Not Enough, Never Enough (Doctor Who (Tenth Doctor), Ten/Martha, PG-13)
Title: Not Enough, Never Enough
Author:
wojelah
Fandom: Doctor Who (Tenth Doctor)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Spoilers all the way through Last of the Time Lords
Word Count: 2265
Author's Notes: Martha's lost year. Thanks a zillion times over to
raisintorte and
smittywing for beta and cheerleading. Thank goodness for them.
Prompt: Doctor Who, Ten/Martha: Character begging for sexual release - "I'm scared of the things I think of when night comes along / Something gets hold of me / Something I can't see."
On the first day, she couldn't feel anything. A defense mechanism, snapping into place, putting the noise, the destruction, the smell of smoke at a safe enough remove. She knew what her mind was doing; knew she needed that thin veneer of protection - without it, she never would have made it to the trees. Never would've found safe harbor in an empty flat, the door swinging open and idle as the static from the telly echoed down the hallway. She was one person, with one mission, and a timeline. She couldn't feel anything, which wasn't entirely true. She could feel the place where the Doctor's breath had brushed against her neck, branding her, marking her with her mission. It tingled, the only nerves in her whole body that didn't feel deadened and dull. She fell asleep with her hand curled against the spot.
On the first night, she didn't dream. On the second day, she set to work.
On the seventh night, she dreamed - the feeling of an arm slung around her shoulder, a familiar voice in her ear. On the eighth day, curled up under the eaves of a cottage somewhere between Calais and Paris, she woke herself with crying. She wiped her eyes, and went to find anyone who would listen. On the fourteenth day, Martha decided sleep was overrated.
On the thirtieth day, that decision almost got her killed. "Liebchen," said the apple-cheeked woman who'd pulled her to safety, who'd limped along with her to the nearest bolthole, "Are your dreams so bad?"
"No," Martha said, rubbing liniment into the bruise on her ankle without really feeling the ache. "No, that's the problem." Bright blue eyes looked at her sadly.
Martha liked Magda. She knew about her son, who was gone, and her granddaughter, who wasn't. She knew about her old job as a medieval researcher, and the apple tree in her yard. The apples themselves felt like dust in her mouth, despite the juice that dripped down as she bit in. Martha didn't mind. She'd rather remember Magda, who she had been and who she was now, than any apples. Apples would come again, unless the radiation pits grew larger. Who knew what would happen to Magda, who was still standing there, watching her.
"I understand," Magda said. "Nap, at least. I will wake you in enough time." Martha closed her eyes. Twenty minutes wasn't enough, but it got her to Munich in one piece, and she didn't sleep well enough to hear his voice in her ear, or feel his hand on hers. It wasn't always that easy. Through Eastern Europe, down into Africa, and over to Egypt, and when she had to, when she absolutely couldn't avoid sleep, the pressure of his hand and the admiration in her voice echoed through her head for days, distracting her, making her think and wonder and worry about the people she loved. All of them. She couldn't afford distraction; she had a job to do. A story to tell.
On the hundred and nineteenth day, they raided the house next door as she and her audience cowered behind closed doors in As Suways. "We cannot leave now," said Masud, pressing a callused hand to her shoulder as the klaxon faded. "Dawn is close, and we cannot take you through the desert by day. Sleep now." She smiled at him and turned back to the window, peering through a hole in the curtain. The sun splintered on the Red Sea, making her eyes water; she felt the sting as if through cottonwool. Between one slow blink and the next, she slept, hand brushing her collarbone under the cotton of her shirt.
"Martha Jones," said the man in front of her, brown hair flopping into his eyes. "Look at you." He jammed his hands in his pockets and rocked on the balls of his feet.
"You're not here," she said, looking away. "I know you're not."
"Well," he answered, rolling the word around in his mouth, drawing it out. "You know that, and if I'm really who you think I'm not, I would know that too, and I'd also be stocking up on Geritol, but let's just say for the moment that while I'm not really me, I am, for the present purposes, as close as you're going to get."
"Go away."
"Oh, now, Martha. You don't really mean that." He frowned.
"No, really, I do. Go away." She swung around. "It's hard enough without my mind playing tricks on me."
"Have you considered," he said quietly, his voice growing closer, "that maybe this is your own way of keeping yourself sane?" His hand settled on her shoulder - hot, too hot - hotter than the Doctor's skin ever was, but she could feel it, really feel it, the tingle and spark and pressure lighting up her skin.
"That's what terrifies me."
She woke to Masud's voice and night outside the curtain, and told herself to forget the feeling of the not-Doctor's thumb against her collarbone. She left Egypt, but she couldn't leave the dreams behind. They followed her through the Middle East and remnants of Russia, through China and India and Korea, through Vietnam and Indonesia and up to Japan.
In Osaka, it all went wrong. She heard the sirens just in time; peered around the corner to see a squad storm the building and her audience led out in cuffs. Miko, her guide, stood next to her, the rain plastering her fine, black hair against her skin, her face bone white. When they crept into her flat, she handed Martha a towel and left her be. Two days later, Martha was in Australia, by the skin of her teeth, and Miko was dead. Japan was dead. Numb, she curled in on herself and stared at the wall. Sleep came, and she didn't care.
"Martha?" There he was. Eyes dark, face set. Again, she turned away.
"I'm so tired," she whispered.
"I know," he said. Again, she felt her hand on his shoulder, felt it, after yet another day of feeling only what was necessary to carry her forward, to complete her task, and Martha just wasn't that strong. She turned her head, turned her body, felt his arms come around into a hug like those she remembered, felt her skin and muscle and bone leap into awareness. She could smell him, feel him, hear the thudding of that strange double pulse, and it took everything she had to remember what this was, and who this wasn't.
Waking up had never been so bitter.
It was easier after that, easier to let herself sleep - to spend enough time awake to get herself to safety, to tell her story, and then to plead fatigue and fade away until duty demanded she take up her task again. It wasn't the Doctor. She knew it wasn't, knew it was all in her head. She didn't care. She felt like she'd been whittled away, carrying the memory of the people she'd met and the things she'd seen, sharing the story she'd sworn to tell, and for a few hours every night, she could let herself run away.
It worked well enough. It took her across the Pacific; through South and Central and North America; until she was standing on the pier in St. John's and the only place left to go was the place she'd left behind almost a year ago. Standing on the pier, London ahead of her, unaware of the chill in the air, she knew she was afraid. She knew what came next, and she was terrified, and she stepped forward, onto the boat - not even a ship - that would take her to the end of her road.
Belowdecks, she met Bill, who offered her a mug of steaming tea; tea and rum, actually, and the drink nearly knocked her off her feet. She made conversation, and then made for her cabin, and then for her bunk. The thrum of the engine and the buzz of the alcohol made her eyes heavy. The dreams beckoned, and she went willingly.
It isn't him, her mind insisted, even as his arms curved around her. It isn't.
"I don't care," she grumbled, and felt him look down.
"About?" he murmured, and his lips brushed her ear.
She shivered. "Anything."
His arms tightened. "No?"
"No." She tucked her head under his chin, and told herself to forget.
The trip took a week, Bill told her. She offered to help, and he smiled. "We'll keep you moving, girl. Too much time to think doesn't help anyone." He left it at that, and she was grateful. For four days, he worked her hard, till her hands ached and her shoulders cramped, till the restlessness that skittered beneath her skin sat quiet. She slept without dreaming.
On the three hundred and sixty-third day, they hit stormy weather. "Get below," Bill shouted. "You're new to this, and I won't have it said I lost Martha Jones to a storm."
"I can help -" she argued.
"I said no," Bill snapped. "Now get below!" She went.
The ship heaved, and she fell onto the bunk. Tucked into the corner, eyes wide, listening to shouts and cursing and the howl of the wind, she realized that for the first time in three hundred and sixty-three days, she was scared enough to feel it. She waited, and waited, and the storm passed, and the hands passed by her cabin with heavy steps and tired voices. She waited, and the seas calmed, and her fear grew, and when Bill offered her a slug of rum, straight, no tea, she took it gratefully, and then a second, and let it pull her down into sleep.
She didn't waste time on speech. Didn't even argue with the voice of reason in the back of her head that insisted this wasn't true. He was there, and she went to him, and held tight.
"Hello." He squeezed. "Lovely weather."
She couldn't find a laugh. His hand curled around the back of her neck, and she shuddered. "Please," she said, as her hand crept up to slide under his collar, to feel the pulse that jumped in double-time.
"Martha," he said, and it was strangled. "Much as I hate to say this, you do know -"
"I don't care." She fiddled with a button, slipping it through the buttonhole; she kept going.
"It won't help, in the end." His voice was low and sad.
"This is the end. I'll be in London tomorrow."
"And then you'll be on the airship."
She fisted her hands in his jacket, pulled it off, and the suit jacket with it. "Maybe."
"What's this? Doubt? Now?" His hands had fallen to his sides; she wanted them on her skin.
"Yes. Doubt. Now. Anything could happen tomorrow. I could botch it. I could say something wrong. I could do something wrong. I could get us all killed."
"You won't."
She shook her head in frustration. "I might. I don't know. I've done this forever, it feels like, and now I - I don't know. And this is all I have left to hold on to." She balled her hands, jerked her chin up so the tears wouldn't fall. "Please. Just let me have this."
He didn't say anything.
"Please," she whispered, and he sighed, took her hand in his, and slowly, so slowly, uncurled her fingers. His lips on her palm burned, and her pulse leapt. Lust sparked, hot and desperate and demanding. Her breath hitched, and every nerve sang, and she leaned in. She let her hand move: traced the curve of his lip and the sweep of a cheekbone; felt his hair, rough and soft and thick as it slid through her fingers; heard his breath stutter; watched his eyes turn hot and dark as she moved closer. She tugged him down, felt his mouth open under hers and nipped at his lower lip to hear him growl. She let him taste her, deep and dirty, felt him arch against her, hot and ready as she scraped her nails across the nape of his neck. His hands cradled her head, so gentle it overwhelmed her; slid slowly down to cup her hips, her arse, and mold her to him. She kissed him again, traced the muscles of his back and felt them jump; felt her body surge in answer, her blood running thick and needy in her veins. She kissed him for the third time, closing her eyes and drinking him in, and then she stepped away.
He watched her go and said nothing.
She held his gaze and squared her shoulders. "I can't," she said quietly.
"I know." His voice was soft, but full of pride.
"You aren't him." Never had been, she knew, but this time - this time, the knowledge had the power to hurt.
"Never have been."
"I know. And I can't pretend it's enough."
"You deserve better." His lips quirked.
She matched his smile. "Don't you forget it."
"Never," he said, and took a step back. "Now go answer your door."
She could hear Bill knocking; hear him calling through her cabin door. "London's waiting."
"London's waiting," he said, and was gone.
Martha stood from her bunk and opened the door, followed Bill to the deck and settled herself into the launch. The signal from their contact on-shore gave the all-clear, the motor sputtered, and they struck out for land. London was waiting. She had work to do.
Author:
wojelah
Fandom: Doctor Who (Tenth Doctor)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Spoilers all the way through Last of the Time Lords
Word Count: 2265
Author's Notes: Martha's lost year. Thanks a zillion times over to
raisintorte and
smittywing for beta and cheerleading. Thank goodness for them.
Prompt: Doctor Who, Ten/Martha: Character begging for sexual release - "I'm scared of the things I think of when night comes along / Something gets hold of me / Something I can't see."
On the first day, she couldn't feel anything. A defense mechanism, snapping into place, putting the noise, the destruction, the smell of smoke at a safe enough remove. She knew what her mind was doing; knew she needed that thin veneer of protection - without it, she never would have made it to the trees. Never would've found safe harbor in an empty flat, the door swinging open and idle as the static from the telly echoed down the hallway. She was one person, with one mission, and a timeline. She couldn't feel anything, which wasn't entirely true. She could feel the place where the Doctor's breath had brushed against her neck, branding her, marking her with her mission. It tingled, the only nerves in her whole body that didn't feel deadened and dull. She fell asleep with her hand curled against the spot.
On the first night, she didn't dream. On the second day, she set to work.
On the seventh night, she dreamed - the feeling of an arm slung around her shoulder, a familiar voice in her ear. On the eighth day, curled up under the eaves of a cottage somewhere between Calais and Paris, she woke herself with crying. She wiped her eyes, and went to find anyone who would listen. On the fourteenth day, Martha decided sleep was overrated.
On the thirtieth day, that decision almost got her killed. "Liebchen," said the apple-cheeked woman who'd pulled her to safety, who'd limped along with her to the nearest bolthole, "Are your dreams so bad?"
"No," Martha said, rubbing liniment into the bruise on her ankle without really feeling the ache. "No, that's the problem." Bright blue eyes looked at her sadly.
Martha liked Magda. She knew about her son, who was gone, and her granddaughter, who wasn't. She knew about her old job as a medieval researcher, and the apple tree in her yard. The apples themselves felt like dust in her mouth, despite the juice that dripped down as she bit in. Martha didn't mind. She'd rather remember Magda, who she had been and who she was now, than any apples. Apples would come again, unless the radiation pits grew larger. Who knew what would happen to Magda, who was still standing there, watching her.
"I understand," Magda said. "Nap, at least. I will wake you in enough time." Martha closed her eyes. Twenty minutes wasn't enough, but it got her to Munich in one piece, and she didn't sleep well enough to hear his voice in her ear, or feel his hand on hers. It wasn't always that easy. Through Eastern Europe, down into Africa, and over to Egypt, and when she had to, when she absolutely couldn't avoid sleep, the pressure of his hand and the admiration in her voice echoed through her head for days, distracting her, making her think and wonder and worry about the people she loved. All of them. She couldn't afford distraction; she had a job to do. A story to tell.
On the hundred and nineteenth day, they raided the house next door as she and her audience cowered behind closed doors in As Suways. "We cannot leave now," said Masud, pressing a callused hand to her shoulder as the klaxon faded. "Dawn is close, and we cannot take you through the desert by day. Sleep now." She smiled at him and turned back to the window, peering through a hole in the curtain. The sun splintered on the Red Sea, making her eyes water; she felt the sting as if through cottonwool. Between one slow blink and the next, she slept, hand brushing her collarbone under the cotton of her shirt.
"Martha Jones," said the man in front of her, brown hair flopping into his eyes. "Look at you." He jammed his hands in his pockets and rocked on the balls of his feet.
"You're not here," she said, looking away. "I know you're not."
"Well," he answered, rolling the word around in his mouth, drawing it out. "You know that, and if I'm really who you think I'm not, I would know that too, and I'd also be stocking up on Geritol, but let's just say for the moment that while I'm not really me, I am, for the present purposes, as close as you're going to get."
"Go away."
"Oh, now, Martha. You don't really mean that." He frowned.
"No, really, I do. Go away." She swung around. "It's hard enough without my mind playing tricks on me."
"Have you considered," he said quietly, his voice growing closer, "that maybe this is your own way of keeping yourself sane?" His hand settled on her shoulder - hot, too hot - hotter than the Doctor's skin ever was, but she could feel it, really feel it, the tingle and spark and pressure lighting up her skin.
"That's what terrifies me."
She woke to Masud's voice and night outside the curtain, and told herself to forget the feeling of the not-Doctor's thumb against her collarbone. She left Egypt, but she couldn't leave the dreams behind. They followed her through the Middle East and remnants of Russia, through China and India and Korea, through Vietnam and Indonesia and up to Japan.
In Osaka, it all went wrong. She heard the sirens just in time; peered around the corner to see a squad storm the building and her audience led out in cuffs. Miko, her guide, stood next to her, the rain plastering her fine, black hair against her skin, her face bone white. When they crept into her flat, she handed Martha a towel and left her be. Two days later, Martha was in Australia, by the skin of her teeth, and Miko was dead. Japan was dead. Numb, she curled in on herself and stared at the wall. Sleep came, and she didn't care.
"Martha?" There he was. Eyes dark, face set. Again, she turned away.
"I'm so tired," she whispered.
"I know," he said. Again, she felt her hand on his shoulder, felt it, after yet another day of feeling only what was necessary to carry her forward, to complete her task, and Martha just wasn't that strong. She turned her head, turned her body, felt his arms come around into a hug like those she remembered, felt her skin and muscle and bone leap into awareness. She could smell him, feel him, hear the thudding of that strange double pulse, and it took everything she had to remember what this was, and who this wasn't.
Waking up had never been so bitter.
It was easier after that, easier to let herself sleep - to spend enough time awake to get herself to safety, to tell her story, and then to plead fatigue and fade away until duty demanded she take up her task again. It wasn't the Doctor. She knew it wasn't, knew it was all in her head. She didn't care. She felt like she'd been whittled away, carrying the memory of the people she'd met and the things she'd seen, sharing the story she'd sworn to tell, and for a few hours every night, she could let herself run away.
It worked well enough. It took her across the Pacific; through South and Central and North America; until she was standing on the pier in St. John's and the only place left to go was the place she'd left behind almost a year ago. Standing on the pier, London ahead of her, unaware of the chill in the air, she knew she was afraid. She knew what came next, and she was terrified, and she stepped forward, onto the boat - not even a ship - that would take her to the end of her road.
Belowdecks, she met Bill, who offered her a mug of steaming tea; tea and rum, actually, and the drink nearly knocked her off her feet. She made conversation, and then made for her cabin, and then for her bunk. The thrum of the engine and the buzz of the alcohol made her eyes heavy. The dreams beckoned, and she went willingly.
It isn't him, her mind insisted, even as his arms curved around her. It isn't.
"I don't care," she grumbled, and felt him look down.
"About?" he murmured, and his lips brushed her ear.
She shivered. "Anything."
His arms tightened. "No?"
"No." She tucked her head under his chin, and told herself to forget.
The trip took a week, Bill told her. She offered to help, and he smiled. "We'll keep you moving, girl. Too much time to think doesn't help anyone." He left it at that, and she was grateful. For four days, he worked her hard, till her hands ached and her shoulders cramped, till the restlessness that skittered beneath her skin sat quiet. She slept without dreaming.
On the three hundred and sixty-third day, they hit stormy weather. "Get below," Bill shouted. "You're new to this, and I won't have it said I lost Martha Jones to a storm."
"I can help -" she argued.
"I said no," Bill snapped. "Now get below!" She went.
The ship heaved, and she fell onto the bunk. Tucked into the corner, eyes wide, listening to shouts and cursing and the howl of the wind, she realized that for the first time in three hundred and sixty-three days, she was scared enough to feel it. She waited, and waited, and the storm passed, and the hands passed by her cabin with heavy steps and tired voices. She waited, and the seas calmed, and her fear grew, and when Bill offered her a slug of rum, straight, no tea, she took it gratefully, and then a second, and let it pull her down into sleep.
She didn't waste time on speech. Didn't even argue with the voice of reason in the back of her head that insisted this wasn't true. He was there, and she went to him, and held tight.
"Hello." He squeezed. "Lovely weather."
She couldn't find a laugh. His hand curled around the back of her neck, and she shuddered. "Please," she said, as her hand crept up to slide under his collar, to feel the pulse that jumped in double-time.
"Martha," he said, and it was strangled. "Much as I hate to say this, you do know -"
"I don't care." She fiddled with a button, slipping it through the buttonhole; she kept going.
"It won't help, in the end." His voice was low and sad.
"This is the end. I'll be in London tomorrow."
"And then you'll be on the airship."
She fisted her hands in his jacket, pulled it off, and the suit jacket with it. "Maybe."
"What's this? Doubt? Now?" His hands had fallen to his sides; she wanted them on her skin.
"Yes. Doubt. Now. Anything could happen tomorrow. I could botch it. I could say something wrong. I could do something wrong. I could get us all killed."
"You won't."
She shook her head in frustration. "I might. I don't know. I've done this forever, it feels like, and now I - I don't know. And this is all I have left to hold on to." She balled her hands, jerked her chin up so the tears wouldn't fall. "Please. Just let me have this."
He didn't say anything.
"Please," she whispered, and he sighed, took her hand in his, and slowly, so slowly, uncurled her fingers. His lips on her palm burned, and her pulse leapt. Lust sparked, hot and desperate and demanding. Her breath hitched, and every nerve sang, and she leaned in. She let her hand move: traced the curve of his lip and the sweep of a cheekbone; felt his hair, rough and soft and thick as it slid through her fingers; heard his breath stutter; watched his eyes turn hot and dark as she moved closer. She tugged him down, felt his mouth open under hers and nipped at his lower lip to hear him growl. She let him taste her, deep and dirty, felt him arch against her, hot and ready as she scraped her nails across the nape of his neck. His hands cradled her head, so gentle it overwhelmed her; slid slowly down to cup her hips, her arse, and mold her to him. She kissed him again, traced the muscles of his back and felt them jump; felt her body surge in answer, her blood running thick and needy in her veins. She kissed him for the third time, closing her eyes and drinking him in, and then she stepped away.
He watched her go and said nothing.
She held his gaze and squared her shoulders. "I can't," she said quietly.
"I know." His voice was soft, but full of pride.
"You aren't him." Never had been, she knew, but this time - this time, the knowledge had the power to hurt.
"Never have been."
"I know. And I can't pretend it's enough."
"You deserve better." His lips quirked.
She matched his smile. "Don't you forget it."
"Never," he said, and took a step back. "Now go answer your door."
She could hear Bill knocking; hear him calling through her cabin door. "London's waiting."
"London's waiting," he said, and was gone.
Martha stood from her bunk and opened the door, followed Bill to the deck and settled herself into the launch. The signal from their contact on-shore gave the all-clear, the motor sputtered, and they struck out for land. London was waiting. She had work to do.