for un_love_you
Title: Un Love You
Author: rude_not_ginger
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Ten/Martha
Rating: PG-14 for sexual situations
Word Count: 2,600
Spoilers: Everything up to 4.00, "Voyage of the Damned" and Torchwood 2.06, "Reset"
Premise: A series of 100-word drabbles from the prompt selections at un_love_you. The concept is that the drabbles can either be read individually or as one coherent story. All of the prompts were used, the author's options for 26-30 were not.
1. You were right about me.
He thinks she's not going to work out.
After all, she's not Rose. And he, well, he loved Rose. Loves Rose, in many ways. But she's nice. She'll do for a time. She smiles and flirts and he ignores it. Thinks it'll eventually stop. She'll eventually give up.
But she's so brilliant. Smart and fun and he'll be damned if she doesn't make more than a suitable companion. She saves his life so many times.
But he was right. She's not Rose. He ignores her long enough, she gives up. It stopped working out, and she leaves.
He wishes he wasn't right.
2. I was wrong about you.
He's not the sort of man Martha usually finds attractive, first off. And, she's usually used to men falling all over her. She's not stupid, she knows she got great genes from her mother that make her fill out a pair of jeans and a clear, lovely complexion. But he doesn't notice her. She falls all over herself to make him notice her because he should.
She starts to think that maybe there's something wrong with her.
Saxon arrives. She saves the world, practically by herself.
She realizes that there's nothing wrong with her.
There's just something wrong with him.
3. This cancels out the hurt.
He drowns the knowledge she's gone with another adventure. Throws himself into danger.
It works like this, sometimes. He's terrible at handling loss. Positively rubbish at it.
Astrid arrives. She's nice enough, but all he can think is how she just isn't Martha. Strange, how these things turn about. She kisses him on a falling Titanic and he thinks that it should mean more than it does. He kisses her goodbye and part of him wishes he could kiss the others goodbye, the ones like Martha.
Too much loss.
He needs another adventure. He needs to cancel out the new ache.
4. I need to want you.
He dreams about before. Dreams are subjective; rather he remembers before. Remembers what he should've done differently.
What would it have hurt, giving in to some desires he might've felt for the brilliant human woman?
Everything, he thinks. Would've torn a hole through him, letting her in. Instead, he tore a hole through her. Broke her heart.
He thinks that he should've given in. Should've let himself want her. Maybe it would've changed how everything turned out.
Maybe it wouldn't.
He searches for a bit of wiring to fix and tries not to think about it anymore.
He does, of course.
5. You can be like me.
When she stood before him on the Valiant, she was a different woman. He remembers the way her shoulders squared. She wasn't afraid anymore.
She'd killed while she was down there, he could tell.
She used to look at him like he was a mentor. A teacher in the ways of the universe.
When she walks away from him, she looks at him like an equal. He made her like that. A well-seasoned traveler who knew what it was like to shape the world and to end a life.
She's like him, now.
He can only hope she isn't alone, too.
6. I want to need you.
He finds another companion quickly enough. Has a few adventures, she does the job just about right. He isn't alone and that should be enough.
He thinks about when he turned into a human, back in 1913. Thinks about the Doctor-shaped hole he left behind. With another companion so quickly on board, there's no Martha-shaped hole left. It's been stretched and shifted and easily filled.
It feels wrong. Feels like he should miss her more. That he should be able to tell she isn't there. He doesn't want to simply replace her.
Not that he's truly afraid that he will.
7. Prove it.
She's supposed to call him. He knows that. Still, he picks up the small mobile phone and flips through the address book until he finds "Mom". He dials and Francine picks up. By the time she finally hands the phone over, he's already frustrated and flustered. The alliteration should please him, but it doesn't.
"Why did you call?" she asks.
"I miss you." He's surprised that the sentiment comes from his lips and even more surprised that it's true.
"Really?" she says, and the tone is disbelieving.
He's silent, and suddenly there's a click on Martha's end of the phone.
8. I'm cruel.
Whatever she's figured is wrong with him, he can't possibly change her mind about. It's not as if he hasn't tried. Calls, recommendations. Whatever he thinks can show her he knows he owes her more than just one.
Maybe she's seen too much, he thinks. She's seen what he can do.
The Family of Blood. The creature in the Sun. She's seen him blame and she's seen him judge.
She's seen what horrible things he will forgive. He doesn't think she'll understand why he cried over the Master.
Still, he can't really blame her for her choice.
9. Always wondered what this'd be like.
He's not one for making apologies. In fact, he's rather bad at them.
By the time he makes it to the doorstep of Martha's flat in Cardiff, he's finding the idea of making a formal apology almost exciting. An apology. An offer for her to come back. He always wondered what it would be like asking a companion to come back to him. He usually just lets them go.
His knuckles hang over the door to Martha's flat.
He thinks about the ones who wanted to leave before. Wanted to be free of him.
There's a reason he's never done this before.
10. I'm broken.
A man who is all put together wouldn't be sitting outside a former companion's door.
In his mind, it's very like stalking an old girlfriend, and therefore borders on the lines of creepy and he doesn't particularly want to be creepy but he can't make himself knock on the door and he won't go back to the TARDIS without sorting this out.
He doesn't think she'll come back if he asks her to. Even if she would, he's not entirely certain he wants to ask.
He wonders why he never did this with any other companion.
Maybe he was stronger back then.
11. Thought I needed this.
"Thought seeing you apologize would make a lot of things better," she says. "But you're never going to get up the courage to do that, are you? Some Oncoming Storm, you are."
He blinks and she's leaning against her doorframe in a white terrycloth robe, arms crossed and an irritated look on her face. He looks up at her and quickly moves to his feet.
"What's that?" he asks.
"You. Groveling or whatever. You're never going to do it, are you?"
"That obvious?"
"Good thing I'm bad at accepting apologies." She steps to the side. "Come in."
It feels like acceptance.
12. I'm drunk.
It's not thirty seconds after Martha shuts the door behind him that he realizes Martha's had a little too much to drink this evening. It could be the bottles of wine sitting empty on the endtable, or the nearly-empty glass in her hand that she places down on her desk with a squiiiiink of oval glass to wood.
One, two, three, and she's stepped up very close to him, her warm terrycloth-ed body pressed near his.
"What did you want to tell me?" she asks. Her breath reeks of wine.
"You're drunk," he says.
She sighs. "So nothing I didn't already know, then."
13. I want to hurt you.
"Why are you here?"
Part of him wants the basics: To know how she is, see if she's okay, likes the job at UNIT, all that. Part of him wants to beg her to come back with him, show her how much he misses her.
Part of him wants her to miss him, too. She looks so…fine, here. She left him while his hearts were still aching from losing the Master and she should miss him, too.
But he can't possibly tell her that.
He stands there stupidly, a little slackjawed. He has absolutely no idea what to say, and that's a first for him.
14. I'm awake and you're breathing.
"It's 3 in the morning," she says as she pours him a glass of wine. "But you don't really get TARDIS jet-lag, do you?"
He takes the glass and smiles a little. "Not really."
"Are you injured? Is everything okay?" Her hands check his pulse and temperature, and then rest on his chest.
"Vitals are strong. You're breathing all right."
"So nothing I didn't already know then," he replies, trying on a smirk for size.
She rolls her eyes. "You never change. Never want me to help you."
But that's the whole reason he's here. He wonders why she doesn't see that.
15. This is my desperation in action.
She sighs and starts to turn away, but he catches her wrist and keeps her close. It's a part of her he's never touched, he realizes. Her wrist. A simple part of her he knows about but has never reached out for.
"I wasn't lying," he says. "On the phone."
She looks unconvinced. "You miss me?"
"You have no idea."
She looks hurt by his words. Maybe a little hopeful, but mostly hurt. "I'm tired of waiting, Doctor."
"Okay."
He's desperate to prove it to her, he supposes. He pulls her wrist towards him and wraps an arm around her waist.
16. I want to break you.
He's never been so forward before. Not in centuries, he imagines. Now, there they are. Millimeters apart and his hand on her wrist and they should do something but she's pissed and he's too much of a coward so they stay.
She's rather small, he realizes. He's never really realized before how small she is. Small and fragile in his arms. He could break her, easily.
He thinks about all the anger he suppressed at her leaving him when he needed her most. Maybe he does want to hurt her.
He lets her go so quickly she falls backwards onto the floor.
17. Wish I didn't love you.
"The hell is wrong with you?" She's back on her feet and shoving her finger into the middle of his chest.
"You give more mixed signals than a broken CV." Her voice is sweet with wine but still sizzling and angry. "Do you want me? If you do, do something. If you don't, leave me alone. Go find some blonde bimbo to toy with!"
He's somewhat insulted, because Rose was far from a bimbo, but he blames that insult on the wine, too.
He takes a deep breath. "It would be easier if I didn't want to be here."
18. I pity you.
Martha crosses her arms over her chest and stares him down. She doesn't ask. She just demands an explanation with her eyes.
"I want you to come back," he says.
"I got that the first time," she replies, irritably. "I pity you, Mister. Ten billion languages at your disposal and you can't even say how you feel. Or are you lot really that complex?"
It's his turn to glare. Then turn and head towards the door. He's tried his best, it's over now.
By the time he makes it there, Martha has already slid in front of him, blocking his way.
19. This isn't about you at all.
"It's me, isn't it?" she asks, and her voice has switched to serious so quickly it's very like a slap in the face. "Cause I'm not her."
Her? It takes him a minute to wrap his head around what she's just asked him. Well, clearly she's decided what he can't make up his mind on (his feelings) and she's equated that (lack of) response to a specific reason (Rose.)
"I never wanted you to be Rose," he replies, firmly. "Rose was Rose. Is Rose. If you were her, well, you wouldn't be Martha."
He grins widely because he thinks that's complimentary. She looks at him like he's completely insane.
20. I hate you, you bitch.
He imagines Martha must hate Rose. Hate the shadow of the other woman he traveled with. The woman he loved before he met Martha. It's understandable. Rose held and still holds a big place in his hearts. It's a place that Martha knows she'll never have.
But if she did, well, she wouldn’t be Martha, she'd be Rose. And he doesn't want her to be Rose. He realizes how much he's treated her like a 'latest one', like a 'not-Rose'. Each stupid little detail where he should've noticed she cared and didn't.
"I'm sorry," he says, without context.
She thinks it's a rejection.
It's not.
21. You'll do.
When the Doctor kisses Martha, it's completely out of the blue and somewhat startling and possibly completely unplanned. Most likely completely unplanned. He's very bad at planning. Especially planning emotional moments. He's worse at that.
As it was the first time his lips met hers, she's stunned and unmoving. He kisses her gently but as lovingly as possible. It's very nearly chaste.
He's trying to say "You'll do as you are, Martha Jones."
He wonders if he's got the message through and he pulls back. She looks even more confused than she did a moment ago.
He was never very good at speaking in kiss.
22. I hate myself.
There he is. The Doctor. The Oncoming Storm and all that, petrified as he holds silly little human Martha Jones. Petrified because he has no idea what to say next.
This is the part of himself he hates the most. The part that can't handle something as simple as a kiss. It's like the fear of snakes for Indiana Jones or the weakness of being flipped upside down by that comic book character in the 21st century.
The Doctor's fatal weakness is his inability to say how he feels. To anyone. Even Martha, who very clearly reciprocates.
He calls it self-preservation, most days.
He's lying.
23. You remind me of me.
"You're brilliant," he says, at last. Because if there was something he'd want to hear in a moment like this, it's a compliment. And he's already admitted she's more like him than he wishes.
Maybe that's why this is so hard. Rose was so unlike him. So perfectly human. Occasionally daft, but usually ridiculously charming. Martha isn't. She's stern and sometimes cold and always brilliant.
He can't figure out why he cares for her like he does. He shouldn't.
"You're mad, you know that?" The ghost of a smile touches her lips.
"Knew you'd say that." Because it's something he'd say.
24. I want you to hate me.
It would be easier if she hated him.
He could've walked away without a worry, knowing he was doing the right thing. Instead, she loves him and he's beginning to think he loves her back and that means he's momentarily trapped in this little flat in the middle of London.
He can't run away.
She says something and he's pretty certain it's adoration or love of some sort.
Her mouth presses to his and he reciprocates.
It would be easier if he could run.
Her arms twine around his neck and his arms wrap around her waist.
Maybe running is overrated.
25. You remind me of someone.
He's been alive a long time, but he hasn't had an abundance of lovers.
The whole self-preservation, keep-at-a-distance. He knows where he should draw the line and he does. Companions stay at a distance. Those he loves stay ignorant. Only rarely---very rarely, does something like this happen.
She's forceful like Benny. Soft like Reinette. Moves with him easily like Grace. Bites down on his lip like Romana. Her hands tangle in his hair like Jo used to.
She'd hate that he's comparing her to the other companions. That she can't simply be her own Martha.
He can't stop himself, though.
26. I can be like you.
He relaxes as she moves him towards the bedroom, lets down his guard as she slides the suit jacket off his shoulders. She pushes and he spills backwards across the bed.
He wants to be like her, in this instance. To know exactly what he wants and to be able to just go for it. She didn't need the wandering, didn't need the waiting, she already knew. That's enviable.
She straddles him and brushes a lock of his hair aside.
He thinks this isn't going to work out, a companion and a lover.
As he kisses her again, he promises himself he'll be wrong.
Author: rude_not_ginger
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Ten/Martha
Rating: PG-14 for sexual situations
Word Count: 2,600
Spoilers: Everything up to 4.00, "Voyage of the Damned" and Torchwood 2.06, "Reset"
Premise: A series of 100-word drabbles from the prompt selections at un_love_you. The concept is that the drabbles can either be read individually or as one coherent story. All of the prompts were used, the author's options for 26-30 were not.
1. You were right about me.
He thinks she's not going to work out.
After all, she's not Rose. And he, well, he loved Rose. Loves Rose, in many ways. But she's nice. She'll do for a time. She smiles and flirts and he ignores it. Thinks it'll eventually stop. She'll eventually give up.
But she's so brilliant. Smart and fun and he'll be damned if she doesn't make more than a suitable companion. She saves his life so many times.
But he was right. She's not Rose. He ignores her long enough, she gives up. It stopped working out, and she leaves.
He wishes he wasn't right.
2. I was wrong about you.
He's not the sort of man Martha usually finds attractive, first off. And, she's usually used to men falling all over her. She's not stupid, she knows she got great genes from her mother that make her fill out a pair of jeans and a clear, lovely complexion. But he doesn't notice her. She falls all over herself to make him notice her because he should.
She starts to think that maybe there's something wrong with her.
Saxon arrives. She saves the world, practically by herself.
She realizes that there's nothing wrong with her.
There's just something wrong with him.
3. This cancels out the hurt.
He drowns the knowledge she's gone with another adventure. Throws himself into danger.
It works like this, sometimes. He's terrible at handling loss. Positively rubbish at it.
Astrid arrives. She's nice enough, but all he can think is how she just isn't Martha. Strange, how these things turn about. She kisses him on a falling Titanic and he thinks that it should mean more than it does. He kisses her goodbye and part of him wishes he could kiss the others goodbye, the ones like Martha.
Too much loss.
He needs another adventure. He needs to cancel out the new ache.
4. I need to want you.
He dreams about before. Dreams are subjective; rather he remembers before. Remembers what he should've done differently.
What would it have hurt, giving in to some desires he might've felt for the brilliant human woman?
Everything, he thinks. Would've torn a hole through him, letting her in. Instead, he tore a hole through her. Broke her heart.
He thinks that he should've given in. Should've let himself want her. Maybe it would've changed how everything turned out.
Maybe it wouldn't.
He searches for a bit of wiring to fix and tries not to think about it anymore.
He does, of course.
5. You can be like me.
When she stood before him on the Valiant, she was a different woman. He remembers the way her shoulders squared. She wasn't afraid anymore.
She'd killed while she was down there, he could tell.
She used to look at him like he was a mentor. A teacher in the ways of the universe.
When she walks away from him, she looks at him like an equal. He made her like that. A well-seasoned traveler who knew what it was like to shape the world and to end a life.
She's like him, now.
He can only hope she isn't alone, too.
6. I want to need you.
He finds another companion quickly enough. Has a few adventures, she does the job just about right. He isn't alone and that should be enough.
He thinks about when he turned into a human, back in 1913. Thinks about the Doctor-shaped hole he left behind. With another companion so quickly on board, there's no Martha-shaped hole left. It's been stretched and shifted and easily filled.
It feels wrong. Feels like he should miss her more. That he should be able to tell she isn't there. He doesn't want to simply replace her.
Not that he's truly afraid that he will.
7. Prove it.
She's supposed to call him. He knows that. Still, he picks up the small mobile phone and flips through the address book until he finds "Mom". He dials and Francine picks up. By the time she finally hands the phone over, he's already frustrated and flustered. The alliteration should please him, but it doesn't.
"Why did you call?" she asks.
"I miss you." He's surprised that the sentiment comes from his lips and even more surprised that it's true.
"Really?" she says, and the tone is disbelieving.
He's silent, and suddenly there's a click on Martha's end of the phone.
8. I'm cruel.
Whatever she's figured is wrong with him, he can't possibly change her mind about. It's not as if he hasn't tried. Calls, recommendations. Whatever he thinks can show her he knows he owes her more than just one.
Maybe she's seen too much, he thinks. She's seen what he can do.
The Family of Blood. The creature in the Sun. She's seen him blame and she's seen him judge.
She's seen what horrible things he will forgive. He doesn't think she'll understand why he cried over the Master.
Still, he can't really blame her for her choice.
9. Always wondered what this'd be like.
He's not one for making apologies. In fact, he's rather bad at them.
By the time he makes it to the doorstep of Martha's flat in Cardiff, he's finding the idea of making a formal apology almost exciting. An apology. An offer for her to come back. He always wondered what it would be like asking a companion to come back to him. He usually just lets them go.
His knuckles hang over the door to Martha's flat.
He thinks about the ones who wanted to leave before. Wanted to be free of him.
There's a reason he's never done this before.
10. I'm broken.
A man who is all put together wouldn't be sitting outside a former companion's door.
In his mind, it's very like stalking an old girlfriend, and therefore borders on the lines of creepy and he doesn't particularly want to be creepy but he can't make himself knock on the door and he won't go back to the TARDIS without sorting this out.
He doesn't think she'll come back if he asks her to. Even if she would, he's not entirely certain he wants to ask.
He wonders why he never did this with any other companion.
Maybe he was stronger back then.
11. Thought I needed this.
"Thought seeing you apologize would make a lot of things better," she says. "But you're never going to get up the courage to do that, are you? Some Oncoming Storm, you are."
He blinks and she's leaning against her doorframe in a white terrycloth robe, arms crossed and an irritated look on her face. He looks up at her and quickly moves to his feet.
"What's that?" he asks.
"You. Groveling or whatever. You're never going to do it, are you?"
"That obvious?"
"Good thing I'm bad at accepting apologies." She steps to the side. "Come in."
It feels like acceptance.
12. I'm drunk.
It's not thirty seconds after Martha shuts the door behind him that he realizes Martha's had a little too much to drink this evening. It could be the bottles of wine sitting empty on the endtable, or the nearly-empty glass in her hand that she places down on her desk with a squiiiiink of oval glass to wood.
One, two, three, and she's stepped up very close to him, her warm terrycloth-ed body pressed near his.
"What did you want to tell me?" she asks. Her breath reeks of wine.
"You're drunk," he says.
She sighs. "So nothing I didn't already know, then."
13. I want to hurt you.
"Why are you here?"
Part of him wants the basics: To know how she is, see if she's okay, likes the job at UNIT, all that. Part of him wants to beg her to come back with him, show her how much he misses her.
Part of him wants her to miss him, too. She looks so…fine, here. She left him while his hearts were still aching from losing the Master and she should miss him, too.
But he can't possibly tell her that.
He stands there stupidly, a little slackjawed. He has absolutely no idea what to say, and that's a first for him.
14. I'm awake and you're breathing.
"It's 3 in the morning," she says as she pours him a glass of wine. "But you don't really get TARDIS jet-lag, do you?"
He takes the glass and smiles a little. "Not really."
"Are you injured? Is everything okay?" Her hands check his pulse and temperature, and then rest on his chest.
"Vitals are strong. You're breathing all right."
"So nothing I didn't already know then," he replies, trying on a smirk for size.
She rolls her eyes. "You never change. Never want me to help you."
But that's the whole reason he's here. He wonders why she doesn't see that.
15. This is my desperation in action.
She sighs and starts to turn away, but he catches her wrist and keeps her close. It's a part of her he's never touched, he realizes. Her wrist. A simple part of her he knows about but has never reached out for.
"I wasn't lying," he says. "On the phone."
She looks unconvinced. "You miss me?"
"You have no idea."
She looks hurt by his words. Maybe a little hopeful, but mostly hurt. "I'm tired of waiting, Doctor."
"Okay."
He's desperate to prove it to her, he supposes. He pulls her wrist towards him and wraps an arm around her waist.
16. I want to break you.
He's never been so forward before. Not in centuries, he imagines. Now, there they are. Millimeters apart and his hand on her wrist and they should do something but she's pissed and he's too much of a coward so they stay.
She's rather small, he realizes. He's never really realized before how small she is. Small and fragile in his arms. He could break her, easily.
He thinks about all the anger he suppressed at her leaving him when he needed her most. Maybe he does want to hurt her.
He lets her go so quickly she falls backwards onto the floor.
17. Wish I didn't love you.
"The hell is wrong with you?" She's back on her feet and shoving her finger into the middle of his chest.
"You give more mixed signals than a broken CV." Her voice is sweet with wine but still sizzling and angry. "Do you want me? If you do, do something. If you don't, leave me alone. Go find some blonde bimbo to toy with!"
He's somewhat insulted, because Rose was far from a bimbo, but he blames that insult on the wine, too.
He takes a deep breath. "It would be easier if I didn't want to be here."
18. I pity you.
Martha crosses her arms over her chest and stares him down. She doesn't ask. She just demands an explanation with her eyes.
"I want you to come back," he says.
"I got that the first time," she replies, irritably. "I pity you, Mister. Ten billion languages at your disposal and you can't even say how you feel. Or are you lot really that complex?"
It's his turn to glare. Then turn and head towards the door. He's tried his best, it's over now.
By the time he makes it there, Martha has already slid in front of him, blocking his way.
19. This isn't about you at all.
"It's me, isn't it?" she asks, and her voice has switched to serious so quickly it's very like a slap in the face. "Cause I'm not her."
Her? It takes him a minute to wrap his head around what she's just asked him. Well, clearly she's decided what he can't make up his mind on (his feelings) and she's equated that (lack of) response to a specific reason (Rose.)
"I never wanted you to be Rose," he replies, firmly. "Rose was Rose. Is Rose. If you were her, well, you wouldn't be Martha."
He grins widely because he thinks that's complimentary. She looks at him like he's completely insane.
20. I hate you, you bitch.
He imagines Martha must hate Rose. Hate the shadow of the other woman he traveled with. The woman he loved before he met Martha. It's understandable. Rose held and still holds a big place in his hearts. It's a place that Martha knows she'll never have.
But if she did, well, she wouldn’t be Martha, she'd be Rose. And he doesn't want her to be Rose. He realizes how much he's treated her like a 'latest one', like a 'not-Rose'. Each stupid little detail where he should've noticed she cared and didn't.
"I'm sorry," he says, without context.
She thinks it's a rejection.
It's not.
21. You'll do.
When the Doctor kisses Martha, it's completely out of the blue and somewhat startling and possibly completely unplanned. Most likely completely unplanned. He's very bad at planning. Especially planning emotional moments. He's worse at that.
As it was the first time his lips met hers, she's stunned and unmoving. He kisses her gently but as lovingly as possible. It's very nearly chaste.
He's trying to say "You'll do as you are, Martha Jones."
He wonders if he's got the message through and he pulls back. She looks even more confused than she did a moment ago.
He was never very good at speaking in kiss.
22. I hate myself.
There he is. The Doctor. The Oncoming Storm and all that, petrified as he holds silly little human Martha Jones. Petrified because he has no idea what to say next.
This is the part of himself he hates the most. The part that can't handle something as simple as a kiss. It's like the fear of snakes for Indiana Jones or the weakness of being flipped upside down by that comic book character in the 21st century.
The Doctor's fatal weakness is his inability to say how he feels. To anyone. Even Martha, who very clearly reciprocates.
He calls it self-preservation, most days.
He's lying.
23. You remind me of me.
"You're brilliant," he says, at last. Because if there was something he'd want to hear in a moment like this, it's a compliment. And he's already admitted she's more like him than he wishes.
Maybe that's why this is so hard. Rose was so unlike him. So perfectly human. Occasionally daft, but usually ridiculously charming. Martha isn't. She's stern and sometimes cold and always brilliant.
He can't figure out why he cares for her like he does. He shouldn't.
"You're mad, you know that?" The ghost of a smile touches her lips.
"Knew you'd say that." Because it's something he'd say.
24. I want you to hate me.
It would be easier if she hated him.
He could've walked away without a worry, knowing he was doing the right thing. Instead, she loves him and he's beginning to think he loves her back and that means he's momentarily trapped in this little flat in the middle of London.
He can't run away.
She says something and he's pretty certain it's adoration or love of some sort.
Her mouth presses to his and he reciprocates.
It would be easier if he could run.
Her arms twine around his neck and his arms wrap around her waist.
Maybe running is overrated.
25. You remind me of someone.
He's been alive a long time, but he hasn't had an abundance of lovers.
The whole self-preservation, keep-at-a-distance. He knows where he should draw the line and he does. Companions stay at a distance. Those he loves stay ignorant. Only rarely---very rarely, does something like this happen.
She's forceful like Benny. Soft like Reinette. Moves with him easily like Grace. Bites down on his lip like Romana. Her hands tangle in his hair like Jo used to.
She'd hate that he's comparing her to the other companions. That she can't simply be her own Martha.
He can't stop himself, though.
26. I can be like you.
He relaxes as she moves him towards the bedroom, lets down his guard as she slides the suit jacket off his shoulders. She pushes and he spills backwards across the bed.
He wants to be like her, in this instance. To know exactly what he wants and to be able to just go for it. She didn't need the wandering, didn't need the waiting, she already knew. That's enviable.
She straddles him and brushes a lock of his hair aside.
He thinks this isn't going to work out, a companion and a lover.
As he kisses her again, he promises himself he'll be wrong.