Brilliant
Title: Brilliant
Author: voicelikehoney
Characters: Tenth Doctor/Martha Jones; hints of Tom/Martha
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: The Last of the Time Lords
Summary: There's something the Doctor forgot to tell Martha ...
New fic. Not sure how I feel about it, tbh ... TLOTTL makes it hard to write convincing Ten/Martha nowadays.
Brilliant
She's so tired.
Night shift. The wee hours; 3:54am with a vomit stain on her nice clean white jacket and her hair escaping from the clip she's pinned it back with, the unceasing noise of A&E washing through her mind until she feels numb, her nerves raw and her muscles aching. If she looked in the mirror she knows she'd see the circles under her eyes; she chooses instead to keep her head down, press on, and pick up the next clipboard from the pile.
There's a tap on her shoulder. “Doctor?”
She's gotten used enough to hearing that epithet that it doesn't make her wince any more, though to begin with, in those first few months after she came back to the hospital to finish her training, she'd felt rather like the world was laughing at her. But since she's finally made it her own title, the sting has gone out of it, somewhat; it's a bittersweet source of pride.
She's never called him. She’s tried not to analyse why. That spot is still too tender to touch.
“Paging Doctor Jones ... what planet are you on today?”
The voice is warm and laughing and she smiles as she turns. Tom.
“Sorry. Just a bit preoccupied … you know how it is.”
He’s as handsome as he was back when she first met him, in a time that never was.
“I don’t have the time to be preoccupied. But yeah, I do.”
Sometimes, in her crazier, sleep-deprived moments, she toys with the idea of telling him: you saved my life, once. You jumped in front of a bullet to save a legend; a woman I sometimes wonder if I ever truly was.
Then she realises she likes her life with people thinking she’s sane, and moves on.
“Martha?”
The sound of her first name makes her jump; it’s strangely intimate coming from Tom after months of ‘Doctor Jones’.
“Hm? What?”
He’s moved a step or two closer to her, his expression gentle with concern.
“You look exhausted. It’s near the end of your shift, isn’t it - how long have you been on your feet? No, don’t foist me off, it’s not ‘not all that long’ … you’ve been here for close on to eighteen hours the last time I counted. Listen,” he pulls the clipboard from her fingers; she grasps at them with a half-hearted protest before he bats her hands away, “how about this. I’m here for hours yet. I’ll take care of this last paperwork for you, and I’ll check on Mr Humphries. You should go home and get some rest.”
The thought of home and bed is tempting; she hesitates, her tired muscles complaining at her. “I don’t know …”
“I do.”
He places one palm against the small of her back and begins to steer her towards the staff changing rooms; she twists to look up at him, feeling guilty. “You’d do that for me?”
Smiling, he nods. “Absolutely. On just one tiny condition.”
She grins back up at him gratefully. “Name it.”
“Have dinner with me tomorrow evening.”
The words echo in her mind like he just shouted them into a crevasse; the smile is gone so swiftly from her expression it’s as though it was never there, and she straightens, panicking, her mouth dry and her heartbeat racing. Across from her, she sees the dawning discomfort on Tom’s face and knows her distress must be plainly evident.
“Tom - I …”
He shrugs away, turning his back on her to face a nearby patient as a nurse walks past; hurt is written in every part of his body, right down to the way he’s standing, pulled inward on himself; she curses herself miserably.
“It’s okay. Don’t worry, just forget I mentioned it. Go home, Doctor Jones.”
Pushing away, she turns on her heel and walks quickly for the door, blinking away an unwanted wave of hot tears.
* * * * * * * * *
It’s quiet in the changing rooms, and dark; pulling open her locker, she yanks off her stained lab coat, stuffs it in her bag - and secure in the knowledge that she’s alone, cries frustrated tears of impotent rage onto her locker shelf.
What’s the matter with you? Part of the reason you got this job is because you knew he worked here. You get on well with the man and find him attractive. In any other circumstance you’d already have asked him out for a drink … so why run the other direction when he gets fed up of waiting for you to make a move?
Why?
You weak, pathetic coward. You know why. You walked away, all those months ago. But you never really did, did you?
Pulling the rumpled up lab-coat back out of her bag, she hunts through the pockets until she finds it; a small red clam-shell mobile phone, the display glowing a soft green light in the darkness of the locker rooms. She flips it open, scrolls to the menu; selects A-Z.
Amy
Andrew
Annalise
Belinda
Becca
Chris
Dad
Dave
Derek
Doctor (surgery)
Doctor (The)
She’s been here so many times. Staring at that phone number. Finger poised over one button or another. A few times it’s been the ‘call’ button. Tonight, though, as with so many other nights, it’s the ‘delete’ button she teases herself with; a druggie flirting with the idea of going cold turkey but finding the idea far too unpalatable to ever seriously contemplate.
In the end, she does what she always does; she doesn’t call and doesn’t delete. Instead, she closes the phone with a quiet snick, and tucks it back into her pocket with a tired sigh.
The voice behind her is soft and close and freezes her to the spot.
“Doctor.”
No. No, no, no. It can’t be.
She’d listen for the sound of breathing if her heartbeat wasn’t thundering so loudly in her ears; instead, her eyes rooted to the floor, she looks at the movement she can register at the very edge of her line of vision, already knowing deep down what it is that she’ll see.
One beaten up Converse shoe. Burgundy, not white, though in the low light it’s impossible to make out any kind of colour all that well. But she doesn’t need light to know he’d be in the blue suit; the burgundy boots clash dreadfully with the brown pinstripe.
Her eyesight clouds over for a second; she steadies herself against her locker door and wills her voice to be light and calm.
“That’s my line, isn’t it?”
He lets out a quiet chuff of laughter; she curls her fingernails into her palms, wanting suddenly more than anything just to turn around and slap him, and not knowing where the impulse came from. “What are you doing here?”
No response.
She wheels at last to face him in the darkness, and feels the tears she’d just managed to subdue stinging again at the corner of her eyes.
The same shock of unruly hair. His tie half undone, his hands thrust deep in his pockets - and a peculiar expression on his face that’s warring between anxiety, affection, warmth and trepidation.
“Hello, Martha.”
I will not cry. I will not!
“I didn’t call you … I don’t understand. Why are you here?”
He smiles lopsidedly, shrugs, fidgets from one foot to the other. “You didn’t call.”
It’s that same old torture all over again, isn’t it? The child, the old man, the genius, the fool, the ravingly beautiful egomaniac in a tailored suit and trainers. Did you ever really understand what you did to me?
Hurting, wanting more than anything to run and hide, she forces herself to stand up straighter, looking back challengingly into his eyes and folding her arms across her chest. “And that didn’t tell you anything?”
He appears to ponder on that one for a little bit, pulling one hand from his pocket and worrying his earlobe with aggravatingly long, graceful fingers. “Well yes, now that you mention it, it did.”
“Oh?” She raises one eyebrow archly at him. “Surprise me.”
He regards her sidelong for a long moment, a curiously considering look on his face.
“All right.”
And in one quick movement, he’s cleared the distance between them, tangled his fingers deeply into her hair, and brought down his lips to touch hers.
What the …?!
He sips at them, at first, and she’s shocked into immobility, feeling the soft, gentle pressure of his mouth against hers, cool to the touch but barely there long enough to register any more than the briefest of flickered mental snapshots; one kiss, two, turning his head to fit against her better, his fringe tickling her forehead, his nose brushing against hers. Three kisses; four; her heart’s restarted from the cardiac arrest he just sent it into and it’s pounding fit to burst through her eardrums, oh, Sweet Jesus, here come the drums, and she can move again, her arms still hugged against her body in protection but pressing closer to him nevertheless, in spite of the very large part of herself that wants nothing more than to shove him away, hard, and tell him not to do her any favours. But she’s falling, fading, losing count now of how many times he’s kissed her, capable only of sensation and need - and then he’s done it, and she’s shuddering, her bones melting traitorously and liquid fire bubbling through her blood - because he’s damn well licked her, for Christ’s sakes, his tongue flickering out just for a second to taste and remember, and any last remote thoughts she might have had of fighting or resisting seem as inconsequential as a sigh in a storm.
Something caught between a growl and a moan gets caught and broken in the back of his throat as she gives up the fight and goes on the offensive, humming and opening her mouth against his, curling her tongue around his, reaching up to grab fistfuls of his dishevelled hair and pressing close enough to his body to feel his hearts beating fast through the fabric of his suit.
He’s cooler than any human male she’s ever kissed, like he’s been standing outside on a cold night in the rain. His fingertips are the only warm thing about him, splayed out against her temples as he takes leisurely, perfect and complete possession of her mouth with his own, and it’s incredible - but he seems so very much attuned to her physicality - what she needs - that it scares her a little. For a few insane moments she can almost believe that she feels him sighing inside her mind, kissing her very thoughts and desires with ethereal, hungry lips.
He’s done something to Time, though, regardless of anything else - she’s sure of it, because it lengthens and speeds up, the seconds feeling aeon-slow, her heartbeats pounding out days - but at the same time it’s virtually no time at all until she finds herself pressed up against the door of her locker, breathless and flushed, his hands cupping her jawline, his lips leaving hers, and his eyes wide with something that looks amusingly close to blank shock.
They stare at each other in silence for a few long seconds; his mouth is open and his eyes are darting over her face, and he watches as she bites her lip, running her tongue over it, tasting him half unconsciously, her eyes fixed on his.
He drops his hands and backs away a step.
“Sorry. Sorry. Just, umm … yes, well … just wanted you to know that, I suppose. Sorry.”
Her heart is racing fast enough to land her on the floor, but she can’t hold back a slightly breathless laugh.
“Know what, exactly?”
He sobers, slipping his hands back into his pocket, and studies his feet, quiet for a long time. When he finally speaks, it’s in words so soft and low she has to strain to hear him over the sound of the muted traffic noise outside.
“I didn’t come here to … to … what we just - that’s not what I’m here for. That’s not why I came. Well - it is, but not like that.”
She looks back questioningly; he glances up, catches her eye and promptly looks away again, scuffing one shoe on the floor.
“I wasn’t fair to you, Martha. There are things I - it’s hard, it’s so hard … I shouldn’t have … you deserved …”
He sighs heavily, closing his eyes; she can’t stop herself from moving closer again and resting one hand against his arm.
Her voice is a whisper, as soft as his. “What is it? Doctor?”
He smiles at the floor; looks up; his eyes are warm and fond and it hurts suddenly not to be hugging him; she remembers the security of his arms and aches. He pulls one hand from his pocket and takes her hand in his, lacing their fingers together.
“I missed you.”
She looks away; feels a dark flood of colour suffuse her cheeks, her eyebrows knitting together in a frown.
Stop playing with me. Don’t do this. I can’t go back, not for a kiss and a soft, easy word. You never said.
“Stop it. You didn’t. You don’t miss me. You never missed me. You missed company. You missed … not me.”
There’s a soft finality in his tone that shakes her to the core.
“No.”
He takes hold of her other hand; steps close enough that their bodies nearly touch. She can’t look up, won’t look up, can’t risk him seeing the pain or the hope - but she doesn’t even try to move away. She just stands, listening to the sound of her own breathing, and waits.
“You’re wrong.”
She feels him lower his head, slowly, until his cheek brushes hers. She feels the rush of his breath tickling her ear; feels his thumbs stroking over the backs of her hands where he holds them - and when he speaks, it’s in a voice so soft she can’t tell if she hears him, or just feels his lips shape the words against her ear.
“Martha. Doctor. My Martha, Doctor Jones … you were - you are … brilliant.”
There’s a rushing sound running through her mind. She remembers the day she walked out, the words echoing in her memories.
I spent a lot of time with you thinking I was second best. But you know what? I am good.
And he’d just smiled. Even laughed a little. Even though she’d known she was right, that she was good enough to travel with him, good enough for anybody - good enough for herself, which was always the thing that really, truly mattered - she’d always craved that validation from him; craved it and hated the weakness that made her crave it.
Letting go of his hands, she pushes him away, looking up into his eyes.
“You what?”
He’s grinning broadly, a sun beaming away so brightly he’s damn near physically glowing.
“You. Martha Jones. You’re brilliant. Just wanted you to know. Don’t think I mentioned it before.”
She can hardly speak. “I’m-”
He nods emphatically, still grinning. “Brilliant, yes. Completely. And I’d just like to take this opportunity to say … if at any point you do feel like dropping me a line for old times’ sakes, the TARDIS and I would be most honoured to welcome you back.”
She can’t help it. She starts laughing, the sound pealing out of her until she’s almost crying with it and she has to rest her back against her locker to catch her breath. He watches her curiously, one eyebrow raised, and waits for her to speak; when she finally manages it, it’s in gulps of breath punctuated with giggles she can’t swallow down.
“I - I don’t believe you - after all this … do you know how close you are to just getting a slap, Mister?”
He grins back down at her cheekily. She finds she suddenly has no choice but to grab hold of his jacket and spin them around, slamming his back up against her locker door and startling an astonished “oof!” out of him; his eyebrows shoot up to tickle his hairline as she begins to talk, punctuating her speech with jabs of her index finger to his chest.
“Yes. You’re absolutely right. I am brilliant. What took you so bloody long to notice? And you bet your sonic screwdriver you’d be honoured to have me back on board. But do you know what you are?”
He opens his mouth to answer, eyes twinkling, but stills as she puts one finger against his lips to silence him.
“You,” she grabs hold of his tie and yanks it down, pulling his head close to hers and trying so hard not to smile, “are incorrigible.”
She only has a split second to see the smile spreading across his face before she pulls him down into a fierce kiss; laughter and jubilation, flirtation and lust, teasing and wanting and he’s kissing her back just as hard as she’s pressing into him, and when they break apart at last, they’re both grinning like loons and panting for breath.
She pushes back from him; straightens her clothes; gives him a smile that’s reflected back to her instantly, warming her right down to her toes, and picks up her bag from the floor.
“All right. You. I know where you are. I’m not ready yet … but I will be. Maybe. One of these days. If you behave and don’t come bothering me again. Okay?”
He nods, still splayed out against the locker door, his hair sticking out at outlandish angles and his jacket looking severely rumpled; she can hear the smile in his answer just as much as she can see it all over his face.
“Absolutely.”
Serene on the surface, laughing inside, she turns for the door and walks away without a single backwards glance.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
She doesn’t leave the hospital straight away; there’s one thing she needs to do first.
He doesn’t notice her walk up quietly behind him; she taps him on the shoulder and he doesn’t turn, busy reading the chart in his hands.
“Hm? Yes, what is it?”
She smiles.
“Make it a drink.”
He turns at that, eyebrows raised, and looks down at her; she waves at him.
“Run that by me again?”
“You mentioned dinner, Doctor Milligan. I’ll come for a drink. Then dinner, maybe. If I’m hungry. Sound good to you?”
The hurt and resentment she’d left written all over him drops away; he smiles broadly and folds his arms across his chest. “You bet it does. There’s a place around the corner, we can head there after your shift.”
“Great. See you tomorrow, then.”
She’s about to walk away when he frowns and shoves his hand into his pocket.
“Oh, wait - Martha, just a second … I forgot, a call came in for you a few minutes ago.”
“At this time in the morning?”
“Yeah, go figure. The guy said he knew you, asked you to call him back whenever it was convenient - one Captain Jack Harkness. Ring any bells?”
She feels her jaw drop; is almost surprised by the sheer wave of happiness she feels on hearing the name; she takes the piece of paper with Jack’s number on it and grins to herself, pocketing it.
Beside her, Tom looks very curious.
“He’s not an old flame or anything, is he? Should I be worried?”
Laughing, she swats his arm. “Oho! Hark at you - you’re not my boyfriend yet, Mister ... but no, not an old flame. Just an old friend. Nothing for you to worry about.”
He catches hold of her fingertips. “Good to know.” He pauses for a second before speaking again. “So … what changed your mind? About meeting me? You didn’t exactly seem sold on the idea earlier on.”
She hesitates. Beside her, on the nearby work surface, a sheaf of papers are blown into the air by an unseen breeze … and in the distance, sounding suspiciously like it’s coming from the medical storage room across the hall, she hears the familiar cranking, whooshing sound of the TARDIS’s engines, barely audible unless you knew what you were looking to hear.
Doctor …
Her eyelids flicker closed, just for a second.
… thank you.
Looking back up, she smiles into Tom’s warm, open eyes.
“What changed my mind? You mean you didn’t already know?”
He shakes his head, slowly, his eyes on hers.
“Ah, well. It’s really quite simple. You see …”
She squeezes his hand in her own. Lets it go, walking towards the hospital exit. And her heart light with happiness, she laughs back into Tom’s questioning eyes from all the way across the ward, just before she walks out of the door.
“… I’m brilliant!”
Author: voicelikehoney
Characters: Tenth Doctor/Martha Jones; hints of Tom/Martha
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: The Last of the Time Lords
Summary: There's something the Doctor forgot to tell Martha ...
New fic. Not sure how I feel about it, tbh ... TLOTTL makes it hard to write convincing Ten/Martha nowadays.
Brilliant
She's so tired.
Night shift. The wee hours; 3:54am with a vomit stain on her nice clean white jacket and her hair escaping from the clip she's pinned it back with, the unceasing noise of A&E washing through her mind until she feels numb, her nerves raw and her muscles aching. If she looked in the mirror she knows she'd see the circles under her eyes; she chooses instead to keep her head down, press on, and pick up the next clipboard from the pile.
There's a tap on her shoulder. “Doctor?”
She's gotten used enough to hearing that epithet that it doesn't make her wince any more, though to begin with, in those first few months after she came back to the hospital to finish her training, she'd felt rather like the world was laughing at her. But since she's finally made it her own title, the sting has gone out of it, somewhat; it's a bittersweet source of pride.
She's never called him. She’s tried not to analyse why. That spot is still too tender to touch.
“Paging Doctor Jones ... what planet are you on today?”
The voice is warm and laughing and she smiles as she turns. Tom.
“Sorry. Just a bit preoccupied … you know how it is.”
He’s as handsome as he was back when she first met him, in a time that never was.
“I don’t have the time to be preoccupied. But yeah, I do.”
Sometimes, in her crazier, sleep-deprived moments, she toys with the idea of telling him: you saved my life, once. You jumped in front of a bullet to save a legend; a woman I sometimes wonder if I ever truly was.
Then she realises she likes her life with people thinking she’s sane, and moves on.
“Martha?”
The sound of her first name makes her jump; it’s strangely intimate coming from Tom after months of ‘Doctor Jones’.
“Hm? What?”
He’s moved a step or two closer to her, his expression gentle with concern.
“You look exhausted. It’s near the end of your shift, isn’t it - how long have you been on your feet? No, don’t foist me off, it’s not ‘not all that long’ … you’ve been here for close on to eighteen hours the last time I counted. Listen,” he pulls the clipboard from her fingers; she grasps at them with a half-hearted protest before he bats her hands away, “how about this. I’m here for hours yet. I’ll take care of this last paperwork for you, and I’ll check on Mr Humphries. You should go home and get some rest.”
The thought of home and bed is tempting; she hesitates, her tired muscles complaining at her. “I don’t know …”
“I do.”
He places one palm against the small of her back and begins to steer her towards the staff changing rooms; she twists to look up at him, feeling guilty. “You’d do that for me?”
Smiling, he nods. “Absolutely. On just one tiny condition.”
She grins back up at him gratefully. “Name it.”
“Have dinner with me tomorrow evening.”
The words echo in her mind like he just shouted them into a crevasse; the smile is gone so swiftly from her expression it’s as though it was never there, and she straightens, panicking, her mouth dry and her heartbeat racing. Across from her, she sees the dawning discomfort on Tom’s face and knows her distress must be plainly evident.
“Tom - I …”
He shrugs away, turning his back on her to face a nearby patient as a nurse walks past; hurt is written in every part of his body, right down to the way he’s standing, pulled inward on himself; she curses herself miserably.
“It’s okay. Don’t worry, just forget I mentioned it. Go home, Doctor Jones.”
Pushing away, she turns on her heel and walks quickly for the door, blinking away an unwanted wave of hot tears.
* * * * * * * * *
It’s quiet in the changing rooms, and dark; pulling open her locker, she yanks off her stained lab coat, stuffs it in her bag - and secure in the knowledge that she’s alone, cries frustrated tears of impotent rage onto her locker shelf.
What’s the matter with you? Part of the reason you got this job is because you knew he worked here. You get on well with the man and find him attractive. In any other circumstance you’d already have asked him out for a drink … so why run the other direction when he gets fed up of waiting for you to make a move?
Why?
You weak, pathetic coward. You know why. You walked away, all those months ago. But you never really did, did you?
Pulling the rumpled up lab-coat back out of her bag, she hunts through the pockets until she finds it; a small red clam-shell mobile phone, the display glowing a soft green light in the darkness of the locker rooms. She flips it open, scrolls to the menu; selects A-Z.
Amy
Andrew
Annalise
Belinda
Becca
Chris
Dad
Dave
Derek
Doctor (surgery)
Doctor (The)
She’s been here so many times. Staring at that phone number. Finger poised over one button or another. A few times it’s been the ‘call’ button. Tonight, though, as with so many other nights, it’s the ‘delete’ button she teases herself with; a druggie flirting with the idea of going cold turkey but finding the idea far too unpalatable to ever seriously contemplate.
In the end, she does what she always does; she doesn’t call and doesn’t delete. Instead, she closes the phone with a quiet snick, and tucks it back into her pocket with a tired sigh.
The voice behind her is soft and close and freezes her to the spot.
“Doctor.”
No. No, no, no. It can’t be.
She’d listen for the sound of breathing if her heartbeat wasn’t thundering so loudly in her ears; instead, her eyes rooted to the floor, she looks at the movement she can register at the very edge of her line of vision, already knowing deep down what it is that she’ll see.
One beaten up Converse shoe. Burgundy, not white, though in the low light it’s impossible to make out any kind of colour all that well. But she doesn’t need light to know he’d be in the blue suit; the burgundy boots clash dreadfully with the brown pinstripe.
Her eyesight clouds over for a second; she steadies herself against her locker door and wills her voice to be light and calm.
“That’s my line, isn’t it?”
He lets out a quiet chuff of laughter; she curls her fingernails into her palms, wanting suddenly more than anything just to turn around and slap him, and not knowing where the impulse came from. “What are you doing here?”
No response.
She wheels at last to face him in the darkness, and feels the tears she’d just managed to subdue stinging again at the corner of her eyes.
The same shock of unruly hair. His tie half undone, his hands thrust deep in his pockets - and a peculiar expression on his face that’s warring between anxiety, affection, warmth and trepidation.
“Hello, Martha.”
I will not cry. I will not!
“I didn’t call you … I don’t understand. Why are you here?”
He smiles lopsidedly, shrugs, fidgets from one foot to the other. “You didn’t call.”
It’s that same old torture all over again, isn’t it? The child, the old man, the genius, the fool, the ravingly beautiful egomaniac in a tailored suit and trainers. Did you ever really understand what you did to me?
Hurting, wanting more than anything to run and hide, she forces herself to stand up straighter, looking back challengingly into his eyes and folding her arms across her chest. “And that didn’t tell you anything?”
He appears to ponder on that one for a little bit, pulling one hand from his pocket and worrying his earlobe with aggravatingly long, graceful fingers. “Well yes, now that you mention it, it did.”
“Oh?” She raises one eyebrow archly at him. “Surprise me.”
He regards her sidelong for a long moment, a curiously considering look on his face.
“All right.”
And in one quick movement, he’s cleared the distance between them, tangled his fingers deeply into her hair, and brought down his lips to touch hers.
What the …?!
He sips at them, at first, and she’s shocked into immobility, feeling the soft, gentle pressure of his mouth against hers, cool to the touch but barely there long enough to register any more than the briefest of flickered mental snapshots; one kiss, two, turning his head to fit against her better, his fringe tickling her forehead, his nose brushing against hers. Three kisses; four; her heart’s restarted from the cardiac arrest he just sent it into and it’s pounding fit to burst through her eardrums, oh, Sweet Jesus, here come the drums, and she can move again, her arms still hugged against her body in protection but pressing closer to him nevertheless, in spite of the very large part of herself that wants nothing more than to shove him away, hard, and tell him not to do her any favours. But she’s falling, fading, losing count now of how many times he’s kissed her, capable only of sensation and need - and then he’s done it, and she’s shuddering, her bones melting traitorously and liquid fire bubbling through her blood - because he’s damn well licked her, for Christ’s sakes, his tongue flickering out just for a second to taste and remember, and any last remote thoughts she might have had of fighting or resisting seem as inconsequential as a sigh in a storm.
Something caught between a growl and a moan gets caught and broken in the back of his throat as she gives up the fight and goes on the offensive, humming and opening her mouth against his, curling her tongue around his, reaching up to grab fistfuls of his dishevelled hair and pressing close enough to his body to feel his hearts beating fast through the fabric of his suit.
He’s cooler than any human male she’s ever kissed, like he’s been standing outside on a cold night in the rain. His fingertips are the only warm thing about him, splayed out against her temples as he takes leisurely, perfect and complete possession of her mouth with his own, and it’s incredible - but he seems so very much attuned to her physicality - what she needs - that it scares her a little. For a few insane moments she can almost believe that she feels him sighing inside her mind, kissing her very thoughts and desires with ethereal, hungry lips.
He’s done something to Time, though, regardless of anything else - she’s sure of it, because it lengthens and speeds up, the seconds feeling aeon-slow, her heartbeats pounding out days - but at the same time it’s virtually no time at all until she finds herself pressed up against the door of her locker, breathless and flushed, his hands cupping her jawline, his lips leaving hers, and his eyes wide with something that looks amusingly close to blank shock.
They stare at each other in silence for a few long seconds; his mouth is open and his eyes are darting over her face, and he watches as she bites her lip, running her tongue over it, tasting him half unconsciously, her eyes fixed on his.
He drops his hands and backs away a step.
“Sorry. Sorry. Just, umm … yes, well … just wanted you to know that, I suppose. Sorry.”
Her heart is racing fast enough to land her on the floor, but she can’t hold back a slightly breathless laugh.
“Know what, exactly?”
He sobers, slipping his hands back into his pocket, and studies his feet, quiet for a long time. When he finally speaks, it’s in words so soft and low she has to strain to hear him over the sound of the muted traffic noise outside.
“I didn’t come here to … to … what we just - that’s not what I’m here for. That’s not why I came. Well - it is, but not like that.”
She looks back questioningly; he glances up, catches her eye and promptly looks away again, scuffing one shoe on the floor.
“I wasn’t fair to you, Martha. There are things I - it’s hard, it’s so hard … I shouldn’t have … you deserved …”
He sighs heavily, closing his eyes; she can’t stop herself from moving closer again and resting one hand against his arm.
Her voice is a whisper, as soft as his. “What is it? Doctor?”
He smiles at the floor; looks up; his eyes are warm and fond and it hurts suddenly not to be hugging him; she remembers the security of his arms and aches. He pulls one hand from his pocket and takes her hand in his, lacing their fingers together.
“I missed you.”
She looks away; feels a dark flood of colour suffuse her cheeks, her eyebrows knitting together in a frown.
Stop playing with me. Don’t do this. I can’t go back, not for a kiss and a soft, easy word. You never said.
“Stop it. You didn’t. You don’t miss me. You never missed me. You missed company. You missed … not me.”
There’s a soft finality in his tone that shakes her to the core.
“No.”
He takes hold of her other hand; steps close enough that their bodies nearly touch. She can’t look up, won’t look up, can’t risk him seeing the pain or the hope - but she doesn’t even try to move away. She just stands, listening to the sound of her own breathing, and waits.
“You’re wrong.”
She feels him lower his head, slowly, until his cheek brushes hers. She feels the rush of his breath tickling her ear; feels his thumbs stroking over the backs of her hands where he holds them - and when he speaks, it’s in a voice so soft she can’t tell if she hears him, or just feels his lips shape the words against her ear.
“Martha. Doctor. My Martha, Doctor Jones … you were - you are … brilliant.”
There’s a rushing sound running through her mind. She remembers the day she walked out, the words echoing in her memories.
I spent a lot of time with you thinking I was second best. But you know what? I am good.
And he’d just smiled. Even laughed a little. Even though she’d known she was right, that she was good enough to travel with him, good enough for anybody - good enough for herself, which was always the thing that really, truly mattered - she’d always craved that validation from him; craved it and hated the weakness that made her crave it.
Letting go of his hands, she pushes him away, looking up into his eyes.
“You what?”
He’s grinning broadly, a sun beaming away so brightly he’s damn near physically glowing.
“You. Martha Jones. You’re brilliant. Just wanted you to know. Don’t think I mentioned it before.”
She can hardly speak. “I’m-”
He nods emphatically, still grinning. “Brilliant, yes. Completely. And I’d just like to take this opportunity to say … if at any point you do feel like dropping me a line for old times’ sakes, the TARDIS and I would be most honoured to welcome you back.”
She can’t help it. She starts laughing, the sound pealing out of her until she’s almost crying with it and she has to rest her back against her locker to catch her breath. He watches her curiously, one eyebrow raised, and waits for her to speak; when she finally manages it, it’s in gulps of breath punctuated with giggles she can’t swallow down.
“I - I don’t believe you - after all this … do you know how close you are to just getting a slap, Mister?”
He grins back down at her cheekily. She finds she suddenly has no choice but to grab hold of his jacket and spin them around, slamming his back up against her locker door and startling an astonished “oof!” out of him; his eyebrows shoot up to tickle his hairline as she begins to talk, punctuating her speech with jabs of her index finger to his chest.
“Yes. You’re absolutely right. I am brilliant. What took you so bloody long to notice? And you bet your sonic screwdriver you’d be honoured to have me back on board. But do you know what you are?”
He opens his mouth to answer, eyes twinkling, but stills as she puts one finger against his lips to silence him.
“You,” she grabs hold of his tie and yanks it down, pulling his head close to hers and trying so hard not to smile, “are incorrigible.”
She only has a split second to see the smile spreading across his face before she pulls him down into a fierce kiss; laughter and jubilation, flirtation and lust, teasing and wanting and he’s kissing her back just as hard as she’s pressing into him, and when they break apart at last, they’re both grinning like loons and panting for breath.
She pushes back from him; straightens her clothes; gives him a smile that’s reflected back to her instantly, warming her right down to her toes, and picks up her bag from the floor.
“All right. You. I know where you are. I’m not ready yet … but I will be. Maybe. One of these days. If you behave and don’t come bothering me again. Okay?”
He nods, still splayed out against the locker door, his hair sticking out at outlandish angles and his jacket looking severely rumpled; she can hear the smile in his answer just as much as she can see it all over his face.
“Absolutely.”
Serene on the surface, laughing inside, she turns for the door and walks away without a single backwards glance.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
She doesn’t leave the hospital straight away; there’s one thing she needs to do first.
He doesn’t notice her walk up quietly behind him; she taps him on the shoulder and he doesn’t turn, busy reading the chart in his hands.
“Hm? Yes, what is it?”
She smiles.
“Make it a drink.”
He turns at that, eyebrows raised, and looks down at her; she waves at him.
“Run that by me again?”
“You mentioned dinner, Doctor Milligan. I’ll come for a drink. Then dinner, maybe. If I’m hungry. Sound good to you?”
The hurt and resentment she’d left written all over him drops away; he smiles broadly and folds his arms across his chest. “You bet it does. There’s a place around the corner, we can head there after your shift.”
“Great. See you tomorrow, then.”
She’s about to walk away when he frowns and shoves his hand into his pocket.
“Oh, wait - Martha, just a second … I forgot, a call came in for you a few minutes ago.”
“At this time in the morning?”
“Yeah, go figure. The guy said he knew you, asked you to call him back whenever it was convenient - one Captain Jack Harkness. Ring any bells?”
She feels her jaw drop; is almost surprised by the sheer wave of happiness she feels on hearing the name; she takes the piece of paper with Jack’s number on it and grins to herself, pocketing it.
Beside her, Tom looks very curious.
“He’s not an old flame or anything, is he? Should I be worried?”
Laughing, she swats his arm. “Oho! Hark at you - you’re not my boyfriend yet, Mister ... but no, not an old flame. Just an old friend. Nothing for you to worry about.”
He catches hold of her fingertips. “Good to know.” He pauses for a second before speaking again. “So … what changed your mind? About meeting me? You didn’t exactly seem sold on the idea earlier on.”
She hesitates. Beside her, on the nearby work surface, a sheaf of papers are blown into the air by an unseen breeze … and in the distance, sounding suspiciously like it’s coming from the medical storage room across the hall, she hears the familiar cranking, whooshing sound of the TARDIS’s engines, barely audible unless you knew what you were looking to hear.
Doctor …
Her eyelids flicker closed, just for a second.
… thank you.
Looking back up, she smiles into Tom’s warm, open eyes.
“What changed my mind? You mean you didn’t already know?”
He shakes his head, slowly, his eyes on hers.
“Ah, well. It’s really quite simple. You see …”
She squeezes his hand in her own. Lets it go, walking towards the hospital exit. And her heart light with happiness, she laughs back into Tom’s questioning eyes from all the way across the ward, just before she walks out of the door.
“… I’m brilliant!”