RP: The Two Doctors; For marthajonesmd

[foreverbruised]

As promised, he wraps his ankle as soon as he leaves her, but he just can't remain still for long. Something about having someone join him in the TARDIS seems to have brought his ship out of the half-sleep she's been in since... well, since. That's how it happens that he's gotten lost beneath the console, repairing and rewiring and revamping. He

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[marthajonesmd]

Martha's tossing and turning in her sleep, as usual. Her legs are tangled in the blanket, which only makes her nightmare worse; now she's trapped in quicksand, it seems, as the Toclafane descend on her, their blades whirring - and then she wakes up, her eyes wide and unseeing in the darkness, panting against the fabric of the pillowcase. She's covered in a light sheen of sweat, which makes her shiver as she pushes the duvet off, exposing her skin to the cool air.

She climbs out of bed and peeks out her door; luckily, the Doctor's nowhere in sight. She heads in the direction where the kitchen used to be, hoping that it's still there; she needs a cup of tea to calm her nerves.

[foreverbruised]

He slides out from under the console, swiping his greasy hands on his trousers. He makes quick work of reassembling the spare bits and tucks them out of sight. Satisfied the console room doesn't look any worse for the wear, he heads for the kitchen.

He strides in, blinking in surprise to see her already at work. He shakes it off and smiles widel. "Er... good morning, Do... Martha." He moves to the counter, reaching up above her for sugar and then to the refrigerator for cream. "Sleep well?"

[marthajonesmd]

Martha fills the kettle and puts it on, pulling the ponytail holder out of her hair with her free hand. She turns to look at him, a distinctly troubled look in her eyes, but she nods anyway. "Yeah, I did." This is, of course, a complete lie, and probably a fairly obvious one, to boot. "Could you get the milk out, too?"

[foreverbruised]

He studies her for a long moment, frowning. She's a terrible liar, and he's about to say so when his brain tells him he's doing nothing short of staring at her - and now that he thinks of it, she's looking awfully... fresh from bed.

He clears his throat. "Yeah, milk. Of course." He hopes he's got some that's not gone rancid, and breathes a small sigh of relief when he spots a half liter in the door. He carries it to the table and sits, carefully looking everywhere in his own kitchen as though she's asked him to memorize it. "Is your bedroom suitable?" he asks, half-hoping a lumpy mattress is the cause for those shadows under her eyes.