Patient
Who_Daily Link: < a href="http://persiflage-1.livejournal.com/145170.html">Patient by < lj user=persiflage_1> (Characters: Martha/Nine | Rating: PG-13 | Spoilers: Rose - pre-S3 for Martha)
Title: Patient
Author: Persiflage_1
Characters/Pairings: Martha/Nine
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Rose (set pre-S3 for Martha)
Summary: Martha meets a different Time Lord.
Disclaimer: I don't even own my brain any more, never mind Doctor Who!
Author Notes: Apparently the bunnies have taken complete control of my brain again, so despite the fact I'm in the midst of writing a long, multi-Doctor fic, they gave me this plot for Martha/Nine smut for the whoniverse1000 challenge. There's a second A/N at the end of the fic.
~~~~~~
Martha checked the patient list, then stepped into the waiting area to call her final patient before she finished her shift.
"John Smith."
A tall man with close-cropped hair and very noticeable ears straightened up in his chair, then carefully pulled himself to his feet.
She watched closely as he limped towards her, noting the awkward way he carried his left arm, and the cuts across the left side of his face. As he got closer she noticed there were tears in the left leg of his jeans and in the dark red jumper he wore beneath a battered black leather jacket.
"This way please." Martha guided him into a cubicle and gestured for him to take a seat. "You look like you've been in the wars," she commented.
He flinched as if she'd struck him, which surprised her, but didn't otherwise respond.
"What happened?" she asked, wondering if he was concussed or in shock.
"Came off me bike," he answered in a gruff, Northern accent.
"Bicycle or motorbike?" She was recording details of those of his injuries she could see.
"Motorbike."
"Were you wearing a crash helmet?"
"Yeah."
"Good. That means you probably don't have concussion. Okay, Mr Smith, let's have a proper look at you." She eased off his leather jacket as she spoke, noting him wince as she pulled it off his left shoulder and down his arm.
"I think you've dislocated your left shoulder," she said, helping him out of his jumper too, and feeling slightly surprised he wasn't wearing even a t-shirt beneath it.
"I felt it pop out," he told her, as she carefully felt over it, her hands warm and gentle on his bare skin.
"Well I can put it back in the socket for you, but you'll have to keep it in a sling for at least a week afterwards in order to let it rest or you'll just dislocate it again, and that will lead to joint weakness."
She noted, absent-mindedly, the strong muscles in his arm as she prepared to put it back, and the lack of hair on his chest.
"I can't wear a sling," he told her gruffly. "I'm on me own and just arrived in town. I can't manage one-handed, and don't know anyone yet who could help."
Martha raised her eyebrows at that. "Then we'll have to see if we can find you a bed here," she answered.
"No." He reached up and grasped her wrist tightly with his other hand. "I'm not staying here. I can't stay here."
She looked at him, startled by his vehement tone and the intense expression in his eyes; he was a lot stronger than she'd expected of someone who'd recently been in an accident.
After a moment he let go of her wrist, looking sheepish. "Sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you."
"You didn't," she answered truthfully. "Let's get your injuries sorted out first, shall we, and then we can decide what to do for the best."
He nodded, gritting his teeth as she lifted, rotated and pushed his shoulder joint back into place. He hissed at the pain and winced a bit, but he didn't cry out or complain.
"Just hold your arm still for now," she told him, then turned her attention to the cuts and grazes on his face and chest, cleaning them carefully with antiseptic. She could feel his gaze on her as she worked, but she made herself focus on what she was doing. He had an intense, brooding manner and a darkness in his eyes that seemed to speak of pain. He reminded her strongly of someone but it took her a while to realise who, and when she did, she had to bite back a laugh: Cathy's Heathcliff. Clearly her tiredness was allowing her imagination to run away with her.
She dropped the last of the cottonwool swabs into the bin beside the bed, then applied a final plaster, before she checked the clipboard containing the notes she'd made.
"Right, I need to check your leg. You were limping quite badly when you approached me." She plucked a green gown from the back of the chair and held it out to him.
His eyes widened with surprise. "What's this for?"
"You'll need to take your jeans off," she pointed out, "so I can examine your leg properly."
He blushed and mumbled something indistinct.
"I didn't hear that," she said patiently.
"I ain't wearing any underwear," he said hoarsely.
"Oh!" Martha felt her own face heat up at his revelation. "I'll go and see if there's a male doctor free, but you may have to wait a little while - as you saw, we're quite busy tonight."
He shook his head. "I'll cover me lap with me jumper. Don't want to take up any more of your time."
She gave him a funny look. "I'm here to have my time taken up by patients," she said gently. "Okay, I'll wait outside. Call me when you're ready, and be careful of that shoulder."
"What's your name?"
"Jones, Martha Jones." She stepped out of cubicle, pulling the curtain back across, and crossed over to the window, glad that her darker skin made her embarrassment less obvious.
After a few moments she heard a soft voice calling "Dr Jones", and she went back into the cubicle.
"I'm not a doctor, yet," she told him as she bent to look at his left leg.
"You're not?" he asked, sounding puzzled.
"No. I'm still training. Got my exams next year."
"I wouldn't have guessed," he said.
She heard his breath hiss through his teeth as she ran her hands up his leg to his knee. There were cuts and grazes on his thigh, but no other obvious damage.
"Where does it hurt?" she asked.
"Me knee."
She cupped a hand around the back of his leg as she ran the other hand across his kneecap. "It's not broken, but it might be fractured or cracked. I'd need an X-ray to be positive."
"I don't want to hang around for an X-ray," he said brusquely.
Martha lifted her head and gave him a sharp look. "You didn't strike me as the awkward sort when you came in," she observed. "Clearly I'm a worse judge of such matters than I realised."
He looked away from her, apparently embarrassed.
"I'll clean up this mess for you," she said, "but I really think you should have an X-ray. If you've got a crack or a fracture in your kneecap, it won't do you any good to be walking around on it, and could make you lame."
"I'll come back tomorrow for an X-ray," he said.
"Hmm."
She wasn't sure she believed him, but she knew she couldn't force him to stay. She picked up the bowl that had held the antiseptic and poured in more, then began cleaning the cuts and grazes on his thigh, and applying plasters to the worse ones. She was acutely aware of the fact he was covering his manhood with his jumper and tried to be as quick as she could while still doing a professional job of treating him.
"Thanks," he said as she dropped the last cottonwool swab into the bin again, then peeled off her gloves and added them to the bin's contents.
"Right. If you get yourself dressed again, I'll book an appointment for you for the X-ray department tomorrow."
He nodded, and she went out.
When she returned several minutes later, carrying an appointment card for him the cubicle was empty.
Martha said something that would have earned her a scolding from her mother, then shrugged, knowing there was nothing she could do since Mr Smith hadn't left an address. She sighed, then went to collect her things and go home to bed.
Seven hours later
Martha had just stepped out of the shower when she heard a knock at the door of her flat. She hastily pulled on her bathrobe, then went to investigate, wondering if her mother had got tired of her daughter never answering her phone when she rang and had come to see her in person.
It wasn't her mum standing at the door once she opened it, though, and Martha stared in shock at the big-eared man in the black leather jacket, black jeans and red jumper who was grinning at her from the hallway.
"Mr Smith? What are you doing here? And how did you find me?"
"Oh it was easy," he said, wandering in, uninvited. "Nice place, like the stripes."
"Come in, why don't you?" she asked ironically, shutting the door.
"Came to apologise for disappearing on you earlier," he said breezily. "I had things to do, stuff needed my urgent attention."
"I'd have thought your health needed your urgent attention," Martha said rather waspishly, still annoyed at the way he'd simply vanished earlier.
"Well I'm all fixed now, good as new, thanks to you." He beamed at her, apparently oblivious to her annoyance, or the fact she was only wearing a bathrobe and dripping on her floor.
He pulled a bottle of wine out of his jacket pocket and held it out. Martha took it, startled.
"What's this?" she asked, bewildered, and wondering how he'd got a bottle of wine in his pocket in the first place.
"Tch, I don't know. Thought you were supposed to be clever, Miss Nearly-a-Doctor. It's wine, innit?"
"I can see that," Martha retorted, "but what's it for."
" 'san apology and a thank you," he told her, wandering through to her kitchen in search of glasses.
She followed him, clutching the bottle in one hand and trying to make sense of events.
"Make yourself at home, why don't you?" she asked. Clearly it was an evening for irony, not that Mr Smith seemed to notice.
"Thanks." He took two glasses from a cupboard, then took the bottle from Martha's unresisting grasp and produced a corkscrew from his jacket pocket.
Intrigued, despite herself, by the familiar way he was treating her flat, she sat down at the tiny kitchen table and watched as he expertly drew the cork, then poured them both half a glass.
He offered her one of the glasses, then clinked the other against it. "To Martha Jones, who's going to be a fantastic doctor one day soon."
She blushed, feeling heat all over her body as she registered she was sitting, practically naked, in her kitchen and drinking wine with a stranger.
"You're gorgeous when you blush," he said softly, reaching out his left hand and running his thumb along her cheekbone.
Martha's face burned as she mumbled an indistinct "Thank you", her eyes downcast.
A moment later, he took the glass from her and set it down on the table; she looked up, surprised, and he bent his head to brush a kiss across her lips.
"What are you doing?" she asked in astonishment when he pulled away.
"Kissing you," he murmured, pulling her gently up from the chair and kissing her again.
To her own surprise and disbelief, Martha found herself melting against him. Part of her was amazed, because this wasn't the sort of thing she did, but it was being ignored by the rest of her, which was almost whimpering when he pulled his mouth from hers to rest their foreheads together.
"More?" he asked softly.
"Yes," she gasped, aware of how aroused she was by now.
He picked her up and carried her through to her bedroom, setting her down in the centre of the bed. She watched through a haze of arousal as he got undressed, then climbed up onto the bed beside her. He was already very hard, she noticed, as he slipped on a condom.
"Ready?"
She nodded and sighed as he pulled open her bathrobe.
"You are gorgeous," he told her. It was the last coherent thing she heard for some time afterwards.
~~~~~~
Author's Note the second: In case it's not obvious, Nine was injured blowing up the Nestene Consciousness' relay device on the roof of Henrik's.
Title: Patient
Author: Persiflage_1
Characters/Pairings: Martha/Nine
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Rose (set pre-S3 for Martha)
Summary: Martha meets a different Time Lord.
Disclaimer: I don't even own my brain any more, never mind Doctor Who!
Author Notes: Apparently the bunnies have taken complete control of my brain again, so despite the fact I'm in the midst of writing a long, multi-Doctor fic, they gave me this plot for Martha/Nine smut for the whoniverse1000 challenge. There's a second A/N at the end of the fic.
~~~~~~
Martha checked the patient list, then stepped into the waiting area to call her final patient before she finished her shift.
"John Smith."
A tall man with close-cropped hair and very noticeable ears straightened up in his chair, then carefully pulled himself to his feet.
She watched closely as he limped towards her, noting the awkward way he carried his left arm, and the cuts across the left side of his face. As he got closer she noticed there were tears in the left leg of his jeans and in the dark red jumper he wore beneath a battered black leather jacket.
"This way please." Martha guided him into a cubicle and gestured for him to take a seat. "You look like you've been in the wars," she commented.
He flinched as if she'd struck him, which surprised her, but didn't otherwise respond.
"What happened?" she asked, wondering if he was concussed or in shock.
"Came off me bike," he answered in a gruff, Northern accent.
"Bicycle or motorbike?" She was recording details of those of his injuries she could see.
"Motorbike."
"Were you wearing a crash helmet?"
"Yeah."
"Good. That means you probably don't have concussion. Okay, Mr Smith, let's have a proper look at you." She eased off his leather jacket as she spoke, noting him wince as she pulled it off his left shoulder and down his arm.
"I think you've dislocated your left shoulder," she said, helping him out of his jumper too, and feeling slightly surprised he wasn't wearing even a t-shirt beneath it.
"I felt it pop out," he told her, as she carefully felt over it, her hands warm and gentle on his bare skin.
"Well I can put it back in the socket for you, but you'll have to keep it in a sling for at least a week afterwards in order to let it rest or you'll just dislocate it again, and that will lead to joint weakness."
She noted, absent-mindedly, the strong muscles in his arm as she prepared to put it back, and the lack of hair on his chest.
"I can't wear a sling," he told her gruffly. "I'm on me own and just arrived in town. I can't manage one-handed, and don't know anyone yet who could help."
Martha raised her eyebrows at that. "Then we'll have to see if we can find you a bed here," she answered.
"No." He reached up and grasped her wrist tightly with his other hand. "I'm not staying here. I can't stay here."
She looked at him, startled by his vehement tone and the intense expression in his eyes; he was a lot stronger than she'd expected of someone who'd recently been in an accident.
After a moment he let go of her wrist, looking sheepish. "Sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you."
"You didn't," she answered truthfully. "Let's get your injuries sorted out first, shall we, and then we can decide what to do for the best."
He nodded, gritting his teeth as she lifted, rotated and pushed his shoulder joint back into place. He hissed at the pain and winced a bit, but he didn't cry out or complain.
"Just hold your arm still for now," she told him, then turned her attention to the cuts and grazes on his face and chest, cleaning them carefully with antiseptic. She could feel his gaze on her as she worked, but she made herself focus on what she was doing. He had an intense, brooding manner and a darkness in his eyes that seemed to speak of pain. He reminded her strongly of someone but it took her a while to realise who, and when she did, she had to bite back a laugh: Cathy's Heathcliff. Clearly her tiredness was allowing her imagination to run away with her.
She dropped the last of the cottonwool swabs into the bin beside the bed, then applied a final plaster, before she checked the clipboard containing the notes she'd made.
"Right, I need to check your leg. You were limping quite badly when you approached me." She plucked a green gown from the back of the chair and held it out to him.
His eyes widened with surprise. "What's this for?"
"You'll need to take your jeans off," she pointed out, "so I can examine your leg properly."
He blushed and mumbled something indistinct.
"I didn't hear that," she said patiently.
"I ain't wearing any underwear," he said hoarsely.
"Oh!" Martha felt her own face heat up at his revelation. "I'll go and see if there's a male doctor free, but you may have to wait a little while - as you saw, we're quite busy tonight."
He shook his head. "I'll cover me lap with me jumper. Don't want to take up any more of your time."
She gave him a funny look. "I'm here to have my time taken up by patients," she said gently. "Okay, I'll wait outside. Call me when you're ready, and be careful of that shoulder."
"What's your name?"
"Jones, Martha Jones." She stepped out of cubicle, pulling the curtain back across, and crossed over to the window, glad that her darker skin made her embarrassment less obvious.
After a few moments she heard a soft voice calling "Dr Jones", and she went back into the cubicle.
"I'm not a doctor, yet," she told him as she bent to look at his left leg.
"You're not?" he asked, sounding puzzled.
"No. I'm still training. Got my exams next year."
"I wouldn't have guessed," he said.
She heard his breath hiss through his teeth as she ran her hands up his leg to his knee. There were cuts and grazes on his thigh, but no other obvious damage.
"Where does it hurt?" she asked.
"Me knee."
She cupped a hand around the back of his leg as she ran the other hand across his kneecap. "It's not broken, but it might be fractured or cracked. I'd need an X-ray to be positive."
"I don't want to hang around for an X-ray," he said brusquely.
Martha lifted her head and gave him a sharp look. "You didn't strike me as the awkward sort when you came in," she observed. "Clearly I'm a worse judge of such matters than I realised."
He looked away from her, apparently embarrassed.
"I'll clean up this mess for you," she said, "but I really think you should have an X-ray. If you've got a crack or a fracture in your kneecap, it won't do you any good to be walking around on it, and could make you lame."
"I'll come back tomorrow for an X-ray," he said.
"Hmm."
She wasn't sure she believed him, but she knew she couldn't force him to stay. She picked up the bowl that had held the antiseptic and poured in more, then began cleaning the cuts and grazes on his thigh, and applying plasters to the worse ones. She was acutely aware of the fact he was covering his manhood with his jumper and tried to be as quick as she could while still doing a professional job of treating him.
"Thanks," he said as she dropped the last cottonwool swab into the bin again, then peeled off her gloves and added them to the bin's contents.
"Right. If you get yourself dressed again, I'll book an appointment for you for the X-ray department tomorrow."
He nodded, and she went out.
When she returned several minutes later, carrying an appointment card for him the cubicle was empty.
Martha said something that would have earned her a scolding from her mother, then shrugged, knowing there was nothing she could do since Mr Smith hadn't left an address. She sighed, then went to collect her things and go home to bed.
Seven hours later
Martha had just stepped out of the shower when she heard a knock at the door of her flat. She hastily pulled on her bathrobe, then went to investigate, wondering if her mother had got tired of her daughter never answering her phone when she rang and had come to see her in person.
It wasn't her mum standing at the door once she opened it, though, and Martha stared in shock at the big-eared man in the black leather jacket, black jeans and red jumper who was grinning at her from the hallway.
"Mr Smith? What are you doing here? And how did you find me?"
"Oh it was easy," he said, wandering in, uninvited. "Nice place, like the stripes."
"Come in, why don't you?" she asked ironically, shutting the door.
"Came to apologise for disappearing on you earlier," he said breezily. "I had things to do, stuff needed my urgent attention."
"I'd have thought your health needed your urgent attention," Martha said rather waspishly, still annoyed at the way he'd simply vanished earlier.
"Well I'm all fixed now, good as new, thanks to you." He beamed at her, apparently oblivious to her annoyance, or the fact she was only wearing a bathrobe and dripping on her floor.
He pulled a bottle of wine out of his jacket pocket and held it out. Martha took it, startled.
"What's this?" she asked, bewildered, and wondering how he'd got a bottle of wine in his pocket in the first place.
"Tch, I don't know. Thought you were supposed to be clever, Miss Nearly-a-Doctor. It's wine, innit?"
"I can see that," Martha retorted, "but what's it for."
" 'san apology and a thank you," he told her, wandering through to her kitchen in search of glasses.
She followed him, clutching the bottle in one hand and trying to make sense of events.
"Make yourself at home, why don't you?" she asked. Clearly it was an evening for irony, not that Mr Smith seemed to notice.
"Thanks." He took two glasses from a cupboard, then took the bottle from Martha's unresisting grasp and produced a corkscrew from his jacket pocket.
Intrigued, despite herself, by the familiar way he was treating her flat, she sat down at the tiny kitchen table and watched as he expertly drew the cork, then poured them both half a glass.
He offered her one of the glasses, then clinked the other against it. "To Martha Jones, who's going to be a fantastic doctor one day soon."
She blushed, feeling heat all over her body as she registered she was sitting, practically naked, in her kitchen and drinking wine with a stranger.
"You're gorgeous when you blush," he said softly, reaching out his left hand and running his thumb along her cheekbone.
Martha's face burned as she mumbled an indistinct "Thank you", her eyes downcast.
A moment later, he took the glass from her and set it down on the table; she looked up, surprised, and he bent his head to brush a kiss across her lips.
"What are you doing?" she asked in astonishment when he pulled away.
"Kissing you," he murmured, pulling her gently up from the chair and kissing her again.
To her own surprise and disbelief, Martha found herself melting against him. Part of her was amazed, because this wasn't the sort of thing she did, but it was being ignored by the rest of her, which was almost whimpering when he pulled his mouth from hers to rest their foreheads together.
"More?" he asked softly.
"Yes," she gasped, aware of how aroused she was by now.
He picked her up and carried her through to her bedroom, setting her down in the centre of the bed. She watched through a haze of arousal as he got undressed, then climbed up onto the bed beside her. He was already very hard, she noticed, as he slipped on a condom.
"Ready?"
She nodded and sighed as he pulled open her bathrobe.
"You are gorgeous," he told her. It was the last coherent thing she heard for some time afterwards.
~~~~~~
Author's Note the second: In case it's not obvious, Nine was injured blowing up the Nestene Consciousness' relay device on the roof of Henrik's.