor genuinely wants her for her mind. For her company. For her willingness to join him in whatever mad thing he happens to be doing.
He loves her for herself. Real love, not just the simple lust that leads to one-night stands and ignored phone calls. He could hold her all night and never make her feel anything less than cherished and protected.
And it’s almost enough.
“You’ve got all serious and deep-thought-y again.” Hard to take a man seriously when he’s balancing a spoon on the end of his nose.
She sets her own spoon beside her now-empty plate on the placemat. “You chose me because I’m serious.” (And it’s a bittersweet comfort that he did choose her.)
“Well, you’ve got me there,” he says. “But seriousness seems to come and go with you.” He gives a puff of air so the spoon swings.
“Likewise,” she says. “Half the time you’re somewhere else.”
He nods. “Parallel universe.” He takes the spoon off his nose. Fidgets with it.
“With Her?” At his nod, she decides to pry a little. “Can you... communicate with her?”
He shakes his head no. Sets down the spoon. Sips his tea. “Not directly.”
“But you know she’s all right?” And she actually cares. She wants Rose to be all right, if for no other reason than that she knows when he (they?) find her, she will see joy the likes of which no human has ever witnessed.
He nods. “Rose is like me.” A bittersweet smile. “She’s always all right.” He sets down his cup and bounces to his feet. “Enough Domestic for one day, let’s have some fun, shall we?”
She smiles. “Where was that place again? With the chocolate?”
“Therinia!” He nods vigorously. “Yes, absolutely. Fifth century. Should be a grand time. No... Wait...” He looks thoughtful. “How good are you at pretending to be royalty?”
Martha strikes her best haughty pose. “We are not amused.”
“Fantastic!” He offers her a hand up. “But first... I wonder... d’you fancy a game?”
She knows him well enough to be suspicious. “What sort of game?”
“Board game,” he says. “Perfectly innocent. Well... Sort of... Ever play ‘Mousetrap’?”
“The one where you assemble all the funny pieces and then try to trap the other person’s mouse with the little net?” She could almost clap her hands with glee when he nods. “Oh I LOVE that one! Tish and I always used to play -- and she always cheated in the setup. But I didn’t know you fancied board games.”
“Wellll,” he drawls in a way that puts her instantly on he guard. “I don’t usually. But in this case, I made a few improvements.”
“Such as?” She can hardly wait to see this. (And she’s also half afraid to find out what he’s been up to.)
“Well... d’you know what a tesseract is?” He gives her a hopeful look.
“Four dimensional construct.” Ooh! She finally gets the chance to be brainy. “Three dimensions plus time. Quantum stuff. This ship’s an example ‘cause it’s bigger on the inside and it has more stuff in it than normal three dimensional space should allow.” (And she’s not privately preening at knowing what he means.)
He breaks into the full, honest, enthusiastic grin she’s been looking for. “Well done, Jones. Couldn’t have said it better.”
She blinks, realizing. “You’ve developed four-dimensional Mousetrap?”
He nods with a mischievously furtive look like the kid with the keys to the candy shop. “Wanna see?”
She lets the grin spread slowly over her face.
They race each other for the door.
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:
In which Martha learns what kind of games the Doctor likes to play.
Beta's Addendum:
Miss LSA is on vacation this week and next, so she's turned the reins over to me for posting. I thought about putting up the entire chapter backwards as a prank, but it took too long to type out. :D
Martha wakes from steaming hot dreams of the Doctor having his wicked way with her to find herself snuggled up next to the real Doctor.
He sleeps like an overgrown angel. Artfully dishevelled. Slightly rumpled. Snoring ever so slightly. He smells lovely and dammit, she’d like nothing better than to lean over and gently kiss him awake. (And then shag him soundly.)
After a few moments of wantonly lustful staring, she squashes her libido back into its cage so she doesn’t make an even bigger ass of herself than she did last night.
She slips out of bed, careful not to disturb him, and heads for the bathroom. The whole teddy bear thing is a real double-edged deal; as lovely as it is to be in his arms, she can’t convince her subconscious to leave off the lusting.
And is it really worth it to insist she’s not in love with him?
The shower is hot and steaming as her dream. (And, of course, she only uses the detachable, massaging shower head for its intended purpose. A teddy bear like her would never imagine the flow of warm water to be an acceptable substitute for the Doctor’s mouth.) She ignores the mint-scented shampoo -- no sense confusing him worse by smelling like the Missus -- and is grateful when her own brand of shampoo and conditioner appear. She takes an extra long time with both, savouring the flow of water for more innocent purposes.
She steps out of the shower refreshed, clean, and significantly less repressed. To her delight, a hair pick, brush, and just the right brand of hair conditioners lay neatly on the counter, along with a fresh change of clothes. “Thank you, TARDIS,” she says. (You know you’ve been travelling too long with the Doctor when it no longer feels weird to address the TARDIS as if she were a real person.)
A quick change and brush up help her feel much more put together and much less like a stuffed animal.
But her façade begins to crumble as soon as she steps back into the bedroom. His bedroom. The place where she touched him and he kissed her and both of them regretted it. (She DOES regret it. Absolutely. She feels all kinds of guilt and of course she doesn’t smile a bit every time she thinks of the way she had him writhing.)
He’s beautiful when he’s asleep. Sprawled, yet strangely peaceful in his repose. Breathing softly. Younger somehow. Brown hair, white skin, red pyjamas on dark blue bedding. For a moment, she can imagine him as a little boy. (Highly unsettling to want to mother him one minute and shag him the next, but there’s the Doctor for you -- innocent and erotic in one slender, foxy package.)
And maybe this whole travelling with him thing is a bad idea after all. She still doesn’t know his name. (Though anything other than “the Doctor” would not only feel wrong, but inadequate.) She doesn’t know what he’s done with his life. (Though it must’ve been extraordinary. From what little she’s seen he lives his life in broad swathes of primary colours and grandiose actions.) He must have some nasty enemies. (But together they’ve outfoxed, outmanoeuvred, and out-survived every one they’ve encountered thus far, his knack for stepping on powerful and frightening toes notwithstanding.) He’ll never be safe. (Except when he’s protecting her.) He’ll never be reasonable. (Except when he’s solving problems everyone else is too thick or frightened to manage.) He’ll never be sane. (Except when his insanity is exactly what the situation calls for.)
And he’ll never be in love with her.
Ouch. There’s no easy and quick quip for that one. That’s just the truth.
But now that she knows how much he needs someone, and how good it is to be close to him, and how wonderful he can be to the people he cares about, could she really just walk away?
The stabbing pain in her chest at the thought tells her she might as well resign herself to her fate. She’s just as unlikely to change as he is. (Maybe that’s the problem; in some ways, they’re too much alike.)
“Doctor?” She gently shakes him.
He wakes with a start. Sits up, blinking. His grin at her dissolves into a massive yawn and stretch. (Yes, it’s as adorable as it sounds.)
She can’t help smiling affectionately at him. “Sleep well?”
“Yes, thanks,” he says. He leans over and kisses her forehead. “Breakfast?”
“Absolutely.” Food. He means food. Don’t think of anything else.
He strips the duvet off with a flourish and bounces out of bed. (The man must be spring-loaded.) “Back in two ticks,” he says over one shoulder as he heads to the bathroom. The silk flows around him as he moves, just fluid enough to accentuate his natural grace and just clingy enough to leave very little to the imagination.
“And behave yourself in there!” she calls after him. (Pot kettle.)
He throws her a look of patently false innocence. “Why Miss Jones, I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” He winks.
“Prat!” she yells after him. “I see any golden lights and I’ll come in there after you!”
“I’d like to see you try.” He disappears behind the door. After a moment, she hears the familiar buzz of the sonic screwdriver.
And for completely irrational reasons, she loves him almost to the point of pain. (Why are the good ones always taken?)
She straightens up the bed a bit while she waits for him. (Not that she has any plans for becoming his domestic, but a little sprucing never hurt anything.) After a few minutes he emerges washed, brushed, shaved, and as neatly dressed as he gets.
“So what’s on the menu?” She can only hope it features more of that fabulous not-chocolate.
“Pancakes.” He gives his tie a little jerk to straighten it. (And of course it ends up slightly cocked to one side as usual.) “American style -- the good, big fluffy ones. With blueberries.” He says this with the kind of twinkle that makes it sound ever so decadent. “And butter and real maple syrup.”
“You had me at pancakes.” Grinning, she follows him to the galley.
Of course, breakfast is as lovely as everything else she’s eaten on the TARDIS, complete with fresh fruit (the Doctor and his silly banana fetish) and juice and good strong coffee and tea and toast and just about anything a reasonable (or even unreasonable) person could want. She passes him the syrup in a scene that’s at once frighteningly domestic and oddly comfortable. Even when he shows her how to balance a spoon on the tip of her nose, somehow it just seems right. Home. The TARDIS is starting to feel like home.
And as much as she’d love to clear this table, throw him down, and pounce him, she really loves this bizarre second chance he’s given her. He doesn’t want her for her body. He isn’t trying to get into her pants. He isn’t trying to advance his career by allying himself with a weird sort of trophy wife. (It isn’t just women who marry a doctor for the bragging rights.) This Doctor genuinely wants her for her mind. For her company. For her willingness to join him in whatever mad thing he happens to be doing.
He loves her for herself. Real love, not just the simple lust that leads to one-night stands and ignored phone calls. He could hold her all night and never make her feel anything less than cherished and protected.
And it’s almost enough.
“You’ve got all serious and deep-thought-y again.” Hard to take a man seriously when he’s balancing a spoon on the end of his nose.
She sets her own spoon beside her now-empty plate on the placemat. “You chose me because I’m serious.” (And it’s a bittersweet comfort that he did choose her.)
“Well, you’ve got me there,” he says. “But seriousness seems to come and go with you.” He gives a puff of air so the spoon swings.
“Likewise,” she says. “Half the time you’re somewhere else.”
He nods. “Parallel universe.” He takes the spoon off his nose. Fidgets with it.
“With Her?” At his nod, she decides to pry a little. “Can you... communicate with her?”
He shakes his head no. Sets down the spoon. Sips his tea. “Not directly.”
“But you know she’s all right?” And she actually cares. She wants Rose to be all right, if for no other reason than that she knows when he (they?) find her, she will see joy the likes of which no human has ever witnessed.
He nods. “Rose is like me.” A bittersweet smile. “She’s always all right.” He sets down his cup and bounces to his feet. “Enough Domestic for one day, let’s have some fun, shall we?”
She smiles. “Where was that place again? With the chocolate?”
“Therinia!” He nods vigorously. “Yes, absolutely. Fifth century. Should be a grand time. No... Wait...” He looks thoughtful. “How good are you at pretending to be royalty?”
Martha strikes her best haughty pose. “We are not amused.”
“Fantastic!” He offers her a hand up. “But first... I wonder... d’you fancy a game?”
She knows him well enough to be suspicious. “What sort of game?”
“Board game,” he says. “Perfectly innocent. Well... Sort of... Ever play ‘Mousetrap’?”
“The one where you assemble all the funny pieces and then try to trap the other person’s mouse with the little net?” She could almost clap her hands with glee when he nods. “Oh I LOVE that one! Tish and I always used to play -- and she always cheated in the setup. But I didn’t know you fancied board games.”
“Wellll,” he drawls in a way that puts her instantly on he guard. “I don’t usually. But in this case, I made a few improvements.”
“Such as?” She can hardly wait to see this. (And she’s also half afraid to find out what he’s been up to.)
“Well... d’you know what a tesseract is?” He gives her a hopeful look.
“Four dimensional construct.” Ooh! She finally gets the chance to be brainy. “Three dimensions plus time. Quantum stuff. This ship’s an example ‘cause it’s bigger on the inside and it has more stuff in it than normal three dimensional space should allow.” (And she’s not privately preening at knowing what he means.)
He breaks into the full, honest, enthusiastic grin she’s been looking for. “Well done, Jones. Couldn’t have said it better.”
She blinks, realizing. “You’ve developed four-dimensional Mousetrap?”
He nods with a mischievously furtive look like the kid with the keys to the candy shop. “Wanna see?”
She lets the grin spread slowly over her face.
They race each other for the door.
Link to All Previous Chapters
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