She intended to say nothing about it ever.
She intended to say nothing about it ever. Martha stood in the control room and repeated the thought over and over in her head.
'So then! Where to?" The Doctor's voice rang in the large room, tinny and somehow at odds with his manic energy.
"Dunno." Martha shrugged, tucking her hands into her sides. "Wherever you like."
The Doctor paused mid-bounce, looking mortally insulted. "Oh, come on, Martha Jones! Where's the interest, the enthusiasm, eh?"
Martha shrugged again, looking down at the floor. Somehow she wasn't in the mood for all his frantic energy. "I dunno," she repeated. "'M a bit tired, actually. Might go to bed."
He pauses, sinking onto his heels, losing his forward momentum. It's his turn to look down, hands wandering over the TARDIS controls. "Alright then," he says, his tone abruptly quiet.
Now she's worried him. Half-guilty, half-annoyed, she looks up, musters a smile. "I'm alright, really," she reassures, answering his unasked question. "Just tired. It's been a really long three months. We can go somewhere tomorrow, yeah?"
Martha leaves before he can say anything, glad to escape the atmosphere, the undercurrents in the room. She relaxes, degree by degree, as she walks, and it is now that she realizes that she has grown to cherish privacy.
Well, who wouldn't, she thinks, with a mental snort. After three months of sharing a room with five girls. Albeit in the darkest, dampest corner of it, with the thinnest mattress and the smallest blanket. She was looking forward to the large bathtub and soft eiderdown of her room in the TARDIS.
She was at her door; out of enforced habit, Martha slid the door open a crack and slid through, ending up in the room, facing the door again. She paused for a second, resting her head on the grainy texture of it; she could smell her perfume, the lingering traces, and was suddenly, fiercely grateful for her small sanctuary, there in the midst of all the madness.
Then she turned around.
There was a large, empty square of space where her four-poster bed had previously stood, the curtain hangings tangled in a haphazard bunch on the floor. Martha stared, mouth agape, then stiffened as realization hit her.
Martha dashed to her bathroom door and wrenched it open. And swore, using every bad word she'd picked up since traveling with the Doctor. The space pirate she'd met on Tirene 3 would have been so proud, a distant recess of her mind thought, calm in the face of disaster.
Her decadently large, comfortably deep, sink-into- and-relax bathtub, that the TARDIS had so generously given her, and that she'd been fantasizing about, with increasing intensity, for the last half-hour, had disappeared.
As had her bed.
And her towel rack.
The towel rack did it. Abandoning all though of asking the Doctor to talk to the TARDIS for her, Martha fisted her hands on her hips and glared up at the ceiling.
"I'm tired and filthy and smell like 1913 – which was not a good year for soap, by the way – and all I wanna do is drown myself in my bathtub and then sleep for a week, so please, give me back my bathtub. And my bed. And…the towel rack."
"'S like talking to God," Martha muttered. "Right. If you won't give me back, I'm gonna…oh, how do you fight an alien object?" All of a sudden, she was close to tears. It had been a long three months, she'd said something she'd promised she'd never say out loud in front of the person it had been about and she was pretty sure the Doctor had heard her, and now the TARDIS was being mean.
All of a sudden Martha could feel her, a presence, like her consciousness was suddenly made up of two people instead of one; her mind occupied by a completely alien being.
That was sighing, in an all too recognizable way.Talk to him
Martha looked down. Her current plan regarding the Doctor involved avoidance and not much else.
"I'd rather not."Talk to him
Martha remembered what she'd done, what she'd said, and felt her cheeks flush with an emotion she couldn't name.
"I'd really rather not.
Then, sounding entirely too human;
You will get your bathtub back.
Martha looked up quickly, suddenly feeling a little crafty and a lot hopeful. "You know, I'd be in a much better mood for talking if I could have a bubble bath first-"
Another sigh, this one as world-weary and tiredly amused as the Doctor himself.Talk first
Rebervated that voice, through all the hollows and caverns of her head; a sentence that was somehow more than just a statement.
Martha stood for a second, stubborn, but felt her will buckle. With a sound that was half-shriek, half scream, strangling in her throat, she slammed out the door, looking – albeit unwillingly for the Doctor.