Ficlet: Billets-Doux (Ten/Jo, Ten/Martha, R)
Title: Billets-Doux
Pairings: Ten/Jo, Ten/Martha
Rating: R
Notes: Bad and Wrong, with crazy space incest to boot. Sorry about that.
She'd always loved him.
It was just a part of who she was: unendingly optimistic, always ready with a smile or a comforting word, and with a heart that was bigger than both of his combined.
(His were small, now, shriveled up, worn out. He used to have so much mercy; he used to have so much love).
It was easy to find her, easy to get her away from that substitute she'd found (that's truth, he tells himself, not just him projecting, anyone with eyes could see it). Not away entirely. He refuses to go back; what's done is done. She left him, and she has to live with that.
They all leave, he whispers, as he pushes her skirt up, the ancient bed in the dodgy bedsit he'd rented creaking and groaning as he fucks her. They all die, he whispers, and she kisses him and lets him come inside her.
She'd always loved him far, far too much.
She holds him afterwards, stroking his back like a mother, while he touches her breasts like a lover. She exclaims over how young he looks, how young and thin and vulnerable. She's starry-eyed, over the moon at seeing him again, at being loved back in terms that she can feel, and understand.
He kisses her stomach and slips away in the night.
The next morning he turns up on her doorstep, showered and shaved, neatly dressed. It's been twenty-three years, and a beautiful, dark-skinned girl answers the door.
"Mum's not home," she says, with a high, light voice that suggests warmth, and immediate friendship. "Can I help you with anything, until she gets back?"
He leaves a note for Jo. I needed her, it says. I promise I'll love her.
Martha's a wonderful companion: loyal, kind to everyone she meets, capable of great emotion and surprisingly clever. She misses her mum, sometimes, and her dad, who'd raised her as his own, given her his name, even if her skin marked her as not his in the genetic sense. Her mum never did tell her who her real dad was, but it didn't bother her. She's not one to pry; let sleeping dogs lie.
She has the Doctor now, anyway, and they love each other too much for her to go home. He doesn't have anyone else, anyone else at all. So she stays, she listens and comforts and heals his scrapes and bruises, goes adventuring with him, and in the night she sometimes slips into his bed, resting her head against his chest afterwards, two hearts, strong and sure.
She has Jo's eyes and never notices that she has his smile. He doesn't explain his regenerative powers until it's far too late.
He could never love them back like they wanted (oh, how he tried, he tried). Now, at least, he could make them stay.
Pairings: Ten/Jo, Ten/Martha
Rating: R
Notes: Bad and Wrong, with crazy space incest to boot. Sorry about that.
She'd always loved him.
It was just a part of who she was: unendingly optimistic, always ready with a smile or a comforting word, and with a heart that was bigger than both of his combined.
(His were small, now, shriveled up, worn out. He used to have so much mercy; he used to have so much love).
It was easy to find her, easy to get her away from that substitute she'd found (that's truth, he tells himself, not just him projecting, anyone with eyes could see it). Not away entirely. He refuses to go back; what's done is done. She left him, and she has to live with that.
They all leave, he whispers, as he pushes her skirt up, the ancient bed in the dodgy bedsit he'd rented creaking and groaning as he fucks her. They all die, he whispers, and she kisses him and lets him come inside her.
She'd always loved him far, far too much.
She holds him afterwards, stroking his back like a mother, while he touches her breasts like a lover. She exclaims over how young he looks, how young and thin and vulnerable. She's starry-eyed, over the moon at seeing him again, at being loved back in terms that she can feel, and understand.
He kisses her stomach and slips away in the night.
The next morning he turns up on her doorstep, showered and shaved, neatly dressed. It's been twenty-three years, and a beautiful, dark-skinned girl answers the door.
"Mum's not home," she says, with a high, light voice that suggests warmth, and immediate friendship. "Can I help you with anything, until she gets back?"
He leaves a note for Jo. I needed her, it says. I promise I'll love her.
Martha's a wonderful companion: loyal, kind to everyone she meets, capable of great emotion and surprisingly clever. She misses her mum, sometimes, and her dad, who'd raised her as his own, given her his name, even if her skin marked her as not his in the genetic sense. Her mum never did tell her who her real dad was, but it didn't bother her. She's not one to pry; let sleeping dogs lie.
She has the Doctor now, anyway, and they love each other too much for her to go home. He doesn't have anyone else, anyone else at all. So she stays, she listens and comforts and heals his scrapes and bruises, goes adventuring with him, and in the night she sometimes slips into his bed, resting her head against his chest afterwards, two hearts, strong and sure.
She has Jo's eyes and never notices that she has his smile. He doesn't explain his regenerative powers until it's far too late.
He could never love them back like they wanted (oh, how he tried, he tried). Now, at least, he could make them stay.