![[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:
In which Ten cheats shamelessly and Martha can’t keep her hands off his tool.
In a weird sort of way, this is for Husband, who always brings out the kid in me. (And of course still for Leda, who’s equal bits mad and brilliant.) And certainly for my fans, who keep me (in)sane and make me do frequent happy dances. REVIEWS ARE LOVE!!!
The Doctor palms the ball. Folds his hands behind him. Turns neatly on his heel to face her. “Now then, Miss Jones. The real question is...” He bends forward into a half-bow. Offers her the sonic screwdriver, handle first. “Are you game?”
He’s offering her the sonic screwdriver. Actually offering it. To her. To use. It’s an oddly intimate invitation from a bloke like him, and she can’t help grinning as she accepts it.
“Always,” she says.
“Fantastic.” He offers her a hand up. “Click your fingers.”
She does. The traps reset. The mouse-shaped counters on each board retreat back to the start. All the wormholes go zipping toward the Doctor. But her cry of alarm dies as he holds out a little box (if she didn’t know better, she’d say it was a cigar box). The wormholes neatly sort themselves in the air before him and settle into it.
“See? No cause for alarm,” says the Doctor. The twit is smirking at her again.
She fumbles a little with the sonic screwdriver. “Okay. I’m listening. How do we start?”
He rummages in his coat, shirt, and trouser pockets. Assembles a seemingly normal-looking set of six dice, one from each pocket. (Including two breast pockets she wasn’t aware of.) “Okay. More rules. You get one roll per turn. Counters will set themselves, so no need to worry about that. Every time you have dice in your hand, you can set one and only one wormhole. First one to set off the traps on all six sides at once wins. And you shall be... red. I’m blue.”
Martha takes a moment to absorb that. “Fair enough. But what happens if my counters get to the end of each board before I set off all six traps?”
He frowns. Looks at the board. “Hmmmmm. Hadn’t thought of that.”
She grins at him. (He is so damn cute.) “You play this just as an excuse to set off the traps, don’t you?”
He grins back. “Doesn’t everyone?”
She takes the dice. “How do I know which die goes with which board?”
“Oh, no worries. They’ll keep track for you.” He always says impossible stuff as though it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Off you go.”
She casts the dice. They scatter on the carpet. Movement on the cube attracts her eye. Sure enough, the red mouse counters on all six boards advance a few spaces, some more than others.
The Doctor offers her the box of wormholes. (There is something inherently wrong about using “box” and “wormholes” in the same thought.) “Setting 3016-C,” he prompts.
She dials. Presses the button. The sonic screwdriver rattles oddly in her hand, as though there’s some kind of mad demon inside just waiting to get out. (Should scare her more than it does. Instead, she has the science-geek equivalent of the high rodeo riders must get when they manage to stay on the bull for more than two bucks.)
One of the wormholes sullenly emerges from the box. She guides it over to the cube. “Does it matter which board?”
“Lady’s choice,” says the Doctor.
She places it above what she thinks is the zeta board.
The Doctor hands her the ball. “D’you feel lucky?”
“Doesn’t it need the other one?” she says, confused. “One in, one out?”
He waves the question away as though it’s a mere quibble. “Wibbly wobbly. Sometimes it works in sequence. Sometimes not. Wormholes are like that. By the end of the last game they were becoming positively predictable. I’d like to give them a chance to improvise.”
She decides to play along. Throws the ball. It falls right into the wormhole. She looks to the Doctor. “What now?”
“We wait,” he says.
After a few long minutes, the Doctor grins. Laughs.
“What?” She has a feeling he’s having her on.
The Doctor laughs harder.
“What?” She gives him a light punch in the arm. He sulks adorably. “Where the bloody did it get to?"
He controls himself. Rubs his arm. (Though he’s STILL smirking between sulks, the twit.) "13.858 minutes ago. Alternate dimension. Back three spaces on zeta board for your counter.” When she looks, the little red mouse on the board facing them is already retreating. He nicks the screwdriver from her hand. “MY TURN!"
"What d'you mean your turn?” She’s earned the squeak of outrage this time. “Where the bloody is my ball?"
The Doctor is already surveying the cube, gleefully unrepentant. "Hey, don't be a poor sport if you miss. It's not my fault if you don't fully grasp the niceties of wormhole physics."
“But... but your ball missed too.” Realization dawns (God, is she thick or what?) "You're cheating!"
“I never cheat.” Doctor has the market cornered on adorably wounded looks. "When I can bend the rules," he says under his breath.
“Prat.” One of these days she’s going to develop the ability to stay annoyed with him and then he’s REALLY going to get it. “Bending the rules IS cheating.”
He shrugs. "Probably." His face lights up. "MY TURN!" He wields the sonic screwdriver with a flourish. Before she can blink, he’s thrown the dice, advanced his counters and placed another wormhole. He pulls another ball from his coat pocket. Pitches it at the new wormhole. It disappears.
She’s about to ask where it went when something drops onto her shoulder. Startled, she jumps. It skitters down her collarbone. She shrieks. Something icy cold slips into her bra. Under her breast. She moves fast. Slaps at herself. Shakes her shirt.
Something falls to the floor. She stomps on it with another shriek. It’s too hard to squish. She looks. The errant ball is half-ground into the pile of the carpet.
She gives the Doctor a look that could kill. Repeatedly. With much dismemberment.
“What?” He hold up his hands in protest.
“You.” She doesn’t have the vocabulary to express the full extent and scope of her annoyance. She points one furious finger at the ball. “Your fault!”
“My fault?” He looks both wounded and innocent. “It’s always my fault. Why does everyone always think it’s my fault? I TOLD you wormholes were unpredictable.”
She snatches the ball off the floor. “New rule. Something appears on my shoulder and shimmies down my bra -- and that was bloody COLD, I might add -- you move your wormhole.”
He opens his mouth to argue. She narrows her eyes. He thinks better of it. Obediently adjust the new wormhole. She hands him the ball. He gives her a nervous sidelong look. (And she has a silent moment of congratulations at having cowed the Doctor into mostly playing fair.) He tosses the ball into the mini abyss.
And ducks as it materializes about half a foot from his head and nearly brains him.
She catches it. Giggles. It’s still bloody cold, but somehow she doesn’t mind. She tosses it from hand to hand until it warms up enough not to chill her until her metatarsals ache.
The Doctor aims the sonic screwdriver at the wormhole again. She snatches it from his hand. “Oh, no you don’t.”
“But...”
“Nope.” She spins the sonic screwdriver in her hand. “My turn.”
A skirmish of moves follows. Martha learns new levels of paranoia as the ball appears overhead. Underfoot. Ricocheting off the wall. (And once, very memorably, in the Doctor’s trousers.) Only after a good two hours of stubbornly refusing to stop playing are they able to get the shiny, round terrorist anywhere near the cube.
They lose six balls. The Doctor expects one of them in about five years. Another should make quite an impression about two thousand years ago on a planet whose name she can’t pronounce.
Where the other four are is anyone’s guess.
“Had enough?” says the Doctor. “D’you want to stop?”
She shakes her head no, though she is breathless from all the dodging and catching. “Things are just starting to get interesting. You?”
He shakes his head no. Grins. “I knew there was a reason I liked you, Martha Jones.”
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 Ten cheats shamelessly and Martha can’t keep her hands off his tool.
In a weird sort of way, this is for Husband, who always brings out the kid in me. (And of course still for Leda, who’s equal bits mad and brilliant.) And certainly for my fans, who keep me (in)sane and make me do frequent happy dances. REVIEWS ARE LOVE!!!
The Doctor palms the ball. Folds his hands behind him. Turns neatly on his heel to face her. “Now then, Miss Jones. The real question is...” He bends forward into a half-bow. Offers her the sonic screwdriver, handle first. “Are you game?”
He’s offering her the sonic screwdriver. Actually offering it. To her. To use. It’s an oddly intimate invitation from a bloke like him, and she can’t help grinning as she accepts it.
“Always,” she says.
“Fantastic.” He offers her a hand up. “Click your fingers.”
She does. The traps reset. The mouse-shaped counters on each board retreat back to the start. All the wormholes go zipping toward the Doctor. But her cry of alarm dies as he holds out a little box (if she didn’t know better, she’d say it was a cigar box). The wormholes neatly sort themselves in the air before him and settle into it.
“See? No cause for alarm,” says the Doctor. The twit is smirking at her again.
She fumbles a little with the sonic screwdriver. “Okay. I’m listening. How do we start?”
He rummages in his coat, shirt, and trouser pockets. Assembles a seemingly normal-looking set of six dice, one from each pocket. (Including two breast pockets she wasn’t aware of.) “Okay. More rules. You get one roll per turn. Counters will set themselves, so no need to worry about that. Every time you have dice in your hand, you can set one and only one wormhole. First one to set off the traps on all six sides at once wins. And you shall be... red. I’m blue.”
Martha takes a moment to absorb that. “Fair enough. But what happens if my counters get to the end of each board before I set off all six traps?”
He frowns. Looks at the board. “Hmmmmm. Hadn’t thought of that.”
She grins at him. (He is so damn cute.) “You play this just as an excuse to set off the traps, don’t you?”
He grins back. “Doesn’t everyone?”
She takes the dice. “How do I know which die goes with which board?”
“Oh, no worries. They’ll keep track for you.” He always says impossible stuff as though it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Off you go.”
She casts the dice. They scatter on the carpet. Movement on the cube attracts her eye. Sure enough, the red mouse counters on all six boards advance a few spaces, some more than others.
The Doctor offers her the box of wormholes. (There is something inherently wrong about using “box” and “wormholes” in the same thought.) “Setting 3016-C,” he prompts.
She dials. Presses the button. The sonic screwdriver rattles oddly in her hand, as though there’s some kind of mad demon inside just waiting to get out. (Should scare her more than it does. Instead, she has the science-geek equivalent of the high rodeo riders must get when they manage to stay on the bull for more than two bucks.)
One of the wormholes sullenly emerges from the box. She guides it over to the cube. “Does it matter which board?”
“Lady’s choice,” says the Doctor.
She places it above what she thinks is the zeta board.
The Doctor hands her the ball. “D’you feel lucky?”
“Doesn’t it need the other one?” she says, confused. “One in, one out?”
He waves the question away as though it’s a mere quibble. “Wibbly wobbly. Sometimes it works in sequence. Sometimes not. Wormholes are like that. By the end of the last game they were becoming positively predictable. I’d like to give them a chance to improvise.”
She decides to play along. Throws the ball. It falls right into the wormhole. She looks to the Doctor. “What now?”
“We wait,” he says.
After a few long minutes, the Doctor grins. Laughs.
“What?” She has a feeling he’s having her on.
The Doctor laughs harder.
“What?” She gives him a light punch in the arm. He sulks adorably. “Where the bloody did it get to?"
He controls himself. Rubs his arm. (Though he’s STILL smirking between sulks, the twit.) "13.858 minutes ago. Alternate dimension. Back three spaces on zeta board for your counter.” When she looks, the little red mouse on the board facing them is already retreating. He nicks the screwdriver from her hand. “MY TURN!"
"What d'you mean your turn?” She’s earned the squeak of outrage this time. “Where the bloody is my ball?"
The Doctor is already surveying the cube, gleefully unrepentant. "Hey, don't be a poor sport if you miss. It's not my fault if you don't fully grasp the niceties of wormhole physics."
“But... but your ball missed too.” Realization dawns (God, is she thick or what?) "You're cheating!"
“I never cheat.” Doctor has the market cornered on adorably wounded looks. "When I can bend the rules," he says under his breath.
“Prat.” One of these days she’s going to develop the ability to stay annoyed with him and then he’s REALLY going to get it. “Bending the rules IS cheating.”
He shrugs. "Probably." His face lights up. "MY TURN!" He wields the sonic screwdriver with a flourish. Before she can blink, he’s thrown the dice, advanced his counters and placed another wormhole. He pulls another ball from his coat pocket. Pitches it at the new wormhole. It disappears.
She’s about to ask where it went when something drops onto her shoulder. Startled, she jumps. It skitters down her collarbone. She shrieks. Something icy cold slips into her bra. Under her breast. She moves fast. Slaps at herself. Shakes her shirt.
Something falls to the floor. She stomps on it with another shriek. It’s too hard to squish. She looks. The errant ball is half-ground into the pile of the carpet.
She gives the Doctor a look that could kill. Repeatedly. With much dismemberment.
“What?” He hold up his hands in protest.
“You.” She doesn’t have the vocabulary to express the full extent and scope of her annoyance. She points one furious finger at the ball. “Your fault!”
“My fault?” He looks both wounded and innocent. “It’s always my fault. Why does everyone always think it’s my fault? I TOLD you wormholes were unpredictable.”
She snatches the ball off the floor. “New rule. Something appears on my shoulder and shimmies down my bra -- and that was bloody COLD, I might add -- you move your wormhole.”
He opens his mouth to argue. She narrows her eyes. He thinks better of it. Obediently adjust the new wormhole. She hands him the ball. He gives her a nervous sidelong look. (And she has a silent moment of congratulations at having cowed the Doctor into mostly playing fair.) He tosses the ball into the mini abyss.
And ducks as it materializes about half a foot from his head and nearly brains him.
She catches it. Giggles. It’s still bloody cold, but somehow she doesn’t mind. She tosses it from hand to hand until it warms up enough not to chill her until her metatarsals ache.
The Doctor aims the sonic screwdriver at the wormhole again. She snatches it from his hand. “Oh, no you don’t.”
“But...”
“Nope.” She spins the sonic screwdriver in her hand. “My turn.”
A skirmish of moves follows. Martha learns new levels of paranoia as the ball appears overhead. Underfoot. Ricocheting off the wall. (And once, very memorably, in the Doctor’s trousers.) Only after a good two hours of stubbornly refusing to stop playing are they able to get the shiny, round terrorist anywhere near the cube.
They lose six balls. The Doctor expects one of them in about five years. Another should make quite an impression about two thousand years ago on a planet whose name she can’t pronounce.
Where the other four are is anyone’s guess.
“Had enough?” says the Doctor. “D’you want to stop?”
She shakes her head no, though she is breathless from all the dodging and catching. “Things are just starting to get interesting. You?”
He shakes his head no. Grins. “I knew there was a reason I liked you, Martha Jones.”
Link to All Previous Chapters
Tags: