Martha Jones looked up from the book on Gallifreyan anatomy with which she had absconded from the TARDIS library the previous afternoon as the teakettle across the kitchen from her began to whistle. She slid the Bhrugji thirty-quen note she had been using as a bookmark between the pages after a moment, taking one last look at the illustration she had been trying to decipher despite the TARDIS's continuing refusal to translate any of the Gallifreyan circle writing Martha had seen around the ship, before getting up and busying herself with the task of making tea.
She set the teapot and two mismatched mugs on a tray she had found in the study, buried under a pile of what were apparently letters that had disappeared the posts of at least twenty different civilizations. She dug the creamer in the shape of a cow out of the refrigerator, where it had been put after the last time it had been used rather than being emptied, and put it and the sugar on the tray as well, followed by a bottle of what the Doctor had told her was the Time Lord version of Advil. Advil itself was, she was told, out of the question. A thought struck her, and she filled a glass with ice cubes and put it by the creamer.
Preparations done, Martha took the tray and made her way down the hall to where she last remembered seeing the door to the Doctor's room. She'd been a little bit surprised to learn that he even had a bedroom, as she'd never observed him to require sleep. Even when they had been visiting Shakespeare, she had fallen asleep before observing whether he would do likewise, and woken to find him already up and telling her how lazy humans were, and how she was wasting her life by spending so much of it unconscious. She had thought for a while that he might just spend all his time waking, but now it appeared that he just slept less than she did, and arranged their schedules so that she'd be too busy sleeping herself to catch him going to bed or getting up.
She arrived at his door and knocked, shifting the tray awkwardly to one arm. A muffled rustling came from the room, and she gave the occupant a moment to finish whatever he was doing before pushing the door open and letting herself in.
The room, like many of the rooms the Doctor occupied in his spare time, was a mess. Several pinstriped suits hung over the backs of the two chairs in the room, looking as if they had been thrown there, and every horizontal surface was covered in a mixture of papers, books, and scientific equipment. A bag of jelly babies lay on the dresser, half its contents spilled out over what looked like brand-new framed daguerreotype of a man with a shaved head and unfortunate ears standing in front of the TARDIS. At least five pairs of Converse trainers were scattered around the room.
Against the far wall was the Doctor's bed, a king-sized affair normally covered with an overstuffed comforter with an irregular pattern of brown, green, and dull orange stripes. Today, however, the comforter had been pulled loose, leaving the bed in its somewhat more aesthetically pleasing plain brown sheets, as the Doctor huddled against the headboard, dressed in his jimjams and wrapped in the offensive comforter, a copy of The Complete Idiot's Guide to Etiquette laying open beside him. He raised an eyebrow at Martha as she entered, but didn't speak.
"I thought you might like some tea," she explained, clearing a space on the little table next to his bed by pushing the papers on it off onto the floor with the edge of the tray and setting down her burden. "You're not even really sick, you know. There's no need for you to sit around in here all day and mope about it."
The Doctor opened his mouth as if to respond, but thought better of it and shut it without saying anything. Martha smirked and poured herself a mug of tea, before putting some of the ice in the other mug and pouring tea over it.
"You can even have it iced," she went on, sitting down after clearing a chair with the same method she had used on the table. "It'll do you good."
She took a sip of her tea and watched him pluck two pills out of the bottle and wash them down with his iced tea. He winced as he drank, but still didn't say anything. Setting the mug back down, he made as if to pick his book back up, his eyes avoiding Martha.
"Poor Dokah," said Martha, purposefully mangling the word, a sly grin on her face. "I could have told you something like this would happen. Oh, wait—I did tell you, and you went and licked the stupid thing anyway."
The Doctor glowered at her. "Marfa—"
He stopped, looking appalled at having allowed her to goad him into trying to talk to her while his speech was still garbled. Martha laughed.
"I don't mean to say 'I told you so,' but really…I did tell you so," she grinned. "I mean, you didn't even check to see what that device even felt like before you went and licked it, and look where it got you."
"Are you qui'e figishe'?" asked the Doctor irritably.
"'Oh, Marfa, I've hur' by 'ug!'" exclaimed Martha, doing her best impersonation of the Doctor.
The Doctor pointedly picked up his book and buried his nose in it, holding the tome in front of his face to block Martha's view of him. She giggled, and reached up to pull the book down.
"Let me look at it," she said, sobering. "I need to see if the swelling has gotten worse."
The Doctor rolled his eyes, but obediently stuck his tongue out for Martha to see. She leaned in, squinting at it and tutting softly, while he trained his eyes on the ceiling and did his best to pretend that she didn't have any right to rub the current state of affairs in.
"Well, at least the swelling has gone down," she finally said, leaning back and picking up her tea. "Still looks like you attacked it with sandpaper, though." She took a sip of her tea and thought about it. "That's probably about what you did, actually. I could have told you the thing was as rough as a nail file, but no, you just had to yank it out of my hands and lick it."
The Doctor harrumphed. "I was gust checkig 'o see wha' i' was bage of."
"Well, I hope you've learned your lesson," said Martha smugly. "No more licking things you find on strange planets, all right?"
"Baybe," replied the Doctor stubbornly, crossing his arms, giving Martha her turn to roll her eyes. He leveled his best glare at her, but she just laughed again and got up, brushing off her jeans before heading for the door.
"'If on'y I ha' listene' 'o Marfa!" she exclaimed, smirking at the Doctor from across the room.
"Va's egough," said the Time Lord, doing his best to sound intimidating despite the condition of his tongue.
"'Maaaaarfaaaaaaaaaaa!'" shouted Martha as she departed down the hall, unable to resist one last dig at the Doctor. She knew that she shouldn't make fun of him, but how often did one get to make jibes about a nine-hundred-year-old alien's self-inflicted injuries?
Sometimes, it just felt good to be right.