A/N: I'm in love with the whoniverse, so sue me. Not sure about this or Come Running. Still, thought I'd post anyway. The line in italics is taken from the new(ish) DW book Sick Building. There's no plot spoilers here, just vague backgroundy stuff that has so importance to the overall plot. It's just a case of my mind running wild over a squeeful line. Read, review, and enjoy.
Now Martha was admiring her own reflection in a tall burnished mirror and eventually the Doctor's rant petered out and he stared at her.
"You look very nice," he said.
Martha walked ahead, the cream gown swishing around her as she did so while the Doctor dawdled along behind as they made their way back to their rooms in the Dreamhome. From his mood, Martha could work out a few things. Firstly, he was irritated, secondly, he was coming up with some plan that was more than likely going to get them into trouble, and thirdly, he was tired.
He'd never admit the third one, of course, but she knew him well enough these days to realise that he needed to wind down, recharge his batteries, if not catch a few hours' sleep.
They finally reached the large polished oak doors which led to their joined rooms and Martha turned around, waiting for him to catch up. When he did, he gave her a small smile and she frowned. "You all right?" she asked.
"Me? Yeah, fine, fine." He seemed distracted, which only made Martha's frown deepen. "Go on, off to bed with you."
"I'm dismissed, then?" she asked.
"Well don't go to bed then," he replied tersely, and Martha raised an eyebrow. "Go and run naked around the garden if you must."
"Don't be like that," Martha told him, her voice tired. "Yes, I know he's a nasty piece of work but you can't do anything now, and you most certainly can't take out your anger on me."
"And why's that, Miss Jones?" he asked, his normal chirpy self starting to trickle back, his sour mood draining slowly away.
"Because I inherited my mum's right hook, that's why." He managed a grin and she felt relieved to see him smile.
She didn't like seeing him angry.
"Goodnight," he said quietly. He moved forward and kissed her on the cheek. "Sweet dreams."
"Night," Martha said, twisting the door handle and pushing the door open. She'd only taken a step inside when he called after her.
"Oh and Martha?" she turned around quickly, not knowing what he was going to say. "I'll be busy later, so just bang on the wall if I'm being too loud." Martha's jaw began to drop but she managed to compose herself quickly.
"Gonna do a bit of tinkering," he told her. "Maybe pop out to find the Tardis." Martha nodded and turned around again, reaching out to close the door behind her. She heard him step forward, his hand causing the door to come to a halt. "Oh and Martha?" she faced him again. "You look really nice."
"Thanks," she said, her smile wide, despite her tiredness. She felt her stomach flutter a little and he let his hand drop from the door, allowing her to close it.
There was a silk nightdress neatly folded on top of her pillow when she arrived at her bed. She frowned, more used to fluffy pyjamas than little dresses like this one, but slipped her clothes off nonetheless, and donned the nightdress. She let her hair fall down from its elegant do, removed her earrings, placing them on the bedside cabinet and then crawled under the soft sheets of the divan, snuggling into the feather duvet, which rustled pleasantly as she made herself comfortable.
Her eyelids grew very heavy very soon, and Martha slipped easily into sleep, revelling in the luxurious surroundings that she could very easily get used to. Not that she would tell the Doctor that, of course.
Martha opened one eye and saw a dark blue shirt. She opened the other and saw the brown pinstriped suit that enveloped it and sighed.
"Ah! You're awake." Martha moaned into the pillow and rolled over, her back facing the Doctor in a silent protest. It was still dark outside, which meant it was still night, which meant he was badgering her when she had every right to be sleeping.
"Martha," he whined, dragging out the last letter of her name. "Oh don't be a spoil sport, I want to chat!" Martha moaned into her pillow again. "Now that is a very primitive form of communication, Martha Jones."
"That is, too." Martha half-heartedly flung out an arm to whack him, hopefully communicating her displeasure, but it just seemed to fall against his chest rather lamely. "Is that your inherited right hook?" he asked, antagonising her. Martha muttered something into her pillow which the Doctor only just managed to pick up. "Martha Jones! What would your mother say if she knew you were using that sort of language?" he asked in mock horror. Finally, Martha lifted her head from the pillow so she could speak clearly.
"She'd say I picked it up from you. Reckons I've gotten rude since I met you."
"Well that's incredibly harsh..." the Doctor replied, and she could tell he was pouting. "But it doesn't matter, look, just roll over so I can see you're listening." There was no reply. Her breathing was deep and even. He pushed himself up and leaned over, seeing her eyes were closed. Miraculously, she'd fallen asleep again. Without thinking, he reached out a hand and placed it on her hip, dropping his head to whisper in her ear. "Wake up and talk, pretty please?"
She was sure he would be able to hear her heart racing; sure he was doing this on purpose. But then again, he was so completely oblivious – to the point of cruelty, sometimes – that he probably didn't think that putting his hand on her hip when there was only a silky nightgown between the skin of his fingertips and the skin of her hip was any different to him giving her a hug in the morning when she wandered into the kitchen for a cup of tea, clad in thick fluffy pyjamas.
But surely his obliviousness couldn't stretch so far that he didn't realise that his fingers were tracing small patterns on her hip, that the whisper in her ear made her skin tingle, her nerves awake and alert. She swallowed a lump in her throat as well as her pride and turned over, the Doctor raising his hand a little to give her room to twist before he let it come down to rest on her other hip. Her eyes came up to meet his and she could see them glinting triumphantly.
He slid his hand down her leg and it took all the willpower in the universe not to gasp as he did so. Forget giving up alcohol, cigarettes, heroin, any of that, this was the one thing that required the most willpower of all. Most of it was concentrated on not pouncing on top of him, but a good portion was also allowing her to remain silent, to not give in to his feather light touches.
She bit the inside of her cheek as his hand moved up her thigh again, her willpower dwindling away as quickly as free beer dwindled in a bar full of skint students. His voice was low when he spoke, and Martha had to close her eyes, try to clear her head of anything and everything, but it didn't work, because she could feel his breath on her face, smell his aftershave more clearly than she had ever smelled anything else, and his hand was still moving up her thigh.
"Now I have your undivided attention, Miss Jones, I believe I wanted to talk to you."