Title: The World Spins So Fast, That I Might Fly Off
Word Count: 1117
Genre: Fluffy and Somewhat Angsty Romance
Rating: R [small mentions of sex, but nothing too graphic]
Spoilers: Post-S3, with vague allusions to “Lonely TARDIS Scene” in “Partners in Crime” [though you don’t need to have seen that episode to read this]
Summary: An analysis of the Doctor’s feelings after Martha left.
Beta: The supercalifragilisticexpialidocious persiflage_1
All your Doctor Who are belong to us
Sadly, I own nothing related to Doctor Who et al, or Martha would have been treated better in S3.
Author Notes: Well, I am in the middle of a Ten/Martha/Jack fic, but since it has been a bit of a challenge, I decided to take a break from it and write this ficlet (especially after the aforementioned scene in “Partners in Crime” just kept haunting
me). I am a bit nervous with this one, so I hope you guys like it. Oh, and the title is from a line in the Duran Duran song, “The Sound of Thunder”, if that matters to anyone. Thanks so much to the super-dooper persiflage_1
who beta’d this piece – girl, you are, as always, a star! Any other mistakes are all mine. Feedback is happy-making, so please leave a word or two [even if I am a bit slack in responding, your comments always make my day].
Sometimes he would talk to her.
Martha was no longer there – weeks before she’d triumphantly walked out through the doors of the TARDIS, taking a piece of him with her, leaving him broken again. Nevertheless, sometimes the Doctor would still find himself talking to her – sometimes simply forgetting that she was gone and sometimes just pretending she was still there – but the cavernous echoes of his voice reverberating against the metal hollows of his ship only seemed to harshly reflect the emptiness he was feeling inside.
Tears would sting his eyes as he would make his apologies – loud, shouting, desperate apologies at the walls, at the floor, at the ceiling, everywhere, anywhere – to Martha that would hang heavy in the air like smoke from burning remains that curled around him like a blanket of despair, almost suffocating him.
These spoken apologies were never heard though – at least by the one they were meant for – for he was alone -- so very alone
– in his ship. A ship of (a) fool(s).
Martha had walked away from him, but sometimes he hoped weaving wounded words to her would help mend that fiercely wide space between them. He hoped he could utilize the protracted strings of his sentences to tie up the frayed loose ends of what he had done to her, pulling things back together as they tightened, settings things to rights.
Sometimes he wished he were a seamsmaster.
Sometimes he would dream of her.
In dreams, Martha would often walk through the door of the TARDIS again, her eyes shining and her face filled with that beautiful curiosity it had still held before he took it away -- before months of his poorly calculated emotional dissonance and then a year that never was took it from her.
She would walk up to him and he would embrace her, pulling her into his arms and up into the air, spinning her around and around as if the two of them were floating, flying, weightless (both in mass and in emotion) out in the space outside the TARDIS doors. He would put her down, dizzy with the motion and heady with her missed closeness, and lean down to kiss her. In the dreams she would always gasp in surprise from his kiss, but soon smile up at him in a way that made everything feel as if it were spinning around again.
Sometimes in those dreams he would make love to her, chanting apologies like mantras against the skin he licked and kissed, whispering affection against the shell of her ear as he pushed himself inside her again and again.
As he moved deeply inside her – their bodies pressed against one another deliciously as he filled her – he would find himself hoping that he could also fill all the sad places within her with the love he was feeling and hoped he could also fill all his own sad places with the love he wished she still felt.
Sometimes in those dreams her warm and naked body would be wrapped around his as she slept languidly in his arms, her soft contented sighs easing his pain. The Doctor would hold Martha’s body to him, weeping quietly in joy at their closeness, praying that she would somehow, someday, understand that he really did
love her and that he was just absolutely rubbish – always had been, really – at expressing his feelings. Over 900 years of life and he still was a mess in matters of love.
He would wake to find his bed empty and cold and, in those moments, Martha always seemed further away than ever.
Sometimes he wished he could never remember his dreams.
Sometimes he would speak of her.
Sometimes the Doctor would tell stories about Martha to anyone who would listen – aliens, random humans, trees, animals, anyone
– sprinkling words about her across the universe, weaving her into the fabric of time and space, much like she'd done for him as she walked the Earth.
People would probably write epic poetry about him, he thought – a mysterious man who frequented bars in the far reaches of the galaxy, regaling late night patrons in dark corners with tales of how he had gambled with his emotions and lost someone who meant so much to him. People would probably write songs about him as well – they would sing of the tragedy of a lonely man, the last of his kind, the man who saves so many, the man who loved and lost.
He didn’t want their tributes, though. Yes, it stroked the expanse of his ego, but in the late hours of the night, in the cold darkness of his solitude, he knew he only wanted tribute to her
– a human woman who had single-handed saved the universe and barely got a thank you from his stubborn lips.
Sometimes he wished he’d spoken to her back then – back when she was traveling with him, back when she was leaving him.
One time he finally visited her.
A slap cracked against his cheek, a dull ache stinging his jaw, once the Doctor appeared in his ship just inside Martha’s living room. She shouted at him for the intrusion, he pulled away from her in shame, she softened and briefly touched his cheek (the heat of her palm canceling out the pain), he stiffened and forgot all the words he’d wanted to say.
They stood before one another, eyes sizing each other up, their body language the only thing spoken between them. They were both guarded, yet open, and it seemed that neither of them knew what to do next.
Martha finally slowly moved toward him, pressing herself against him as her arms wrapped around his back in a hug. His mind was reeling from the sudden proximity, but he still pulled her tightly into an embrace and then picked her up, swinging her around and around and around, just like his dreams, just like all those times he thought of them reuniting –
He set her down, everything still spinning around them in a way where the Doctor wasn’t sure if he was just feeling the turn of the Earth beneath him or just succumbing to the butterflies wreaking havoc in his belly.
He leaned in to kiss her and she gasped just like his dreams.
“I am so sorry,” he whispered against her lips after he kissed her, pressing his words against her, trying his best to make sure they stuck.
He felt her lips curl into a smile against his and he knew that he didn’t want to be anywhere else in the universe in that moment.
This time he knew for certain he was in love.